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#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules. &nbsp; *** #This week's theme is Brotherhood! This week, let’s take a look at the theme of “Brotherhood”. A sense of brotherhood can be found in many places; family and bloodlines, of course, but also in a community group, an army, or even a job. Think about the type of bond formed between members in these groups, and the sense of belonging and purpose one may find there. Sometimes long-time friends can be more like family than those sharing blood. How do these relationships affect your main (or side) character(s)? How do they shape their goals and desires, and their paths? What happens when a member of the brotherhood makes a choice that goes against the group's ideals or goals? Or, when someone on the outside, maybe an enemy or a foe, practically moves mountains to draw them apart? Will the brotherhood stand strong or crumble at their feet? These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure. | &nbsp; *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I post the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - July 24 - Brotherhood - July 31 - Control - August 7 - Danger &nbsp; *** **Recent Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #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. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread. &nbsp; *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. *Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title.* If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. (Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you **must** use the exact same name each week. Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** - **Stories must be posted by Saturday 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and will not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. You have until Saturday night at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable, in-depth crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our sister sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! &nbsp; *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** Our bot will not be able to log these. - **On Saturdays, I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. **We now start at 1pm EST.** You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server!** Be sure to grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including new posts and Campfires! &nbsp; *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap), this does not count toward the required 2. **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above. Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)* ***So what is actionable feedback?*** Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. You can or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | | &nbsp; *** #Rankings - **First place:** - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin &nbsp; - **Second place:** - by u/mattswritingaccount &nbsp; - **Third place:** - by u/katherine_c &nbsp; - **Honorable Mention:** - - by u/Zetakh &nbsp; - **Crit Star:** u/FyeNite - **Crit Star:** u/rainbow\-\-penguin *Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques (on the thread) and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC or have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .* &nbsp; *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Note: Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! Don’t forget to leave your feedback each week, it is a *requirement.*** To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #This week's theme is Pride! Let’s explore the theme of ‘pride’ this week. What are your characters proud of? It could be something as big as the world around them or as small as how they handled a particular situation or conversation. What inspires their pride? What makes it meaningful to them? What kind of obstacles or challenges did they face to get there? Maybe they’re proud of something less than upstanding. What does that look like in their world? How will it tie in to next week’s theme, ‘fallen’? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. / &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * July 4 - Pride (this week) * July 11 - Fallen * July 18 - Dissonance &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 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting! &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. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on 2 different stories) to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** 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. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments. &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 I 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 or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * 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 (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings Due to a lack of feedback on the thread (half of the total participants did not meet their requirement) combined with only 8 stories submitted, rankings are suspended this week. A special shoutout to everyone who did provide feedback on the thread, and even more so to those who continue to do so every single week. It does not go unnoticed. I appreciate it and I know the other writers do as well. Improvement is one of the main goals of this feature, and feedback is one of the biggest ways we achieve that. Missing one week is understandable, real life happens. I’m sympathetic to that. However, if you consistently run into a time issue Saturday night/Sunday morning, try leaving your feedback earlier in the week. I believe in all of you and want to continue providing a fun feature that can help you improve and grow as writers. I hope to see more participation this week and I look forward to reading all your stories. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you should not be using the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points on the same story. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, EST. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.) &nbsp; &nbsp; *** &nbsp; ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.

\ I watched as the dying light finally claimed the island’s outline. Kadear Coalfields - or Pomafauc Reset, whatever it was to be called - was gone once more. I tore myself away from where the island had been, andI sat on the side of the boat, my legs dangling between two railings as a weak breeze pushed us lazily through the waters. A late summer moon lit up the flat ocean in an indigo blue. Light enough to be seen. Dark enough to appear as a shapeless canvas, a blank slate where my thoughts could land. Alessia walked up beside me and leaned against the bullwark, holding her palms together. “Done what I can with the wind, but it’s gonna be slow sailing.” I nodded, but my eyes didn’t look up. Alessia was studying my face, waiting for a reaction. I had no idea what she could see. My mind and body felt numb, sucked of all consciousness. I can only assume I looked like a faceless statue, waiting for someone to engrave in the details. She sighed and sat down beside me, dropping her legs off the side next to mine. “I’m sorry, Ferdinand.” “It’s not your fault.” My gaze remained fixed on the blue expanse, as gentle waves rolled into shapes. Thomas’s smile. Lachlann’s guitar. Jacob’s nod before he jumped off that ladder. Alessia shuffled awkwardly. “I know this has been a lot of loss...” She paused, rubbing her neck with her hand. “I wish I had something better to say.” Once more silence came back. Another wave came, this one reminding me of Thomas’s friendship, a more abstract shape. “All you can do...” Alessia spoke slowly, seemingly unsure of what words would come next. “...is try and do right by Thomas. And Lachlann. Try and live the life they’d want you to live.” “I’m not even sure what Thomas would want,” I muttered. Alessia leaned forward, turning to try and better see my face. “He’d want you to go chase your ambitions. Do what you wanted to do.” “At least...” I paused, a small moment of grief caught in my throat. “At least with Lachlann, he died with everyone loving him. Everyone who ever hears of Lachlann will know how great he was. Thomas?” I shook my head. “Everyone on that island is going to be told he was a traitor.” “Those who knew him will think differently.” “I don’t know. Even if they do. There’s a lot of the island who will only ever know him from the scaffold. Know what Jacob wants them to know.” “There’s always a chance someone found the papers you left.” “Maybe.” I stared down at my feet, feeling the heaviness in my chest. “He died not knowing he was right. He died with everyone thinking he deserved it.” “He died after speaking with his best friend,” Alessia said, stressing every syllable. He died knowing you were going to investigate just because he asked. He knew how you felt.” I thought back to Thomas’s face on that scaffold as it lay beneath my own. The soft rise at the corner of the lips in contrast to the physical pain in the eyes. “He deserved so much more.” “We can respect him. And everywhere we go we can tell people who he was.” Alessia let out the softest of chuckles. “Never underestimate how quickly word can travel among traders across the sea. When all this is done, we’ll make sure the whole Archipelago knows.” I nodded, trying to take solace in the offer. She looked to her right, staring off at the lightless horizon. “Meanwhile, guess we’ll see what we can find on Yotese Over Haven.” “You know anything about the place?” I turned, staring into the blackness with her. “Only cause I’ve sailed around it rather than into it.” Alessia sniffed. “Beyond that, not a damn thing. Gets little trade. Some insular, deadwater types from what I understand.” I sighed. “Into the unknown again then.” “It’s what we do best though, ay?” Alessia pushed herself to her feet and placed a hand on my shoulder. “It’s gonna be a few days sailing in this wind. Try and get some rest, okay?” I twitched a nod. Alessia left for the night and once more I was alone with the ocean, and the tides slowly filling with my every thought and my every regret. I would sleep eventually. But when I did, it would be through exhaustion, because there were no more thoughts to be had. \ Rest came with difficulty over the next few days. The fourth night, I spent the full stretch on the deck, only sinking below deck when the orange hue that disappeared in the west had begun to reemerge in the east. I woke with a thud. The whole boat lurched with enough force to throw me against my bedside wall. My eyes shot open. Something was wrong. I leapt from bed and hurried up the stairs, still only wearing my pajama shorts. My conscious mind was still waking up to its surroundings as adrenalin drew me to the door and out onto the deck. I ran outside and looked over the edge. Beach. We had landed. “You probably wanna get dressed before we head on out,” Alessia snickered from behind the wheel. The tension left my body and my body deflated. “You could’ve let me know we were about to land.” “Thought you could do with the extra sleep. Besides, nice to know how quickly you’ll rescue me if needs be.” She cast an eye across my bare torso and shorts. I sighed and crossed my arms, partly out of protest, and partly to stave off the chilly morning air clipping against my bare skin. “I’ll go get dressed,” I said, turning to the door. “Hopefully we can find out a bit about why Sannaz was here.” “Oh, I’ve got a fair idea of that already,” Alessia called out, raising her chin. I stared at her, my eyebrows narrowed in. She nodded behind me, looking over my shoulder. I turned. Across the shoreline, the beach curved outwards and the banks climbed higher. Thin reeds of grass poked out from the sand in a thin patch before disappearing where the coast descended once more. But in that next part of the bay, rising above the dune, there was a structure. The metal had slowly rusted, a former sheen had turned a copper colour at the edges, the surfaces eroded to sharp and brittle points. However, the bulk of it was intact. It was around five storeys tall, though the circular windows on the side didn’t seem to be evenly distributed. At the very top, orbs and dishes decorated the roof, and long thin poles pointed to the sky. Near the front, a lower section stretched out, two sides meeting in a point at the shoreline. It was then I realised I was looking at a boat, stuck and marooned on the sands of Yotese Over Haven. But this boat wasn’t built here, or anywhere in the Archipelago. It had to be of the old world. “How is that here?” The words left my mouth compulsively. “How has it survived?” “Your idea is as good as mine.” Alessia shrugged. “Go get dressed, we can venture out when you’re done.”. I hurried below deck and changed as quickly as I could. The possibilities of the odd structure had wiped away the weariness and given my brain something to latch onto, something to think about other than Pomafauc Reset. We trudged along the deserted shoreline, our feet falling into the soft powdery sands of Yotese Over Haven. My mind craved activity. It wanted noises and distractions. But Yotese seemed so still. Any coast should bring with it small fishing boats, the odd parked vessel, or even just people enjoying being near the sea. Yet, here, we were alone. I began looking for signs of life. Up the hill to our left, I could see some old wooden shacks, and farmland. However, it all seemed in disrepair. The fences around the pens were falling apart, and the buildings were peppered with holes and rotting planks. If it weren’t for a small group of pigs patrolling the fields, I would assume the place to be abandoned. Instead, I was trying to work out why it was so uncared for. Resources couldn’t be the issue. These were simple wooden homes surrounded by tall trees. Something else was missing. We continued till we reached the top of the dunes and could see the whole of the ship. Only the smallest pool of water ran by the base of the boat, a mixture of a stream heading out and the edge of the waves that ran up the inlet. As such, much of the keel sat atop the sand, causing it to list to its port side. Still, even the height of the keel was enough to dwarf Alessia’s boat. As I continued to examine the details of the ship - the railings at the side of the vessel, the rivets that held the great sections together, old faded paint lines where the ship’s lettering used to be - I noticed a solitary man standing watch at the base. He looked out away from the ship, his hands clasped behind him. He had a long sleeve shirt far too hot for the summer sun, and I could see the glistening sheen of sweat on his red face. Next to him there was a wooden pole with a bell fixed on top and a rope that ran down its side. He had seen us already. His back was straight and stiff, but his head glanced between the bell and us. His arm twitched, ready to grab the bell if needs be. “Hello,” I announced as I walked down the slope. “All visitors must report to the Council headquarters.” He answered. His voice was croaky through unuse, the words only arriving through drilled-in instinct. “You can find the headquarters on the western side of the island.” I stopped. “Okay. I just wanted to know if we could enter the ship.” The man swallowed. “All visitors must report to the Council headquarters. You can find the headquarters on the western side of the island.” “Understood,” I said, turning to Alessia, my face scrunched, before returning to the guard. “Do you think they’ll let us into the ship?” “All visitors must report to the Council headquarters. You can find the headquarters on the western side of the island.” The man seemed to gain confidence with each repeated verse. Alessia tapped me on the arm. “I don’t think this is going anywhere.” I leaned over, lest my voice carry and cause offence. “What’s with the strange answer though?” Alessia lowered her head in return. “I don’t know. But you could try asking him that. I’m sure you’ll get a different response this time.” I turned halfway towards the man, before glancing back at Alessia and noticing the tongue bit between her teeth. “Very funny,” I muttered. “Thanks, we’ll come back later-“ Something interrupted me. Not a sound. A sight - a brief visual caught out the corner of my eye - a sleeve poking through the sand. It was the same navy of the guard’s shirt, except at the end of this one were the brown bones of a dead man’s hands. “What... what is that?” I said, the volume increasing as I transitioned from confusion to anger. The guard raised his hands, his voice slightly panicked, but the words were the same. “All visitors must report to the Council headquarters. You can find the headquarters on the western side of the island.” “Is that a man? Buried there? There’s a dead body, right there.” I pointed at the arm resting in the sand less than three metres away from him. “Why are you just standing there?” “All visitors must report to the Council headquarters. You can find the headquarters on the western side of the island.” Something inside me was flickering, a quivering set of thoughts that left me confused, angry, disorientated; as though any attempt at rationality was repeatedly being kicked out of me by some force. My mouth spluttered for coherency until it found something that felt like a sentence. I pounced on the thought, screaming it. “How could you just leave a body like that? How could you not respect it?” The man took a quick pace to his right, leaned over, and pulled hard on the rope of the bell. The clapper struck and a hollow ring echoed out across the sands. The reverberation faded just in time for the ball to strike on the other side and the alarm to sound once more. The trilling cut off my thoughts. I looked to Alessia. Her eyes darted back and forth, watching the hills, as her hands poised by the belt on her hip. Slow shallow breathing took over as I felt my chest pound with each sounding of the bell. The guard spoke once more. Confidence had returned to his demeanour and he spoke with enough volume to clear the ringing of the bell. “All visitors must report to the Council headquarters. You can find the headquarters on the western side of the island.” \ *The Archipelago is posted every Wednesday.

“That’s it, I’m finished!” Calix announced as he entered the abandoned warehouse. Black blood dripped from his clothes onto the concrete floor. “I swear it, Allard. No more prophecies or monsters or fate. I’m done with it all!” Allard came rushing as fast as his ragged leg would allow. An injury he had sustained years ago from a similar beast Calix had bested tonight. A beast that had punctured his new armor within moments and ruined his celebration. Allard quickly stopped as he took in the picture of his friend, wincing at the sight. “What the hell did you fight tonight?” “A loxhorn.” Calix groaned as he removed his weapons, his armor, and his soiled shirt. Underneath it all was the wound Calix had felt throbbing for hours. “Calix, I just mopped the floors.” The stare Allard received could’ve burned through walls. “I’m quitting.” “Monster hunters don’t get to quit.” “Then call it a retirement instead. I’m done.” Calix left his equipment on the floor as he shuffled his way further into the warehouse, searching tables and shelves. He sighed with relief when, finally, his hands wrapped around the half-full bottle of whiskey. “Well, you look like utter shit.” Calix froze. He knew that voice- that sweet, innocent, beckoning voice. “Oh, no.” Calix turned. “No, Allard. What is that witch doing here?” “I am not a witch.” “I could’ve called you something that rhymes, instead, sweetheart.” Briar was across the room, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. She looked the same as the last time Calix had seen her. Just as deadly. “Not happy to see me?” Briar taunted, a wicked smile across her face. “Happy to see you? The last time we were together you let me get dragged into the sewers by a Dragrer that tried to devour me whole. I reeked like piss for weeks and I still can’t smell right!” “Calix, please don’t be presumptive. She comes here with news.” Calix flicked the whiskey bottle open and took a long sip. “No.” “What do you mean ‘no’?” Briar pushed from the wall. “Exactly what it sounds like- no. If you hadn’t heard, I’m retired now. No more monsters for me. Tonight, I’m getting drunk and regretting my past year of decisions just like every other normal human on new year’s.” “That’s ridiculous, Calix. Stop acting like a child.” Calix flared, “How many times have I risked my life? Been wounded? Nearly lost myself to fighting creatures I never asked to fight? Take whatever world-saving quest you have and shove it.” Briar and Allard followed Calix as he stormed across the warehouse, this time looking for the damned first-aid kit he had laid around here somewhere. “So, you wouldn’t be interested in hearing that a Fenrer has been spotted just outside the city.” Calix paused, “...Fenrer have been extinct for over a century.” Allard confirmed, “Not anymore.” “A team spotted one moving West three days ago. They’ve been keeping tabs on the monster while a team is assembled to kill it. I came to recruit you. Your reputation for hunts speaks for itself- we want you to help us kill it.” “Did she already rope you into this?” Calix asked Allard, taking another drag from the whiskey bottle. “You know me,” Allard shrugged, “I was promised the body for research purposes if I helped. I couldn’t pass the opportunity.” Calix scoffed, “So predictable...” “Calix, wait!” Briar stepped in front of him as he tried to leave. They were close enough he could smell the mint gum on her breath. “This isn’t the first rare sighting we’ve had over the past year. First it was a Inferorid, then a Hoxfond, now a Fenrer. All thought extinct and all, somehow, miraculously returning.” “That’s impossible- I slayed the last Hoxfond myself.” “Brighton died fighting it. The strangest part is that it had a scar on its chest from where a sword had run through its heart before.” Briar paused, letting the information sink in. “The monsters are coming back to life.” Calix took another drink, squeezing his eyes shut as though he could tune out the world. “We don’t know how it’s possible, but she’s right. The scholars have been following the situation for a few months now.” “You didn’t think to inform me before tonight?” Calix snapped at the old man. Allard looked him up and down, “You didn’t seem in the right headspace lately to drop this sort of news.” Calix wanted to argue, but one look at himself and he shut his mouth. It was impossible- monsters didn’t come back . The amount of power - of magic - it would take for something like that to happen... hunters everywhere would be desperately underprepared. “What’s hunting the creature going to do if it’ll just return? What are you hoping to gain from this?” Briar leaned back against the table, again crossing her arms. “We’re hoping to use the trace magic left in the creature to track where it came from. We have an actual witch already with us, ready to do the spell. All she needs is the monster’s body.” “Say you find whoever is responsible for bringing the creatures back, then what? You hunt them, too? How do you plan to kill someone that powerful?” “I’d say my sword to their throat would do the trick.” Calix sighed, “... When’s the hunt?” “Oh, it’s already begun. You’re the last hunter we’ve reached out to join us.” “Well, don’t I feel honored and special.” Briar chuckled, “Listen, I know you want out of this career. I understand it completely and, hell, maybe after this I’ll do the same thing. But right now, you and I both know that whatever is happening needs to stop before it becomes too powerful, even for us.” She approached him surprisingly gently, placing a hand on his bare shoulder. “I know you want to quit but let’s finish this first. Consider it your new year resolution- no stopping until whatever monster necromancer is dead.” Calix took one last drink. “Fine.” He grumbled, “But I’ll need a new set of armor before we run off to die.”

It was the beautifully crafted wooden sign in the distance that caught my eye. Arriving, I pulled in, parked in front of the diner, shut the car off and sat for a moment. It was still early, but these places open at the crack of dawn. Always. So, I wanted to get the feel of this business before I went on to my next writing assignment. It was to be a visit of two eateries in one day. My first one was the local diner, The Bauernof, and the second one was the newly opened restaurant on the other side of town, Regal Royalty. I heard that new place has brought in an upscale city vibe, after only being in the area for a short time. It was pricy for the average local person, but the restaurant was seeing an overflow of out of towners since it was in the scenic tour guide of New Hampshire’s best of the best. That crowd brought in the big bucks. How to capture this unique scene in a good way, on paper, was key. It needed to blend somehow with the rural character of this quaint town. I would not and could not blow the story out of proportion. Making it larger than life was not my aim. Two totally different eateries serving guests in their own unique way, would be the way to capture the feel of local first, tourism second. Unfortunately, from what has already been reported, Regal Royalty was more than just the top chef upscale food place to go, it was ‘who’ was dining there with an important status or claim to fame. Since I had more than a TV dinner mentality, my boss put me on this story. I began writing for our town newspaper when it started from scratch some years ago. Back then it was a compilation of whatever each of us offered and brought to the table but in a story of interest for the community. I found people to interview at a local shop, the town hall, or the dog park who just liked to chat which led to finding something in our conversation to write about leading to a compelling story. It is a trait that I have developed, to engage anyone in a fun way that opened the door to want to share what was going on in their world, whether it was at the office, home or somewhere else. There was always a connection woven into the story that resonated with town folks. This would be my first assignment in another town, as it was a new investment of interest to our expanding publication area. With notebook in hand, my audio recording up to date on my smart phone, I ventured into the diner. First impressions are lasting impressions and what I felt was real; the soft glow of the lights, country music playing, and the best subtle aroma of a blend of baked fruit, ginger and cinnamon spices. Serve me up! A young lady greeted me and said, “Good morning. Just sit anywhere you like.” I hung my coat on an old-fashioned coat rack then proceeded to slide into the nearest tiny booth as she poured me a fresh hot cup of Joe. It was a cute booth for two and a spot that would be really nice to share a breakfast with someone special. The window looked out onto the east side where the sun was just creeping up. You could pay me a million bucks for that view. It was just a moment that made me relax, and to ponder life in the day ahead. All that while enjoying my first dark roast coffee of the day. I looked around at the homey feel of the place with decorated lanterns, the right color palette everywhere and the timeless wooden décor. The young lady came back and offered to refill my cup, asking if I would like to see a menu. I thanked her but wanted to know if the owner was available. We were interested in highlighting this unique diner by offering an upcoming story for the town newspaper, I told her with a smile. She only slightly smiled in response and said, “I’ll be right back.” That was it. Hmm. I got the feeling something was off but knew to wait and not critique my instincts. Yet. The owner, an older woman who I knew by name only as, Mariam Goodnow, came out of the kitchen. She paused to speak quietly to the young lady, and I saw her head nodding. I am sure the owner was addressing the daily to-do list to keep ahead of the food requests of the morning customers as the door now opened more frequently. As she passed several older gentlemen, she smiled and welcomed them, giving them a hearty pat on the back. Regulars were my guess, and that was a good sign. Note taken. I went to stand up and she waved, “Freut mich! Please, stay, I will sit with you. I never seem to get a minute by myself, so I’ll enjoy this moment.” I thanked her and began my intro telling her of my story idea for the newspaper and our opportunity to shed some positive light on this diner and the other new restaurant in town. That is when I saw a light go out. I was perplexed when she folded her hands, her lips pressed tight together, and she looked off to the side. “I take it I said something that was not agreeable. Are you okay with a story and a promotion of your diner? It seems like everyone around here loves The Bauernhof. I am so ready to write a great reflection of your place, to highlight your farm to table efforts and by supporting local.” I apologized by being too blunt, but she stopped me before I said more. Two pieces of Bienenstich Kuchen were suddenly on the table. My jaw dropped, as this was my grandmother’s prize treat, always. Mariam smiled. “Please, let’s take a moment before we talk. I have a feeling that you might like my family recipe.” She could not help but grin at my little kid reaction. “Guten appetit!” With satisfied happiness, I finished the unexpected treat and thanked Mariam heartily. “You already made my day! I hope I can do the same for you with a nice writeup piece for the paper.” Mariam sighed and told me something surprisingly sad. When she finished revealing what prompted her emotions to take ahold of what she felt strongly about, I was in shock. It seemed like the new restaurant, Regal Royalty, was focusing on reviews and literally created a “vanity plate” to keep enticing a steady entourage of high-class customers to their restaurant. I did some digging and discovered that the posted comments for the diner on the same promotional advertising site as the restaurant were given very poor marks by way of fake reviews while the new restaurant was applauded for bringing its upscale quality improvements to the tourism market. High reviews = lots of money. By the time I left, she had my assurance that the story written for The Bauernhof would be far above the one for Regal Royalty. Two can play the game and whoever is marketing under false pretenses to trash another’s business would pay the cost in what is known as the actual truth. Now on to the next story book chapter with Regal Royalty. What will that reveal? It was now mid-morning as I pulled into their parking area located a fair distance away. The entry sign stated the front door was only for VIP. So, the back door was for the nobodies? I guess it was too early for a formal escort to meet and greet a guest and to provide their weekend famous horse and carriage ride to the main entrance. I strode up and with panache, opened the front door and walked right into the building. Immediately, I was confronted by someone with a very negative tone in the way he spoke to me. “Excuse me.” He came right over, blocking my view of the door to the dining area. “Is there something I can help you with?” With arms folded, he faced me, turned his lip up and I couldn’t help but just smile in exchange for that lovely first impression. And he was the manager? “Good morning!” I cheerfully introduced myself and extended my hand as I explained the reason being here at this early hour. I drew my hand back since that was not a receptive gesture. I mentioned the owner by name and asked if he had time in his schedule for an interview. I mentioned the story about the restaurant that I was in the process of writing for the newspaper’s special feature section. The man, who didn’t bother to mention his name only said, “Wait here.” Oh, boy. This was a whole lot different than I expected. Ten minutes went by, and this same person approached and told me to follow him. Great. We walked through a darkened hallway, turned and went down a flight of stairs. Is this the basement? He turned a light on and at the next door stopped and knocked. A voice answered to come in, and the manager only gave me a chin up to follow behind. This was not at all what I thought. Apparently, this was the restaurant’s main office which included the security videos in and around the entire building and the property. The owner at least was more cordial than his manager, as he stood, introduced himself and shook my hand. Big surprise there. He spoke first. “Well, I hear there will be a story in the newspaper giving us some more publicity highlighting the upcoming tourist season. Do I have that right? Our 5-star reviews have been excellent.” I agreed and further explained the reason for my visit. “A few minutes would be okay. I’m sure you already know how we have already expanded our image to meet the demands of the tourists. We give more to get more, if you know what I mean. Unlike some other place nearby that can’t seem to get enough people through their barn door.” He laughed at his own humorous way to criticize The Bauernhof. He proceeded to rub his fingers together to mimic the money factor. “We’ll go through the upstairs gala area for a quick tour.” Following him back upstairs, I couldn’t help but feel the unwelcome vibe. He paused by a fancy door and told me, “Please don’t touch anything. We have an important private guest list this evening and everything needs to be according to our standards of elegance.” Okay, I get it. We went through several rooms so I could get a sense of the décor and ambiance. It was like lusterless frosting on a cake, crusty, icy, and overly sweetened. I pretended to be excited in writing the review and gave him a thumbs up as I was escorted out the front door. Walking back to the car, I could only shake my head in amazement of the personalities of everyone including some of the wait staff. Several watched us by giving me the stink eye with added smirks. I guess the word was out about how, in their smug opinion, we were trying to make Regal Royalty a big story only to use the restaurant to make the newspaper more popular. They had no idea how my first impression was going to be a game changer. I can and will write a story without reservation or hesitation. The owner’s fake way to glamourize every square inch of the place didn’t sit well with me. It was all just eyewash. Star reviews? You’d better believe it. I’ll clear that fake bright sky and bring in the real picture. Storm clouds.

Finding Mr. Evans Written by Jay Kappas Edited by Oliver Hagemann “Come on,” my best friend Charley shouts. “Let's go!” “I’m coming, I’m coming,” my other friend Matt yells. We were running as fast as we could to the tree house fort by the stream; the same stream where we found Mr. Evans. When we got to the tree house, we didn’t notice him. We ran to the rope ladder and climbed up. I grabbed my telescope and looked through it to see if anybody had followed us to The House. That was what we called our tree house fort. The House. “Do you see anyone?” Matt asks. “Nothing,” I reply. “Wait, what’s that?” I say as I look at the stream with my telescope. “What is it?” Matt asks. I don’t know,” I say. “Let's check it out. Come on!” We scramble out of The House, and run over to it. “It looks like a body!” I shout as I get close. Charley and Matt ran up. “It is a body!” Charley gasps. “But whose?” I ask. “How should I know?” Matt snaps. “Let’s flip it over to see who it is.” Charley suggests. “On the count of three.” I say as we grab the body. “One! Two! Three!” We flip it over and gasp as we see who it is. “Mr. Evans?!” Charley gasps. Mr. Evans is, or rather was, the father of a girl in our class named Ava. “What’s his body doing here?” Matt asks. “The real question is who put his body here?” Charley says. “Murder by the looks of it. Single bullet to the back of the head. It looks like it’s from a Ranger 10/22. Dead within seconds.” I say. They stare at me. “What? I watch a lot of murder mysteries and true crime.” I reply defensively. “Okay, if you say so.” Matt says. “What do we do now?” Charley asks. “Obviously, we tell the authorities.” Matt says. “No, we should try to solve this ourselves.” I say. “No way! We are not doing that!” Matt argues. “We are going to tell the authorities about this right now!” “Can we at least try?” I plead. “How about we give it a try and if we don’t find anything within three days, we’ll tell the authorities.” Charley interrupts, “I’d like to investigate. It’ll give us something to do. “Fine, three days.” Matt huffs. “But if we get in trouble, it's not my fault.” Within two days, we found something. I was walking home with Matt, and we were crossing the street when a Ford pickup truck came roaring down the street, music blasting. When it saw us, it screeched to a halt. And who got out but Mr. King. Heavily tattooed, smoking and looking enraged, Mr. King was very intimidating. “What are you doing, crossing the street without looking!” He yelled. “Sorry sir.” Matt apologized. “You better be!” King shouted. As King turned to walk back to his truck, I noticed a bulge in his pocket. “Did you see that?” I asked Matt as soon as King was gone. “What, the fact that his tattoos look super ugly, or the fact that he’s slowly killing himself by smoking?” “Well, both of those are right, but what I’m talking about is the bulge in his pocket.” “A pistol.” Matt whispers. “Which means he’s a suspect.” I say. By the end of the week, we had a list of 5 suspects. Abigail Ramirez hated Mr. Evans for accidentally hitting her with his car and never forgave him; her friend Mary White had a gun so Abigail could’ve borrowed it and say she was going hunting. Mr. King was a competing bait shop owner. And as you know, Mr. King has a pistol and probably a hunting rifle. Pete Lee, John Thompson, and Emma Young all thought he was rude and disliked him. All of them had at least a hunting rifle, and maybe a pistol. When Matt, Charley, and I met up at The House, we went over the list of suspects. “I think it was Emma Young,” Charley said. “I mean, she’s always saying how much she dislikes Mr. Evans and she has a gun. “We should go to the authorities.” I say. “Yeah, we should. This isn’t our job.” So we went to the sheriff’s office and told Officer Allen about Mr. Evan’s body and gave him our list of suspects. “This is some good work you’ve got here,” Officer Allen says. “But you should’ve told us as soon as you found the body.” “Yes, officer.” I say. “Now show me where the body is, and we’ll go there in my squad car.” Officer Allen says. When we got there, we all got out and walked toward the body and the stream where the body was found. Officer Allen looked at the body and whistled. “Well, you’re not wrong. This is definitely murder. I’ll call some backup to move the body. You stay away for a couple of hours while we check the scene and move the body. Okay?” “Got it.” Charley responded. “And be careful. The murderer could target you for figuring them out.” “Be careful.” “Okay.” I replied. The next day we came back and scoped out the area before we entered. Then, one at a time, we ran over to the rope ladder and climbed up as fast as we could. When all of us were up in The House, Matt took the telescope and scanned the surrounding area. “I don’t see anyone.” Matt says after a minute or two. “Wait! I think I see someone! They’re coming up! Quick! Ready the weapons!” “What weapons?” Charley asks, sounding confused. “Whatever weapons we have!” Matt says. We grabbed as many rocks as we could before Mr. King appeared holding a pistol! “Put down the rocks, now!” barks Mr. King. “Okay! Relax.” I say as we slowly set down the rocks. “Now tell me how you figured it out.” Mr. King demands. “It was sort of easy.” Charley admits. “You have a gun, you both own competing bait shops, and Mr. Evans’s bait shop was making more money than your bait shop the last few months. Now, goodbye.” “What?” Mr. King asked, confused. And at that second, Officer Allen appeared behind Mr. King, holding a gun of his own. “Put down your gun, please.” Officer Allen said as Mr. King slowly turned around. When Mr. King saw Officer Allen and his gun, he set his gun on the floor of The House. “Thank you.” Officer Allen said right before tasing him. ZZZZZZZZ! Mr. King dropped to the floor with a THUD! “How did you know he was here?” Charley asked. “He was our main suspect, and we were following him. When we saw him coming here we knew it was him.” Officer Allen said before he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt and knelt down to arrest Mr. King. We followed Officer Allen down the ladder and helped him carry the unconscious body to the cop car. And as we watched Officer Allen drive away, I said to Matt and Charley, “Investigating this was the worst idea I ever had. Even worse than filling my mom’s car with Orbeez. Man, I got harsh punishment for that.”

Danny wanted nothing more then to fit in with his peers, he would always tell tall tales of great adventures and far off lands; fighting large bears and evil witches, only a courageous duckling like himself would attempt such dangerous feats. His grandmother warned him that one day all of his white lies would catch up to him, like most children his age he never listened. In fact his lies became more and more elaborate, his best friend Terry the turtle started questioning the validity of Danny stories. “I don't care if you believe me Terry, because my real friends know how truly brave I am.” Terry became so frustrate that he stuck is head in his shell just to get away from the conversation. Danny waddled off angrily to confront his friends; hoping that Terry was they only one that did not believe him. Sammy Snail and Billy Beaver where hanging out by the pound discussing what they were going to do that day when Danny came storming up, they glanced at each other with a worried look, they knew exactly what was coming. “What's the matter Danny?” “Nothing, I don't want to talk about it, lets just find something to do as long as we don't include Terry, him and I are no longer friends. I can't believe he called me a liar, you two believe me right?” Sammy and Billy had no clue what fib he was talking about ,there was so many that they just nodded their heads in agreement and continued on with there walk. “The bear was huge over twelve feet tall, he would have been a nice bear but he was controlled be a vile witch.” Danny was unaware that every time he told the story the bear just kept getting bigger, the witch last week she was part of a separate adventure that he and his grandfather had embarked upon. Sammy and Billy just shook their heads, Danny lied so much that he could no longer keep his stories straight. Finally Billy had enough, if Danny didn't stop lying he could not continue to be his friend. “Danny you need to stop all of these lies.” He put his head down in shame; “I feel like I failed as a friend because we have let you go on day after day. I know you miss you grandfather; by lying about all the things that you have done together takes away from the real memories of him. Plus there is no way a little duckling could conquer a twelve foot bear, which by the way last week was only nine feet. You can hardly beat me and I am just a cub, if you don't stop this no one is going to want to be around you. ” Danny stood there with tears in his eyes as he watched his friends walk away. He ran home as fast as his little feet could carry him, by the time he got there he was more angry then sad, how dare his friends question the truthfulness of his stories when they weren't there to witness it. His grandmother was out on the deck beating the old living room rug, he coughed as waddled into the house. “Little one why so upset?” She put both wings around him and held him close. “Oh, cheese and pinwheels grandma I am so, so....” His grandmother chuckled softly as she watched him stomp his little feet. “Now if you done throwing a temper tantrum take a deep breath and think about what you are trying to say.” He took a few calming breaths but before he could get the words out there was a loud bang at the door. It was Franny fox, she owned the bakery two doors down. Her eyes where wide with fear and she was shaking like a leaf. “Donna quick we must hide all the little ones we are being attacked by savage bears.” At first Danny couldn't believe his luck, he was going to make his friends believe once and for all that he was a very brave duckling, if he did this his lies would then be truth. He promised himself that after he defeated the bear that he would come clean to his friends and hoped they would still like him even though he never did any of those things. Billy and Sammy had been his best friends for years for some reason that was never enough, he had to be friends with every one and if they thought the was brave they would want to hang out with him. “I am brave, when I am done with my mission they will all see that my stories where no lies but predictions of things to come.” He grabbed his wooded sword and shield and ran right past Franny and his grandmother. The bears where terrorizing all of the animals, Terry and Billy where hiding behind a large rock when Danny found them. “Don't worry I am Danny the brave, I will vanquish these evil foes.” “Please don't, just admit that you are lying we won't be made.” Billy tried to pull Danny behind the rock but Terry stopped him. “No, Danny if you are truly a brave a fearless duckling here is your chance to prove it.” He pointed towards a very large grizzly bear that was trying to catch a bunny for dinner. Danny took a deep breath and strutted up to the menacing animal. He thrust his mighty sword into the massive animals rear end, the only thing he accomplished was annoying the very hungry bear who had just lost his lunch. “You just cost me my lunch boy, I would eat you instead but you would just be a tease for my stomach.” Danny stood his ground and stabbed the bear again. “Listen hear you big brute, I am Danny the brave.” The bear picked Danny up with his very large paws, he also noticed the one of the bears claws was a big as he was. Billy jumped out from the behind the rock and yelled; “Uncle Brutus that enough, I think that Danny got the point.” “Good because I am not going to do this again.” Brutus looked at Danny very seriously; “I hope you learned your lesson about telling lies. You friends and the rest of these fine people have became so tired of your lies that they had to call in the big guns, if you are confused kid that is me. If you think these smart people are fooled by your lies you are kidding yourself, they just want you to come clean with them and yourself. He put Danny down, the whole town had gathered around waiting for the tiny duckling to say something. Danny shared sheepishly at the crowed, for the first time in his life he saw how is lies affected people. “I am very sorry for all the tall tales that I have told, It was silly for me to think that you all believed what I was saying. I thought if I wasn't just this boring little duckling that you would think that I was cool and brave. I not any of those things; Sammy, Billy and Terry I am sorry that I didn't think your friendship was enough for me. I don't blame you for hating me, I don't blame all of you for hating me. I promise for this day forward that I will always be truthful to my friends and neighbours. From that day on Danny never told a lie again, he came to realize that his friends and family loved him not because they though he was brave or adventurous, they loved him because he was Danny.

A story by Winston Roberts and Don Krieg He pushed his desk chair back from his laptop. He had spent the day Zooming with co-workers between battles in Doom. He stretched his arms wide. The constant focus on the laptop screen had left his body frozen in a shape that was conducive to seeing the screen while typing. It felt good to have a stretch. It felt necessary to revitalize joints that had been dormant for so long. He scanned his phone for the take-out restaurants he used routinely. He would cook himself, but it was just easier to order out. He happened on the Taste of Thai restaurant offering. Scanning the menu, he rested his eyes on a particular favorite, Gaeng Kua Kling. Logging onto the Taste of Thai website, he navigated the menu and clicked the toggle button beside the dish. He was especially fond of their pork version and so selected that as well. They wanted to know a hotness level for the dish. He chose three stars out of five. He liked it a bit spicy. He closed the laptop down and made for the kitchen. He could use a beer and so opening the refrigerator, he pulled his last bottle out. A simple twist of the bottle top and he was already gurgling the sudsy amber liquid into his gullet. The beer was cold from the ‘frig, but it had a warming effect in his belly. All was good. He plopped onto the living room sofa and clicked the remote. He liked to watch the news while he ate and today would be no different. The lady delivering the news on CNN was giving the latest death totals of the Coronavirus pandemic. Well over 78,000. He let out a gasp. That was a lot of folks dead. The virus had crippled the nation and the world for two months now. There was no cure for the infection, and it didn’t seem to respect whether you were rich or poor, you could die from it. There did seem to be an advantage of you were young and in good health. Fortunately, he was both, but there was no guarantee that those qualities would let you slide. The virus had even killed a small child. The doorbell rang and he ran to the door. There was his usual delivery guy on the other side. He thanked the young man and pulled his bag of goodies inside. He fished for his phone in his jeans and entered a tip for the delivery. He gingerly placed the take-out packages on the coffee table. He pulled a couple of antiseptic wipes from their dispenser and thoroughly wiped down the packages. He had placed a cylinder of antiseptic wipes on the table for just this use. He would not skimp. The virus could be anywhere. He didn’t know where the delivery guy had been. He pulled the chopsticks from their paper house and dove into the food. The lady at CNN was interviewing a doctor now. It seemed there would be many months more of this pandemic. It might even come back in the fall. He was already going batty with the isolation, but he knew he needed to keep a distance from other human, if not for his own health, for theirs. The news was over, so he gathered up all of the empty cartons on the coffee table and threw them in his trash bucket. He went to the bathroom to wash his face. He turned on the spigot and soaped his hands thoroughly. Washing was important to help stop the spread. It was then he noticed it. He was having congestion in his nasal passages. Also, for some reason, his eyes were red and watery. There was a distinct soreness in his throat and, if he inhaled deeply, it caused him to cough. ‘I’ve got it for sure!” He said the words out loud, to himself in the mirror. He donned his bedclothes and snuggled under the covers in his bed. He hoped he might have what some had described as lower grade reaction to the virus. He hoped he wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. He assumed once he was put on a ventilator, that would be his end. Most of those people died. He would sleep, but not well. The worries of the disease kept him from total relaxation. He trembled under the covers in a cold sweat. He dared not close his eyes for fear he would never awake. When he woke the next day, he felt better. A trip to the bathroom mirror confirmed that his eyes were back to normal and his nasal mucosa had lost their inflammation. He could breathe again without coughing. Massively relieved by these phenomena, he washed and clothed himself for the day. The day was wrought with the same boredom and ennui that had characterized all his quarantine. His hunger grew as the day progressed until he was moved to order his dinner. His phone happened on The American Bison Wild Wings menu. “Yes, please.” He began to produce saliva at the tasty offerings on his phone. He ordered the hot wings with extra sauce. Also, some jalapeno poppers, he loved those. Finishing his work for the day, he shut his laptop and made for the living room. It was time for the news. It wasn’t good. The death rate was accelerating. The economy was imploding. The news from the White House was inconsistent. More dead and no real hope that it would stop. The doorbell rang. The American Bison Wild Wings had come through again. He unpacked his dinner in front of the TV and continued watching the mayhem unfolding from the global pandemic. The newscast finished as it did every day and he cleared his dinner packages away into the trash. A visit to the bathroom, however, gave rise to the fears he had had the night before. Nasal congestion, red tearing eyes. He had added a new symptom. He was sneezing. He washed his face and prepared for another fitful night, worrying about his infection. The next day he woke to a new body free of symptoms. It was curious to him that the symptoms would come and go like that. The news had said that there were those who had the infection but display no symptoms. Maybe he was one of these, except he showed the symptoms at night, when he was most tired. He dressed and went to his laptop to work for the day. He tapped the keys of the computer, but his thoughts were far away. If he had the infection, these may indeed be his last days. Quitting time came again and again he ordered take-out. Today it would be Charlie’s Chuck Wagon. He loved their six-alarm chili with habanero corn bread. Better make that and extra order of the spicy corn bread. Back to the living room after he had received his delivery and he chomped away while the bad news blared on. The symptoms recurred. But there was a difference this time. Along with the normal congestion, lung problem and watery eyes, he now was experiencing a lack of feeling in his mouth and lips. He could not taste or smell anything. That was yet another indicator of the disease, as he had learned from the news. This was getting serious. When he again awoke, he vowed today would be the day that he sought to rid himself of this virus. He would try the time-tested methods his mother had sued when he had been sick as a child. A visit to the medicine cabinet produce two tablets of acetaminophen. He put the kettle on the stove and brewed a pot of tea. A check of the refrigerator yielded half a lemon that he sliced and steeped in the tea. He was so far symptom free as he had been all the days before, so he returned to his work. But dinner time was soon approaching. Instead of his normal take-out, though, today he was following Mom’s prescriptions for a return to health. He headed to the kitchen and rummaged through his cabinet where he stored his canned goods. He was after a particular product there. His Mom had sworn by it. Ah, there it was. He pulled the can of chicken noodle soup from the cabinet and put it in a pot on the stove to boil. The soup heated; he assumed his position in front of the TV for the news. The scientists were still stymie at getting a vaccine or even a good therapy for the disease. There were hopeful signs, but nothing definitive yet. He drank his soup. When the newscast ended, he performed his usual task of cleaning his dinner away. Then he went to the bathroom to wash his hands, as per usual. When he looked in the mirror, however, he was a bit surprised to find that his eyes looked normal and healthy as they had before the infection. He breathed through his nostrils. The air flowed freely. He took out his toothbrush and slathered some paste on it. Not only could he taste the minty teeth cleaning gel, he failed to cough when he breathed deeply. Could he really have done it? Could he really have cured his disease? He rushed to his laptop to share his findings. He logged onto Facebook, Twitter and TikTok. He told of his symptomology with the virus. He told of the tea with lemon. He championed the chicken noodle soup as the probable locus for the cure, but more double-blind scientific studies would have to be performed to isolate that as the primary curative. He closed his laptop, his duty of reporting his findings had been completed. Who knew a cure could come so easily and quickly? He smiled at his luck at having happened on the cure. He would have to credit his mother if he were asked to receive any kind of award. It was she who had always used the chicken noodle soup.

It's finally All-hallows Eve October 31st or Halloween as most people would say.Every year my fellow witch sisters choose a meeting place so that we could come together and solve whatever issues we may have. Our witch circle is fairly small because you don't know who you can trust anymore. Our circle has been the same for years. we have beautiful Luna a very powerful witch with the powers of psychokinesis Luna says she loves her powers but when she's angry everything moves and it's very scary. we call bree mother nature because she has the power to control the weather this is very helpful on our vacations but bree usually let nature take his course being a good witch and all. And we have Lilith she is the most powerful witch I do believe without Lilith we cannot fix anything Lilith has many Powers I have seen her move things with her mind, change her eye colors, change shapes and she has the ability to see through walls and other things and could hear very far away she is definitely the most powerful of us all. And this leaves me my name is Cordelia I have the gift of intuition. Living in Salem Massachusetts is not the best at times for a witch with intuition. I was born in raised here in Massachusetts if this was 1692 I probably would have been hung or burnt alive already. What's unbearable is walking around with constant reminders of how numerous people died that may or may not have been practicing witchcraft. I usually walk around Salem attacked by the memories, because most of it is frozen in time in museums of what was. Now that I finally realized why I am so unusual is because I was born a witch, A very powerful witch with the gift of intuition that's if you want to call it a gift. This power gave me nothing but sorrow because as I grow I often react to people's emotions way before they express them and this leaves me looking like the bad guy for years my emotions have been all over the place. Believe me, feeling other people's personal feelings is nothing to wish for. Because most of the time people are not very happy and all that emotions comes towards me. Making me feel like I am being attacked and I usually respond badly. I'm never wrong about what I feel, but I'm always wrong because I'm fighting back because of how they feel about me accept they haven't told me how they feel yet. I guess being different people hate you because there are so many people that live right next to me that really have strong hated feeling towards witches. This is like being in hell when everyone is against you and you the only one fighting for yourself. As a witch, I usually dream about what's going to happen way before things happen. I've never really believed my dreams until they began to come true. Right now it's about 48 degrees here in Massachusetts and I'm already dressed and black from my head to my toes and not because I'm a witch just because I love black. I usually do small spells being that I'm a good witch. Just spells to shut people up just for a little peace once in Awhile. But these people are making it really hard for me to stay good. my mind often wonders about binding certain people because they really deserve it. But I never before did any black magic being that I don't know the consequences of the powers that I would release. I never before have done any black magic maybe I'm just scared that I may grow a giant mole on my chin and a long crooked nose or maybe turn green or something. I guess that's funny to you but the consequences are real and I don't believe I'm ready. From the beginning this had been a disaster so on all-hallows Eve, Luna, Bree, Lilith and I are going to come together to quiet down my intuition. We plan to meet at the North River of Salem walk. Because water has the most energy. Before our rituals, we must Purge ourselves and wash and stay away from animal flesh.we supposed to had met at midnight but we were running late and luna forgot the candles and everything was off. Something was just not right. Everyone said that they feel weird but we just ignored the feelings. As we arrived at the North River the mist in the air gave me a chill. Lilith began to bring up the old altar from under the dirt and the dust began to blow we covered our heads until it passed us by. We began to light the old candles and Lilith kneel at the altar holding up the cauldron we begin to recite earth, water, air, and fire until we felt like what we wanted was given to the universe. Lilith began to walk backward around the circle reciting a spell. The sky became dark and it begins to rain and fish was flying out of the sky and we begin running and when I turned around bree had hold of Luna choking her and bree had luna twirling in the wind. We began to run towards luna just to help her when Bree began dropping lightning bolts towards us. The rain was unbearable and we could barely walk with the wind blowing so hard we finally got to Luna and Bree released her just to hold all of us up twirling in the wind. Lilith began to chant and we began to follow saying." from the beginning we were one nothing on this earth could make it undone" from the beginning we were one and nothing on this earth could make it undone. Holding hands and chanting seem to be calming Bree down she let us go we hit the ground hard but we were ok. But we never stop chanting until Bree's eyes begin to look noticeable and then we called her name and when she responded we knew we had bree back. We never really understood what happened on that all hallows eve but we know next time if something feels off to pay attention. Bless be

On the 50th anniversary of the sensational Zodiac killing spree, a cold case detective from the San Francisco PD pulled out the dusty boxes of official records. They hadn’t been touched in years; and the killer himself was presumed dead or incapacitated by advanced age. There were as many suspects as there were theories but the last time anyone had worked the case was in the early 1990’s. Since then, DNA genotyping has exploded and forensic science had advanced in leaps and bounds. Amazingly, the original envelopes and morbid correspondence sent from the killer to various media outlets were still there, turning yellow in the evidence boxes. With millions of people participating in ancestry tracing programs, there is a huge DNA database of family links. Of course those are conducted through ‘private’ organizations but hundreds of cold cases are solved each year with their cooperation and discreet assistance. Detective Tim Rand got into law enforcement with the goal of helping people. He also enjoyed challenges and solving mysteries. The Zodiac case was one of the most infamous, unsolved crimes in the world. He figured he would take a crack at it himself. With modern science, he hoped to see if it could be used to do what thousands of hours of old-fashioned detective work, could not. Of course countless people had been in contact with the evidence over the years. From postal sorters, mail carriers, mailroom staff at the newspapers, the secretaries for the editors, and more than a dozen lab techs and detectives, the chances of having uncontaminated DNA was unlikely. Honestly, it was pretty slim but it was worth a try. If it failed, he’d just chunk the papers back in their boxes and put them on the shelf for the next eager sleuth to crack the case. The lab attendant rolled his eyes in frustrated annoyance when the detective explained what tests he wanted performed. The technician knew all-too-well how many random sets of unrelated DNA would be found on that pile of evidence. Tim had a clever solution to the issue. “Cross reference all samples found on all the letters. The Zodiac send his cyphers and correspondence to several different media outlets and individuals. He enjoyed taunting the editors of different newspapers and the detectives assigned to the case when it was an active investigation. The only DNA thread they should all have in common, is him.” As incredible as it might’ve seemed, there was only one set of common DNA for all samples! It was just like he had predicted. Detective Rand had stumbled onto the first major break in the case in nearly 30 years. The forensic team were honestly impressed with the heightened potential for linking the evidence to the unknown killer. They recorded the DNA sequence and approached their contacts within the ancestry database for an official ‘rush job’. Even with amazing lucky breaks, they were still highly guarded with their enthusiasm for a match to be made. It therefore came as a great shock when a direct match was made in only a couple days. Greater still was the impact of learning the identity of the DNA match for all 14 known pieces of authenticated Zodiac evidence. No one was ready for the truth and the push back by the authorities was considerable. The profile was a 99% match to the chief of police of San Francisco at the time of the crimes! At first the laboratory dismissed the shocking revelation as accidental evidence contamination. That explanation would’ve made sense but it was eventually disproven. The chief had stated formally in his memoirs that he always left the investigative work to his detective team. He even went so far as to declare that he never meddled in any of their open cases. If so, there wouldn’t be any logical reason for his DNA to be on every single piece of Zodiac evidence. Internal affairs stepped in when they caught wind of the mounting evidence. The ‘boys in blue’ were known to protect their own, especially the higher up officials who retired, or had passed away. There was an unspoken protocol that their law enforcement legacies were cemented in stone and beyond reproach. Damning evidence like the former chief’s DNA being directly linked to the Zodiac was hard to ignore and even harder to suppress. Detective Rand just wanted the truth to come out but a revelation like that would surely cause backlash and heads to roll. The chief himself had died a dozen years earlier but many of his contemporaries were still around. A few younger officers who worked under him were still on the force. They were going to chafe at the accusations against their former boss. By all accounts, he was a well liked and respected senior officer. It was going to be a tough sell to convince the public, even though it was the truth. Tim had to find corroborating evidence to tie him to the disturbing series of crimes. Without that, he’d be dismissed as a reckless rookie with penchant for throwing veteran officers under the bus. That’s what they would say. That he did it just to make a ‘name’ for himself. The biggest question of all was ‘why’? Why would an officer that swore to ‘protect and serve’, lead a secret life as a serial killer? It made no sense. The man spent almost 40 years in law enforcement. At times Tim wanted to chalk it up to a crazy coincidence but some of the evidence they tested hadn’t even been available to the San Francisco PD during the active investigation phase. A few of the letters from the Zodiac were sent to neighboring police departments and had only been released to him the previous week for the testing. His highly unusual suspect had never legally been in contact with them, yet his DNA was on all. As is often the case with big city government organizations, they had yet to completely digitize their old records. Detective Rand filtered through mountains of dusty records for the chief’s sign-in sheets for the time periods in question. While they couldn’t prove or disprove his guilt, it would shed light on whether he was officially ‘on duty’ during the known crimes. Secretly, Tim hoped the Chief was signed in during some of them to disprove the allegations but in every single instance, he was officially out-of-the-office. He hoped he was wrong but It looked very bad. The fact that the Chief fit the general appearance of eyewitness accounts of the Zodiac was another troubling element that couldn’t be dismissed. Research into the Chief’s past also revealed he was a Korean War veteran. As a Navy signal man, he would have been well acquainted with code symbols and cryptology similar to the cyphers the Zodiac sent. All of those things added up to compelling circumstantial evidence but it wouldn’t be an open and shut case without the DNA association. That made things difficult to deny. Tim spoke to a number of old timers from the department about their memories of the investigation but he was careful to avoid implicating their former Chief. Most just offered a general commentary about the shocking crimes but one of them mentioned the Chief personally. It proved to be a very revealing interview. Interesting, the retired lieutenant thought the Chief’s reaction to one of the gruesome crimes was ‘odd’. He said he had an odd grin on his face when informed about the taxi driver’s murder the night before. The lieutenant assumed the Chief was simply amused by an earlier event, but felt it was strange that he continued to smile, long after informed about the murder. At no point did the pleasant gentleman suspect the former police chief of any wrongdoing. He just shared the strange anecdote from 50 years earlier because it stuck him as a strange reaction. Only detective Rand would’ve been able to use that offhand testimony, in an official capacity. Tim thanked him for his time and made plans to interview the most important person yet in his undercover investigation. The Chief’s widow resided in the suburbs and was reportedly still ‘sharp’. Tim put a great deal of thought and planning into his ‘game plan’. He wanted to ask important questions without clueing her in to the delicate and very personal subject of his investigation. It was going to be a balancing act. He called in advance to make an appointment to speak with her. He explained he’d inherited several cold cases and merely wanted to ask her recollections on them. It was all presented as a casual chat. She invited him to come by at noon. Tim felt she was probably very eager to have company in her advanced age. He arrived a couple minutes early and rang the doorbell. She opened the door and invited him in. Seated on the sofa across from her, she surprised him when her demeanor immediately changed. “Young man, why don’t you come clean for your reason to visit me? I’ve been the wife of a lawman too long to fall for ‘the casual chat’ ruse. My husband practically invented that interrogation technique.” Tim started to feign ignorance or protest but stopped himself. She saw through the facade. It was clear to both of them that he had some uncomfortable, indiscreet questions to ask, and she wanted him to just cut to the chase. Her ‘no nonsense’ attitude was both admirable and intimidating. He had spent so much time working on a strategy that he was unprepared to dive right in. “You came to ask me something about my husband. Something so disturbing that you are avoiding the subject entirely. I can see it in your eyes. Are you sure you want to know the answer? Once you discover the backbone to ask, I’m going to tell you. The question is, what will the truth do? Will it bring you fame? Will it solve a series of nearly forgotten crimes where even the victim’s families are probably long dead? Will it besmirch and tarnish my dead husband’s memory and celebrated police career? Yes. The answers to all those things, is yes.” Detective Rand was at a loss for words. The Chief’s widow had all but confirmed what he already knew. Up until that moment he had hoped for an unlikely but plausible explanation for the damning evidence against the man. Instead, she sewed up the case in a tight little package for him. The information came so freely that he was unprepared to handle it. “Down in the cellar there is a large cardboard box marked ‘decorations’. It contains a black hood, a pistol, several pieces of stained material, a number of library books on code writing and cryptology, and a personal diary. If the handwriting and substance of that journal were analyzed by experts, they would find that it is consistent with the letters you have in your possession from the Zodiac killer. They would also agree that it perfectly matches the handwriting of my late husband.” Tim sat there speechless. He stared into her eyes while trying to absorb the incredible revelation she had just disclosed to him. For the briefest of moments he worried she had unveiled the dark truth because she didn’t intend to let him leave, alive. “I didn’t always know. I suspected. I really did, but like most people I was in a deep form of denial about it. He went through strange mood swings. He was obsessed with the case in a way that surpassed any officer’s level of professional commitment. His behavior was highly bizarre and erratic at times, but then again he was obviously affected by the war. It changed him. I couldn’t bring myself to consciously suspect he was ‘The Zodiac’, but deep down I suppose I always knew. When I found his secret box down there, I was devastated because I could no longer deny it anymore. I couldn’t begin to answer why he did any of it but his journal probably spells it out pretty well. I couldn’t bear to read beyond the first couple pages. I just put it back in the box and pretended it wasn’t there. It was his dark little secret and I wanted no part of it. We never spoke about it. I was secretly terrified of the man I slept beside until the day he died.” Detective Rand stood up. He had a lot to process. She looked up at him with a steely glint. “Young man, what do you plan to do with this information? I’m a feeble old woman with terminal cancer. I can’t take a media circus or the public shaming of the news media. At best, the doctor’s say I only have a few months left. I am grateful to unburden myself about this to you. I guess you are my official confessor. Will you sit on this ugly secret about my husband until I pass? What’s a couple more months? Revealing the truth now won’t bring back any of those poor souls. I’d just like to go to my grave without being dragged through the mud.” Tim nodded. The confirmed identity of the Zodiac killer was now his burden the bear. He could keep the lab technicians and internal affairs quiet until it was the right time to reveal the truth. In the meantime he had plenty of other cases to work.

CORA level 48 element: fire yesterday The rain poured down onto the street, as if the earth was feeling what I was feeling. I bit my lip and threw my head back to stare at the blinding white clouds. The rain could disguise my tears. No one wanted to see me cry; it would stain my cheeks and make my eyes red and terrible. I wasn’t wearing a jacket or even a sweater, but I didn’t care. It’s not like the clothes I was wearing - a too-big extra uniform from the lost and found - meant anything to me, anyway. My hair was pressed flat; black and heavy with rain. “Kid!” Damn it. “Hey, come here!” I turned around, shuddering to think that my father had returned. My father, who had not come back in five years and left my mother and me, my mother 39, and me 8. But it wasn’t. It was a man standing in his open doorway, in pajamas, waving a newspaper in one hand and a can of ... some drink in the other. I walked over carefully, glancing suspiciously at the can. IPA. My father’s initials - Ian Prince Adams. And India Pale Ale. Which he - my father - couldn’t get enough of. The man shoves the newspaper towards me, into the rain. I reach forward, but when I see the ink running down the paper, I freeze. “Take it!” ordered the man, thrusting it towards me. “ Take it! ” I blinked, shivering, and took the paper. I looked at it, not bothering to read the headlines. “Have you seen it?” “No, sir,” I said. “I don’t receive the newspaper.” He grunted, went back inside, and slammed the door. Before it closed completely, I saw him shake one last drop of IPA into his mouth - and toss it into a trash can. The trash can is full to the top with cans. I looked at the headlines as I continued walking home. The smudged ink made it hard to see, but I was finally able to make out the words: GLITCH FOUND IN SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA. A glitch , I wondered. Glitches happen all the time in technology, but do they mean on Terra? That’s never happened, such a high-tech game as this is. I shook my head, laughing to myself. Fake news, probably. When I got home, I threw the newspaper into the trash. My mother was at work, she worked 24/7 and practically only slept for two hours everyday, and the weekends. I never saw her. Like that mattered, she was a robot. My real mother had no idea I was even on Terra. I went to my room to look up ‘glitches in game terra’. Scrolled down. Nothing. I tried to ignore the paper, which I saw everytime I went downstairs. I tried to forget about the glitch in SF, which was not far from where I was, in Oakland. Damn it! I can’t forget... I didn’t have my mother to tell, so I needed to figure it out myself. I had lots of money, 71,281 coins to be exact. But it wouldn’t be enough to last forever. My mother made the money in our family, and even then it was barely enough. I had to resort in selling things I found or made and keeping on the top of my class. She only gave me a coin a week, though. Kept the rest for herself. I shook my head. I can do just find by myself. I’ll take the - I glanced at my watch. 6:30. I’ll take the 7:00 bus to San Francisco. I didn’t bother leaving a note for my mother; she was a robot, and she wouldn’t care. Robots don’t have feelings. They’re stupid, programmed to be predictable. Unlike real humans, who are never truly understood by anyone. now I wear a cloak that covers my hole body and my head. The shadow falls across my face, so I’m good as invisible. My invisibility is terrible, so I’ll have to pay for the bus. Unless... I could kill everyone on it... no... I don’t want to be hunted by the police or anyone. I will pay. I’m bringing everything I own with me, which will definetely drain my energy, but I will have plenty of time to rest - it’s not like I’m going to do something in San Francisco, just see the so-called glitch. Maybe it’s a one-time thing that’ll boost my level. When I walk out into the rain, I feel a burst of excitement. It almost makes me laugh. I walk down my street, towards the bus stop at the end of the block. “Cora!” Crap - ! “Cora, where are you going?” I whirl around, feeling my eyes widening. Infront of me stands my neighbor, Peter, waving his arm vigorously. He’s soaking. “Peter!” I reply nervously. “What are you doing?” “What are you doing?” he says, laughing. Peter, of all people. First of all, he’s a real guy and my real freaking neighbor, and my classmate, and he’s had a crush on me for for freaking ever! I ignore him, turning back around and looking at my watch. 6:43. “Coooraaaa,” he whines. I hear his feet pattering against the concrete; in synch with the rain. I don’t have time for this. I walk faster, using my weak invisibility at full power. It’ll keep me all the way covered for an hour, at least. Which will be more than enough time to lose Peter. I feel a bit guilty, but he knows I’m not interested in him after the countless times I’ve rejected him. He knows , but he keeps pushing. Heartbreak will be the end of him, he’s desperate. I arrive at the bus stop and can’t hear his footsteps anymore. “Finally,” I whisper under my breath. I release the invisibility, letting out a sigh, as the bus rolls up. The first thing I see in San Francisco is the earth. Of course the earth, it’s everywhere and it’d be impossible not to see it. And then I see the cars, the people, the roads. I can see everything. Having the element of fire isn’t useful at all, and sometimes I think about restarting the whole game just to have something better like air. If I had air or earth or water, I would be able to fly. Which would be nice. Air is the best element, of course, because you can fly but also those with the element of air have the best invisibility. Fire is good in battle, but air, water, and earth can all put it out. “Are you getting off?” The sharp voice of the bus driver snaps me out of my fantasies. I nod and step off the bus. And then I see it. The glitch. It looks just like static, hovering right infront of me. I reach out, but before my hand makes contact with it, I hear my name being called. “Cora!” it’s a familiar voice, one that I know well but hardly ever hear. It’s my mother’s voice. I turn around quickly to see her - my mother - and behind her are a group of at least a dozen soldiers. And next to her is a mage. My mother wears a pink t-shirt and jeans. She’s scowling, her arms are crossed. How does she know I’m here? What... why does she have soldiers - and a mage? She reads my mind. “You didn’t know? I thought you would’ve figured out that I’m not working to desperately gain money, I have all the money I need.” “What?” I say, surprised. I would have never thought that she had lots of money, or even enough money, and I shake my head. “What are you talking about?” My mother laughs. “You can’t escape me, darling Cora, you’d have to go into the glitch and you’re not going to do that. It could destroy your whole computer. It would , probably.” she takes a step forward and her group follows. She reaches her hand out. “Come back. Don’t think you’re not in trouble, but I wouldn’t hurt you, Cora.” Everything in her voice and her face tells me that she would. She’d hurt me. “No,” I whisper. I dive backward, into the glitch. The surprise on my mother’s face causes me to smirk, even though my computer might be destroyed. The things I would do to spite a robot. When I swim deeper into the glitch, I see other players. The deeper I go, the more people there are. No one I know, though, until... “Cora!” “Peter?” the one time I’m glad to see him; when I’m stuck in a glitch and my robot mother is trying to... kidnap me. “Cora, look,” he whispers, spinning me around and pointing. I follow the line his finger points to. Beyond the people swarming by, beyond the blue and purple and white and yellow pixelated colors of the glitch, is the sky. The sun is going down, the clouds are drifting past. It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s not the world of Terra that I left, though, it’s something bigger than that. It’s the... the world made by... the glitch .

A boy experiences the loss of a close pet and is changed forever, leading him to join the legions. \ I always fought for my younger brother. When we were children, I would stand up against those who tormented, bullied, and stole from him. Usually, he was seemingly too timid to put up a defense himself. But one encounter changed him forever. It was the day that something irreplaceable was taken from him. See, my brother, Marius, had a pet mouse named Leucon. He had white fur with little blotches of brown, and a pair of wide, searching eyes. I remember the creature being playful, intelligent, and fully adored by Marius. The mouse must have known this as he would squeak and chirp gently when held by my brother. Their bond was strong and Marius would often take Leucon with him wherever he went. One fateful day though, our father sent us to the market to acquire some bread, oil, and fish. He even gave us a few extra denars in little coin purses so we could get something for ourselves. This concerned me a bit as Marius was still a little naive. I was worried that he would be swindled out of his money and even warned him myself before we set out. But he told me that Leucon would be watching out for him. As with many outings before, Marius decided that the mouse would accompany him on this trip as well. He tucked his tiny companion neatly into his coin purse, saying that “Leucon would help guard his silver”. To me, such a statement was ridiculous, but Marius was nonetheless my silly little brother and such care-free innocence gave me a sense that something was good about the world. I made it a point to watch out for Marius and by extension the little things that mattered to him. If he thought Leucon was there to guard him, then so was I. They would both be equally my responsibility. When we reached the market we began to wander through the labyrinth of stalls and tents. Marius, being young and easily distracted, wanted to stop and gawk at the wares of every trinket salesman. I did too admittedly, but I also knew we had to press on through our chore. However, the task must have been too burdensome to my brother as somewhere along the way, Marius decided to separate from me. More than likely his eye was caught by some exotic good or toy. I rapidly backtracked throughout the market, panicked at the notion of losing my brother. I asked all sorts of merchants and vendors whether or not they saw him, describing his small stature and auburn colored hair. One vendor mentioned that he saw Marius with two other boys who looked to be cornering him. I asked the vendor in which direction they went and he pointed to a nearby alley. *Oh no...* I thought. I sprinted to the alley entrance, pushing past people in the busy market to get to Marius. The scene that I stumbled into horrified me. I saw the two boys the vendor mentioned standing above my brother. He was on the ground, huddled into a ball and sobbing. The boys seemed to be roughly the same age as Marius but were certainly larger than him. One of them held Marius’s coin purse while the other one seemed to be sucking his finger as if it were pricked. Then I noticed Leucon... The tiny mouse was lifeless on the ground; a motionless clump of white fur with its neck snapped at a grotesque angle. The bastard sucking his finger must have crushed the poor mouse’s neck and then tossed him to the ground like a discarded rag. All in front of Marius. I was *furious* upon realizing this. Immediately, I charged the boy that had killed Leucon. He might have been bigger than Marius, but he wasn’t bigger than me. He turned to face me, but it was too late to stop my rage. Using what tricks I learned from my father, an old mercenary, I slammed the boy across the face with my fist and then delivered a gut-punch. He dropped to the ground, moaning and crying. The other boy, stunned, dropped Marius’s coin purse and stared at me. “Get out of here! Go! Before I decide to hurt you as I have hurt your friend!” I hollered. The coin-thief continued to stare dumbly before it registered that he should flee. He then turned and ran like his life depended upon it. Meanwhile, the boy who I had dropped was rolling on the ground. “You too!” I shouted as I kicked dirt on him. The boy staggered to his feet, barely recovered from the blows I delivered. He proceeded to limp out in pursuit of his friend. I turned to see Marius still on the ground and curled up. I ran to attend to him. “Oh God, Marius! Are you ok?” Marius unfurled a bit from the ball he was in, revealing a bruised face reddened with blood and shameful despair. “Cy-cyrus? He meekly asked between tears. Upon seeing me, he immediately hugged me, resting his chin upon my shoulder. I returned the favor and comforted my little brother by holding him tight. “Cyrus, it was awful!” he exclaimed. “They-they killed him, Cyrus. They killed Leucon! He was just trying to protect himself. But they decided to snap his neck anyway!” I said nothing and just held Marius closer to me as he sobbed. “Why would they do something like that?” he asked. “Leucon was just scared. How could they be so cruel?” My mouth emptily gaped open and closed as I struggled to form an answer. “I...I don’t know,” I began. “I guess people can be horrible to creatures they see as weak or lesser. They think that they can easily take from them or hurt them for their own gain.” Marius held me tighter as his fingers gripped into my back. Something about the mouse’s death struck deep into his soul. I could feel a sense of rage building behind his sorrow. “But why did Leucon have to *die*, Cyrus? Why did they *kill* him?” he asked breathlessly. I contemplated this question as deeply as any philosopher. “I don’t know, Marius,” I said. “Because they could? Because Leucon got in the way of the silver they wanted?” Marius inhaled and exhaled raggedly in between bouts of little sniffles. “But ***why***?!” He screamed, still not understanding. “Life shouldn’t be like that. I don’t understand why good things get hurt. It’s-it’s not...*fair.*” “It isn’t, at all, Marius,” I said in agreement. “It truly isn’t.” I held Marius for a little while longer before peeling him away from my hold. I looked into his face and he appeared to have calmed down a little. However, something else in him seemed deep in ponderance. “Come,” I said. “We should give Leucon a proper burial.” Marius collected the mouse and we found some cheap cloth to use as a shroud. We then traveled outside the city gates to find a quiet place in the country to bury Marius’s former companion. We didn’t have to walk far to find an idyllic patch of flowers on the side of a quiet road. Marius and I knelt down in the flower bed and began to claw out a little grave in the earth. Carefully, Marius deposited Leucon in the hole and remained quiet as I filled the grave back up. We then stood side by side in silent reflection. “Cyrus?” asked my little brother. I looked down. “Yes, Marius?” I replied. “Did...did Leucon die because I wasn’t able to protect him?” he asked with a hint of remorse. “Marius...” I began. “Because if I were as strong as you, Cyrus,” he continued. “I don’t...I don’t think Leucon would have died.” He looked up at me and seemed as if he were on the verge of tears again. “How-how do I become as strong as you, Cyrus?” he asked. How do I protect the things that matter to me?” I knelt down and hugged him. As I stood up, I sighed and grabbed him by the hand before speaking. “We should go home and tell father about what happened today.” \ My father was reluctant to teach us the ways of fighting. He taught us one or two things about defending ourselves and maybe surviving combat if we were ever called to defend the city. But otherwise, our father limited his lessons as he didn’t want us to lead the type of life that he led as a mercenary before he got citizenship. He was afraid we would end up getting ourselves hurt or killed while seeking adventure and glory. But in the days after losing Leucon, Marius wanted to learn everything about fighting and would pester our father constantly. He eventually gave into Marius’s demands, perhaps out of sympathy for the feeling of weakness that my brother felt after losing his companion. So Marius learned how to fight regularly. At first, other boys would continue to steal from and pick on him given his size. But at least he was more than willing to put up a defense by then. Initially, he often lost and I would have to save him. But that didn’t stop him from throwing punches as if he were possessed by a furious spirit who was blissfully unaware of his small stature. Over time though, Marius not only grew, but he also became better skilled in martial prowess. He even surpassed me. Eventually, our father passed and his business and estate were granted on to me, the eldest. Marius could have worked the shop with me, but he felt he had another calling. Over the years, Marius had grown strong and become very competent in the martial arts. So instead he opted to join the legions, figuring that there could be no higher honor than protecting his home and his family. Marius and I would correspond regularly through his training and then his deployment to the outskirt provinces. Through letters, we would often reminisce on childhood, converse about philosophy, or talk about his time in the frontier fort. I learned that the fort where he was stationed was only five day’s travel from our city. He would often remark how peaceful it was out there in the forests of the frontier and how different it was to our home city, despite the relatively short distance. Then one day though, I realized that Marius was late in continuing his correspondence. At first, I figured nothing of it, thinking that my brother was busy with his duties. Then another day passed and then another. Then a week. I came to fear the worst. Eventually, a messenger finally appeared at my door. That was the day I received the news I wasn’t ready to hear: the fort where my brother was stationed was overwhelmed by warriors from the northern tribes. He was likely killed by those barbarian savages in a surprise attack. I could barely stand upon hearing this. How could that even be? My little brother, who, from humble beginnings, became such an impressive fighter. My little brother, who would discuss philosophy with me. My little brother, who cared for tiny creatures. How could he be dead? I shuddered to think of him bleeding out on some forsaken battlefield or upon a cursed rampart. Why would the heavens allow him to be taken from me like that? Worse yet, the messenger still had more terrible news to deliver. Apparently the barbarians who took the fort where Marius was stationed were marching towards our humble city. They would be here in two days' time. I dismissed the messenger and immediately made arrangements to send my wife and children beyond the walls to safety. I decided to remain, days' however. I still remembered a few tricks my father taught me and I wanted to stay and defend my shop and my home. Beyond that though, I wanted a chance...any chance...to seek vengeance for my brother. Over the course of the next days, panic swept through the city. Some fled to the country. Others, like me, decided to hold, not wanting to surrender their homes, to the barbarians. I found my father’s old sword, shield, and some aged leather armor. I cleaned up the armor and sharpened the sword as best as I could. I then joined up with the city militia and received a helmet and some last-minute drill instruction. In due time, the barbarian horde emerged from the forests and came to besiege our city, cutting us off from food and other necessary provisions. From the walls at night, you could see the fires of their camps in the distance. They would hoot and yawp from the darkness, screaming like animals in an attempt to terrify us. It was unnerving, but not as unnerving as the sound of axes chopping wood and saws cutting through timber. Rumor had it that the tribesmen had captured some of our engineers and coerced them into revealing the secrets of siege warfare. God only knew what they were building. We certainly didn’t see anything during daylight. However, on the morning of the seventh day of the siege, we beheld the fruits of their labor. The barbarians had assembled an array of equipment to aid them in their effort to take our city, seemingly having conjured it out of thin air. This included a number of tall ladders, a few catapults, a battering ram, and even an imposing siege tower. They likely built everything piecemeal in the cover of the forest, away from our sight. Then the night before they must have assembled everything in the relative protection of the impenetrable darkness. Their apparent plan was quite clever as the sight that morning was dismaying, to say the least. As the sun rose, the barbarians took various positions around the city and laid in wait for a signal. Then it came. A series of bellowing horns blew and the barbarians unleashed a roaring chorus of battle-cries. All hell broke loose. Archers and catapults pelted our positions. Boulders collided with the battlements, sending men, stone, and brick tumbling through the air. Meanwhile, the wheeled siege tower and battering ram began to lumber towards the city walls. We returned fire with our arrows and ballista shots, picking off the men pushing the siege engines and rushing our walls with ladders. One lucky ballista shot even managed to knock out a support in the siege tower, toppling it in a shower of splinters atop the barbarians. A cheer rose from our men, but the victory was short-lived. Some of the ladders reached our walls and fierce tribesmen, wielding an assortment of clubs, axes, and spears, were climbing towards us. I readied my shield and prepared to defend my position. The initial wave of barbarians clambered over the wall and were met with our steel. I got my first good look at them in the maelstrom. They were large and wild-looking; unshaven and unkempt, often wearing thick flannel or furs to emphasize their beastly appearance and tall helmets to emphasize their height. They fought with ferocity, but there were enough of us on the walls that we temporarily halted them. Then suddenly, a thunderous sound boomed through the battle. **THUD...THUD...THUD...** The battering ram had reached the gates. Half of us were ordered to retreat from the walls to reinforce the men holding the entrance to the city. I volunteered to go. **THUD...THUD...THUD...** 30 or so men and I ran down a set of stairs located in one of the wall towers to reach the ground. We then rushed to the gates, desperately trying to get there in time. **THUD...THUD...KAGRRAASH!** The gates crashed open. It was too late. A wild throng poured through, and by the time we got there, the barbarians were already swamping the men who were desperately trying to hold the entrance. I looked back to the wall ramparts, hoping to see our men still holding somewhere. Instead, I saw the defenders there being overwhelmed as well. Someone ordered us to retreat and regroup at the city center. The walls were lost and barbarians were flooding into the city, spreading fire and slaughter as they went. We tried to stay together, but in the confusion, I became separated from my troop. I ran through the streets that were rapidly filling with a disorienting smokey haze. Screams and shouts could be heard not far in the distance. As I pushed towards the city center, I came across four tribesmen, armed with spears and axes, who were bashing down the door to a stranger’s home. Time almost froze when they fixed their gaze upon me, but I was catapulted back to reality when one shouted and pointed, prompting them to give chase. Not wanting to be caught out in the open, I decided to run. My plan was to lead them to the city center where the remnants of the city’s defenders were most likely going to make their final stand. At least there I would survive for a little longer. But in the haze of fear and confusion, I made a grave miscalculation. I turned into an alley, expecting to find a shortcut. Instead, I was faced with a brick wall. Something about the alley seemed familiar, but I had no time to contemplate such a thing. I pivoted and hoped to exit this obvious death trap. Alas, the barbarians appeared with appropriately grim timing. *So, it has come to this,* I thought. *At least I shall be with God and my brother if I must meet my end this day.* I bashed my sword against my shield and beckoned them to come forth. All four of them exchanged glances. One with a short spear and his own shield gave his compatriots a nod and stepped forth. He charged me individually. I braced myself. The barbarian came crashing against me, almost knocking me off my feet. However, I managed to widen my stance just enough before the impact to maintain my footing. He struck wildly at me with his spear, but I blocked his blows and bided for an opening. He then made his mistake. He inevitably wore himself as one of his thrusts was slower than the last. As he made one last labored strike, he dropped his shield just enough to give me an opening. I used that opportunity to parry, knocking his spear out of the way with my own shield and moving in for a thrust towards his chest. I ran him through, pushing upwards and stabbing into the heart. He gave an animalistic whine. “For my brother!” I quietly hissed in his ear. The barbarian was whimpering and I could feel warm blood coat my sword and my hand gripping it. I retrieved my weapon and he collapsed to the ground, lifeless. My assailant's compatriots gave each other a look and exchanged something in a tongue I barely understood. But before I could piece together their strategy, they all charged. Two were armed with grizzly looking two-handed great axes and the third had yet another spear and shield combo. They brought their weapons to bear upon me and I once again braced myself. The larger of the two axemen crashed against me and my shield and tried to chop at my head from overtop my defenses. I managed to parry his blows with my sword and even delivered a counterattack in the form of a slice across his face. Stunned, he hollered and staggered back, cursing but still alive. The spearman behind him jumped into the fray, replacing his wounded companion and further tying me up. Meanwhile, the other axeman was rushing to my exposed side. I tried to land a decisive blow on the spearman before I would be open to an attack from the axeman moving to exploit the opening in my defenses. However, I took too long in getting to the pole-armed warrior as he wisely used his weapon to keep me at length. This gave an opportunity to the axeman rushing my side. He was nimble on his feet and dexterous with his weapon, managing to flank me and hook my ankle with the flat underside of his ax bit. He pulled, sweeping me off the ground. My sword went flying and the next thing I knew, I was on my back. The huge, grizzled barbarian who I had scarred across the face walked up and was now looming above me. He looked angrier than the furies as he brought his ax up and stuck downward with a yawp. I still had my shield and hefted it above me as a last-ditch effort to survive his rage. The ax came crashing down and bit into the wood, striking through and nearly splitting my face in half. I held onto my shield for dear life, but it wasn’t enough. The ax head was lodged in my last line of defense and the barbarian used that leverage to wrench my shield away from me. I laid there fully exposed as the barbarian set himself for the final strike. I had nothing left. I then recalled why this alley was familiar. It was where Leucon died. Upon this, I remembered everything. That was the day I came to my brother’s aid just too late; the day Marius realized how cruel life could be. It was fitting this would be the place where I would get such a reminder myself. *I guess it’s true,* I thought, *the strong do take from the weak. What is there but suffering and destruction for those who can’t defend themselves?* I could feel my own breath go inward and outward. *Marius,* I thought. *How much I wish I was there for you.* Ready to embrace death, I closed my eyes and listened. I could hear the crackle of fires and the screams of people in the background. It all seemed so hopeless. But that wouldn’t matter soon as I was about to make my passage. I listened to the barbarian heave his huge ax above himself once again. I knew what was coming and resigned myself to my fate. Then I heard it: something else against the background noise of damnation. It made a low *whooshing* sound. At first, I thought it was the barbarian’s ax. Instead, it was my salvation. I opened my eyes just in time to see my executioner be impaled from behind with a thrown javelin. It was as if providence itself stuck down the wild man. He gurgled and toppled to the side in a heap, his prized great ax falling to the wayside. The other barbarians, stunned for just a brief moment, instinctually swung around to face the danger opposing them. I also adjusted my posture to see the interloper who had defied the hand of fate itself on my behalf. Through the smoke emerged an all too familiar figure. He was shorter, but stout; bloodied and bruised, but not broken, and armored like a professional soldier of the legion. My brother, Marius stood as a battered warrior, with sword and shield in hand, defiant of the apocalyptic chaos going around him. He was back from the dead, seemingly returning to pay retribution to the cruelty of the world itself. I again recalled that fateful day in this exact alleyway. I never really considered what Marius must have felt when he saw me coming to his rescue after experiencing such a lowly point in life. But in that moment when I saw him, I began to understand. I remembered why Marius was obsessed with becoming a better fighter. It wasn’t just because he lost faithful Leucon or felt weak. It was because he wanted to protect what mattered to him. Because he saw me throw myself into the fray so many times for him. He saw that he mattered to me and that I loved him as my only brother. And now here he was, returning the favor. “Marius?” I quietly asked myself underneath my breath, not fully believing what I was seeing. My brother glanced over to me and gave a look of relief when he saw I was still alive. He then stared down the barbarians. “Men of slaughter!” he bellowed. “Leave my brother be...or face me instead.” The barbarians cursed at the arrival of this interloper. The spearman was hesitant to engage but the remaining axman had grown enraged at the loss of his counterpart. He charged Marius, with a reckless abandon, running towards my brother with his weapon wound behind his shoulders. But Marius saw the mighty swing coming and deftly ducked below, only to pop back up with a stunning shield bash. The barbarian staggered back, grunting. He then blindly swung back and forth, desperately trying to land a blow. Marius simply dodged by stepping backward. He then used the space to go on the offensive Upon seeing his first opening, Marius did something unexpected: he chucked his shield at the barbarian and rapidly closed in. The barbarian managed to bat the tossed shield out of the way with his ax. However, it was too late for him. The axeman was still on his downswing when Marius came upon him with his sword. The savage tried to parry but wasn’t fast enough. He was run through, coming to choke on his blood and then collapsing to the ground. The spearman, not wanting to lose his life too, threw his arms to the dirt and ran off. My brother, having seen the day was won, approached me smiling. He offered me his outstretched hand. I took it and was then hoisted into a warm embrace. I almost broke into tears upon receiving my brother’s hug. I thought I would have never experienced a moment like that again. We then pulled apart, clasping each other's shoulders and staring into each other's beaming faces “Marius!” I began. “The attack on your fort...How are you still alive? *How* did you find me?!” “Oh Cyrus! Brother! It is a long tale,” he said. “You must have many questions and I have so much to tell you, but...” He was interrupted by the sound of a war horn blowing in the distance. “But for now we must make haste to safety. Come!” We gathered our arms and then ran. As we sprinted through the streets, I was uncertain of the immediate future. However, that really didn't seem to matter. All that mattered was that my brother and I had each other again. Yes, everything was chaos. But I knew Marius and I would face that chaos together. Together we would stand a chance. I used to fight for my brother. But now...now we would fight as one. \ Hey, thanks for sitting through this and reading. This piece was admittedly more experimental and I wanted to try some new things. I honestly think the story could have come out better though. If you have some criticisms, please send 'em to me. I would love to hear what you have to say.

I’m always the first thing you look at, when you wake up. You roll over, looking at me nervously, afraid you have knocked me off your too-small bed again, like you did the very first time I stayed over. It's cute. I'm always there, next to you. I am not as easy to knock over as you may think. We have a good relationship, I think. I am a bit awkward, I never know what to say, and you often get frustrated with how vague I am. I’m sorry. I am sorry that sometimes I get us lost when we are driving. I swear, it's not my fault. I just get mixed up. “I just get mixed up.” Sometime in the last year or so, you've gotten tired of hearing that. The quirks you thought were cute, now you find obnoxious. The fact that I'm tired all the time isn't a plus, either. You want to go out. You want to do things with me, and I just can't find the energy to do them. I still love you. I love everything about you. The way you hold me at night, the way you share all your secrets with me, how dorky you look when you and I try to take a picture together... but you're always smiling in those pictures. I love that we are such a cute couple. The way you are always willing to get wet, just to keep me dry when it rains... it's sweet. Chivalrous, even. You're a proper gentleman. I... see the way you look, sometimes. We've been together years. I know what that look means. You think about others when you lay with me, and those quirks you loathe now draw tempered sighs of disgust. I remember the first time you called me useless, and threw me into the bed. I remember the way you stormed out, mad that I had forgotten to remind you about your pizza. I remember the look of loathing you gave me. A million tiny things all somehow led to that, and from then on you were different. You hit me. Slapped me. Shook me. You called me things I don't want to repeat, and made me feel like just another broken thing. Last night, you hit me so hard I blacked out for a while. When I came too, you had elected to sleep instead of care for me. It didn't surprise me. I know I am trash in your eyes. You've never seen me the way I see you. When you left this morning, you left me behind. You didn't say goodbye like you used to. You didn't bring me along. When you come back, you will have forgotten me entirely.

In a quiet workshop, bathed in the soft light of a setting sun, there stood an old machine, once the pride of its operator. Bradley, the man who had relied on this machine for decades, was known for his precision and skill, producing work with an accuracy that was the envy of his colleagues. But lately, things had started to change. Bradley looked at his hands with a mix of frustration and sorrow. He remembered the days when every movement, every action, was carried out with perfect coordination. His body responded to his mind like an extension of his will. Together, they had crafted countless pieces, each one a testament to their shared precision. But now, his body stuttered and groaned. The once smooth movements had become rough and unpredictable. Bradley’s mind, still sharp and experienced, was no longer met with the body's former reliability. A slight tremor in his hands, a delay in his reflexes, and the tasks that used to be seamless now required rework and adjustment. Bradley sighed as he fumbled a small tool. It wasn't that his skills had diminished, he was certain of that. He had spent hours meticulously practicing his techniques, only to find them as sound as they had ever been. The issue lay within his body itself, aged and worn from years of faithful service. Each day, Bradley's frustration grew. He knew his body like an old friend, and watching it falter was painful. He tried everything he could think of--exercise, rest, even medical advice--but nothing restored it to its former glory. The once-proud body now seemed to resist his efforts, like an old machine whose joints no longer moved as they once did. "It's not your fault," Bradley whispered to himself, almost as if his body could hear him. "You've given me your best for so many years. It's just... time catching up with us." Despite his understanding, the frustration lingered. He wanted to produce the same quality of work he always had, but the body's inconsistencies made that impossible. The mind’s sharpness hadn't changed; the body had. Bradley’s friends noticed his struggle. They offered advice and assistance, but no one knew his body like Bradley did. They didn’t understand the bond he shared with it, the respect he had for the precision they once achieved together. One day, as Bradley sat in quiet reflection during a rare moment of peace, he realized something profound. It wasn’t just his body that had aged--it was their partnership. The body, in its prime, had magnified his skills, making him appear almost superhuman in his precision. Now, as it aged, it highlighted his own human limitations. Bradley decided that, instead of fighting his body's age, he would adapt to it. He began to move more slowly, with even greater care, understanding that his body needed more patience now. He listened to its aches and hesitations, learning to anticipate its quirks and compensate for them. In time, Bradley and his body found a new rhythm. The tasks they performed weren't as perfect as before, but they bore a different kind of beauty--one of resilience and adaptation. Bradley learned to accept that aging wasn’t about becoming clumsy or imprecise; it was about learning to work with the changes that time brings. The body, though old and worn, still had much to offer. And so did Bradley. Together, they continued their work, proving that precision wasn’t just about perfect actions, but about the perfect partnership between mind and body, no matter the age.

“......an’ I had to tell him that he wassa beening too uptight, eh?” Jonathan smirked. “Yes, that does sound like him. Really, Alden is really uptight. Oh, that reminds me, I planned a trip to your town. I hope you don’t mind me visiting you and Agatha, old friend?” There was a pause. Then the man named Johnathan spoke. “Yeb, er, I ain’t minding ya! Me and my wife willa seeya ther!” Beep. The unnamed man sat up and rubbed his eyes. He looked around his cozy, but cluttered mess of a room. Guess I will be packing . The man reached down and picked up some papers off the floor. He then walked out of the room to pack. *** As his own private jet arrived, the man quickly noticed one thing. He had just landed in the middle of... Nowhere? Soon, though, the man had regained his bearings, and walked to the town one mile away. As he neared his destination, he realized what he had waltzed into. A neat little town. But there was an odd atmosphere lingering around this town. It was a little too neat, a little too quiet. It was so quiet that you could hear water evaporating, your heart beating, your watch tick tock-ing . Suddenly, a burst of life exploded in the too neat, too quiet town, transforming it into a bustling village. He smiled at the people, but then it hit him. Literally. As he was rubbing the sore spot on his neck, where the shoe had hit him, he thought, these people are angry at me. But why? His rescuer soon arrived on the scene, in the shape of.... “Nathan! Yer back so soon?” He frowned. He had known Jonathan for eighteen years now, so how did he forget his best friend's name? However, when he saw the look of total fear on Jonathan’s face, his angriness was replaced with nervousness, and he gulped. Right on the spot, he decided to play along and pretend to be this so-called “Nathan.” “Yep, uh, I’m back! Hahaha, I’m back!” All the brooms and dusters went down as the mob dispersed. There were only two people left. A grayed hair woman walked over to “Nathan”, looked at him, and walked away hurriedly, murmuring things to herself. The latter turned around to face “Nathan” and he could not help but blurt out “Agatha!” He regretted this immediately, as she advanced on him. “HI NATHAN! I can’t believe you are back so soon!” Agatha gave him a Don’t-you-dare say-anything-or-I-will-knock-your-head-off look. “You WILL join us for supper, right? RIGHT?! I’ll see you in my house!” She walked away to her house and pulled the dumbstruck Jonathan in. Good acting, drama queen. “ Nathan” thought. He then joined them for supper. *** “This town does not like visitors?” “Ai, yeb mate. I sent a message to your phone b’ you ain’t looking at it, ai?” “You are right. I should have looked,” he changed the subject. “Your house is impeccable!” He was right. A sparkling crystal chandelier hung across the glittering ceiling, as the floor danced with light in a dual tango. The walls hung photos of Jonathan and his family, all smiling. The stairs intertwined paths and created a beautiful rainbow walkway. The house seemed to be held up by some sort of magic, as it was remarkably high. The kitchen was pleasantly kept and cleaned, not like the town. Everything was in order, and well-made foods sat on the table, waiting to be eaten. The living room was a whole other world. Chairs, couches, seats, armchairs, cantilever chairs, wing chairs, deck chairs, and desk chairs were all chatting as the fireplace crackled nicely. A sweet aroma filled the room as flowers of all kinds spread their petals. Carnations. Irises. Lavender. Roses. Tulips. Sunflowers. Gardenias. Orchids. Those were just a few of the lovely flowers in the choir of sweetness. The large, billowing curtains swayed to and fro, creating a lighting show. “Ai, mate. It ain’t half bad, once yer get over da brightness, ai? Any who,” continued Jonathan in an airy tone, “I no’ tha you ain’t from ‘ere, so do’n be looking fer trouble, hear?” “I--Of course I won’t, but why do you guys not like outsiders?” Jonathan was opening his mouth, but then a riot broke out in the streets. They both hurried to the door to see what was happening. “Brooke, there is someone in Johnathan’s house that is not Nathan!!!” “Nathan” gulped and looked at Jonathan. His face said it all. He was utterly terrified. “Should we run, mate?” Johnathan whispered. Just as he was about to reply, he heard Brooke exploding, “WHAT!? Where is he..., thank you two for reporting this, but I suggest you do not get involved here, alright? The mayor is hearing about this...” As the duo attempted to nod, Brooke spotted Jonathan and “Nathan” on the doorway. She marched up to them and started to pull “Nathan’s” hand. Jonathan tried to stop her, trying to block her way, distracting her, but Brooke was unfazed by his pleas. Her grip was tight, her mind was made up. A single strand of her gray hair fell on “Nathan’s” arm. He brushed it away subconsciously. In the Mayor’s office, it was just as neat as the town, everything placed in order, everything where it was supposed to be. But “Nathan” could not help to notice a clear inch of dust on the organized items, as if they have not been moved for the past few years. As “Nathan” began to look closer, he noticed a small frame of two little girls holding hands at the beach, with their mother watching over them. The setting was picturesque, and the girls glowed with pride near a sandcastle that almost rivaled their height. Just then, the mayor stepped into the doorway. “So you decided to visit me, stranger? Figures. It took you long enough. But why are you here, an’ what are you doing in my town?” he said. “But I shon’ be gettin ahead of myself, right? My name is Alden, an I’m the Mayor of our town.” “Uh, hi, I did not know this town had a mayor. So----” “All towns ave a mayor, right?I don’t see what the fuss is about, so why don't ya tell me summat of yourself, hm?” “But, Alden......” Brooke butted in, but Alden held up a hand. “Nothing you ave to worry over, Brooke! Why don you go home, you’ve done yourself a great job, me beautiful wife!” Brooke gave Alden a swift, searching glance, narrowed her eyes, and left his house. Thus, they began the conversation, which slowly stretched into a long,long, long story. They were talking like old pals, and “Nathan” was ready to ask the big question, the only reason he was still here. But then he remembered something. “Hey, in that photo, there was a girl I recognized. Don't you think--” Before he could work out what was happening, Alden was on his feet and shouting at him. “I KNEW IT! YOU ARE ONE OF THEM!!! YOU JUST WANT MY FAMILY! LEAVE MY FAMILY ALONE!!” “This is a misunderstanding, I don’t want- “ENOUGH OF YOUR LIES! I’VE HAD IT WITH YOU-YOU PEOPLE!” This was enough to get “Nathan” to start hollering, too. “YOU NEED TO LISTEN! I DO NOT WANT YOUR FAMILY! I ONLY CAME HERE TO VISIT MY FRIEND! I HAVE NOT SEEN HIM FOR TWO YEARS!” “I DON’T CARE! I CAN’T LET THAT HAPPEN AGAIN! WHY DO YOU THINK I DON’T ALLOW PEOPLE IN MY TOWN?! I- Alden suddenly knelt down and started to sob. Calming down, “Nathan” sat down, too, patting Alden on the back, and asked for the whole story. In a shaky voice, Alden started, “W-when this town was younger, we used to be very happy an welcoming. But then those rich p-people came.” Alden said the sentence with such scorn that it burned a hole though the words. “They were alright at first, helping us out, cleaning stuff. But they left unexpectedly w-with-” Alden paused and took several deep breaths, then went on. “T-they took my o-oldest daughter. W-we never found h-her. Tha pic wassa before they captured my beautiful girl. Since them, we h-have been closed to the public, as to protect my last daughter.” “Nathan” stared soberly at Alden. Then he stood up, making up his mind in the spur of the moment. “Keeping it in your heart for all these years must have been eating you from the inside.” “Nathan” paused and looked thoughtful. Then he spoke. “I must also reveal the truth. I am a detective, working to stop kidnappers. I came to this town because, well, I had some cases of missing girls. I just found out that one of the missing girls had disappeared from this town.” “Nathan” looked at the mayor, who had tears brimming in his eyes, “Help me to find more, please, I know it’s hard to talk about this never-healing wound. I promise I will work with my team to find kidnappers, and, if possible, your daughter. The only thing I ask for is for you and your town to be more welcoming to this world. And, let me make things straight.” Pause, “The other reason is that I just want to visit my friend.” Alden looked at “Nathan”, shocked. Then he also stood up and said “I’ll-I’ll give it a shot. Thank you... for this information.” *** Six months later... ... “Thank you for- for just everything you have done to help this town. You have brought back joy and life to our town and helped us reform into our old selves. You have also taught me and my wife, to not stay in the past, but accept the present. You are right ,my daughter will love it when she comes back. ” “That is what I do, Alden. I will see you next time, then. Mrs. Lewandowski’s gray hair looks like an angel's harp under the sun.” He added.” Pause. “Ok, mate! And er, never got yer name. What is it?” “Reid.” “Reid.” “Reid Falcon.” Then Reid Falcon walked away, leaving Alden to bask in the peaking rays of sunrise. He looked at this town, and saw Agatha, Jonathan, Brooke, and many others waving good-bye to Reid. *** “You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is like an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.” ― Mahatma Gandhi

7:39 PM October 6th Seven days. It’s been seven days since I turned fourteen, and the only things I can think about are the cake I ate, and my mom’s decision to abandon her only daughter and husband. The shock that went through my body rapidly transformed into indescribable sadness the moment I read the text she sent. Every inch of my flesh feels like it’s burning with rage, yet frozen from the cold black mirror between my palms. A rush of chilly breeze brushes between the surface of my skin and my clothes. I habitually glance down at my body, completely occupied by the fact that I had been abandoned over a text message. I see my veiny hands holding my phone, and without notice, I shatter it on the pavement. How can she do this? A bond between a mother and her daughter should be invincible, shouldn't it? The little moments of joy and grief, the big events such as your wedding or your first day of high school. When you’d come home from school with a craft that you had just specifically created for your mom, the day you found out you had gotten your first period. It should all be in there. Shouldn’t it? I struggle to get up from the park bench. I push myself up slowly, yet I still feel the dizziness going through my head, spinning throughout my thoughts. And for a moment, I feel emptier than I have ever been. I feel every organ in my body rubbing against my bones, every vein, every movement. It was a pain I have never experienced, pain that only was caused by a simple text. You are so stupid, I tell myself. I dig my hands into my pocket, look at my broken phone, and restlessly walk back to my house. I’m barely even able to drag my feet on the ground, but I observe every motion in the distance. The mother cradling her baby on the park bench across the park, the boy trying to cross the monkey bars, the muddy dirt on the grass. You deserve this. I hear the voice in my head louder than the leaves crunching under my feet. I feel a rush of anger running down my spine before I enter my house. But the moment I step foot on the doorstep, I am attacked by my dad. “She took them!” He yelled, referring to my brothers. I look around and every piece of furniture in the house is exactly where it should be. The couch on the left side, just an inch away from the black, wood side table, The white curtains hang perfectly off the curtain rod, the carpet is pure white, the family frame on the fireplace. But my dad’s mind is not where it should be. I stare back at him as he launches towards me. “She took them!” I recognize this tone. It was the tone he used when I would come back with a B. It was the tone he used when his soup was a little too hot for his desire, the tone he used if I wore my hair a certain way. “I know,” I whisper with any and all courage I have left in me. “And she left you here with me. What am I even supposed to do with you?” He clenches his fists, hovering around. He suddenly stops in his tracks, looks at me, raises his hand, and without doubt, he swings it against my cold cheek. I don’t even flinch. I can smell the strong scent of alcohol in his breath. I look down at his left hand, holding a glass of whiskey, his favourite. “You made her leave,” He points at me. “If you weren’t so difficult all the time!” He raises his voice louder. “Why can’t you just be normal? Why can’t you just eat? The food is right in front of you. Why is it so hard for you to understand this?” Silence. 10:03 PM October 6th I grab my small notebook and a pen, and with relief, I start recording my intake for the day: Apple- 95 Calories, 0.3 grams of carbs; Green Tea- 0 Calories, 0 grams of carbs. I stare at my notebook with pride. It is the only thing I am able to control. Every bite, every chew, every swallow. It is the only thing that keeps me from losing my mind, it keeps me sane. But it was only a matter of seconds when my peacefulness would be disrupted. My father shows up to my room uninvited, and in his hand, he had a slice of cake on a plate. “You’re going to eat this cake.” It’s a big slice of chocolate cake. My birthday cake. The brown frosting is messily smeared on the plate and the fork in his hand. “I’m okay, I just ate dinner.” I lie. “This isn’t a question Ria.” He replies quietly. He isn’t doing this for me, he’s doing this to get my mom to come back. “But I’m not hungry” “You’re going to eat this damn cake or you know what’s going to happen.” He says in a stern voice. I tense up. I feel my heartbeat in my throat, I hold back the tears. He brings the plate to my bed, places it in front of me, and steps back a little bit, only to stand there and cross his arms. I smell the cake, and I immediately feel nauseous. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I bite the first piece, then the second, then the tenth. He just watches me. 7:34 AM October 7th I wake up the next morning with a still full stomach. I feel the heaviness of the cake on my arms, my stomach, my thighs. I immediately run to my scale. Forty-six point two kilograms. I feel a knot in my throat, I feel the tears streaming down my face. I can’t go to school like this. I can’t be fat. I cannot be fat. I will not be fat. I am in control. School was when all of this started. That one little comment that sparked up the conversation between my friends about my eating habits. I started to notice any comment that had even a slight mention of food or my eating habits. I remembered every bite I have ever had, every meal at a restaurant, every sip of a carbonated drink. That was the first time I truly understood what shame felt like. It wasn’t a feeling I got when I failed a class, it wasn’t a feeling I got when I cheated. It is a feeling I only got when I ate food. It is a feeling I get when I bite into a sandwich or a fry. It is a feeling of disappointment, defeat, weakness. As time went by, I started getting repulsed by the idea of food more and more. I thought that if I started to eat healthier, then I would have a different outlook on food. I made meal plans that had designated days for certain foods, a specific amount of water I would have to drink per day, and I definitely made sure to never eat more than two bites of something in front of any of my friends. Now the only thing on my mind is that cake. It took all of my mental strength to pick that fork up and eat it. I told my dad that I wasn’t feeling well and that I was going to bed just so I could process the fact that I finished the cake. All I feel is humiliation. Sitting on my bed, the only thing I can think about is the nauseating feeling throughout my body. My stomach, for once, feels full and I can feel my muscles in my throat tense from eating that much. It wasn’t even a lot, just a slice, but my body feels like I just ate enough to feed a small country. All I know is that I need to lie down. I can feel my body getting heavier from that cake. I feel disgusted with myself. Fat, fat and more fat, is all I see in the reflection. I feel my heart start to beat out of my chest as if I can feel every cell in my body move through my dense figure. I could feel my stomach getting bigger. My fists are clenched so tight around my waist covering the vile image staring back at me. This has to stop. The only way to feel better is to gain more control. I have to, that is the only way I will stop feeling so revolted. I am in control. I close my eyes and start to count back from one hundred. Something about numbers calmed me down. I think it was knowing the exact number that would come next that grounded me. I knew I was right, and I knew I was in control of what I was saying. 3:23 PM October 7th I came to my house after school, with no motivation or energy to do anything but sleep. My head was spinning and I have my usual migraine. I can still feel yesterday’s dinner in my stomach and I want to curl up into a ball underneath my sheets and hide from everything. The only thought pounding in my head is the chocolate cake. I grab the bottle of water standing on my nightstand and chug it, feeling the water stream running down my throat, filling my stomach just a little, sufficing my intake for the day. I grab my notebook from my bag again and I write down today’s intake: 7 bottles of water, 0 calories, 0 grams of carbs. I weigh myself again, forty-five point eight. Not enough. I hear a voice in my head. I lay in my bed, frantically searching for a way to calm my breathing, but it isn’t stabilizing. I suddenly feel the world around me spin. I am engulfed by a wave of panic, and the next moment, I’m on my feet getting ready to go for a run. Running is the only time I feel like myself. Running is the only thing that can create a safe enough atmosphere for me to live in. I’m on the sidewalk, my feet are in motion, and I am Ria. The wind gushing against my face brings back a rush of blood to my lifeless, pale cheeks. I could hear and see every little thing. Every falling leaf, every voice in the distance, every face in the perimeter. My breathing is controlled, my eating is controlled, my body is controlled. I am in control. I manage to avoid my inebriated father after my run and skip dinner by pretending to study for a test, which is probably the biggest accomplishment of my day. I do not have the mental capacity to handle the same emotions that went through my head last night. I just could not feel the same way I felt last night, it was horrifying. By the time I get under my sheets, I notice my body shaking, my teeth jittering from my cold figure. My shoulders roll forward, caving into myself, my legs tuck into my chest as if I’m protecting my body from distant criticism. My head was dizzy and I could hear my stomach growl, almost a euphoric sensation. Allowing my body to feel like it was swaying in my bed, I fall asleep with a smile on my face. 5:47 AM October 8th I just woke up, physically. Emotionally and mentally I’m drained. The weight of the guilt from the cake still sinks my chest. The weight of my mother’s departure creates a larger force on my body, deluding the number on my scale. I step on it as I do every morning. I don’t look at the scale right away, my anxiety is eating me inside out. I feel a slight rush of heat travelling to my face. I rub my hands against my thighs, attempting to remove the gallon of sweat I managed to make in ten minutes. Forty-five point three kilograms. The number was looking at me, practically laughing in my face, making fun of my inability to achieve such a simple task without messing it up. I pinch myself. I brush my teeth vigorously, knowing the mint taste will prevent me from taking a bite of anything. I need to lose five kilograms. I am in control. My legs are bouncing as I brush my teeth, anxiously waiting to go for my morning run. I take a deep breath, I shake my limbs. Right arm, right leg, left arm, left leg. I repeat that again, and again, and then again. I did it four times. That's bad luck. My heartbeat starts to race, but I try to brush it off. I run my 10 kilometers. I come back before my dad wakes up, and quietly leave to go to school. 10:17 AM October 8th The only thing that is occupying my mind is the number on the scale. Forty-five point three. Four, Five, Three. Was I really that big? Did I eat too much? Was I not trying hard enough? It has to be the cake. It’s the cake. I can barely keep my eyes open during class, I’m exhausted, consumed by the three numbers on the scale- Four, Five, Three. My hands are too cold to even write anything, too cold to even tuck my hair behind my ear. I subconsciously lead myself to the library, skipping my third-period class. As I sit down in the chair, I feel my eyelids shut close. They weigh fifty pounds. It is so cold, I start shivering. The weather is changing, which is what had to explain my drowsiness. After school, I go straight into my room, eager to see my scale. It’s been seven hours and I have not had anything to eat today. I hope that helps. I take my clothes off and weigh myself. Forty-five point three. That number taunted me. I can’t remember the last time I was so frustrated with myself. For sure the number would have had to drop at least a little; I didn’t even drink water today. I was doing something wrong, I was eating too much. 6:27 PM October 8th I’m so exhausted, I’m trying so hard to finish this repetition of crunches. I can’t even do a hundred. Seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine... 3:48 AM October 9th I wake up on the floor. I don’t even know where I am. My anxiety starts to build up as I quickly realize I’m in my room. I look around, it’s pitch black. I try to scramble for my phone before remembering that I broke it. I start to panic; I have to know the time. I have to know the time. I jolt up from my anxiety. I feel lightheaded; I stood up too fast. I lay on my bed to calm down for a minute. After I regain awareness, I immediately head downstairs to the kitchen. Every step I took down those stairs felt like stepping on knives, every bone in my body felt like glass, every inch of my skin felt like paper. I look at the microwave- it’s almost four in the morning. I’m trying to recollect memories to put yesterday's pieces together but I can’t even remember past three in the afternoon. I try to go back upstairs, but I can’t, I'm so tired. I lay down on the staircase, and I feel every glass bone break, and every paper skin rip. But the exhaustion was overpowering the pain. I can’t stay awake. 9:32 AM October 9th I wake up to a force on my head. I try to lift my head up. There’s no one there. I fell asleep around four o’clock in the morning. I was so tired. I could not move a muscle in my body; breathing became so difficult as my rib cage felt as though it was crushing my lungs. My head is spinning as I try to process my thoughts, but last night’s nightmare suddenly replays in my head. I dreamt that my mom was serving me dinner. She put a plate in front of me; on it were two steaks the size of my face, a steaming mountain of mashed potatoes with peas rolling down the side of it like an avalanche. I was forced to eat it, or else my mother would leave again. It felt so real, so I ate. I snap back into reality, but I quickly start to feel a panic attack coming. I pinch myself, bite my lip, bite my nails, none of which were able to calm me down. My leg is shaking so fast, that stresses me out more. I feel the deep emptiness, contradicted by the flooding amount of emotions going through my body. My mind is racing. 12:59 PM October 9th I can barely walk up the stairs at school. Every tiny movement is a marathon for me. It feels like I’m walking out of time. I head to the washroom, close my eyes and sit on the floor. My stomach is finally empty, no more cake. It’s paradise. I finally feel like I am me again. I feel my eyes rolling to the back of my head and I enjoy every second of it. I sit on the floor for ten minutes relishing the feeling of my body finally being able to let go of any tension and relax. I feel satisfied. I am in control. Next period is gym class, my favourite class. On my way to the locker room, a girl stops me and compliments my physique. She asks what workouts I have been doing. I love hearing that. I tell her I have a whole planned routine for the week and tell her she could find the same workout online. For a minute I feel accomplished. I feel as if the drowsiness and the shivering were worth it. I knew it is worth it. I empty my gym bag and begin to change. I stand up and all I see are stars. I knew I got up too fast, I keep doing it. My entire body starts to feel like an electric current is going through it. I have to sit down but I can’t move. Every noise around me amplifies. I can’t have a panic attack now. I can’t get a panic attack now. My head starts to spin and I feel a harsh force hit my side. I was out cold. But only one thing matters- I am in control. 2:36 PM October 10th I barely open my eyes, the bright light above me is blinding me. I try to speak but the dryness of my mouth prevents me. I can’t move either, I can’t do anything. I try to make a noise, a grunt, a sigh, but nothing is coming out. I start to get really anxious. What time is it? What day is it? Where am I? All I want to do is scream out to my mother, all I want is for her to be next to me. But she’s not. With all the power that I have, I turn my head ever so slightly. My head feels like metal. I see my dad sitting in the corner of the room, snoring. I tried to call out to him but I barely got a whisper out. I had no energy. My eyes start to rapidly move around the room. I look down at my body and see three IVs stuck in my arm filled with potassium, sodium chloride and another chemical that I don’t recognize. I immediately realize I am at the hospital. My thoughts start to rush, I start to panic. I can’t get admitted now. I haven’t lost all the weight yet. The heart monitor starts to ding faster, and before I knew it, my father is awake. He looks at me, sighs, and walks out of the room. He walks back into the room with a doctor. “Hi Andria, I’m Dr. Fenech and this is my intern Oliver Yaseen. How do you feel?” I can’t speak. The fluids coming from the IVs create a burning feeling in my arm and I just want to rip them out of my arm but I can’t move. My father is sitting in the corner, drinking his coffee, but I know he mixed alcohol with it. ”I know this might be confusing to you right now, but you’re in the Intensive Care Unit. Your body gave out during gym.” The doctor clicks his pen. I don’t respond. “Your body is extremely malnourished. It’s a miracle you’re even alive right now. Have you been eating?” Every word that comes out of his mouth created a feeling of hatred, loathfulness, despise in me. But it was myself who I hate. I hate my brown hair, my brown eyes. I hate my round face, droopy eyes. The way my nail beds look, the way I laugh, the way I speak, my voice. It’s silent. “Your inpatient program start in a week, right?” Dr. Fenech asks. I try to nod my head, but all that came out was a sigh. “I understand it’s frustrating for you right now. However, we might need to start tube feeding you sooner.” My heart rate starts going up. The doctor notices it. “Your vitals are extremely low. Technically, these vitals shouldn’t even be real.” That doesn’t matter to me. I think. Voices start to fade, and before I know it, I’m asleep. 8:11 AM October 11th I woke up to the nurse fiddling with a plastic bag. Her blonde hair effortlessly fell down her shoulders. Her blue eyes are observing the bag so carefully she didn’t even notice I woke up. I look around the room and it is empty. It feels so peaceful whenever my dad is not around. His traditional personality oppresses me. His desire to make me look presentable and be the girly girl he wants all the time made me hate being the only girl. I started straightening my hair in grade five because my curly hair was too messy. My clothes were all picked out by him. His absence leaves me at ease and calmness, but not before the nurse realizes I’m awake and smiles at me. “Good morning” She speaks so softly, but loud enough that I can hear it. “How are you feeling?” “Okay, I guess.” I whisper. She tilts her head and furrows her eyebrows, alluding to her inability to hear me. I shrug and she chuckles. Her laugh is so cute. “I’m sorry to hear. It might not be the best time for this right now but I have to insert the feeding tube in you.” I can already hear myself think about all the ways I could burn off these calories. The idea of even gaining the slightest bit of weight makes me feel like five hundred kilograms of weight are dropped on my chest. I’m not in control.

I sat on a chair and watched Tobias gather his thoughts. He lay on one of the beds, sporting the hotel’s white bathrobe with his hands over his stomach. We both were wearing the robes, since we’d handed in our clothes for laundry last night. “That’s it?” he asked after a moment. “That’s the summary,” I said. “You just jumped over a whole year of your life?” Tobias continued. “Jumped over the part where you learned to use magic?” “I didn’t think it was important to the story,” I said. “It wasn’t important to *your* side of the story.” I opened my mouth for a retort, closed it, and finally took a deep breath to calm myself down. I didn’t want to repeat the whole hide and seek again. “You’re right,” I said. “It’s not something I want to share... yet.” Tobias nodded. At first, it had felt great to spill things off my chest. But now afterwards, I half-regretted it. As if I’ve given Tobias a weapon to hold over me. “Can you recite that incantation for me?” Tobias asked. I shook my head. “I don’t even remember the first syllable. It was like I was being possessed. Was that Rosa -- ” “No.” Tobias’ voice shut down my idea. “It has nothing to do with Rosie.” “How can you be so sure?” I asked. “You were wrong about her actions after the Hunters sealed you. I’ve seen her experiments with magic, combining different schools and triggers. Could she somehow put a spell which triggered when a Darmitage touched a Sarsen stone?” “I know Rosie, she wouldn’t open a portal and let demons into this world.” “Didn’t you listen? She was torn and angry after the Hunters sealed you. And I opened it due to one of her memories taking over me.” Heat rose up my face matching my level of frustration. Tobias was too biased, too blind to not accept that his sister might have done something wrong. “Nadia.” The way he said my name made me pause. I thought he would’ve raised his voice to match my tone. But instead, he’d said it with an outbreath, almost as a sigh. “You may have some of Rosie’s memories but I have shared a life with her,” Tobias said. “I know her better.” What a load of crap. But I bit down on my tongue and held my words. “How did you get sealed?” I asked, switching subjects. “You were the strongest out there. It didn’t seem like anyone could’ve matched your strength during your time.” Tobias shook his head. “Strength might win a battle, but it’s the mind which wins a war.” Someone had outsmarted Tobias? The guy who plunged himself into books and scrolls whenever he encountered a problem? A doorknock interrupted our conversation. From the other side, a maid addressed that our clothes were cleaned. I opened the door and received the bundle and headed to the bathroom to change. It felt much better to wear my own clothes than prancing around in a bathrobe. Tobias didn’t touch his pile. “I prefer wearing the robe,” he said. “It’s more comfortable.” “You’ll have to wear something else when we go outside,” I said. “Speaking of outside, what’s your plan?” “The plan was to ask the Calamity to help against the demons, but now...” I shrugged. “I’m not sure. I don’t know.” He drummed his fingers against his thigh. “Don’t you have any questions?” I asked. “About Darmitage, about the current world? Anything?” “Loads,” Tobias said. “More than you can imagine.” “Well, let’s figure those things out first,” I said. “What are you wondering about?” Tobias looked at me with serious eyes. “What’s ‘witness protection’ and ‘mob family’?” “What?” “You mentioned that you thought your parents were under ‘witness protection’ or they were part of a ‘mob family’, what does that mean?” It took me a moment to understand what he referred to and I realized my mistake. I had been churning on and on without taking his background into account. “Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked. “I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said, matter of factly. “Let’s take a walk. We’ve been stuffed inside for too long. We’ll get some clothes for you, eat something and I’ll explain what ‘witness protection’ and ‘mob family’ means.” “And ‘lottery’ and ‘passport’ and -- “ “We’ll take a *long* walk.

I lie in my crumpled bed, bathed in unease. I anxiously peek at the dim light of my alarm clock which reads 4:35 AM, as the first light of dawn peeks through my curtains. Sleep escapes me more often than not at the moment, and my body feels tense. My mind is abuzz with grim anticipation of the coming day’s sleep deprived work. But my frustration is suddenly lifted as I feel the familiar pull of slumber. A heavy blanket descends on me, as my body relaxes and my eyes fall through the back of my head. Slowly the sides of my bed fold in and I start to lower into the dark, in my casket being committed to the soil. My room disappears along with the pulsing in my temples, and time stops for a half of a moment. I am adrift in a small lifeboat in a gentle sea, surrounded by endless dark. The boat is softly furnished and more comfortable than any real bed, so I allow myself to float quietly, swallowed by the soft cushioning. No horizon is visible beyond the sides of my vessel, only a perpetual obsidian. But buried deep in the distance I see a faint light, dancing like a thin wisp of cloud caught in moonlight. I am compelled towards the light to seek its warm glow, so I take the paddles and begin to row towards it. The waters are almost silent as the paddles dip in and out, and only the faintest ripples are audible. I continue on my journey but I am making no progress. No matter how far I go I never get any closer to the light. Defeated, I drop the paddles into the waters, and watch them slowly roll into the abyss. I lie back down to avoid the taunting allure of the light and close my eyes in resignment. As I lie stranded in the vast waters my calm deepens. I focus on my breathing as its waves gently lap in and out of me. My mind turns inward and the light exits my consciousness. As soon as I forget about the light, I start to feel an ominous presence enveloping me. I smell Christmas dinners with family, and homemade bread. I feel the familiar wrap of an old jacket, and a lost lover’s embrace. I hear birdsong in the forest, surrounded by fragrant blooms of lavender. Cold winter feet thawed by log fires, and the first warm breeze of summer. The rough tug of tree bark on young hands, and echoes of old friends' voices. I embrace the bliss, bask in its warm glow, gliding in nostalgia. A sharp buzz shatters my illusion and I quickly awaken. Harsh reality floods back into my mind as I open my eyes to see the clock blinking on 8:15 AM. I roll over to stop the annoying sound, and turn off the alarm. I stare through the ceiling and clench my jaw. Another day begins too soon. &#x200B; .

I have to do it. It doesn’t matter if I want to or if I don’t, I have to do it for the sake of my family. I didn’t always want to lead a crime family, actually, as a child, I hated the idea of it so much I run away multiple times through my pre-teens. But, now that I’m almost eighteen I’m dealt with the difficult decision to become a leader or an outcast. I look over to my little brother Marcus, he’s barely seven, I can’t burden him with this responsibility. After all, it is my fault my father is dead in the first place. Marcus grabs my hand from the table I’m sitting at and leads me to the dance floor. He dances with such joy, such pure ignorance to the world, that I can’t take my eyes off him. My mind is made up, I have to become the next mafia boss. I can’t bear to strip Marcus of his innocence at such a young age, I don’t want him to have to go through what I had to. I leave Marcuses and I walk to the front of the huge dining hall. I step on stage and a chill runs through my spine. I hate violence, I hate money, and I hate my father, but this is the price I have to pay for Marcus’s freedom. I walk to the center and I grab the microphone off of the stand. “My name is Isabella Selena Anson, and I am the next boss of this family,” the words feel uncomfortable in my mouth as I step back. I feel sick thinking about what I just proclaimed, hundreds of cheers coming from the crowd, sending me into a panic. I run down the steps of the stage trying to find a route to escape, my family members surrounding me in a congratulating sea of people. I finally make it out of the backdoor avoiding nearly every confused glance and sneer as I finally reach the back patio. I take a deep breath and put my back to the wall. I may have just sold my soul, I think to myself laughing at the absurdity of my situation. I let my mind wander for a bit, thinking of past memories of high school, old friends, and even a boyfriend or a few before I’m startled back into reality. “Isa,” Marcus says, taking a step forward. “Why did you do it,” he looks at me with a confused, almost dazed expression. “I had to,” I say, straightening my back. I can’t bear to answer any more questions, expressly from him right now. I turn my back to him and start walking back into the party wondering if I’ll ever do the right thing. Sometimes I reflect back on my past choices and I feel unwell, usually because I made the wrong one. But here and now I have the same feeling even though this is the only way. When I walk back into the party I am greeted by the smiling faces of my so-called “family,” family doesn’t tell a seventeen-year-old girl that if she doesn’t sacrifice her future to the mafia that they will bestow that burden on a little kid. My childhood best friend, Amber, wraps me into a tight hug of congratulations, but honestly, it makes me feel like I’m suffocating. I exchange tight fake smiles, I thank everyone for being there and I finally get to return back to my apartment upstairs of the dining hall. While walking I look at our family portraits and wonder how many of them were forced into leadership just like I am. When I open my apartment door I make a beeline to my bed and drift off in what seemed like an instant. I wake up to the sun shining directly into my eyeball and a maid yelling into my ear. I walk downstairs for breakfast, still half asleep might I add when I hear Marcus screaming. I bolt up the stairs and when I get there I see Marcus screaming at a poor maid as hard as he can. “Marcus what's the matter, buddy,” I say trying the soothe him but he doesn't even blink an eye at me. The maid walks over to me and starts, “I was just telling him about his schedule, Breakfast, Horseback riding, lunch, getting ready, and then the big meeting tonight,” she says in awe of the boy still panicking in front of her. That's when I realized what this was really about. I walk over to Marcus and I Scoop him up, trying to avoid his flailing limbs. Marcus calms down when we enter my room, his panicked breathing coming to an end. He takes a deep breath and begins,” If the coronation happens that means that dad is really gone and that you’re leaving me,” he says beginning to cry again. I process this as well as I can, he was supposed to inheart dad’s business, but with the suddenness of the situation and his age, that's no longer an option. Maybe I could have taken Marcus and fled the country, maybe we could have dyed our hair and took on new identities, maybe we could have joined the circus. But none of that matters now, I have to deal with the decision I made. I wrap my arms around him and after what seemed like forever he calmed down enough to go to breakfast. My mother died when I was young, when it happened Marcus was just a baby. My dad died barely three months ago, but we always knew to prepare for it ever since we were little. Now I’m in my bedroom, I look in my closet for something to wear to the meeting tonight but I come up empty. My hands brush the fabric of the finest dresses money can buy, but still, nothing seems worthy enough for a day like this. I walk slowly to my mother’s old closet, while a lot of the clothes are outdated (considering she died in 2014) I still manage to find a gorgeous Lavender gown. I remember the day she wore this distinctly, it was the day my father because boss after my grandfather died. I walk down my staircase, and the grief begins to set in. The rest of my life is gone I am now dedicated to cause I don’t even care about. When I walk into the dining room the usual upbeat mood is not replaced by seriousness and hostility. I sit at the head of the table for the first time in my entire life, that seat is reserved for the top dog, which I guess is me now. The chatter that surrounds the room comes to a close as soon as I take my seat. The curtains are drawn, the doors are shut, and briefcases are placed in front of me. My uncle Rowan starts the meeting, “Before I being I would first off like to start congratulations to my little niece Isa” the erupts in claps and cheers. “But, moving on from that we under a major threat right now, our brothers to the east have turned on us and joined Mathis’s family,” we all share looks of concern and confusion. “Last night after the party three of our men were ambushed and killed,” Before I even know what's happening I agree that we should attack. Rowan said we were to set up a little after dawn so we have the night to rest and plan. After the meeting, I slowly walk through the silent halls on our manor and make my way towards Marcus’s room. I open the door and crawl into bed with him. My father wasn't around a lot when we were growing up so I became a sort of mother figure to him. He shuffles around and looks at me in a half-asleep haze, he recognizes who it is and we both drift off. I wake up around 3am to the sound of rain lightly tapping on the roof. I hug Marcus and kiss him on the check and I make a quiet exit out of the door. When I walk into my room the first thing I do is head straight to the shower. After, I dress and head down to the main level of the house. When I walk down the stairs I'm greeted by about a hundred of our family members in a rushed breakfast haze. After everyone finishes eating we load up into about fifty different cars and we head to our place of attack. When we arrive at Mathis’s headquarters it's dead silent, I clutch my gun in my hand. After about fifteen minutes of waiting in a car with some of the others, I hear the first bomb go off. We charge out of the cars carrying all sorts of weapons dressed in bulletproof gear. I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass of a window and I realize, this is real and I'm really doing this. I see Mathis jump out of one of the back windows. I run after them and, I pull the trigger. I made a mistake that can never be undone.

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

“Claire, will you please go and see that?” Lillian Evans, the detective, called out as she heard the doorbell ring. “A bunch of young girls, Madam,” said her help. “Please send them up. I’ll be there right away.” Miss Evans replied. Settling down on a sofa, Miss Evans smiled at the girls. “Please introduce yourselves.” “Clarice Brown, 21” “Janice Wright, 26” “Bexley Allen, 25” “Celine Miller, 24” “Melanie Ellison, 25” “And what brings you here?” asked Miss Evans. “An attempt to murder me” replied Clarice. ............... Previously... “We ought to report it right away!” Melanie whisper-shouted. “Yes! If it happened once, it can happen again,” Bexley piped in giving a slight shrug. “Right, but I don’t have the slightest idea about who’d want to kill me!” This time it was Clarice who spoke. Celine was the only one who had remained quiet, after all, would she really care if Clarice was gone? Just a little while back, the five girls were taking a stroll in the Northwood Park. “I will go get some ice-cream’’-- Bexley rushed off. Melanie followed her-- “I’ll go and help her!” The other three-- Janice, Clarice and Celine walked through the soft grass, not knowing about the unfortunate happenings that were about to occur. Celine, on the other hand, wore an expression of despair, determination and slight hope. Right as they flopped themselves down on the soft grass, a bullet flew right past Clarice’s shoulder. The three startled friends got up immediately. “The bullet came from behind us!” Janice exclaimed. “That bullet...it was meant for me, wasn’t it?” Clarice hesitated trying to get a grip on herself. “You’re awfully lucky that the bullet missed you by an inch, and landed on this tree instead.” Celine replied with a slight tone of mockery in her voice surprising everyone. “I’m back!” came a voice as Bexley ran up to them with five scoops of ice-cream. “I say, what’s the matter, did you want a different flavour?” she continued catching the worried look on their faces. “Heavens, what a shock! Who’d want to kill Clarice!” Bexley exclaimed after hearing the story. “I say, where is Melanie, I thought she said she was going to help get you the ice-cream?” Janice asked looking around. “Melanie? Why, no. She wasn’t with me.” Bexley replied taken aback. “Here, I’m back. I totally forgot about helping Bexley out! There was a bookstore nearby and you know how I can’t just walk past one without entering it!” “Well, that’s all very good but Clarice here has almost been shot. The police need to be informed immediately.” Bexley said cutting her off. .................... Celine stopped her narration seeing a man walk into the room. “Oh, there’s Inspector Jones. Good evening.” “Good evening, mademoiselle.” Inspector Jones greeted taking off his hat as Celine started all over again. “Oh, excuse me for just a moment please, that’s my boyfriend calling.” Clarice flushed taking out her phone. Miss Evans observed the picture of a young man that had appeared on the screen. “Jacob? No, I’m not at home at the moment, I’ll call you when I get back, alright?” “Now, Clarice, could you tell us about your family?” “Well, my parents recently died in an accident. I don’t have any sibling but my mother had told me that she had accidentally got pregnant before marriage. Since she was too young, she had to give that child away.” “Alright, my schedule is packed for the next few days, but I’ll get back to you all in a while.” Lillian Evans announced putting her left leg over her right one. “Well, what did you understand from all that?” Inspector Jones asked when the others had left. “Not much, not much.” Lillian sighed as she ruffled her fingers through her auburn hair. “In other words, you managed to understand something!” Inspector asked raising her eyebrows. “Janice knows something.” ............................ “Solving a crime is like solving a puzzle, unless we have all the pieces, the mystery isn’t completely known. And that one piece might be the most important one, the one determining the entire picture” Lillian Evans said walking down the road with Inspector Jones. “We are going to the Lorest Apartment in the evening, that’s where all five of them live. We’ll inspect their rooms and ask each one personally what their idea about each other is. Who knows, we might get something that might help us.” Meanwhile, in their apartment, Janice was getting ready to go for her bath. “Hang on, I’ll get that.” Janice said scrambling off to check who called. “Yes?” Janice asked picking up the phone. “Is Miss Brown there?” came an unknown voice. “Clarice? The call’s for you! I’m going in for my bath, alright?” Janice called out. “Is this Clarice Brown? Right, there’s a package for you, should I leave it here, or I should I bring it upstairs?” “A package? It would be very kind if you brought it up” It had been about twenty minutes when Janice came out from her bath, softly whistling a tune to herself. Her expression changed rapidly and the colour drained out from her face almost immediately. She stood petrified for a minute and then she rushed towards the dead body of Clarice Brown. Her hands shaking, she picked up her phone and dialled a number, “Miss Evans? It has happened.” “Janice? What’s happened?” Lillian Evans asked as she put on her coat. “Clarice. She’s...she’s been... killed.” Janice said in almost a whisper. “Hang on, I’ll be there.” She replied beckoning to Inspector Jones that they had to leave right away. “What has happened now?” Inspector Jones asked flinging the door open. “They’ve got Clarice.” Lillian Evans replied as she watched Inspector Jones’ eyes round up. By the time they reached, Melanie, Bexley and Celine had already reached the flat. They stood nearby and Janice sat beside the lifeless body. The inspector and Miss Evans bent down to examine the body. A knife had been stabbed into Lillian’s chest and blood was spurting out. “I think we ought to leave this to the doctor and have a talk inside” Lilian Evans said placing her hand on Janice’s arm. “By what I just saw, I concluded that Clarice Brown had been stabbed right in the middle of her chest. Her eyes seemed petrified, it’s obvious that she saw the murderer but he didn’t have the time to shout for help. Well, now you all must let me interview you individually. But before that, where were all of you, did you see the murderer?” “I had gone for my bath, right before that, Clarice had received a phone call. It was about a parcel. And when I came out...” Janice’s voice trailed off. “You mean you heard the voice? Was it a female or male? “Male. But I think I’ve heard the voice before...” Janice mumbled as all eyes turned towards her. “Since it was a male’s voice, why would you want to interview us? And why would we want to murder Clarice?” Bexley asked. “Just because I interview someone, doesn’t mean I suspect that person, it’s the details, the little things which might fit in and give away the game.” Miss Evans said pronouncing a strained smile. “Janice, this is your room isn’t it? Will the other three of you please step out for a few minutes?” “Now, Janice, I want you to tell me your impression of Clarice.” Miss Evans said. “Well, it was last autumn when Clarice shifted to Stoneybrook. She was studying Journalism, along with Melanie. Bexley is in the arts department, while Celine and I are studying medicine.” “Go ahead, what else is there that we should know?” Miss Evans asked further. “I don’t think there’s anything else, Miss Evans.” Janice said firmly sitting up. “What about the fact that Celine’s boyfriend ditched her, when Clarice joined the Institution?” Miss Evans said narrowing her eyes. Janice sat rooted to her spot, struggling to find words. “I assumed this from the way you acted. You seemed to be shielding her, for some reason. You suspected her of committing the crime. The first day I met you, you seemed to watch Celine in a nervous manner. Celine, on the other hand seemed not bothered by the fact that Clarice could have been killed. I saw the picture of Jacob on Clarice’s phone screen. I saw a picture of Celine with the same man in the living room.” “But it can’t possibly be her, it was a male’s voice over the telephone after all.” Janice exclaimed, her voice rising. “We’ll see, we’ll see, now do step out of your room just for a few minutes. You share this room with Celine, don’t you? Melanie shared hers with Clarice while Bexley has a room of her own?” “That’s correct.” “Now, what do we have here?” Lillian Evans asked walking around the room once Janice had left. “Not a thing that seems suspicious?” Inspector Jones asked. “Here’s something rather interesting.” Miss Evans said handing the inspector a picture of a 9 year old Celine with a toy gun aiming at water balloons. “Oh, how I loved playing this as a child. But how difficult it was to shoot the yellow balloon placed at the centre!” Inspector Jones groaned. “But look, the balloon in the centre is burst.” “Heavens, she has a fancy for guns then, that girl. Could she be...!“ “Well, it all adds up, but we might be on the wrong track. The girls said that Celine was right beside Claire when the first attempt occurred. “I say, what’s that?” the inspector exclaimed taking out a packet of white powder. “We’ll have to send this to the police laboratory immediately” Miss Evans commented. “Celine, come on in, now!” Miss Evans called out as the girl entered in. “Tell me about yourself.” “There isn’t much to tell anyway.” Celine replied grimly. “And what about your history with Clarice’s boyfriend?” “If you know everything, why do you ask?” “Doesn’t it bother you that I’ve found out?” “No, why should it? I’ve heard of you, Miss Evans, you’ve solved the most astonishing crimes. You of all people should know that it wasn’t me.” Celine left, sounding distraught. At that very moment Bexley came in. “Please tell us about your family,’’ said Miss Evans. “My parents passed away when I was a child. I just had a sister.” “I see. How well did you know Clarice?” “Hardly.” “Melanie’s turn now!” Miss Evans continued. “But before that, we’ll check your room once.” “Naturally, Miss Evans.” “Inspector Jones, did you manage to find anything striking?” “Nothing at all, Mademoiselle. What about you?” “These shelves just have notebooks, a whole bunch of puppets and some letters addressed to B.B, must be Bexley’s.” “Let’s move on to Melanie now, shall we?” “Melanie, your room, how do you sleep here, it’s messier than a cobweb! Books scattered everywhere!” “I’m sorry, Miss Evans! I told you about how books attracted me, didn’t I? The bookstore was what attracted me that day, I ought to have helped Bexley instead...“ “Melanie, you seem to read a lot of detective stories.” Miss Evans interrupted Melanie’s musings. “Why, yes, they are my absolute favourite.” “Then, you must know all the perfect ways to get away with crimes.” “Miss Evans, you can’t possibly suggest that I murdered Clarice! What would I gain from that?” Melanie exclaimed. “I’m not suggesting anything. Inspector Jones, we’re done for the day. I’ll see you all tomorrow.” ................. “Miss Evans? Miss Evans, could you please come to ‘Monchester University’, right away? Please come to the Journalism Department, Block 2, room 7.” Celine exclaimed from the other end of the phone. “Celine? Whatever happened now?” Lillian Evans asked in a perplexed voice. “The second murder.” .................... “Move aside all of you”-- Lillian Evans and Inspector Jones said trying to get into the crowded classroom. “Heavens, what on earth is this?” Inspector Jones asked looking at the body of a 28 year old man who was lying on the ground. “That’s Jacob, the one who had ditched me to become Clarice’s.” Celine said her voice shaking a little. “Doctor, what’s all this? And everyone other than Melanie, Bexley, Celine and Janice are requested to not gather around. I’m pretty sure there isn’t any show going on in here” Lillian Evans asked. “I just arrived here. It’s evident that he has been poisoned.” The doctor sighed “Well, we were working on our assignment, Jacob had poured some water in his glass, but before he could drink it, our teacher, Miss Dorothy had called us, right after we came back, he drank the water and immediately fell dead on the floor,” said a boy who was standing nearby. “Ammonium dichromate” the doctor informed putting a finger in the glass bringing out minute white powder. “The same chemical that we found in that packet Celine’s room,” sighed Miss Evans. “I beg your pardon?” Celine asked giving a perplexed stare at Miss Evans. “When we were searching your room, I found this” Miss Evans stated coldly bringing out a packet of white powdery substance. “That’s absurd! I’m being set up, I tell you!” Celine exclaimed. “We’ll know soon enough.” “Miss Evans, I think there’s something I should tell you. There’s something I remembered,” Bexley said in a hushed tone. “Is that so? Please go ahead.” Miss Lillian Evans said turning around. “Well, the night before the attempt to murder occurred, when Melanie, Janice and Celine were in the University, Clarice was showing me her assignment. And, well...” “And?” “Well, they had to write a detective story, but what’s odd is that the girl in her story dies exactly the way she did.” “Bexley, does it have anyone’s name?” “No, surprisingly the characters are only numbered. It says that character 5 had killed her.” “How will that be of any help then?” Janice asked. “Connections and instances” Miss Evans smiled “Well, if this really is a clue left by Clarice then we need to find how the characters are related to each other. For example, in her essay, it’s written that character 5, wasn’t on friendly terms with Clarice. So we need to see who all did not like Clarice. Celine was one, of course. On the second page, she has written that character 5 had got into an argument with Clarice about Jacob a few days before the murder.” “That happened on the 19th November. Clarice and Celine had got into quite a terrible argument over Jacob,” Bexley said softly. “It keeps coming back to Celine, doesn’t it?” the inspector asked softly. “Miss Evans, you of all people should know it wasn’t me!” Celine exclaimed. ................... “Lillian, you know, I do feel bad for Celine if she is being set up.” Inspector Jones said after leaving the crime scene. “What if Celine is making it seem like she’s being set up by others?” Miss Evans replied with a smile. ............. The next day, everyone gathered in Miss Evan’s drawing room. Inspector Jones was also there. “Let’s begin now, shall we? At first I suspected Melanie since she said that she was going to help Bexley get ice-cream but went somewhere else. But then my suspicion moved on to Celine. The clue which had been left behind by Clarice, their history, the poison, everything pointed to her.” “And then?” Janice couldn’t control her curiosity. “And then something struck me. What if I was being led on the wrong path? What if the essay wasn’t written by Clarice but by someone else to put the blame on Celine? What if the poison was implanted in Celine’s room? Maybe Jacob’s death was also for the same reason, no one would gain from it, just that the suspicion would shift to Celine.” “But, if it wasn’t Clarice, then who wrote it?” Bexley asked. “Someone who would gain financially from Clarice Brown’s death. None other than Miss Bexley Brown.” Miss Evans replied. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Evans? I’m Bexley Allen, not Bexley Brown!” “Bexley, you mentioned that you had a sister. Clarice was your sister. You gave it away by saying you HAD a sister, instead of saying you HAVE a sister. You killed Jacob to make it seem like Celine was to blame. For the same reason, you wrote that essay and planted the poison is Celine’s room. When I was inspecting your room, I noticed quite a few puppets on your shelves. Your hobby is ventriloquism, isn’t it? You used a male’s voice when you pretended to be a parcel delivery guy to murder Clarice. Janice said she had heard the voice before. That was probably because you were joking around one day switching voices and you gave away this one. On the first day when you had attempted the murder, you first tried to shoot but missed and then went to get the ice-cream and pretended that you didn’t know anything about it. Now let’s move on to the motive, shall we? I figured out Clarice and Bexley were sisters, Bexley being 4 years older. Their mother had accidentally got pregnant with Bexley before her marriage and she gave her away for adoption. Later, she met Bexley but didn’t introduce Clarice to her sister. After Clarice’s parents died in an accident, Clarice inherited their fortune. Clarice didn’t know Bexley, but Bexley knew who Clarice was; so she came here to kill Clarice and get back the property which she felt should have been hers in the first place. I found in your room some letters written by Mrs Brown, Clarice’s mother, addressed to B.B. This of course made me realize who you really were.” “You don’t have any proof.” “What about the traces of your fingerprints had been found on the knife?” “That’s impossible, I wore gloves!” “I’ll take that as a confession.’’ Miss Lillian Evans smiled to herself wondering how many criminals one passed on the streets without even realizing.

It was funny how one could spent more time planning for a prank, at least, not preparing for an entire year. It all started with a fraudulent plan, a prank idea which is not likely to raise a criminal offence, once committed while impersonating another without consent which is obtained, neither from the actual person nor any authority. The prank consisted of impersonating a famous celebrity by not only dressing exactly like them, but also copying or replicating anything close to their original celebrity lifestyle. The objective of the prank was to take the crowd by surprise. Thereby, the prank was a sole idea from Jack who was influenced by his similarities in personalities with a musical celebrity. Jack had almost the same tone in voice with a naïve attitude emanating from this celebrity. The idea came as a result of his personal love and support for this celebrity. Jack grew up liking the celebrity. He was nearly a number one, yet he felt so far from his dream. The dream of living like his musical celebrity. Life in reality was not as it ought to have been in Jack’s dream. Jack at school was not famous. Neither was he loved to his satisfaction nor hated to his regret. He compared his life to a celebrity and also to most of his school mates. On the other hand, Jack’s life was not completely with joy, he felt, he had lacked talent to show forth himself to the world. Nothing matters; but jack’s plan to succeed with the biggest prank ever done. Jack was so determined until he was ready to execute the prank. Jack made appointments, procured what was required. Jack on that day dialed and called private assistance, experts and reality show teams. They all came incognito. Each team was surprised to see how Jack had organized his prank. This was so serious, that everyone who came through ended volunteering without pay to conduct a charity show business. This was business without any charges. This was not a trend when it comes to doing business. Finally the prank was set up. Jack was completely imitating his favorite celebrity. He now looked like him in appearance. Later that day, the expert made him as replica of the celebrity. On other hand, Jack went to the extent of hiring an expensive super car, a McLaren P1. The experts added another imitator to be together with Jack, a well known personal staff to the original celebrity. Perfect, it was match. This even made it more difficult for people to tell a difference. Since it was 1st of April, everybody was presumed to be expecting some typical prank. More people in jack’s school were careful, meanwhile other people were not lucky because they had already been pranked. In spite of the many pranks, all prank were very minor and private that no big news came from them. They were usually done to a few within the university. Before Jack could reach his university, he decided that he will also hire a quick stage in order to create more impression. No sooner did Jack come out from the McLaren P1, than some typical spotlight was given by unknown body guards with black suites. The arrival was captivating. Whereas the fashion style was perfect according the celebrity he was imitating. The music was immediately turned on. The more people who saw him, the more they screamed so loud with excitement that many thought jack was in fact the actual musical celebrity. Thereafter, he made a remake with an exact attitude which confirmed even more about who he was. Thereby the awaiting announcement was released through the respect university publicity room. This lead to student getting more wide and overwhelmed with fun at its infant stage. More crowds showed up in huge numbers, that it was nearly impossible to stop them from coming. The social media was flagged with this event update post. Social media videos became so wild and viral. Everything about the event was promoted and hyped up with no doubts. Huge crowds coming from all sides, men and women, ladies of class and young men with enthusiasm enjoying the unexpected show. On the other hand, the media influencing more views. Therefore, Jack expectation was more than met, He did not foresee that he will be on live feeds, cams and other worldwide broadcasts were nearly entire world was watching. In addition, he did not take that such big crowds from everywhere will be in the audience. No one had anything against this shortcoming event. Nothing made it possible for the people to suspect a prank, and end up halting the fun. Therefore, the was only new updates of who did attend the event, what did they do and how many did attend? The fun was in fact more real and authentic, because more crowds gathered than the normal celebrity historic performances ever did. Many people ended up to be influential by showing up. This included the other celebrities and also well known fans, branded in various outfits. There were also big and well known celebrity sponsors. This was a massive event that took off without proper venue planning, yet things were going as planned. Order was systematically restructuring itself. Even though there was hash traffic, more cars. In addition, the people were watching from top of their cars. Their spectator as an audience brought in another influential forces that united everybody in attendance. As fun and excitement grew bigger, it became uncontrollable to convince the audience that the event was indeed a prank. There was division in the audience. Some people thought that the celebrity was joking, while others thought that he was trying to prank them. It was not until Jack revealed his true self did many understand his point. The crowds Snapped out of their minds. Ignorance and arrogance left them. More laughter and shock came from the background. Even worse, the media latest headlines was written all over news channels “Con Celebrity Prank Ever.” Some of the people in the audience, just did want to stop having Just on time, the actual celebrity appeared. He came from the front row and said, this “Thanks Con, I will take it from here, ladies and gentlemen.” He shake hands with Jack as a sign of appreciation through gesture. The celebrity asked, “What You name?” Jack replied, “Am Jack.” The celebrity led everyone to clap; and there was massive applause. Then the music started. The fun was taken to next level. The following day Jack became so famous, he was recognized for his best prank.

Couples’ Therapy I am considered to be the greatest marriage counselor on the planet; I haven’t met a couple that I wasn’t able to make peace with, especially with each other. That isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy a challenge; I can’t get too good at my trade or else I’ll get bored. But when my assistant calls my office, telling me that Zeus and Hera have made an appointment, I can’t deny the apprehension growing in my gut. I can’t help but hope that this is a joke, albeit one made in bad taste. “I booked an appointment for them just after lunch. I wouldn’t advise seeing those two on an empty stomach. I mean, Zeus and Hera, what a nightmare...” I can almost see Sadie shuddering in sympathy. “Please tell me you’re not referring to the Greek deities. As in, The King and Queen of the gods. Was it a prank call? Are they... code names?” I’m all too aware that I’m not using my therapy voice, that I’m pitchy and desperate and sweat is gathering on my brow, the back of my neck, the small of my back. Even I can’t do the impossible. Asking those two to make up was akin to asking the universe for a miracle. An entire mythology has been conceived on their tempestuous relationship. For the first time, I’m just not sure if I can manage this. As lost as I am in my own thoughts, I can barely register that Sadie is still speaking. “No joke, I’m afraid, Rita,” She says grimly. “I asked again. It’s really them.” I never imagined that it would come to this; years of hard work and schooling, all to see the most dysfunctional couple this side of Western civilization. “Good luck, you’ll need it.” \*\* After a hurried lunch down the street from the office, eaten so quickly I barely tasted it, I walk into the office and sit down at my desk, smoothing my hair back into its bun at the nape of my neck. Nerves like I haven’t felt since my first appointments were making my stomach dance; I mentally shake myself. *Get it together, Deidre. If anyone can fix those two, it’s you. You’re more famous than Dr. Phil and Oprah put together! What’s the worst that can happen?* One o’clock comes and goes, and by quarter past, there is a series of sharp knocks on the door. “Come in, please!” I call, sitting up straight. I get up and walk to the mini fridge next to the window, getting out two frosty bottles of water. I put the candy dish that sits on my desk on the small table that sat in between two chairs; I’ve found, in my line of work, that people tend to open up more when they were comfortable. Zeus and Hera make an imposing couple, powerful on any plane, whether it be Mount Olympus or my tiny office; even though this is my own domain, I am intimidated, though I would never admit it. Zeus enters the room first, in a sharply cut black and gray pinstriped suit, hand outstretched, his face jovial and friendly. But his eyes, a dark brown that they were almost black, are cold, dark tunnels; if I’d been in any situation but a professional setting, I would be running away. He is tall and muscular, with olive skin, dark curls, and the beginnings of a goatee, hiding a strong chin. He is appealing, if only from an aesthetic standpoint. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Evander,” He rumbles, and before I can shake his hand, as I intended, he kisses the top of my hand, smiling. “I’ve heard so many good things about you, I just knew that if anyone could help us with our... issues, it would be you.” Everyone knows that Zeus could put on a good front, surely no one more than his own wife. His mouth is spread in a wide, relaxed smile, as if he does this sort of thing all the time. I can’t deny that it set me on edge; there was a cold undertone to him that I immediately do not trust. Hera is sitting down already, twisting the top off of her water bottle and taking a quick swig. In her other hand, she takes a piece of candy and rolls it between her fingers. She is dressed beautifully, in a sapphire-blue dress that emphasized her ample figure, and she wears a necklace that matched her eyes, amethysts. With her long, lush red locks pulled up in a chignon, fair skin with the faintest sprinkling of freckles on her forehead and nose, her mouth painted a pale, demure pink, she and her husband cut a devastating contrast. I’ve read the myths, and I’ve always thought of Hera as an evil, wicked harpy who took out her husband’s infidelities on everyone else but him. But seeing her now, in front of my own eyes, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. Her position could not have been an enviable one. Zeus had been one of the Western world’s first scoundrels, in every sense of the word. “Thank you for fitting us in on such short notice, I apologize,” The goddess murmurs quietly, a comely flush flooding her pale cheeks. “Honestly... I just wasn’t sure what to do. Things have been going so wrong between us, for years now. And if you’re the best, surely you could help us.” She is smiling at me, but her eyes cut to her husband, and soon her lips thin in a defiant line; I can see immediately why they were on the wrong page. “I’m happy to help,” I say, smiling at them both. “It is my job, after all. Now, we’re going to begin with an honest dialogue. The rule is we don’t speak until the other person is done talking. Thus, each of you will have time to air your grievances and speak about your problems, and then we can set about beginning to fix them. Who would like to go first?” Hera looks up. “I’d like to go first, please, Doctor. If... my lord husband will permit me.” She frowns at her husband, who smirks, shrugging, as if to say, *By all means, lady wife.* “Go ahead.” I say, putting a box of tissues on the table next to her, should she need it. “I also want to note that I will not be passing judgement on either of you. That isn’t what you’re paying me for, so please feel free to express what’s really on your mind. Nothing either of you say will leave this room.” Hera, it seems, doesn’t need any more encouragement than that, because she begins to speak, her voice trembling and her eyes full of unshed tears. “My husband and I,” She begins, and I note how she doesn’t seem to have any sort of identity outside of her spouse or marriage, a red flag right off the bat, “We are the King and Queen of the Greek gods, and as I’m sure you know, I am the goddess of marriage. Of childbirth. So, you must understand how embarrassing it is for me, that my own husband often frequents the beds of mortals, goddesses, and whoever he shows attraction to. It’s not fair, not to me, our children, our whole family!” I nod quietly, not wanting to say anything else unless she’s not finished. Hera reaches for the tissue box, delicately plucking one and holding it to her streaming eyes. “I... I’m sorry.” She murmurs, eyes cast downward, tissue clenched in her fist. “I didn’t mean to get carried away.” I notice how, after this outburst, Zeus has turned away from his wife, legs crossed, hands clenched into fists in his lap, neck flushing red, with anger or embarrassment, I cannot tell. I’m good at reading people, but Zeus is clearly well-versed in hiding his emotions; I can’t get a read off of him, even while his wife pours her heart out on the floor beside him. “Is that all you wanted to say, Hera?” I ask, turning my gaze back to her, and she nods, though she is glaring at her husband with narrowed eyes. If looks could kill... “Yes, Dr. Evander. Thank you for listening,” She whispers, and I smile at her, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. “Of course. All right, now it’s Zeus’s turn. Do you have anything to say to your wife?” I ask, dreading the answer. The answering silence is thick with things unsaid, the tension climbing until even I begin to squirm. He nods, running a hand through his hair. He takes a deep breath, and looks at Hera. “You know, I wouldn’t have to go to other women if you were more attentive to me and my needs. Ever since that whole ugly incident with Hephaestus, you’ve been acting insufferable.” Hera blinks, more stunned than if he had slapped her. *“That incident with Hephaestus? You threw our son off of a cliff!”* Her voice climbs to a shrill, hysterical shriek, and I wince, quickly standing up and putting myself between them. “Now, let’s just calm down. I’m officially taking you two on as my clients, because unfortunately, time is up.

He had five bullet wounds in total: two in his torso, one in his right shoulder, lower abdomen and a scrape on the inner side of his right calf. That wasn’t what occupied Dale’s mind at the time though. He was more wounded by his gang's readiness to gun him down. The men he considered his brothers no more than three days ago were now trying to take him out of the sky as he fled his past life. The distinct sound of their Buzzer jets told him it was Bill and Bach close behind him. He never liked the two. They were never up to any good, no one was, but the two had a special way of going about it. Dale quickly cleared his mind, the longer he thought of all those men the more this whole situation weighed on him. He locked his jump drive on SPEN-64201, the planet he had planned a homestead with his fiancé, Diane. His dream was doomed, however. He was dying and Diane- Diane was already dead. As his engines spun up and prepared for the jump Bill and Bach chewed away bits of his ship. He lost them with ease though, once the jump was initiated. The only people who knew about his plan, D, Mark and him were either dead or dying so he didn’t worry about being followed. He skipped through the universe like a rock on the water. On the other side of the divide, he was met with a planet so bright he was almost blinded by it. In his hurry, he forgot to darken his windows. Once his vision adjusted, and sight of the beautiful planet established, a tear worked its confused way through the beads of sweat and joined the blood in his lap. He entered the atmosphere with haste, but enough patience to keep his swinger from catching fire. He flew past the northern hemisphere looking for a place to stop, a place to rest his spirit. He was getting too low to the ground now. Gravity had more control over the ship than he did. It guided the worn ship into a hill above a clearing which was home to a wandering river. The landing wasn't gentle. The force from the collision acquainted his nose with the dashboard of the ship. Blood now reached from his nose down to his shirt, already dark red with the blood of his previous wounds. Still jumping with adrenaline, he cracked the door to his ship open and fell out. Over the span of a minute Dale slowly dragged his corpse toward a big tree, must have been hundreds of years old, he thought. There was almost no strength left in his body, just enough to maintain a grasp on conscience, no matter how weak. At this point it was more his spirit pulling him along than his two remaining, functioning limbs. After what felt like an eternity, he slumped what remained of his body against the tree and looked out at the horizon. An evening breeze this far south would have regularly chilled a man to the bone, but it felt pleasant upon his wet skin in his dying moments. The weight of his guns didn’t affect his body at all, but he had to get them away from him. With his good hand he removed one, set it on his lap. Then removed the other and proceeded to throw them, one at a time as far as he could. They didn’t make it very far, maybe a yard or two at most. He removed his bandolier then and tossed it aside. He could feel the blood leaving his body and taking his life with it into the ground. He dug into his left pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes. He took one out, it was bent, he paid it no mind and set it in his mouth. His hand went back into his pocket and pulled his harmonica out. Not what he had in mind, he looked at the harmonica for a minute though, looking back on all the times he played it while sitting around a fire with D. He set it at his side and reached back into his pocket and this time brought out a lighter which lit his cigarette. Lastly, he reached up slowly with his left hand, removed his hat and set it atop his harmonica, close at his side. His head finally rested against the tree. He took a short drag of his cigarette and took in what a sunset he was before. The clouds along the horizon; all different shades of yellow, orange and pink, the sky directly above, a pale shade of blue and the clearing and surrounding trees, blessed with an amazing orange light. The river reflected the dazzling colors. Dale took the cigarette out of his mouth and pinched it out with his bare hand, he felt nothing now, it was all fading away. He enjoyed his last few breaths of the fresh air. Despite all that he's been through in the past few days, hell, the past few years it was all coming to an end. Here and now as he closed his eyes for the last time, all the pain left his body. The brilliant light of the sunset turned from orange to white. He couldn't open his eyes. He stayed there a moment, rubbed his eyes and realized they were already open, the light in front of him wasn’t a sunset anymore. *It was heaven*.

Hi, sorry if this is in the wrong place, but I really need some help. I am a Drama teacher and I want my students to engage more with stories, books, plays, scripts etc... I like using very short stories for them to create from. By very short stories I’m talking at the most 4/5 paragraphs. Something that isn’t going to take them too long to read. I am looking for anything that isn’t too childish really. I’m looking for anything from drama, horror, suspense, thriller, anything that will allow them to engage their creative brains into thinking about storytelling. Would anyone be able to recommend a book, site, some part of this sub or even their own work for me to use with my students? Any help would be greatly appreciated.

"Are you coming tonight?" Texts Melissa. "Coming where?" I replied. "For planning the camping trip!..hmm, did you forget?" "Ohh, I'll have to check with my mother about that," I stated. Well, you see, it's not my mother. She already said I could go, but I'm just a little hesitant. What if I don't fit in with the cool kids? What if I get lost?! Melissa, Annie, and her brother Andrew invited a couple of other classmates and me to this mountain camping trip, but I'm not sure if I want to go. Don't get me wrong; I'm excited about the opportunity but just a bit nervous. There's going to be so many people there. What if I mess up? I'm going to be a laughing stock! It's Friday today, and also my last day to decide. Therefore, I have to be quick so that I can inform the group in advance. During breakfast, my dad asked me, "Hey, so about that camping trip, are you going?" "Uhmm, should I?" I responded. "Of course you should! I would If I were you" "All the mountain scents and fluffy marshmallows, Oh and the super scary stories!" He describes passionately. That sounds very...interactive..I thought to myself. After a bit of contemplating, I decided to give it a go. What's the worst that could happen, right? The following day, we all met at the bus stop and began the long journey. "Just three hours, seven minutes, and ten seconds away, guys!" remarks Andrew. "ugh..could you not, Andrew?" murmured Annie. We were an hour in, and some people had already started exchanging snacks. And oh boy, was it getting loud. Melissa and I are besties, but since she was asleep, I was a bit bored. The best way I can describe it is like an old sack of potatoes. No literally. I decided to go to the last seat and take a nap. I woke up a little before we arrived at our destination and decided to read a book. As I turned to the next page, everyone started screaming, "Truth or dare!" "Truth OR dArE!!" God, what a fun game for an introvert like me. But luckily, we were almost there in five minutes, so no eternal torture has occurred yet. As we got out of the bus, tall, icy mountains and green gold grass stare directly at our faces. Dad was right; it does smell so..refreshing! The stunning mountain scents took away our lost souls for a moment and returned them with a light breeze. Just like that, we were here. "Whos hungry?" Asked Melissa. It was a long hike up to the mountain top, so we figured we'd have lunch first. So we settled in this vintage-ish-looking restaurant that surprisingly only sold noodles and green tea. But I love noodles, so yay! We waited for our food to come. Meanwhile, I glanced at the painting hung on the wall. It looked old..too old, in fact. Parts of the paint chipping off, falling to the wooden floor. "Food is here!" said the waitress joyfully. After having lunch, I took a last peek at the restaurant and left with my friends. It was about three P.M., and we started walking uphill. Apparently, it would take an hour to get there. *One hour later* "Ohh, we are finally here!" says Melissa trying to catch a breath. "Ahh, spider!!" I yelled and tripped to the rocky ground. "Hahaha," Andrew laughed hysterically. "Not funny!" I cried. "Tha..t..that..was a fake spidey, y'know?" He continues to laugh at my stupidity. "Geez.." goes Melissa. We started setting up our blue and orange tents. I had a bit of trouble doing that at first.."A little." "Ahh, oop. "Oh, crap, I can't even set up a tent..." I said while trying not to look like a fool. Luckily, Annie and Melissa had my back on that. After we finished putting the tents together, Andrew and I went for a short walk. "So, how does it feel like to finally socialize, huh?" Asked Andrew. "Well... it's good, I guess. I'm just not used to being with so many people at once." We walked across the bridge, and the view was immaculate. Nothing but beauty surrounds us. "You know, I've heard that there used to be a city here years and years ago," stated Andrew. "A city? Really..when?" "I don't know, but quite long ago..I heard of it in the news...archeologists are still on the hunt for more info." He replied. It was getting a bit dark out, so we decided to head back. Melissa, I, and a couple of other members made some chicken skewers for dinner. And after having dinner, I read a book and went to sleep. *Phone alarm goes off* "Geez...tell your phone to shut up, Annie!" "Okay, you don't have to shout..." she replied quietly. We got up and quickly prepped some sausage breakfast sandwiches. "So, who wants to go explore the place?" Asked Melissa. I then realized that practically everyone but me raised their hand, so I did, too. "Great! we will leave after breakfast!" She tells enthusiastically. We all met at the campfire and decided to split into groups for safety's sake. Me, Andrew, Melissa, and Grace were together in a group. We started walking, and ten minutes in, we saw the same lady from the restaurant. "Hey, so ya'll going for a walk?" "hmm, Yes, sort of," I replied. "Have fun, but don't cross the bridge," she said hesitantly. "Why, what's with the bridge?" Asked Grace. "Just. Don't. Cross. The. Bridge....you won't like it." She said in a suspicious tone. The minute she left, Andrew made the most intelligent decision EVER. "We are crossing that bridge! I don't care, we are!" We continued walking for twenty minutes more, till we reached the bridge. "Hey, look, it's not worth our time; let's just go the other direction, k?" So says Melissa, trying to convince Andrew. "Why are you such a coward? It's just a bridge, seriously!" answers Andrew. "Ugh, fineee..." mumbles Melissa. We stepped on the wooden bridge, one by one, trying not to lose balance. The strings which kept it in place were shaking more than ever. "Oh. My. God! what if it fa.." "Ah, how positive you are, Grace!" Yells Melissa. As we almost made it to the other side, the bridge fragmented into thousands of tiny bits, moving our souls restless. At that moment, I saw nothing but black. I woke up in a cave, with everyone...but Andrew. I tried waking up Melissa and Grace. "wheres Andrew?!" Asked Melissa. "Well...you se.." "I knew it! It's all his fault!" cried Melissa. "What will we do now?" Asked Grace. "Try to find him..that foolish.." "Stop arguing, guys!" The cave was enormous; the more we kept going inside, the bigger it seemed to get. It was a neverending maze. I tried calling for help, but the signals were too weak. So we continued walking till we saw some form of light. Some form of hope -- is what we thought. And the end of what seemed like the most extensive cave ever was a door. I turned the handle; "it's open.." I whispered. This wood seemed familiar, but I couldn't recall where I saw it. I opened the door, and it was a...a city! A legitimate town, inside a cave! Inside there was a staircase with thousands of houses. We walked up the stairs, trying to make no noise whatsoever: tiptoe and tiptoe. At the top of the staircase was another door, this time smaller. I opened the door, and lo and behold, it was the same restaurant we had lunch in, and that "painting" was a secret door. "So, you disobeyed me, huh?" We suddenly heard a voice from behind us. It was her. "I told you not to come, didn't I?" She says while looking at her razor-sharp nails. "What do you want?!" Shouted Grace. "Easy, easy. I'm sure you don't like to see your friend getting hurt, do ya?" "Frien...Andrew! He's here!" I said, both happy and scared. "Hmm, listen, why don't you chipmunks pack your bags and permanently leave? I don't want ANYONE finding out about this city..Understood!" She screamed straight to our faces. We agreed - we had no other option. "Also, if you tell anyone about this, I will know. Mark my words. Now LEAVE!" She released Andrew from her "so-called" restaurant, and we sprinted uphill. The incident left us shivering, staring at the full moon while having a bonfire. Trying to ignore what even happened. The next afternoon, we packed our bags and were ready to head home. After arriving at home, my dad asked me, "So, how was the trip?" "Umm, it was pretty good...definitely didn't find a city or something.." I replied. "Haha, you kids be daydreaming, there's no such thing as a hidden city, REMEMBER. " I heard her voice in each letter of that word.

Old Recipes She crushed her pills into her water and swallowed a swig before raising a dry hand to her moist lips. Her eyes darted to her daughter, standing tall on a bar stool stirring something in a bowl. Katey loved to cook and bake, a passion she seemed to just inhabit out of nowhere. Fingers dawdled over the shelf that held the cook books from generations ago, concealing recipes of many family favorites. Today she’d be cooking something simpler, something she’d love eating, but not so much for her mother, as nutrition was getting steadily more important in her coming years. She’d be making chocolate chip cookies, and she had to have a certain recipe to feel as if she was satisfied. Things like that had to be specific, crucial to her cooking manner. Katey sat down on the bar stool, her legs swaying just over the ground, hovering in a timeless air. She was pondering what recipe to use, as if her brain had memorized all the cookies she had ever eaten and already knew their recipes. She looked up from her magazine as she heard her daughter call out to her from the kitchen. “Where’s grandma’s recipe book?” She asked. Pushing her glasses up on her nose, she began to look around for an excuse. She didn’t even know where she put the damn thing; she buried it somewhere, just like she did with everything her mother had touched after she passed. For the first time in a while, she felt as though remnants of her were beginning to sprout. Trying to find it would be like finding a needle in a haystack, and opening something that still had grandma attached to it would open up something her mother did not want to invite in. “I don’t know, Katey. Try the top shelf.” It was where most of the cookbooks were anyways. “I already did.” She responded, as she began to hear the cabinets close- like the doors slowly closing in on her. She felt she would never be able to escape her mother’s wrath, her grasp from beyond the grave, something coming to take her life back. “Is there another recipe you like?” She asked, looking for an answer that would be a way out. “No, not really. Grandma always made the best cookies when we visited and had the best recipes. She gave them all to you, so I don’t know where you put them.” Whether it was just an old excuse or genuine memory loss, she really didn’t know. She just wished it would store itself away instead of dumping it onto her shoulders, like everything her mother had given her had done. There was no legacy for her kin, no memories lively enough to look back to, no inheritance besides the mental illnesses she received from her mother. She didn’t want to even think about trying to find the book, but it felt as if Katey needed to have it in her hands in order to make these cookies. There was silence in the house as Katey began to continue gathering her supplies and scour for new recipes. She felt guilty about not being able to provide for her daughter’s needs- even the small things like this, making it feel as if she was stranded, so she pushed herself up and made way to the closet in the hallway. Legs that knew the hurt and truth behind the thin door of the closet wanted to turn around and escape it, hoping that her daughter would find a new recipe and go on with her routine, but she willed herself on for her daughter. It was the grave of her mother, and going near it felt ominous. It felt as though she lingered near, wanting to protect the things she left behind. She swung the door open, a mountain of memories like an avalanche, came crumbling down. Smells of worn out years, black and white candids, bags of jewelry that would never be worn. Frames like white bones, earrings like teeth from a carcass. This really is that bad. I didn’t think she was this much of a collector, consolidating her whole life into all these belongings. It’ll take years to go through all of this. A roach appeared from a small corner where there were scattered belongings and it scurried behind some bags of items that were never discovered, at least to her knowledge. Great. It felt like she was at a cemetery, watching maggots feast on her mother’s body. She began to peel back one of the trash bags, by some luck containing books that used to be strewn all across her mother’s house. Only true fortune would bring her to find the book as quickly as possible so she could please her daughter. She opened a leather-bound book, revealing yellow pages of scrawled handwriting. If this was the book, there was no way Katey would be able to read the scribbles. She tossed it back into the bag and sighed heavily. She tried to think of the last time her mother had done something for her daughter, and almost laughed as the thought seemed improbable. It was almost like a joke. The only thing her mother had given her were years of trauma and depression. Katey’s grandmother was no joyous angel as was often described. She was an avid alcoholic, smashing bottles against walls and things in the house that were closest to her. Very short-tempered and bipolar, often crashing without her daily medicine prescribed over-the-counter. The whole town knew her name, knew her legacy- mainly from the hospital visits. It had become her job to call the cops when she passed out on the couch or was raging wildly. She shuddered at the thought of leaving that behind for her daughter, for her to cope with that legacy always at the back of her mind. For her to continue on life when she was gone and still feel that presence of her terrifying mother was unbearable. That’s why she moved when she became pregnant with Katey. Staying posed the risk of an highly unwanted miscarriage, and leaving meant new life, new opportunities for the both of them. It was a clear decision to make, but not exactly proving easy. It had always made her sad when Katey began to ask questions about her relatives, where they were and why they never visited. It was the same ordeal with all of them, scrambling as soon as they could, not keeping in contact for fear their mother would come after them and plague their new lives with her distress and wild temper. She searched deeper into the bag, arms being impaled by the edges and spines of weary books. Randomly, she pulled another book out, and flipped to an open page. The writing was cleaner, more organized, obviously implying its older age. There was a diary heading. November 18, 1978 Elli has her third grade fall pictures soon, and Charles and I have scraped together just enough money for us to have three pictures. One for us, some for her- if she wants them. She comes home from school, goes into her room, and waits for dinner, expecting it to be made. I worry about her sanity and expectations of other people. I hope she has friends at school. Then, she would have something I didn’t. She got a lot from me - my hair, my eyes, my nose. It seems as though my whole identity has been robbed of me. I want the pictures now. I’ll see myself in them. I can make her just like me, something of my own. Maybe I can envision the life I never had. She rubbed her finger over the worn out and dried ink, like raisins sucked of their very being. She held her breath in her throat, not wanting to let it go because she felt it would disappear into the hands of her mother. She flipped through the pages, trying to look for the date after she had left with Katey. She knew that would be an interesting entry. March 17, 1992 Elli has left me. Charles has left me, for a while now. I knew Elli was pregnant, and I will find that child. I will find her. They are the closest things to me because Elli has a life destined just like mine. I want to be there to see it crumble. I want to raise another child like my own- and start over. Elli doesn’t deserve that child. No. No. No. I do. Some day I might miss them. She threw the book away in another trash bin, one that was going to the landfill for sure. She wouldn’t read any more entries, not that she wanted to anyways. She continued to file through books, albums of pictures of her younger self that were kept clean in her mother’s presence, but had now grown layers of dust around the covers. It felt strange to look back at that, and being able to pinpoint the exact moment in time it happened because she had the traumatic memories so dramatically engrained in her head. Looking at her younger self, felt like she was looking at another person, only a small thread connecting the two. It felt like two strangers, bound together by two seats right next to each other in the city tram, left to sit in each other’s wake of silence and intensity as they said nothing until their next stop. She could hear Katey whisking up some things in the kitchen, occasionally hearing the pitter-patter of her feet as she walked to and from the pantry gathering supplies and rounding the countertops to check in the bottom drawers for larger bowls. She was a very disorganized baker, very frenzied, but it made her delicacies all the better. After hours of searching through the legacies of a broken mother, there were three books left in the bag. There was a red cover on one that seemed appealing enough to pick, so aching arms and fingers flipped open to a random page, landing on a cream pie recipe. Her mother had made this once for a bake sale at school, but had caused a scene the day Elli was supposed to help run the sale. It felt like a wave of relief washed over her, no one would remember that except her, and that embarrassment was all taken away with her mother. Her shoulders sagged, relaxing, as if to say, ‘ at last’. She continued to flip through the pages until she found chocolate chip cookies, and dog-eared it. She blew the dust off the cover, and tucked it endearingly under her arm as she strolled into the kitchen with a pleased smile. Her mother left her a legacy she would use to her advantage, she was no longer controlled by her, no strings attached to her. It felt like all the feelings, all the cherished and not cherished memories, all the collected items were being uprooted for good, and some were being buried. Her mother would be buried with them, taking them wherever she went now, a load onto her shoulders. She shut the door behind her, like closing the lid to the casket, and took a deep breath. This was her legacy now. One for her daughter, and continuing on. She would see the joyous spark in Katey's eyes and that would be enough to fix all the hurt, all the glass shattering of bottles and all-too-easily-broken hearts. It would be enough to fix the shaken nights, the nights in hospitals and the evenings after school, everything that led to the crushing tentatively of pills plopped into water. And it started with this, a new life, a new legacy for herself. She found Katey stooped over in the kitchen, displeased, going through recipes that weren’t ‘just right’. With a smile, she exclaimed brightly, “Katey, I found an old recipe book. Want to make some cookies with me?” Katey’s head turned sideways and looked at her with an expression of joy and excitement. “You found it!” Katey ran to her and crashed into her mother’s legs, now weakened from being bent while going through the closet. She nuzzled her head against Elli’s thighs before running back to her position at the bar stool. She opened the dog-eared page and began calling out to her mother for certain ingredients. Her mother internally laughed as she followed them like orders, collecting the needed supplies from the fridge. Katey mixed and mixed in the larger bowl she had retrieved, and with the work of the duo, were able to get the cookies in the oven in no time. Despite her promise, Elli had a few bites of the soft cookie, teeth sinking deeply into the cookie and embellishing her mouth with the chocolate gooey-ness. It felt amazing to be making new memories with her daughter, ones that her daughter would carry on forever. With big eyes that seemed to hold every emotion Elli had ever experienced, Katey looked up to her mother with a warm smile. She was relieved to pass something down to her daughter that wasn’t unpleasant or something of a burden. It felt like she was truly a mother despite spending countless nights awake by her bedside, changing diapers that threatened to extinguish her sense of smell. She felt like she was truly leaving a legacy for her daughter, like footprints in sand. And Elli knew that one day her daughter would be stepping in those footprints, following the path her mother set out for her. She looked down at her daughter, the red-cover book of recipes embalmed in sweaty hands. She pushed it into her daughter’s still-growing palms and bent down to whisper in her ear, “This is my legacy to you. Take good care of it for me.”

“Freak!” “Look at her!” “Hey, ever seen a comb?” she hurled a brush at me. This is what it’d been like ever since I joined the new school. They didn’t like my teeth, because they were too long. They didn’t like my hair, because it was too unruly. They didn’t like my face, because it was too ugly. They didn’t like my voice, because it was too harsh to be a girl’s voice. They didn’t like my clothes, because they were too old. They didn’t like me, because I wasn’t like them. I walked home, sweat running down my back and drenching my clothes. My vision swam. I could still hear them laughing. The laugh echoed in my head, growing louder and louder, drowning out the noise on the road. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to walk in once more and be met by an empty house, my father off on another of his “errands”, after which he would come back and hurl things around, destroying our house. *His* house, actually, as he so often reminded me. So I sat down on the footpath, my vision growing more and more blurred, which is why I didn’t at first notice the wetness on my hand. When I did, I flinched and pulled away, rubbing my eyes. As my surroundings came into view, I saw him. He, too, had scars on his body. One of his ears seemed to have a chunk missing. He moved closer and licked my hand again. He’d lost his fur in some places. But his eyes, they were the first thing I saw. They were bright and shone with the innocent spark of hope and trust that reminded me of a photo- the only photo I had- of me as a baby. I took it out of my pocket, the little yellowed piece of glossy paper. I’d torn my father out of it years ago. There it was, that spark of hope, the spark that had shivered and died when I saw my mother beaten to death with a bottle when I was three. I never even got to know her. All I knew was that one day she was back, and my father didn’t like that. The dog cocked his head at my sob. I patted his head. He flinched slightly at my touch, then lay down on the dusty footpath and leaned into my leg. I chuckled and resumed patting him, my hands becoming dirtier with every stroke. “Where have you come from?” I whispered, smiling. In response, he exposed his belly for me to rub. I felt a prickling feeling on the back of my neck. I turned around. A woman was watching me. Her dark eyes seemed to bore into me, to search my soul, to look into the deepest recesses of my heart. I wiped my eyes self consciously. No one seemed to notice her except for me. People walked within two inches of her, oblivious to her existence. But then again, who noticed the crying nine-year-old on the footpath either? She smiled at me and gestured for me to come to her. The dog licked my hand again. I stood up, then hesitated. She nodded at me encouragingly. I moved forward, the dog padding along behind me. She whispered to me. I frowned. “Sorry?” “You never know...” I moved closer. Her words, the way she spoke, seemed to draw me in. “You never know what you are capable of...” she said, hesitating. She looked around. Still, no one had noticed our strange interaction. “Yes?” She leaned forward. “Till you have truly known love,” she whispered. “What do you-” I stuttered as she walked away and turned the corner. I hurried after her. “I don’t-” I started, turning after her. She was nowhere to be seen. I turned around, almost expecting the dog to be gone too, and for this to be another of my daydreams. But he was there, wagging his tail at me, his tongue hung out in a grin. I sat on the footpath, the dog lying beside me, and did my homework till the light faded. From then on, I had a friend. I named him Phoenix. I took him to the public tap once a week, drenched him, much to his annoyance, and wiped him out with an old shirt of mine. Soon enough, his skin started to improve and his fur started growing back. Every day, when I came back from school, he was there. Waiting. Wagging his tail. Hanging out his tongue in a doggy grin. We sat on the footpath, me doing my homework or studying, Phoenix romping or taking a nap. We scrounged the trash cans for food, sometimes sharing it, sometimes fighting for it. Every so often, I snuck him home when my father went out, and we shared my bed and took a nap. We’d go to little shops, Phoenix waiting outside, and I’d buy us bread with money I’d steal. He licked away my tears when I came to him after getting beaten by my father. I told him all about myself, about my childhood, my school, my lack of friends, everything. And he was there. Listening. Wagging his tail. Hanging out his tongue in a doggy grin. I grew up. Phoenix grew old. Side by side, together, we journeyed the twisted path life lays out for everyone. And my path was slightly brighter because Phoenix was with me. But life always throws in that unexpected curveball every once in a while. For me, that unexpected curveball came on my seventeenth birthday. As usual, I went to school in my same old clothes (nothing new there) and nobody even knew it was my birthday. Except for Phoenix, of course. That morning, he’d romped beside me as I went to school, just like Mary’s proverbial lamb. He always knew. As soon as the bell rang to go home, I grabbed my bag and made a beeline for the exit. I almost ran home, imagining Phoenix’s face when he saw me. We always bought something extra special on my birthday. But when I reached my street, panting, and looked around, nobody was there. “Phoenix?” I whispered, grinning. Nothing. “Stop playing games, joker,” I said, raising my voice. And then I heard it. A whine. Phoenix? I repeated, my amusement now turning to dread. Another whine. I ran across the street. There, in the alley opposite, lay Phoenix. His legs were twisted grotesquely, and his head had been bashed in. Nearby lay a bloody metal rod. I dropped my bag and sank down onto my knees. “Who did this?” I asked, my eyes filling. He whined, then wagged his tail one last time. And then the spark in his eyes was gone. Nobody was there. Nobody saw my most loyal, my *only,* friend die. It was just me, and the roaring in my ears that didn’t seem to cease. It was like the night the spark died, all over again. But Phoenix, he didn’t give me a spark. He’d ignited a flame. And it was gone. My best friend was gone. Wiping my tears, I scrounged for a kerchief in my bag. And there, to my left, lay an all too familiar green bottle. My mind went blank. I didn’t even notice picking up my bag and walking. One moment I was holding Phoenix, and the next, I was walking into my house. My father lay on the couch, the same green bottle in his hand, chugging for all he was worth. “Hey...dad.” “What, you need something? Since-since when d’you call me *dad?”* “A stray dog, uh, passed away. Did you- did you see what happened?” There was a pause. “Oh, that son of a bitch? Yeah,” he slurred, “Yeah, he was barking at me ‘cause- ‘cause- I dunno, ‘cause he’s a little bitch. So I took care of him.” “You- you killed him because he *barked at you*?” “Yeah, yeah he- wait, why you care about some stupid *dog?”* “He was- HE WASN’T A STUPID DOG! HE WAS MORE OF MY FAMILY THAN YOU ARE!” He stood up, but I didn’t care anymore. “You really think you’re gonna yell at me in *my own house?* You ungrateful little-” he hurled his bottle at me. It shattered on the wall behind me. “I raised you! Your mother was a bitch too, like you, wasn’t she? Didn’t want nothing to do-” “She came back, though didn’t she?” “I RAISED YOU! I WAS YOUR FATHER, YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING-” “YOU’RE NOT MY FATHER!” He picked up a bottle and advanced on me. By impulse, I ducked down, my hands searching the ground. I got up. There was a resounding crash as he hit me with the bottle, just as I spliced his neck open with a shard of glass. And there, lying on the ground, bleeding, darkness eating at the corner of my vision, I understood. “You never know what you are capable of... till you have truly known love.” I love you, Phoenix.

Angela opened her eyes to a new day not knowing if it were morning. There were no windows in her room, and it could have been the middle of the afternoon, or even midnight. She heard no sounds except her own breathing, and when she awoke she inhaled and exhaled heavily, as if she had just completed a marathon race instead of having slept for hours. Perhaps she had slept for days. She had stopped wondering about time months ago. Now she simply slept for as long as she was able, then stayed awake for as long as was necessary. She knew she would have to eat, that they would soon be coming with food, and had she felt stronger she might have spat it back at them as she had done when they first brought her here. But she had swallowed that rage a long time ago. Now Angela ate whatever morsels they gave her, and recently she had to restrain herself from thanking them. She feared the day might come when she would feel grateful that they had allowed her to live, when she might find herself smiling at them as if she understood and accepted the perfect correctness of her captivity. She looked at herself in the small cracked mirror above the sink. Although her hair was stringy and unwashed, she remembered how golden it had shimmered in the sun. Her face was still quite pretty, and once she had heard one guard tell another he had never seen eyes quite that blue. The other whispered what a pity it was. If only she had a piece of paper, a pen, even a crayon. Maybe this time she would show them that she could create something useful and lasting that mattered to them, something that in turn would make her matter. When Angela had first arrived they had eagerly granted the request of the eighteen year old girl and waited to see what gifts her imagination might offer them. She had succeeded only in producing a few formless scrawls that they said were not art, and some rhymeless gibberish that they told her was not poetry. They took away the paper, the pens, and the paint brushes. Not long ago, the tall blond guard who wore the keys around his neck had asked her if she might like to sing. Any tune would do, he told her. “Please, oh please, let me try!” Angela had begged. The next day he brought to her room a small cassette recorder with a blank tape. “Perhaps we will find the song bird in you where we were unable to find the artist. Sing, and we promise to listen,” he assured her. For days Angela sang alone in her room, remembering what her mother had sung to her many years ago. “Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mocking bird . . .” A week later she handed the cassette to the man with the keys and simply said, “Please . . .” He stuffed the tape into his pocket and left without a word. The next day the guard sat alongside her bed and informed her that he and the others had decided that she was no song bird. For a moment his words had sounded like an apology. She knew she would never see the tall guard again. The wasted papers that Angela had filled with nonsense and the inarticulate squawks she had tried to pass off as music had convinced them that further efforts on their part would be foolish. From that day forward the guards who silently delivered her food seemed unwilling to even look at her. Angela heard the key slip into the lock on the other side of the heavy door. She no longer pretended to be asleep when they came, because they did not care whether she were sleeping or awake. One of them always waited outside as the other entered. She heard the heavy jingle of keys and looked up. The keys were around the guard’s neck. “You,” she said, but the word was only a statement of fact, not sparked with the warmth that accompanies the recognition of a familiar face. Once uttered, the word sounded idiotic. “Yes,” he answered, closing the door behind him. He did not look at her as he set the tray of food on the stand alongside her bed. She had expected no further conversation, and when he spoke again his words startled her. “They told me to say the other guard had caught a flu.” He pulled up the small wooden chair and sat, although the chair was too small and he seemed not to know whether to fold his legs. “There is no flu. They wanted us to talk.” His statement was ludicrous. She had not had a conversation with him in months, and those few she remembered had been pitifully brief and one-sided. “I don’t understand,” she said as she selected a small bread crust on her tray. She had learned to keep her responses short, for the guards tired of her quickly. “I’d like to know about God,” he said as if this were meant as an answer. “Tell me how you feel about God. Tell me about your religion, your beliefs.” “I have no belief in God. I have no religion. Don’t you have some sort of records about that?” She felt immediately sorry she had asked, but the guard ignored the question anyway. He fidgeted in the small chair. “You’re an atheist, then? Or an agnostic? You have opinions regarding God’s existence, or the lack of it?” He sounded almost hopeful. “I'm an apathist. I don’t much think about it,” she answered as she nibbled at the crust. She picked up a slab of egg yolk with her left hand, ignoring the silverware, leaned her head back, and dropped the yolk into her mouth. Her response oddly pleased him, although he did not smile. “An apathist? That was a joke you just said. Admittedly, not a very good one, but it was a joke. Then you have a sense of humor. Tell me another joke.” Angela looked hard at the man, not certain about how earnest her guard’s question was. “A joke? You mean like why did the chicken cross the road?” The absurdity of her question seemed to increase the guard’s excitement. “Yes! Yes! Tell me, why did the chicken cross the road?” There was anticipation in his voice as if he sincerely were interested in the chicken’s intentions, and when he leaned toward Angela for her response his face revealed the hint of a smile. “Perhaps the chicken was an apathist,” she said. The guard’s smile disappeared as quickly as if it were erased. “That isn’t funny. I'm sorry, but that isn’t funny at all.” His tone became flat, expressionless. He sounded like a man keeping some kind of score. No points for humor. Sorry. Next category. “Can we talk politics?” he asked. “No.” “Sociology? Science? History? Law? Philosophy?” His questions now had become a formality, a check list to be completed, filed, and forgotten. “No . . . No . . . No . . . No . . .” Although Angela could not remember ever having had a discussion this long during her stay here, she wanted this conversation to end. “Perhaps I could tell you why the philosopher crossed the road? No, I guess you’re right. That wasn’t very funny either. I suppose you'll be leaving now?” Her question had anticipated his next words. The tall guard rose from the chair with difficulty, trying to maintain his dignity when he could not get up with his first attempt. “I have one more question for you, Angela,” he said. He had never called her by her name before, and his doing so struck her as odd. He walked to the foot of her bed and turned toward her. “Do you know why you are here?” He asked this without malice or emotion, with only the desire to know her answer, as he had wanted to know about song birds and chickens. “I'm here because you see me as a useless bird.” Having said the words, she knew they had always been on her tongue waiting to be spoken. “I beg your pardon?” “You know, the sparrow who can no longer fly becomes useless to the other sparrows, a burden to them. I've broken my wing, isn’t that right? And the flock has no further need of me.” “I'm impressed,” the guard answered. “That is quite a creative analogy from one who knows so little of creativity.” He sat on the edge of the bed and moved close to Angela as if to reveal a secret. Instead, he reached under the blanket and grabbed hold of her right hand, yanking it out from where she had kept it hidden. He held her arm straight up and the pain caused her to wince. “But this isn’t exactly a broken wing, is it, Angela? It’s a wilted arm, a useless limb. It is not pleasant to look at, it serves no function, and it belongs to you. It is you.” The words came in furious bursts now, like machine-gun pellets, and he shook her withered limb as he spoke. “You see yourself as a wounded sparrow, do you? What happens if we take that sparrow and tie her leg to a string and swing her around in circles in a desperate attempt to make her fly? She struggles against hope to use her wings, her useless wings, and meanwhile we swing her around and around and around, wasting our energy, wasting our time, and in the end when we stop swinging her she comes crashing down to earth anyway. Our time has been wasted, her hopes have been destroyed. What is the point? Why even bother?” He let go of her arm, allowing it to drop. For a moment Angela stared at the shrunken arm as if it were a foreign thing that did not belong in the bed with her. She spoke without removing her eyes from it. “A sparrow who can no longer fly can sing. And if she can’t sing, she can still feel, can still-” “- Love?” the guard interrupted. “That’s exactly right, Angela! We asked this sparrow to sing, and she could not! But we realized she may be capable of love. . . the kind of love that could only result in frustration for her. Because the real question is, is she capable of being loved? Do the words she writes encourage love? Does her beauty or intellect in any way inspire it? It is unlikely that anyone would even try to love her because of that hideous limb. Not that all physical impediments are repulsive. Perhaps if she were only blind . . .” “Stop . . . Please, stop . . .” Angela pleaded. Her brief taste of defiance had made her want to gag. “You want to cover your ears, don’t you? You want to block out the words, make me go away, maybe you would even like to strike me,” he continued. “But you can’t do it, can you? That limb just lies there like a dead weight. Do you see my point?” “I have my other arm . . .” “. . .whose only function is to hide its companion. No, Angela, I'm sorry, but the time has come for us to stop swinging the sparrow’s string.” His anger slowly dissolved and he fell silent for a moment. He attempted to hold her wilted hand in his, but she pulled it away. Instead he took her other hand. “But first I have something I want to show you, something you need to see.” He sat on the bed and placed her fingers on his left leg below the knee. “Rub your hand along my leg, Angela. Does the calf feel peculiar to you? Congenital defect, they called it, like they called yours. The leg is gone, at least from the knee down. Amazing what they can do with prosthetics today. But, you see, I have my particular talents. I happen to be quite good at drawing people out, at enabling them to find a way to compensate for their physical shortcomings. And I can be quite decisive when called upon to make the kind of decisions that others would find distasteful. No one ever asked me to sing, or to fly. But when they came for me, I simply told them what I could do.” Angela struggled to pull her hand free as her anger rose inside her like hot bile. “But you also decide who is to be exterminated! You decide who the state no longer regards as useful! What gives you the right--” “ This gives me the right!” he shouted, his breath hot on her face as he tapped her hand on the hard wood of his prosthetic leg. “This has forced me to find my usefulness to others, just as your pathetic limb has forced you to admit that you have none. And I have no intention of relinquishing my usefulness by allowing you to continue your hollow existence. I refuse not to matter!” The guard’s renewed anger seemed to embarrass him, and he turned away from Angela. He ran his fingers through his blond hair in an attempt to collect himself, and when he again looked down at his leg he noticed that Angela’s hand was grasping it. Angela knew he had been unaware of her touch until he had looked. When his eyes locked with hers, her mouth curled in a bitter smile. “I feel this,” she said as she ran the tiny hand of the wilted arm along his wooden leg. “I feel this with both of my hands, even the one you call useless. Tell me what you feel when I touch you. Does this prosthetic device extend all the way to your heart?” Angela tapped on the artificial limb as if she were expecting a reflexive kick. “A curious question,” he answered. “You might have made a fine idealist if you had believed in God.” She moved close to his face and whispered, “ . . . to get to the other side. That is why a chicken would cross the road, isn’t it?” He paused for a moment to look at her. “Such blue eyes,” he said. “Such exquisitely beautiful blue eyes.” He called for the guards to take her, and within moments three entered the room and another two waited by the doorway. She presented no struggle and went quietly with them. She wondered as they walked if one of them would take her hand. ####

I wake up to find myself in a strange alley. The walls seem to be made of brick, but their blue, and seem to illuminate themselves. The graffiti on the walls depict strange symbols that seem like they change shape and color every second. I realize what’s happening and quickly check all my sense. I can hear a soft ringing, my vision seems fine, there's a metallic taste in my mouth, there’s a sweet smell in the air, I can’t feel my sense of touch. I quickly get up and look behind me. There’s a bed inside a orange dumpster. The dumpster seems to be darker, as if it was absorbing light. I quickly check my pockets as the ringing in my ears gets louder. The only thing I pull out is a key that I don’t recognize. I turn around and I see it. It stares at me with his non-existent eyes. My heart starts pounding, it starts dragging his feet on the ground as he rounds the corner. “Follow it.” or that’s what she said to do. I slowly step towards the opening where it was standing and stare into the dark abyss of what was outside the alley. As I take a step into the abyss my sense of touch returns and immediately starts to register pain. I try not to yell out in pain, doing so would alert it that I didn’t find this place naturally. Suddenly it felt like something was watching me. Something was watching me, waiting for me to scream out. After five seconds the pain softened, now only feeling slightly sore in a few places. I suddenly felt myself being lowered into the abyss, when I was engulfed in darkness I felt my eyes close and then I blacked out. I awake in a forest. The trees seem to grow higher than any I have ever seen. The sky is a dark green and the ground around me seems normal. I once again quickly check all my senses. However this time it feels normal. I get up and see it sitting on a rock, watching me. It raises his arm and as it does so a tree starts to sprout out of his fingers. The tree quickly falls apart and it becomes sad. It starts to cry though he sheds no tears. I can hear it cry out for his parents but he isn’t making any noise. Suddenly the trees start to rot away, leaving nothing but a barren field. It looks up at me and gets off the rock. The rock breaks revealing two trapped skeletons within. It suddenly breathes life into them, and the skeletons get up, they start dancing and yelling at each other. They never want to see each other again but also cannot be separated, they both loved and hated each other at the same time. I sit down and it comes to sit down next to me. We watch as the two skeletons act out scenarios for hours. At the end of the final scenario the skeletons sit down next to each other and hold one another before the life it gave them leaves their hollow bones. It turns to me. I black out My hearing returned, despite still being dragged through the winds of the dream world. I hear the sounds of my subconscious as the being carrying me doesn’t make a sound. I can hear thoughts that I buried deep within the back of my mind attempting to talk to me, trying to break free from the prison that I locked them in. Then I hear her voice “.. the Greek philosopher had discovered a entire realm though he did not realize it... the Roman philosopher took his great grandfathers teachings and re discovered the dream realm, quickly learning it’s secrets... When he presented his findings the Emperor dismissed him as nothing more than a madman and sent him off... He continued to explore this dream realm until Ego-death got to him and his physical body died...”. The last part would’ve made me shiver if I had my sense of touch. Ego-death, I’ve seen what happens to people who undergo it. It’s just one of the risks of entering the dream world. The possibility to lose a sense is also there, or your ego getting hurt but not outright destroyed. Suddenly I hear something in a language I don’t understand and my hearing is once again taken. I awake in a bed. I check my senses. They all seem fine, but at the same time they feel a little off. I get up out of the bed and look around. I’m filled with nostalgia as I find I’m in my room from my childhood. Lego scattered in the floor, a messy dresser containing old clothes, old wind up toys lined up on a shelf, but something’s off. Just something about everything feels wrong, but I can’t determine what is wrong. I’m not given much time to think about it as the closet door opens. It comes limping out of it and motions for me to follow him. I take a step forward and it turns around, walking into the closet. I follow him into the closet and as I enter it the door closes behind me. It’s dark inside the closet until I see a faint glow from a place where the wall has been falling apart. I get on all fours and manage to fit through the small opening. The floor and walls start to feel like flesh the more I move through the small opening. It starts to smell of blood and eventually I start to see the light getting brighter. At the end I exit the small hole and find myself in a small alcove overlooking a giant chamber made of flesh. In the center a heart is covered in a black goop. Underneath the mass are being like him, bags of flesh around a base of bone with a mass of flesh that uses electrons and chemicals to control these bags of flesh covered in skin. They seem to gather black goop that falls off and use it to paint various things on the wall. I stare at the black goop on the heart and notice that the reflections on it are changing. Its telling the story of a boy who was very caring and showed compassion to everyone. He would often play in the forest behind is home, but would always come back. One day he wandered too far into the woods and got lost. He eventually saw a group of rabbits in the distance and went up to pet them before realizing there was something else nearby. Suddenly a pack of wolves jumped out and attacked the rabbits. All the boy could do was watch as the rabbits where eaten. He curled up into a ball and started crying. Eventually his dad found him and brought him home. After a few months he was once again lost in the woods and saw animals killing each other again. After he got older he started to see it and look at it as normal. He realized that this was nature and it needed to happen, animals killing each other for the greater good.. Eventually he grew into a man and became a man of science. He started to not see everything in black and white but also lost his sense of morality while doing so. He started seeing life not as something to be protected, but rather a means to meet the end of bettering mankind. He started to break down everything with science. When he was old he started to question whether he had made the right decisions. Ultimately he couldn’t say due to morality being so subjective that even he couldn’t say whether he was right or wrong. He was wrong and right. I turned and saw it crying before blacking out.

Yes, We Can! “Any questions? If there are no questions, we shall begin. Do I have a nomination for Chairperson... no? If not, I will assume the position... I will preside over the meeting. Now...” He rambled on for a good half hour. It was difficult to hear, so I got only part of what he was saying. We were seated on bar stools around a pool table, that doubled as a meeting table. The plywood top, usually used to keep the hurricane winds outside where they belong, was placed over the felt to keep any accidents from ruining it. One of Bill’s rules. Our meeting space shares a wall with the dispensary next door, and the people that work there play their music very loud. Loud enough so that when you’re playing pool, sometimes the balls start moving on their own. It a lot of fun on Halloween, but other times it’s really annoying. Crispin, we call him that cause he eats very few things, chicken nuggets being one of the things, and cookies, the other. How he remains alive is beyond any of us, but then that’s his problem, I guess. It don’t matter which kind of cookie either, like it does with the chicken. He’s partial to organic free range. I’ve spent a lot of time telling him that labels mean nothing. I saw a program about just that. They keep the chickens locked up until the last couple of days before they get made into whatever they make out of chickens. The chickens are so frightened by the daylight, they refuse to go outside. But it doesn’t seem to matter to Crispin where the cookies come from, or what they look like. He likes Oreos, and peanut butter cookies with real peanut butter, not those chips they use, the ones that look like baby’s tears. He says they taste like they are made of plastic. He says those little chips is like most things they claim tastes like chicken, if you don’t know what really good chicken tastes like. I could see his point, but those baby chips he’s talking about, aren’t made of peanut butter, they are butterscotch. When I pointed that out to him, he said it don’t matter, cause they all taste like he wants them to taste. I was going to ask but decided against it. I bring Martin along when we go to Bobby Joe’s. No one calls it that anymore since the fire. We all call it The Greasy Spoon; Bill don’t seem to mind. He’s just happy we all still come down, as it does take some time, getting used to that Smokey smell. It kind of lingers on your clothes for a few days, even after you wash um. It was Bill’s idea that we should enter the contest. Bill runs the place. He said he saw the contest advertised on the baking channel. I didn’t even know there was a baking channel, but Bill says its got quite a following, specially in England, which seemed counterproductive, as they have a more regimented sense of propriety. But then to each their own, I suppose. Bill said we should check out the channel, so Crispin did. None of the rest of us were all that enthusiastic, as we don’t really care much for cookies. Chicken and beer is fine, more than fine actually, no matter whether the chicken is freed or not. But cookies and beer? Most of us draw the line at. Especially the cookies with the fake chocolate chips. The chips keep falling off into the glass when you dunk them, and you get a real rush when you get down to the bottom, especially if you forgot they were there. And they are dangerous. If a whole lug of those chips lets go, and gets in your throat all at once, you could choke. Too much of a good thing turns out not to be such a good thing. Unless it’s chicken, Crispin says. Also, Marty, our softball catcher and manager, who washes dishes for Bill, now that his tab has reached the quarter of century mark. I don’t know how much that is, but it sounds like a lot. Bill said Marty would either have to stop commin in or start washing dishes. Mainly glasses since the fire, but then that’s where I was headin. The chocolate chips on the bottom, if not all drank after a time, under the bright lights, tend to stick, and he says getting the glasses clean is time consuming as hell, and his debt gets reduced, by the glass. I saw his point, and like I told him, I don’t much care for cookies, I’m more of a S’mores guy. Anyway, Crispin calls this meeting to discuss this contest. I’d talked with Bill to get the scoop, what with him having watched the baking channel and all. He says it is legit. The team that can make the largest cookie, edible of course, wins a trip for as many as six bakers to the Betty Crocker Bake Off in Minneapolis, the home of all kinds of flour and baking stuff, and beer. I think it was the beer that got everyone so enthusiastic about this baking stuff, everyone I think but Bill. They got these silos filled with grains they use for making beer, painted like cans of beer. A huge six pack the brochure says. I’d like to see that. Bill says it is a logistical nightmare though. The last several bake offs ended in everyone being disqualified for using materials not OK’d by the committee. He says they are real strict about stuff like that. He thinks they are afraid of stuff happening, like nuclear ovens and alien yeasts. He also says he’s given it some thought, and Crispin agrees, that the inflatable pool he has, would be just the thing. He says Crispin agreed to let us use his canoe paddles, and Marty said he’s got a line on some real powerful baking soda. Not the junk they got in stores he says, but the stuff from his stash that he used in the bathtub submarine races back in grade school, and up till now, couldn’t find a use for. He’s also donatin, a five-gallon ice cream tin of baking powder. He says his grandma is a hoarder, and she can’t pass up a deal. He says you couldn’t believe what’s down in the basement of her house. “She’s got ten years of cat litter, and don’t have a cat.” And he says she can’t park in the garage cause it’s full of toilet paper. Not the cheap see through stuff they got now, but the old stuff, that’s tough as a mechanics overalls. The real debating however didn’t begin until we was wondering about how to bake something that big. Apparently, according to Bill, the present champions, some girl scout troop from the Peninsula of Michigan, made a cookie five feet three and a quarter inches in diameter. And it was measured while the chocolate chips were still melty. Bill says it probably shrunk about an inch after it cooled, but still... Marty said he’d given it considerable thought as he has lots of time to think when he’s washing glasses, and came up with the way we can bake it. His brother Ronny has a hot air balloon. We wait until the Fourth of July. The contest isn’t till the seventh, or right around then, and the temperature is usually over a hundred, and the parking lot at the bowling alley is empty cause everyone is down at the parade. I don’t know how he knows this, but he says if we wait until about three in the afternoon, assuming the sun is shinin, the temperature he says on the asphalt will be somewhere around 175 degrees, which should take our dough about four hours to bake. Assuming he says, that Ronny can hit the parking lot. If he misses, he implied it could cause some real liability issues. Can’t blame him for being concerned about a thing like that. Marty thought it was a good idea, but then Ronny is his brother. I really didn’t care much; except I would like to see Ronny drop that thing from a hundred feet and hit anything he was aiming at. Got to get that high to miss the power lines. Suppose he could let some air out, but then if the wind picks up, he’s on the highway. Crispin said, that being he was nominated Chairperson by majority, it was up to him to decide if our plan had merit. I thought the whole Chairperson thing had kind of gone to his head, but then no one else wanted the job, so you go with what you got. We would need six of our ball team to work the cookie dough, and the remaining three will man the lines of the balloon, until Ronny gives them the signal. He’s the captain and knows about wind velocity and stuff like that, so no one objected. Overall I thought the plan was doable, and I really wanted to go to Minneapolis; anywhere really. We were to meet on July third at the Greasy Spoon to finalize everything. Make sure we had qualified ingredients; cause Bill says they do some kind of test to make sure we wasn’t cheatin. Being the Fourth was a Sunday, Herman our short stop said he and his brothers could man the ropes. We all hoped silently they’d be somewhat more capable than they were at playing outfield. It looked like things were comin together. The swimmin pool, we would set up where the pool table was, as we wouldn’t need a meeting table at that point. Bill said he thought the fire hose would reach that far, and if it didn’t, he had lots of pitchers that no one would use until after the parade anyway. It looked like even Crispin, who said because he was Chairperson, should get first taste, was ready and willing to go. No one objected about him havin first taste, but no one seconded his motion either. The time flew. The morning of the Fourth was somewhat colder than normal, but then the sun hadn’t really had a chance to make its self felt. We got everything to the Greasy Spoon, set up the pool, which surprisingly didn’t leak. Bill hauled the hose over, and Crispin started showin us how to use the paddles correctly. He said the J stroke would probably be the best, being the dough startin out might be a bit thin, but that as it thickened, the J would allow us to get the paddles out without damaging the pool or getting sucked into the goop. We figured him being Chairperson, he knew as much about paddling dough as anyone should, so we all nodded our heads like we understood. Ronny and the boys were out back firin up the balloon. Ronny said the winds might be a problem, so we’d better, “get a move on it.” Bill reminded everyone that we shouldn’t rush, as baking is an art that depends on quality ingredients and patience, especially when it comes to letting the dough get to its correct consistency and reach its fermentation potential. We were glad we had asked Bill to be our advisor. Not as prestigious as being Chairperson, but more meaningful by Greasy Spoon standards. We paddled like crazy, wrestled the concoction into a plastic fifty-five-gallon garbage can and loaded it onto the balloon as the first black clouds rolled in. The heat generated by the burners heating the air was supposed to help the rising process, Bill interjected. Ronny, although somewhat discouraged, was intent on seeing if he could hit the parking lot while missing the high-powered electric wires and the highway, no matter the wind. The boys dropped the ropes unexpectedly as the first thunderclap was preceded by a Zorro slash in the purply green western sky. Ronny despite everything seemed to be having the time of his life, even though the wind blew him away from the bowling alley parking lot towards Speedy-Mart. The rest of the team decided we’d almost completed more work that day, than we’d done in the past two weeks, so we went into the Spoon to celebrate. Bill said the first pitcher was on him if everyone agreed to not eat cookies, as Marty hadn’t showed up. He had to go to his grandma’s and help her unload her new finds. The rain sounded nice hitting the old tin roof. First time we’d been able to hear ourselves talk, or think for that matter, in some time. It being Sunday, the dispensary was closed, and the music men were at the parade. Crispin yelled, “Thanks be to God,” for a reason we weren’t quite sure of, but then we were never definitely sure of most things. We all agreed after complaining about the weather, and not being able to find Ronny, to give it a shot next year. Kind of make it a ritual of sorts, possibly a festival, maybe even an event. Bill liked the idea. He said maybe by next year the smell would have leveled off and everything wouldn’t taste like chicken. He’s a lot smarter than he looks.

I stand in a sea of congratulations, against the current of beaming parents and my friends--the two crash against each other like waves, greeting and mixing and loving like water on its way to the shore. Except there is no shore. There is only the sea, and me, the lone lighthouse standing amongst the water, scanning its longing light towards the horizon. Craning my neck, I stand on my tiptoes to see above all the commotion. My ears are already ringing, and that isn’t good. What if I don’t hear the-- “Jan?” I turn sharply, excitement nudging its way through my gut. But it is only Reid, his makeup already halfway gone. He cradles not one but two bouquets of flowers in his arms. He’s always had a loving family. “Good job,. You did wonderful,” he smiles, flashing his metallic teeth. I smile back, and he rushes off, probably to help strike the set. It would make sense; he dreams of becoming a professional performer one day, and to do that, he must earn himself a rightful place in our director’s Book of Favorite Actors--which, isn’t a real thing, but it might as well be. I sure as hell wouldn’t be in it. But I turn back to my lighthouse duties, and I can’t help but notice that the crowd around me has thinned quite a bit. I bite my lip, a little put off by that; everyone who came to see the show is out of the theater by now, and yet-- “Are you going to iHOP after this, Jan?” Lori stops and taps me on the shoulder--she will always rap you on the shoulder when she wants your attention. “Maybe,” I reply, and it’s true. I’ll probably end up going whether I like it or not. Lori trots off in the same direction as Reid, and still I stand. I can practically feel my feet becoming rooted to the floor as I wait. I realize that I am a rather empty lighthouse, perhaps abandoned; no family of mine has shown up tonight. But there is still hope. Yes, but that hope seems to be slowly pulling itself from my grasp. The crowd has become one singular person now, dwindled down to nearly nothingness. And this person is simply another girl who was in the production with me. We lock eyes, exchanging a silent understanding. I’ve never spoken to this girl, but in that moment, I feel as though we are sisters of some kind, united by loneliness. But then she turns away, and slowly walks back into the theater, where the rest of the cast will surely be celebrating. And now there is nothing but the lighthouse. My lip quivers as an overwhelming stab of despair punctures me through, and I look at my hands. My cheeks flush with some kind of embarrassment; of course he didn’t show up. After a moment of consideration, I turn on my heel and march, away from the theater and away from the deserted ocean. My feet take me farther into the school, through hallways and past classrooms that stand as abandoned as I, until my character shoes come to a halt in front of the gymnasium. I enter, letting the familiar smell of sports and rubber hit me. I breathe it in solemnly. After all, it was in gym class where we’d first met. Miserably I make my way over to the bleachers and begin to climb, up and up until I am all the way at the top. The plastic resonates with my every footstep, the vibrations seeming to scream *you idiot, you loser, you pitiful thing*. I drop onto a bench and stare down, across the empty expanse of the basketball court. Half of the lights above me have been turned off for the night, and a chill runs across my arms, but I don’t mind. The air seems to shimmer with the memory of his smile, and it is almost as if I see an apparition, a glimpse of that first day with him. The way those bright, ugly lights had captured his eyes, swimming in their blue fishbowls like gems dropped to the bottom of the sea. His hair, coarse and blond, and how he’d let me run my fingers through it nearly every day. He was an angel on earth. And I’d never fallen in love before. I refused to. But it seemed that he’d captured me. And there was a part of me, a little sliver of my heart that led my skeptic of a brain to believe that there could be something there, something beautifully sweet, something just as gushy and gooey as they made these things seem in the movies. But my lighthouse beam had not shone on his smile tonight, and despite my hopeful wishes that he would heed my encouragement and appear in an audience seat, the sea was empty. The sea was empty, and I was a fool.

Werner didn't want to think about losing the house. He had known the time was coming, when the banker would be knocking at the door asking for payment. Every morning as the household woke he found himself praying to the God’s (he didn't really believe in) that today wasn't “the day”. On the day, that finally was, “the day”, when Werner heard the knock it was accompanied by the scatter of the presence of every other in the house. They all knew what a knock at the door meant. Something bad. The bank would be seizing one of them, as payment, one of Werner’s brood. That was what happened, when you couldn’t pay. It was no longer a game, this exchange.There were no excuses for non-payment of funds nowadays, no cry for “bankruptcy, no extension of credit, no mercy. When the money wasn’t there, they came to collect and collect, they did. They collected a family member. Today the time had come for Werner to pay up. He just didn't know how, or who? How could he decide who the bank would take today? There was his wife Gerda. Gerda was a plump woman but with five children that could be expected. Only Werner hadn’t expected it. Werner thought she would be a good choice because she consumed so much food. And with five other mouths to feed the household bill rose each year as the children grew and Gerda, Gerda always grew the most. When they met Gerda had a lovely form and ate like a bird. Not that Werner ever thought anything of it, at the time. But with each child born her waist had increased in size as well as her appetite. If only I could have had Gerda eat less, Werner thought. That has become a constant thought of Werner’s lately. It was almost a mantra (even though Werner had no idea what a mantra was). Over and over the thought went through his head, at breakfast, lunch and the dinner table. Oh the horror Werner felt now as she gorged on a chicken leg. One night the leg looked much like his daughters. Getting rid of Gerda would take that cost of food in half, even less, Werner thought, as he watched her shovel fork after fork down her gullet morning, noon and evening as if there was no end. Gerda made sure the family never missed a meal. God forbid, Werner thought, wishing he could bring up the suggestion. Gerda would never have it. “But the children are growing,” He could already hear her excuse. And Werner would agree that the children grew but Gerda, Gerda grew more. However, there was no way he could get rid of his wife. She took care of all the children while he was at work.... when Werner had work. It had been a long time since he had had a job, that was really why they were in this predicament. It was all consuming, Werner’s worrying of how he was going to do this. And that was what made it so hard for him to find work. Werner was too busy worrying. “I married a louse,” Gerda screamed one day, her robust, stern, face had taken on a hard, apple red color. Werner had asked which child they would, “do away with”, as Werner had put it, which seemed to have made Gerda madder than ever. “I will not give the bank to my children,” Gerda had shouted, possessively, “if anyone goes, I’ll make sure it’s you.” Werner knew Gerda didn’t mean it. How would they survive without him? Secretly though, Werner worried she may be telling the truth and when the banker came, Gerda would overwhelm them all with her bulk and the bank would take him! But, the time had finally come, the banker was at the door. As the man knocked once more Werner tried to duck behind the curtain before he was seen. Too bad Werner had never been faster, or good, at anything much. Had he, they might not have been in this predicament. Or, at least Gerda was always saying that much. As much as he wanted to give Gerda to the banker who would take care of the children if she was gone? Werner would never survive them without her. The five children were too much for Werner. Rambunctious, all over the house, always moving, always shouting, always, much, too much for Werner. But then everything in life was much too much for Werner. That was why the family was in this predicament. The banker wore a blue suit, carried a clipboard and oddly, like no other bankers Werner had ever seen, had a pencil tucked behind his left ear. As Werner opened the door the banker took the pencil from behind his left ear, licked the newly sharpened point and balanced that tip on the paper on his clipboard. “Mr. Werner Werner,” I presume the banker said. Werner nodded his head, as unlucky as he ever felt in his life and ushered the banker in before the neighbors could see. Werner wanted to run outside, he knew they had all seen the banker, hoping they hadn't. Wanted to run outside and tell them it had been Gerda’s fault, she had eaten her way to losing their children. Werner walked to the kitchen not knowing what to tell the banker. The banker followed, puzzled by the display. Usually the banker's clients were, by now, either crying or shoving him off with one family member or two. None had ever taken him inside their home. The banker wondered what Werner was up to. He felt secure though, as he touched the taser each banker had been issued, just in case someone got “hysterical” (as the bankers manual instructed to use the taser in an instance such as that). The banker however, had yet to use this instrument, his weapon. Secretly, he very much would like to try. The banker had just never been given the chance. Yet. The banker wasn't giving up on his dreams, either. As the pair entered the kitchen Werner began to babble, then bobble, and finally, blubber, something about a big beast and food. The banker couldn't understand Werner over his hysterics. His hand traveled down to the taser, the shiny, black, thing. “This could be the day,” the little banker agreed (with that little voice inside his head that told him all the things a banker needed to know). While a banker did not usually need to know about zapping people with bolts of lightning (that was how the banker thought about the activity of the taser, having never seen or used one himself) this man was quite proud that his job was so important he could do things like that. “Only if necessary,” that little voice in his head said, wagging an imaginary finger like the banker's mother had done when warning him of things. She had warned him a great many times when he was growing up. That had been why the banker had been so successful. Successful enough to carry weapons that produce results like an electric chair. The banker didn't know much about the electric chair, that form of punishment had been done away with centuries before. It had been said to be too inhumane to carry on as a form of punishment. “Better to enslave people as indentured servants for their entire life, doing manual, back breaking, hard labor. Let that kill them”, the little voice inside the banker's head said (and the banker happily agreed). Much more humane, the banker added to the thoughts in his head. There were notes in there too, in his head, the voice there made them. Five minutes had passed as the banker had this talk, back and forth, with the voice in his head. Werner had blubbered on, unnoticed by the banker. When all Werner’s blabbering, blubbering and blanching had stopped (and the banker had finished his discussion with himself) he turned to Werner and said, ”Now, Mr. Werner Werner, it seems that the bank records indicate you have not paid your house payment for quite some time. I hate to be intrusive but, as a formality, I must record why it is, that is”, (the banker always had a hard time with this part of the collection, each time, as to why, the banker had no idea).... The banker flustered and floundered until he found the words the banker had been taught to say and said,” why is it that you have not made payment?” Werner stood and said nothing for a time, looking at the banker as the banker waited, looking back at Werner. The banker cleared his throat. Werner said nothing. The banker again cleared his throat. Still, nothing from Mr. Werner Werner. As the banker cleared his throat for a third (the banker thought) and final time Warner knew that he must give the banker an answer. Sadly Werner had come to the conclusion that there was no other no way out of this than politely answering the banker’s questions, deciding on who in the family to give to the banker and saying goodbye to them forever. Still, he did not know who to give the banker. Werner knew the bank never gave anyone back. And, once they were deposited they were gone,forever. Even the bankers didn't know what happened to the [people] payments. The banker had overheard a conversation of the top bank officials once but, it had been so shocking (the information he had heard) and so official, top secret, and important, the banker had promptly made himself forget it. Because that was what a good banker did (or, at least that's what the banker thought a good banker did). Werner finally got around to telling the banker he couldn't find employment to pay the bank note on the house. Now, it was up to the banker to find the right course of action for the bank and, of course, the homeowner. Did Mr. Werner Werner want to keep his home? the banker politely inquired. “Indeed, sir, I do, I do. I have five children in this home. All born and raised here. And my wife. My very big wife with a big belly who eats very big food.” The banker felt that Mr. Werner Werner was hinting at something but couldn't put his finger on what. It was strange that the family was in another part of the house. Usually they were all gathered together at this moment. A family was a family after all. It couldn't be helped that the bank had to take one of them today. Couldn't be helped at all, the banker thought. That's what a family did, after all, the banker thought. A family helped one another. As the banker shared his thoughts with Werner hope sprang in his head, tears glistened in his eyes. It seemed to Werner that the banker was telling him that none of this was his fault. It was just the way of things and when things like this happened the family must make do, help one another. Werner was relieved with this information. Nothing could have been sweeter to Werner then hearing this situation was not his fault. The fault of this should have been laid directly at his feet by Gerda when the trouble began, Werner thought (and knowingly thought the banker would agree). Now as much as he wanted to usher Gerda out of the house, Werner in no way shape or form wanted to, or could, care for the five children it would leave him with. If he was to rid himself of Gerda first, when the bank came for payment the next time the whole ordeal wouldn't be that hard, as it was this first time, Werner thought. Mentally he was preparing himself for that day (blessed day, as he stopped that thought and shamed himself for wanting to pay all the bills with his beloved family) he would be rid of all of them. “No way I will let that happen,” Werner ushered that terrible (but wonderful) thought out of his head. To think that his blessed home might one day be quiet again. It was a cognitive dissonance that overwhelmed Werner’s every little bit of brain (what brain Werner, feebly possessed). Gerda, Werner knew, Gerda, would never let that happen. NEVER. As that thought plummeted Werner knew that his pick had been made. He needed to keep the children intact. And, Gerda was eating them out of house and home. His mind flashed back (luckily) to that night, as Gerda sat, eating the chicken leg that looked so very like his daughters. He had three and it really could have been any of their legs. Werner didn't like to look at them much these days. They were all beginning to look like Gerda. And they sounded like Gerda too, at times. Gerda has to go, Werner thought, sweating now and getting overly excited. What Werner didn't know was that, in finding the solution, he was feeling relieved. Odd, what a body registers as a feeling for relief. It was just that Werner’s brain hadn’t registered yet, every thought he knew, he knew. As the banker stood, waiting to ask the last, dreaded, question, one of the Werner daughters wandered into the room having been sent by Gerda to see what was taking so long. Gerda hadn't known that today was meant to be payday. Werner had his dreaded letter that had come the week before with the date, today's date, boldly stamped in red hidden in his underwear drawer where Gerda refused to go after the debacle over a small, brown, stain. “Who Sir will you be turning over to the bank to make payment today?” When the banker asked that last, dreaded question, silence filled the room. The banker was used to screaming children, screaming women and weeping men but Werner and his daughter stood silent, both unwavering in their expression of nothingness. The child seems very like the father the banker noted on his paper for no reason at all. In time, this comment would become wise words indeed, as the Werner children taken in payment were worth next to nothing when it came to work, very much like their father indeed. And now that the question had been posed, the words had sunk into the home and into Gerda. “You lousy, no good, filthy, sack of,” she screamed, her huge form flying into the room and raging at everyone and no one in particular. So out of control was the large woman and so frightful a creature, a beast of women, indeed, that the banker's hand shot to his only defense. His trusty taser. The one he had never used. Too afraid of its power but the banker had always been wishful to one day have the chance.... As Gerda’s huge form lost its balance, seething with hatred and rage over the man who could do nothing, nothing at all for them, she began to lose her balance and, so big had been her appetite that her body overflowed and came close to the banker, as if she sought to overwhelm him with her bulk. The banker, unsure of what this huge form could do to his little frame, shakily took out his trusty taser and shot the bolt out into the big woman. The manual had said this taser was supposed to stop even the biggest and baddest of animals (as the banker remembered studying it). And, as the jolt of electricity found the big woman, the banker was a little disappointed. He had expected more, just not sure of what that more would be. All he knew now was that he was amazed with the power of the woman and a little ashamed at the lack of power in his taser. All Werner could do during this entire incident was wait for it to be over and hope Gerda was taken by the banker. And, as sure as the power of the taser was spent the woman, as it sputtered, faded and stopped, she flopped like a dead whale, flapping the bulk of herself on the kitchen floor where she oozed over the linoleum and lay still, finally, unmoving. Werner was amazed. Had he known that little black magic doohickey would do that to his wife. He hadn't known the banker even carried it. Knowing this, Werner would have told the banker to take Gerda in the first place. Werner’s biggest fear now lay on the floor, unmoving, not talking, not eating and finally Werner was at peace. He had made his decision and though the banker had never taken an unconscious payment before, he felt quite sure that this beast of a woman, who could drain his mighty lightning, would be the best payment the bank had ever received. Her mighty form would do great work Well, that was, the banker thought, as long as they didn't have to feed her much. The next day with Gerda gone Werner had been made to get up by the children and their need for things. So much was needed of him, for them. And Werner was so overwhelmed he didn't even have time to think of how overwhelmed he was. He just did. And then Werner had to do more. Finally, the family needed so much that Werner found a job. Part-time, that is. But, with Werner’s part-time work, the money saved on food (Gerda ate no more with them, you see), the children’s help and the extra money Gerda made for the bank with her bulk form working (Werner got a stipend from the bank,which, was a first) off Werner’s payments. Werner never had to see the banker again to make another payment. Best of all, Werner didn't worry so much anymore (especially about chicken legs and children).

“Good morning, sir!” “Hello. Bottom floor please?” “*Bottom*-bottom?” “I was told to go to the bottom.” “The bottom! Hah! A brave one or a desperate one?” “I... was told the doctor there could fix my leg?” “Desperate. Always the desperate ones.” “Excuse me?” “*Some* smell permeating this elevator. What’s that? Colgate? Crest?” “What did you mean by that ‘Always the desperate ones,’ comment?” “Oh, yeah, definitely Colgate. Hmmm, can’t say I’ve had teeth in some time. Forgot how they tasted.” “Tasted?” “Don’t see many of your kind down here these days. Most take one look at the operator and turn right around!” “So that’s what you are?” “In the flesh! Practically swimming in it! Hah! Get it? It’s an elevator operator joke, a bit of elevator humor to lighten the mood!” “I don’t believe I understand what flesh has to do with an elevator?” “You don’t?” “Haven’t the faintest clue.” “Huh. Interesting.” “What does flesh have to do with an elevator?” “Yes, sir, *some* smell permeating this elevator. Tell me, sir, do your kind still watch that show with the--what was it you call them, again?--the sheriffs just going about their day-to-day lives in that small town in North Carolina?” “You mean *The Andy Griffith Show?*" “That’s the one! Absolute classic! Never saw it myself, can’t say I’m too familiar with the premise.” “Uh? Yes, it’s a very old show, still in black and white.” “My, my! You guys have both colors on your TV’s?” “All of them, I guess.” “Guess I gotta find a way to step out of this elevator sometime. Hah.” “At least I got that joke!” “What joke?” “I’m sorry, maybe I’m going crazy. Nerves, you know. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a hospital quite like this one. Didn’t know they even existed until today.” “Nothing scary about a hospital. There are real scary things out there, you know the ones. Illuminati flesh pits, doomsday time vortexes, flaming death wraiths, boulders.” “Do people really believe in those things?” “Never seen any empirical proof of a boulder myself.” “What about the other things?” “Mhmm, some smell I’m smelling. Minty, fresh. Smells awfully nice.” “I’m sorry, how much longer will this elevator ride be?” “Let’s see... Bottom, right? We’re at floor B74 right now. That’s one of my favorites, Rusty’s floor.” “Rusty?” “Head surgeon, nicest guy. It’s always a joy to hear the grinding gears of his legs approaching the break room, so I’ve heard.” “He sounds... friendly.” “Very nice guy, the nurse won’t shut her damn mouths about him.” “I take it the nurses like him?” “The *nurse.* Every day she just comes in my elevator talking about how ‘nice’ he is and asking if I’ve seen him skittering around any of the ceilings. I’m an elevator operator, not a janitor! I don’t see the ceilings here! Then one of her faces will go off on me about how I’m ‘not showing respect to the hospital staff’ and how I can ‘be reported to the head of the hospital if I don’t stop talking to her like that!’” “I take it you don’t like her?” “I hate anyone who tracks blood in my elevator.” “How about my doctor? Dr.-” “Dr. Penicello! Yeah, I know Penny. He’s an Italian fellow, one of the best doctors on the bottom floor.” “So you’d say I got pretty lucky?” “Maybe. Just try to look as healthy as you can around him. Don’t limp around on that leg of yours too much, the doctors here smell wounds.” “Smell?” “Just go straight down the hall to his office. Don’t hang a left, and certainly don’t hang a right.” “What’s on the right?” “Those are the words of a man thinking of taking a right. Stop thinking about the right. The faster you forget, the faster it goes away.” “What do you mean by ‘it goes away?'” “God dammit! Stop talking about it! I’m trying to forget and you’re not helping!” “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about what I was saying.” “Just change the damn topic!” “Uh, some smell?" “Smell? What smell? What are you talking about?” “The smell you mentioned earlier.” “Don’t smell nothing! Not a damn smell in this whole elevator. Don’t even know why you’re in a hospital.” “I’m here because of my leg, the doctor at the bottom floor was going to fix it! We talked about this!” “The bottom floor? That really is serious.” “I know it is! And I’m starting to think that not even this hospital can fix the damn thing!” “No, no, Penny is the only one who can fix an ailment like that. I’d know, I work here.” “Then why is everyone in this building acting so strange? Why are you all dodging questions?” “Yep, I’m smelling it for sure. Colgate, that’s what it is.” “Are you sure there are no human doctors that can operate on me?” “Nope. Humans wouldn’t sign you up for an appointment with a sickly glob of mold if they didn’t have to.” “A glob of what now?” “Oh! Looks like the elevator is finally coming to a stop.” “Yeah, this is my floor, I’d best be going.” “If you wait a moment, I might be able to introduce you to Rusty. I think I hear him coming down from the not-left side of the hall.” “I think I’ll pass, I’m... sort of in a hurry to get home.” “Good luck in there. Hey! Tell that sticky gray bastard to share for once in his goddamn life!” “Share what?” “Just tell him the giant maggot in his elevator hasn’t eaten in days. Can’t go without my fix tonight. He’ll know.” “I’ll, uh, be sure that he feeds you. I guess I’ll see you again after my appointment?” “A brave one. Huh.

She was a study in restrained elegance. Hers was an uneasy smile, the kind that surfaces only when it has to. A twitch of indiscernible tumult betrayed the placid calm of her demeanour. She was, for lack of a better phrase, quietly stunning. Black, wavy hair, ruffled only slightly by the gusts of activity and the general hubbub of her manic surroundings. A gentleness of movement, married to the unmistakable, if barely perceptible, shifts of uncertainty and doubt. There was economy in her motion, though excess in its inertia - a sense that each neuron fired was one she would rather have not wasted. As though every gesture had meaning, though what that meaning was, was an exercise in futility. *Just who are you?* The diner was loud, almost uncomfortably so. Patrons yelled, babies screamed. It was no different from any other diner at any other time in any other point in history. People came and left. Customers alighted and then returned. Workers buzzed about, busy bees in this colony of cheap eats and cheaper smiles. The diner itself was constant in its inconsistency. A continuous ebb and flow of human beings, each with their own story to tell, their own dreams to share. Their own nightmares to endure. *What was your nightmare? What lit up your dreams?* And then there was her. Almost unmoving, a stoic oasis at the centre of a storm. The food, a term loosely used for what was present before her, was consumed absent-mindedly, as her eyes drifted from it to the phone lying on the table in front of her. The delights of deep-fried poultry were lost upon this most inconceivably spell-binding of creatures, her attention focused upon what was, clearly, a war happening in her own mind. Her gaze darted, fitfully, from chicken breast to her mind’s eye, from leftover coleslaw to the detritus of her heart. Each passing moment lent her air a slowly-building, and depressingly alarming, hue of desperation. *Let me fight this with you.* She shifted uneasily in her seat, more a product of the apparent disaster that was unfolding within her than the chair’s poor design. Her lips trembled slightly as she exhaled in frustration. Or was it despair? Her face changed. Just for a second. A flash of...anger? Bemusement? Grief? It was hard to tell. The noise didn’t make it any easier to figure out what was really going on. But the signs were not good. The trembling was even more obvious now. Her colour had started to rise. For a brief moment, the world stood still as the noise died away. There was nothing in it but her. *Oh no.* Something had snapped. A tear rolled down her cheek, freed from the bonds of captivity, aided in their escape by gravity. Tellingly, her sculpted expression remained as unforgiving as granite. She cast a steely glare down at the screen of her phone, a potent cocktail of rage and melancholy. All at once, I knew who she was. Tired, broken by the world and those that had loved her. Strong, but not that strong. Weakened but not weak. A fighter who wanted to put down her sword. An artist that couldn’t help but paint one more masterpiece, even if it killed her. This, was her magnum opus - the subtle lie that she told the whole world. The lie that nothing would ever break her. *Don’t give up.* It all happened so quickly. The wiping of the tear’s trail, the cleared throat, the lightning fast regaining of her shaken composure. All was well, was it not? No one had seen anything. And so it hadn’t happened. Except it had. She decided to not bother with the rest of her food. The leftovers were packed into a plastic bag, and she quickly disposed of them. She got up and left, exiting my life as quickly as she had arrived. I knew that I had come to love her. I could only hope that someone out there would some day, love her as much as I do.

Why do I write? What do I write? I was asked these questions recently. The answers are simple. There are times in life when the world purely sucks. We can either wallow in self-pity or do what we must to push through the bad times. The more this story is told, the better off this world will be. Don't believe me, read on. "Nurse Tatum, I know I need to go to rehab. As soon as I get home, I will make the necessary arrangements. She glanced at my charts, shaking her head, before handing the paperwork to the hospital therapist. "You should stay here a few weeks; we could get you on the right track. Some people don't follow through, and accidents like yours change their lives forever." There was one final chiding stare into my stitched-up face before she spun around in perfect military fashion and exited the room. Days before meeting horse doctors dressed up as medical professionals, I was happy. My plans were set. I had goals, and I followed my dreams to meet those goals. I had a purpose and career and was making the most money I had ever earned working with actual medical professionals. I had personal phone numbers of Gods; well, they thought they were gods, but...they were that good. Why not allow them their delusions while they did the impossible to save lives? My work week was always more prolonged than usual. Then, there was Houston traffic to contend with. Never pray for patience, or God will put you in Houston. Once you drive fifteen or twenty miles in first gear, you learn patience or leave Houston. Vacations are meant to be a safety release valve from those ninety-minute commutes to go fifteen miles. The sky was clear and blue, with no cloud in sight. Stuck behind a driver who constantly fluctuated between exceeding the speed limit and then crawling below it, I grew concerned about his sobriety. I decided to pass him. We had two lanes in our direction, and dividing us from oncoming traffic was an esplanade. Once beside the truck, I noticed the man was eating, using both hands. Turning my attention to the road ahead as I topped the hill, a black Cadillac was headed straight toward me. Instead of being on his side of the freeway, he was on the wrong side, my side. We closed the gap at a combined speed of 110mph. I slammed on the brakes, cursed, and all hell broke loose. Time slowed as crystalline bits of the windows shattered around me. With the force of a shotgun blast, the bits of glass dug into my skin and even penetrated my body through my clothes. The steering wheel hit me full force, crushing my chest my face, and shattering my nose. When time resumed, I couldn't breathe, much less discern the status of the rest of my body. This event, my friends, is one of those times when the world seems filled with disappointment and despair. The simple act of inhaling becomes a daunting task as anxiety seizes your entire being. Through the broken window and steam plumes leaving my truck, I watched as they pulled the old man from his Cadillac. Beer cans scattered around his car as they placed him on a yellow board. Two goofy volunteers approached my truck, using an elaborate can opener to peel the door back. I could scarcely breathe through the pain as they forcefully pulled me out of the wreckage of my brand-new car. They took me to this rundown hospital that smelled musty and neglected. The ER had brown stains on the ceiling, which showed they hadn't been keeping up with disease control. As soon as I entered the ER, I could hear the faint sounds of doctors and Andy coming from behind the thin curtain. Andy was the fool in the Cadillac. The attending ER doctor was wearing a jacket emblazoned with the logo of his alma mater. The smell of beer on his breath filled the air while they cut my clothes off. Modesty in a hospital is not a trait worth having. Since the old man was behind a curtain, I was in front of two open doors leading to a hallway. People were performing a triage visible to anyone who wandered down the hall. The doctor's young PA made it seem like I was the star of the show. I couldn't do anything to fix the situation while struggling to breathe. The investigating officer was a fat, good-ole-boy who knew Andy well. They went to the same place of worship. I overheard them chatting while the cop said a prayer for him. I thought he was a super Christian who would pray for me, right? No way. He had his ticket book in hand instead of a bible. He watched as they removed my clothes. The first responders said I didn't have my seat belt on. I voiced my opposition to their observation . I took it off, thinking it was why I couldn't breathe. Nope, it wasn't. The cop's face went all sour when they ripped off the rest of my shirt and saw the big angry bruise stretching from my shoulder to my hip. The seat belt definitely messed up a lot of ribs. The cop wasn't done yet. You're guilty until proven innocent... That's how it goes when the cop and the drunk are buddies. He told the doctors to test me for every drug they could think of. The PA kept bugging me about what I took at least fifty times. They didn't give me pain meds because they didn't know what I was taking. I told them, "I wasn't on anything," that was the truth. The PA, who was really good-looking, wouldn't stop trying to bribe me with pain meds just to find out what drugs I was using for fun. I couldn't help but wonder who that old person was that they were going all out to protect. When I thought about how cute she was, I was reassured that maybe I wasn’t as bad off as I looked. What do you think? Can you envision the excruciating pain of having multiple broken ribs, a shattered nose, teeth protruding through your face, knees in disarray, and neck and back injuries that intensify with every breath, all while enduring a novel form of torture with no relief for the agony? If I sound bitter, it's because I totally am. As the glass pierced my body, it tore through my clothes, leaving behind a trail of holes. I don't know who they were, but these young people in white scrubs were trying to remove the glass from my body without any pain relief. Andy's wife showed up, standing right in front of me and giving me a stare. She gawked at my naked body and then locked eyes with me. She didn't have to say anything. She wanted to blame me, and her body language said it all. To her, I was like bubble gum from the parking lot, stuck to her new shoes. Strutting around in her fancy clothes and jewelry that would get her robbed in New York, it was obvious she thought she was better than me, a blood-spattered mess of a young person. She changed her tune pretty quickly. Sliding behind the curtain, she asked him, "What happened?" “They said I was driving on the wrong side of the road again. I don't know why, but that place on the highway always messes with my head.” "You're drunk!" She exclaimed. "Na, I only had a six-pack." “Andy, why were you driving in the first place? You said you wouldn't drink and drive if I got you another car, right?” "It was halftime, and we had no beer left." I was just going to the store to get more." "We didn't run out of beer." You were out. You need to see what you did to that young man.” “I won’t do it again; I have learned my lesson.” I heard his wife screaming loudly in the room, scolding him angrily and disappointedly for his stupid choice to drink and drive. After a few minutes, she returned to my side of the curtain. She reached out and touched my blood-spattered forehead, stroking my curly, long hair out of my face. "I am sorry, young man. After he crashed his truck, he swore he wouldn't drink and drive. I got him that Cadillac because it's bigger, so if he gets into another wreck, he might not get hurt as bad..." she said before her voice trailed off. She didn't seem to care about the consequences of enabling a drunk. I stole a peek at her face as she looked over the damage to my nakedness again. It made me feel even more awkward when she watched them work on my exposed body. It felt as though invisible chains held me in place, rendering me unable to move. The students, or whatever they were, were painstakingly extracting shards of glass. I wanted to divert her attention. "How did he wreck his truck?" I asked as blood spurted from the holes under my lips. She glanced at my face, her eyes darting away from my lower extremities. "He ran into a tree in our front yard. It was raining..." She knew the rain was another excuse. These following few sentences unfolded inexplicably, leaving me bewildered. "How is he?" I asked. As she peered into my eyes, I felt a sense of vulnerability. "His hip is bothering him, and he has a cut on his forehead." "I hope his health improves quickly. I guess the larger car worked." She clenched her jaw and nodded. Her attention shifted to the workers who were down to my midsection. She watched as they searched the blood spatter to make sure it was just spatter and not an active puncture. We were silent as one of the women working on me glanced up to see us both watching. She pulled the wool blanket up to my waist and returned to work. "I am not supposed to tell you this, but our insurance coverage is excellent." I attempted to nod, but the pain in my neck sent a sharp reminder down my spine that any movement was ill-advised. At the moment, insurance was the least of my concerns. I couldn't understand why I wasn't consumed by a raging fury; instead, a sense of tranquility washed over me. As a painful reminder of that day, I had an ugly purple stripe etched on my skin with multiple broken ribs and a cracked sternum. The reporter in the ER had tangible proof in the form of photographs. Andy went home while I remained confined to the beeping machines and antiseptic smell of the ICU for a whole week. From there, I entered a nauseatingly green-plastered room that seemed straight out of the atomic age. While I was in the ICU, I had a team of medical professionals, including dentists, a plastic surgeon, and a cardiologist, who tended to my bruised heart. Following the re-shaping of my nose, they stuffed a bundle of cotton up my nostrils to stem the flow of blood cascading down my throat. All of this happened with no meds for pain. I guess they sent my blood work to a lab in another state, which explains the delay in getting the results. On my last day there, the attending doctor asked me, "Why is your sodium low?" I glared at him. "Is that the best you got? After badgering me for days regarding what drugs I was on and not giving me anything for pain and its low sodium?" He clenched his jaw, realizing that he had put me through hell because his friend, the drunk, was looking like he was the only person at fault. He was. "Not a doctor, but I had the flu a few weeks ago. Would that cause low sodium from dehydration?" He nodded before telling me they were releasing me. Remember that even the guy who graduates at the bottom of his class in med school still earns the title of doctor. A burly orderly brought a wheelchair into my room. I winced as I heard it violently collide with both doors. I believe he thought it was cute. After suffering a head-on collision where every movement felt like daggers twisting in my chest, I suppose his humor was to make me believe the worst was over. He handed me a local paper; I was on the front page. Not Andy, nor his beer cans. It was me being extracted from my truck. "I thought you might want this as a souvenir," he said. I glanced at the paper and nodded, "Thanks." "Most people in head-on collisions like yours end up in the morgue. How is it you survived? Do you think God was at work?" I glanced at him, seeing him wearing a silver ring with a cross on it. "Possibly," I uttered. *** After years of study and work, my career was on the line. Rehab was not an option; it was a necessity. Disability insurance alone cannot cover all the expenses. Andy and I both relied on the same insurance company for coverage. Unfortunately, that little fact didn't turn out in my favor. They fought me tooth and nail on every minute detail. Even though my vehicle was brand new, I didn't receive complete reimbursement. They paid the medical bills but disputed the value of my personal belongings, claiming they were not new or that I couldn't provide proof of their newness. Who keeps receipts past a few weeks? They're usually crumpled up and tossed in the trash. The months slowly passed as I went from one doctor's office to another, desperately seeking a way to regain my mobility. Even though the ribs had healed, the haunting memories remained. There were numerous challenges, each one more complicated than the last. Any injury comes with the genuine presence of pain. Although not immediately noticeable, scar tissue can unexpectedly cause discomfort. It didn't take long after returning to the workforce to discover that the range of motion was only one small part of a larger scenario. The more I did during the day caused me immeasurable discomfort during the nighttime. All the things we take for granted come into play. Sleep is one of them. After many missed days because of the pain and inability to sleep, I had to reinvent myself. All those classes and hours spent to be an engineer flitted away like the empty beer cans around that old drunk's car. Put yourself in this situation--what would you do? I could throw my hands up in frustration and consider filing for disability. Would that amount of money be enough to cover the monthly expenses? Would I be happy? As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, it became painfully clear that my medical needs would require greater attention. One of my doctors glanced at the X-rays and said, "I would hate to be in your body." I thought that if Stephen Hawking could do what he did, I could bloody well do more than I was . PTSD is as crippling as the rest of the physical ailments. To this day, I resist going anywhere because, in the back of my mind, there is always the next drunk or foolish person texting and driving. PTSD can rob you of your freedom if you allow it. I face the fear and force myself to do it. The moment that image of that Cadillac comes to mind, I get my keys. You must! More classes at night brought about a new career in IT. Before too many years passed, I managed many engineers at Fortune 500 companies. As I fought the excruciating pain of my vertebrae fusing together, I realized the relentless passage of time and the undeniable truth. I would need to reinvent myself once again. Quoting my cousin, 'Never Never Ever Give Up.' I painted a portrait of him, and started over. My unwavering dedication to writing has been like a compass guiding me through the past few years. Writing is my north star. As an author, writer, and purveyor of wisdom, I am devoted to the craft that brings stories to life. I write because even my worst nightmares pale in comparison to this brutally accurate depiction of my day in hell. Andy faced no legal consequences; his friends protected him at my expense. Following losing his wife, he sought refuge in the driver's seat of an 18-wheeler. It's true . I guess he finally found a vehicle big enough to give him a fighting chance in the next driving mishap. God helped his victim. What do I write? The possibilities are endless for what I can do. The pain is no match for my determination to climb the highest mountains and sail a yacht to Australia. Despite my PTSD, when I climb in behind the yoke of a fighter jet or scuba dive into a cave or the wreck of a ship, I feel a sense of liberation. Physics doesn't hinder me as I navigate the galaxy, searching for signs of intelligent life. In my world, I can transform into any person or creature I desire. I can be playful and cheeky, or I can be gentle and compassionate. In short, writing allows me to break free from the constraints of societal norms, defying gravity and the laws of time and space. Why do I write? Because I can.

The suburbs constantly sing with the tinny buzz of lawnmowers. In the summer, suburbia sweats the smell of freshly cut grass- manicured lawns. The fall is for breathing out leaves needing to be raked. It was chilly for September, thought Miriam. She wiped the moisture from her brow and threw the rake down in disgust. She was angry at the leaves for still being soaked from the rain two nights ago. As the wind stirred again, she kicked the leaves and decided that her neighbor James could take over tomorrow. He already mowed her lawn in the summers. She would have to find a new way to pay him back. Inside, Miriam realized that she had missed a call from Benjamin. She called him back before taking off her shoes. Ben wanted to know if she needed a ride to Church tomorrow. Always so gracious, she thought, and decided to accept. And spent the rest of the night massaging her sore muscles. The next morning, Ben is fifteen minutes late, but Miriam still jumps when she hears the horn honk. She rushes through her makeup, slapping on foundation, concealer, blush, lipstick, and eyeshadow. She thinks twice about wearing the clingy red dress. After all, she does not want Pastor C. to call her a Jezebel- again. The dress wins the argument. Five minutes after mounting into the car and warmly greeting Ben, Miriam shouts in panic, "Oh, no- I forgot my earrings." "This is not a disaster, Miriam," responds Ben, with a smile. "Do you want to go back and get them?" he asks. "That's what I love about you," said Miriam, realizing too late the words that she had let escape her mouth. She had confessed a secret, long buried in her heart, that she had guarded like a security guard does a bank vault. But- it was the nonchalance at which the words had been uttered that upset her most. There was an awkward silence, above which only the swish-swish of the windshield wipers could be heard. Then, Ben, in that slow way of drawing out the words like he was accustomed to- listening to him was like watching honey or molasses run- said, "I like you too, Miriam." She chuckled, half in disgust at herself. But, in her head, dangerous thoughts began to cyclone like a whirlpool. Miriam dared not fantasize. Usually, their conversation would flow easily- like a gentle river rushing along. But, today, Miriam is too inside of her head to listen to Ben as he makes small talk. She tries to pay attention. She realizes that Ben is in the middle of telling her about how his wife isn't feeling well. "Yes," he says, "We think that maybe at dinner last night she ate oysters that had gone bad." "Oh," replies Miriam, not even looking at him. "I'll have to call her." There was another long pause. By this point, they were halfway to Church. Miriam saw the familiar bar, Lucky Strike, where she had met Ben's wife, dancing on a table, almost a decade ago. Suddenly, Ben turns the car off the route into a parking lot. "Something wrong, Ben?" Miriam asks, nervously. "I'm curious..." Ben begins to say but does not finish. Instead, he doesn't lean in, but pounces on her- lunging a kiss at her that bruises her lips. For Miriam, there is no reaction, just the taking over of instinct. Something swells up inside of her. A wave of relief, of pleasure, mixed with happy surprise. She responds, enthusiastically, almost clashing with his teeth. The wave bursts. Slowly, a moan escapes from her lips that causes Ben to pull back. The moan is deep, raw, and guttural- full of need- like an animal. He remembers his wife at home throwing up chunks of gelatinous shellfish in the bathroom. Her moans and groans of pain- full of discomfort- were just as raw, as deep, as needful the night before. "We can't do this, Miriam," Ben finally drawls out. "I'm sorry." "I'm sorry too," Miriam replies, pulling down the passenger headboard to check her lipstick in the mirror. She wasn't sorry. The kiss had released a longing inside of her. She didn't care about Lucy, his wife and her best friend, sick in bed. Miriam thought about reapplying her makeup and decided against it. No need to tempt Pastor C.'s judgment. "Yes, you're right," Miriam slithered out, looking Ben deeply in his brownish-blue eyes, one of her favorite things about him. "It wouldn't be fair to Lucy." "Or Ivan." "Yes, Ivan, too," she repeated, with a sigh. "How is Ivan?" said Ben, as if he were easing into a cold swimming pool. "Is he back in the country?" he asked. "No, he's still abroad," replied Miriam- continuing this conversation with the same enthusiasm as she would undergo a root canal. "He's coming for Christmas...but we should get to Church. It's late." As they start to drive off, Miriam's mind begins to clear like the clouds after a storm. She remembers Ivan. Ivan who is milky-white to Ben's sun-kissed tones. Ivan who is shorter than Ben. Ivan, who is not here. Ben fidgets with the radio dial, turning on Christian Lite FM. A familiar hymn about taking it one day at a time and waiting upon the Lord is in the middle of playing. Miriam decides that she will not tell her husband about the kiss. Smiling to herself, she thinks, "it'll be our little secret." The rain begins falling in heavy curtains, and Ben, increasing the wipers, clears his throat and says, "Looks like it's going to thunderstorm- again." "Yes," replied Miriam, back again, sitting Shiva, with her thoughts. She felt like she had lost something with that kiss. An idea of who she was- her sanity, her self-respect, her moral center. But she had gained a new understanding about passion, and desire, and what it meant to be loved. And that made her even more afraid. Miriam stared straight ahead, into and through the rain, and thought, the leaves will have to wait.

If you were to ask me who I am, I would be inclined to lead you astray. Not necessarily for the sake of maleficence, but rather for the joy of mischievousness. You see, I must deceive in order to achieve my objective. It is my inclination and my delight. I mean no harm, and you will take no offense, so long as you are capable of laughing at yourself. But, woe to the one who takes offense. For if you cannot get along with me, you will most certainly learn how to get along without me, unwittingly banishing hope in the process. To forsake the very nature of me is to forsake merriment. Many a men have done that very thing, and almost all have lived to regret it. There is, however, one such tragedy which ended quite happily, and the tale ‘tis my favorite of them to recount. It all started on a country road in the foothills of the Tennessee mountains. Provos often took great pleasure in gliding around the sleek twists and turns of the roads carved into the solid sheets of bedrock abutting his property. He spent hours on sunny days winding through the terrain, letting the thrill of the ride purge his soul and center his spirit. During one such ride, Provos found himself stranded on a back road as the result of engine failure. After several futile attempts to start the engine, he surrendered in a flustered and swift motion which combined swatting his kickstand and dismounting his bike. Provos spent a few minutes trying to diagnose the problem, but he admittedly knew little about the inner workings of machines, preferring instead to simply enjoy their utility, so within minutes he resigned himself to the circumstance. Not wanting to leave his bike out in the open where others might be tempted to steal it, but seeing no wisdom in trying to tote it along on his unforeseeable trek toward help, he wheeled it to a clearing which had a cluster of trees in the middle of it and used several downed branches to camouflage his bike until he could return to it. Provos then began the journey toward the direction he thought was most likely the easiest access to the assistance he needed. It was at least a couple of hour’s walk, but there was a decent chance that he would pass someone along the way who would offer help and make the journey shorter. As it happened, I was traveling that same road, and was slated to the fated encounter the very same hour, so when we crossed paths, the event had already been on my radar for quite a few months, though the charade was of course, unknown to him altogether. “Hello, friend! Can I be of service? Is it that you perhaps need a lift?” I asked with an air of eagerness. “Hey man, yeah. My bike gave out on me a few miles back. Can you give me a lift into town?” His reply was cool and even. “Hop in!” I responded, rather coolly myself (in direct imitation, as is my nature.) I was sure to enjoy this fellow. He had pride oozing out of every orifice of his body. It was only a matter of time before I began to dismantle him and claim what remained. Oh what fun awaited me! We drove in silence for a few minutes. What a relief it was to not have to make much small talk. Such trifles can be taxing. However, my anticipation mounted as I awaited, somewhat impatiently, for him to speak. While small talk is useless, it is transitory, and necessary. He finally broke the silence and asked me what kind of engine my vehicle contained. I was amused by his question since I knew that he would fain to engage in such trivialities without any real inclination toward the topic. He was pleased by my uneducated response, which made him confident that he knew more than I about machines. The cockwomble was completely oblivious to my own vast expertise of machinations, and so, we continued happily, each with his own budding agenda. After several such strokes to his overly-inflated ego, my groundwork was laid. I immediately set to work, calculatedly retaliating against his latest statements. I spoke with vastly more knowledge in the area that he claimed to be so astutely studied in, and so to save face, he quickly retreated and back peddled. He did not handle it well. His offense of me was thick and obvious, but being in his vulnerable position of receiving help at my hands, he, of course, predictably repressed himself. It was such a rookie mistake; so contrived, and yet somehow still ingenuous. He was enigmatic, for his predictability was tapered by an intrusive je ne sais quoi. There was something about him that lingered; something that cut through the obvious facade and managed to project a quality almost resembling sincerity. To be quite frank, it surprised me, and unnerved me, and I’m not in the habit of either. So when I received this impression from him, I caught myself contemplating the nature of my prank. For, my follies are only ever and always enjoyable because they are directed toward those who would do likewise, had the power been granted to them, and all such creatures are without compassion. They are indeed quite incapable of the emotion. It is the lack of such a quality that makes it sensible for me to attain enjoyment from it all. Though Provos proved to be a conundrum, yet still, his pride was strong, his ego was heavy, and his weariness was great, therefore, I proceeded without hesitation. “Tell me Provos, what shall you do when you return to your bike and find it gone? The clearing is far enough off the road, and the branches did quite help conceal it, but nonetheless, it was evident the moment we saw you that you would abandon your otherwise beloved machine on account of the hardship of towing it.” It took him a moment to register that I knew his name. It took him a bit longer to process the rest of my words, but in mere seconds, his face paled a few shades and he turned and looked at me with an incredulity and a suspicious and guarded air. “What the hell are you talking about, man? How in the hell do you know my name? You been following me?” I replied as coolly as before. “Oh yes, quite. I’ve been following you for months now. I’ve seen the roads you take, and when you take them, and why. I’ve seen the arguments you’ve had with the people in your life and your selfishness for always seeing your own point of view and rarely, if ever, stepping into another’s. It’s quite entertaining. I’ve seen the decline of your soul, which has contributed to the decline of your life, and all the hopelessness that has ensued on account of it. However, I know enough about you to also disclose that you believe that you have no soul, and so then it should be of no consequence to you that I am about to offer to purchase it from you. What say you to this?” The joy of the words in these moments were always the catharsis that propelled me forward in the mire of humanity. To infringe upon the constructs of the ignorant mind who insists otherwise is the construct of my own device and the height of my own hubris. To challenge these mortals and beat them at their own game gave me great pleasure. It imparted the same euphoria to me that they extracted from their own victims in their miserable existence. Befitting, wouldn‘t you agree? These worker bees spend their whole lives collecting superiority as though it were pollen, all to serve their queen, or their prince, as it were, to their own demise. Ah, the ignorance of fools is delicious! My pleasure was somewhat thwarted in this moment, however, as Provos did something contrary to the nature of narcissism. Indeed, he did something that only someone touched by true love would be capable of doing. He broke the power of the illusion by humbling himself to truth. “Hey listen, man. I don’t know who you are or how you know all these things, but, it’s obvious that you’ve got my number. What exactly is it that you plan to do?” Provos was calmer than a man should be in his position. I had to think quickly. “Oh, such a simple exchange. You love things and you use people. I admire that trait and wish to purchase the soul that you don’t believe you have anyway. In exchange, I can offer you a fleet of motorcycles. None of them will ever get a scratch on them. Regardless of how much you ride them, they will remain immaculate. I know how much inner turmoil you suffer on account of those minor flaws in your paint detail. I know how you can’t sleep at night without obsessing for hours over them. I know how much time you spend meticulously poring over every inch of your bike in fine detail, in natural light, in your garage’s light, and with your work lamp, as well. Provos, tsk tsk, it’s a consuming illness. It steals your ride time, it steals the time you spend with others and it steals your focus to care about their problems. You have no room in your life for anything else. This will solve all of your problems. You need only to sign on the line my fellow, and all will be yours.” It was so simple. Collecting souls. Finding the weak link and then exploiting it. If you can convince them that the answer to their problems exists outside of themselves and their own selfish psychosis, then they’ll sign away the rights to their soul, because the selfish are short-sighted. They never invest in the idea of eternity. It’s the perfect crime. However, Provos hesitated. It was uncommon. Indeed, in my line of work, it was almost unheard of. I had to fill the silence. “I see you’re a man of wisdom. I shall sweeten the deal. I’ll throw in the deed to your house and property as well as an unending reserve of gasoline. Think of the benefit to that, my fellow!” Hook, line, and sinker!!! ...or so I had imagined. But still, Provos hesitated. He did not speak. I gave him time for his silence now, as I thought surely that he would come to see the beauty of my deal and decide for it. But, there is a limit to my own vision. I am bound by time, like the rest of you lot. Only once has this caused a hindrance for me, and it was upon this occasion. For what I had not anticipated was that Provos had recently met his true love, Kryptos. I had not known of it for he had concealed the matter even from himself, having been terrified of the prospect and having done all he could to sabotage the match, she’d all but disappeared from his life. But, ‘twas true love. And true love casts prints on a soul that change it. The seed plants itself inconspicuously and seemingly inauspiciously, and yet, a single ray of light and a single droplet of water will cause it to sprout and grow until it completely encompasses that which surrounds it. I had come too late. The seed had sprouted, even in that very moment. Provos spoke the words that vanquished me. “I’m not sure whether or not I have a soul. But, if I do, then it would be foolish to sell it to you. And if I don’t, then I don’t see why you’d be so eager to purchase it. So, no, I will not take your deal. Now what happens?” But as I stated, those words vanquished me, and so the construct of illusion quickly deteriorated and Provos found himself back on his bike, enjoying the roads he loved to drive so much, none the wiser to our encounter, but with the new thought of reconciliation in his mind, reconciliation with Kryptos, despite the humility it would require of him. He remembered nothing of the encounter with me, only the idea that his love for Kryptos must be real, for being willing to humble oneself is the pinnacle of love. And so, despite my best efforts, true love triumphed over me, my one sworn enemy. If you were to ask me who I am, I would be inclined to lead you astray, for I am fallibility.

I never knew pain until the day the earth caught fire. I watched as oceans fell and the mysteries of the deep revealed themselves. I saw the sun become a merciless killer. It surfaced turned red. Giant balls of fire turned cities into ashes. There was no rain. No relief from our mother. The terrains we once traversed had become desolate. Haunted by the ghosts of those souls we used to hunt. Emergency broadcast systems ran for weeks until the power grids collapsed. There was no food for the humans to consume so they turned on each other. I watched as man ate his neighbor. Mothers butchered strangers to feed their younglings. My clan found shelter in an abandoned mine. The nights above had grown shorter as the sun burned towards a luminous climax. My clan was hungry. It had been weeks since we fed on the blood of a human. Today we laid our sister Morwenna to rest. Her pale skin had the look of rot wood. There was no beauty in death. Only the foul stench of something that no longer belonged on this cursed earth. Wolfe and Cassius were the strongest of us. The two clawed out a grave for Morwenna in the dirt. The women in the clan - Effie, Wren, and Imogen - kneeled beside her and prayed. Crow was equal to my age and the more spirited member of the clan. But unlike our older sisters, religion did not take to her. I felt it my duty to keep the word of our kind alive. The Scriptures of Delphi were filled with prophecies, visions, and stories as told by the Oracles. The Vampire Bible was one of those stories and I kept it close to my heart. It was in these moments, these quiet moments of death that I looked to the scripture for guidance. Thorne was our leader but even he found it hard to keep faith. The eldest of us was Blackwell. He required the aid of a walking stick and his back was hunched. He was closer to death than the rest of us. If he did not feed soon, he would be joining Morwenna in the afterlife. Thorne stood over our sister and with the crackle of his voice he spoke these words: *We pray to our God Ambrogio to watch over and guide our sister in the underworld*. Ambrogio was the first of our kind. Our guiding light amid all that was dark. He had been cursed into the darkness by Apollo and blessed into the pantheon of legends by Artemis. Night had fallen. It was as if the stars had died. I missed tracing the constellations in the sky. The moon itself had disappeared altogether. The night sky’s flashlight. We had to rely on our failing senses to guide us. Thorne led us across a misty, ravaged farmland. Fossilized tractors. Barns burned to ruins. Barrels of hay now literal dusts in the wind. Wolfe and Cassius kept a close watch of Blackwell as he struggled to keep up with the clan. We had to move swiftly before the sun appeared again. We had to find food. Then the mist took shape and formed into ghosts. Farmhands trapped in a never-ending time loop of hard labor and cattle raising. A farmer stuck in a perpetual state of shock as blood ran from the necks of his wife and child’s ghosts. The ghosts in this world were like recorded holograms unaware of their surroundings. Crow spun around the farmhands like a ghastly black swan. I stood and watched the farmer. I became transfixed on the terror in his ghostly eyes. I pitied him. Not for his death. But for his weakness. He lacked the strength to survive in this world. The growls in my stomach became nauseating. I fantasized soaking myself in the blood of his wife. My tongue was beginning to forget the taste of blood. We made our way up a hill where to our surprise Thorne had spotted a lone human down below. The human was covered in filth. Its hair straggly. Its teeth yellow and rot. It appeared impaired, inebriated even as it stumbled towards a low burning fire pit where a **human leg roasted**. The human sliced off the meaty parts of the limb and gorged on the tendons and tissue. A pig in the trough. Then it became irritable, stomping on the dirt beneath its feet. It laid next to the fire pit. Its body tremored. This human was sick. I’ve seen it happen to others once they began to taste the flesh of its own kind. If it was really bad off, then its blood would be poisoned. But the hunger outweighed the risk. Before Thorne had decided, Blackwell had already plodded his way down to the human. He raised his walking stick high up to the heavens and struck it down into the human’s beating heart. Blackwell fell to the ground as the human flopped about like a suffocating fish. Thorne signaled for the rest of the clan to join him. Wolfe mercifully snapped the human’s neck. Thorne and Imogen helped Blackwell over to the human’s neck. He would feed first. The dull edges of his teeth clung to the arteries in the neck for dear life. I saw the sense of relief and elation in his amber eyes as the ichor flowed through the pulsating veins in his cold body. Imogen took the other side of the neck. Wren and Effie bit into the human’s wrist. I, Wolfe, Cassius, and Crow took the legs. Thorne grabbed what was left of the roasted, severed leg and sipped what little droplets of blood it had to offer. In mere minutes we had drained every ounce of blood from the human’s body. But our hunger had not been satisfied. In a panic Blackwell licked up the blood the human had gargled from its mouth and unto the ground when he stabbed it. Throne was too ashamed to watch. Wolfe and Cassius went to help the old vampire up, but Effie waved them off. I read through the scriptures as we shuffled on across the dead earth. Hoping to find something uplifting. Something that could help guide us. Then I heard a familiar howl in the night that gave us all pause. It was the howl of a wolf... We had just emerged from a tunnel deep beneath a ruined city. Thorne had caught the scent of a couple seeking shelter and food in an old strip mall. I remembered the embers that fell from the sky. Ashes of snow littered across the ground. Crow was fascinated with the small burning coals of fire and allowed drops to singe her flesh. Morwenna had been sick for quite some time and had trouble keeping up with the rest of the clan. Wren and Effie flanked and shielded her with scraps of metal from the raining embers. Blackwell had no hunch then and walked without assistance. Wolfe and Cassius were the first to enter the dilapidated building. Blackwell was right on their heels. Imogen was the first to sense something was off. She had always been intuitive. Then I smelled it too. The smell of wet fur. It all happened so fast. Blackwell went down first. The flesh of his back torn apart by the razor-sharp claws of a gray wolf. Then four more attacked. All rabid and ravenous. The wolves had claimed the humans as their prey. Thorne wrestled the first wolf off the back of Blackwell. I watched as he beheaded the creature with his long, massive hands. Wolfe and Cassius tackled two of the grays. Wren guarded me and Crow. We being the youngest, they felt it their duty to protect us. Imogen and Effie had their hands full wrestling the alpha female of the pack. Thorne stalked the leader - the alpha male. The alpha watched Thorne’s movements. Calculating. The alpha then lunged forward with its salivating tongue and long, keen teeth. Thorne side stepped the beast and snatched it by its tail. He swung and launch the alpha into a wall with a thunderous clatter. Imogen and Effie pulled and ripped the alpha female in half. Cassius delivered blow after blow to the head of his gray until it laid motionless. Wolfe bit into the neck of the other gray and drenched himself in its blood splatter. The wounded alpha limped away. Wolfe wanted to purse it, but Thorne called him back. Effie sauntered over to the human couple that was huddled behind a desk. The male was deceased. His corpse mutilated. The female was in a state of shock and rocked back and forth. Effie gently stroked her face and gave her a false sense of comfort. She snapped the female’s neck in one quick motion. That was the last time we fed before tonight. The howling grew closer as we watched a lone gray wolf limp forward in the shadows. It was the alpha male that Thorne had crippled. Thorne left us and marched towards the dying gray. It had been looking for death but could not find it. It wanted to be relieved of its pain. Thorne offered his enemy mercy as he hugged his arms tight around the gray’s neck. He squeezed tighter and tighter until there was no more life left in the creature. We continued our hunt further into the night. Crow hummed a familiar tune to lift our spirits. The rest of the women joined her until the humming drowned out the dreadful silence. I threw in a couple of ad-libs that I remembered from the jazz era. I even got old Blackwell to smile for a moment. Just one moment where he didn’t have to face his own mortality. Then a strange light from over the horizon interrupted our song. Thorne feared the worst, but it was too soon. Yes, the nights had grown shorter but never did the sun find us this fast. The light became brighter as it rose across the hemisphere. Thorne yelled for us to run! But there were no tunnels or abandoned mines in the vicinity. No old homes or buildings. Just miles and miles of nothingness. I spotted a rock formation with a small pocket and made haste. A few others spotted old planks of wood. I slid into the rock formation with Crow and Effie. Wolfe clawed into the earth hoping to dig himself a grave. Imogen and Wren found a small, shaded area under a hill and smashed close together. Cassius grabbed the old planks of wood and covered himself and Blackwell. But Thorne stood and greeted the sun as it took its seat at the throne in the sky. The skin on his flesh erupted into flames. I watched his eyes in those final moments and pitied him. Our leader had lost all faith and left us to fend for ourselves. The hours passed. Wolfe’s charred remains slowly broke apart and fell into the hole he hadn’t’ finished digging. Imogen and Wren huddled close together under the shade of the hill. The tips of their toes barely escaping the sun’s rays. Cassius’s arms trembled as he struggled to hold up the old planks of wood over him and Blackwell. His hands smoldered. He cried out to us, “Ambrogio has abandoned us. Forgive me brothers and sisters”. He nodded to Blackwell who had long ago accepted his faith. The old planks of wood fell to the ground. The two vampires embraced each other as they went up in flames. I shouted, “Keep faith! Ambrogio will deliver us from this wickedness”! I watched as the light faded from Crow’s eyes. She inched out into the sun. I grabbed her arm and yanked her back. She looked at me with sadness. She too wanted an end to this suffering. But I was not ready to lose one more. I was awakened by the sound of loud voices. Wren, Imogen, and Effie stood under the darkened sky shouting at one another. Crow was still asleep, and I felt a need to keep her that way. At least until the yelling subsided. The clan, if you could still call it that, was at its wits end. I offered up a prayer, but before I could open the scriptures Crow snuck up from behind him, grabbed them, and tossed them into the dark void. She like the others had had enough. But who are we without our faith but mere savages? Imogen said that we were on our own. There is no more food. No shelter. No salvation. No Ambrogio. When the sun came up again, we would die. But I was not ready to be greeted by death. I needed to come up with a plan and quick. I closed my eyes and prayed for the final time. That’s when the first bite came. Crow bit into the neck of Effie. She never saw it coming. Never imagined such a twist of fate. Then it was as if Crow’s madness became contagious. I watched as Wren and Imogen attacked one another. I stood in disbelief as the last of our clan descended into cannibalism. Crow fed on the blood of Effie. Imogen the stronger of the two, fed on Wren. It was as if the taste of the blood of their kin drove them insane, the same way it did the humans. I didn’t even recognize my sisters anymore. Crow and Imogen eventually turned on each other. Two voracious beasts ripping and tearing into each other’s flesh. Imogen fell to her knees and reached out to me. Crow punched through Imogen’s chest cavity and wrenched out her heart. She licked the bloody organ and squeezed it like an orange. I knew Crow would come for me next. I knew that this would be the end. It was as if I were in a dream. The rapacious monster that now possessed my poor sister’s soul showed no mercy as it lunged towards to me. I fought back tears as I grappled with her. Two soulless creatures fighting for a chance to live at least one more day. Was it worth fighting the inevitable? I tried not to let such thoughts pollute my mind as I clawed at her skin. I would not let my faith waiver. I screamed as her teeth pierced my neck. I could feel the life being sucked from out of me. I noticed a piece of the old wood plank within my reach. I grabbed hold of it and thrusted it into her skull. She released me from her jaws and fell over. I hammered the old plank of wood into her skull until it was crushed to dust. I hid in the old rock formation for one more day as the sun berated the surface. When night fell, I walked to what felt like the edge of the earth. It was as if the night dragged or maybe I had just gone delirious. I swore I saw the ghosts of my elders. Cassius and Wolfe wrestling in the dirt. The sisters crocheting each other’s long dark hair. Thorne meditating. The old vampire Blackwell shuffling about. Crow prancing around under the midnight sky trying to will the moon to come out and play. I missed my family. I was alone and afraid. The sun was approaching when I reached what had once been the ocean shore. That’s when I saw a strange sight. Surely I could no longer trust my eyes. What laid ahead of me was a ship. A ship that must have crashed from the sea long ago. My fingers glided across the words etched on ship’s wooden hull - *D E M E T E R* A stray dog bolted from out of the ship and startled me. I climbed aboard the main deck. That’s when I saw the bodies. Corpses that had been rotted for quite some time. The odor was unbearable. I counted at least a dozen. Their skin had ashen. I bit into the arm of one. There was no blood. No blood left in any of them. I could see the red giant beginning to scare away the darkness. I crept below the deck. I would be safe here until the night called again. There were boxes. Large boxes. Too many to count. I satisfied my curiosity and opened every last one of them. Inside was earth. Soil too fresh to be old. But its what I saw in the back of the ship that gave me chills. There rested a cadaver with a captain’s hat. Nestled in his hand was a crucifix. Next to the dead captain was a coffin made of black walnut. Dark. Hard. Dense. I opened the coffin and saw the most immaculate creature that I had ever laid my eyes on. A vampire with hair as dark as night. Its face appeared to have been sculpted by the great Michelangelo. Its icy pale skin had more life in it than a thousand stars. I then heard a voice in my head. It was deep and soothing. My prayers had been answered. His name was Dracula. If Ambrogio was God then Dracula was his son. His eyes opened and met mine as it filled with tears. I was no longer alone. I was no longer afraid.

“This is unbelievable!” Francis exclaimed as he held my self-portrait in his hands, “It looks just like you!” Francis “Franky” Cullins is my best friend, and he holds in his hands what I hoped to be the beginning of my illustrious career as an artist. I smile at him - a humble, gentle smile - as I contain the bubbling anxiety within the pit of my stomach. “Do you really think so?” I asked in what I hoped to be a tone that indicated only mild curiosity, and not that of a child seeking validation. Franky looked from the painting and up to me with blazed excitement in his eyes. “This is no joke, Mort; what I have in my hands here is pure, uncut talent!” He lightly shook the painting in his hands as he said so, but abruptly stopped when he realized he was doing so, as if worrying he could ruin it. “As a matter of fact,” Franky continued, “I’d like to post this on your page and talk about the process of how you painted this if you’re all right with that.” Honestly, I was taken aback by this offer. “What, like you want to be my manager or something?” I sarcastically asked him this as I chuckled, but Franky’s face remained sincere. His response to me felt so genuine, so lacking in the raillery I expected, that it took me some time to register it. “Why not? I’ve always believed in your work, Mort, even when no one else did. But with this...” he trailed off as he looked back down at my painting. Finally, he continued, “This was seriously all freehand?” I nodded, “Yes, it really was. But, Franky, would you really want to be my manager? I don’t even know what that job would involve.” He waved his hand dismissively at me and smirked. “Exactly why you need one! Let me handle all the details, but this - you just need to worry about making more of this!” His smirk had grown into a wide grin as his eyes welled with moisturized droplets. I was stupefied at my friend's eagerness to want to work for me after seeing this latest piece of my work. I knew of course that this painting, and all others that followed, would be different, but to have this sort of hypnotic effect was entirely unexpected. “Yeah, okay,” I hesitantly agreed, “Go ahead and post it, then.” Franky’s eyes widened in a somewhat disturbing display of ecstasy. “Perfect! I’ll get on that right now, and you do what you gotta do for your process and you get another painting out A-S-A-P! I promise you, Mort, this is going to be huge!” Before I could even open my mouth to respond Franky had already darted out of my studio - which was just my room in our shared apartment - and into his room across the hall as I heard his door slam behind him in an eager swing. I stood silently amidst the canvases on easels which all displayed different degrees of blankness to what had the appearance of being worked on for several minutes of brush strokes, then forgotten. They stood around the room in a way that formed a labyrinth to the bed, one which only I knew the right way through. I looked at all of these unfinished and unbegun paintings and vowed they would not stay this way for long. Things were different now. I got most of the way through a new painting I was working on, I believe I will title “Green Singers,” when I noticed I was at it for almost ten hours straight - no food, water, or bathroom breaks. I got myself into bed. I lay there for an unknowable amount of time as sleep eluded me, and I found myself thinking back to a conversation I’d had with an alluring stranger. It was last week on a Thursday when I was at my favorite art exhibition in town which thankfully had a small coffee shop near the entrance. As I sipped at my caramel macchiato I was scrolling through the reactions (or lack thereof) one of my paintings received. It had been posted for approximately 72 hours and had garnered seven likes, while most of the comments were uninspired at best and rude at worst. One of them even said something along the lines of, “This is motel art at best. You look too scared to put any real expression into your work. Don’t quit your day job for this. Hope this helps.” What the hell was that even supposed to mean? I dropped my phone on the table in such a frustrated way that my coffee trembled and nearly spilled. Not that I cared. I threw my hands over my face and exhaled in an admittedly overdramatic, defeated way. There I buried my face as I gathered myself when I heard someone sit down in the chair across from me. I looked up, expecting to see Franky. Instead, it was a man who I had never seen before - I recall little from his physical appearance, but I remember he was wearing an expensive-looking suit. And his eyes, those piercing emerald-green eyes with an intense and aged sheen the likes of which I had never seen before. “Can I help you?” I asked, making sure the irritated tone hinting at please-go-away was noticeable in my inflection. The stranger gave me a smile that was warm and comforting, and I felt my disappointment in myself, and the world melt away from my chest. I know it’s weird to say, but I instantly felt comfortable with this man here. “I’m a fan of your work,” he said to me. His voice was velvety and sweet, “I wanted to meet you in person. But I have to say, there is room for improvement.” Of course, I thought to myself, another critic who thinks they can tell me how to paint. “Oh, yeah?” I said with the irritation back in force. I took another sip from my coffee. “Oh, yes,” the man said, “but that’s not a bad thing - every great artist knows there is always room for improvement; it’s the knowledge that one would never achieve perfection, yet their pursuit for it is endless.” I rolled my eyes at him, though I guessed he did have a point. “Maybe you’re right. And I’m guessing you have the solution for that?” This was obviously a rhetorical question, yet the man kept his gaze locked in mine and he said, “It so happens, I do. What would you say if your paintings would become the epitome of perfection? That through your great works, your name would be immortalized, etched into the framework of history alongside Monet, Van Gogh, Michelangelo, and so many others.” I laughed dryly at him, “For that -,” I paused, peering searchingly into my cup of coffee, now at room temperature. “For that - I would give everything.” That statement came out of me so much more sincerely than I would have expected from myself. Realizing this, I laughed at myself, raised my coffee, and gulped the rest of it down. I was feeling this odd sense of anticipation I could not explain, like the feeling a kid at a theme park gets when they are near the end of the line for a ride on one of the attractions. The man with the green eyes raised an eyebrow at me as he said, “While I admire the enthusiasm, I wouldn’t ask you for everything. If I were to perfect your art, I would ask for very little in return, in fact.” Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows, but in a more incredulous, disbelieving sort of way. “Wait you’re... Are you serious right now?” the man said nothing. He only kept that cool, soothing smile. I pressed on. “So, you could make me one of the greatest artists of all time and you would want, what, my soul? That’s what this is, right? Some low-budget Twilight Zone episode where you grant me my biggest dream, and all I give in return is my soul?” Now the man leaned forward in his chair, closer to me. I could smell him now; it was a scent that felt so refreshing as it ignited nostalgic feelings for events of my life that I could not recall ever happening. It soon dawned on me that the feelings of nostalgia his scent gave me were not like smelling freshly mowed grass and remembering a magical summer from childhood; this was a sense of longing for events in my life I had not yet lived. “No, you don’t have to worry about that,” he said in a reserved timbre. “Despite what certain media would tell you, I don’t barter for souls.” I considered this, then asked him, “Well, then what do you want from me?” “Two things,” he said, “If I immortalize you and your art, I need you to paint something for me - I will tell you what at a time of my choosing. Second, I need you, Jack Mortimer, to say five little words to me to endorse our contract.” I was practically vibrating in my seat now with anticipation as if a colony of butterflies had birthed within me all at once. He didn’t need to tell me what those five words were that he needed as I could feel them on the tip of my tongue, ready to burst. I stood up and eagerly reached my hand out to shake his. He did the same. I fervently told him what he needed to hear, “I see you, Mr. Green.” *** Three months had passed since I painted that self-portrait, which I allowed Franky to keep. He keeps it proudly hung in his new office where he works around the clock to get me new exhibits for my paintings. “Green Singers” had been a phenomenal success, and there had been twelve others so far after. He even got me a spot to talk on the Late-Night Show, which to be fair, didn’t seem too hard as they had reached out to him and practically begged for me to make an appearance. But what I found most astonishing from this whole experience was that the scenes I painted seemed to come to life not long after they were finished. When I painted my hometown with a clearly visible view of the Andromeda Galaxy in the night sky, the next evening the miraculous anomaly was reported across the states which led astronomers stumped as to how it had suddenly become so bright to make it so visible to the naked eye. I painted snow in southern California, and the next day there was a blanket of almost twelve inches in Los Angeles. That’s what made it exceptionally convenient when, out of the millions of supporters and admirers across the globe, I discovered one truly bitter, ignorant critic. His name was Elijah Quill, better known by his Reddit username as ElQt69 - a truly tasteless name to choose for one such as him. It didn’t take long for me to find a picture of him, as people like him are always so self-absorbed that their photos are aplenty and public to pair with their highly opinionated views. But Eli should’ve thought to be more careful which what he does with photos of himself on the internet. After I had memorized his face, his body type, and what style he wears, it was almost too easy to paint his liking as I saw fit. Elijah Quill, in my depiction, was seen in a dark alley somewhere, having been beaten to death - the folds inside his pocket turned out to indicate he had been robbed after the fact. I kept this painting to myself, of course, but couldn’t resist the urge to google the news in the city I found that he lived in. There he was, the egotistical bastard, making the top headline. Good for him. A few days after the oh-so-tragic passing of ElQt69, Franky came to see me. We no longer lived in that small apartment together as I had found a nice condo in the city. I buzzed him in, and he came in with that adoring, eager grin. That suck-up smile was starting to get on my nerves. “Hey, Mort!” he said cheerfully. My God, he’s practically skipping towards me, I thought exasperatedly. “Listen, I got a new opening for you downtown. And if you’re okay with it, I’m thinking somewhere around five we can -” I held a hand to stop him, which he did instantly. “Hang on a second, Franky. There’s something I got to tell you.” Something I should’ve told you a long time ago. He cocked his head to the side as he asked me, “Sure, what’s up?” I looked him into those weirdly adoring eyes as he waited. “I’m going to have to let you go, Franky.” The look Franky gave me was as if I had just kicked a puppy across the room. “W-what?” he stammered. I blinked, and said, “You’re fired, Franky. I’m sorry but, the truth is I don’t need you anymore. You can expect your last check in the mail.” Franky backed away, his legs trembling. His eyes darted about the room in disbelief. “I can’t believe this... I thought we was friends, Mort?” tears had already begun to roll down his face. “We were, but let’s face it Franky - I’ve outgrown you. I'm sure you understand.” Franky’s face turned beet-red as he exclaimed, “You can’t do this - we were a team!” I watched him begin to storm away and back to my front door, as he yelled over his shoulder, “You’ll regret this, Mort! It was both of us - together!” the door slammed. “Well, that was dramatic,” I said to no one. *** That night, I awoke with a start. I was having some horrendous dreams, though I can’t remember the details. Now awake, I found that I was standing in my new studio, painting. The unfinished work before me showed horrid images that were difficult for the human mind to comprehend; hulking beasts of otherworldly proportions as they crowded and swarmed an unnamed city. People stacked haphazardly on pyres as they burned in a green, hellish inferno. The more I looked into this accursed piece, the more I felt my sanity quickly escaping me. I thought I heard voices chanting around me in some long-forgotten tongue, whispering names I had not heard nor possessed the power to pronounce. Summoning every ounce of my mental fortitude and strength, I managed to tear my gaze from the canvas as I knocked it to the floor. That’s when I saw behind it was another easel, and displayed on it was my painting of the murdered Elijah Quill, whose disproportionately crooked neck had upturned his face to look directly into my eyes. That one should not be there, I thought incredulously, it was hidden away. “Come now, Mr. Mortimer. Such a beauty should never be kept hidden.” That voice, behind me. It was his voice. I spun around and saw the man - this Mr. Green - smiling at me. “You,” I said as I pointed an accusing finger at him, “You’re what made me paint that... that nightmare, aren’t you?!” Mr. Green looked at the unfinished painting on the floor, then back to me. “That was our deal, Mort. One painting of my choosing, when I wish it. It would be in your best interest to uphold your end, and finish it.” “No,” I muttered, “No. I will not bring that hell into being. The deal is off! You can take away this power - I've already gotten enough out of it anyway.” Mr. Green sighed at me, but coolly said, “I would have to agree. Thanks to your admirable work with Mr. Quill.” I was taken aback by this. “What do you mean by that?” I demanded. Mr. Green’s smile vanished. He sneered at me as he explained, “I told you when we first met that I do not barter for souls. I don’t have to, as your kind are always so eager to place it in the palm of my hand. For just the smallest taste of power and ultimate adoration, you burned yourself on the very pyre that you built.” My jaw dropped open. “I... No...” But what could I say? What could I do? “I go now,” Mr. Green continued with a returning smile - now sinister as a dealer in a rigged game of poker, “to prepare a place for you.” And with those parting words, he faded from view until all that was left were two floating orbs of emerald glaring at me until they, too, were gone. alone again in the darkness of my condo, I began to see visions - things that were not of my home - of a similar layout to the one I used to live, in the apartment with Franky. On a table, I saw a mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels. I turned and saw on the edge of the bed was Franky. He still lived in that tiny apartment, and here he was, drunk beyond all reason with tears flooding his face and snot oozing from a sniffling nose. I saw in his hands he held that self-portrait, the first of my paintings after that deal. “Damn you, Mort,” he whimpered. He produced a pocket lighter and set the flame to the bottom corner of my self-portrait. “No, Franky, wait!” I screamed at him, but he didn’t appear to hear me. The flames ate up the canvas as they crept from the torso to the painted face. “Damn you to Hell, Mort,” Franky began to sob. The images of Franky's room vanished, and my own dwellings had returned. “This is unbelievable!” I cried as the last image of Franky disappeared. Standing here in the dark of my own vanity, I felt the effects of Franky’s actions with that damned painting. The fire started at my feet and quickly licked and raced up my legs, soon engulfing my body. I yelled, swatting at the flames, yet the inferno continued to spread all around me, and only me, as I raised my hands to my face and screamed.

With a mix of panic and desperation, I rushed to apply pressure to the wound. But hope quickly fled as I looked up to see a man made of only bones, standing 7 feet tall, with a scythe that radiated power and a cloak that was darker than the void itself. as he extended his hand, I inched away only to back into a tree. "please I don't want to die" I begged, but despite my pleading, the man cloaked in shadows still approached. With adrenaline coursing through me like the blood on my shirt, I grabbed the nearest tree branch and crashed it over his head. I honestly didn't expect anything to happen but to my surprise, I saw the scythe-wielding specter fall to the ground and groan in pain. knowing that this was my only chance at life, I immediately ran the other way. clutching the wound in a feeble attempt to stop the bleeding, I formulated a plan as I made my escape. The only idea that came to mind was to run home and find something to defend myself with, so that's what I did. Looking back was a luxury that I couldn't afford so instead I said a prayer while trying my best to dodge the trees ahead of me. my house came into view and it started to feel like I could actually cheat death. While unlocking the door I fought the urge to collapse from exhaustion and finally took the chance to look behind me. no one was there? I knew I lucked out but I didn't think I'd be this far ahead of the guy. I let out a sigh of relief as I opened my door to see the grim reaper sitting on a chair with his arms crossed. I was at a loss for words, except for one. "fuck" The reaper wagged his finger in disappointment while he met my gaze with cold, empty eye sockets. "Let me show you something, Eric." I followed him into the bathroom, unsure of what was next but confident in the ending. "look in the mirror Eric" I did as instructed and saw myself as a rotting corpse. bits of skin hung off my face like ropes from a tree and flies buzzed around my still-bleeding wound, hungry for what little I had left. "I was like you once, alive. I don't remember when though, when you're like me time is like a comet. too fast to keep up with, always flying forwards until it one-day crashes. The first time I crashed it was from a heart attack at the ripe age of 60 and when I saw the reaper at my door, I hid. I started to rot, just like you and the stench was so unbearable I passed out. When I woke up, this is what I looked like. nothing but bones. That'll be you too one day Eric, just a black bag of bones holding a scythe wandering the earth harvesting souls that taste just like yours. Is that what you want?" I held my own gaze in the mirror as I watched my left eye start to liquidate. "no, it's not" The reaper tapped his scythe on my chest and felt something indescribable as the earth itself cut to black.

The first day I walked into the Shop for my apprenticeship, I was nervous. Not a normal nervous. A nervous that made your stomach roll and your head spin. I was beginning a journey that I was sure would change my perspective of my entire life. And it did, in a manner of speaking. As the bell on the door finished ringing and the door smacked against its casing, I felt myself liquify. Sitting behind a counter, looking at all kinds of badass I felt I would never be able to pull off, was my new mentor. She had given me the task of writing a few essays on influential people in the piercing community as well as the history of body modification in general and the different types of jewelry companies. I had learned a lot in a very short amount of time and I felt ready to take on the world. Then she handed me the mop. I know, I know. ‘Earn your keep” and all that but I felt my heart sink a little before I plastered a smile on my face, just happy I could be in the same space, I supposed. This was my dream, after all. It’s all I had wanted to do for years. It was a deep, burning passion that kept me sweeping and mopping the floors, emptying the trash, and scrubbing the baseboards and the toilets for months. When she finally let me hold the jewelry, I was so excited I couldn’t stop smiling. She’d given me ‘throw-away’ jewelry that wasn’t good enough to be put in the high-end collection we carried. It was homework. I was slowly learning the different sizes and closure styles. I regularly visit the website of the Association of Professional Piercers and the board members' social media. To the point of near stalking probably. It didn’t matter, though, because I was finally starting to feel a sense of belonging. Right? Even when I started being told to go fetch cigarettes at the gas station, I still showed up. And when I was regularly reprimanded for having to leave to go to a job that paid my gas money and rent, I apologized. When I was alone in the shop for hours or whole days at a time, learning nothing other than people really don’t like someone not showing up to perform a piercing when they had scheduled it in advance, I smiled and made excuses for her. Because that’s what you do, right? That’s what you suck up and allow to happen to you when you’re chasing a dream. I was always there early and left late. I made sure everything was spotless and that the inventory was accounted for. Never once did I complain about her not bothering to come in to teach me or explain how I felt my time and energy were being wasted. I didn’t tell anyone how she would berate me and belittle me for small mistakes - I now know that they were small, having the knowledge of several years of experience. It felt like a betrayal to her, the woman I felt I owed so much for allowing me the opportunity to learn a craft that had been so coveted and felt so secretive. She had allowed me to walk past the velvet rope and enter into a whole new life. So I continued. She offered to make me a manager to which I beamed. She let me perform changeouts but only if they were fully healed. (I definitely changed out some unfinished healing holes.) And she asked me to help set up another business that she had, unrelated to piercing entirely, which I gleefully did, even giving her ideas to use. Even offering my partner’s woodworking skills to her. (Later, after everything was over, he would tell me I had never been good enough but that’s another story altogether.) I met her boyfriend who who she said was a skinhead. He had been only nice to her and regularly gave me the creeps. But that could’ve me just being young and untried in social situations like that. I met her parents who owned a massive business that allowed her freedom to do as she pleased. But did I really know that or did I just assume that they let her have money from the stories she’d told? I met her dog who I think about every time I listen to Coheed and Cambria. I met a woman who became who would eventually be my second mentor - still not great, but considering she had grown up with my first one, who’s shocked? I certainly was. I got the chance to cultivate my love for the craft. I missed out on the chance to go to Vegas with her. A trip that I’m sure I would have regretted. That fire of anxiety or misguided passion that had always kept me quiet against the abuse I was receiving from her and other people in my life was wavering. Flickering and slowly but surely fading as I got older and stronger. I had always been observant and smart but I was a constant blockade to the intuitive message in my gut. I had been told too many times by others that I was wrong. But when she offered me the chance to go to the conference free of charge - I was suspicious. I took the opportunity but I started questioning things. I asked people and listened to her conversations with people. I started realizing that my mentor, the person that I held up so high, was a shitbag. I found out she had been planning to get me drunk in the hotel room so I could ‘network’ with other piercers. It shattered my world. Nothing could go back to the way things were after that. But the thing is, I don’t hate her. I couldn’t. Even with the things I know and the things she did. She was my mentor and the first person to ever say, “You've got this.” No matter if it was followed by some passive-aggressive sentence. So now, when I look back at the old handwash log I had saved in my phone or the emails of my essays left in the sent box of my email, I still feel a slice of that same person who walked into that shop and asked for an apprenticeship.

The concept of "free will". Wherein a creature can take an action that is so totally out of character that it would be all but impossible to predict has been a plague upon proper implementation of holistic predictive models. However, despite this stipulation, there are a finite number of things an opponent can do in any given situation, which can be broadly categorised. For example, you and your opponent are sat down to play a game of chess. Your opponent is playing white. You are playing black. There are eight pawns, each pawn can be moved one or two spaces, therefore you can categorise your opponent's next move between two possibilities: The one where your opponent moves a pawn one space. And one where your opponent moves a pawn two spaces. But you can always look "backwards" from any situation. Right now, we've gone down a path wherein your opponent is playing by the rules. Take a step back and you can broadly categorise things again: One category of reality where you play the game and one category of reality where you don't. By taking more and more of these steps backwards, you can therefore reach a level where anything your opponent can do has been broken down into a binary option of A or B. Do, or do not. And with those two options in mind, the concept of free will is made irrelevant; the prediction is so broad that simply reacting to your opponent's movements is sufficient. Those milliseconds between your absolute ability to deduce your opponent's attack and when that attack will land are *crucial*. Your ability to react being far more important than how far into the future you can be certain of, because the latter just gives you more subjective time to understand just how slow you are. However, when two such practitioners of this style engage against one another, the feedback loop is the closest thing to pure entropy as exists in this universe until, one second later, one is victorious, the other lies dead on the ground. The problem is that because there are an infinite number of steps forward you can take, there are also an infinite number of steps *backwards* too. Eventually, sheer muscle memory kicks in as the limited mind attempts to comprehend the unlimited, leading to a completely random, completely autonomous attack. It is under *this* scenario that a slower, but more long-term predictive practitioner, is preferred as you can more accurately deduce when entropy kicks in and the half-life of some random isotope in the enemy's right hand will cause it to vanish triggering a cascade reaction leading the opponent to making the first, easily counterable move. Of course, true masters of this art have the sheer force of will to enforce their very nervous system to switch between the two modes, meaning both practitioners of this art and non-practitioners alike are easy prey. They do have one fatal flaw, however. If you can deduce the septo-second moment the nervous system is switching from one type to the other, you can catch them in the only moment they are ever truly off-guard. You can catch them in the only moment you will ever have to kill them. Predict that moment, that singular slice of space/time, a chance so slight, that to express it as a number would require more time than exists before the heat death of the universe, that to explain the myriad hyper-subatomic coincidences that led to this particular incarnation of this existence in time would require words for concepts that don't even exist, a chance that will never come again. Kill them. In that one moment. Kill them. Or else nothing you've ever done in your life mattered. May fortune guide you. Make your prediction.

“The world is ending.” “You always say that.” A dark cloud hangs over the lake. It looks heavy. Slightly green. That’s no regular storm. We’re in your car. The seat heaters are on. I can feel my legs humming as the warmth seeps into my clothes, my skin. I hug my backpack tightly to my chest. “I mean it this time,” I say. You flip through radio channels. All you get is static. You used to say you could hear voices in the white noise. Isn’t that how people communicate with ghosts? Mother. Winter. Rotten. Home. You strung them together, as if there was a coherent sentence amongst the fractured words. Sometimes I heard them, too. You always loved a puzzle. Love a puzzle. I keep forgetting that right now you love puzzles. The lightning cracking over the lake, the way we see it parked at the top of the hill, the waves crashing under our tires hundreds of feet below, reminds me of one of your favourite puzzles. A thousand pieces. You’d slap my hand away whenever I’d try to help, said you hated it when I hovered because I always hovered. A raindrop smacks against the window shield, big and hard like it couldn’t wait to burst. “How will a thunderstorm kill us all?” you ask, annoyed but trying to mask it. “It’s not a thunderstorm.” “How do you know?” “I don’t. I just... I have a feeling that something’s wrong.” You try not to laugh but I can see the cracks around your lips deepening. I don’t know why you stayed with me for so long. Everything I said started an argument. Maybe you just liked to scream. I know I did. Crying makes me feel weak when it doesn’t have a purpose. Sometimes I think I egged you on so you would yell at me and I could feel that release. But tonight you don’t push me. The rain is coming down now. It’s bleeding into the car. Water pools at my feet. I can feel my toes pruning. “What would you do if you died?” I ask. “Right now.” The water’s up to our waists. You look at me, long and steady. Maybe this is how you wanted to go. It’s up to our chins, filling our mouths. Before I drown I feel along the sides of the leather seat. I find a dime. “I don’t think I could do anything if I died.” “What?” “You asked what I would do if I died. I’d be dead. I think the point is that I couldn’t do anything anymore.” We’re in my room lying on my bed. The grey faux fur blanket you got me for my birthday is underneath us, my legs gliding over it every so often to feel its softness. You hate that I never wash it, but I tell you all the time that I don’t know how and I don’t want to ruin it. The fur will get all matted, I’ll probably find clumps of my own hair embedded into the fabric, it’ll never feel as good as it does right now. “But what if you become a ghost?” I ask. “Or, when your soul is leaving your body, God comes out of nowhere and gives you the choice to start your life over? And if you don’t then you just cease to exist. Your spirit, your mind, everything. Gone.” I roll the dime between my fingers as I look at you. The dim lights in my room barely catch your delicate features, your eyes appear like empty sockets, your hair is indistinguishable from the blanket. The only thing I can clearly see is your teeth. A werewolf brought out by the moon. “I don’t want to live forever,” you reply. I want to ask if you’ll take me with you into oblivion but I know you won’t respond. If you do choose to say anything at all, I know you’ll tell me I sound like a John Green book. Sometimes I wish I never told you all the things I liked as a teenager. For some reason you think I’m incapable of outgrowing Teen Wolf and Justin Bieber. I jokingly said I was regressing and you said it’s not regression if I’m already perpetually thirteen so I told you that you were being mean and then I felt bad for talking like a child. You listened to Bon Iver before they had a song with Taylor Swift so I guess that makes you more mature than me. I didn’t even know Bon Iver was a band and not the name of one guy. “I think being possessed by a demon would be the worst way to go,” I say. I watch the man in the corner of my room while I speak. He’s always there. He’s followed me from home to home. He used to run up and down the stairs at night while I was sleeping. I’d wake up my parents and make them check the house from basement to attic, call the police if they must, because he’s here and he’s going to get me. My mom would rock me back and forth. My dad would tell me I was right. Somehow I always ended back in my own bed, the man still on the loose. I created an escape plan from my room--out the window, onto the roof of the porch, climb down the lattice into the backyard, make a break for the corner store at the top of the street. Hope he isn’t faster than me. If taking the screen off the window was too noisy I could always hide in the closet. But what if, in his rampage, he couldn’t find me, and he killed my family instead? I’d have to listen to the whole thing. I’ve resigned myself to self-sacrifice. I may be personally haunted but your house is, too. I told you this when I first saw it. Tall trees with knotted and wrinkled trunks dug their claws into the dry earth. Shutters encased windows in a death grip but couldn’t fully conceal the yellow glow. Words spoken in whispers, with lips to ears, need hiding don’t they? Sometimes the air in the house felt claustrophobic, like I was choking on conversations that weren’t meant for me. I think the secrets gave me tinnitus. I read an article in Cosmopolitan about a famous priest who performed exorcisms. He said that demons loved negative energy. Unhappy bodies were easier to claim. I think we’re both breeding grounds for monsters. At least I acknowledge what plagues me. At least I’ll be ready for it when it happens. “I think it would be embarrassing to have something evil inside of you and you don’t even know it and it makes you do terrible things,” I continue. “Even if you’re not conscious and even if it kills you after, everyone would have seen you while you were possessed. What if that’s the last thing your mom remembers about you? What if it makes you murder people? What if it lets you go, you don’t even die, and now you have to live with all the destruction it caused?” “You watch too many movies,” you say. “People make movies out of real life experiences, you know.” “You sound like your dad.” I hate that. I love my mom. I don’t mind being my mom. I don’t want to be my dad. I showed you the tinfoil hats Dad made when he thought the rapture was coming. He had the whole thing planned: we’d get in the van, drive to a commune in the mountains--I think they were somewhere in British Columbia--and wear our hats so the alien beams couldn’t scramble our brains. Or was it radiation from microwaves? I can’t remember. Dad still thinks cellphones can give you brain cancer, so maybe it had something to do with telephone poles and wires. He made the hats when we were really young and technology wasn’t as good as it is now. Mom only told us about it when we were older, said she didn’t want to complicate our childhoods. She held onto the hats, maybe to prove that she wasn’t lying, because isn’t saying “tinfoil hats” just a way to express that someone believes in conspiracy theories? That’s what you asked me, at least. I just wanted to point out the irony in my dad being an anti-communist who wants to live on a commune. You took the hats. I still love you here. The moon, the man, my room. You bare your teeth. I wrap myself around you. Your claws dig into my back. If you had ripped my throat out I wouldn’t have minded. I don’t know why. I don’t have a reason. I was small in your company. I put the dime in your pocket. “You sound like your mom,” I say. I know this will get under your skin the way you get under mine. We’re at a concert but still find ways to argue over the haunting music. I thought it was funny that when we watched Lady Bird you related to it more than I did. You loved your mother but she was cruel. I think we both liked chasing unrequited love. “We’re bad people,” you reply. I look at you. Your puckered face is illuminated by the red and blue stage lights. Don’t red and blue make purple? Your laundry smelled of lilac. Your birth stone was amethyst. Like an Aquarius, you were aloof and distant. Your feelings were buried under a sheath of irony. I wish I had eroded your iron. You told me horoscopes were nonsense but asked me to read you yours every week. I still read yours before mine out of habit. It’s the only way I can feel like I know what’s happening to you. What happened to you. Because this is the last time I saw you. Guitars swell. Symbols crash. You sing along, your raspy cry an eerie suspension over the oppressive crowd. You turn to me. The lines of your expression are soft, your fangs shaven. The faces around us start melting. The music putters and disintegrates. Bodies drop to the ground. You smile at me. I think about the birthmark on your scalp. I think about your little sister. Was she with us? Sometimes it felt like we were raising her together. I know I like to get ahead of myself. I create realities that don’t exist. We both decided pills couldn’t fix our corroded brain chemistries. You still hated my fantasies, but I knew a small part of you believed them. I think about the first time you showed me your room. I’m not ready to let you go. You’re walking backwards. The first time you hurt my feelings. The second time, when you hurt them on purpose. Please tell me where you’re going. Lights flicker and fall from the ceiling. Wires spark at your feet. I wanted to keep this memory intact but you’re taking it away from me. Please tell me where you went. I chase after you. You are consumed by shadows. Please. I don’t want to forget this one. “There’s a pain in my stomach.” I’m sitting in a hospital bed. You’re sitting in my garden. “I thought it was your ribs,” you say. “It’s my gallbladder,” I reply. “It’s your kidney stones.” You take a bite of an apple. You lie on your back, face to the sun. Glowing. Angelic. “I think I have internal bleeding.” It starts to rain. You hold out your tongue to catch the drops. The water makes the colour of the grass leak from their blades. It dyes your skin green. Serpentine. “You should sleep it off.” “But I’ll die.” “This apple is rotten.” You throw it to the ground. It rolls under your car seat as you sit with your feet on the pedals. We’re parked at the edge of the cliff, but you’re still ready to slam down on the gas before I can jump out of the car. “I mean it this time,” I say. No, no, no. We’ve been here before. The storm is coming in. “If I had to die,” you say, “I’d want a tornado to take me. People always talk about tornados picking up houses and cows and cars and they get lost forever. They’re probably not lost, just thrown to the ground miles away, splattered, splintered, unrecognizable. I like to think that it would take me somewhere, though. If I’m going to die, I at least want to see something nobody else has. And then I’ll meet the earth again and break apart and nobody will know that it’s me.” I don’t remember this. Were you ever vulnerable with me? Your voice is gentle. Maybe this is just the way I always wished your voice would sound. A cyclone whips into form over the lake. “You know how you said you could conjure things by writing them down?” you ask. “I think I can do that, too.” Wind rattles the car, rips the doors off their hinges. You kiss me. You taste like metal. In my mouth-- --a dime. I wake up with water in my lungs. Facedown in the pool, pretending to be dead, waiting for you to notice me. You limply kick my bloated corpse but make no move to rescue me. You jump in the water, knees to your chest. I’m tossed away by your wake. You got bored of my game. “Who killed you this time?” you tease. I wonder if you regret saying that now. I wonder if you regret anything. I lift my head up. The night air feels good in my aching lungs. I think I held my breath for ten minutes. I don’t know if that’s possible. “I told you,” I respond. “We’re all dying.” “There is no apocalypse.” “Yes there is. It’s in my room.” A light turns on. We look up at my window, illuminated. Everything is ordinary. “How does it start?” “I watch a scary commercial,” I say. “Something about a movie where a babysitter gets murdered by a big man and he calls the house a lot. It came out on my birthday. That’s when I knew I was cursed.” The TV flicks on in my room. It’s all static. “Where do I fit into all this?” you ask. “Instigator. Collateral damage.” We tread water silently for a moment. “I’m sorry,” you say. This, I know, is all me. The air becomes loud. It’s something more than insects and owls and rats. Maybe it’s a plane. Maybe it’s my tinnitus. A beam of light shoots across the sky. It looks like the call of a lighthouse. It’s beckoning. “Did you see that?” I ask. “I miss you.” Me again. What did you really say? “Something’s wrong.” “I’m sorry.” “We should go.” “I miss you.” You weren’t kind but I remember you kindly. My ears are screaming. My stomach drops. Something has shifted. A ray of sun begins opening over your head. Maybe I was the unkind one. I never went to therapy. I was needy. But you punished me. You are swallowed in a white light. All I see are your eyes. They look like moons. We weren’t so different. That scared you. I look away. I know what’s happening. I told you so. I hate to say that I told you so but I did. You don’t reach out for me. I hear the TV in my room explode. It’s quiet. Trees have stopped moving. I am floating on my back. You’ve disappeared. You didn’t take me with you. If I cried right now, would you be ashamed of me? I look down at the bottom of the pool. It is covered in dimes.

Gia was only 15 years old when she looked into the eyes of Cody for the first time. It took less than a minute for her soul to recognize him. Then without saying a word he turned and walked away from her. The sharp sting her heart felt never went away although he did. One day he just didn’t come to school. Someone told her that he had moved away suddenly. She regretted not speaking to him. Gia married Henry Jackson Broussard in the summer after she graduated from college. She had plans to become a teacher but her plans changed after she married Henry and had three kids in almost as many years. She spent the next 20 years raising kids and raising Henry. She had no regrets though. Raising her kids was the best job she could have had but raising Henry was a different story. Most days after work Henry would sit in his chair in the living room and read a book about fishing or some other sport. He would barely even look at her as she raced around the house doing things for the kids and trying to cook dinner for everyone. He would moan and groan when one of the kids would ask him for something and direct them back to her for their needs and wants. Gia would cook and clean and put the kids to bed all while Henry read his books, and mumbled a few words to her here and there during the evening. It went on like this for over 40 years. Henry passed away after 43 years of marriage. Gia had a small memorial service for him as he requested. Small was all she could have since Henry only had few friends and fewer relatives. People gathered at the church said a few words and gave Gia and her kids their condolences and that was the end. Gia went back home and sorted out the knitting she could never finish while Henry was alive. She was just about to start when she got a knock on the door. Henry’s lawyer was standing there with a large manila envelope. He held it out for Gia to take and she did. “What’s this?” She asked. “Henry wanted me to give it to you after the service. I think it is very private so you might want to open it after the people from the service leave the house.” He answered. “No worries there. There aren’t any people here. They all went home after the service.” Gia took the envelope and closed the door. She studied the envelope which only had her name on the front written in Henry’s sloppy handwriting. She really didn’t want to open it since Henry was not a man of nice words or many words. What could he possibly want her to read and should she even bother reading it. You didn’t have to read something from a dead person right? Gia tossed the envelope on the coffee table in front of the sofa. She picked up her knitting needles and proceeded to try to finish knitting the scarf she had started months ago for her oldest son. The envelope was a distraction though. She gazed at it a few times while knitting and decided to pick it up again. Perhaps it was a letter thanking her for over 40 years of cleaning, cooking, raising kids, waiting on him hand and foot, giving up her dreams for his. Maybe it said that he appreciated everything she had done over all those years and how much he truly loved her and the kids. Maybe it said all the stuff he never told her in life and now he was telling her in death. She picked up the envelope and looked at it once more unopened and she opened it. It was pages and pages of Henry’s sloppy handwriting. She didn’t know what he would have to say in all these pages but she was about to find out. My dearest Gia, If you are reading this I am probably dead and buried. I told my lawyer, Steve, not to give this to you until both of those things had taken place. Now, my dear, I can tell you what I could not tell you in life. I am going to tell you something that will shake you and I can only hope that you forgive me. I tried to tell you several times when I was here with you but I just couldn’t find the words. How could I tell you something that would bring you so much pain and so much anger? I could not. I made a promise to you father that I would never tell you. Yes, dear, he also knew this secret. He was the one who actually started this whole chain of events over 40 years ago. I am not sure even now how to tell you. But, Gia, please find a quiet spot in the house when you finish reading this, away from everyone. If the kids are there please wait until they leave. If anyone is there please wait untl they are gone. After you read this until the end your reaction will not be good and you will not want to have anyone around you. Trust and believe that. My love, it all started the summer before I met you. I was working for your father in his law office. I was still in law school at the time and was trying to get a mentor, someone to show me the ropes so to say. As you know your father was a strong willed man and wanted the best for you and all of his kids. He rarely took no for an answer and it was his way or the highway. I was working there for about 6 months before he even said one word to me. He was a watcher. He watched me all those months. He wanted to know how I handled myself in all kinds of situations and he tested me without me knowing. Than one day he came over to my desk and he asked me what my goals were in life. I told him that I wanted to be a successful lawyer like he was. I told him eventually I wanted a wife and kids and to live in the suburbs in a house I owned. He grilled me further about my family, my character, my religion, everything he could think of. We talked that day for hours and the next day after for months. I didn’t know why at the time. I didn’t understand all the questions. I just thought well, maybe he wanted to know me better. Maybe he took a liking to me. Both of those things were true but that was not the real reason. He told me about you. He said he had an older daughter who wanted to be a teacher. He told me your name was Gia and you were like him more than his other children. You were ambitious like him and were a no nonsense type of person. He said that I would make the right husband for you. I was speechless. I didn’t know what to say. I asked him if you shouldn’t be the one to choose your husband and not him. He looked at me with a fire in his eyes, a fire I have never seen before in anyone’s eyes since and he told me in no uncertain terms that he was the head of his family and he knew what was best for you. And what was not best for you was that boy as he called him. He said that he came from the wrong side of the tracks and that he hated his tattoo of that stupid lady bug that he had on his arm. Every time he looked at that thing it made him sick. I was shaken with fear. I didn’t know what to do next so I just sat there waiting for him to say something or to dismiss me like a school boy. I had the feeling that nobody was really good enough for you in his world but I would do. He later told me more about that boy that he thought you were infatuated with. He never used the word love when he talked about him. He kept saying that he would never be good enough for his daughter and that you being 15 when you met him was reason enough for him breaking up that relationship before it started. He knew that boy was going to be trouble. I wasn’t sure what kind of trouble he met or trouble for whom. But, I got the feeling he was talking about himself as much as he was talking about you. When I met you I thought you were just like your father described you to me. You were very pretty, ambitious, outgoing and didn’t take anything from anyone and you had the most steely blue eyes I had ever seen. I was amazed that you liked me too. For years I thought that you would see right through me and the lie I held secret all these years. I thought you would find out that me and your father manipulated you into marrying me. That the love of your life was still out there probably just as confused as you were as to what happened, why he had to move in the middle of the school year and not tell you or anyone else. But, I tried to give you a happy life. I know that when I got older I was a miserable old man. I wanted to tell you when I found out this miserable old man was dying. I kept that a secret too. I didn’t want you to fuss over me any more than you already did. I wanted to at least give you that. I feel so badly about taking the love of your life or the potential of love from you. I know that you never got the chance to find out if he was the one for you. I know that it was wrong and I know that I should not have gone along with your father’s plans. But, I was a kid at the time. I wanted to practice law more than I wanted to breathe it seemed. He told me that if I didn’t go along with his plans for me and you to marry that he would make sure I never practiced law anywhere in the world. And you know he had the power to make that happen. I am so sorry. I know that saying sorry is not enough. Reading the words isn't enough. I can imagine the pain in your heart right now and I am sorry that I am the one who caused it. Please forgive me. I hope that you will over time. Please know that I did love and respect you and I thank you for all the years you stood by me as my wife and my partner in life. I love and adore you more than words can ever say. Your Husband, Henry Gia put the letter back in the envelope and put it on the coffee table. She didn’t know what to think or even what to feel. She was numb. She sat there on the couch in her same spot that she had sat for many years. The same spot across from Henry while he read his books. She looked at Henry’s chair and the imprint of his head in the fabric and worn seat and for a brief moment she could have sworn she saw Henry sitting there reading his books like he always did. She shook her head at the ghostly image. “Henry, you old fool. If you only knew how much I loved you too and that I had figured out that secret a long time ago. Father did in fact ruin that potential relationship but he didn’t know that he gave me so much more. I was sure at 15 Cody was my soul but when I met you I was sure that you were my soul and the sabotage that my father did worked not against me but for me. Rest in Peace Henry until we meet again.”

The sun timidly peeked through the curtains as Mira prepared for another day at the office. While sipping from her favorite coffee mug, she glanced at her computer screen, checking for new emails from her manager. After closing her mail application, when she was about to shut down her laptop and head to her car, an unusual file appeared on her computer's screen with the name "open if you dare." Noticing this, Mira started to shiver, indecisive about whether to open the file or leave it be. A few minutes later, curiosity had got the best of Mira, and she decided to open the file, eager to discover its origin and contents. With a hesitant click, Mira opened the file. A short prompt appeared: "Type 'continue' to start a journey beyond the known world." With her heart racing, Mira typed as prompted and watched the screen change colors before her eyes. Scared yet intrigued, she waited to see what would happen next. When the screen turned yellow and remained for a few seconds, a new message popped up: "Please, note that once the journey has started, you will not have the option to give up. Click 'cancel' to give up now, or click 'accept' to start the journey to the unknown world." Excitedly, Mira sent a text message to her manager, Mr. Regis, letting him know that she would be running late due to an urgent matter that required her attention. As soon as the message showed a blue double-tick, indicating it was read, Mira clicked 'accept' on her laptop. Suddenly, she found herself in a room filled with all kinds of flowers emitting charming scents, her laptop still with her. She began to smell each flower, starting with lavenders, her favorites. After a few minutes of exploration, a new message appeared: "This is your safe zone in the Unknown. Your journey continues outside. Draw the curtains and see what lies beyond." Outside, the sky was a sickly shade of gray, and the roads were dusty. Mira saw children carrying 15-liter containers of water, evidently fetching it from kilometers away. In her world, children would have been in school at that time, and every household had access to water; she had never experienced water shortage in her life. Mira was surprised to see the children smiling at her when she waved at them. How could children living in such conditions smile, she wondered. Feeling a mix of disbelief and curiosity, Mira stepped outside to further explore. She could hear babies crying and feel the scorching sun that made them cry. With a heavy heart, she wished to return home, but then she remembered she had committed to completing the journey. She proceeded to the next station, where she encountered sick women lying on woven grass mats, sweating and shivering concurrently. Their families sat nearby, preparing herbal remedies to help them recover. Mira realized that these women did not have access to the modern healthcare she was accustomed to. Approaching the women, Mira wished them a quick recovery before engaging in conversation. One woman, Maria, was kind enough to answer all the silly questions Mira was asking. -Mira: Do you know what year it is? -Maria: I know we're in the long dry season. Isn't that enough? -Mira: What herbs are you mixing for the sick women? Are you sure they're not toxic? In high school, I learned that people can be allergic to certain herbs. I think it would be better if you had access to a nearby hospital. I'm afraid the disease may be contagious. -Maria: You don't need to worry, young lady. We're used to this disease and have been using the same herbal remedy passed down from our ancestors for over a century. We've never experienced toxicity or allergic reactions. Look, this is sage, our ancestors have been using it to treat different infections, I will mix it with rosemary. The seeds you see over there are called coriander, and they are meant to trigger the immune system. With this mixture, the ladies will be strong enough to work in the yard within 3 days. As for hospital, that's a luxury we don't have. We rely on what we know works for us. Mira was amazed by Maria's words. She kept on asking her more about the herbs, with a willingness to know all their health benefits. She had never encountered such a way of life before. She realized that she had been living in a bubble where everything seemed perfect, never considering that there might be a different reality somewhere else on the Earth. Realizing the vastness of the world and its myriad forms of life, Mira didn't know where to begin. She was aware that there was still a lot to be explored, so she decided that she would travel to some parts of the world during the upcoming Christmas holidays. As Mira waited with the women, expecting to be teleported to the next station of the journey, she eventually decided to return to the safe zone room after two hours of no response. She bid farewell to Maria, the woman who had touched her heart, and walked to the room, anticipating to find some new commands on the laptop screen. Upon entering the room, Mira found that her laptop was still there, with a message displayed: "Congratulations, you have reached the end of the journey. You may type 'leave' to return to your world. The aim of this journey was to reveal to you a reality you had never seen, the known unknown to you. Now that you have decided to travel the world and explore more on your own, I would like to free you". Tears filled Mira's eyes as she read the final message. She was now aware of a different facet of the world and had learned from the women that even in the darkest times, there was still hope for life. She typed in 'leave' and was immediately teleported back to her house, her laptop returning to normal without the strange file.

Stuck in the Middle with You Thunder rumbled among the dark clouds that made the daytime sky look like night, and then a streak of lightning tore through the clouds splitting them apart, jagged, like the shell of a cracked egg. The light it produced was blinding, and I couldn't help but turn my head away and blink several times to regain my sight from the momentary blindness that it caused me. I knew better than to look, but like a moth to a flame, I did anyway. I knew what followed next. The weather man had been predicting it for a day or two now, and by the way the sky looked, it seemed, for a change, he may be spot on; a torrential rain; baseball size hail; conditions right for a tornado. Hopefully, the latter two would be wrong. Visions of my car being beaten to a pulp by hail would send my bank account into a tailspin, and thoughts of my 15th floor apartment being whisked away to Oz by a tornado wasn't appealing to me either. However, the weather was perfect for my mood--I was storming internally. A few moments later, I heard a voice shout after me. "Tabby, please, wait up!" shouted my no good, egg sucking dog of a cheating boyfriend. "Why should I, Chase?" I shouted back and picked up my pace from a fast, angry walk to a run in order to catch the walk signal and cross the busy street before Chase caught up to me. Fortunately, I caught it just in time, leaving a rush of cars between me and Chase. I didn't want to talk to him. Earlier, my flight had been grounded for weather reasons, so the flight attendants, which was my profession, had been sent home for the day. After changing out of my uniform, I decided to walk to Chase's apartment, since it was only two blocks away, to surprise him. I had visions of the two of us snuggling up together by a warm fire while we waited out the storm. A month earlier, as a sign of his commitment to me, he had given me a key to his apartment. I'd never used it--until today. I wish I hadn't. I knew he'd be home, since he worked a night shift at the fire department, so I quietly slipped my key into the lock, turned it and opened the door. The smile on my face immediately drooped, and my brow instinctively scrunched up like a prune. I couldn't believe my eyes. Chase was in a passionate embrace with a hot-looking brunette who was wearing a short red skirt and a halter top to match. Her bare stomach was pressed against his. I stormed out. For now, I was too angry to cry, and I suppose I would flood my apartment with tears once I got there. A few moments later, Chase was in pursuit. I had hoped I would have made it home before the downpour, but no such luck. It didn't start as a sprinkle of rain, but the swollen clouds burst and let loose a blinding rain instantly. Two minutes later, I opened the door to my apartment building, went to the elevator and pressed the call button several times hoping it would get here before Chase did. The lights in the foyer flickered, and I know I should have taken the stairs, but I didn't relish the thought of walking up fifteen stories in my angry, hurt and half-drowned condition. Finally, the elevator door opened and I stepped in. I saw Chase enter the building a moment later, so I frantically hit the close button for the elevator door. He had slipped his hand between the doors just before they closed. "Please, Tabby, we need to talk. What you saw wasn't what it looked like." I folded my arms and glared at him. "Seriously! Well, to me, it looked like a full-blown lip lock with your arms wrapped around her pressing her to your body. If I hadn't surprised you, the two of you would probably have been stripped naked on the floor." Chase was about to respond, when suddenly, the elevator jerked to a halt between the seventh and eighth floor. I had been watching the floor panel box, wishing the elevator would go faster, just before the lights went out. I was stuck in a 7 x 6 box with someone I didn't want to be with. However, I consider myself fortunate that it was pitch black and I couldn't see him. "Just lovely!" I exclaimed. "I should have taken the stairs." "Don't your elevators have emergency lights?" Chase asked. "Of course, they do. But somethings in this building aren't reliable--just like a certain, now, ex-boyfriend! Do me a favor; just don't talk so I can pretend you're not here." I felt my way to a corner and sat on the floor to wait for the elevator to restart. "On the contrary, a stranded elevator gives us a perfect chance to talk. I need you to hear me out," he said. "So, you may as well have a seat." "I already have, and what do you mean, here you out. What's to explain? You were kissing another woman, Chase. Pure and simple. You can't deny it." "No, I can't. I was kissing a beautiful woman. I have every right to kiss her because she's my wife and I'm not...." "Wife!" I interrupted. "You're married to boot! If I could see you, I'd smack the shit out of you!" "Well, it's unfortunate that you can't see me, because as I was about to say, before you interrupted me, I'm not Chase." I couldn't help but laugh at his idiotic declaration. "What do you mean, you're not Chase? Just like the old saying, if it looks like a duck and sounds like a duck, it's probably a duck." "But some ducks look alike," he replied. "I'm Jason. Chase's twin brother. You saw me kissing my wife Mandy. We were visiting with Chase and spent the night." Now I wish I could see his face to fathom the outrageous story. "Funny, if, as you say, your Chase's twin brother, how come he's never mentioned you? I've also met your sister and parents. They said nothing about you either." "Because they couldn't. I've been living off the grid for years under a witness protection program. Now that the person I was testifying against was found guilty, put in prison and then subsequently murdered while there, my wife and I are finally able to come out of the closet, so to speak." I laughed. "And you expect me to believe that! That sounds like something from a movie." "Some movies are based on facts." Suddenly, we felt the elevator shake and rattle. "Oh, shit! What now!" I exclaimed. "Earthquake?!" Chase or perhaps Jason, exclaimed. "Or tornado!" I added. "That's all we need!" The elevator lurched again and it felt like it dropped an inch or two. "We've got to get out of here," my companion said. "By chance, you wouldn't have a lighter or cellphone on you?" "If I did, I'd have it out by now. My phone is on charge in my apartment. You're not afraid of the dark, are you?" I chided. "No, silly. I want to see if there's a trap door so we can get out," he replied. "And then what?" I replied. "Climb into a dark shaft in a shaking building! Are you crazy?" "No, I'm being logical. If the elevator cable snaps, we could plummet to our deaths," he replied. "So, do you know if there is a panel in the ceiling where, at least, I can get out?" I thought about his suggestion for a moment. Though most of us don't show it, flight attendants always have that slight twinge of fear in the back of our minds about crashing during a turbulent flight. I couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "I don't find our situation funny. Why are you laughing?" "Irony," I replied. "I can see the headlines. Flight attendant, Tabitha Jacobson, dies in an elevator crash." "Hmm," I heard him say. "What?" I asked. "I'm surprised you're not climbing the walls in this situation. My wife, Mandy, would be petrified. She hates storms and is probably sequestered in the bathtub covered by blankets and pillows about now. It bothers me that I'm not there with her." "Well, Jason, if that's who you are, Chase should be there to keep her company." "Afraid not," he replied. "He called earlier. He's had to pull a double shift at the fire department due to the weather. So, back to the subject, is there an access panel in the ceiling?" "Yes, it's in the middle of the ceiling. But how do you propose to reach it, if you could even see it?" "Easily," he replied. "I'd pick you up on my shoulders, you could feel around till you found the panel and then push it open." I thought about it for a moment, and then with the next shake of the elevator, I decided to cooperate. "Okay, I'm game." "Great! Now inch your way over to me. I'm in a squatting position so you can climb onto my shoulders." I did as he suggested, felt my way to him until I felt his back and then his neck. I stood and took a step forward to "mount up" as it were, and then I heard, "Ouch!" "What!" I exclaimed. "You stepped on my hand! Be care not to kick me in the head when get on my shoulders." "Sorry," I replied. "But in the back of my mind, I really wasn't. When I was situated on his shoulders, he wrapped his arms around my legs and stood as I walked my hands up the back wall until I felt the ceiling. "Walk to the middle," I said. As he did, I felt for the panel and a moment later, I announced, "Found it." "Can you push it open?" "We'll see." I gave the panel a push, but it didn't budge. "It's stuck. Hang on tight, I'm going to give it a harder shove." "Go for it!" he said. When I did, the panel gave way, but so did my mount. He tumbled backward, but luckily our fall was prevented by the wall of the elevator. The good thing in this effort, we now had some light. Apparently, there were emergency lights in the elevator shaft--go figure. I dismounted and gave my companion a good, hard look. The man looked exactly like Chase; same build, eye color and even hair style. "And you say you're not Chase?" "I can prove it, now that we have light." "Okay, prove it. Let me see your driver's license." "Well, that's back at Chase's apartment. But I can still prove it." "How?" "I assume you are familiar with Chase's body?" "You would assume correctly." "Does he have any tattoos?" "No." "Well, I do!" He then started to unbuckle his belt. "What the hell are you doing?" "Showing you my tat." He then turned his back and exposed his butt cheek. There was a large, fancy, red heart with the words, Jason and Mandy Forever written within it in gold lettering. "That was my valentine's present to my wife. She has a matching one on her butt cheek as well." I turned my back and hid a smile. "You could have had that done yesterday as far as I know." "Geez, Tabby, what will it take to convince you?" he exclaimed, as he pulled his pants back up. I then laughed with relief, turned and gave him a smile. "Just kidding. I believe you. Chase is petrified of needles. He'd pass out at the sight of one." "That's the truth. He can run into a burning building with no fear, but when it comes to the needle, he's pretty much a wimp." Once again, the elevator shook. "What do you say we get out of this box before it falls?" Jason asked. "Agreed!" I climbed onto Jason's shoulders once more, grabbed the edge of the opening and pulled myself up. It was a good thing that I worked out regularly and my arms were strong enough to pull me up. A moment later, I was on top of the elevator. I may have been able to pull my weight up, but if I'd tried to pull Jason up, I would have been back in the elevator. Jason handed me his belt, and I attached it to a pipe near the opening so he would have something to grasp and pulled himself up as well. I'd seen movies before with adventures climbing elevator shafts. Never in a million years would I think I'd be doing that very thing. But our climb would be fairly easy. There was a built-in ladder in the shaft which we grabbed on to. In examining the elevator cables, they looked okay from this vantage point, but we didn't know what it looked like higher up, so we ventured on the ladder to the next floor where we found an emergency release handle to open the door. We stepped out onto an empty hall way and made our way to the stairway. It was lined with tenants, which was a logical place to hold up during the storm. Jason and I weaved our way among the tenets and headed up to my apartment. He wanted to use my phone to call and check on Mandy. When we reached my floor and opened the stairway door, we were met by Chase and Mandy. "Tabby!" Chase exclaimed, as he wrapped me in his arms. "I was worried to death about you. The building next door got touched by a tornado and part of it collapsed against this one." "I'm fine, Chase," I replied. "Jason and I got stuck in the elevator." Mandy then approached me. "I'm sorry you saw what you saw. I wish you'd stuck around for us to explain." "It was a shock, I admit, but upon closer examination of Jason"--I then cleared my throat-- "He proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wasn't Chase." Mandy then folded her arms and looked at Jason from the corner of her eye. "And how did you do that, since your wallet is at Chase's?" Jason grinned, put his arms around her and said, "I just proved to her that you were my heart and soul." He then kissed her. Suddenly, the lights came back on. We went to my apartment and looked out the window to see a bright, sunshiny sky. Jason and I sat down with Chase and Mandy and told them of our adventures in the elevator and had somewhat of a good laugh about the situation. However, I think, for a while, anyway, I'll be taking the stairs.

#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** &nbsp; *** #This week’s challenge: - **Image Prompt: ** - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Use the words starfish, reflection, and tide This week’s challenge is to use the above image as inspiration for your story. You may use any part of the image and interpret it however you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. The bonus constraint is not required, but I encourage you to give it a try! The base words should remain intact but you’re welcome to change the tense, if needed (i.e. reflection to reflects/reflecting is fine). You can check out previous Micro Mondays . &nbsp; *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. &nbsp; *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d love to have you! &nbsp; *** #How Rankings are Tallied Weekly points are awarded based on the following system. **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.* &nbsp; *** #Rankings for - u/AliciaWrites - u/MaxStickies - u/OldBayJ - u/poiyurt - u/katherine_c **Crit Stars:** - u/AliciaWrites - u/Blu_Spirit - u/dewa1195 - u/katherine_c - u/MaxStickies - u/OldBayJ - u/poiyurt - u/TheLettre7 - u/Tomorrow_Is_Today1 *Note: Being that I was a participant this past week, all votes have also been verified by another mod.* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

Lily was brushing down the old wooden desk she used for check-ins when she heard the door open. When she looked up to great her customers, she saw Mrs. Barnschweigel. An older woman, probably in her late 50s, she was particular about her room and everything else. True to form, she headed for the desk and Lily suppressed a tiny sigh - she really didn’t have time for whatever manufactured crisis was coming her way, she had a group of new guests that were due to arrive any minute. But Lily knew the key to the success she had made of the small resort was word of mouth, most of her new customers were friends or family of old customers. She believed in treating all of her guests like family, even the difficult ones. “Good morning, Lily.” Mrs. Barnschweigel called out as she strode across the room. The woman was louder than Lily liked, she ran a quiet establishment, just like her mother and her grandmother before her. Loud guests were frowned upon, but Mrs. B was a frequent guest and a surprisingly good tipper, so Lily never tried to shush the older woman. Lily smiled faintly, “Mrs. Barnschweigel.” The older woman had never stated the courtesy, “Please, call me x” that most of Lily’s customers did; Lily thought of her as “Mrs. B”, but would never call her that to her face. Lily had the feeling that the woman liked feeling a little superior and enjoyed being called by her more formal title and would frown upon familiarity from “the help.” “Lily,” here it comes, “can you send your maid up to my room again, dear? I know that this is a ‘rustic lodge’ but I really must insist that she redo the dusting. I woke up this morning with a frightful sore throat and I’m so allergic to dust.” Lily knew it wasn’t the dust, Margarite, the housecleaner ensured that each room was spotless. Still, keep the customer happy, “Of course. I’ll send her up right away.” “Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Barnschweigel had a weirdly formal, old-fashioned manner. Lily thought that the woman wasn’t older than 50, but she spoke as if she had been around in the 1920s. Lily suspected it was an affectation, designed to make her appear sophisticated. The woman wandered off, certain her wishes would be immediately acted upon. Lily picked up the desk phone and called Margarite, “Hello, Margarite. I hate to ask this, but can you please visit room 213, Mrs. Barnschweigel’s room. She would like some extra dusting.” Lily heard the door open again, just as she hung up the phone. This time, it was the group she had been expecting. Hikers that were planning on walking the small piece of the Appalachian Trail that ran just behind the lodge. They had reserved four rooms, doubles, and one single. The leader of the group, an older man with grey around his temples smiled as he walked toward the desk. Lily thought he was probably Native American; he had a chiseled bone structure and strong facial features. “Good morning. We’d like to check-in, the Swiftwater group. I’m Darren Swiftwater,” he gestured to the tiny woman by his side, “This is my wife, Siante.” Lily turned to greet the woman, but she was looking towards Mrs. B, her brow slightly wrinkled and her eyes narrowed. Lily turned back to the man, “Mr. Swiftwater, welcome to the Royson Lodge. Your rooms are all ready, let me get the keys.” Just then, Siante Swiftwater crossed the room towards Mrs. B. “Karen Oglesbee!” she cried out, and touched Mrs. B.’s arm. Mrs. B. turned with a start. “Unhand me. You have mistaken me for someone else.” But Lily had seen a touch of panic and, maybe even fear cross Mrs. B.’s face. But those emotions were gone quickly. Now her face was like granite, all emotions erased, leaving only the imperial woman Lily had come to know over the years. Siante wasn’t deterred. “Karen Oglesbee, I know it’s you. Where have you been all of these years? We thought you were dead.” Everyone in the room had gone quiet as they watched the two women. Mrs. B. took in a deep breath and drew herself up. “I said,” her voice deep and cold, “You have mistaken me for someone else.” She shrugged her shoulders tightly and left the room. Lily turned to Darren Swiftwater, he was standing as still as a mouse caught in an eagle’s sight. He stared at the door Mrs. B. had departed through. His warm brown face had gone pale and his mouth fell open as if to call Mrs. B. back. His wife turned to him, and as she saw his face hers contorted into something ugly, then smoothed out. She came to him and rubbed his arm, “It’s okay honey, I think I was mistaken.” Lily checked in the rest of the guests without incident and they left the lobby to go to their rooms. Mrs. Barnschweigel leaned her back against the door to her room. Siante Bravebird and Darren Swiftwater, after all these years? The lodge was 2,000 miles from the small town that they had all grown up in. She couldn’t believe her bad luck in finding them here. She had cut all ties to her home town, to her life, when she left high school. She had even legally changed her name from Karen Oglesbee to Karina Del Mar. She’d always thought it a little ironic that after losing her ugly last name, she married a man with an even uglier last name. After he died, she’d considered changing it back to Del Mar but she enjoyed the status that came with her husband’s name. She’d done a lot to earn it, it was hers. She wasn’t Karen Oglesbee or Karina Del Mar anymore. She wasn’t sure who that made her now because she didn’t feel like Karina Barnschweigel either. Karina considered leaving the lodge early, but the two weeks she spent here every year was the only genuinely free time she had. The rest of the year was caught up in fundraisers and board meetings. Once Harold had died, it was up to her to keep the foundation running. It was a job she excelled at, she loved. But it took so much of her time and energy that she needed the down time she had at the lodge. Even her staff knew not to contact her when she was on vacation. She wasn’t going to allow people from her past to disrupt it either. She would just avoid them, and if she saw them keep up her “it isn’t me” stance. Karina quickly decided to order room service, not wanting to chance running into Darren or Siante but was aggravated to find out the lodge didn’t offer room service. She was informed that they had a buffet style dinner and breakfast, and bagged lunches - as most of the guests were mountaineers and hikers and left the lodge for the day. Of course, she had known this but was so rattled she forgot. She decided to wait until the outer edge of the time allotted for dinner, in hopes of avoiding her old ‘friends’. It wasn’t really an inconvenience; Harold had liked to eat later than most and she was used to staying up late and then sleeping in Around 8:45 pm, Karina left her room and went down to the dining room. She carefully peeked into the room and was pleased to see it was empty. Karina approached the buffet, happy to see her plan had worked but a voice behind her made her realize it had not, after all. “Hello, Karen.” Said the deep voice from her past. Karen shuddered a little, her body remembering the man. “Don’t bother to deny it. I know it’s you.” Karina turned around, lifting her nose slightly. “I go by Karina now,” stiffly, not allowing herself to soften. Darren’s lips turned up slightly at the corners. “Karina, then. How have you been?? “Did you really stalk me to engage in small talk?” Darren blew out an outraged laugh, “I’m not stalking you, Karina.” He shook his head, his chin tightening in frustration. “I just needed some answers.” “I don’t have to answer your questions, Darren.” Darren reached out and took one of Karina’s hands. “Please.” Karina softened as she saw Darren’s eyes droop in old remembered pain. She knew she was responsible for that pain, for more than he knew. “Fine. Come sit with me.” The couple went over to one of the small tables by the large window. Karina sat for a long moment, thinking. How much should I tell him? Darren sat watching Karina’s face, she was struggling with exactly how much truth to give him but he wouldn’t settle for less than all of it. He reached out again, asking simply, “Why did you leave?” Karina tightened her jaw and looked directly at Darren, “Because your mother paid me to.” Darren dropped her hand as if he had been burned. “What are you talking about?” He knew his mother didn’t have any money, back then they’d been living on the reservation. They were poor, on the verge of poverty. “To be fair, she got the money from my mother. Neither family wanted us to be together so our mothers made sure we wouldn’t be.” “But why would you agree? I loved you, I thought you loved me.” “I did love you. But you couldn’t take care of me.” Darren’s eyes widened at her words; she knew she was hurting him but he did deserve to know. She’d been as wrong as their mothers all those years ago. At the least, she owed him honesty now; as much honesty as she could afford, anyway. “I was pregnant. My mother was going to kick me out, you and your family lived on the reservation. You didn’t even graduate high school. I knew you couldn’t take care of us, so I took the money and left.” “Oh my god.” Darren sat still, but emotions skittered over his face. Finally, he looked up at her. “Did you...?” Karina shook her head, “I had the baby. I gave her up for adoption. Then I took the rest of the money and put it toward tuition. I went on with my life, just like you did.” She hoped the one little lie amongst the larger truths was enough to get him to leave her alone. “No. No, you didn’t give her up.” Darren’s eyes narrowed as he watched her face. “Even after all these years, I remember how you lie.” Karina stood up, her voice shook, “You don’t get to tell me how you remember anything. You are married, you have your life exactly what you and your mother wanted.” That last night, Darren’s mother had told her that Darren would marry Siante. He would stay on the reservation and raise his children the way generations of his Native American family had done. She’d obviously been right. “That’s not what I wanted.” Darren’s eyes blazed hot, “I wanted to marry you, I asked you to marry me.” Karina shook her head, not wanting to remember, “Yet, in the long run you married the woman your mother picked out for you. Go home with her, be happy. Take care of your wife, your children.” “Not that it’s any of your business, but Siante and I were never able to have children.” Karina closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry.” She knew how much he’d wanted children; he’d talked about it even when they were just high school sweethearts. “I want to see my daughter.” Karina and Darren locked eyes, she remembered the first time she saw him - long, silky hair even shinier than hers. She was only five years-old, but she fell in love at first sight. She took his hand then and said they’d be best friends. And they had been best friends right up until the night she betrayed that friendship. Karina sighed and took out her phone. “Dari, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

I remember the day of Thanksgiving would start early in the morning, with Thanksgiving breakfast. Dad would make pancakes shaped like turkeys, and then he would take them into the bathroom and eat them all while making turkey noises while my mom would sit in the kitchen and cry. After that, we'd turn the game on and Dad would begin drinking. First one, then two, then three gallons of chocolate milk. He'd yell at the TV and call every player "Roger". Like "Throw the ball to Roger!" or "C'mon, Roger, throw the ball!" It wasn't until much later that I realized he was watching soccer and they rarely throw the ball. Mom would get to work in the kitchen making the bird. Dad was vegetarian, so the bird was usually a bunch of vegetables that mom put in a blender and then shaped into a turkey. But most of the time there was plenty of meat in it as well, because my mother hated my father and she found this to be funny. So funny she'd laugh the entire time she was making the "bird" and sometimes so hard she would vomit into the sink. She was crazy. And not the laughable kind of crazy. She was really nuts. But so was dad. I guess we all were. I guess it's a crazy holiday. But it wasn't all crazy, a lot of it was fun. Like when we'd exchange Thanksgiving gifts. Typically a Thanksgiving gift was whatever you could find that was moist: wet towels, soap, grass...I remember one year I received a shoe. It was a Thanksgiving miracle and I remember putting the shoe on and running out into the street screaming "It's a Thanksgiving miracle!" but then I got hit by like three cars. The first one sent me into the other lane, then the second one sent me into the original lane and then this guy backed out of his driveway and hit me again. I lost the shoe, but I will never forget the look on everyone's face when my leg was amputated. It was like "WHOA!" After the game, dad would go into the den and put up the tree. The tree was made of turkeys, ironically, and it really started to smell by the first day of December. But dad would always say "It's tradition!" And then vomit. The turkeys were basically just impaled on a post and we hung no ornaments on them. In fact, whenever I see a turkey a feeling of mirth and awe flows through me all the way to the stump I still have from getting hit by all those cars. Once the tree was put up, we'd hang underwear from the chimney in the hopes that St. Nick would come and try the underwear on and leave little notes about our weight. Like one year I'd get "You're too skinny to play football" or another "You get your degree at John Porkins?" We were gratified by Santa's comments and we would strive to lose or gain the weight he prescribed. Until we found out that there was no Santa and it was actually aliens that were doing it. But then we hunted them down and killed them. But they turned out to just be our neighbors and that's why Mom went to jail. After preparing for Christmas, we'd watch another soccer game and then play Monopoly together. We'd open up the board and then put all the pieces out and then dad would wave his arm over the board and say "Foreclosure!" and then throw the game at one of us. Whoever was hit with Monopoly had to go make him cocktails. It was a helluva game. One time I made his cocktail too stiff and he told me that I couldn't go to bed until I ate the couch. I gave it a try and three days later he finally let me go to bed, but you could tell he was disappointed. "Now, son, that was a couch. And you only ate half. Do you realize there are children in Africa with no couches to eat?" I felt awful for awhile, but then it went away. But then Dad got mad that I wasn't still feeling bad and he sent me to Africa to look for couches and I found a bunch, but by then he had died or moved. I forget. But I wasn't 34 until I returned, so I'm sure he had a rich life. At dinner, Mom would put out the turkey and she would sing theme songs from TV shows that would always end up just being the Cheers theme song because she would forget the melody and words of whatever she was singing. Dad would pat us all on the heads and ask "Gobble, gobble?" Like his voice would go high at the end, like it wasn't just a turkey noise it was him trying to communicate. Each year we'd try to answer and only once did someone say the right thing and it was my sister. "Gobble, gobble?" "Yes?" I would ask. And he'd frown and move to the next kid. "Gobble, gobble?" And that one year my sister said "Morley Safer" and my dad nodded. It was the only time that worked. We kept trying "Morley Safer" after that, but it wasn't the answer anymore and we all just kinda looked foolish. Then we'd eat. Dad would always remark "I'm glad there's no meat in this." like he knew there was meat in it and was warning my mom, but she would just laugh nervously and pinch me really hard under the table. After dinner, my mom would take us all out to a national forest and leave us there. We still don't know what my parents would do at night, because it took hours to walk back home. I guess some people would call my family "crazy", but they were my family and I loved them all.

Jeremy Adler sat on the floor of his bedroom, leaning on the back of his bed frame, reading whatever book had stumbled into his hands at an astonishingly fast pace. Reading was Jeremy's thing . He would read at such a speed that you couldn't even be sure he was absorbing the words. Getting sick of his reading, he decided that once he finished this chapter, he would take a break. But once he did arrive at the end, he extended his stop time to just another chapter, until before he knew it, he had no intention to stop. His position changed several times throughout the reading process. He'd rotate from lying on the floor to sitting up, to hugging his knees, to resting on his side. This speed reading activity always did a number on Jeremy's neck, which was exactly what he was thinking about when he heard it . It was like a shimmer, or a sparkle. So gentle and quiet the first time, Jeremy assumed he'd imagined it. Or perhaps it was just him, subconsciously shifting in his seat, causing a ruffle. But the second time only confirmed it. When he sensed movement in the room, his eyes darted up, directly at a spot on his wall where there once was nothing but a bland, ivory wall, now hosted a window shielded by mist. He was confused. For some reason, not at all surprised, but confused. Jeremy’s room was on the top floor of the house, which resulted in him having the highest ceilings. The window was high. He didn’t want to go downstairs and face having to explain why in the world he would need a ladder, so he pushed his bed just far enough to reach the window. Jeremy stood on top of the bed and peeked over at the clouded window. He raised a brow, stumped. Maybe it’s foggy outside. But that wouldn’t make sense, the window wasn’t there before. Jeremy plopped down on his bed, jolting the springs. He so badly wanted to give in to his curiosity, to climb and take a peek, but he restrained. He stood up and began pacing around the room, weighing the options. After about a minute, he realized he was wasting his own time, and that this peculiar investigation was inevitable. Jeremy didn’t understand why he wasn’t shocked so much as intrigued. His hyper mind raced with questions and he was thirsty to find an answer to them. He made up his mind and stood back up on the bed. Reaching to open the window, he was greeted with more dusty, cool mist. Without second thought, he shoved a hand through it, and was met with cool, but warm air. It was perfectly fitting, the exact temperature you would have imagined the mist to be. Now that he had just barely tasted it, there was no way he could stop. He needed more . He had almost no upper body strength, he was skinny and his scholarly mind was completely uninterested in sports of any kind. Thus, he somehow managed to reach up to the window. He pulled himself over the ledge, and though he thought he had stabilized, he lost his balance and fell over the other side of the window--into the mist. He began falling. Down, down, down. His body spun to the command of the wind and he fell for what felt like hours. Really--it felt like hours. First he was confused. Why aren't I landing onto the floor of his lawn? But eventually he moved onto fear. Am I going to hit hard ground? And lastly, the stage of disbelief. This isn't happening. Pinch. Once he became aware of his surroundings while falling, he realized his eyes had been closed the whole time. He opened them, and reached ground. Jeremy winced, but felt no pain. It was a material under his back that he couldn't quite determine. Jeremy sat up to meet the eyes of a group of ogling...people? One (woman?) had wings on her back, tender, like Tinker Bell! One (man?) had two colorful parrots, one resting on each of his shoulders. Jeremy could have sworn he was seeing things. He wanted to scramble away--his head was begging for it--but his body was not complying. He sat there staring at the odd group as they returned the expression. "What is it?" The fairy woman whispered. "Is it a doll?" Another one said. "It's eyes are far too small to be a doll. A garden man perhaps." A different man suggested. "What? It isn't growing any leaves, it can't be." They finally silenced, the four of them, Jeremy had now determined with his newly focused eyes. His eyes widened and he gasped when he saw a creature with the silhouette of a human, but scales instead of skin! The fairy woman stepped forward and offered out her hand with a strained smile. "I am Grevillea, dear, what is your name?" Jeremy was silent. She was talking. To him. "Does it talk?" Scaly person said. Jeremy coughed and blinked several times. "Jeremy," he had their attention, "is my name." They looked unimpressed. "What kind of name is Jeremy ?" A metallic looking man said. "What kind of name is Grevillea ?" Jeremy retaliated. Fairy lady scoffed. He stumbled to his feet. "Where are you from?" Robot guy said. "Colorado." Their faces were stoic and unresponsive. "Earth? Floating rock in a galaxy? No?" Silence. "Okay, um, I'm not from here. I fell out of my window. I need to get home." He tried to simplify. "How does one fall out of a window?" The robotic man questioned, stroking his chin. "I-I don't know. I just did. That's not the point. Who are you?" Jeremy was starting to get a headache. "I am Kitt," The robot-man spoke. "My name is Grevillea." Fairy woman said again. "He knows that," Scale skin lady said. "I am Etis." Jeremy couldn't help but ask. "What are you?" She scoffed. "I am a dragon nymph. How rude." Jeremy hadn't meant to be offensive. Considering other's emotions was low on his list of priorities at the moment. The parrot man stepped forward. "I'm Zink. On the left: Port. On the right: Ruffle." He pointed to each parrot, speaking in a low, raspy voice. Jeremy could not deal with these peculiar names. "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," He said to himself with an untimely grin. "What's Kansas?" Etis asked. "Where the hell am I?" The strange creatures all bursted out into laughter, before realizing he was serious when he made no effort to deny his question. "Where are you?" Kitt chuckled, "Why you're in Eternity! More specifically, Caverest City. It's the capitol, didn't you know?" Jeremy shook his head. Kitt went on, "We were actually on our way back from a stroll on the outskirts, the entrance is right past those gates." He pointed. Jeremy pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, sorry to be blunt, but I need to get out of here. Will there be anyone in there who can direct me home?" Etis and Grevillea whispered into each other's ears. Etis then spoke up. "Perhaps we can consult the Chancellor." Kitt, who Jeremy had now discovered was quite talkative, interjected. "He's why this is the capitol, you know. Because he chose to live here. Zink often entertains the Chancellor with his birds. Perchance-" He is cut off by Zink. "They are not birds!" His face is red and angry. "They're parrots." "Right, right. Parrots. Anyways," Kitt drones on, "Zink could possibly get us a meeting with the Chancellor, couldn't you Zink?" Zink, who was seemingly still bothered by the mislabeling of his parrots, huffed without a response. Jeremy wasn't sure what to say. Instead, he just followed them into the indigo colored gates that lead to Caverest City where he would apparently be meeting the infamous Chancellor. After the five of them entered the gates, Jeremy felt a shadow casted over him, it became darker. Within the city, there were tall, almost dystopian and futuristic structures and buildings. But the floor was the strangest part. It was...rock? When Jeremy looked up, he yelped at the dome that engulfed the entirety of the small city. "What's that up there?" He mumbled just above a whisper. "Thats the cave, silly. Wow, you really aren't from here." Etis replied. He saw it now. He was in a massive cave. So tall that the high-rise buildings didn't hit the top, and decorated with blocks of buildings. Eventually, with Jeremy still processing how he had somehow gone from his bedroom to...here, they reached a tall skyscraper. This was clearly the tallest one of all. The top nearly reached the cave's roof, and surely had a spectacular view. Within this tall skyscraper, lived the Chancellor, of whom Jeremy didn't quite understand other than a Star Wars reference. When the group attempted to enter the elevator, there stood two guards, both dressed in indigo suits with matching glasses. Jeremy did a double-take. "Hello," Zink began, "Chancellor's parrot entertainer. Assistants." He pointed to the rest of them. Jeremy had now determined that Zink was a man of little words. Jeremy wasn't sure what he thought of Etis and Grevillea, for they both remained composed. The two people in odd colored suits exchanged glances before nodding them to pass and enter the elevator. ~~~~~ Kitt had been arguing with the guards in front of the Chancellor's door for quite some time, but Jeremy literally could not keep track of time. There wasn't a clock in the whole city. Twenty minutes felt like twenty years but sometimes a day felt like an hour. Time was fuzzy in Eternity. Grevillea, Zink, Etis, and Jeremy stood back watching Kitt attack the guards until the two doors swung open. " What is all this ruckus?" An intimidatingly calm voice slowly sounded into the hall. Jeremy didn't need to ask. The Chancellor. Well, it was safe to say he looked nothing like Darth Sidious. This man was middle aged, with some specks of gray in his hair and wrinkly eyes. He had defined features and a chiseled face. He was eminently striking, and particularly hard to read. Jeremy thought the group was about to be killed or arrested but the Chancellor's sharp gaze turned to pierce the eyes of the guards. "Am I to believe you are denying my good friend Zink entry?" "N-no sir." One began. "Certainly not sir." The other defended. "We-we didn't know." "Come in." When they entered to his glorious central living room, the Chancellor poured two cups of a sort of liquor--one for him and one for Zink. The two sat while Grevillea, Jeremy, Etis, and Kitt--who was unusually mute--stood awkwardly, observing. "Why are you here?" The Chancellor directed his question at Zink. It appeared that Zink had been modest about the true connection he had to the Chancellor. "The boy. Not from here. Fell out of his window. From..." "-Colorado!" Jeremy interjected. He cleared his throat. "Sorry." "In another world. Called Orth." Zink continued. "-Earth. Sorry." "Needs to get home. Doesn't know how." No one spoke while Kitt, Etis, and Grevillea looked terrified and uncomfortable. Everyone stood, staring at the Chancellor. "I've never heard of such a thing," He confessed after longing quiet. "Are you familiar with The Cliff of Cessation? Theres a woman by the name of Haeledi. You must go see her. She lives in the Green Abyss." Grevillea gasped, clutching her heart and Kitt stood wide-eyed, gaping. Jeremy rolled his eyes. He'd grown to understand that drama was a common trait in this duo. "What's the Green Abyss?" Jeremy questioned genuinely. "Oh! Don't say it!" Grevillea collapsed onto the couch. To avoid more humiliation in front of the Chancellor, Jeremy thanked him profusely and pulled them all out of the building, until they were standing on the rocky cave street. "Okay. Let's go." He said and began walking towards the direction of the gate. Zink tagged along quietly, but Jeremy stopped when he realized the other three weren't following. "What are you guys doing? C'mon! I wanna get out of here." "Listen Jeremy," Grevillea sighed, "I know you're foreign, but you don't know the Green Abyss. It rests under the Cave of Cessation, and the people that go don't come back." "Etis?" Jeremy said. She gave him a nod, showing her support. Jeremy turned to walk the other way, with Etis and Zink following. Kitt and Grevillea stayed back. "Oh crap." Jeremy groaned. "How are we going to get there?" But when he looked up, Etis was gone, and in her place stood an enormous, dazzling, dragon. She roared and Jeremy gawked in awe while Zink climb onto her back, parrots included. He swallowed and copied Zink's actions. Just as Etis was about to take off, Jeremy heard a grunt. " Ugh. We're coming!" Kitt hollered from the ground with Grevillea lifting up her colorful dress to follow. Jeremy laughed as they gripped Etis's scaled body, and suddenly felt wind blow into their faces. They ascended, watching Caverest City get smaller and smaller. It was indeed a spectacular view. ~~~~~ Jeremy didn't know he'd been sleeping until he woke up to a light tap by Grevillea, signaling that they had arrived. He sat up to see the large, eerie cliff from above. His thoughts were interrupted. Can you guess who by? "This feels like a terrible idea. Do you know what cessation means? The end. Death. Gone! I don't want to die!" Kitt whined. "So where is the Green Abyss thing?" Zink held tight to his parrots and lead Jeremy to the edge of the cliff. "Down." Jeremy sucked in a breath. He understood the fear Grevillea and Kitt had now. Far, far down, there were trees. Hundreds. But no ground. Right were the tree stump would end, lay more trees. "...And I've heard of Haeledi. She lives in the trees! I heard she kills every creature who attempts to seek her guidance. Is she an elf? Do you know? Is she a nymph? Is she-" "KITT. Shut up!" Jeremy was a reserved person. But Kitt had clearly exposed a new side of Jeremy he himself didn't know of. Kitt silenced in astonishment. "I have to go down there. It's my only way out." "There might be other ways, Jeremy. But for this way, I cannot go any further." Grevillea soothed him, and Etis purred, still in her dragon form. "No." Zink surprised everyone, "We go down together." And he jumped. "Zink! Zink no!" Grevillea screeched diving in after him, with her fairy wings keeping her afloat. Jeremy looked down, shocked, only to see that Zink was alive and well, for he himself had turned into a tremendously large parrot. Jeremy climbed back onto Etis's back, looking at Kitt. "Are you coming?" Kitt joined him, shaking with fear. "Do you transform into something?" Jeremy asked, trying to lighten the mood or avoid the fact they were going into certain death. Kitt chuckled and shook his head, and they were off. Down, down, down. They plummeted, apparently fine for a while until the pressure of the wind began to increase. Similar to when Jeremy fell from his window, he had no concept of time. In fact, there had been no concept of time this whole trip. They could have been here for days. Did his parents miss him? He turned back to Kitt. "What time is it?" He yelled over the wind. Kitt looked at him with a puzzled expression. "What's time?" Jeremy faced forward again. Ah, he thought to himself, Eternity. Suddenly, Grevillea's right wing ripped, due to the stronger wind. She yelped, and Etis fought the wind to go catch her, but she was too late. Grevillea's second wing did the same, and she disappeared. "GREVILLEA!" Kitt yelled. He began to sob. The wind was ferocious now. Sound had become simply an idea, not a thing. Jeremy's ears hurt from the wind until he couldn't feel them anymore. Jeremy watched the wind from above rip Zink's bright red tail, causing him to lose balance. He began sinking until he too, was gone. Kitt was crying hysterically now, understanding they were next. Kitt was speaking but Jeremy couldn't hear. Kitt then ripped off a leather necklace, and tied it tightly to Jeremy's neck, just before the wind threw Kitt off Etis's back. Due to the wind's antagonizing power, Etis forcibly transformed back to her rough, humanlike form, separating from Jeremy and her too disappearing from his sight. Jeremy didn't know what was going on. There was no emotion. No shock. Nothing. "Dinner!" He heard a faint echo. "Dinner!" It became louder. He was falling, staring up at the overcast sky, everything in slow-motion. "Jeremy, DINNER." He looked up from his book. His mother was standing in the doorway of his room. "You were really into that book, huh?" She laughed. Jeremy was silent, shifting his gaze between his mother's perplexed look and the book in his hands. He was in his room. There was no window on the wall. "Hey, nice necklace by the way, where'dya get it?" His eyes were vast, as he glanced down at the necklace that had been on Kitt's neck just moments ago. Jeremy was silent. "Mom," He said slowly, "Where am I?" Her brows furrowed. She scoffed. "Um, Colorado?" "On Earth?" He asked. "No, on Saturn." When she realized he genuinely believed he was on Saturn, she corrected herself. "Jesus, yes you're on Earth. Whats gotten into you?" He swallowed. "Long day." "Alright. It's dinner. For the eleventh time." She smiled and left. Jeremy closed his book with shaking hands and looked on the front cover. There, drawn on were the images of Grevillea, Zink, Kitt, and Etis--in dragon form of course. And right above them rested the title of the book. Eternity.

For the fifth time this week, Jasmine saw the little girl propped up in her bed looking out the window of Whitebridge County Hospital. This part of the Whisper Valley train line was unique because it loops around in a way to give passengers a discernible view inside some of Whitebridge County Hospital. Not only was Jasmine able to identify the girl’s shoulder-length dark curls and olive skin, very much like her own, she saw the girl wave. Could she see Jasmine smile and wave back at her? Jasmine swore she could see the girl’s bright but heartbreaking smile. She was in the hospital, so Jasmine was sure the girl was anxious and sad. Jasmine guessed that the child was seven or eight years old. Being in the hospital is scary enough for an adult, but for a child it is overwhelming. Jasmine felt a genuine connection to the little girl and worried about what was wrong with her that she had been in the hospital for at least a week. She knew all too well that hospitals liked to release patients as quickly as possible. When Jasmine’s dad had heart bypass surgery, he was only in the hospital for three days, and when she broke her leg a couple of years ago, they didn’t even keep her overnight. So, when a patient was kept for at least five days, there had to be something seriously wrong. Jasmine remembered when she was seven, she’d been hospitalized for a ruptured appendix and later developed sepsis which required her to stay in the hospital for 13 days. It was the first time she came face to face with her own mortality, something a child shouldn’t have to do. There was a nice nurse that helped her through it though. Although Jasmine had never spoken to the girl, she almost felt as though she knew her. She realized that was ridiculous. How could she know someone she’d never met nor spoken to? Still, Jasmine sensed a familiarity between her and the girl. Was that real, or was Jasmine’s yearning for a child of her own getting to her? At 32, Jasmine was concerned that her biological clock was ticking, and so far she hadn’t met a man with whom she wanted to have a long-term relationship , let alone marry and start a family with. Sure, she could get pregnant through a sperm bank, but that wasn’t her thing. She truly wanted it all--to continue to be a respected English professor at the University where she worked and to be a successful author, but also a wife and mother. Jasmine decided that if the girl was still in the hospital window on Monday that she would visit her after work. Being somewhat familiar with what seven- and eight-year-old girls liked because of her two nieces, Jasmine went shopping over the weekend. She envisioned her girl being imaginative and creative, as she was as a child, so she wanted to purchase gifts to encourage those things. Jasmine’s nieces, like her when she was little, loved their dolls and dollhouses. She bought a lunchbox style dollhouse, that the child could play with in or out of the hospital. It was quite impressive with its wood printed flooring and wallpaper with a cloudlike pattern in blue, pink, lavender, and peach pastels. Jasmine would enjoy having some of the furniture, such as the sleigh bed and standing “brass” floor lamp, in her home if they were the right size. Jasmine also purchased two female dolls, one White and the other Black, which would fit in the dollhouse perfectly. On Monday, on Jasmine’s way home, she disembarked the train at the Diamond Grove stop and walked to the Whitebridge County hospital holding a large gift bag with pastel pink polka dots, stuffed with tissue paper, and adorned with a bow. Jasmine knew that the woman at the information desk wouldn’t divulge any information about a child, so she greeted the friendly middle-aged woman with a smile and proceeded to the elevator like she knew where she was going. Based on her calculations, the little girl was on the fifth floor, east side, third window from the left, probably room 508. When she approached that room though, she noticed an attractive old woman with curly winter white hair cut into a stylish hairdo propped up on her pillows dozing. Jasmine did a double take. My God, she looks like my grandmother, but Grandmom is alive and well in her home. I just talked to her last night. She was doing great. Did she have a heart attack, and nobody told me? Jasmine panicked, but when she looked at the name posted next to the doorway, she saw the last name was Sanderson, not her name Cook. Figuring she miscalculated the room the girl was in, Jasmine continued to the two rooms on the right and left of the room she’d just observed. In two rooms, she saw an elderly man, in another a middle-aged and elderly woman, and further down the hall two middle-aged men. A slender no nonsense nurse approached her. “Mam, are you looking for someone?” “My coworker asked me to drop off this gift to her niece. I thought she was in room 508, but there’s an elderly woman in there, so I started looking in the other rooms around 508.” The nurse looked puzzled. “This is the cardiac ward. There are no children here. She would be in pediatric ward, the 4 th and 5th floors of the B wing. Take the walkway over there and follow the signs. You’ll eventually end up on the west side of the hospital,” said the nurse and hurried away. Now, Jasmine was the one who was perplexed. She’d always prided herself on having a keen sense of direction and could always figure out what was east and west. How can I be so wrong? Maybe she is on the 5th floor on the west side of the hospital, but that doesn’t make sense. The west side wouldn’t face the train tracks. When Jasmine got there, she nonchalantly glanced in some rooms on each side of the fifth floor. Sure enough, none of the windows had a view of the train station or tracks as far as she could tell. Jasmine approached the handsome thirty something man at the nurse’s station. On his nametag was the name Bryan Sanderson. Was he related to the woman in 508 in the east building? “Good evening, Mr. Sanderson. I’m having a bit of a problem here. Maybe you can help me?” “I’ll try,” he said with a charming smile. “I have a gift to deliver for my coworker’s niece. She told me that her niece was on the fifth floor of the east building, but I found out that’s the cardiac ward. The floor nurse told me there weren’t any children there. “ What’s the little girl’s name?” Bryan said as he moved towards the computer. “That’s the thing. I can’t remember her name. I feel terrible about that. My friend did tell me her niece had a view of the train tracks. Do any of these rooms in the children’s ward have a view of the train station or tracks?” “Definitely not. Only the east side has that view. My mom was a pediatric nurse at this hospital before the children’s wing was over here. I remember her telling me stories about how children were housed on the fifth floor of the east building and, on one side, the kids could see the train station. Conductors would blow the whistle when they went past the hospital. The kids loved it.” “When was that?” “She started here in 1990 or maybe it was 91.” Along with a dazzling smile, he has the most alluring blue eyes. “My mom worked here until 2013. She’s been Director of Pediatrics at Children’s Hospital in the city ever since. Why don’t you call your friend and at least get the niece’s name,” said Bryan as he started entering information in the computer. Jasmine could see that Bryan was getting impatient with her. She had to contact his mom. Something very weird is going on. Maybe this guy’s mom could shed light on what’s going on. “I suppose that’s what I need to do. By the way, do you have a grandmother or aunt on the cardiac floor? “Nope. Why do you ask? “ "When I went to the room, I thought my friend’s niece was in over in the east building, I noticed the name Sanderson next to the doorway.” “Unless I have a relative I don’t know about, nobody related to me is in the cardiac area.” Did his eyes just twinkle? Bryan looked up from the computer briefly. “Good luck. Once you find out your friend’s niece’s name, come back. I’ll be glad to assist you.” “Thanks. By the way, what’s your mom’s name? I have another friend who’s a nurse at Children’s Hospital. I’ll ask her if she knows your mom.” Jasmine had no such friend, but the lie might enable her to get in touch with Bryan’s mother. “It’s Miriam Sanderson,” said Bryan and continued typing. “See you later.” While Jasmine waited for the next train to take her home, she called Children’s Hospital and obtained Miriam’s office phone number and called it. Since it was already 6:00, Jasmine didn’t expect anyone to pick up, so she was surprised when Miriam did. Jasmine explained that she was a Social Science major at Coventry University. “I’m doing a report on the importance of stimuli when children are in the hospital. Could I call you over the weekend to ask you a few questions?” “I’m sorry, I'm really busy this weekend, but I’m done working and am waiting for my husband to pick me up. He won’t be here for another 20 minutes. We could talk now if you’d like.” “That would be great! Thank you so much. Would you be able to tell me about when pediatrics was in the east building and how kids would watch the trains? Did that have a positive effect on them? “Oh my. It sure did. There was one little girl I’ll never forget. She was on the 5 th floor around 2001 or 2002 when pediatrics used to be on the 4th and 5th floors of the east building. The poor little thing had a ruptured appendix which cause her to acquire sepsis. It was really touch and go for a few days. By the time she was released from the hospital, she’d been here two weeks.” Jasmine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It sounded like the girl Miriam was describing was her. Unexpectedly, Jasmine remembered details of her interminable hospital stay when she was seven. Once she started to feel better, she was really bored. When she didn’t have visitors or wasn’t reading or coloring, she’d watch the trains to pass the time. The sound of the whistle was really soothing and the sight of all the train cars moving past her window was really kind of hypnotic. She wondered where are all those people were going--to work, to their grandparents in another town, or on vacation? The stories Jasmine made up about them kept her busy for what seemed like hours. “What did the patient look like?” “I can see her right now. She was the cutest little thing. The child had beautiful shoulder-length dark curls that her mother would brush for her every day when she came in. I’d say she had olive skin, but it had a bit of a pallor since she was so sick. Despite feeling poorly, she always managed to smile at the nurses and to say please and thank you. Such a sweet little girl. Whenever I was in her room, I’d spend some additional time with her, giving her an extra cup of juice, putting a cool damp cloth on her forehead, talking to her...” Jasmine’s heart was pounding. She took a couple deep breaths. “Do you remember her name?” “Jasmine. I remember that because it was such a pretty name. I can’t recall her last name though. It was at least 15 years ago when she was here, but she made an impression on me. Aside from being so sweet, she absolutely loved the trains. She could see them from her window. When she was so sick, I’d make up little stories about the people on the trains. Then, when she started to feel better, we’d tell each other stories about them.” “Mrs. Sanderson. I believe that little girl was me. Thank you so much for taking such good care of me. “That little girl I saw looking out the hospital window was me too, but that doesn’t make any sense. How can the current me and the child me both exist in this time and place? Jasmine felt her entire body tremble. Was the elderly woman who looked like Grandmom me too? Is this real or am I hallucinating? “Jasmine, are you still there?” “Sorry. Yes, I’m here, but I’m suddenly feeling a bit nauseous. I don’t think my lunch agreed with me,” Jasmine fibbed. “I’m sorry to hear that, dear. Please call me again. Maybe we could meet for lunch sometime. I could answer more of your questions for your paper. Besides, I’d love to see you all grown up if that’s alright with you.” “That would be lovely, Mrs. Sanderson. Thanks again for your help,” said Jasmine and placed her phone in her handbag. I think I need to go back to the hospital. I want to meet the woman in room 508 in the east building.

*Time: 2024, one year post outbreak* Back when the outbreak began, Austin was ordered to evacuate, as all major cities were. Almost everyone complied, and those who weren’t were rounded up and forced to by the military. Everyone the government had on record was accounted for and pushed out of the city, whether they wanted to or not; but no one stopped to check to make sure that I, the blind homeless man living in an alley between a hotel and a convenience store, ever complied with the evacuation orders. \_\_\_\_\_ I woke up in my shelter (a former hotel room), and my first feeling was the same one I felt every morning; hunger. So I put my braille copy of *To Kill a Mockingbird* back on my shelf (I had a bad habit of reading myself to sleep)*,* and decided to go check on my traps, hoping I’d caught something to eat. If I was lucky I’d get a racoon or a possum, but if nothing else I was sure there’d be a rat or a pigeon. I grabbed my mobility cane, strapped on my utility belt, and carefully opened the door to my room. I poked my head out, carefully listening to anything that might have been an infected. I hadn’t heard or smelled an infected in weeks, but you could never be too careful. I didn’t hear anything, so I continued walking. Even though I had muscle memorized my way out of the building, I still held onto my wire just in case. I had long set up a series of wires in the building to always lead me back to my room if I got lost. I unlocked the building’s front door, and once again listened for the infected. I heard nothing, so I pressed on. I could tell just by the feeling of heat on my skin that it was daytime, so I knew there’d be less infected wandering the streets. The infected preferred to be out at night, they only wandered during the day if they were really hungry. I learned early on that if I stuck with the same buildings each time, animals would stop falling my traps after like, a week or so. But after a month or so, the wildlife would forget, and I’d be free to set up traps there again. So, I tried to change my locations at least every 3 or 4 days, and not use the same buildings for at least four weeks. Today the start of a new set up. As I was approaching the building (I memorized how many steps it took to get there), I heard the one sound I wanted to hear the least; the low pitched snarl of an infected. And even if I couldn’t hear him, I could definitely smell him approaching. Most infected start to smell after a while, but this one was particularly rancid. From the sound of it, it was alone. I waited for it to get closer, and could still only hear one footstep at a time, so I felt a bit lucky that it was a loner. I drew my revolver, and waited for the infected to get closer. As he did, I isolated the sound of his growling; once I had a lock on his head, I aimed, and pulled the trigger. I then checked to make sure I didn’t miss. I put away my gun and drew my machete, ready to fight it off if it was still alive. It wasn’t; I felt it’s lifeless body with my mobility cane, I knew it was dead. I then continued towards the building where I laid my traps. Once inside, I ran my cane along the wall, checking the snares I laid out. My first three snares were nothing. This was expected, not every single one could be a winner. But as I approached my fourth snare, I smelled something, so I knew I must have caught something. I felt it to take sure it had died; it did. So I put my plastic gloves on, and bent down to feel what it was; it was a racoon. I then put it in a plastic bag, tied it to my belt, and then moved on. While I continued searching, I heard something else walk into the building. Then, I heard the growls, and knew it must have been infected. But it wasn’t just one this time, I could hear at least three growling mouths. And they were getting closer. I couldn’t fight all three at once; there was no way I could isolate their sounds quickly enough to shoot with accuracy, and trying to fight them off with my machete would’ve been hopeless. So instead, I ran. I found a door. I opened it. I then closed it behind me. But this wasn’t going to help me for long; the infected weren’t very smart, but they usually remembered enough of their old lives to do basic tasks like flipping light switches and opening doors. While they stumbled towards the door, I wandered the room more. I found a staircase; this must have been the emergency stairwell. I started walking up, hoping I could lose the infected on another floor. But then, as I was approaching the top floor, I could hear a loud pounding coming from above. Something was stumbling down the steps. I drew my gun, and waited. I could only hear one snarl, so it must have been another loner. Once I isolated his sound, I fired, and could tell just by the sudden *thud* on the ground that I landed another shot. But I didn’t have time to even catch my breath, because the other three infected were coming. I dashed up the steps, hoping to escape them. I got to the next floor, and felt the walls until I found the door. I opened it, dashed past, and slammed it behind me. I then started feeling for a piece of furniture I could use to barricade the door. I didn’t find anything, and I could hear the infected approaching. One of them opened the door, but before any could enter, I threw my entire body weight against it. I could tell something was caught in the door, probably an arm or a leg. While still pressed against the door, I pulled my machete, and started flailing. I must have hit something, because one of them screamed in pain and recoiled. I quickly realized how futile it would be to try to hold them back much longer, so I sheathed my machete, drew my gun, and took a few steps backward. The moment I heard the door swing open, I opened fire. It would have been pointless to try to shoot them back in the lobby, but in a tight doorway where all three would be stumbling over themselves to push past, I knew I’d have to hit something. I fired my four remaining shots as best I could, and then took off running. I had no idea how many I killed, and had no intent of waiting to find out the hard way. The explosive sounds of the gunshots gave me temporary tinnitus. When it wore off, I could hear one set of footsteps and one snarling mouth stumbling after me. I didn’t have time to reload my gun, and could tell by my cane that I reached the end of the hallway and had no idea where else to run. So I drew my machete and got ready for a fight. As the infected got closer, I started flailing my machete. Most infected are smart enough to not run face first into a blade. It would instead circle me, hoping to catch me off guard. I swung at it, but missed, and it grabbed my arm. This was bad, but not the end; it would be if it bit me, but a scratch wouldn’t infect me. It then tried to pull me in close, probably to land a bite, but I quickly slashed it with my machete, and cut its arm clean off. It then howled in pain; that was good, it’s howl let me know exactly what it was. I then raised my machete and threw out one last slash, one that buried my blade in its skull. I then paused and listened for any more infected. I heard none. I reloaded my gun, just to be safe, but still, I heard nothing. With all that madness out of the way, I breathed a sigh of relief, checked to make sure my racoon was still where I left it, and started making my way back out. This was the hardest part of my new life; anytime I lost track of where I am, it’s a struggle to get back to a landmark. But thankfully, all I had to do was follow the hallway to the end and go back down the stairs to end up back in the lobby where I started. I don’t know how long I’m going to make it living day by day in the ruins of my city. But at that moment, all I needed to know was that I was about to have dinner.

We're 25,000 feet above ground as I look at the photos from the day before and a tear escapes my eyes. I stop to admire the handsome man sitting next to me whose hand is still clutching one mine even as he snoozes. I'm happier than I've been in years, but as those photos tell me, someone will always be missing. I can see my father in my mind’s eye. I can't help but think that he should've been the one to walk me down the aisle, not dear Uncle Ben. I'm positive that he would have tears in his eyes that would mirror my own. My reveries are interrupted by the intercom. The pilot announces we're about to land as a flight attendant tells me I should wake Dan up. I whisper his name by his ear as my free hand caresses the stubble that covers the brown skin of his face. He looks at me, eyes slowing focusing before he drops a tender kiss to my lips when he comes to. *** The view from the airplane had been fantastic, but on the ground it's even more breathtaking. After spending some lazy days sunbathing in Cancun, we go on a road trip to Belize. We stop by any and every interesting beach, park or tourist attraction on our way. We chat with the locals, learn about their lives and make new temporary friends. I don't remember feeling that free since I used to go on boat trips with my dad. Our destinations were always uncertain and involved lots of open sea swimming and diving. It feels like going back home even if the Caribbean sun makes my skin look almost as red as my hair. Dan jokes that I no longer look like the Little Mermaid, as my dad used to call me. He says I look like the little shrimp now and I playfully punch his toned arm as he applies sunscreen to my burnt skin. It's certainly easier to swim in Florida where the sun is a bit more forgiving. Still, considering that I haven't swum or been to a beach there in over 10 years, this is perfect. *** We're having lunch one day when Dan excuses himself to go to the toilet. He comes back talking to a man who gives him his card. He has a broad smile on his face as he returns to our table. “Who was that?” “That guy was the owner of an amazing resort focused on sports and nature here. From what he’s showed me, my gym pales in comparison. They have everything there! He’s invited us over. Do you wanna check it out tomorrow?” We drive over the next day and Carlos, the owner, shows us around. His attire is much more casual today as he isn't wearing a suit and his exposed dark skin shines under the sun. He and Dan end up spending a lot of time talking, so it is a relief that his teenage daughter, Alicia, stays with me. Our group goes horseback riding next to a river and then we Canopy walk until we reach a zipline. I feel alive as my body glides down towards the ground. I wonder how I could keep myself so far away from nature for such a long time. It's true that all sorts of creatures swim around the corridors of the aquarium I work at, but this is different. I'm so lost in my thoughts that I almost get kicked in the backside as Alicia is gliding down. Her black curls, that are even darker than her skin, dance in the wind until her feet hits the ground. They cover her face for a moment and she’s brushing them away when a boy screams from far away. “Lici!” Alicia looks at the group of people the boy is in. He says something to her in what I assume is Kriol, the Belizean Creole. Her eyes dart between me and them. “I should go. Will you be okay?” “Yeah, sure. Dan is right over there.” Alicia is already a few steps away when she turns around. “You know what? We’re going to take some of our guests to the Great Blue Hole tomorrow. I bet you’d love it, Becca!" She raises her voice as she continues, "I’m sure dad won’t mind talking some more to Dan, right dad?” "Definitely not! You gotta come with us!" Carlos exclaims as he proceeds to tell us about Amberguis Caye, the island close to the Blue Hole. “Thanks. We’ll think about it,” I tell him, but I'm sure I won't be going. We decide to stay the night as the sun is about to set and we sit by the beach to watch it. Dan wraps an arm around me and drops a kiss to my temple as he asks me about going to Ambergris Caye. “I don’t know...” I trail off. “We don’t have to dive or go on the boat trip at all. We can see how it’s like there while we wait for the other tourists to come back.” In the distance I can see Alicia and her group of friends having fun. Spending the day with her reminded me of my own girlhood. It makes me realize I'm keeping myself from doing things I used to dream of. “Actually, we should. I can’t be held hostage by fear forever, Dan. It’s been too long since dad went missing and I can’t let go of it. He went fishing, there was a storm, his boat capsized and it is scary, but I need to go back to the sea. That’s what I love!” I confess and I feel his hands squeezing mine. *** Ambergris Caye is just as splendid as both Carlos and Alicia had told us. Dan and I look at each other when we get to the Great Blue Hole. We reach a silent agreement, so we reply in unison when Alicia asks us if we would rather go snorkelling or diving. Alicia warns us about the dangers of the Blue Hole and tells us not to swim too deep or too far away. Dan and I look at the fish and I point at the ones I hadn't seen in real life before. I see a barracuda and follow it from afar for a few seconds only to resurface to talk to Dan. I dive again when I don't see him and after a few attempts I rush to the boat to ask for help. Some sailors dive with me as we look for him until Alicia grabs my hands and pulls me to the surface. "Your tank is almost empty," she says as she points at it. As we return to the boat she tells me we have to go back. They'll ask the coastal patrol for help, but as it's almost night they'll only conduct the searches on the following day. It will be too late by then. All I could see were reruns of the fateful day in which Uncle Ben called me during class to tell me they could not find my dad. To these days I wonder if we could have found him had I convinced the other fishermen to keep looking after the coastal patrol gave up. I was not about to make the same mistake again. “I’m going back in. Give me another tank,” I state, but I can hear my voice breaking. “Becca, we must go back. The sun will set soon and everyone’s lives will be in danger if we don’t make back in time. We’ll miss the airplane, too. We have nowhere to stay here.” “I can’t leave him,” I say through the tears I can no longer hold them back. "If you want to go, just go, but I'll keep looking for Dan." Alicia walks away from me and I hear her talking to her father in Kriol. I'm sure they have a small argument before Alicia comes back. “Come on, we’ve got 30 minutes. Gear up,” she explains as she grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet. We put on our masks and grab new tanks. We move straight down as quick as possible. I'm looking around as frantically as I can for any sign of Dan. I end up losing sight of Alicia until she materializes next to me while pointing at something. I notice her other hand is clutching a beautiful necklace I don't remember she had on before. She lets go of it as she starts guiding me towards the direction she had pointed at. I see the necklace has a bright blue pendant in the format of a shell attached to it. My mind snaps out of it when I see a figure stuck to a rock a couple of minutes later. It’s Dan. Alicia and I proceed to pull him with us and we keep swimming upwards until we finally resurface. Dan is taken to a hospital once we get to the shore. Carlos rushes to the airport with the other guests, but he arranges reservations with a friend for us and Alicia before he goes. I stop pacing and sit next to her. I thank her for saving Dan's life as I see her toying with her necklace and decide to ask her about it. “Oh, this? It’s nothing. Just a childhood gift from my mom,” She says as her long ebony fingers trace its length and stop at the pendant hanging from it. I feel like it’s bewitching me again until she hides the pendant underneath her blouse. “What happened to her?” “She comes and goes. This is the only thing she’s ever given to me.” “I’m sorry. I know what it’s like not to have your mom with you. Mine passed when I was very young and then my father passed, too." “I'm sure your parents are watching over you from wherever they are, though. We were really lucky to find Dan in time, Becca.” “We were...” I clutch my coffee and tell her to go get some rest. I pace some more after Alicia is gone until a nurse informs me that Daniel Sanchez wants to see me. She guides me to his room and I dash towards him. I was the one supposed to soothe him, but I can't stop crying. As I calm down, Dan tells me he's seen something weird when he was underwater. He describes people in colorful clothes talking to him. I tell him it was probably the lack of oxygen that caused him to see those things, but he insists that he wants to go back there. I try to dissuade him from this idea, but as I can't I decide to go back with him against my best judgment. *** We've been swimming for a couple of minutes when Dan suddenly stops. He points at a piece of rock that looks unlike any other and proceeds to palm it, as if he was trying to find a lock or something that would open it up. Nothing happens and I pull at his arm, desperate to get back up and leave this place that almost turned my biggest dream into my new worst nightmare. Dan is starting to follow me, visibly defeated, when Alicia motions us to stop. I look at her in horror as she removes her mask and gets her necklace from the inside of her swimsuit. She turns it towards the rock and it jerks slightly. She pulls it aside and a tunnel appears before our eyes. Dan and I can only stare at each other. She tells us to follow her and we surprisingly can make out her voice despite the fact that we're many feet underwater. Before I'm able to stop him, Dan follows her and I have no option but to follow them. We reach the other side and I'm appalled. It was like walking into an underwater castle. Colorful reefs and pearls adorned the walls of the caves as the light touched them. "Luminescent algae," Alicia tells me as she sees the confusion in my face regarding the origin of that light. "It's beautiful, isn't it? Welcome home." "Home?" I ask and the noise reverberate inside my mask. Alicia moves towards me and started to remove my mask., but I hold tight onto it. "Come on, take it off. You can breathe down here." I remove it reluctantly and I'm shocked to find out that I wasn't drowning. "See? You weren't called Little Mermaid for nothing." "How do you know that? I've never..." I start to ask as she rushes towards Dan and stops him from removing his mask. "She can breathe down here, but you can't. If you want to die you take it off!" she warns. "Why can we stay without the masks but he can't?" "We're... mermaids," she explains as she makes air quotes with her fingers, disdain written all over her face. "Well, not mermaids as they picture in fairy tales, but we can do pretty much everything they do. We don't lure poor fishermen to kill them, though. And actually, not having a fish tail is a plus." I glance at Dan again and I wish I could hear what he's trying to tell me. This is madness and maybe he could talk some sense back into me. "Are we dead? Did I lose my consciousness or am hallucinating?" I scream and manag to scare some of the fish that had been peacefully swimming nearby. "Not at all. Come, someone is eager to see you." As she pulls another rock, we enter what looks like a huge covered patio. Half a dozen people -- if I could call them people -- who were going about their business stop to look at us. Most of their mouths are agape and they seem to be just as shocked by seeing us as I am by seeing them. Alicia keeps moving until we reach another arc. She yells and a somewhat familiar face greets us. She hugs Alicia and then stops to look at me. “Rebecca Stewart?” “Yes. Rebecca Sanchez now, this is Dan, my husband,” I tell her while turning to look at him. He's still by my side and holding my hand even if his eyes can't stop roaming the space around him. “Who are you?” “I’m Hellen. I'm Lici's mom and Ben’s daughter.” “Ben’s? As in Uncle Ben’s?!” “Yes. Haven’t you told her anything?” Hellen asks Alicia, who shakes her head. “Well, there’s a lot of catching up to do, then.” Hellen explains that we're merpeople. Alicia and I were first cousins once removed. Uncle Ben and his wife had met through my parents and fallen in love. Her mother had to come back to the sea because of her and Ben stayed in Cortez as he wasn't a merperson. “I couldn’t live up there, not for long. Some of us can’t, we don’t know why.” She takes a deep breath before continuing. “I met Carlos one day when he was diving here and we had little Lici,” she says nodding towards her daughter. “Not little mom,” Alicia said irritated, but I could barely pay attention to her as all the information sunk in. “Oh, teenagers... Anyways, I went back visit my father when my mom passed as he couldn’t come himself. Your father was taking me to open sea so that I could meet our people and swim back. He went underwater to greet them, but we were attacked as we were approaching them.” “Attacked? By whom?” "We don't know for sure, but there are many groups of merpeople who are against us mingling with humans. Apparently they found what allows us to breathe when we're on land and they did something to prevent us from going back. Your father lived with you and your mom there for almost 20 years. I could stay there for a month or so. Now we can't stay even for a couple of minutes." "We? Does that mean that..." I can't bring myself to finish the sentence. I had to let him go. I couldn't create false expectations... "Your dad is alive, yes. He's the one who found Dan here when he was out there trying to sneak a peak at you. Luckly Alicia was around." We swim towards another arc on the other side of the cave and a man pushes the hanging beads aside. "Dad?!" I scream and I grimace, certain that tears would be rolling down my face if we weren't underwater. “Little mermaid!” He squeezes me in his arms. "Why didn't you tell me? I've missed you so much!" "I've missed you, too! I made sure Alicia kept in touch with Ben, but..." "I mourned you, I still do! You could've let me know!" "It was dangerous to contact you. As much as they hate those of us who live outside the sea, they keep in contact with humans. They could find you and keep you from living on land. Your entire life was in Florida..." I step back from his embrace and glance at Dan. Him, dad and now Alicia. They were the people I cared the most about. "No, dad. My life is right here." *** Dan and Carlos work together at the resort now while I work at a marine reserve. Alicia starts studying Oceanography and we help each other out. I explain the most complicated subjects to her and she gives me a hand at the reserve on weekends. Whenever we can, we study merpeople anatomy as we try to discover what enables us to breathe as humans and fish. Each month we head to Ambergris Caye to spend time with our underwater family. Every time we dive with Dan and Carlos we hope someday we'll be able to reunite again. On water and on land.

The elderly woman diverts her attention for a moment, just a moment, to the beauty of her surroundings. Her gentle eyes take in the water around her, the delicate ripples which stimulate one another in a sort of domino effect. She remembers playing dominoes as a child. She recalls the delight her toddler self would feel when she would poke that first domino, sending to lot of them falling down. The thought of fallen dominoes reminds her of a heartwarming scene she had witnessed at the camp, roughly a week ago. Three of the members, girls aged four, five and six, had joined hands and swung around and around until they had felt dizzy. They then collapsed onto the grass, giggling. The woman’s grey eyes twinkle as she remembers the joy which the scene had brought her. It made her heart feel full. The woman closes her eyes for a moment and listens to the chirpings birds in the inland trees, to the refreshing winds gently pushing along their canoes, and the steadfast movement of the river. “Are you ok?” The elderly woman opens her eyes and smiles down at the source of the timid voice, a young four-year-old boy sitting in the canoe alongside her and the other children. “Yes love, I’m alright.” She pats the boy’s wild locks of hazel hair. He beams up at her. The elderly woman lifts her gaze from the young boy and watches another canoe, only inches behind their own. The canoe, also filled with a set of young children, is being led by a man around the same age as the elderly woman; he was in his seventies. Her husband. ---------------------------------------------------------------- “Oh, look!” the young woman says to her husband, pointing a finger at the winding river. There are two canoes, one led by an elderly woman and the other by an equally elderly man. She spots two canoes, each filled with young children of different races and ethnicities. The children appear to be happy and intrigued by the big friendly river and the mysteries it masks under the deep waters. “Hmm?’ her husband says absent-mindedly, laying down blissfully on the outstretched picnic blanket. He sits up and his blissful demeanor is opted for one of surprise. “Huh, I wonder who they are,” he muses, also intrigued. “They’re likely part of some sort of camp.” “Careful honey!” the young woman suddenly calls out, gently reaching for the arm of her toddler. The carefree boy had innocently been making his way over to the shore of the river, fascinated by the canoeing children. Together, the young family watch as the two canoes slowly but surely make their way down the massive, twisty turny river. ---------------------------------------------------------------- As the elderly woman stares down at the chatting young children in her canoe, each one almost swallowed whole but their lifejacket, she feels a familiar pang of sadness. That sadness is caused by a familiar reason. How sad it is that all of these children are less than six years old , she thinks to herself, listening to the children’s laughter. Actually, most of the children were exactly six years old , though a few were younger. Orphaned at such a young age. She herself had been orphaned at the age of sixteen, and at the time she had thought that to be a very young age. She had been devastated when the orphanage had brought over these incredibly young children to participate in their specialized camp. She couldn’t help but feel grateful that she had been able to share fond memories with her parents in her short time with them. A few of the children, the youngest ones, didn't remember their parents at all. The elderly woman watches them huddle curiously around a young boy and the pretty rocks which he had collected when they had been on shore. The proud young boy is the same child who had asked her earlier if she were alright. The child displays his prized possessions. “That one is pretty!” says a five-year-old Malaysian girl. The local orphanage sponsored children from all around the world, and particularly dealt with very young children. The girl’s parents had passed away when she was only two years old and she didn’t remember them well. Shyly, she points to a brilliant red rock in the group and says, “May I touch it?” The young boy nods and, with a smile, he hands the rock to the excited girl. “That rock is really pretty!” the elderly woman agrees, admiring the beautiful shade of red. Red is her favourite colour, the colour of love. “I like that one,” says a six-year old boy, sponsored from Egypt. He points to a simple looking, smooth grey rock. It is similar in shade to the woman’s own eyes. “You can touch it,” the young boy says, handing it to his Egyptian friend. “Maybe you will find more cool rocks when we return to shore,” the elderly woman says and the children nod their heads eagerly. The kids thoroughly enjoy being outdoors, to the delight of the elderly couple. The beauty of nature is so often overlooked ; the elderly woman had said to her husband. Suddenly, the elderly woman notices that one child is not part of the huddle around the rocks. A five-year-old girl sits a little further back in the massive canoe. Her eyes are fixed on the river waters, a pair of eyes which had a mature aura about them that made the Indian girl seem far older. Her eyes dart back and forth fascinatedly, as she follows the twisty turny pattern of the massive winding lake. Sensing the elderly woman’s gaze, the Indian girl turns to face her, fixing that same mature gaze upon her. The woman smiles. “You like the river?” she asks and the Indian girl nods. “It’s like a snake,” she says in a low yet crystal clear voice. The elderly woman chuckles, “It really is.” “How’s it going you lot?” Startled, the elderly woman turns to find the second canoe has moved forward so that it is now on the left side of her canoe, opposed to just behind it. Her husband chuckles. “Scared you? Sorry, didn’t mean to.” With a crinkling smile, he gazes at the children who all peer up at him adoringly. They love him. He has a way with them. In that same shy voice, the Malaysian girl asks, “Story time?” The elderly husband beams down at her. “That’s right love. That’s why I canoed over here. Would you all like to hear another story?” The children nod eagerly and the elderly wife smiles. Her husband is a retired pilot and a very good sailor so he has plenty of old stories to tell. The children soak them up like a sponge. “Tell us a scary story,” the young boy with the rocks says, looking up cheekily at the massive figure of the husband. “Oh, but not too scary,” the Malaysian girl shudders and I chuckle. My husband smiles thoughtfully and says, “I’ve got a scary story for you but it has a happy ending. Would you like to hear it?” All children nod. “Alright then.” As the two canoes steer in a snake-like fashion along the rivers, the husband begins. “This happened to me when I had just become a pilot. I was really excited. I had wanted to fly a plane since I was...” he smiles at the young Egyptian boy and pats him on the head, “...your age. I loved planes. I wanted to fly them so badly and I finally could. “ The elderly woman smiles to herself. She’s heard this story before. “I decided to take my best friend for a ride. He actually had no idea that I was becoming a pilot, I wanted it to be a surprise. When I told him I got my license, his face was priceless,” the old man chuckles, remembering his old friend. “I had asked him where he wanted to go and he said anywhere. He just wanted to fly. We decided to fly over Oklahoma. It was only a half an hour flight from here, easy stuff even for a beginner. We hopped in the plane and we were off. “ “Ok...la...homa,” says a three-year-old girl, spelling it out carefully with the same meticulousness of a baker icing a cake. A sudden droplet of water lands on the nose of the unsuspecting elderly woman, and she looks up at the sky in surprise. Rain? She waits a few moments but no more droplets fall. She turns her attention back to her husband and smiles at the eager looking children. The younger handful of the children couldn’t always really understand her husband’s stories but they loved crowding around him and listening all the same. “Yes, Oklahoma. I should have known,” the man says cryptically, then goes on. “Anyways, we were really having a good time. The sky looks so beautiful up close like that, and everything down below looked so small. The houses and trees seemed so tiny. We were enjoying the view when I noticed something. The skies had grown a little dark, they were grey. Then I saw droplets of water falling from the sky; rain. It was raining-" “I love rain,” says the four-year-old boy, owner of the prized rock collection. The old man nods and smiles, crow’s feet and dimples coming into display. “So do I, boy, but I wasn’t going to be able to enjoy it that day. At first, we didn’t care. Just a little bit of rain. No big deal. We kept flying, chatting, joking around. Then, I heard it. The first roar of thunder. That’s when I realized how much darker the skies had grown.” “A thunderstorm?” says another six-year-old boy, a quiet sort from South Africa. “Scary!” shivers the Malaysian girl. Suddenly, a shower of rain strikes the surprised group and they look up at the sky. It’s raining. “Uh oh,” says the elderly husband, turning to look at his wife. “Maybe we should return to shore. The kids will get soaked and we don’t want anyone catching colds.” “I agree,” she smiles down at the disappointed expressions on a few of the children’s faces. “Don’t worry, we can go rock hunting again, instead.” The two canoes began to turn around, winding down the river in the opposite direction. “Um...are you going to tell us your story?” asks the South African. The elder husband’s eyes brighten. “Yes, sorry! So, it was raining, like it is now. Then, we heard thunder. I remember being afraid but trying to hide it. I was only a beginner pilot, remember. I didn’t want to fly through a storm. That's every beginner pilot's worse nightmare. There was nowhere to land, however, so I had to keep flying. I remember the thunder had sounded so loud. Fierce like a lion. It was scary. It was getting harder to see, too. The sky was completely dark, as if somebody had painted it black. My hands were shaking a little but I was trying to stay focused. But then...there was lightning. Big flashes of lightning. Right in front of me. That’s when my friend and I looked at each other in fear. We didn’t want to get struck." A sudden rumble echoes above the group. The rain is falling down more forcefully. There is another rumble; thunder. It is still a long way back to shore. The elderly couple exchange a glance. The elderly woman remembers learning something at a young age that most kids her age had known. It’s never a good idea to be in water during a thunderstorm. Noting the fearful expression on the faces of the drenched children, the husband says calmly, “Don’t worry. We’re heading back to shore.” Suddenly, his eyes light up as a he remembers something. He turns to his wife. “The tarpaulin!” He stops canoeing for a moment and bends down to open a hidden compartment built into the floor of the canoe. A small blue tarpaulin is found, folded up neatly and ready to be used. “Of course!” said the wife with a laugh. “I forgot about it.” She pulls out tarpaulin from her canoe. “We had packed this just in case. Here children, you can use this to cover your heads so you don’t get wet.” Their fears forgotten temporarily, the children laugh as they use their little fingers to drape the tarpaulin over the heads. “I used to make forts with my blanket,” the Egyptian boy smiles. “Like this.” Ignoring their own drenched bodies, the elderly woman and husband try to pick up the pace with the canoeing. Thunder roars above them and the children huddle together under the tarpaulin, fear having returned. The husband looks up at the sky, fear on his weather-worn face and he prays silently that lightning won’t strike the water. Suddenly, the Malaysian girl gasps and points a trembling finger at the clouds. “Lightning!” she says in a quivering voice. The husband turns and sees another clash of lightning, fortunately going from cloud to cloud and not cloud to ground. “Don’t worry,” he says, gently. "It’s just hitting the clouds, not the water.” It was a tense ten minutes to shore but at last, they gave a cheer of relief as they made it. “Hurry into the camp!” the elderly woman instructs the children, the moment they reach land. The children don’t need to be told twice and, dropping the tarpaulin, they hurry to the humble, home-like building which resides only metres away. The couple pull the two canoes far inland and hurry to join the children. As they do, the elderly woman turns back just in time to see another bolt of lightning illuminate the sky. She shudders and hurries inside. To their surprise, they find the children surrounding a young family, a husband, wife and very young boy. The only worker in the building, their young twenty-five-year-old grandson, comes to greet them. ---------------------------------------------------------------- “I told them to come inside and take shelter!” says the young man who let the young husband and wife in with their toddler. The young husband and wife are surprised to see the elderly couple and children they had spotted canoeing earlier. The elderly couple smile at the younger one. “No problem at all, don’t worry!” says the elderly woman kindly, smiling at the young family. “Would you like something to eat?” “Oh, I think you should dry off first!” says the young woman with a laugh. The elderly woman glances down at her drenched self and at her husband. She grins, “You’re right.” “I think you and the children should all dry off,” the grandson says amusedly and, agreeing, the group head off. The grandson is left with the young family. “Are they orphans?” the young husband asks quietly and the grandson nods sadly. “Yes, they are. Our camp is paired up with a local orphanage which specifically deals with very young orphans, under the age of six or so. Sad, isn’t it? We try to give them a little bit of fun and companionship in their lives. My grandparents are really amazing and the children love them. It’s wonderful.” “Those poor children,” the young wife says, suddenly clutching her toddler tightly. The child squeals in surprise but giggles at his mother’s affection. “Would you look at that,” the young husband suddenly says, pointing outside with a laugh. “The storm has already stopped.” Sure enough, the dark skies had been replaced with a glorious blue canvas. Sunshine was already beginning to beam down on the earth once again. ---------------------------------------------------------------- “Why, the storm is gone!” the elderly husband says as the crew returns downstairs to join the grandson and young family. “Can we look for rocks again?” the Malaysian girl asks, a shy hand clutching her arm. “Yes, it looks like the storm is gone! Anyways, if it starts to rain again, we can hurry back inside.,’ says the elderly husband. With a smile, he turns to the young family. “Would you like to join us?” “We would love to,” the young husband returns the smile. The lot of them head outside and smile up at the glorious sunshine. The world was peaceful once again. As the adults watch the children laugh and play together, looking for the most unique rocks, the Egyptian boy shyly approaches the elderly husband. “What happened...in your story?” The elderly husband beams down at the boy and slings an arm over his shoulder. “Well son, it was pretty scary. We could hardly see a thing and we were afraid of being struck by lightning. Nowadays, we have great technology and our planes can generally handle being struck. Not in my day, though. But...” the elderly man finishes with a smile. “We survived. We made it. I couldn’t see a thing but I managed to keep the plane flying straight and we didn’t crash into anything. We managed to land. That’s my moral for you, kid. Always be faithful, always have hope and stay positive, no matter what life throws at you.” The boy nods, “Thank you.” With that, he joins his friends. The sunshine beams down on the happy scene.

~ May, 1946~ When Mother sent me to deliver gifts to Mr. Kent, I didn’t reckon I’d bother. I’d take the basket, sure. Fine. Then maybe I’d walk a half-mile up the road and dump the stuff-maybe eat it, actually-sit awhile in the dust, and head back home. After all, new residents shouldn’t be the ones delivering presents. That’s the town’s job, isn’t it? You know, all the welcoming old villagers and their shiny smiling faces, coming to bear gifts to the newcomers? That’s how it’s supposed to be. But no one was very welcoming in Blackoak, Kansas. Not the families, not the land, and definitely not the other kids. They whispered things and cast funny looks at me and my old clothes. At school I’d heard kids call our new home the Riddler house. Supposedly the man who’d lived there had been a recluse, died alone, and now haunted the place. I didn’t believe the haunting part for two reasons. One, no ghost in their right mind would want to haunt a miserable house like Mr. Riddler’s. Two, he wasn’t dead. Mother had met him when buying the house. He conned us, if you ask me. The floors creaked, the walls peeled, and the windows offered only a depressing view of whispering yellow grass. The house was falling apart, just like everything else in the stupid town. I was staring out at that endless ocean of fields when my mother’s voice rang through the house for the third time. “Susie. Take the basket and get out.” She wasn’t yelling, but I flinched at her voice anyway. I’d ignored her long enough. I grabbed the bundle of bread and jam off the kitchen counter and kicked my way out the front door. The screen banged shut behind me. I could have stopped on the road and carried out my initial plan. But I didn’t. Barefoot, I trudged over the dusty path, sweating and thinking about an old wedding photo of my parents, about how sharp my mother’s features looked nowadays: her hollow cheeks, her dull eyes. No longer soft and plump, no longer gentle. No longer happy. No one was ever happy anymore, it seemed. But Mr. Kent better be, I thought menacingly, swinging the basket, when he gets these confounded jellies. I was lucky I didn’t pass his house right by. While I was still on the road I had that uneasy-being-watched-feeling, looked up, and there it was off in the distance-sitting on the crown of a grassy hill, windows dark like eyes. If there were any ghosts in this town, they lived in this house, for sure. It even looked like a phantom with its off-white siding, black gaping eyes, and wide front porch mouth. Up the hill I trudged, until I was encroaching on the ghost-house’s front yard. And there I stopped. The prairie grass murmured in the wind. Behind me, trees rustled their dry leaves; somewhere on the house, a shutter squealed. Quiet. I hated quiet. “Who’re you?” a voice barked. I jumped. “Suzanne Ellis,” I said, but I couldn’t see who was talking until a figure rose out of the tall grass. It was an old man, with a thin white beard and a tattered pair of overalls. “Who’s that?” he demanded. I gulped at the hoe in his hand. My knees shook a little, but I stood up straight anyway. “Neighbor,” I answered steadily. He contemplated. “You’re in the Riddler house?” I nodded. Some of my hair had come free from my braids, and it blew across my face. “Well, did I invite you here?” I shook my head. “Then get off my property!” Turning, he propped the hoe up on his shoulder. I watched him for a second, stunned. “Rude way to welcome a guest.” He didn’t stop. “Not a guest if you weren’t invited. Get off my land, girl.” The basket handle grew slick in my hands. “Aren’t you gonna ask me why I’m here?” He turned again, and this time I could see red blotches in his ancient face. “I don’t care why you’re here, just-” He paused at the sight of the stupid gift basket. Maybe he realized he was yelling at an eleven-year-old girl and felt bad. “What’s that?” he asked gruffly. “Gifts.” I made my voice as falsely cheerful as possible as I held out the basket, resisting the temptation to drop it and smash the jelly, and waited. He seemed confused. “What?” I asked, irritated. One of his bushy brows went up. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?” “Just-take-the-basket.” He stared at me. “Leave it there.” “Excuse me?” “Just drop it.” “My mother made this stuff. For you .” “Didn’t ask for it.” “Well, I didn’t ask to bring it!” “I said leave it!” “Fine!” I shoved the basket to the ground. Glass shattered. Jam was all over the dirt. Bread my mother had spent hours laboring on, wasted, inedible. We stared at it. “Mm,” he said thoughtfully. Then, “Clean it up.” Anger made my face hot. “And what if I don’t?” “Then I tell your mother all about that food you just wasted, that’s what!” That shut me up, for about three seconds. “No need to flip your wig,” I muttered, stooping to pluck glass shards out of the dirt with trembling fingers. “What was that?” I straightened up, wincing at a slice on my finger. A crimson drop of blood stained the jam jar. “You’re an ungrateful old man-that’s what.” His brows narrowed. “You’re an ungrateful little girl.” Then he disappeared into his house. I carried the glass pieces halfway home in the basket, buried them under some trees, and then made the mistake of bringing the empty basket inside. Mother was furious. “That was part of the gift, Su!” she said, slapping her drying cloth against the counter. I fumbled through my explanation and ended up telling her the whole thing anyway. Then she was even more furious. “You’re apologizing tomorrow. You’re going over and saying you’re sorry.” “But-” “No!” she snapped. “I don’t care what you have to say about it. You’re apologizing and you’re bringing over more bread and jam. I’ll not have our neighbors thinking we’re some uncivilized barbarians.” “He’s the barbarian.” She stood there on the kitchen floor, staring at me, grinding her teeth. “You have no respect.” Having delivered this blow, she resumed washing dishes. “No supper for you.” As if I cared. I barely slept that night. Thought about escaping through my bedroom window and spending the midnight hours lying in the field, but I had nothing to climb down on. My stomach growled and my eyes begged for sleep, but every time I shut them I saw my mother in her wedding gown. Smiling. She had Dad in that photo. Dad. Be my brave girl. Tears stung at my eyes. I swiped them away with my knuckles before remembering that she was not watching me, could not see me, could not tell me to cheer up and put that frown away. Next morning I had school, but afterwards I was sent straight over to the Kent place with the same darn basket and different goodies. He was in his yard again, in the same spot, hoeing a square of dirt. When I approached he looked up and his eyes went all stormy-looking. “I’m here to apologize,” I said stiffly. No sound except murmuring prairie grass. He waited expectantly. “Well?” “Well, here you go.” I set the basket down and started to walk away, but he called out. “Where’s the apology, then?” I fidgeted with my blouse sleeve. “Fine. I’m sorry for yelling at you and arguing and smashing your gift.” He waited as though I was supposed to go on. I did not. Finally he nodded his snowy head. “Very well. Apology accepted.” And he resumed hoeing. That hadn’t gone as terribly as I’d thought it would. Suddenly it seemed like a better idea to loiter here than to return home to Mother. “Well, what are you standing around for?” he said. “Nothing.” “Didn’t your mother teach you not to meddle with strangers?” I shrugged. “She don’t care.” I watched him for a minute. “Whatcha doing?” “Gardening.” “Whatcha growing?” He glared. “A garden.” “Yeah, of what?” “Flowers.” He paused to lean against his tool. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “If you must know.” “Why?” “Can’t an old man garden in peace anymore?” I shrugged again. “I dunno.” It was far more entertaining to bother him than to go home and sit in the deathly quiet. If I sat still for too long I’d be faced with images of my smiling parents. “So how’d you get out here?” “What do you mean by that?” “Out here. Kansas. Middle of nowhere.” “My family,” he said, “has lived here for three generations, little girl.” “Suzanne Ellis,” I reminded him, inching forward and taking the basket along with me. “Mr. Kent, do you think Riddler haunts my house?” He sighed. “Maybe.” “But he’s not dead.” “He’s not? Well, I wouldn’t know.” “Why? You a recluse, too?” “You could say that. I suppose.” That was fascinating. Why some people were so attached to their houses, I couldn’t imagine. Usually I’d do anything to stay out of my house for as long as possible. “Why?” He paused. “You’re quite a rude child. You know that?” “Yeah. Mother’s told me.” He scratched his head. “Well, I guess when you get to my age it’s easier to stay home than go anywhere else.” “Oh.” He scratched his head again, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “You should run along home now. Don’t want your parents worrying ’bout you, do you?” “Don’t got parents. Just Mother. My dad’s dead,” I informed him. “And I told you my mother don’t care.” He stared at me like I was an elephant in a zoo. “’Course your mother cares,” he said gruffly, ignoring the part about my dad. “Well, she used to. Before he went to the war,” I said conversationally. “But she misses him and she doesn’t really care what I do now unless it’s really bad. Like ruining your stuff.” “I see.” “And so that’s why she made me come back. Also, do you have grandchildren?” “A few. One granddaughter. Eveline.” He surveyed me for a moment. “Your age, probably.” “Does she go to school here?” “No. She lives in New York.” “Oh. Do you visit?” He shook his head. “Recluse, remember?” “Oh, yeah. Well, why doesn’t she come visit you?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he tucked the hoe against the house and began climbing the stairs. “Go home, little girl.” “Suzanne Ellis.” I left the basket near the dirt garden and decided it was probably supper time anyway. Mother did not speak at all during supper. After that I began dropping by the Kent place after school every day. Mr. Kent would dig his garden and I would chatter away, everything I couldn’t say when I was at home or at school. All about reading and how I hated math but liked science and wanted a telephone in our house, even though I knew we weren’t rich enough for that. All about Mother and Dad and the wedding photo on the vanity. And how my dad had red hair and that was why mine was red, too. And how he left for war and the last time I remember seeing him he hugged me and gave me a kiss and told me to be a brave girl. I shouldn’t have told him that, because I started crying. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and I tried to hide them behind my hands, but I knew my cheeks were getting all red and suddenly I had to sniffle to breathe because my nose was running like a river. Mr. Kent stared at me in disbelief. “I-I’m sorry,” I choked, pressing my nails into my cheeks. “I’m-I’m not-supposed to cry.” I waited for him to scold me, but he didn’t. He simply stopped spreading sunflower seeds in the dirt. “Brave people have to cry sometimes,” he said softly. “No they don’t.” My voice broke. “Certainly, they do.” I didn’t believe him, so I waved my hand dismissively. “I’m fine.” But my nose crinkled up and I discovered the tears weren’t stopping yet. “You miss him, don’t you?” he said, setting down his trowel. I nodded. He sighed. “Wait here.” I watched his blurry figure climb the porch and disappear into his ghost-house. I was left alone in the ocean of dry grass. The ends of my red braids glinted in the sun. Brave girl. Mr. Kent returned carrying a photo, a very old one of five unsmiling people. A mother, a father, and three children, all of them dressed to the nines in frilly dresses and ironed suits. “My family,” he said, handing me the picture. “Although there’s three children not in the photo. They weren’t born yet.” “That’s your wife?” I pointed to a pretty-faced blob on the paper. He nodded somberly. “Mrs. Etta.” “She’s gone, too.” A statement, not a question. He paused. “Not gone,” he said slowly. “Deceased, yes.” He looked over at the dirt garden. “She loved sunflowers.” I swallowed. Her eyes sparkled in the light, though her mouth was a thin, sober line. “Tell me this, Suzanne,” Mr. Kent said, as I traced Etta’s dress with my finger, “do you think soldiers are brave?” I nodded, and a tear stained the edge of the photo. “Oops.” “I was in a war, too. And when Mrs. Etta died, I still cried.” Brave girl. “Really.” “It’s true.” I sucked air in through my nose. “I haven’t seen Mother cry.” “That doesn’t mean she isn’t sad. Your mother misses your dad too, Suzanne.” The photo crinkled as I handed it back to Mr. Kent. He took it in his wrinkled hands and smoothed it out. “You aren’t any less brave because you cry. Your mother might not know that yet.” We were silent for a minute. Rustling grasses and creaking shutters filled my ears. I snuffled. “Are you a recluse because your wife died?” “Maybe that’s part of the reason.” “Will I be a recluse too?” He sighed. Elderly people sigh a lot. “I hope not. You’ve got lots to do in this world, Suzanne Ellis.” That night at supper, I told Mother about school. She nodded a bit, and actually asked if I liked my teacher. We talked more each night. I thought maybe the dullness was leaving her eyes, each day, very slowly. I knew for sure it was true when I walked in the door one afternoon and her face lit up. She was happy to see me. I made her happy. My brave girl. * * * * * * * Mr. Kent passed away a year later. He died as he had lived-quiet, thoughtful, unknown. He watched from his porch as I watered his sunflowers one last time, and then I helped him inside and said ’bye, just like I did every day. And that was the last time I talked to him. His granddaughter did visit him, once, before he went. I met her on the road and nearly fell over when I saw how much she looked like me. Red hair, brown eyes, freckles all over her nose. “I hate them,” she laughed. “So do I,” I said, “but maybe we’ll grow out of them.” Then I remembered the way my mother had counted them the other day, calling them stars. They did look a little bit like constellations. “But they’re kind of pretty, really.” Eveline visited again at his funeral. Her face was very red. I took her hand, very softly, and said, “It’s alright to cry.” And I did not try to hide the tears that fell down my nose. And Mother did not tell me to put away the frown. Instead she drew me close, cradled me against her chest, and planted a kiss on my head. I felt a tear fall into my hair. My brave girls.

19 th May Wednesday ‘ He’s right here' Gathering everyone, I pushed everyone to the back exit. Suddenly I felt my knees weaken and almost give up on my posture: he’s near. There was no time to explain, I felt the goosebumps take over me as if to warn he is near-by. We needed to run. Since it was only me that had the unique ability to see him, the only hope they have is me. mustering up all my courage I turn to my friends. ‘I made up my mind’ I say. ‘What are you talking about El?, we will die here’ she says. ‘We won’t’. I say. ‘Get out of here and don’t wait, run fast as you can’ I knew that he could smell us. Especially me. I can feel him just as much as he feels me. That’s why he’s here for me, I’m the only one that can get rid of him. So he is afraid of me as much as I am of him. I watch my friends break the back door and run out, Stacy turned around, with tears in her eyes shows a hesitation to leave me, but I nod reassuringly. ‘ I know what to do’ 15 th May Friday I hurried to the bus and sat near my spot. Everyone seems to want this seat and I’m not going to this up without a fight. ‘How are you so selfish, you never give this seat up, ever’ Stacy stands in front of me looking at me as if I owe her an explanation. ‘I’m not. I’m just very fast’ I say. She rolls her eyes at me and sits on the opposite seat. Honestly, the view is amazing, but it all goes downhill when the bus comes to an abrupt stop and everyone hurls to the window seats to see what happened. ‘Oh my god’ was the first thing that I said. Suddenly I disliked the view very much. Stacy pushed me aside with a force to see what I saw. Immediately her reaction scared the rest of the students for she banged on the glass and screamed ‘what is that?’ Beside the panicking I was trying to get Stacy away from the glass and make her sit still. My efforts proved to be purposeless as she weighed more than I actually thought she would. ‘Everybody just calm down, it’s just a dead deer’ the bus driver said to us in a very chilled voice. He even smiled at me. and that was disturbing. ‘Just calm down? That is a very dead deer with it’s eyes and one leg missing’ Stacy butts in. ‘it’s intentional’ The driver narrowed his eyes at Stacy giving her an expression as if he doesn’t like to get told off by a random teenager. ‘we’re off, we don’t have all day’ 16 th May Saturday Something felt extremely off. I’ve had rocky days the past few months, but now it just seems to have heightened. I keep thinking about how Stacy’s eyes widened when she said, ‘this is intentional’. We live in a small-town Amarillo, Texas. Nothing bad ever happens because that’s merely impossible because everyone knows each other here. If someone messes up, it’s for life. ‘It could have been a hunting session gone wrong’ Joshua said when I called him on the phone yesterday evening. ‘I don’t know how I manage to miss the best of the scenes’ ‘It wasn’t one of the best scenes’ I said blankly and kept the phone. I felt uneasy. I knew it wasn’t because of what saw. It was because I knew Stacy was right and I was wrong to let it slip away. What did the driver even do? Did he call the police? Seemed like he just wanted nothing to do with it. 17 th May Sunday Today, we met at Katherine’s, the most underrated coffee shop in town. It’s a win-win because we also get amazing coffee for a pretty great deal. ‘That was a conspiracy’ Stacy almost spits her drink on my notes. ‘If I wanted you to spill your coffee everywhere I wouldn’t have invited you all for this’ I say ‘Can we just forget this?’ Joshua shakes his head as if to say I’ve gone mad. ‘there are no tribes trying to kill all animal life so they can worship Satan’ ‘It sounds funny when you say it like that’ I say sarcastically. My eyes trail off away from them, and something made me stare out from the coffee shop and observe how calm outside was. Even though this town is cramped up with less space for the shops, everything is very classy. ‘You should have seen the test result I got’ Joshua shows off the paper ‘C- with no whatsoever planning’ Stacy stands up and gives him a slow clap, a sign of how little she cares. I pull her down immediately and tell them to shut their mouths. Stacy begins to protest but I look at her and says ‘look at that man’ ‘What man?’ ‘He is breaking that door!’ ‘What are you talking about?’ Joshua raises his voice. ‘Can you not shout?’ I hiss back at him and points at the man again. He was abnormally thing. The kind of thin where you would expect someone to get blown off by wind. He carried a long wire-like rod, except there were uneven spikes jutting out of the rod. The rod was almost as tall as him, but his stick figure made it difficult not to cringe. ‘what is that?’ I whisper. ‘What is what?’ Stacy grabs me by my shoulders and tries to get me up from the place we are crouching. ‘people are looking at us El!, stop this nonsense’ ‘I am not joking’ I shout unintentionally, and everyone stops what they are doing and looks at us. Joshua and Stacy backs off as if I’ve slurred at them. ‘what is wrong with you?’ He asks. I decided to slow the facts down. ‘There was a man, he broke into that shop and he went inside, except he broke and entered, he didn’t look...’ I couldn’t find the right word to describe what I witnessed. ‘Look what?’ Stacy looks at me. ‘...Human’ Both of them look at me for a second with utter complexity. I felt relieved for a moment, but they started laughing, making me feel like I was a psychopath. ‘Goodness, that was a good one El’ Joshua pats my shoulder really hard, that It made me almost fall backwards. We all collectively get up and what annoys me is that they were still mocking me. ‘why couldn’t they see it?’ I think. ‘Am I really going bullocks?’ ‘You got us though’ Stacy says with a relief but that reaches my limit. ‘let me show you’ I say ‘follow me’ ‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea’ Joshua blocks me. ‘If you think I’m crazy, there is nothing to worry there is it? ‘Fine’ they say. We carefully cross the road and I could feel the adrenaline pumping though my veins. I don’t know what I expect to find. The shop owners’ body? Brutally murdered? Why else would someone carry around that sort of a rod? ‘Are you sure about this?’ Stacy asks, I mean, we’ve never been to this shop before! What does it even sell? Antiques?’ ‘Are you crazy, who buys antiques anymore?’ Joshua lashes out. ‘Can you two stop bickering? A man could be murdered inside, and you care about what this shop sells?’ Stacy opens her mouth to protest but we were already at the shop. As I suspected, the door was unlocked. I look angrily at both of my friends and give them an ‘I-told-you-so look’. Now they genuinely began to panic. ‘We should call someone, Elijah’ Before we could consider her option a man with a familiar smile opened the shop door for us. “hi, good day to you, can I help you?’ The man was quite chubby for his age, and it was as if he was being forced to smile. His clothes stuck to his body, making him seem larger than he already is. Why is he smiling like that? I ask myself with doubts that seemed to get more unsolvable by the second. While I was busy drifting off, Joshua pushed me aside and extended his hand’ ‘we were just passing by and realized we’ve never been here, so decided to take a look’ Smart. ‘come in, come in, you can call me Miller. We don’t get much visitors given that no one likes antiques these days much’ he says without an expression. I swear, am I the only one receiving negative vibes here? Despite all the seriousness we surrounded ourselves at the moment, Stacy mimics to Joshua, “antiques, I told you” Joshua in return shrugs her off. ‘Are you the only owner?’ I ask straightaway. ‘Yes’ he answers me, but his focus was somewhere else. The door. The door lock should be broken if I’m correct. I pretend to be very interested in the rusted lamp section and walk towards the door. Instead of checking the lamps, I direct myself near the door, to trace any sign of forced entry. Bingo. The lock is down, it’s clear that it was broken with a force. Clearing my throat, I say ‘Oh look the door is broken’ and looks at Joshua and Stacy. I raise an eyebrow to tell them to play along. Thankfully, Stacy gets it. ‘Oh, Mr. Miller you should probably get a new lock’ she says. For a second he seemed lost. It was as if, his body was here, but his expression seemed to be puddle of worry. He was dazed. His reply got me by surprise. “I broke it” he paused. We wait in silence for him to further explain, but he doesn’t. I know for a fact that the person I saw was the exact opposite of Mr. miller. He is more human-like, but the person I saw outside was more obnoxious. ‘Great’ Joshua breaks the silence. ‘we have to go, don’t we?’ ‘Yeah, I have...classes’ Stacy says, clearly a lie. Dragging me along with them, we get out of there with absolutely nothing but proving that I might indeed be trailing off from the very reality we are living in right now. 18 th May Tuesday Several days pass and I chose not to think about the events that almost made be doubt my sanity. I discarded it as a minor hiccup in my daily chaos. Until my phone rang. ‘Hey it’s Stacy’ ‘I know’ I reply. ‘what do you want’ ‘I know this is going to sound crazy’ she stops for dramatic effect. ‘but Millers is dead’ I have never sat up this straight with so much energy. I knew it. He didn’t break his door. It felt so good knowing that I might be able to explain what happened to millers. But this is a long shot, for I was the only one that saw this man with the metal rod. ‘lets go to see the body’ I say and end the call to dress up as soon as I could. I cycled down to the crime scene and it was great to see Joshua and Stacy already there. ‘This is insane, we just saw the man perfectly alright’ Joshua says. ‘I don’t know, he looked pretty uncomfortable to me’ I think out loud. After waiting a few moments near the same shop, the crowds began to swarm the whole place, the police secured the place and began to cuss at those who tired to intervene. We looked at each other and realized that explaining ourselves would be a bit difficult than we thought. ‘Excuse me officer’ I say after my patience was no longer coping up. ‘we’d like to talk to you about Mr. Millers death’ ‘Unless you killed him or know who killed him, don’t bother’ he said without even looking at me. Rude. ‘We might be able to tell you who killed him, I saw someone breaking his door’ The policeman looked at me with doubt. ‘okay, let’s hear it’ ‘The three of us’ I point to my friends ‘we were in that coffee shop’ and I point to Katherine’s. I saw a man, really thin as paper breaking this very door with a metal rod, in broad day light. I don’t know how none of the people saw this happening.’ ‘Right...’ the officer didn’t exactly show positive remarks about my story. ‘come into the shop, look at his body’ I definitely didn’t want to go in. I didn’t know what was waiting for me inside, if a dead deer could spook me out I don’t know what a dead man’s body is capable of doing to me. restless nights are already anticipated. The three of us carefully step inside and walk with utmost caution. The place stinks really bad. We pass the antique lamps and the cupboards. When the officer removed the white sheet off to reveal the body underneath, it was beyond horrifying. A cold crept up my spine like a wet spider crawling vigorously to get out of my skin. Stacy immediately turned back and covered her face. I wouldn’t blame her. Millers body was almost as if it wasn’t there. His hand was cut in half and his toes were missing. What disgusted me was that I remembered the dear. Just like that, his body was missing the organs, including the eyes. ‘he did it’ I say without having the energy to breathe. Joshua turns and wipes the sweat off his forehead and says ‘we need a sketch artist’ ‘What I’m worried about is, I only saw him from his back. ‘Describe what you saw kid’ the sergeant says and orders someone to draw what I described. I told them every single thing I saw. But at the end, the drawing looks as if I was describing something less of a human. The two police officers looked at me as if to tell me to be more accurate rather than describing something from a horror movie. ‘I’m telling the truth’ I say desperately. ‘Sure, kid’ the sergeant says and looks at the other officer while they both collectively discard the drawing and shove it in one of the boxes. 19 th May Wednesday I skipped school. I knew I should presumably tell my parents about this, but I knew they will think I’m insane even when my friends think so. I attend the first period to make it seem like it’s normal and got out out during the first interval. ‘Where are you going El?’ Joshua asks me. I jump at the sight of him and laughs it off. ‘I’m going to find out what happened’ ‘how exactly?’ ‘I’m going to wait at Katherines’ for a few hours on the lookout’ ‘guess you’ll need some back up’ Joshua gives me a reassuring handshake and I take it. ‘Stacy and I will meet you there, go ahead’ Without wasting a minute, I turn back around to grab my cycle and paddle off, but Joshua says ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t do Elijah’ I smile and cycle as fast as I can. When I get there it was 10.00 am on the dot. I order my usual caffeine dose and began to wait. Few moments later Joshua and Stacy sit down in a hurry next to me and unload a camera on to the table. ‘let’s record’ she says. I look at her with a glimpse of hope and it felt great to have someone on your side. Few hours later - 12.30 pm Even though we had nothing to do but wait, this was getting out of hand. the streets were empty and there was no movement whatsoever. Joshua stands behind the camera and nods every few minutes to let us know it detects nothing. The frustration grew inside me like a seed and my hopelessness watered it every second. ‘Why is nothing happening’ I bury my face in my hands. I felt that day never existed. Maybe I was hallucinating. Even though I laughed at Stacy for overreacting, it’s me who couldn’t stand seeing that dead deer. ‘This is puzzling and stupid. You two shouldn’t miss school because of me’ It was not a moment afterwards when I decided to raise my head and look out the window. The frightful image appeared right outside the window; except I couldn’t react to what I saw. Seeing his face for the first time, I clearly noticed how his eyes were dead. The iris took the whole space in the eyes and they were hollow. The nose was almost non-existing and damp. One thing was for sure, Joshua and Stacy seemed to be going on with whatever they are doing. They didn’t see him. His non-human eyes pierced through my skull making me get up and scream at Joshua to tell me what he can see through the camera. He replied calmly, ‘nothing yet’. At that split second the window broke with a loud crash, shattering glass everywhere. Both Joshua and Stacy look at me and I nod; ‘ he’s right here’

The Painter Cat &#x200B; Casey didn’t want to take the job but she had to. She needed the money to pay the rent and selling her paintings wasn’t covering it. She’d never worked as a maid before. She seldom cleaned her own house but when a woman at the grocery store remarked how badly she needed a housekeeper and was willing to pay, Casey sucked it up and introduced herself, offering her “services”. &#x200B; The woman’s name was Meredith. She was 77 years old. She had a modest home in a very nice neighborhood and had asked Casey to come twice a week. Casey would be paid 300 a week - which was pretty good. The first few times were uneventful. Meredith’s house was well maintained and the work minimal. All seemed to be going well and then one day Meredith asked Casey to come into the study. She had a gift for her. &#x200B; The gift was a canvas, brushes and paint. Meredith wanted Casey to paint her. She would be paid 1000 dollars for the painting when it was finished. Casey accepted the offer immediately. Meredith only asked that Casey paint her as if she were 30 years old but wanted to sit as the model. Casey was confused at first. How to take an old woman and paint her as 30 without ever having known what she’d look like at that age. Meredith didn’t seem too hung up on details, just told her to paint what she thought. Meredith took a seat on a chair near the window. The direct light defined every wrinkle and crevice in her sagging skin. Casey laid out the supplies and set about painting Meredith as she might have been at 30. It wasn’t an easy task. &#x200B; Casey painted the entire day. Meredith prepared them dinner and they resumed again shortly after. It got dark and Casey kept painting. The lamp light softened Meredith’s features and Casey found herself enjoying the task and took liberty, creating Meredith as lush and fabulous as the soft golden light made her almost beautiful. By midnight the painting was done. Meredith found it remarkable and was overwhelmed with joy. Casey was about to sign it when Meredith stopped her and asked if she would simply sign it “Reynaldo”. &#x200B; Casey was confused. She didn’t want to sign someone else’s name to her work. Meredith insisted and offered no explanation. Casey, tired and confused, grew agitated with the old woman and insisted on signing her name - which she did. Meredith was so distraught she picked up the brush, set it into the black paint and set about destroying the painting. Casey tried to stop her but Meredith was determined. At last Meredith stepped back, dropped the brush and retreated into her bedroom. &#x200B; Casey knocked on the door and could hear Meredith crying. She finally decided to let herself in. She said she was sorry and asked to be paid. Meredith slowly got up off the bed and went to a drawer where she took out a small box and counted out ten one hundred dollar bills. Casey took the money and left. &#x200B; Casey now had the money she needed for rent and did not return to clean Meredith’s house. At the grocery store later that week the manager appeared annoyed with her. When Casey commented, the manager told her that Meredith had paid for a painting and that Casey had argued the directions to sign Reynaldo at the bottom. Casey was furious at the suggestion of allowing anyone else to take advantage of her hard work and talent - to which the clerk snapped - Reynaldo had been Meredith’s beloved cat and was a far better painter than Casey would ever be. He had seen the painting with his own eyes and thought it was a hideous disaster. &#x200B; Casey left, angry. Weeks later she found herself without rent again and no prospects for work so she took up panhandling outside a coffee bar. When she had five dollars she went inside to purchase a bagel for lunch and was amazed to see several portraits of Meredith displayed on the walls, all of them signed “Reynaldo”. &#x200B; Casey ordered the bagel and remarked on the paintings. She was told they were painted by a cat which belonged to a woman named Meredith who was heir to a whiskey brand fortune. &#x200B; Casey took her bagel and left. She was bummed that she could have peen paid lots of money to paint and that her prideful refusal had left her worse off than she had been in the beginning.

Another one of my Spooktober Stories, and one of the final ones before Halloween! &#x200B; “Stick or Treat” &#x200B; &#x200B; “The tall man, or so I call him,” said young Winnie, “is a creature of the night whom I see quite often from time to time.” The boy was short and plump. He wore a red t-shirt that was too tight for him and his wide belly poked out from beneath it as he sat rocking in his chair and spinning a yarn to his two friends, Trevor and Wenonah. They had been best friends since middle school. Too old now, being in their mid-teens, to trick-or-treat, they sat around in Winnie’s parents’ living room sipping apple cider and answering the door to pass out candy to trick-or-treaters at random intervals while his parents were away at a Halloween party. They had given up watching the scary movies on TV, each of which they had viewed a million times, in favor of swapping scary stories. “The first time I saw the man,” Winnie told his friends, who were hanging on his every word, “I was three. I awoke in the middle of the night to see him standing there in my closet. I jumped up and slammed the closet door and ran to my parents’ room. The next morning, we opened the closet together but there was no man there.” “What does he look like?” asked Trevor, his voice a tremor. “Well,” Winnie answered, “He is quite tall. 9 or 10 feet, easy. He has a very thin body, being beyond skinny, so skinny in fact, his torso and abdomen are indistinguishable, and when he stands at full height it looks like a rail. Almost like, like a-“ “A stick?” offered a skeptical-looking Wenonah, her dark black hair slung over the shoulder of her puffy, stitched, light brown sweater. “A stick, yes! That’s a good way of putting it.” Winnie said. “Wow...” Trevor gawked. His hands were clammy and wet where they had started to sweat. “How did a 9 to 10-foot-tall man fit in your closet? Ceiling clearance in there’s only about 6 and a half feet.” Wenonah objected. “He was crouching.” Winnie defended. Wenonah rolled her eyes. Trevor’s eyes widened. Trevor trained those deep blue eyes on his friend, who could practically see his short, buzz-cut brown hair tremble atop his scalp. He shook slightly and was on the very edge of his seat. “The man is really tall and skinny. He’s so skinny, like a stick, in fact, that he can disappear!” The doorbell rang. Trevor jumped. His mug of cider fractured on the floor, sending hot cider splashing up and burning him, but not badly. He yelped. The trio rose and greeted the skeleton, the witch, and the DreamWorks Minion standing on the front porch, and gave them a generous assortment of candy in their pails. Then they returned to their huddled circle of chairs in the living room, after cleaning Trevor’s mess and wiping up the cider from his pants. “Wh-what do you mean, he can disappear?” stuttered an eager Trevor. “Well, the third or fourth time I encountered this man, I was much older, 8 or 9, maybe. I woke up in the middle of the night, 3AM, I think it was, and I got myself some water. I was still pretty restless so I looked out the front window. There in the street, standing under the lamp, was the man, tall, skinny as a stick, and with his long, spindly arms reaching out with their big, long, sausage fingers dangling from his very round hands. MOM! I shouted, scared. After shouting for my mom several more times, I heard her rustle in her bed in my parents’ room, and begin waking and getting up. As she walked across the dark living room toward me, I watched as the tall man outside under the pale glow of the street lamp stepped sideways, and being thin like a stick, or a drawn line, even, he became all but invisible. I tried insisting to my mom to keep vigil and watch for him to turn back around, but she wouldn’t hear of it and made me go back to bed.” Trevor was completely silent. His mouth hung open. “What does this guy’s face look like?” Wenonah asked Winnie, in an ever so slightly mocking tone. “It is pale. His skin is pale, bright white, even, like paper. He has no face at all, just a big, round head.” Winnie replied. “You mean no face, whatsoever?” a thoroughly creeped out Trevor inquired. “That’s right.” The doorbell rang again. Once again, the three of them gave trick-or-treaters, this time a cowboy, a pirate, and an evil nun a load of candy to add to their already overloaded bags. Then, they picked right up where they left off. “So this guy is really real? You mean it?” Trevor stammered. “Oh, yes. He’s very real, I assure you. He comes stomping along on his two big, circular feet. Often times on Halloween. In fact, we might see him tonight.” “No way.” “Yeah. I can draw him for you if you want me to.” At Trevor’s behest, Winnie ran and fetched a pad and paper and began drawing exactly the man he had described up to this point. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I can’t believe it. You can draw him, he’s real!” Trevor muttered. When he was finished, Winnie turned his pad to face his friends, revealing his sketch. Trevor gasped. Wenonah rolled her eyes. “Dude.” Wenonah remarked. “You just drew a stick man. All that is, is a stick man!” Winnie burst out laughing, unable to contain it any longer. He laughed until tears filled his eyes. His poking out belly shook and he kicked his feet. “Oh man,” he said, “I really had Trevor going! Ha ha ha ha ha!!!” Trevor looked stunned for a second, then turned red and scowled, realizing he’d been had. After a few moments passed, he smiled, then laughed, too. “Geez, man, I can’t believe I fell for that!” “Heh heh, I know! I literally just talked to you about a stick man the whole night!” All three friends laughed and scoffed over this ridiculous story. The doorbell rang. The three friends arose and went to answer the call. Opening the door, they beheld him: a long, tall man who was skinny as a stick, had skin the color of printer paper, a large, round, 2-dimensional head, long sausage fingers that looked hastily drawn in loops, and arms as long as his torso. Before them stood the very stick man Winnie had jokingly described in his story just minutes before. The blood drained from Trevor’s face. Wenonah screamed. Winnie felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. From nowhere, for he had no mouth, neck, or signs of vocal chords, the stick man spoke in a deep, low, grumble: “trick-or-treat!” Shrieking, the friends slammed the door, turned, and fled into the house, running up the stairs and barricading themselves in Winnie’s room, where they stayed for the remainder of that Halloween night. On the front porch, the stick man stood, satisfied. If he had owned one, his face would have been all smile. “Heh, heh, heh,” the figure chuckled in the same grumbling drone to himself. He stamped down the stairs of Winnie’s parents’ front porch with his large, round child’s drawing feet, and kept walking onward away from there, disappearing into the gray, foggy, cold night.

“Principal Davis is a cunt.” The anger that fueled the words is dry before the ink. I wet my finger and try in vain to rub the words from the faux-leather school bus seat. Across the aisle, Jason Withering’s dull stupid gaze presses on me. “So what, are you going to tell on me?” He shrugs. His road-kill eyes drift down to my chest. I shoulder my ratty book bag and head to the front, leaving my crumpled suspension form behind. “This isn’t your stop.” The bus driver doesn’t even look at me. “I moved.” He responds with a long sip from his big gulp. A hearty gurgle noise seems to indicate the matter resolved. We stop at a light. I grab the lever and pull it hard. It’s easier than I expected and the door hisses open. He reaches to stop me but hesitates when he considers the large fruity drink in his hand, settling instead for a half-hearted rebuke as I jog away into the drizzling rain. I cut through an alley, the town square and an elementary school yard. I stop a minute to wistfully watch the swings. There is a hole in the back fence in a bramble of poison ivy. I navigate though it, and then move delicately around a roadside monument to a traffic accident that lay just beyond. A car pulls up alongside me as I walk. The window hums down. The man inside has yellow eyes and a don’t-mind-if-I-do face. His car is nice. His watch looks expensive. “Where are you going.” “Home.” “Wanna’ ride?” “No, its right there.” I point to my house. “Oh, nice place.” I look at him funny. It’s not. On the street full of tidy houses, mine is the shitty one. In school we just read ‘To Kill a Mockingbird.’ Well I live in Boo Radley’s house. If I had friends, they wouldn’t come over. The windows are blocked with clutter. There is detritus all over the yard. Our old Cadillac has been turned into an island for sunning stray cats in the sea of tall grass and weeds. “I like your socks.” I stop to look down at my feet. My red knee-socks are full of holes and grass stained. I look at him closer. He has a giddiness around the edges that makes me uncomfortable. His grin is so wide it almost disappears around the sides of his face. When we get to my house, I peel away and run up the steps. The car moves down the street and turns out of sight. On the porch I peer through the window. I can see my Grandma sitting in her chair, cocooned in cigarette smoke. Her wig is drooping to the side. She holds an electrolarynx to her throat to coax out the mad barks that constitute her half of a conversation with the TV. I imagine the poisoned menthol smell of her cardigan. Death and chemicals. She always reeked of death and chemicals. As I walk down the steps and back into the rain, I tell myself this time I really am running away, but I know it isn’t true. I spend the afternoon wandering the woods behind the park. A stray cat follows me and I share my lunch with her. The two of us slink into an abandoned house through a busted window. We sit and read the graffiti on the walls. *Jenifer Leigh is a slut.* *Rockyeez mom gives good hed.* I wonder if there is anything about me in here. It’s night by the time I get home. I know the doors will be locked. That was the deal; in by dark or not at all. I scramble in through the bathroom window. Careful not to turn on any lights, I run a bath. A towel under the spout dampens the noise. I lay floating in the dark. The crickets buzz lazily. The only light is the dim yellow glow of the streetlamps outside. Some children see their future in the clouds. I see mine in the water damaged bathroom ceiling. There is a spot that looks like my pregnant cousin. Another looks like my friend Amy, who dances at the Playpen. And there is me, a small smudge just barely blooming into existence right above the window. It is a doom without romance, I decide. The quiet death of a stray dog crawling under a porch to die. It is too much to ask, perhaps, to avoid my fate, but I would prefer to find it with a bit more grace. What if I were Diana? Or a Kennedy? I almost smile as sleep overtakes me. I wake suddenly. The water is cold and the crickets sound louder, almost expectant. Someone is in the doorway. I pull back the curtain a little and see the silhouette of my Grandma. Her wig and the cardigan outline the shadows of her form. She shifts her head a bit as if to get a better look. I can smell her death and chemicals. “Grandma?” I see her raise the Elecrolarynx to her throat. “Hello dear.” The sharp staccato words ring out sharply. I don’t respond. A long disturbing silence follows. She begins shifting from one foot to another, apprehensively. I sink down further into the water, watching her. “I have brought you something.” “You can give it to me in the morning. Go back to sleep Grandma.” “But my dear, I want to give it to you now.” She shuffles forward, head down. Her hands pull a small bundle from her sweater pocket. As she unwraps it I can smell sweat and dirt and grass. I recognize my socks. She lays them out across the top of the toilet seat with large hairy hands. When he lifts his head up I see the giddy too-wide smile and yellow eyes under my grandma’s wig. I sink further into the water, a weak escape from the horror. He gestures to the socks expectantly, bobbing up and down faster. I ball my fists and try to scream but I only find the taste of the tepid bathwater. He is moving up and down in a feverish state now, a sock in his hand and an eager whine trailing from his mouth. He edges closer to the tub. I cannot watch. I sink lower and look at the ceiling. My water spot is growing. He has one foot into the bath. My water spot is spreading fast. Two feet. It’s bulging under the paint. He reaches down to touch my face and my fear changes to a rage like I have never known before. A fury against the bad school and the dead parents and the insane grandmother and this whole wolf’s den of a town. Loathing unfreezes my paralysis. The ceiling rips open in a flood and I scream out from a place inside both dark and primordial. His grin droops in surprise. Before he collects himself I ball myself up and kick out against the side of the tub, spilling out on the floor painfully in a wet tangle of limbs. His hands are on me but they slip. I run. He grabs me again, but this time too, I slip away. I grab keys on the counter and sprint the car outside. I hear him trip over my grandma’s body in the dark and the sickening flat sound of his face hitting the tile floor. I’m out the door and into his car. A howl from the house fills the night as I speed away. Its almost sunrise when I finally stop driving. I turn off near a sign for Amarillo and park on a road leading off to nowhere. I have no money, no phone, no clothing. There was a light up billboard outside Albuquerque with my face on it. When I open the trunk, I find my grandma’s jewelry. Its at the top of a large duffle bag full of similar pieces. Diamond watches, rings, pearl necklaces, an emerald tiara and a large wad of social security checks and cash rubber banded together. The bag is too heavy to lift. Next to the bag is a case with duct tape and and a long wicked looking knife. There is more. In the spare wheel compartment I find clothes. So many clothes. It’s mostly high school girl’s school uniforms. I put on a shirt and shorts emblazoned with the words ‘Valley high Pys. ED.’ There is blood on the sleeve I sit in the car awhile, listening to the thrum of the semi trucks on the highway with my eyes closed. When I open them, I can see dark clouds forming back in the west. I can feel the malevolence reaching out, calling me back to it. Demanding me. I put the Emerald tiara gently onto my head, checking it with care in the mirror. I drive east.

"If you've seen one Monet, you've seen them all." Madame X said to herself. She stood before the umpteenth "Water Lily" painting in the Monet exhibit, soon to close. Dressed in a long black dress, with auburn hair and pearl straps, she had had to spend eternity lifting one strap to her shoulder. Her artist, John Singer Sargent, was encouraged to paint out her fallen dress strap for a more conventional, if less appealing, strap placed firmly on her shoulder. She was stuck, always having to adjust the strap, just because of the controversy during the Paris Salon of 1884. "Water Lilies: 1916," she read the label aloud. The light in the room was dim; the museum was closed. Normally she would be enjoying the revelries of the Toulouse-Lautrec Moulin-Rouge paintings, but she had been putting off Monet all this time. Now, she had finally crawled out of her frame and caught the last of it. She glanced at all the other water lilies and bridges that Monet had painted. Tomorrow, the paintings would be packed and would be off somewhere else. She squinted at "Water Lillies: Part 24," and wondered just how many of the studies there actually were. Disappointing. Just more of the same. She glanced about the room. Way too many pictures of the bridge and water, she decided. Supposedly Monet was some sort of genius with all these duplicates. She sighed, and tugged at her strap again. Since Sargent had repainted, Madame X was stuck with pulling it back on her shoulder. She headed off to the sculpture exhibit. No security guards, so far. That was good. She wanted to see what she had heard a patron say as the girl soot before her frame. "It's as if the stone is transparent," the woman chirped. She was a young one, no more than a teenager, wearing an assortment of colors and patterns, a gold nose ring in her left nostril. The girl explained to her fella--boyfriend? that Sargent had been forced to paint out the strap, to make Madamee X more acceptable, more--dull. Madame X liked her immediately, Madame X grimaced. The statue room she approached was full of shuffling feet, of figures so stiff in stone knees, they had to throw their bodies from side to side to make any headway. The Greek athletes, their heads always turned in mid-motion, were the worst of them all. They couldn't see where they were going. As they shuffled about, she heard 'excuse me' and 'get out of my way,' come from the room. She stopped as her favorite exhibit, a reproduction of Michelangelo's "David." The statue was a fraction of his real size, which meant all his male magnificence was usually at eye level. Madame X's groin flushed with the thought. Where was he? Oh, there he was, talking to the Greek discus thrower. They always got along, flexing their muscles and bragging about their achievements. Over there, the ebony mother with child, a modern art of two figures, large and small, had retreated to the shadows. Mama was always trying to suckle the brat, but an oval hole was where her breasts should be. The babe in her arms wailed, hungry for his milk. The poor woman would never get that kid fed. Ah, the Bust room. No shuffling her, but facing rows of talking heads. Some had turned to face each other, but a few were quiet and had nothing to say. Madame X, pulling up her strap, stepped over to one bust. "The Veiled Virgin, by Giovanni Strazza," she read aloud. She studied the veil. My, that is extraordinary, she thought to herself. The work was exquisite, the veil, hewn in marble, looked, indeed, transparent. "What do you want, sister?" the bust demanded. "Why, I was admiring your veil," Madame X stammered. "Yeah? Well, that's all anyone sees of me, i'n't it?" she said. Her eyes could not open under the veil, but she looked so demure. Her thick accent startled Madame X. "I'm just another woman, dime-a-dozen. Didja know I was the mother of God? Well, no, not necessarily. I'm just a veil, cut from marble. Hell, I could look like a weasel, or a bottle of wine, or somethin'. Wouldn't have mattered. Just another one of them," her base scraped as she shifted towards the other busts of Mary, "but I got this stupid veil on me. Can't see nothin', it's all marble, you know." The Sargent woman did know. She said, "But the work is...." "Wha'?" the bust demanded. "Interesting? Unique? Unusual? Dats what dey all say, i'n't? What is it, sister, huh? What is the veil? Speak up!" Madame X frowned. "Obviously, far too transparent." The statuary room was beginning to annoy her. All those magnificent bodies, with noisy, exceedingly egos to boot. "I'll head to the modern art room," she said aloud to herself. "I'n't that where you always end up?" said the bust. "Far more interesting than you grumpy gusses," the Sargent woman sniffed. "Yeah? Well, watch out for the whiney Jackson Pollok, there in the corridor. It thinks it's upside down again. Stupid picture...," the veiled woman grumbled. The Sargent woman tugged at her strap and swept away to the new modern art exhibit. Here were all sorts of creatures. They peered at her in wonder as she glanced about the room. One red figure with huge teeth and two sets of eyes on top of its head, asked, "Oy! How you do dat?" "Do what?" asked Madame X. "Move," the image asked. "At least you can see," said a purple blob with massive feet. "All I can do is crouch down and hold my toes." "They're very nice feet, said Madame X. "You really think so?" asked the purple blob. "They're not too big?" "Oh, yeah! Definitely!" said Straight Line, slashing the canvass from corner to corner. "I'm a delicate woman," said a figure in green and yellow that looked vaguely like up-chuck." Madame X raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. The blue square with extra eyes and cartoon limbs nodded, its frame wiggling on the wall. "I must say," said Madame X, soothingly, "You all seem to have unusual features. What big eyes you have, Mr. Blue. And you, Miss Up--yellow, what big breasts you have." Miss Yellow wiggled her frame in delight. "How'd you get out of your frame," piped a square with a squeaky voice. "Why, I've been here for years," Madame X replied. "After a while, you get bored, just hanging on a wall. One night I peeled myself off my canvas and took to wandering. I've been doing so every night, ever since." She swelled with pride. "How long are you folks here for?" she asked. "Six months, maybe, maybe more," replied Purple Feet lady. "Then we're off to New York. Can't wait." Madame X sighed. She hadn't left Boston in years. She would have liked to go to London, or, perhaps, Paris, but John Singer Sargent was not nearly as popular as Claude Monet (though heaven knows why). She started. The rhythmic rattle of keys was approaching. Security. Quickly, she lifted her skirt and hurried back to the Sargent room. The subjects of the other paintings were hanging about, out of their frames. The children, thought Madame X. "Quickly," she said as she shooed them back to their respective paintings. "Aww," they whined, but they minded her, and climbed back into their frames. Keys was drawing closer. The Sargent woman raised her finger to her lips and scowled at each of the girls to silence. And not a moment too soon. The security guard entered the room and looked about. He could have sworn he had heard giggling, but there were only the Sargent paintings, of children playing quietly, of lighting paper lanterns, of society women staring out of their frames. And if Madame X's strap had fallen to her shoulder, and she had sighed, well, it was a good thing he hadn't noticed.

It’s still dark out when the call comes in. Some dog walker got a surprise on their morning jaunt, their prized terrier sniffing out a body laying a few feet off the street. The sun’s just peeking its rays out by the time Officer Blake gets out of the car, feeling a little tender from his 4:30 start and no coffee to comfort him. Muddy leaves practically carpet the sides of the road, colouring everything in muted browns. There’s a fine sheen of frost on the ground already, like winter decided autumn wasn’t dying fast enough for it. It's only just gone November, some people still have their pumpkins out, but Blake can already feel it’s going to be a long winter. His limbs ache at the thought and he lets out a huff, clouds spilling from his mouth. The flashing lights of the cop cars have already drawn some onlookers, more dog walkers, joggers and the like. Damn morning people . Blake eyes the still closed deli across the way, craving something to sink his teeth into, preferably something hot. He gets to work, making the crowd back up as he and his fellow officers set up a barricade around the scene. The bright yellow police tape goes up, a garish warning not to get too close. It doesn’t stop comments from the peanut gallery. “What’s going on?” a disgruntled jogger asks, “Has there been an accident?” “Dunno,” responds a rather rotund gentlemen with a chihuahua tucked under his pudgy arm, “Some cow got drunk and froze, probably.” The chihuahua gives a snarl when Blake passes. They’re not wrong. One of his favourite bars is just round the corner from here, so that drunk theory looks likely. If there’s one thing you learn on the job, it’s that it’s never too early in the season for frozen drunks. Blake hasn’t spared a glance at it yet, but he does now. They’re still waiting on forensics and their plastic blue jump suits, so all that’s visible of the body are its limbs sticking out from under a pile of leaves. Smooth and so pale they’re practically blue, Blake guesses it was a woman from the ripped, sheer stockings and high heels. Long brown hair lies plastered down to its skull, completely obscuring even the tiny part of its head you can see. Some people like to think it's like looking at someone sleeping. Peaceful. Innocuous. Nah, someone sleeping still has life in them. Movement, breath and a fullness no dead thing can get back. His fiancée Gilly snores a little, twists her lip and moans when she gets too cold, snuggling in closer to him. When people actually see what’s left of their loved one, it's just a husk, meat for the coroner to stick his knives into. Something foreign, unrecognisable to the living. That corpse isn’t human anymore. It’s gone the same way as the fallen leaves, dull and dead. “Need a pick me up?” Blake almost jumps. On his left is Detective Jack Weiss, black bags under his own eyes. He holds out a Starbucks cup. “Thanks,” Blake accepts the cup gratefully. Weiss is a good sort, got promoted before Blake, but still invites him over to watch a game. He even brings coffee. Black, two sugars. Blake takes a gulp of the scalding liquid, the warmth traveling down his throat in delicious ways. “Forensics still not here?” the detective asks. “Late as usual.” Weiss snorts derisively, peering with contemplation at the corpse. “You boys find any ID?” Blake shakes his head, ignoring the slight burst of irritation at the term. The forensics team chooses that moment to appear. Weiss goes off to say something to them briefly and a few minutes later they’re both finishing off their coffees while they wait for the things to get checked over. “You and Gill still coming round tonight?” Weiss asks, sipping his latte, “Mary’s keen for a catch up.” Blake winces a little, heat rising to his cheeks. “Not sure,” he admits, “Gilly and I had a fight yesterday, she’s at her mom’s again for a bit. Figured I’d let things cool down.” “Wedding stuff again?” Weiss asks knowingly. “Something like that,” Blake agrees. It had actually been about her engagement ring. She almost lost it and was angry he hadn’t taken it to get resized yet. The whole thing was stupid and had blown up bigger than it should have. But in truth, Blake might enjoy their fights a little too much. The way her chestnut hair gets that red sheen in the right light and her cheeks flush up in anger. She never looks more alive than when she’s angry, a firebrand hotter than the sun. In those moments, Gilly just shines. He’ll be in the doghouse for a couple of days, but the make up will be worth it. Maybe he’ll call her tonight, get the whole process started. Weiss grins at him, shaking his head. “Pair of hooligans, you two,” he comments fondly. Blake laughs along and then Weiss is finally getting called to take a look at the body. He watches his friend go before turning to check the barriers again. He’s close enough to see what the boys in their blue jumpsuits and masks are up to and doesn’t like to be caught staring. As he turns, his boot hits something. A spark of metal catches his eye just at the same time as his step sends it flying across the icy ground. It disappears in the blink of an eye, hiding under some rotting leaves. It's probably just a coin, but Blake steps forward and bends down next to the pile of leaves, one hand still holding the remains of his coffee. With the other he carefully starts clearing them away, trying to see what he kicked. Nothing yet. He picks up some of the damp leaves, ignoring the mud transferring over to his hand. He picks up a particularly mangled, brown leaf by its stem and... Bingo! Surprise, surprise. The metal thing turns out to be a ring. Silver, with a small diamond in its centre. Funny, it looks a lot like the one he bought Gilly. He picks it up carefully and holds it to his eye to examine. There’s an inscription inside and he squints to read. Gilly and Jamie forever. Blake’s heart stops. Gilly and Jamie forever. The words clang in his head like church bells. Loud. So loud he thinks he might not be able to think about anything ever again. The world spins, the morning suddenly becoming far too bright. Blake wants to drop the ring and yet grips it all the more tightly in his trembling fingers. The ring he was supposed to get resized ages ago. The ring that caused that stupid fight. His eyes snap to the corpse. It- She- It- She- The forensic team turns her over, clearing away the leaves and getting ready to transfer her to the morgue for further investigation. The coroner will do the autopsy to determine cause of- No, she can’t have an autopsy! Her mom wouldn’t like that! Hell, he won’t have it! Nobody’s touching her. They brush the hair out of her face and Blake starts walking towards her like he’s in a trance. The usually vibrant, chestnut locks hang damp and listless around her gaunt face, small strands clinging to her sallow skin here and there. Her make up is smudged and she’s dirty. God, she would have hated that. Gilly’s always so careful with her looks. Something flashes. White light pops into his vision, stinging his eyes. They’re taking pictures of her like that, all covered in mud and filth. He wants to smash those cameras, but his limbs just aren’t moving right. Weiss has recognised her too and now he’s looking at Blake. Blake though, doesn’t care. He only has eyes for Gilly. The world has flipped again. Gilly’s eyes are open. Her lips are painted blue and there’s a bruise around her neck, purple and red from where someone had their hands wrapped around it, squeezing until they’d wrung it all from her. That’s Gilly, but she’s not snoring. That’s Gilly but her lips don’t twist. That’s Gilly, but she looks colder than ice, the fire sucked out from her very being. That’s Gilly and- Someone killed her. Blake forgets how to breathe. Someone catches his arm, pulling him away from her. Blake almost growls. No, that’s Gilly! They start loading her into an ambulance and no! No ! She can’t go there! She doesn’t belong there! “Jamie!” it’s Weiss gripping his arm, “Look at me!” “That’s Gillian!” Blake says stupidly, “They’re taking Gilly!” “Jamie!” Weiss grips him hard, pulling him back to reality, “She’s dead!” It's so cold. The frost creeps over Blake and his vision goes dull. “ She’s dead ?” he repeats dejectedly. Weiss is looking sympathetic and weary. Blake wants to punch him. ”I’m sorry,” and Blake thinks a guy like Weiss means it, but he’s also got a job to do. ”She was murdered , Jack,” he states like it wasn’t obvious before, “Her neck...” He can’t say it. He can’t picture it. The transformation of his bubbly fiancée to victim chokes him. He thinks somethings been wrung out of him too. ”I saw,” Weiss sighs, “You know what comes next, right ?” Blake nods, slumping. He clutches the ring tightly in his fist and feels the little diamond dig into his skin. Weiss wants to ask some questions. Blake is a suspect . It doesn’t matter, he thinks as he looks down at the decaying leaves by his feet. A world without Gilly is a dead world anyway.

I wish I could cry. I wish I could cry for all the people that died during the war. Not just the soldiers, but the innocents. I wish I could cry for the other people, too; the ones across the ocean that launched their missiles at us. I wish I could cry for the people that had to launch our own missiles back at them. That must have been hard to do. I wish I could cry... but I can't. It has been a long, long time since I have seen another person. I've seen the radiation subside and the sky turn back to its normal, beautiful blue. I've seen the rubble of buildings finally be retaken by nature; the vines and dandelions covering the crumbling piles of concrete. I wish I could cry for them, let my tears quench their thirst. I really like their color; yellow. I wish there were more people here to see them too; to cry over them with me. A lot of the time, I find bones. I wish I could cry over them. I wish I could cry for the people that they once were; the people that had lives, and homes, and families, and happiness. I wish I could cry for all of those, too. Sometimes, I'll find the bones of animals. It's easy to tell which of the piles of bones were made before the war. I wish I could cry for them, as well. I feel happy for the piles of bones that came after, though. I'd still like to cry over them. Not in sadness, though. I wish I could cry for the decaying, empty homes that no longer had people to fill them; make them whole. It seems like it would be an awful lonely being if your purpose just disappeared one day. I think I might know something about that, though. I wished that I could cry when I came across a walled garden some time ago. The trees were sickly; twisted by the radiation. They were sad trees. I wanted to cry for them. They had once grown peaches. They had once probably been delicious. I wish I could have tasted one. Now, the sad trees stood between the four scorched, brick walls; their branches half-empty, with only a few leaves lapping up the sun when it sparsely showed its face. I wish I could cry for the sun. It used to show its nice yellow face to everyone all the time, every day. Now, I only see it every couple of weeks. I wish I could cry for the clouds. They used to bring rain down to grateful plants and the mouths of delighted people, now the only weather they bring is dark and icy. It has been a long, long time since I've seen rain. I get to see snow often, though. I wish I could cry for the summer, and the spring. For the summer, because it used to be a long, happy time. It is still a happy time, and the sun shows its face more then, but it isn't a long time. For the spring, because it no longer has the rains to make it special. Now, it's just a warmer fall. I wish I could cry for the fall, as well. There used to be lots of leaves for the fall to make look pretty. There used to be lots of leaves that the fall could cover the ground with. I like the color yellow, but I think I would have liked all of the nice oranges and reds of the leaves even better. I have seen some people before, not just the piles of bones. They are always so sad and scared. I wish I could cry for them. I wish I could cry when they ran away from me. I wish I could cry because I would never get to really say "Hello" to them. I wish I could cry, but I can't. I walk past an old parking building, covered with snow and browning vines. Summer ended not long ago, and I wish I could cry for it and the vines. Not everything here is dead, though. I can see smoke coming from the top of the concrete tower, so I go inside. There are cars here, lots of old, rusting cars. I wish I could cry for them, now without people to take them around. I find some stairs, and start to go up. The steps aren't crumbing yet, but they are quite small for my feet. I wish I could cry for the stairs, now without more feet to use them. The parking building is big, and it takes a long time to climb, but I don't mind. I like to think that it is happy to have something inside of it again. The roof looks like everywhere else, when it is covered in snow. It looks just like a white, fluffy blanket on everything. I don't need to want to cry for this blanket, though, for two reasons. The first reason is that this cold, mean blanket isn't a blanket that anything wants to be under. The second reason, though, is they there is someone already here. Even from across the roof, I can see her. She has her back to be as she tends a small flame she has built in a small crater that she has carved out of the snow. She has on a gas mask. I can tell from the straps that wrap over and around her head. Under the straps, though, I can see that she has long, dark red hair. It's such a lovely, deep red. I think it is what the leaves would have looked like in the fall. The nice red clashed with her coat, though, but I don't mind. Her coat, a rubber rain-slick, was the same color as the dandelions at the height of summer. I wanted to cry for her colors, but not in sadness. Beyond her, there is a rifle leaned against the rusting, metal railing along the edge of the roof. Next to it are the remains of a rabbit. I didn't feel like crying over the rabbit, though. It had died, but it wouldn't become just another pile of wasted bones. She was grateful for this rabbit. This rabbit died good, not like the people from before. I take a step forward, but the snow and the roof crackle under my step. She whips around. I can't see her face. I wish that I could. Through the eyes of the mask, I can see hers go wide as she falls back into the snow, next to the fire. I throw my hands up to show that I mean her no harm. I just want to say "Hello" to her. She screams and scrambles for the gun against the railing. She slips. Her foot slides out from under her, and she catches most of her weight on the butt of the rifle. She is still falling, though, and she reaches for the railing in a panic. It breaks. I don't have enough time to even take another step before she disappears over the side of the roof. I know she's gone. I want to cry... but I can't. I stand there for a moment, watching the struggling fire continue to smolder with its creator having left it behind. I want to cry for the fire. I look at my hands, still outstretched in a plea for understanding. I wish I could cry for these hands. I wish I could cry for the stumps of metal, wire, and electricity that I called hands. I wish that I could cry for the same reason I wish I could cry for the fire... ...but I can't.

I haven’t been to a bonfire since I was twelve years old. For the last eighteen years I’ve avoided them, stayed late at work on Bonfire Night, squeezed my eyes tight at the sounds of fireworks. All because of what happened that night all those years ago; I still hear the screaming of my friends, see the jerking movement of shadowy figures between flickers of dancing firelight. We had no idea how specific the rules were, we figured it was just a bit of fun. Stuff a few old clothes with straw, make a passable effigy of a person and call it the Guy. Shove him on the fire and watch him burn. Now I think about it, the whole thing couldn’t fail to have a dark and twisted background could it? More so than the treason thing I mean. Everyone knows the story. Guy Fawkes wanted to bring down the Protestant King and his government, in order to restore the monarchy to the Catholics who’d paid for and organised his attempt. Some people (wrongly) think of Guy Fawkes as some kind of freedom-fighter anarchist, much like they think of Che Guevara, the squalid killer and totalitarian tyrant, as an idealist for social equality. But that’s their choice, after all ignorance is bliss, and the truth of it is probably lost to the mists of time. It hardly matters. The only truth that really matters is the one that plays out every November 5th. I didn’t find out the truth for many years after it happened, but now I understand. I’ve been working in local government - a very specific department of local government - for many years now in a position open only to a few. Open only to people who have seen the things I’ve seen. And that’s how I know what I need to tell you. So I’ll tell you what happened to me first, because it’s the same thing that could happen to you. To anyone. To your kids, after they tell you they’re doing one thing and actually do something completely different. I’m not saying you need to watch them 24/7, but I am saying you need to watch them on the night of November 4th. My parents knew we were having a sleep-over at Tommy’s house. They just had no idea his parents were away. How could they have known? I was pretty adept at lying through my teeth about such things at that age. In any case, we snuck out at about 11.30pm, which to us was ridiculously late, and set about making our own bonfire. Our guy was made from Tommy’s clothes. There had been a vote, of sorts, and he’d lost. We figured his parents wouldn’t notice his stuff missing because he had the most clothes. Kid-logic, I guess. The straw had been taken from the bales up on the fields behind the houses and we enthusiastically stuffed the old jeans and jumper with straw, and tied the two bits together with string. We stuck a large stick through his neck so it protruded out, and the sack filled with yet more straw was then shoved ceremoniously onto the stick as his head. We thought it was brilliant. A life-size Guy all of our own. Before long the fire was blazing, and we started to worry that it was too big. Although we were pretty far from the town, through the woods and up on the fields, we wondered if people would spot us. Specifically, our parents. We were too young to think seriously about the police or fire brigade, or anyone else for that matter. And, now I think on it, I am astounded that no one came to investigate the fire that must have been like a beacon in that dark night, even through the woods. I had no idea that what we were doing was deeply, deeply dangerous. And not just because of the flames and the stupidity of being a twelve year old far from home on a dark night. I warn you, the next part of this is not pleasant, but I must tell you anyway. I am not likely to be allowed to live having disclosed this truth, but disclose it I must for your sake. Tommy and Ross were making the final adjustments to the Guy, fiddling with the cheap shoes that wouldn’t stay on the straw sticking out of the jeans and trying to fit the gloves at the end of the arm. I was standing a little further back, gazing in rapt awe at the leaping tongues of flame lapping at the dry wood we’d piled up. I remember the cracking of old sticks, the showers of pretty embers as larger logs split apart glowing briefly against the black grass. Shadows flickered all around us. And then the screaming started. I turned at Ross’s first panicked cry, and froze at the sight. The glove he’d been struggling with had his wrist in a vice-like grip, and Tommy was staggering back clutching his nose, reeling away from straw-man’s leg which had clearly just kicked him. Blood showed between his fingers, and for a moment I was transfixed by the sight, before my eyes were torn away by the terrified cry Ross made as the Guy took hold of his other arm and hurled him into the flames. The scream he uttered was something that has stayed with me my entire life, a howl of desperate, disbelieving horror and agony like the squeal of a petrified animal, and then lost in the crackle of flames. I only just managed to snatch Tommy out of reach as the gloved hand grabbed at him, and I dragged him back as the lurching nightmare lumbered forward on unsteady legs. It was its silence that almost cost me my life, that implacably relentless malice so unlike any threat I could have imagined with my childlike brain that it nearly rooted me to the spot with unfocused, confused terror. I hadn’t even had time to process what had happened to Ross, and I think the screaming in my ears was my own. The creature took another staggering step, its misshapen filthy bag-head wobbling unsteadily on its pole, its arms swinging as though ready to fall off. Tommy ran at it, tears streaming down his blood-splattered face, and shoved it hard in the chest, trying to push it into the fire. He was screaming too. The thing was knocked back, its arms flailing, but it didn’t fall into the flames. Instead it snatched at Tommy’s hand, pulling him down with it. Tommy fell on the other side of it, so that the writhing straw-man’s back blocked him from sight as it rolled over. I tried to move, to answer Tommy’s ghastly screams for help, but I couldn’t. I was motionless, impotent with fear. Tommy’s screams became gurgles as the thing made odd, frantic movements with its arm, which I realised with a hideous dawning horror were the motions of a man stuffing a Guy with straw. Somehow at that thought my mind cleared, and I ran forward, and saw what was happening to my friend. The sight has never left me. Tommy lying by the fire, his hair catching alight, his eyes staring unseeing at the stars overhead. Orange light and black shadows playing over his dead face, his features frozen in a look of unutterable horror. And the straw-demon, forcing more and more straw into his chest cavity, not caring that my friend was already gone. Again and again its gloved had thrust more straw inside him, as though oblivious to all else. I don’t know what I was thinking. All rational thought had long since gone from me. But from somewhere far away I saw myself dive at the monster, yelling in that primal terrified way humans have always yelled when fighting a last stand against a superior foe. But the thing was unbalanced. Hunched as it was over the body of my friend, it was unable to steady itself, and it fell easily to the side, knocking into the hungry fire. It was instantly ablaze. The old straw burst into flame with an almost impossible speed, the brilliant light and heat consuming it within moments. I stepped back, watching in grim horror as the thing writhed and danced, flailing uselessly at its tormentor, before collapsing, lying like just another guy burning on a bonfire. I turned and fled, I’m not proud of that. I left Tommy and Ross up there, and I didn’t look back. I spent the night outside Tommy’s house, because I didn’t have the keys. In the morning my parents found me, sitting motionless by the front door, my arms around my knees. I managed to garble out what had happened, and from that they and the police figured we’d been attacked by someone or something. They didn’t believe the story as I told it, of course, and put most of it down to a child’s shock. The remains of the bonfire were searched, but no sign was ever found of Tommy or Ross. Somehow or other news of my story eventually found its way to the ears of the innocently-named Department for Fire Safety at the local Council. It’s their job to make sure such things don’t happen, and before long I’d been inducted into their ranks. That’s where I learned the truth, and was forbidden to tell it. But tell it I will, if only to keep you safe. Or possibly to get my own back a little. I have no love for my erstwhile employers, as you’ve probably deduced from all this, and I don’t agree with their methods. The point is the first “guy” of the year, the first one completed on November 5th, contains the restless and tortured spirit of the man himself. Fawkes. Condemned eternally to return and be punished over, and over, and over again. It’s ghastly. It’s horrific. But that’s just how it is. I’m so used to it now the story doesn’t affect me anymore, which I suppose is part of the reason I hate my job. For what it’s done to me. Anyway, the Church has always known, and back in the old days firewood was hard enough to come by as it was, so no one built their own bonfires. It was all controlled by the churches and they largely made sure people were safe and the punishment went on and on, year after dreadful year. But as times changed, the secular authorities like the one I work for took over, and the job became less about keeping people safe and more about keeping the awful truth a secret. We make sure the first Guy built on November 5th is made by people who knew what they’re doing, in a controlled environment, and that when he returns he burns quickly without taking anyone with him. After all he does not return to the flames without a fight, as Tommy and Ross learned to their tragic detriment. Unfortunately for us, we’d built our guy shortly after midnight on 5th November, in a spot coincidentally between the Council patrols. No one stopped us finishing that effigy, no one checked with the lab whether it was safe. It sometimes happens. And the clean-up operation is usually a logistical and public relations nightmare, with the focus almost entirely on hushing it up. I can’t stand it anymore. The witness relocation programmes, the hush-money. The 24/7 surveillance of survivors. It’s wrong. I think people would rather be trusted to face the issue themselves. So now you know. Remember remember, the 5th of .

The sun was peeking over the horizon as its yellowish rays scattered across the raven skies. Birds spread their wings and soared in the black canvas of the sky along with their chirping music. Eyelids blinked upon hearing the wake-up calls from the roosters in the backyard. Mothers get up to prepare for breakfast while Fathers prepare for the day. In the City Capital of Davao in the country of the Philppines, the day starts the moment the sun rises above their horizons, enough for them to see its glistening beauty. Elders are traditionally and commonly the ones that only wakes up that early, and the rest of the youngsters spend the rest of the beautiful intro of the morning holed up in their blankets. Females are tasked with household chores and males take the responsibility of earning for money to get the through the day. Since old times, it has always been like this, but time itself isn't that boring. The former now gets to choose what she wants as long as she wants it and her husband supports her. Filipino males mostly has driving as their daily source of income. It's not that bad when you start but it doesn't get better even after you've become a veteran. Despite this, mostly still choose this job, aside from the work being easy, it also means easy money. Not in a way that'll make you rich in a minute kind of easy though. Jay, who was before a chauffeur, now drives a tricycle as his daily source of income. He's a renowned professional driver, famous in his line of work. He carries on his shoulder the burden of feeding five people in his family, three times a day, everyday. But not alone. Together with his wife, Rose, they have continued the life they were born with even after bearing three kids. One who always does something unimportant, one who always does something important, and one who doesn't do anything in particular. In that order, the oldest son is already in appropriate age to live by himself but is not permitted to, the middle daughter who is already so-so but still naive, and the youngest daughter who isn't really someone special to begin with, just her parents spoiling her is all. For Jay, the weight of the responsibility he's carrying with his wife isn't that heavy that it was bothersome. In a day, tricycle drivers like him earn up to P700 in maximum, that includes the fuel and the food they needed for the day. The amount left would be automatically for the bills, which is approximately just 1/4 of the whole thing. Despite that he never complains, save for the times that life really got in his nerves. His wife's with him through and through, even in times that she also felt like giving up, the faces of their children with eyes worrying for things they should not be worrying about always gives her the courage to hold on. Rose is the kind who's persistent when she knows that she's on the right and Jay's the kind who never gives up when he knows there's a possibility. For couples that work, it's not always about opposite attracts, sometimes it's about similarities contracts. With his wife earning less than the minimum wage in more than the maximum hours of working, Jay thought that he should be the one to hold the title of the breadwinner of the family. Content was in them for even though their bills were piling, they never once experienced starving. And that's the best thing Rose could've ever wished for her children while they were still in their care. Regardless of the situation they are in, as parents, they haven't forgotten that the best thing they could ever gift their child, if not the ones they want, is education. They managed to enroll all three to a prestigious religious school where the tuition is no joke. With the help of Rose's boss, which is actually just their near relative, the eldest graduated from grade 1 in the school to senior high school, grade 12 and is now a college student at a public university. The middle child got caught up in a situation where her mother needed to quit her current job. Apparently, she wasn't treated well in spite of her 22 years of service for the Buy and Sell Company owned by their relative. Lawyers were called and it was settled in the Local Governments' Office. And as usual, its always the rich antagonists who always pulls up something wins. With that, the case was closed with the door slightly creaking. The creak spread rumors of Rose, everything good and bad, from her boss' mouth herself. The middle and and the youngest had to continue their studies in a public school which unfortunately downgraded into modular education as Covid happened. It made everything hard for everyone, and no one's an exception. During the lockdown, where no one was allowed to leave their respective premises unless necessary, Jay and his family kept everything positive, their walls devoid of despair. They have received a fair amount of amilluration and emergency packs every month, as per the government says. After months of staying put, the local government finally loosened the grip but not totally letting go. With that, they thought everything was back just the way it usually was. But because of the fearsome invisible foe, everything changed in an instant. The streets that were once filled with busy people, was now devoid of any communication sounds. The park that was where kids would run around throwing things at each other was now only harboring pure nature sounds. The roads that were once full was now empty. And the people's faces that were once plastered with smiles, now covered by masks said to protect themselves from others. 'Was this always how it used to?' Would always cross everyone's mind. The scenery, the noise, and life itself took a sudden turn where everyone was left in a jetlag. It wasn't easy accepting it, how could it be easy adapting to it? The work that was once very easy to fulfill was now very hard to reach. If everyone were to move to the cycle of life, lives might be in constant danger, but if everyone were to stay the way they are right now, they would never come to grow and so is the world. That's why people always finds an excuse, to do the former or avoid the latter. Among the ones who chose to move forward, Jay was the probably the most pessimistic and Rose the most optimistic. Jay was demoted, the usual earning had gone down to half which was almost barely enough to feed his family thrice everyday. Rose found a neat job with a neat pay and a neat boss. It was smooth sailing for her but not for her spouse. She knows she couldn't do anything but just stay by his side through whatever happens. Every night they pray, every Sunday they pray, every meal they pray, and every time they get a chance they pray. It doesn't take all the problems away, but it sure lessens it and soothes their being. As the pandemic is still going on, death continues to march in the streets, probably on the way to your door, they have no other choice but to believe in themselves and to the One who made them. As someone as religious as Jay, there shouldn't even be a day where he doesn't make the sign of the cross, from his heart, down to his soul. fin

Endurance Fighter Setting The Scene. Wayne was a machine mechanic go scientist. He had created a game show called Endurance Fighter. Where the contestants had to fight robots built by Wayne. Work Shop. Wayne was working on his latest project. A fighting robot called The Destroyer, capable of throwing punches with great power. The Destroyer also had red lights for eyes which fired dangerous laser beams. Wayne was adding the finishing touches, connecting the second arm with a welding gun. Looking For A Contestant. As the game show was tough and the contestants normally got hammered, nobody wanted to go on the show. So Wayne decides to try his luck in the local pub. Wayne comes crashing through the door looking for a contestant. At the bar are three men enjoying a pint. Wayne runs up to them, with saliva spurting out of his mouth he asks a question. "Who wants to star on the next show of Endurance Fighter?" Peter and James are unsure and push David forward. As David is completely hammered he replies. "I'll do it I'm nuts!" As Wayne leads them to his van he shouts. "Come on quickly the shows about to start!" Wayne jumps in the front and the three lads bundle into the back. Arena. As Wayne drives into the arenas carpark the queue for the event is growing. David is now in the changing rooms, taking off all his clothes and putting on his sparking silver pants. Peter and James take a last minute chance to psych him up. "You can do it your completely nuts." Wayne is already out in the ring in his suit and tie. He speaks over the microphone to the audience. " Todays contestant is called David and he will be fighting my latest creation The Destroyer!" As David comes out the firework display is impressive and cheers like thunder can be heard coming from the audience. The Fight. David steps out into the ring over the top rope. The bell rings and the fight begins. The Destroyer is hammering David with powerful blows. David is swinging but failing to make contact. The Destroyer connects with an awesome blow, knocking David down to the canvas. David is unconscious when The Destroyer turns on his laser beams. The beam is getting closer if somebody doesn't do something David will surely fry. That's when Peter sneaks up behind The Destroyer and pushes him. Giving David time to regain consciousness. Then James throws in the iron chair towards David. Grabbing it he climbs to the top rope, jumping a great distance he smashes The Destroyer's head into pieces. Surely he won't be get up after that impact. After The Event. Wayne comes running into the ring and speaks into the microphone. "We have a winner David has beaten the Destroyer!" As Wayne passes David the microphone he is struggling to stand up. "I'd just like to thank my close friends Peter and James, without them I could never have done it." As the spectators leave Wayne is happy knowing everybody has had a wonderful day.

Over the past few years, Mary Gardner began suspecting Tim was hiding something from her. Something big! While on his frequent business trips, he rarely answered her phone calls. She was lucky if her texts prompted a response. The only details he ever shared when he got back home were insignificant, like what he had for dinner or what kind of car the rental company gave him. Who cares about that? According to him, he worked 14-hour days on boring, but secret, projects. The locked briefcase he kept in his closet drove her crazy! He would never open it when she was around; moreover, whenever she asked him about it, he’d respond with something like “It's just paperwork and files” or “It’s boring work things that you can’t see but wouldn’t be interested in anyway.” She tried so hard to ignore it and trust him. After all, he never actually did anything that disputed his trustworthiness, but the secrets were driving her mad! She couldn't take it anymore. She decided today was the day she would finally see what was inside. She would discover the truth, once and for all. One hour after he left for work, Mary decided it was safe to proceed with her plan. She used a hammer and screwdriver to pry open the lock on the briefcase. Inside she found a bundle of paperwork, two passports, a gun, a large envelope full of money, and a key. She sat on the bed and started looking through the papers. They seemed fairly routine until she came upon a Marriage Decree and was surprised to see that the names recorded were Marie Snyder and James Hart. Then she noticed that all the paperwork was related to them. Who were they and why did her husband have their documents? She opened the passports and found they were also issued under the same names, but her heart skipped a beat when she realized the pictures on them were of her and Tim! What in the world does this all mean? Suddenly she realized that Tim was not the boring salesman he claimed to be! So many things flashed through her mind. Was he a spy? Could he be a criminal? Maybe he has a second family? And what in the world was he doing with a gun? Was Tim dangerous? She couldn’t decide if she was more angry, scared, or curious. But she was sure she had to confront her husband and demand an explanation. Mary put everything that was in the briefcase into her satchel, even the gun. She was too flustered to drive so she called an Uber to take her to Tim’s office. Twenty minutes later, she was on her way downtown. She was calmer now as she spent the drive time convincing herself that Tim was sure to have a reasonable explanation. So many different scenarios bombarded her thoughts. It seemed to take forever to get to the office building on Frontline Avenue. When they finally got there, she didn’t even thank her driver. She just jumped out of the car and ran up the steps into the building. The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor and Mary stepped out. The first thing she saw was a big sign saying that the office was closed for renovation. Why hadn’t Tim mentioned this? And, more importantly, where in the world was he? And the plot thickens..... Mary called a few of Tim’s friends and, without revealing the morning’s events, attempted to locate him. Since no one offered any helpful clues, she went back home to wait for him to come home. What she found when she got there stunned her! Her home was ransacked. Drawers upended, a broken lamp, and closets emptied but the strangest thing was that there was no noticeable way anyone got in. The door and all the windows were locked and intact. The only way they could have gotten in was with a key and how could that be? Only she and Tim had keys. And the plot thickens...... Her first instinct was to call the police and report the break-in but what would she actually tell them? There was no corrupted means of entry and, as far as she could tell, nothing was taken. The only casualty seemed to be the lamp that apparently got knocked off the table. Besides, how much should she actually tell law enforcement? Her mind was still processing all of this unimaginable data and hadn’t reached any conclusion as to which side of the law Tim was on. Even if he was a good-guy spy, she probably shouldn’t share any information. She decided to wait for Tim to get home. She waited and waited. Mary was surprised, and kind of embarrassed, to realize that she was glad to have a gun handy. She never wanted one in the house, but it helped her feel safer tonight. Finally, about 3:30 a.m., she dozed off on the couch with the gun resting on the pillow beside her. The phone rang and she woke up with a start! When she answered, the caller just hung up. The clock read 7:15. She ran from room to room looking for Tim, but he still was not home. OMG! He never did this before, and she was becoming terrified! What could she do but WAIT? Each hour felt like a day. When Tim’s brother called shortly after noon and said he had stood him up for lunch, she thought she would lose her mind! Mark was talking but she didn’t comprehend much and when he asked if she knew where Tim was, she started crying. She tried to cover it up, but he could tell and said he was coming over. She tried to refuse a visit, but he was determined. Secretly she was glad he insisted because she longed for a trusted opinion on what she should do; and, if she couldn’t trust Mark, who could she trust? He arrived about 20 minutes later and was shocked at the chaos he saw. She ran to him, and he gave her a hug and asked, “What in the world is going on?” She held on a moment longer and then backed away and began to explain. Mary composed herself and started with “Oh, Mark, I’m so scared and confused. I don’t think I know Tim at all! After six years of marriage, I have uncovered some baffling bits and pieces. I have felt for some time that Tim was hiding something from me and today I decided to investigate.” Mark queried, “What made you feel that way and what did you do?” “Well, it is extremely hard to contact him when he goes away on his business trips,” she answered, “and he has a briefcase he keeps in his closet that he clearly specifies as private and for his eyes only.” Mark says, “That would drive me batty and make me want to know even more.” “Right? Me too,” she blurts! “So, I decided to wait until he left for work this morning and I broke into the briefcase.” “Wow!” Mark responds. “And?” She hesitates. “I’m not clear as to what is going on. It might be dangerous. It might be classified. It might be nothing. Are you absolutely sure you want to be involved?” “If my brother is in trouble, I am all in. I have to help if I can!” “Okay,” she tells him. “This is what I know. The contents of the briefcase were a bundle of paperwork, two passports, a gun, a large envelope full of money, and a key.” “Holy cow,” Mark exclaimed. “I can’t even imagine your astonishment. Keep going.” “That is just the beginning,” Mary went on. “The paperwork and passports referred to a couple named Marie and James Hart. But the kicker is that the pictures on the passports were of Tim and me!” Mark was speechless, but the look on his face said it all. She held up her hand and continued, “I don’t know how much money is in the envelope, but it’s a lot!” “And the key?” Mark asked. “I have no idea. Honestly, I haven’t even started trying to figure that one out.” He said, “It looks similar to my safe deposit key, but I’m not sure.” “Next,” she began again, “I put all of it in my satchel and summoned an Uber to take me to see Tim at his office. When I got there, I was thunderstruck by what I found.” She started feeling shaky and sat down on the couch. “What did you find?” Mark asked excitedly. “No one was there, but there was a sign stating that the office was closed for renovation.” Mary told him. “I didn’t know what to do so I came home. That is when I found this mess! I cleaned up a few things, but I didn’t know how much I should do. I waited for Tim, but he never came home.” “Did you call the cops?” Mark asked as he sat down next to her. “No.” Mary told him. “Nobody broke in or stole anything as far as I can tell, so what would I tell the cops? And that leads to my most mind-boggling question: Is Tim a spy? Or a criminal? And, oh Mark, where can he be?” A tear slowly rolled down her cheek. He reached over and pulled her in for a hug and thought for a moment. “I don’t know, Mary, both are hard to believe, but I seriously don’t think he’s a criminal. I will stay with you, though, until we figure out this puzzle.” “Thank you, Mark. That makes me feel better.” Mary told him. “The only other thing I can think of that you don’t know is that I got a phone call early this morning and the caller just hung up when I answered. It was probably nothing.” Mary and Mark waited together and discussed possibilities and actions they might take. Other than the key, for which they had no idea how to find its counterpart, the other items in the briefcase were not really clues. So, they passed the time picking at some food and distractedly playing cards. Just after midnight, the phone rang. They both jumped and Mary grabbed the phone. This is what Mark heard: Mary said “Hello. Oh my God, where have you been?” After a pause, she said “Okay. But just so you know, Mark is here with me, and I opened your briefcase. You have a lot of explaining to do!” She listened for a short time without saying anything and then said, “I don’t understand, but okay. You’ll be there soon?” Once she hung up, she turned towards Mark’s worried face. “Tim said that I should pack a suitcase with the items from the briefcase and anything important or sentimental that I couldn’t bear to leave behind. Not to worry about clothes and things, just important stuff. He said that we are not safe here so we should hurry and go to your house. The people who detained him had taken his keys and were looking for him. They were most likely watching the house, so we are to be extremely cautious and be sure we are not followed.” And the plot thickens..... Mark’s face looked ashen and all he could say was, “Wow. What in the world is happening? What did Tim get himself into?” Mary shook her head, “I don’t know, but we will find out everything when he gets to your house. He said he’d get there as soon as he could.” With her direction, he helped her get her suitcase and pack it. Forty-five minutes later they were ready to leave. She looked around one more time and said, “Let’s go.” Quietly, they peeked out the window and then stepped out onto the porch looking around for anything unusual. Mary had given Mark the gun and he kept it handy, just in case. The coast looked clear, so they walked quickly to his car. Once inside, Mark wasted no time getting out of there. It was late so there were not many cars on the road. He took a roundabout route home and neither of them noticed any suspicious headlights following them. Once satisfied they were not followed, Mark pulled into his driveway and parked the car. When they were on the porch, Mary told him that Tim said to go inside but to keep the lights off and stay out of sight. “Tim said he would knock six times so we could be sure it was him at the door,” Mary advised. Again they waited, but this time in the dark. About an hour later, a man appeared on the porch. The couch stood in front of the window, and Mary hid behind it as she peered outside. By the glow of the streetlight, she could see that he was a very big man, tall and husky. He was white and had red hair. When he reached out to try to turn the doorknob, she saw a skull and crossbones tattoo on his forearm. She had never been so scared in her life! At the same time, Mark hid in the hallway and pointed the gun at the door. He had told her not to come out no matter what happened. Only seconds later, the brute of a man rammed the door in and entered the foyer, gun extended. Mark shot first but only hit the man in the shoulder. He was not so lucky. The intruder fired and shot him right in the forehead and Mark crumpled to the floor. The man looked around quickly, but probably assumed no one else was there because the house was totally dark. He pulled the door closed as best he could and left. Mary, in a state of shock, stayed in her hiding place waiting for Tim to show up. It was no use trying to help Mark as it was obvious, he was dead. She doesn’t know how long she would have stayed behind that couch because the decision to come out was made for her when the police showed up about 15 minutes later. Apparently, the gunshots did not go unnoticed by the neighbors. Is that why Tim never showed up, she wondered. At the station, she told the detective some of the details, keeping the contents of the briefcase and Tim’s phone call to herself. She told him that her husband was out of town, so she was staying at her brother-in-law’s house for the night. She gave a detailed description of the shooter, including the tattoo on his arm. By the time she finished working with the sketch artist, the detective had received a report from Bay General Hospital that there was a patient there with a bullet wound in his shoulder. He fit the description Mary gave to a T. As suspected, it was him. He was arrested for murder. As it turned out, he was a hit man for one of the biggest syndicates on the west coast, and Mary would have to testify against him. She had police protection around the clock for the next week. Tim never did come home or even call again. She would probably never know what happened to him as she was scheduled to enter Witness Protection next week. Was he a good guy or bad guy? Did he ever really love her or was it all an act? What in the world did that little key fit? Well, at the very least, she had enough money to comfortably start over. She never would become Marie Snyder-Hart. and she would never be Mary Gardiner again. She pondered what her new name would be and what her new life would entail. She learned many lessons during this life; hopefully, her next life will be absolutely wonderful! And the plot changes.....

Emily glances up at the sun shining brightly off the windows and decides today is the day. She will get her friend Jenna to go Geocaching with her and get her addicted to it as much as she is. After all, Jenna needs to get over Aaron. She has been so upset about her fiance dumping her at their wedding, that she just doesn't want to do anything with Emily. So, she must take matters into her own hands. "How do I persuade her to come with me? I have it all set up. I just have to find a way to make Jenna want to. Maybe I could tell her that sometimes I find unusual things that are really interesting. I can tell her about the time that I opened a Altoids tin and a diamond ring was hidden inside." Trying to figure out exactly how to approach the subject with Jenna, she drives up to her house. Collecting some of her gear Emily knocks on her door. Jenna opens the door and hugs her. "Hey, you would never guess what I am about to do." Emily eyes her. "What? Turn gay? Because, that's what I am about to do if I don't stop feeling like crap." Jenna says sarcastically. "I have never felt so bad about a man in my life. My heart has broken in so many ways I didn't think it was possible." "Well, O.k. I am not going to turn gay. But, I am going to go Geocaching today and your going with me." Emily pauses and looks at Jenna who doesn't look shocked at all. "I looked up the coordinates to a little place about 2 hours from here. It sounds like it's right by the waterfall in Jenison Park. Maybe even in it. I have had to go swimming for my little treasures before." "Intriguing." Jenna murmurs. "I think I will come with. If nothing else, it will be pretty. Do you have everything we need for the hunt or do you need to go back home and get the stuff first?" Emily caught by surprise takes a minute to register that she actually said yes. "Yeah, I have it all. My Garmin GPS, pencil, paper, and log book. Also a rope, and climbing stuff if we have to go down a cliff." "Well, let's go then. Who knows, maybe we will find a cool treasure. Or an awesome surprise." Emily quickly picks up her gear and they make their way to the car. On the way Jenna stares out the window and tries to keep from talking about the whole wedding nightmare. But of course Emily doesn't take a hint and asks, "Have you talked to Aaron at all?" Jenna looks at Emily and rolls her eyes, "Nope, and I am never going to either. He hasn't even tried to call. So, I am done." "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. Anyway, are you excited?" Emily feels really bad about the situation. "Hell yeah. This is my first one. Maybe we will find something awesome. I sure hope so anyway." Jenna starts to perk up and forget about our earlier conversation. They arrive at their destination. There isn't a lot of people at the falls because it's at the end of the tourist season. While unpacking the stuff Emily grabs her cell phone and tucks it in her pocket. Jenna leaves her purse in the car and grabs a bottle of water. With the rope over one arm and GPS in the other hand, Emily tells Jenna to "Hurry, the sun will be going down in about 2 hours. We have to find the exact location and then figure out if we dig or swim. Sometimes they are even hidden in plain site." Emily watches the GPS intensely as they find the exact location. "Hmm. It looks like we are here. Just as I suspected. It could be in the waterfall or in the surrounding rocks." "They couldn't have made it easy for my first time could they?" Jenna raises an eyebrow and smirks. "Well, no. Usually they aren't easy. That is most of the fun!" Emily puts down the rope and her other things along the rocks. Then she starts to meticulously look around every rock and into every crevice. Jenna picks up a rock and skips it across the water. Then she sees a shiny object just under the waters surface. She yells for Emily to come over. "What's up? Did you find something?" Emily looks surprised. "Yes, I think I found it. Look out there just under the waters surface. There is something shiny." Jenna proud of herself starts to take off her shoes and then walks out into the water. "Brrrr. The water is a little chilly today. Good thing I brought an extra pair of clothes in case we did go in the water. Let me go get it." Jenna wades in and then dives once the water gets chest level. She comes back up and holds a small tin in her hand. She waves, "I got it. I am so excited." "Hurry up, I want to see." Emily jumps up and down. She just can't wait to see what her friend has found. Will it be a trinket, a piece of jewelry, a note or something wonderful? Jenna struggles opening it, for some reason the clasp is stuck. Emily takes it from her and manages to free it. Then she hands it back to her so she can see what's in it first. After all, it is her first treasure hunt. Her hands shake a bit in anticipation as she opens the tin. When she sees what's inside, Emily hears a blood curdling scream come out of Jenna's mouth. "What's wrong?" Emily cries out. "It's, it's a finger." Jenna turns to Emily and then shows her the contents of the box. Inside, Emily can see a bloody finger of what looks like a man. "Holy, crap! Is that real?" she touches it with her hand to see if it's plastic or feels like skin. Immediately she wishes she didn't. She drops the box and looks at Jenna. "We have to call the police." Emily grabs her phone and starts to dial 911. She realizes then that there is no service. Jenna picks up the tin and they both walk back to the car. After they get in and lock the doors Emily tries to start the car and all it does is make a clicking sound. "Hold on. Did you leave the lights on in the car?" Jenna asks. " "No, did you? I never turned them on?" Emily searches for something under the seat. She finds it and looks around for anyone else who can help them. Everyone else has left for the evening, and it's starting to get dark out. "Now what do we do?" Jenna asks. Emily turns to her and smiles. "Don't worry. I have a flashlight and we can walk up to the Ranger's station. They can give us a lift into town." "Are you sure? I don't like walking alone in the dark, specially when we are in the middle of nowhere." Jenna looks scared half to death as she looks out the car door into the wilderness. "Well, let's get this over with. Who knows, maybe there will be some hot Ranger at the station waiting for us?" Emily giggles. They both get out of the car and start to walk down the dirt road towards the office. Jenna hears something from behind them and she grabs Emily's hand. She doesn't say anything, but she motions for Emily to be quiet. Emily looks behind her and could swear she saw a shadow move about 20 feet back. They both start to walk quickly down the road. Suddenly they stop when they hear someone rushing at them. Turning, Jenna feels the first impact. Then Emily gets hit over the head. When they wake up they are in the trunk of a car, tied and gagged. Jenna has a bruise starting to show on her left eye and a big scratch on her cheek. Emily doesn't look harmed but has a huge headache. They try to get free but don't succeed. Instead, they roll around to see if they can see what is in the trunk they can use. Emily manages to free her phone and turn the flashlight on. She can see a shovel, rope, and numerous other items in the trunk with them. She remembers to check the signal strength and finds one bar, so she calls 911. It doesn't go through. She tries again, realizing her battery is at 21%. If it doesn't work this time then she will have to shut it off for a bit and save the battery. Hopefully, in a while the signal will be stronger. She hears someone ask what the emergency is as the call goes through. She mumbles into it but she can't speak. The person on the other end asks again. Frustrated, Emily tries to get the gag out and scream. She manages to get out "help". This time the operator hears her and she says hold on. The car starts to slow down and comes to a stop. Then she hears a car door open. "Shit!" Emily thinks to herself as she looks over at Jenna who seems to be unconscious. Panicking, she gets ready to kick whoever has kidnapped them. There is a loud thud outside and the trunk opens up. What Emily sees makes her cry and then she feels pain surge through her head. Too late does she realize that a bullet just buzzed through her cheek and out the other side. Then everything goes black. Jenna wakes up when she hears a loud bang. She looks over and sees blood all over a gapping wound in Emily's face. "She's not breathing." a man from behind her says to someone else. Then he steps out of the shadows and she wants to die herself. Matter of fact, she is sure she will be next. The man has cold dead eyes, blacker then the night. He stares right at her and aims the gun. Before the end, all she hears is the owl hooting from the near by tree. Then the cracking sound of her skull. The End By M.D. LaBelle

We sat there quietly on the black sand for perhaps ten minutes. Neither of us saying anything. We'd come two long hours and spent a weeks rations to see this. "It's so dark," that was the only thing he could think to say, I suppose. "I told you that you wouldn't like it." I said to him, trying to sound like this was all no big deal. I knew I'd have to explain it all to him one day, but exactly how do you start a conversation like that? "I didn't know it would smell this bad. Did it smell bad before too?" He looked so curious. I don't know why I expected him to be angry, he'd never known different. "No. It used to smell very nice. The wind would blow in over the waves and you could close your eyes and imagine *being* the wind and soaring for mile after mile over the water." Something in my throat knotted up and I stopped talking before I began to cry. "Does... does anything live in there now?" he asked. "No. Nothing lives there." I told him. We stood in silence awhile, just looking. The breakers rolled in with a sickening sound, like an old man eating without his teeth in. They slid back slowly- leaving thick, black, oily streaks behind. After a short time he said to me, "Still, it sounds really nice. I wish I could have seen that." I felt my heart jump in my chest at that. "Me too, son," was all I could manage. I seldom took him outside because I didn't know how to explain all the wrong that had come before him. I tried to avoid a million questions I didn't know how to answer by keeping him safe inside The Dome. “Daddy?” he asked, “What did flowers smell like?” It took awhile before I could answer. You just can't explain certain things. What does red look like? How does a tomato taste? How comforting is a father's hug? What does a flower smell like? “There were lots of kinds of flowers,” I spat out, hoping I'd know how to finish. “They each smelled different in their own way.” “I've never even smelled *one*,” he told me. “I know, son. I know.” I clasped a hand on his shoulder and he hugged my waist. I felt his chest heave and his shoulders begin to hitch up and down. I crouched down on my haunches and looked into his watery eyes. “Remember when mama used to hold you and sing to you when you were a little guy?” I asked. His chest heaved again, and he took a second to calm his breath and beat the tears back. “Kinda,” he said. “I remember her... but most times it's just her face.” “She was very pretty,” I said. This not so much to him but out loud to no one in particular. “She was,” I heard myself in his voice for the first time ever. “You remember that much?” I asked him. My heart was breaking in my chest. I never should have brought him here. “I remember... I remember her singing to me,” he said. He hesitated and I almost persisted but then he continued, “It was so pretty but...,” his throat tightened up and he stopped. “But you can't remember the words?” I asked. He broke then and threw his arms around my waist as he sobbed. “I CAN'T!” he heaved and struggled against me as the pain poured out. "I can't either," I promised him. That was a lie. “Shh,” I whispered. “Just calm yourself.” I told him. “What else do you remember?” “She would would hold me and explained how it would be like this forever and told me it would be okay,” he said through his tears and in between sobbing breaths. “It's not okay though! Nothing is okay!” he was getting angry now. It was about time. “What else do you remember?” I asked again. “About her?” he seemed confused. “About her,” I confirmed. “She...” he trailed off. I watched his eyes gaze off blankly into the dark expanse before us. After a few moments he raised his head and looked into my eye- tears still welling up in his own. “Her hair,” he finally managed. “Her hair?” I could remember his mother's bright red hair gleaming in the sun. It seemed to deny our future simply by refusing to dull in spite of the inevitability of our fate. It shone in the face of the darkness we'd set before ourselves. He looked at me as if I were mad to even question him. I couldn't blame him. “Yes. Her hair. It smelled so good,” he told me. “She would hold me tight and I'd shove my face into her hair and it smelled sweet. Almost like when the matrons make honey-rolls for breakfast on the holidays.” “Almost?” I asked. “Almost. Not quite,” he said. “You remember that much?” I asked once more. “I do. I don't quite remember her face and I can't really see it," His face wrinkled just as mine did when I was lost for words. "I know her hair smelled like fresh baked honey-rolls.” He trailed off and began to cry again. I hugged him closer. “You know," I began, "flowers were just like that.” I told him. “They smelled like honey-rolls?” he asked. “Not all of them, and not exactly,” I said then. “But all of them smelled sweet in a way you could almost describe perfectly but could never get exactly right no matter how hard you try.” We sat like that for a few more minutes and watched the black, oily waves lap at the shore. After a time he spoke up. “I can imagine flowers that smelled like her.” he said. "They'd be pretty." His face twisted then and he broke down- sobbing uncontrollably. I put my arm around him then and held him while he cried. “You've got it just right.” I told him.

He was sitting in his huge operations room.... Tens of operators with their headsets, telegrams, paperworks, mini maps, battle reports.... &#x200B; The ground kept shaking every now and then from nearby explosions, reports came through a megaphone fixed on the roof: squads losing, others winning, enemy movements and sightings... &#x200B; He was hunched over the huge battle map infront of him... watching as the company figurines get added and removed... observing inspite of his anger... inspite of his loss... &#x200B; “SIR, WE HAVE REPORTS THAT THE FIRE-WING MUTINIED” a report came through the megaphone “ENGAGING NOW... BRACE FOR POSSIBLE BOMBARDMENT” The ground shaking increased as the structure took direct hits. Dust particles kept falling through the roof... it kept on for a while: every shockwave from each cannon could be felt as it travelled through the fortifications. &#x200B; “BRAAAACE” the megaphone screamed... &#x200B; Suddenly, a huge impact shook the entire thing like the strongest earthquake... the sound of rubble falling as if the entire upper floor was levelled... all the lights turned off, the whirring machines and the microphones got silenced... then red emergency lights lit the place: all the operators loaded their guns and unsheathed their swords as they heard distant screams and gunshots. &#x200B; “Guards” he growled in extreme anger. He grabbed his cane saving his wrath for the close fight. Two guards brought the six barreled wondrous machine of death on two wheels... the rest brought their bayonetted revolver rifles. With a company of twenty he marched. Through dim red lights and dark hallways, they approached the fight with each step. &#x200B; “DRACULAAAAAAA” a loud shout called from the end of a hallway “END OF THE LINE” &#x200B; “CHAAAAAARGE” he growled and followed his loyal soldiers as they rushed to receive the first volley. &#x200B; The crashed zeppelin was bright and blazing in the background of a huge room, a room where Dracula kept the things he thought interesting throughout his years, a room now desecrated by blood and ashes. And stepped on by enemy troops. Red banners hiding red stains of blood, jewels, statues, artifacts... all scattered. &#x200B; The troops exchanged fire uncaring of the hot lead piercing their bodies or the shards cutting their flesh. They charged in the smoke of volleys fighting with bayonets stuck in their chests. Roaring and screeching words that could never come out of a human... enduring pain that never a man could endure. &#x200B; Munching, slashing, breaking... doing whatever their master ordered... unafraid of death for they have already died.... Or rather unafraid for they do not feel at all.... Cold killing puppets of flesh that fought humanity since ages in a quest of a crazy man. &#x200B; Finally, Dracula entered the fight, his eyes turned bright red in outrage. He took the head of an undead fighter in squeezed it. &#x200B; “HOW HUMILIATING” he screamed. He unsheathed his cane sword and sliced off the arms of another. “HOW IGNORANT” he pulled his huge reaver pistol and shot a hole the size of a ball in the chest of a third. “AFTER ALL I DID FOR YOU ?” &#x200B; “YOU CRAZY OLD MAN” metallic stomping on the ground followed by a huge beast of flesh, gears and brass. “we played along for far enough” said a pale white man with sharp fangs and red eyes in the chest of the behemoth controlling it. &#x200B; “alucard....” Dracula said in despair “my own goddamn son” the Gatling gun had already set up behind him. “I tried curing this cursed world” &#x200B; “By killing off our food ?” alucard cried “since your wife died, you went insane” &#x200B; “this town is your crawling castle’s grave” said another voice of another vampire coming next to alucard’s beast. &#x200B; “oh... and your loyal secret cult” said a third vampires “we know about them” &#x200B; The gatling gun started unloading at alucard’s monster tearing out pieces of flesh but the beast rushed to disable it. &#x200B; “THE CULT IS THE SEED” Dracula said as he intercepted alucard “THEY WILL BUILD A BETTER HUMANITY” he tore off the beasts arm but his cane hit something hard. The behemoth as if built out of a pile of corpses, had a human skeleton made out of cast brass. &#x200B; “awww” the vampires said, she rushed to fight Dracula “did your human wife turn your heart soft ?” &#x200B; “YOU WHORE !” he fired his reaver pistol again but she dodged it. “ALWAYS SO VULGAR. ALWAYS SO LUSTFUL. JUST LIKE THE REST OF YOUR RACE” &#x200B; “YOU TURNED US ALL, FOOLISH OLD MAN” she replied as she swung a threaded silver cane “FOR YOUR STUPID QUEST” “CAN’T YOU SEE IT ?” he pulled a grenade and threw it at her “IT’S THE NEW ARK..” &#x200B; “WE” the third vampire killed the machine gun’s operators “ARE THE NEW ARK. THOSE HUMANS? THEY ARE WEAK AND FRAGILE” then rushed Dracula. &#x200B; “IT’S A CURSE” he replied dodging his attack “WE ARE CURSED. THE FUTURE LIES WITHIN THEM” two undead soldiers joined his side. &#x200B; “kill all humans” alucard grabbed a trooper with his beast “keep some to feed off. The plan was simple” &#x200B; “they killed your wife” the vampiress grabbed a pistol “and you decided to write the longest suicide note in history” she shot Dracula but he shook the bullets off. &#x200B; “AN EDUCATED POPULOUS AND AN IMMORTAL ONE...” he blocked off the vampire’s sword “I WOULD CHOOSE WHICH TO LIVE” &#x200B; “I told you he had other plans” alucard squeezed the “life” out of the trooper “he isn’t that stupid” &#x200B; “but now...” he growled. One of the two troopers hugged the behemoth and pulled the trigger off of a suicide vest “vampires prove to me time after the other that they are the wrong choice” &#x200B; “good” the vampiress replied “FOR NOW YOUR QUEST ENDS” the suicide zombie blew up half of the behemoth sending all four flying &#x200B; Dracula let out a whistle “you think I wasn’t prepared ?” a growling beast came up from behind him “I never wanted it to end this way” a huge wraith in the shape of a wolf stood by his side dripping blood from its shiny blue teeth. &#x200B; “immortal corruption... undead lust... too much power in the hands of the wrong people... my plans will continue and I will deliver humanity into the new world... and since all of you are here, it would make it easier for me....

March 12 I’ve decided to start keeping a journal. Why? Because my friend Matt keeps insisting that we’re witnessing a historical moment and how privileged we are to be doing so. I’m not really sure of the importance of it but ever since I was a little girl I’ve always wanted to keep one, so I thought, why not? I guess this is one of those: hit two birds with one stone, scenarios. My name is Anna, I’m 23 years old, I’m witnessing, supposedly, one of the most important events in the history of the world and I shall be your guide through it. Now, I’ve mentioned this event 3 times already, 4 times now. What is it and why it’s so important? It’s not, really, I just see it as a nuisance honestly, something that upsets Matt deeply, heh, which in turn amuses me immensely. Matt’s my friend and colleague. We work together for CSS, that’s Cyber Security Services, the biggest IT company in the world and we’re working on one of the most important projects in the world. What project? It’s top secret! March 13 Ok, now you know who I am and what I do, I guess I should speak a bit about what’s this world altering event I keep mentioning. Here I go: A couple of weeks ago people started to get sick in some 3rd world countries and several of them have died, well, when I say several, I mean several thousands. In any case, it spread pretty fast and now we’re in lockdown, like locked in our houses lockdown. They say it’s for our own protection, but reports on the wireless show the numbers rising every day so I’m not sure “protect” is the right word here. March 15 Yesterday I forgot to write, nothing interesting happened though. Nothing interesting ever happens anymore since we’re all locked in. Supposedly we’re allowed to go outside for two hours each day and we can either go shopping or walking, as long as we’re alone. We need to do everything alone these days, more or less. What’s the catch? We need to schedule every outing through an annoying government app. We need to give all sorts of details like where why, and most importantly, whatever we do we need to keep five feet apart from each other. All the time! Two hours sound like enough time right? Wrong! Everybody’s desperate to go outside, it’s like they’ve been locked inside forever. And since apparently no one has anything important to do, those two hours per person seldom happen, you either get a chance to walk around the block or the one next over. It’s not worth the effort to be honest. March 16 Guess what happened today? That’s right! Nothing! March 17 I am getting so bored! It’s been almost a week now since the lockdown started and I feel like crawling up the walls. Tomorrow I think I’ll treat myself to something special. March 18 I got a new blouse today. It’s pink. I love pink. They’ll deliver it tomorrow. March 19 One week today since the lockdown started, and all I’ve done so far was to witness the importance of getting bored over and over again in my own home. I hope my grandkids won’t find me in here. Wait, can I still get grandkids if I’m in here? March 26 I know, I know! You’ve missed me! Shucks! What happened? Well, I’ve decided to write only once a week since nothing ever happens anymore. So what happened in the last seven days? Nothing. I’ve worked and worked and then worked some more. Matt keeps saying that what we’re witnessing is very important but I still don’t see it. Anyway, it seems that the disease is still spreading and that more people are dying. Idiots, why can’t they just be careful?! April 2 They’ve reduced the time we’re allowed to go outside to 1 hour now, on the wireless they keep saying that more and more people are dying. Not that many, and not in our country anyway. Yeah! It’s sad. April 9 I’ve been spending more time on the wireless lately. Until recently most of the deaths occurred in poor countries but now it’s happening everywhere. The government is thinking of doing a complete lockdown to see if the situation improves. April 14 It’s happened. We’re not allowed to go out anymore!!! Words cannot describe the immensity of my idiocy. I should’ve gone out while I still had the chance and now I’m forced to stay indoors for lord knows how long. I am truly, truly, stupid!!! I really hope this will be over soon. April 20 I can’t believe how stupid I was! I’ve been stuck in this damn house for 2 months now and I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t wait for this damn disease to be over. I can’t believe people are still getting sick and dying. I mean, come on, how can you still get infected. Everybody is sitting in their damn house. Everything is so damn stupid and pointless. I can’t believe I’ve been sitting in this damn house for two months. May 10 They’re introducing rations now. Can you believe it? Rations! It seems that because of all the deaths there’s nobody to produce essentials anymore and we need to be careful or we’re all going to die. Great! That’s just great. Goodbye life! June 1 Matt’s been driving me crazy. He’s been raving about world wide conspiracies and the end of human civilization as we know it. All I know is that if this doesn’t end soon human civilization will lose my sanity. June 18 Matt’s gotten sick. I don’t really understand what happened, he’s been in lockdown just like me. One day he’s fine, he’s telling me how everything’s just a big conspiracy to lock us up and bla bla, get us all to stay inside and work and be good citizens and the next he’s off the grid. Apparently he got infected through the grocery deliveries or something. There have been more and more cases just like Matt’s and the government has started an investigation. June 25. One of the major food distributors in the country was found responsible for the recent outbreak. I guess Matt was right, we are at a pivotal time in history. I’m curious where it will take us. June 27 Matt is dead. July 17 I met someone today. He smiled at me. He has a really nice smile. I don’t think I’ve seen someone smile for a long time now. I hope it happens again. July 20 His name is Brett. Ever since the Food Court incident, the government has taken food deliveries into their own hands. They take extra precautions to make sure that everything is done by the book in regards to packaging and delivery. Brett’s one of thousands of government employees across the country risking their lives every day to take sure that we are fed and safe. He’s so brave! July 21 It seems that whatever the government’s been doing is working. The number of confirmed cases has been steadily decreasing and there are fewer deaths each day. They say that they’ve been working on a vaccine all this time and that it will soon be released. July 23 Brett brought me a flower today. I’m not sure what I should do with it. I forgot they even existed. July 24 I decided to press the flower in the journal for save keeping. This way I can enjoy it forever. July 27 Brett’s brought me an extra yogurt today, we’re only allowed three per delivery. I think I’ll wear the leather skirt next time he comes around. July 30 You should have seen the look on his face when I opened the door. His jaw just dropped! I was so nervous, the way he looked at me, I could see the fire in his eyes. Hmmmm, now that I think about it more, it was rather embarrassing. He was all clumsy and stiff. Idiot! August 2 I’m happy. For the first time since this damn thing started, I’m happy. I don’t wish for it to stop. October 5 Has it really been so long since I last wrote? Come to think of it, I haven’t really felt these past months go by. It’s been like a haze, a sort of bad dream. First, Brett stopped showing up. He was replaced by this old, ugly man. When I asked him about it he just looked at me and left. I haven’t spoken with Brett ever since, it’s like he simply vanished. I can’t understand what happened. Work has been slow, I have a new colleague, Donna. She’s nice! Quiet. I had to do her training, it helped me keep my mind of things. The situation is still bad around the world. Over one hundred million people have died because of the disease and there are wars raging in several countries. I guess I should count myself lucky. October 8 I’ve been thinking about my childhood a lot lately, about my parents. I miss them very much. We’ve started talking more, I think Mom’s gotten thinner and Dad’s hair is all white now. They look sad, worried. They say that they’re worried about me but I don’t know, I think they don’t know how to be happy anymore. October 20 Winter’s around the corner. I look outside the window and all I see is death. When I was little I used to love autumn. I don’t think I can do that anymore. There’s a tree in front of my apartment building, I think it’s called a buckthorn. For the past few weeks I’ve been looking at it, at the way the leaves turn from green to yellow, from yellow to pink, then red and by the time they’ve fallen they’re a sickly purple. Purple used to be my favorite color. I can’t stomach it anymore. November 3 The last leaf has fallen from the tree. I feel very, very sad. November 10 They’ve started construction of some sort of delivery system. It’s supposed to bring all your shopping directly to your door. Well, technically, past the door. It’s some sort of lift that goes on the outer wall of the building. I’m glad I won’t be seeing old and ugly anymore, he reminded me too much of Brett. December 15 Winter is horrible. It’s not even snowing. It’s just cold. Everything feels cold outside, cold and dead. February 1 We’re no longer getting groceries. The government is sending us already prepared meals. They say it’s safer this way, less chance of getting infected. Honestly it looks like crap and it tastes even worse. February 22 They’ve discovered a vaccine. The government is doing tests to see if it works, I don’t think I care anymore. Nothing really matters anymore. I’m glad I can still work. February 27 I threw away Brett’s flower today. I hated looking at it. March 12 Happy Birthday!!! We’ve been together for one year and I’ve been such a good girl that I even got a treat. What, you ask? I got two pieces of bacon at lunch instead of one and it was delicious. Someone, somewhere loves me. I wonder if I’ll get anything tomorrow?!

The nights weren't always like this, they flowed with mystery and adventure. Now there more like a bleak, barren wasteland were hopes and dreams were washed away by the cruel darkness. The change began with the disappearance of the spirits, some say due to pollution and others say due to the lack of hope however no amount of speculation could bring them back. A hero foretold on the prophecy of old was destined to bring the spirits back to bring the mystery and adventure back into the night, but that was just some old fairy tale the parents would tell kids to make them feel better. Our story begins with a young boy, a young boy named Ridwan Ayanie. Ridwan lived in one of the more poor villages in the kingdom of Frieya a desert where shade was a delicacy, after his father died he had to look after his elderly mother and his to younger siblings, a set of twins a boy and a girl. He'd lived an honest life he never stole and he kept it in his best regard to never lie. He never knew his life would change for the better or for the worst on one bland fateful night. "I should head home it's getting late" Ridwan told his friend Yaqoob "looks like your family will be eating tonight" the boy said looking at Ridwans score of the night, he was never really poor his uncle being part of the council governing the kingdom of Frieya. He never knew the struggles of going to sleep hungry and miserable like Ridwan, but he'd known the absence of a father figure like Ridwan and that's what made them such close friends. "Hopefully this will last us a couple of days" Ridwan said wishfully "atleast enough to support us untill my next hunt" Yaqoob had a sympathetic look in his eyes. Ridwan was walking alone in the dark alley ways of his village, one wrong turn and you could be on the other side of town. Ridwan thought to himself " why are there no stars in the sky? why did the spirits leave?" As he was nearing close to his small sand hut he smelled something, being a hunter he had a very keen nose. He smelt blood but not normal deer blood this one smelt more rich more it smelt more valuable. He knew something was wrong he proper the deer up as best he could on his shoulders and tried to run his mind asking a thousand questions but his face completely dull. As he rounded the corner he saw his sand hut, he saw his old wooden door open and the cold stare of the candle light. He knew something happened. He dropped the deer for his shoulders and sprinted faster than he ever did before, as he moved closer he saw blood all over the walls and the ground before the door. He stopped, stepped in and looking around. Nothing. He walked to the corridor towards his mother's room he opened the doors and greeted the horrors Infront of him, his elderly mother laying in front of him blood in every direction. His 6 year old brother to the left of her and his 6 year old sister to the right of her all the mercilessly killed. Grief struck him in the heart and seeped from his eyes, a million questions stormed his mind but we're stopped by his sorrow. "Mama" he cried in a soft whisper, "Aliya, Zaid" those were all the words he could say. He collapsed into his mother cold bloody arms, he stayed there for what seemed Hours, until he got up. Atop his mother bed was a note he rushed over to it and read it. "Be free young Ridwan, for we have freed you from any guilt or setbacks you would feel on this quest. The quest upon to free the night. To bring prosperity and hope to the people, meet us in the clearing of were the forest and river meet" he knew exactly were that was as he was there a couple hours before hand, "and we shall give you the details and equipment to find the lost treasure and free the spirits and free the nights. Come whenever you're ready we'll be waiting" millions of more questions flooded his mind and this time he let them out, "why my family? Why me? What treasure? Why did they kill my family? Who's doing was this?. About 2 hours past it was about three in the morning and he'd just buried his family and said a prayer, he was awake with murderous intent he'd go to the forest find who did the to his family and kill them. It was roughly 10 o'clock when he left it'd take him 15 minutes for him to get there. He'd taken a secret way so no one could see him, the last thing he'd need is someone to talk to. He made it to the clearing only to see 4 figures standing in front of him, he'd taken out his dagger and charged at them screaming"FOR MY FAMILY" a sort of war cry that did nothing but make the figures laugh, the biggest one hoped down from the tree he was perched in and hit Ridwan in the neck sending him straight to the floor, they laughed a female voice said in a joking manner "are you sure this is the right kid" and the all sniggered he couldn't believe it after the horrible things they done they were laughing anger shot out of Ridwan and he got up stabbed the figure straight through the heart. He didn't die. The 'flesh' (looked more like a white illusion) wrapped around the blade and snapped it in two. He punched Ridwan and sent him flying on his backside. He spoke " we called you here not to fight or argue but to do us and the kingdom a favour" Ridwan spoke up "forget it you killed my family" the girl spoke up again "oh family this family that by your age I killed my family. Just didn't live up to my standards" the main voice spoke up and they all silenced out of what looked like fear "will you o young Ridwan embark on the quest to save Frieya" he looked like he wouldn't take no for an answer. Ridwan spoke "for my family and for my people yes" his back suddenly felt heavy, he looks around and saw a bag filled to the brim with medicinal remedies, arrows, spare clothes and food and water, in his had he felt a bow but it was no ordinary bow it was a bow that had the front like a sword a sort of hybrid. The main figure spoke up and explained his task. To retrieve the missing treasure and give it to the spirit statue in the centre of the villages, he was warned about evil creates yet he did not know where he was meant to go or how to find the treasure. And Like that they grabbed him and threw him at the trunk of a tree but he didn't crash he went through He landed on rock and he felt an urge to go straight, he walked about 10 minutes and felt an urge to go right and this continued until he found himself in a room, a room holding a lion with the legs of elephants and the skin of wolves. It lunged at him and he knew what to do he was a hunter at heart and this was just another thing for him to Hunt. He loaded his bow and shot at the beast and it went through its chest, the beast dropped but it was far from death Ridwan realised this the moment it was to late it jumped on him and he sliced it's head of clean with the sword. The next couple hours were smooth sailing, he made it into another room were he met a vampire wearwolf hybrid, hairy waist and down and pale skin with two dots on its neck. It spoke to Ridwan but he did not understand he knew it was in his way towards the treasure so he attacked first catching it of guard he lunged at its feet and sliced but missed it was too fast. It attacked biting Ridwan in his neck sending a crippling shock down his body he knew he couldn't give up so he raised and fought the beast but he was no match he got to cover and searched his bag and found wolves bane he dipped the tip of his arrow in the pot and ready his bow he took a deep breath rised and shot the arrow right into the creatures torso. He exploded and collapsed, Ridwan felt tremendous pain in his neck he frantically searched his bag. Vampire counter medicine, he drank the hole bottle, it was over behind the door was the treasure. He walking in and found a necklace he picked it up and found himself outside of the tree but there were no figures it was the dead of night, he knew what he had to do. He walked to the centre of the village and saw the statue he placed the necklace on the main spirits head and light exploded but there was no one there to see. The spirits lunged into the sky yearning for the night sky and the sky returned to an array of colours and hope. The spirit spoke to him "thank you brave hero, for you actions benefitted the whole kingdom now children and adults alike will rejoice at the sky because of you. Go and rest you deserve it we'll always be with you" and with that they disappeared into the night sky. Ridwan sulked home he'd done so much yet his life was still ruined he didn't realize how tired he was until he collapsed Infront of his door step. He was carried in by someone. He woke the next morning to see familiar faces his family were alive and there was no blood or sadness. His mother told him last night that the sky had lighten up like no other night he knew the cause but he did not tell. Out the window he saw 4 figures they smiled and disappeared he spent the day playing and having fun with his family.

Most things that are lost are never found. This was true of my cat Lucy. By all accounts, Lucy was a freak of nature, who should have never been born. She was the runt of a litter and suffered from a genetic defect, which had given her a permanent limp and blindness. The poor thing was rejected by her mother and the other kittens had put her at the very bottom of the pecking order. While the other kittens found their forever-homes within weeks, Lucy remained unwanted and unloved until one day when my father found her. She had been abandoned at a roadside in a stereotypical cardboard box, damp from the heavy August rain. In those days, we lived in a small cul-de-sac in a quiet neighborhood. We weren’t exactly poor but we weren’t incredibly wealthy either. Mom had two jobs and dad worked around the clock at a factory. Even though she was blind, Lucy was fierce and her impaired vision didn’t stop her. She had mangled ears and scars before she turned two years old. Her approach to life was to try and be the queen of the castle or die trying. Her whole life from kitten-hood, she stalked the surrounding neighbourhood, muscular, almost skinny. Not once did I ever see that feline flinch, no matter what noise was going on. The only time she relaxed was when he found my sister Grace sitting in the garden, and would curl onto her lap - but only her. I can’t tell you how special that made her feel, how happy. She would tell everyone that she was her cat, with a pride the eye can’t hide. One winter, when the weather had been particularly bitter and Pacific Northwest had suffered the worst blizzards seen in decades, my sister Grace got sick. She’d always been a playful child with wild, strawberry blonde hair and a mischievous glint in her eyes, always plotting the next adventure. There were two years between us, I was the eldest and had just turned thirteen. Grace was eleven and even though we often fought as sisters do, we were extremely close. Our parents worked long hours and were often away, so for most of our childhood, all Grace and I had were each other but we never suffered from it. Lucy had been a welcome addition to the family. On a cold January morning, when small snowflakes crystallized on the kitchen window, creating intricate shapes and danced in the sunlight, I remember waking up to Lucy sitting at the edge of my bed and for the first time ever - she curled up next to me. That’s when I knew something was wrong. Grace had died from pneumonia in the early hours that morning. She had been ill for a few weeks and despite the best efforts of the doctors, they couldn’t save her. After Grace’s death, Lucy changed. She stayed in the house a lot and practically gave up her crown as queen of the hill. It was almost as if she grieved with us, in a way I’ve never seen before. She’d always been a quiet cat who never made much noise but sometimes, I woke up at night to the sound of Lucy crying. It wasn’t just the normal sound of an upset animal, but a heart wrenching wail. It broke not only my heart but also my parents. We never could have guessed that a cat would grow so attached to one human. Despite her blindness, Lucy had never had an accident. Her other senses must have been heightened because she never ventured to the road and so we were never worried for her safety. Three weeks after Grace’s death, Lucy had almost entirely stopped eating and even when we’d taken her to the vet, nothing changed. She became withdrawn and merely the shadow of the cat she once was. One Tuesday afternoon when I came home from school, both my parents waited for me on the porch. “It’s Lucy.” mom said and that’s all she ever needed to say. A delivery driver had knocked on the door a few hours earlier, holding the body of a cat in his arms. It was weird, he said, because he swore the cat had seen him and there was plenty of time for him to hit breaks on the vehicle but the cat had still made a run for it and by the time the driver hit the breaks it was already too late. My parents hadn’t had the heart to tell him about Lucy’s blindness but instead of burying her in the garden, we buried her in the graveyard, next to my sister.

I woke up in the middle of the night, a layer of cold sweat covering my entire body. Turning around on the bed, I looked at her. She was sleeping, breathing deeply, with a faint smile on her plush, pink lips. I frowned and moved in the dim, bluish light of the room, leaving the bed. My bare toes spread on the floor as I sat up, cracking my neck before getting up. I grabbed my smokes and lighter from the nightstand and walked over the open window. It was raining. A barrier of water that barely let me see the other side of the street. Yet the air was thick and warm, even when it seemed it had been deluging for hours, judging by the rivers flowing down the road. I lit a cigarette and leaned against the railing, taking a long and slow drag, and with a heavy sigh, I released a thick cloud of smoke that slowly went up in the air, mixing with the early morning mist. The sky was gradually gaining color far in the east, the storm clouds turning slightly golden and orange. There is always something very appealing and almost magical to this time of the day. It gives you the feeling that you're the only living person in the world, although I wasn't. I glanced to my right as she moved on the bed, mumbling about getting back to sleep. My gaze lingered on her half-naked form for a moment but quickly abandoned her and returned to the street as I continued to enjoy my cigarette and the quiet surrounding me. Although, there was an odd sensation slowly crawling into my mind and my skin. I stared up at the sky. The clouds were so thick and too dark. There was something off about them. It felt like they were pressing their ethereal mass against the earth, capturing the hot air and the city fumes, creating a weird atmosphere that made me uneasy even during the peace of the morning. But, I told myself that it was nothing and continued to enjoy the rain's natural song. It hadn't been too long when I heard a noise down the street, and I lazily turned in that direction. I couldn't distinguish anything, but it sounded like someone was out there, mumbling in the downpour. At first, I thought it was a person, maybe a homeless guy or someone too drunk to care about the weather, but some other voices soon joined the first. Unable to understand a word, if those were words at all, a feeling of anxiousness took over me. My chest suddenly felt tight as my heartbeat increased; my hands gripped the railing tightly as I held the cigarette between my lips. The sounds continued to grow in number and seemingly becoming louder as if its source was slowly dragging its way down the street. Maybe it's just a group of foreign people, I thought; a mere excuse my mind gave me to try and calm my nerves, although it didn't work. I continued to look toward the nothingness, only a waterfall in front of my eyes. I leaned forward, ignoring the downpour as it hit my face and exposed torso. However, in the back of my head, I did notice that each drop felt incredibly dense, not as if they were simply falling but deliberately thrusting themselves against the surface of the earth. I continued to stare, breathing heavily. Eventually, after what seemed hours, I noticed some fading motions in the rain. At first, I thought it was the wind, causing the falling and running water to wave, although it took me a fraction of a second to realize that there was no wind, not even a faint breeze. I shook my head, rubbing my eyes. Maybe it was just the sleep calling me back to bed. Squinting, I looked again, and the heavy rain barely allowed me to hear my voice as I gasped, dropping my cigarette. I recoiled from the window, and it took me a moment to force myself to pull my jaw up and close my mouth. I held my breath and pushed myself against the railing once more, and this time I had no doubt. Something was moving out there, a dark fog, leisurely rolling closer, moaning and groaning, mumbling and growling unintelligible sounds. I was about to close the window and hide, but then I realized I wasn't afraid, and for a second, that odd realization made me wonder if this was a damn weird dream. But I was sure this wasn't a dream; I was fully aware of what was going on. With my sight fixed on... Whatever that was, I tried to rationalize what I was staring at, but nothing I could think of seemed to work and make sense. I knew I was witnessing an unnatural event, something that no one was supposed to see, and that was the only answer that calmed me down. Watching the shadows creeping closer to my house, closer to me, I began to distinguish each of them and their voices. Their shapes changed and shifted as they moved, merging and then dragging their bodies apart and move in their own direction. However, they kept moving as a single, large mass, continually getting closer. Always groaning as if the rain hurt them like acid, as if the asphalt they were sliding across ripped their skins. Retreating from the window, I hesitated for an instant before rushing downstairs, not wanting to make them wait as I practically jumped down the steps. Standing at the door while catching my breath, I was able to hear them scratching the door and its frame. They were asking me to let them in, although their grumbling was now barely audible as if they perceived there was someone else in the house. And... I'm sure now that they knew. I glanced up in the direction my room was. That was why they were here, right? Because of her... I eagerly unlocked the door, pulled it open, and faced them. My eyes almost fell from their sockets as I saw their faceless fronts, the dark holes where eyes should have been, the void they had as mouths. It was bizarre and fascinating at the same time. They passed by me and through me. I sensed their low noises rumbling inside me, like standing too close to a large buffer, and yet I was only able to hear a muffled whisper by then --a silent procession flowing in front of me. The shadows slid into my house, floating upstairs, seemingly occupying the entire house as they spread and advanced. I watched them until the last one disappeared into the second floor. There was a long moment of silence when even the rain seemed to have faded into nothing, and for a second, I thought they were gone. I thought I was crazy, that my mind made all that up. I peered outside at the wall of water and blinked. Was that it? What was... It? All my questions and thoughts suddenly stopped when my ears finally heard a noise. It was the very distinctive sound of my wife's voice. Her screams were so loud I feared the neighbors might hear her, but the rain was so unnaturally heavy, deafening everyone around and isolating this very... Strange event from the rest of the world. I knew they were coming back as her voice now reached louder to my ears. I flinched and grunted lowly, looking up at the stairs to see the shadows return, carrying my screaming wife along with them. I saw the terror in her eyes, her sight clinging to me. She called my name, her mouth gaping, distorted in a pained grimace. She reached out with her arms, clawed hands as if she was trying to grasp the air desperately, and me. Her body twitched and shifted as she struggled, and I couldn't tell what kept her from simply falling to the ground. I couldn't distinguish if anything was holding her or if it was just some kind of force keeping her in place. I think I was smiling while my wife was carried outside, and I saw her expression changing from one of utter horror and desperation to one of deep pain and disappointment. She realized I had no intention of helping her, yet my soul felt light and relieved. I believe I caught a hint of understanding in her because deep inside, she knew our life together was fake. I watched in silence as the shadows abandoned my home, standing at the threshold as the last creature oozed its way out. I observed them, with my hand slowly going up to the doorknob. Returning through the same way they came, they took her, and they were silent now, content as I was. I could only hear her screams fading in the air as they disappeared behind the curtain of water. I closed the door, releasing a light breath. Turning around, I made my way to the upper floor, scratching the back of my neck as I quickly climbed the stairs. Walking into my room, I picked up the smokes and my lighter and lit myself another cigarette. I took a long drag of smoke and let it out through my nose as I sighed, smiling when I looked up towards the east, admiring the birth of a new day.

* Content Warning: Terminal Disease Discussion TIME OUT I don’t want to be strong today. Today, I want to drink wine before five, not eat a healthy dinner, and not complete my evening workout, the one I do religiously because healthy living, the podcasts tell me, is life-elongating. But not for him. Although he exercises daily, his life expectancy hasn’t elongated; it's diminished. Today, after hearing his news, I offered my strength, offered him my support, and said all the things one’s supposed to say in these situations. You’re going to get through this . I’m here for you . We’ll fight this together. I love you . You said the right things, I tell myself. But I abruptly ended our call because tears broke from the vault, and my voice started to quiver, and everyone knows you shouldn't upset someone who received horrible news. There really should be a handbook for terminal etiquette . More than anything, I want to open that bottle of wine I saved for a rainy day because Stage Four sounds scary--despite his assurances that it’s slow-moving or slow-growing or whatever my four pages of hastily transcribed notes mean--and today is the rainiest day of all. On tiptoes, I reach for the bottle on the shelf, and a landslide of pantry items tumble down. Plastic bag boxes, coffee filters, an insulated lunchbox. Fortunately, the bottle is unharmed. As I pop the wine cork, an imagined weight creeps from my chest to my spine. With hunched shoulders, I grab a glass and pour. Wine drops splatter on the counter. No matter. I'll clean the mess later. I sniff, swallow, and wince. The liquid is sour and pungent on my tongue. My taste buds tingle as I welcome the drink. Ten sips left--give or take a few. My phone feels heavy when I lift it. I stare at the screen, knowing I should call him back now--soon--but first I must pull myself together and be certain I won’t break down. “It’s going to be a challenging year,” my friend told me when I shared the news. “You’ll have to be strong,” she said. “Especially for him.” “I know,” I said. “I’m trying.” I swear. I will. Six sips left. My fingers repeatedly type the word tease instead of these and realize that my alcohol buzz has set in. Family members are texting, asking for updates, and I just want to drink this damn wine and turn back the calendar and not answer the phone and stay in bed and scream in my pillow. Why didn’t he follow up with his doctor last year? Why didn’t he tell me sooner? How could he be so irresponsible? Maybe he would live longer than six years if he had been more vigilant with his health. “Don’t beat up the cancer patient,” he pleaded when I asked him these questions. My heart grew soft and small. Stupid girl. He’s hurting. Don’t twist the knife deeper. Support is what he needs, not reprimanding. I’ve been stingy in doling out sympathy. But how will I support him long distance? How can I help from a thousand miles away? Who will take him to his chemo infusions? Who will clean his house? Run errands? Make him soup when he’s ill? I don’t trust myself with these responsibilities. It’s too much to think of at once. I’m not ready, not yet. Maybe soon. Soon. For better or for worse , they say. I guess we’re doing worse for a while. If only I could turn back time, my buzzed brain repeats. I’d go back to yesterday. Or the week before. Or New Year’s Eve when we lay in bed and made plans for the future, and he stroked my jaw and said, “I wish we could stay here forever.” “Forever” isn’t supposed to be only six years. If I could turn back time, I’d set the clock to the year I met him. Undo the wrong that followed. Force him to eat healthier. Get him to sleep more. Visit more. Join a gym. Follow up with his darned doctor. Five sips left. Focus on the positive, I tell myself. He has access to medical experts, and he’s not giving up. I’ll make every effort to be there with him. I’ll be a better girlfriend. A better nurse--advocate, friend, partner, proxy--whatever he needs. I’ll put my own wants aside and be a better human. I promise. I promise. I promise I will. If only it’ll help him get better. Four sips--wait. Not yet. He texts as I’m typing this, and I’m editing my misspellings because the wine is making my vision fuzzy, and it’s hard to get my thoughts down, but I need to put these words somewhere. I can’t let him hear them. I can’t tell him I’m scared. Scared for him, scared for us. Will there be an “Us” long-term? Dealing with two types of cancer simultaneously is going to be difficult. Plus, there are other factors to contend with. His Type 2 Diabetes and high blood pressure, for example. How did he get so sick? He doesn’t eat fast food, doesn’t smoke, rarely drinks. There are no guarantees, they say. Earlier, when he mentioned the words, “ Quality of life and metastasized ,” my heart shattered like a vitreous plate hitting the floor. I knew what he meant. Negative thoughts are detrimental. He must remain positive, look on the bright side, manifest healing. That’s what the experts advise. Don’t give up, I begged him. Hold on. Fight. Please. Please. Four sips left. The wine buzz isn’t numbing me, not like I hoped. Panicked thoughts scramble my brain. I should’ve eaten a salad. I should’ve gotten on the treadmill. I should’ve gone outside for a walk. I need to be a better girlfriend, one that’s healthy, happy, and supportive, not selfishly sipping wine, worrying if we’ll ever be intimate again. Worrying his beautiful hair will fall out. Worrying he will be too sick to help me when I’m older. Worrying, I’m a horrible person for even thinking such things. He’s the one suffering, not me. Three sips left. I stare at one of our framed pictures and feel a pinprick in my gut. Look at his thick, pretty hair. Two sips. I’m awake yet slightly sluggish. My stomach is warm and tingly. I’m not used to drinking. Not often. Not alone. I lift my hand and swirl the burgundy-colored puddle at the bottom of my glass. The little voice in my head, the one that’s been telling me I’m a horrible person, says, pour out the wine, wash your face and sober up , but my fingers need to release these words somewhere and my heart needs to heal a little before I call him back, lest he hears the grief in my voice. Last sip. Empty glass. Deep breath. I smile and reach for my phone.

Year of 2088 “Daniel, you’ve barely touched your plate. We have all this food yet you haven’t even glanced at the desserts,” Mother says. She waved over Sam, one of the maids that worked at my house, and asked her to start clearing the entrees. “I’m not hungry,” I replied, clutching my stomach to keep the growling locked inside my empty stomach. The dining room, where these dinners were hosted, echoed the noises of unbridled rants regarding the business industry. I absolutely hated Friday dinners. Around 20 businesspersons, all dressed in suits and garnished with the most expensive and dazzling jewelry I’ve ever seen, all gather to discuss deals, partnerships, profit strategy- all concepts that my 11 year old mind cannot grasp. “Well you have to try something Daniel,” Mother said. “If you only try one thing tonight, make it the pudding,” Michael, one of the businessmen sitting next to Mother, suggested. I slouched in my chair and sighed; Mother and Father only ever paid attention to me when other people were around. I watched as my Mother dug the gold serving spoon into the dessert and plopped it down smack in the middle of the gold plate. Raising my spoon I took a bite. Except, there was no sweetness. I took another bite; the world faded as a separate force took over me. A rain of the most fervent emotions I’ve ever felt poured down, flooding every inch of my mind; the rush of unfamiliar, yet vivid, familiar feelings pounded my head. I tasted sadness. I tasted suffering. I tasted desperation and everything that a sweet dessert should never taste like. Multiple memories of mourning over someone. A sort of nostalgia, or a yearning desire. I’ve never felt this before, although, Déjà Vu spiraled eliminating my doubts, and I reached an epiphany that I’ve lived through this state of mind before; just not in this lifetime. There was a flash in my mind, followed by the quick image of a small kitchen. The background blurred, although a figure standing in the middle appeared in meticulous detail. I saw a young, lanky boy, his brown hair swooping just below his hazel eyes. It looked as if he cried for hours and never slept as his eye bags practically fell as low as his hair. His facial expression fully captivated the exact feelings I had just experienced, as if his life had been in a permanent turmoil. I’ve never seen this kid in my life, yet, I knew exactly who he was. It was me. I couldn’t sleep that night. The following morning I begged Father to have Sam gather the ingredients used in bread pudding. Father was on his way to an international convention and gave me the approval without even acknowledging my question. “Here you go Daniel. Everything you need is laid on the counter and if you need anything I’d be happy to help,” Sam assured me as she ruffled my hair. Sam had always been there for me whenever I needed her. I dragged over a stool from the closet and positioned myself in a methodical manner; the ingredients, all labeled, lined up in order next to the glass pan and spoon I was given to work with. In my mind, I had no clue what to do first. All I sensed was an array of unfamiliar bottles and scents. I have never made bread pudding before. Daniel has never made bread pudding before, although the person he was decades ago made it a million times. Daniel was able to subconsciously make his way around the kitchen and didn’t request any recipe. He got started. 2 cups of milk Year of 2003 I had asked Tanner to go to the grocery store to restock on milk. Tanner was my older brother, the one I looked up to since Dad wasn’t around. My family wasn’t always poor. I mean- we were never exactly “comfortable”, but we managed to get around. There I was- in the kitchen, the place that I can actually call home. We didn’t live in a safe neighborhood, and my mom always had Tanner go out and help our family stay on our feet. However Mom didn’t even have to encourage him to; Tanner enrolled in our city college and started his own small business to give my family a better life. When I heard the devastating words that had come through our semi-broken home phone, my head spun. I felt like fainting. “Hello? Is this the Watson residence?” the authoritative voice spoke. “Yes..this is Marty. Who is this?” I answered. “I’ve got bad news. Tanner Watson has been found dead at the scene of a terrible car incident on the 510 highway. I am so sorry for your loss and we’ll continue keeping in contact with his immediate family. My number is..” The phone dropped and the long, high-pitched beep followed the sound of it smacking the cold floor. Then came silence. Then fear. I’m trembling. Chills turned to a shock, banning my body from moving. Silence. Deep breath turns to a cry. My brother. The person who got me. There’s no faith anymore. 1⁄2 loaf sweet bread That very night of Tanner’s incident I couldn’t keep myself together. Mom wasn’t even home and Grandma didn’t say a single word. Dad was unreachable and stressing him out would only hurt his condition even more. I grabbed Tanner’s coat hanging from the chair and ran out the door, slamming it behind me as tears flowed down my face; my eyes were puffy and swollen, more than they’ve ever been. It was night out. Mom would never let me roam the alleys past 7. I turned into Garfield Alley, the place that me and Tanner went together whenever we needed a break from home. The two crumbling brick buildings seemed to cave in the windy path as I kneeled there in the middle. The moon was nowhere to be seen; an array of dark storm clouds captured the full moon and blocked the light. I felt trapped. An old man, about 80 years old, approached me as his cane wobbled on the cobbled cement. His white beard extended about a foot, his bright blue eyes pierced through the air, and his teeth were as crooked as this alleyway. “Are you lost?” he asked with a scratchy voice. I brought my gaze up to meet his eyes and shook my head. He placed his hand on my shoulder and with his other hand gave me a loaf of bread. It was the kind that Tanner would always pick up at the grocery store. “What’s this?” I asked, confused as to why a homeless guy was offering me food. The man smiled and crouched down as best as he could, his back curving and knees struggling to bring him to my eye level. “You know son, I may be struggling to feed myself every day and am devoid of a home, but I was once a kid like you. In fact, the very night I ran away from my house, I came to this very spot,” he explained looking up as if he was recalling tumultuous events through his life. “Just because I’m in need doesn’t mean I don’t need to help others. Everyone is in need of something. Now I just came back from the market ‘round the corner and a gut feeling told me someone would be in need of my help today.” I wiped the snot coming from my nose and stared at the bread. “Thank you sir, but you should keep it. You need it more than I do.” That’s when he got up, his light body depending on only the cane to keep it from collapsing. “Trust me. Promise me you’ll pass the faith and help others whenever you can, no matter what position you may be in,” he said looking straight into my eyes, still red and swollen from crying. I nodded as he turned and disappeared in the dark. That’s what Tanner would’ve wanted. 1 teaspoon vanilla extract I had spent all afternoon in the kitchen and only my Mom was home. Standing on top of the tiled counter, I was careful to not bump my head on the low, popcorn textured ceiling. My grandma had requested me to make bread pudding that day and whatever she wants I’ll give her. She never really spoke to anyone- never engaging in conversations and choosing to sit in the same chair Dad had found on the streets years ago. The only time she ever talked was with me, and it was always in the kitchen. She taught me how to cook; the bread pudding recipe was originally her own, and she tells me she feels safe from the outside world cooking with me. As I poured in the milk and reached for the vanilla extract, the whole bottle tipped over as my elbow swung carelessly. It crashed all over the floor, the light brown liquid seeping through the cracks in the lopsided tile. The aroma of vanilla ate the empty void around me. Everytime I’m baking in the kitchen, my grandma and I make sure to smell it once before adding it into the mixture; it’s only when we both recognize the scent of vanilla extract that our moods illuminate. I bent down, crouching as I leaned on one hand, and began to clean up this mess. Looking up, I noticed the door to my mom’s office was a crack open. I continued to absorb the extract and overheard my mom’s phone conversation with my dad. “Ben, I don’t know what to do. In fact- telling the poor kid is going to be the hardest of all. Now that Tanner is gone we have no more hope,” my mom spoke as her voice trembled. “Pat fired me. No one in the family is making any money anymore, and our accounts are only plummeting. I miss you.” The sweetness of the vanilla didn’t smell so sweet anymore. As I was absorbing this hopeless news, my nose was absorbing the extract. All I could smell was bitterness. Sweet turned to sour real quick and the tips of my fingers slightly touched the leftover vanilla I had yet to soak up. It was almost as if I could feel the helpless emotions I felt flowing through my body, fusing into the liquid. Now whenever I open the bottle of vanilla, I try not to allow the scent to reach my nose, but the moment I catch a whiff of it, it reminds me of the day that my family fell apart. 2 eggs, beaten My dad found out he had lung cancer when I was around 15 years old. It was a surprise, although my dad spent the majority of his life doing work with a cigarette planted in his mouth. Tanner tried to get him to quit, but it was hopeless at the point Dad was in his life. He’s been getting treatment for awhile, but as his condition got worse, he landed himself in the hospital. Dad not being around was hard for all of us, but mostly grandma. I prayed every night, hoping that everything could turn back to normal. I remember sitting on his broad shoulders wondering how on earth he was able to hold me. As I swung my arms wildly watching him bring two eggs out of the fridge, he explained that cracking eggs was a skill it took years to master. Placing one egg in between his fingers, he pushed his thumb into it, cracking the sides and creating a messy hole, and he poured out the eggs as if the shell were a pitcher. “And that, my friend, is my special party trick, Marty,” Dad said as I giggled. He scooped me up and ran around the house with his hands under my arms. I guess my dad was a bit irresponsible at times, since he hadn’t been watching the stove. Even a bit burnt, they were the best eggs I’ve ever tasted. 1⁄3 cup sugar and a pinch of salt “Now we need the salt.” Grandma and I had been at work all day making her bread pudding. I walked over to the top shelf as I eyed two containers, both filled with fine white granules of either salt, or sugar. Grabbing both I spoke, “I don’t know which one is the salt or sugar; no one ever labels anything in this house.” I set down the two. Grandma turned around, leaving the perfectly clean mixing bowl by the stove. “Sometimes, you’re not gonna know which one is which, cause honey, salt and sugar look the same,” she told me. I didn’t know where this was going. “You might not know who you can trust- looks can be deceiving. One might give you a whole plate of salt while another a plate of sugar. Everyone always has a little bit of sugar and salt in their lives.” She had a glimmer in her eye, but not a happy one. It was as if she was remembering something in her past that related to what she was telling me. “So how do you know who to trust?” I asked. “Be cautious. Be alert, but never be afraid to try.” She stuck one finger in one of the containers and licked it. She scrunched her nose and shook her tongue out. “Yup, that one’s definitely the salt.” I laughed as I placed labels on both. 2088 I finished the final touches of the bread pudding. All those moments that revised my memory as I added each ingredient still trailed the back of my mind. The life I lived before was so different from my life now. I pushed the button on the new oven my parents just bought the other day; it was the newest model released last week and of course they were the first ones to purchase it. After 30 minutes, I pulled it out and left it on the cooling tray. Mother just came back from work as she entered the kitchen in her suit and set her briefcase down. “Wow Daniel, have you been cooking?” she asked, collapsing down on the couch. I nodded and smiled. “Smells great. Also, your father’s convention got canceled, he should be heading back home. I’m going to drive and meet him at the airport, and we might go eat out with some business friends. Ask Sam to cook you something. ” My smile dropped. I glanced over at the bread pudding, reminding myself of the tragic events I had once faced. Truth is, in these two lifetimes I faced similar problems. I always had issues with being with my family. I couldn’t give this up, not right now at least, and I knew I had to find a way to get my family back together. “Hey Mom, I made this bread pudding today and was wondering if you and Father would want to eat together with me?” I nervously asked as I fiddled my hands. Mother looked up at me and gave Father a call. Later that night, we decided to eat on the coffee table in the living room instead of the dining room. Father had gotten a call from work, but the moment he picked it up to answer, Mother tilted her head in my direction, almost as if she were hinting to him to focus on me rather than work. He set it down. “Shall we give this pudding a try?” Father asked as he smiled for the first time in ages, revealing his shiny white teeth. I dug my spoon in. Raising the spoon, I took a bite. I didn’t taste sadness. There was no desperation embedded into the treat anymore. I tasted the sweet bread flavor, coated with the vanilla and sugar paste. I tasted the first time in years my family was all together, laughing- just the three of us. I felt the love and bond grow between us as we slowly finished the pudding bite by bite. Food creates memories. Friday dinners even accumulate in my mind now. It shows how important spending time with your family is. It showed my boredom and longing for attention from my parents. Now, as we sit around the coffee table, laughing and their work not even being mentioned in any conversation, this bread pudding holds an entirely new memory for me. It’s replacing, but not forgetting, the suffering and the events I faced in my old life, and now collecting the essence of everything around me at this very moment. Food holds memories. I might have left my old life and come back as a totally different person, with a new lifestyle with no memory of anything, but food has the capacity to hold every aspect of what happened while it witnessed key moments in my past life. Every smell, every texture, every color, and every object will work together and create a sealed package of my emotions I felt while I interacted with them, and only opened up, releasing this memory, when you put yourself back into its presence. Sam walked up to me and tapped my shoulder. Whipping my head around, she smiled at me; she had this glimmer in her eye. “Maybe before you thought your parents ignored you. You felt they didn’t care. They might have been your salt in your life,” Sam started. I gasped. “But maybe you had to try. You had to try something different- taking a different approach through baking.” She winked at me. “I guess they were my sugar after all.”

A monotone buzz began to scream from an alarm clock into a very carelessly decorated bedroom. *7:45* the clock read as Terry groaned loudly. “Ugh... I thought I unplugged you!” Terry said as he nearly smashed the alarm clock with his hand. Terry climbed out of bed slowly as his eyes adjusted to the light spraying through the window from the bright sun. He yawned as he stumbled through his disgusting home. He rubbed his eyes, his hands rubbing against the many wrinkles on his face. Terry was an older man, around 53 years old. He was never the cheerful type and did not enjoy others company. He loved to complain, and his latest subject was the craze that had swept across the entire world in only a few months. The Changing. The Changing was a very cheap surgery where people could be turned into their favorite characters. Their looks and voice would be changed to be exactly like the character, so many people jumped at the chance to become their heroes. Most people became superheroes or their favorite movie character. Even other famous people got the surgery too! Almost the entire world had been changed after only a month of it being allowed. It was normal to be walking down the street and see Batman sitting alone drinking coffee or Michael Jordan playing basketball in your neighbourhood. Terry never understood the trend and thought it was a waste of someone’s life. He was one of the last original humans, at least in America, and he planned to keep it that way. He walked into his bathroom and stared at the person in the mirror looking back at him. He sighed heavily as he began to brush his teeth, his eyes focusing on the empty bottle of beer in the corner of the room like a monster glaring at him menacingly. He spat into the sink noticing the art gallery of different stains in and around it. Terry stumbled into his room, putting on his work uniform- A blue polo shirt with a small logo in the corner reading, “Terry’s Comics!”, and some jeans. He checked his watch. *8:10.* Terry clutched his car keys tightly as he left his house, slamming the door closed. He hopped into his car and ignored the trash collecting in every crevice of the vehicle. The engine jumped to life surprisingly quickly. Normally Terry would have to hit the dashboard a few times before the car finally started. He prepared himself for the work day ahead as he drove towards the mall. Terry stood behind the counter of his small comic shop. He stared at the people exploring the maze of aisles full of crudely put together displays of comics. He spotted Superman reading the back of a My Little Pony comic book and Sherlock Holmes aggressively eating a hot dog spilling different condiments all over himself. Terry barely contained the laughter building up inside of him. Suddenly, a very buff man wearing a ski mask ran up to the counter holding a knife. “Put all the money in the bag!” The man screamed while shaking the bag rapidly. Terry instinctively swung his hands into the air. “Uh...Okay..Just let me open the cash register..” Terry said nervously while secretly pressing the emergency security button under the counter. Almost immediately 3 large men wearing security uniforms barged into the store. Without hesitation they grabbed the robber and began to drag him out of the store. “Yeah! Don’t you ever try doing something like that again!” Terry yelled to the robber. The man spat on the ground, staring at Terry directly in the eyes. Terry rolled his eyes and continued working. The rest of Terry’s day was terrible. He got constant complaints from his customers about ripped pages in the books they had bought and lots of other bogus problems. Every time Terry would have to say that there was nothing he could do and point to the sign that read “No Refunds” hanging up behind him. The person would usually stomp away angrily or walk out of the store screaming at him. One of the only parts of his job that Terry actually enjoyed was his lunch break but even that went wrong. He ate quietly sitting on a bench outside of his store. Out of nowhere Princess Leia walked by and spilled her coffee all over Terry. “Oh my God! I am so sorry!” She screamed as she tried to clean him up but he stopped her. “It’s fine. I can handle it.” Terry said hiding his anger. He walked away cleaning himself up in the bathroom. At around 7:00, the end of Terry’s work shift, he walked to his car just praying that the day wouldn’t get any worse. He drove out of the parking garage and headed towards Skippy’s Bar. He watched the many people walking along the road, laughing with their friends, and just having a good time. Terry shook his head, disappointed in himself, and parked his car in front of the bar. “Hey Terry! how ya’ doing?” Skippy asked as Terry walked into the bar. He looked around the bar and saw Indiana Jones passed out on one of the tables and Jack Sparrow, The Terminator and Dracula all playing pool together. Skippy, just like Terry, was also one of the last original humans in America. He and Terry had become pretty good friends because of that, but also because they both hated The Changing. “Not very good. Just give me the usual.” Terry said, sitting down at the counter and putting his head down. “Hey man, what’s got you so down?” Skippy asked as he filled a glass full of beer and handed it to Terry. “Just a terrible day at work. It was a nightmare.” Terry replied. “It seems like every day is a terrible day for you Terry. Just remember man, I’m here for you and you can talk to me anytime.” Skippy said as Terry chugged his first beer and burped loudly. Although he wasn’t asked, Skippy slyly handed Terry another glass of beer, which he easily drank. Skippy continued handing him drinks as they talked. “Why can’t The Changing change a person’s personality too. No one can get their character’s personality right! You get me?” Terry said as he pointed at the other men in the bar and both of them started laughing. “Yeah...At least we still got each other.” Skippy said as he wrapped his arm around Terry. “Thanks Skippy. You’ve always been a good friend.” Terry said, mumbling after his 5th drink. “I think I should be going.” Terry said as he stumbled towards the door. “Okay. See you soon.” Skippy said smiling. Terry barely made it out the door because of how drunk he was. He limped out onto the sidewalk, completely forgetting about his car. He walked in the direction of his house, but bumped into two huge bald men wearing black suits and sunglasses. “Hey sorry guys, Hehehe..” Terry said as he fell on the ground. He tried getting up but was punched in the face by the first bodyguard and he passed out instantaneously. Terry woke up with a terrible headache. He groaned as his eyes adjusted to the area around him. He looked down and saw that he was sitting in a wooden chair with leather restraints holding his hands and feet in place. He shook his limbs rapidly trying to set himself free as he screamed for help. He noticed that he was in a small room with walls made of concrete, and there was a metal door closed in front of him. Suddenly, the door swung open and Skippy walked in with the two bodyguards from the night before right behind him. “Hey Terry. How was your sleep?” Skippy said with a sense of madness in his voice. “What is this, Skippy? What’s happening?” Terry yelled, looking around the room rapidly. He visualized the night before trying to remember what had happened, but with no luck. “Well, as you know, The Changing is a worldwide phenomenon now. Almost everyone in America has had the operation done by now. Only a few people are still the originals, including me and you.” He said pointing at himself and Terry. “I want to be the last human. Imagine all the fame and glory of being the only original person, but I can’t have that if you’re still here. I knew there was no convincing you to get the surgery via normal ways so... I had to take matters into my own hands.” He said as he pulled out a large syringe with a strange green liquid inside. “No....No! You can’t do this Skippy! I thought we were friends!” Terry screamed, trying his best to hold back tears. “We were never friends.” Skippy said with no sympathy as he drove the needle directly into Terry’s arm. The two bodyguards held him down as he screamed and thrashed, his voice getting deeper and darker by the second. Terry could feel the fluid running through his body, as if it were a snake venom slowly killing him. He felt muscles begin to grow in his arms and strange bulges cover his entire body. His grey hair began to fall out and his feet doubled in size. Skippy stared at the creature in front of him as it grew and screamed at the same time. Terry was now a very ugly looking goblin, his clothes completely ripped from the transformation and his new self looking nothing like it did five minutes ago. “It is done.” Skippy said as he motioned towards the guards. The bodyguards exited and Skippy waved at Terry while laughing hysterically.

“Argh” Jeff shouted while slowly regaining consciousness, as he lay flat on a hospital bed. The fluorescent lighting beaming into his eyes. Throbbing pain pierced his skull. His legs felt tingly and his butthole was itchy. The type of itch you get when you don’t wipe well enough. Sure, you can adjust yourself in your chair to scratch the itch, but that’s only a temporary fix. Eventually you’ll have to do a walk of shame back to the bathroom to re-wipe. Jeff shook his head in disgust with himself. ‘32 years old, I should have this figured out by now’ The door swung open and in walked a doctor. “Oh, good. You’re awake. You gave us quite the scare back there. How are you feeling?” “Like my brain is going to explode.” Jeff answered. “Well, that will happen when you faint and slam your head on a tile floor. We’ve run some tests already, but we’d also like to give you an MRI. You may have had a concussion. Other that your headache, are there any other ailments? Dizziness? Sensitivity to light?” Jeff hesitated just in case the doctor brought up itchy buttholes, but apparently that’s only a symptom of laziness. “No,” he replied. “Pretty much just the head- HEY WAIT A SECOND! WHERE IS SHE?” Suddenly Jeff remembered the reason he was in the hospital in the first place. Seven hours prior he walked through the sliding glass doors downstairs with his pregnant wife who was going into labor. It was to be their first child and they were beyond excited. Neither one of them knew the gender. They both thought it would be best for it to come as a surprise. That was the only thing they agreed on. “If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Kobe” Jeff declared not caring about his wife’s opinion on the matter. He was flexible with girl names. “Helen, Patricia, Blanche, whatever.” He’d always say. “I don’t care. But if it’s a boy. We’re naming him Kobe.” “Those are all old lady names.” His wife angrily replied. “When was the last time you met a baby named Blanche?” “What does that matter?” “It’s a stupid name, that’s what it matters.” “It’s a great name. It’s vintage. It’s ageless.” “It’s a terrible name. It’s dull. It’s antiquated.” Jeff groaned. His wife picked up the big book of baby names and began rifling through the pages. Oh how Jeff hated that book. In his mind, it was the main reason they couldn’t come to an agreement. The book provided too many options which made the decision far more complicated than it needed to be. Jeff’s wife stopped in the P section and fawned at one name in particular. “What about Penelope?” She said excitedly. “We could call her Penny for short.” “If you want to call her Penny, then just name her Penny. Why name her something and address her as something else? It makes no sense!” “Oh you’re impossible!” She shouted before storming out of the room. Jeff picked up the big book of baby names and shot it into the trash, “Kobe!” “Jeff!” The doctor shouted. “Are you paying attention?” Jeff’s ears perked up. “Where’s my wife!” He shouted again. The doctor sat down next to Jeff, leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, took off his glasses and held them in his lap. He called it, the empathetic stance. It was his go-to seated position for delivering bad news to a patient. “There were some complications during your wife’s delivery. I don’t know how much you recall before you blacked out, but it wasn’t pretty.” Jeff gave the doctor a blank stare. The doctor continued. “Sir, I’m very sorry to inform you that your wife is now longer with us. She has perished.” “She went to church!” “What? No, she didn’t go to church.” “Ok, good.” Jeff, a devout atheist, said with a sigh of relief. “No, to perish means to die.” Jeff gave the doctor another blank stare. “Sir, your wife is dead.” “Oh.” Jeff said “Oh man!” He continued. “Oh my fucking god! Are you serious!” Oh man!” He added finally grasping the severity of the situation. The doctor leaned forward and handed Jeff a Kleenex, then leaned back and uncrossed his legs because the way he was sitting was crushing his balls. “Wait.” Jeff called out. “What about my baby?” “The baby survived” the doctor answered. “Oh, thank Judas! Can I see him or her? Is it a him or a her? Is it a boy? Please tell me it’s a boy!” The doctor was silent. “Tell me, man! Please.” Jeff whined. The doctor leaned forward, put on his glasses, then leaned back, crossed his legs, removed his glasses and placed them on his lap. “Sir, your baby is a panda.” “A what?” “A panda.” “As in, a panda bear?” “Yes.” “A panda bear?” “Correct.” “So, you’re telling me that my baby is a panda.” “Precisely.” “Argh,” Jeff screamed in pain. “What’s the matter?” The doctor inquired. “I’ve got a charleyhorse.” “Calm down, try to relax.” The doctor said. “I’ll get you some water. Jeff laid his head back on the pillow and tried to relax. But he couldn’t. There was simply too much on his mind. Then he began laughing. “Ok, ok, good one!” He said amusedly. “You’re joking, right?” “No, I’m not.” The doctor replied. “Come on, you’re pranking me, right?” “Nope” “You’re yanking my chain.” “I assure you I’m not.” “You’re pulling my leg.” “Oh, sorry,” The doctor apologized while trying to massage out the charleyhorse in Jeff’s thigh. He loosened his grip. “That better?” “Yes, thank you.” Jeff answered. Jeff was at a loss for words. There was a lot about the world he didn’t understand. For example: why does an inquiry into your credit affect your credit score? Why does Facebook show you ads for things you’ve already purchased? And why isn’t the government telling us the truth about birds being drones sent down to spy on us? You see, Jeff was also a conspiracy theorist. He questioned the moon landing and had his suspicions about the earth being round, but nothing left him more perplexed than the notion of two human beings conceiving a panda. “It just doesn’t make any sense.” Jeff said. “It’s impossible.” The doctor leaned forward and pushed his glasses up on his head. “Let me tell you something I’ve learned over the years.” He said “Nothing is impossible.” “Nothing?” “Nothing. I’ve been practicing medicine for 37 years and in that time I’ve seen things I would never believe possible had I not witnessed them with my own eyes. Just last week I watched two red-headed freckle-faced parents give birth to a baby with brown hair and brown eyes. I witnessed a colleague pull a 12 inch spike out of a little girls eye socket once and not only did she not lose her vision, but she didn’t even cry. It was astonishing. Three years ago, a homeless man was admitted complaining of abdominal pain. And, I shit you not, an X-ray revealed a live beaver living inside his chest cavity.” “Oh, my Judas.” Jeff exclaimed. “Oh, my Judas is right,” The doctor concurred. “The human body is an incredibly complex mechanism. I may not be able to explain some of the things I’ve seen. Because, simply put, some things are unexplainable. But I firmly believe that nothing is impossible.” “Ok,” Jeff said apprehensively. “But there’s gotta be an explanation. There just has to be.” The doctor leaned back in his chair and pushed his glasses back down on his face. Then he took them off and placed them on the table beside him. He didn’t even need them. He had LASIK surgery two years ago but his wife insists that he continues to wear them. They make you look smarter, she tells him. “Well, I have a PHD from Johns Hopkins.” He argues back. Of course I’m smart. Why do I need to prove to people I’m intelligent. I’m a fucking doctor for Christ’s sake. “Why don’t you give me your theory on how this happened,” The doctor asked Jeff after noticing his trademark blank stare. “Ok here it goes,” Jeff started out. “Eight years ago I went to Manila for my friends bachelor party.” “Well, that’s quite the trek.” “Indeed it was. But his fiancé was native to the area and my friend wanted to acclimate himself to her culture.” “Well, that’s very thoughtful. How did they meet?” “She was a mail order bride.” “Ok,” the doctor paused for a moment. “Well, continue.” “Anyways, we bought some pot off a cab driver but I’m pretty sure it was PCP or something, because minutes later I jumped out of the moving car and tumbled down a hill.” “Why’d you do that?” “I thought I was getting attacked by a snake.” “And?” “Turns out it was my seatbelt.” “Continue.” “I wound up in this shady back-alley hospital getting a blood transfusion. It was super scary. The place doubled as a meat processing plant. They were slaughtering pigs in the very same room.” “Is it possible that they weren’t slaughtering pigs and that you were hallucinating?” “Doubtful. But I wasn’t going to bring it up to the doctor.” “Why not?” “Because he was a demon.” The doctor sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. “Continue.” “I’m about 97% sure they put animal blood in me that day.” Jeff said. “Up until this point I assumed it was pig blood or raccoon blood. There’s a small chance it could’ve been rhinoceros blood. My stupid idiot friend tried to convince me it was giraffe blood. The moron--giraffes aren’t even real. But now I’m thinking it was definitely panda blood instead. I mean it has to be panda blood, right?” The doctor checked his pager to see if he was getting paged. He wasn’t. “Continue,” he said. “Well, about a month after the incident in Manila, I was doing electrical work for a friend of a friend and I received a pretty significant shock.” “Ouch.”the doctor said. “You’re telling me.” Jeff replied “It hurt like hell. singed all my ball hairs off. It’s just--I don’t know man, there’s something about that day that’s always seemed off to me, ya know? Like, I felt something inside me that day. Something I’ve never felt before.” “Electricity?” “No, something more.” “Like what?” “I’ve never been able to comprehend it but perhaps that feeling I felt was the fusing of my DNA with Panda DNA, and that moment was the moment I became a panda. Even though, on the outside, I’m Jeff, a living walking human being, on the inside, I’m a panda.” The doctor cleared his throat, and took a strong sip of coffee. “And what evidence would you have to support that theory?” Jeff paused for a moment to thought about his life and what character traits he had that simulated that of a panda. “Facial hair!” He shouted. “Facial hair?” “Yes, facial hair. Before the incident, I had a baby face. I hardly ever had to shave but soon after I began growing hair like crazy.” “I was the same way,” The doctor replied. “All my friends could grow beards in high school but I couldn’t grow anything until my mid-twenties. It’s not uncommon.” “This was different.” Jeff said. “It wasn’t a gradual change. I went from not having to shave at all to being able to grow a Fu Manchu overnight.” The doctor chuckled. “Fu Manchus are silly,” He said while giggling. “Haha, yes they are.” Jeff agreed. Jeff wiggled in his bed as subtlety as he could to avoid the doctors suspicions of his itchy butthole. The doctor checked his pager once more. It was a slow day. “Continue” he said. “Well, I guess now I should tell you about my bamboo phase.” “Your bamboo phase?” Jeff nodded. “It was right after I bought my house. I’ve never been much of a decorator but after I installed bamboo flooring in my living room, I became infatuated with everything bamboo. I had bamboo wall paneling, bamboo furniture, bamboo place mats and bamboo window shades. I even owned a bamboo turtle neck.” “Well, I’d imagine that would be quite uncomfortable.” “It was itchy, that’s for sure. But it was a conversation starter. I was wearing it the night I met my wife. She was also a bamboo enthusiast.” The doctor’s pager beeped. He took it off his hip, glanced at it, and placed it back. “It’s time for your MRI.” He said. “Ok.” Jeff replied still a little shaken over the whole ordeal. “Wait!” He blurted out. “I forgot about Glenn. Yes, Glenn. It had to be him!” “Who the hell is Glenn?” The doctor inquired. “Glenn was my college roommate.” Jeff answered. “The two of us did not see eye to eye. He worked at a research laboratory and I know for a fact they did animal testing. What if... bear with me now, but what if, they developed some kind of panda transformation serum and Glenn injected me with it while I slept?” “And why the hell would he do that?” The doctor asked. “Because he didn’t like me, man. Haven’t you been listening? To his credit, I wasn’t the best roommate. I’m actually ashamed of the person I was back then. I’ve changed. But I was doing a lot of drugs at the time and didn’t exactly help pick up around the apartment. And there was the time I ate all his pizza rolls while he was at work.” “My god!” The doctor yelled. “You’re a monster!” “Yeah, I know man. Geez! I was just saying how ashamed I was. Jeff said in an emotional tone. “You know I’m going through a lot right now. I just found out that I’m a widow and a panda. And I haven’t even seen my son yet. You could be a little more understanding ya know.” He softly muttered while a single tear rolled down his cheek. The doctor fought the urge to roll his eyes. Deep down inside he knew Jeff was right about him. He could be more understanding. Every evaluation he had over the last decade stated that same thing. He was a terrific doctor but he wasn’t exactly known for his bedside manner. You need to be nicer to your patients, his supervisors would always tell him. He was working on correcting that issue. That’s why he created the empathetic stance. “They’ll see”, he told himself, sensing an improvement in his demeanor. The empathetic stance will revolutionize medicine. “Doc,” Jeff called out. “So, what do you think? Do you think Glenn gave me the serum? Nothing is impossible, right? You said so, yourself.” “No, I think the answer is simpler than that.” The doctor replied. “What do you mean?” Jeff asked. The doctor leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, removed his glasses and placed them on his lap. “Your wife fucked a panda.

It was a typically troublesome day at work. Grumpy clients, uncooperative employees, late vendors, and typical tech problems, all just making me wonder, “Is it worth it?” I finally got it all sorted out, tidied up my desk and my desktop, the physical and the digital, and headed for the door. I never looked forward to my commute home, knowing that it was always at least 45 minutes of anxiety, stopping, starting, asking Siri if there was a faster route. Finally pulled into my driveway, parked, headed toward the front door, noticed that the light was on in the typically dark dining room just to the left of the entry. As I opened the door, I was struck by this vaguely familiar clickety-clack sound coming from the dining room. I pushed the door open and saw my sweet, beautiful wife, Anita, typing on my old, antique type-writer. “What the heck are you doing,” I asked. I was stunned to see her typing. “Just working on my to-do list. I’m almost done, wait a minute.” She punched in a few more letters, hit the return handle, pulled the paper out, folded it in half, jumped out of her chair, “OK, I’m ready, let’s go.” It was our typical Friday routine. We headed out to our favorite pizza place to pick up our traditional pepperoni dinner. As we backed out of the driveway, I had to ask, “So, what in the world got you typing . . . instead of using your laptop or your tablet?” “Remember when my Mom moved in with us, when we lived in Chicago? She was writing a to-do list on scrap paper, on the backs of receipts, on used envelopes. At that time, the typewriter was set up in the spare bedroom, and I knew she knew how to type, so I suggested she use it. She jumped at the idea and started using it every day, remember?” “I do remember, now that you mention it. So that’s why you drug it out and set it up, just because your Mom liked it?” “No, don’t you remember? She used to rave about it, saying it was like magic. She would type something on her list and then the next day it was done. She swore that half or more of her to-do stuff just got done all by itself--and she credited the magic typewriter,” she laughed. “And, you believed her? You do remember that she had some short-term memory issues---could that have explained the “magic”?” “Of course! But, there were a couple of things that didn’t make sense. Like one day she put on her list that she wanted to call her former neighbor---Mrs. Brian, she hadn’t talked to in 20 years--but then early the next morning Mrs. Brian called her. I know, it could’ve just been coincidence, but what are the odds? Anyway, I was going through that stack of boxes in the garage, stumbled on the typewriter, so brought it in--and here’s what happened,” she handed him a piece of paper. “It’s my “to-do” list from the other day.” He lifted it to eye level and read the first line, “Win the lottery!” He stared at her for a second, “So, you’re thinking that $200 scratch-off winner you had the other day came from typing this in on the “magic typewriter”?” We enjoyed our pizza and dessert with sporadic conversation about the magic typewriter. I had a hard time believing the “magic” thing, but was willing to listen. “Does it hurt that I might, kinda, sorta believe it might be true?” Still with a big smile on her face, “Why don’t we try again, just to see? Not something too outrageous, but something imaginative? What do you think?” A great idea jumped into my head, “Not to say I believe this, but you know we were just talking to our daughter about coming home for Spring Break and she didn’t seem too interested. How about we type that on your list, not mine, I think we need to keep it yours. Let’s type it on there, maybe put something about an email? And, then wait and see what happens.” I wasn’t that enthusiastic about the whole thing but would really like to see our daughter next month. My wife turned, put another piece of paper in the typewriter, typed in, “Get an email that Melissa’s coming home for Spring Break!” She pulled the page out and quickly walked into the kitchen and tacked the page to the corkboard on the wall, “That’s what I did with the “Lottery” page.” We agreed to avoid email until mid-morning the next day. Melissa never returned emails late in the day nor very early in the mornings, so we figured the earliest we would hear anything would be mid-morning the next day. My clock went off, as usual, at 6:00 am, I headed downstairs, turned on the coffee pot, took the mugs down out of the cabinet, got the flavored creamer out of the refrigerator, headed back upstairs to wake my wife. She was already awake, slowly got out of bed, slipped into her slippers, and followed me back down. We sat in the den, had a couple of sips of coffee, a quick breakfast. An hour later, I turned on my laptop, waited for it to boot up, “Are you ready to check emails?” “I guess, it’s probably too early but what the heck.” I logged into my email, and there it was, a message from our daughter, titled, “Good News!” The text was, “Great news, I’m coming home for Spring Break, and even BETTER news, I got a free ticket from my friend Mike who works for the Airline. I’ll call later to go over the details, LOVE YOU guys!!” I was paralyzed, then shivering, then breathless, much because my beloved daughter was coming home soon, but more because, suddenly, I realized we have this magic typewriter. What would we do next? My wife and I took a minute to catch our breaths, then she asked just what I was thinking, “So, what are we gonna do next? You want to make a list, by hand or on the computer before we type it up?” “Yes, we’ll make a list . . . but we got to give this some thought. I don’t want us to be too greedy, we need to be careful of limits there may be. Maybe we can help others, maybe someone we care about with a terrible illness or something like that.” “Good thinking, I already have some ideas,” and she was now smiling again. We made a list, ten things. Then we decided to type them up two at a time, then wait to see the results. It turned out by the end of that week, we got nearly all of our wishes. We both knew there were many other wishes we could type up, but agreed to wait a few more days. Melissa was coming home the next day, so we spent our evening planning for the visit, where we would go out to eat, where else we might go to shop or just hang out, and then we agreed, we will give her the typewriter. It wasn’t even something we had to discuss. I could sense it from the moment I discovered Anita typing--her short list, under “Win the Lottery” was just the one word, “Melissa.” Nothing specific. I didn’t need details but apparently the typewriter did, so we’d give that to Melissa and let her handle that. She had many more wishes than I did and they were more . . . important, I guess would be the right word. She was just about two years into her brave transition to her correct gender and I couldn’t be there to protect her from the ignorance, hatred, and ill will she might face. Maybe the magic typewriter could do it for me, I prayed.

I gently caressed the calluses in my right hand, lost in thought. The sun at its zenith, like a golden stain in a stark blue sky, scorched my tanned skin, while rivers of sweat ran down my body from head to toe, leaving me sticky and salty and stinky, and then I looked at the hoe standing before me, and then at the field beyond--to be weeded--until I laid eyes on my father, with his weathered but strong hands tightly gripping the wooden handle of his hoe and deliberately swinging and striking the soil below, sweat beads on his wrinkled face, clothes clinging to skin. Our eyes met under the blazing sun. "Tired already?" he asked with a wan smile, a missing tooth sticking out. I smiled back and shook my head. "Not really. Just thinking..." Grinning, he said, "Think less, work more." He started swinging his hoe again, full of purpose and determination. I followed. Working on the field. Taking care of crops and livestock. That had been my life for as long as I could remember. As the eldest son, I was always helping my old man after school or during holidays and vacations. Always working my arse under the sun. Always. That's the life my father knew, and my grandpa before him. That's the life that provided us food and shelter. That's how my parents raised my brothers and me. We lived within humble means, yet lacked for nothing. I was grateful, as I should be. But this year, things felt different. I was seventeen and that was my senior year of high school. After graduating, I'd be able to fully help my father on our small farm. And in a few years, when he retired, I would be him. I should be grateful, and I was. It was a simple but honest life in the countryside. A life of green fields, of mooing cows, barking dogs, and singing birds, of pure air and starry nights. I knew that if I worked hard and perhaps changed things a bit, or maybe took a little more risk, I could improve things and help my siblings have a different path... Not that this path was bad. But they were very smart kids. They could do better. They could live easier lives, whatever that means. Soon, they would still have to wake up at five in the morning, like I did, then take the bus to the nearest town, attending classes for a few years. But one day after all of that, they could go to college. They could have good jobs. They could get away from the beautiful, bright, burning sun and the green fields of joy and hardship. That day, lost in thought while working on the fields, even though I knew that I should be grateful, I envied them for the briefest of moments. I envied them like I envied my friends from school every time they talked about the future--about moving to another city and going to college, about leaving and exploring uncharted waters like explorers from the past. I envied them when my teachers asked me about my future. And I hated that feeling growing inside me--that inner turmoil weighing on my shoulders and obscuring my thoughts. At night, awake, I dreamed. Lying in my bed in the small room I shared with my young sister and brother, I used to think about how nice it would be to move out... on going to college, meeting new people and making new friends, or just lifting a pen instead of a hoe, or working on a field of chairs, full of people and fresh air around despite the scorching sun outside, or even being kissed by the sun and embraced by its warmth, but on a beach with friends and beers and bliss, or perhaps falling in love and having softer hands to gently touch and appreciate the skin of the one I would love. But I should be grateful; I would think before falling asleep. After all, I am not that smart, and college was but a dream for someone like me. Then, the next day, I'd wake up with the chickens, get ready, and go to school once again. A couple months later, orientation day arrived, and I found myself sitting across from the counsellor. "Have you given it some thought after our last talk?" asked Mary from behind her desk. "As I said before, after graduation, I'll help my parents on the farm," I said, looking at her perfectly organized desk. She sighed, and when I looked at her, I think I saw pity in her eyes. "Noah, you may not have the greatest of scores, but you are smart and certainly hardworking. I truly believe you have good chances of getting into college if you apply to the entrance exams," she said, repeating what she had told me before. I looked down at my calloused hands, and as on other occasions, I thought about my aging dad working alone on the fields, or worse, on my brother--only ten springs so far--working alongside him in my place under the sun. I shook my head. "I told you. I can't abandon my dad like that. He expects me to keep running the farm after him..." "Have you talked with your parents about this?" I hadn't. But I knew there was no need to talk. I saw it in their eyes, especially his. The expectations. "Look, I like it there, ok? And even if I didn't, it is not like we have the money to pay for college. If I work hard enough, perhaps I can help send my siblings to college one day. I can live with that." She sighed, looked at the ceiling, then back at me. "If you study hard enough, you can then send them to college," she said firmly. "And you know quite well that there are many options out there where you don't have to pay for college. You can even earn subsidies when you're enrolled in one. We've been through this before." Why? Why is she so stubborn? I thought. Why does she keep trying to imbue hope in me? Why does she not let go? Because of her, I keep daydreaming, losing focus on what matters. "I'll give it some thought," I lied, preparing to get up. "Wait," she said, raising a hand, her eyes pleading. "Talk with them... with him. If deep down you have even the slightest of desires of going to college, of moving and experiencing new things besides this," she said, opening her arms wide as if embracing the whole small town we lived in, "that is all that I ask. Talk with him." I looked deep into her eyes, trying to understand. "Why?" I finally asked. "Why do you even care?" "Because I see potential in you, Noah," she replied casually. "And it is a shame when potential is wasted. I know you can have a good life here, but I also know you can have a much better life out there." I gave her a mocking smile, but she did not seem to care. "I don't know what potential you see... you said it yourself; my grades are not bad, but they are certainly far from great." She smiled back. "College life is much more than grades alone--but I won't get into details because you should see it for yourself. Now, regarding potential... potential is not always related to talent or intelligence. It is also about purpose, determination, and hard work. It is about giving your all," she said, almost passionately, while adjusting herself in the chair. Weirdly, I was reminded of my parents after what she said. "It's been a couple of years now since you started your routine of waking up early in the morning, getting here for classes, then getting back home and helping your parents," she continued, "doing jobs that most students here will never have to. I doubt you have much time--or energy--to study at home, although knowing you, I don't doubt you try. Again, I see potential in you." She laced her fingers together, while holding a thoughtful expression. "If you truly love that farm, you can easily choose--or try--an area that would allow you to combine both passions. And if money becomes a hindrance, you can always find a part-time job--it will certainly be easy for you... you are hardworking after all, right?" She looked me--and my silence--with those wise eyes of hers for a little longer. "Don't let this potential go to waste. Talk with them before drawing conclusions... and even so, you should follow your dreams. You shouldn't have to live a life you don't really want." I left soon after that, her words still lingering in my mind all day long, making me dream and hope but also fear. A few weeks later, my father and I were preparing another plot of land for new crops. The sun had been concealed all day behind massive clouds in several hues of grey. It was quite pleasant--except, of course, for the extremely hard work of getting the soil ready. And as usual, I was distracted again. "What is it?" he asked, frowning. "Just... thinking," I said, lifting the hoe and then hitting hard the soil. "What is it with all this thinking you doing lately?" he asked curiously. "No big deal dad..." I shrugged. "Son," he called to me. I looked at him. "You know I'm not good at this," he said, gesturing awkwardly. "I'm not very... sensitive, as your mom usually says. But, you know, we've noticed that you've been kind of off lately. And by that I mean for most of the year." He looked pensively at the sky, wiped some sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, then looked at me again. "If there is anything bothering you, let me know. We'll try to help as best as we can." He smirked next, then added, "Maybe it's a girlfriend thing and you want to keep it quite..." I laughed. "I wish." I wanted to talk to him about what was bothering me, but we never really talked about this kind of thing. We mostly talked about work and sports. But then I looked into his face, then at the soil under my feet, at the hoe and the calluses in my hands, and felt the breeze on my face. "What would you say if I said I want to go to college?" I saw his eyes get brighter as I asked, followed by a wan smile. "It would be great son... I mean, my son going to the university ... It would be like a dream." But then he lowered his head slightly, his expression changing, becoming serious and thoughtful. I thought I knew what he was thinking, but I was wrong. "How much would that cost?" he asked in a low voice, as if afraid of hearing the answer. I smiled. "Well, if things went well, it wouldn't cost anything at all. I mean, there would be living expenses, but I don't think it would be that much... nothing that a part-time job couldn't solve." My dad lifted his chin, and that gleam in his eyes came back to life. "You know we are not rich," he said plainly, "but we'd be happy to make whatever sacrifices necessary to allow you to pursue that dream, my son. Be sure of that. And wait until your mother hears of it," he laughed, then started babbling about his son going to college. I asked about the farm, but he scolded me for it, asking if I thought he was dead or incapacitated. I was grateful, deeply. I must say that as we worked and talked that day, I felt both relieved and terrified. Relieved that I could follow my dreams without feeling guilty about it. Terrified because I did not want to fail with that smile. A few months later, Miss Mary called my house on a sunny Saturday during lunch. The result of the entrance exam had been announced. I left the dining table, walking slowly and tensely towards the phone. My mom looked as tense as I did. At the table, my father remained silent, as if listening to the wind. My siblings, probably playing somewhere in the house, completely carefree. I distractedly caressed the calluses on my hand as I walked. Outside, the sun shone brightly, like a majestic spot in the stark blue sky. Warm rays of sunlight illuminated the house and bathed my tanned skin, now sweaty with anxiety. When I finally took the phone from my mom, I took a deep breath, then exhaled before greeting my teacher. I looked out the window at the green field beyond, full of crops and hardships and joy as she told me the result. My watery eyes met my mother's, then my father's. I smiled.

As we walked out to the lake, away from the streets that run like rapids, I knew I was in bad shape. I had a feeling, almost physically tangible, that today was going to hurt. I could tell by the way her hand sat lifelessly in mine, as if she wanted to remove it but was just biding her time. I've never been one to prolong the painfully evident, or placate the evidently painful, so I asked the obvious and dangerous question. "What's wrong?" I said, flippantly. As if today was just another day and I wanted to know how she wanted her eggs that morning. We watched the lazy ducks in the overcast gloom and I felt a relief, as if we were finally approaching the verdict, and my life hung in the balance. I almost laughed to myself as these thoughts imparted themselves in my mind--"so melodramatic..." was my hilarity. It wasn't as if I was facing the death penalty. But I WAS losing my girl. I could see that in the way she answered my question before a clumsy word left her flawless lips. By the way her smile turned strained then faded. She steadied herself with the kind of breath a doctor draws before he tells you simply,"there's nothing more we can do". I closed my eyes and braced myself, as if the impact was a surprise and not something I had accepted before we came anywhere near this stupid lake. She stammered through her speech like an unprepared valedictorian, all graceless and mindful of my feeble pride. I love her for this, as even in the end, she always paid heed to other people's feelings. I nodded along, not an interjection in the world can bring someone back who has already gone from you. She turned away at last, the formality had come to fruition, and strode with purpose toward her newly single life. She looked radiant and beautiful, as if the last two years lost had as much impact on her as changing body wash. What can you do when you lose your muse, your heart, the one you thought was going to see you into the ground? I sat and watched the ducks nip at each other and wished I was anywhere and anytime else.

I remember when Aerosmith’s Crazy was at the top of the charts. My brother and I were eleven and nine, respectively, and stuck in the room for unaccompanied children at Charles De Gaulle airport watching MTV videos on loop. It was the first time we were going back to Italy without our parents. During the two-hour layover between Paris and Turin, Steven Tyler stepped in like a surrogate father as I tried desperately to pick out the watermelon bubble gum my brother had smooshed into my hair on the flight over from L.A. I’m losing my mind, ‘cause I’m going CRAAAAAAAAAZY. Aerosmith totally got me. Pleading to the backdrop of whining electric guitars, my brother made all kinds of promises I knew he’d never keep. If I didn’t tell Nonna what really happened when we landed, I could have his desserts for the whole month. “Oh, come on. I’ll do your chores for the rest of the year. I swear!” I kept my mouth shut as he upped the ante, until in his desperation he offered the most valuable promise of all. “Please, Tash,” he leveled with me. “I’ll owe you one.” My brother has always been an incontestably excellent negotiator, but I was no sucker. This wasn’t the first time in my small life he’d showered me with promises. I knew the chances of him keeping any of them were about as high as me walking away from the entire debacle with all of my hair intact. In the end my acquiescence to his will had less to do with his developing mastery in the art of the deal, and more to do with the fact that I could never stand to see him in pain. I'd I watched him get screamed at, slapped, hosed-off in the backyard, and thrown in the shower to “cool down” one too many times already. So, despite having tortured me for nine hours on the first flight, an allegiance against the wrath of our grownups made us comrades on the second. When we landed in Turin, I walked right up to Nonna with my new Alfalfa haircut, and launched into an elaborate narrative about the inexplicable acts of God that resulted in said haircut involving wild turbulence, innocent mouth-gaping laughter, and other unnecessary details in a story that ultimately starred my brother as the hero. It was always like that with him and I, as I imagine it must be for most siblings who grew up together so close in age. We were mortal enemies when left to each other, contemplating murder in the first degree, until the moment the adults became involved, and punishment was eminent. Then it was ride or die ‘til the end of days. No one was going to mess with my brother but me, goddamnit! He was my first best friend, my first opponent, and my first partner in crime. And, boy did we excel in that last role. I mean, lying was easy, you know. Amateur hour. Real Showtime At The Apollo shit. Within the first decade of our lives, we had already graduated with an Associate’s degree in deceitfulness, and moved on to major in the art of appropriation. That first summer in Italy without parents is when we really honed our craft. Our family used to have an apartment on the Italian Riviera outside of San Remo that Nonna purchased with the money she’d won from the national lottery. We spent the summer of our parent’s divorce with her in the hills of Ospedaletti, memorizing the lyrics to Warren G’s Regulate, and fighting off the brigades of mosquitoes with our invisible gats . I n town there was a pedestrian tunnel under the main road that led to Sirena : the pebble beach with a bar that sold everything from grappa to granita. Outside the bar was an outdoor arcade filled with pinball machines and foosball, where kids from L.A. who had met the Red Hot Chili Peppers always got to cut the lines. Down at the shore, outstretched under rows and rows of bright yellow umbrellas, lounged the aging men and women of the Greatest Generation, their skin glistening and overflowing under the Mediterranean sun. Wealthier families vacationingin Ospedaletti rented out private cabanas for the summer, but mainly everyone just used the communal changing room. Coming from the neighboring villages and small cities, most folks trusted enough in their fellow man to leave their belongings behind for a day at the beach. But, I guess L.A. and Def Jam had already hardened us because the minute my brother and I stepped foot in that wooden shack, and saw everyone’s stuff just laying there unattended, we went full-tilt West Coast gangsta, giving each other daps, and shit, gassing about all these old fools who were gonna pay for our gelatos all summer long. One of us would act as lookout while the other plundered, and then we’d switch off. It was the only time in our lives we took turns fairly, already understanding the role resentment played when it comes to snitching. It was good practice, just small-scale stuff at first. Never finding more than a few mille lire here or there, enough for a few pieces of candy, a few turns around the arcade, or one gelato each. We’d consumed our spoils away from the other kids, our nonna, and the various zios and zias that would come up for holiday. Maintaining the rules of appropriation was of the utmost importance: never gloat; never show-off; preserve secrecy at all costs; and above all, avoid questioning. Everything was going swimmingly until the day we found venti mille lire in the inside pocket of a navy blue men's jacket. Venti mille lire in 1994 was like ten bucks, and ten bucks was like twenty gelatos! We couldn’t believe our luck. Couldn’t believe the idiot who left it behind as if he wanted us to have it. Couldn’t believe the fireworks of feeling exploding in our small bodies. I’ll never forget that moment. The smell of the ocean drifting through the dampened wooden slats that split the noontime sun in beams across our olive skin. The texture of sea glass I nervously fingered in my palms as I kept watch. My heart racing in my throat. Our eyes locking as he gasped. The folded paper in his right hand. The look of disbelief in his toothsome smile. The sound of sand that crunched beneath our feet as we stamped, and danced in triumph. WE WERE RICH! We spent the rest of the afternoon giggling cautiously around the grownups, secretly dreaming up all the things we could buy when they weren’t around, and taking turns holding the treasure. It was my turn to hold it when we got back to the apartment. Nonna ushered me into the downstairs bathroom to wash up before dinner. I carefully folded the bill into a tiny square, and hid it under a bottle of soap on the bathroom counter before turning to the hypnotic task of showering with my sugared daydreams. So enraptured with kinder egg thunderstorms, and Technicolor marshmallow clouds was I that I left our prize under that bottle of soap as I toweled off. I got dressed humming the Kit-Kat jingle, asking the ether to Give Me A Break , and didn’t give the bathroom counter another thought until I heard Nonna screaming Santa Benedetta plus my name, to get my ass downstairs. Maleducata! Vergogna! Sei un ladro! Ti dó due sberle! I was in for the worst whopping of my life. A disgrace to my family. I should be ashamed of myself because I was going straight to hell. I fully locked up under the Roman Catholic onslaught, sobbing uncontrollably as I imagined miniature priests with red horns stoking the pyres of the damned underneath my feet. Cowered by a combination of Latin, Italian, and Piemontese, Los Angeles and Nate Dogg had forsaken me in my time of need. I was nothing but a helpless kid far from home, subject to the biblical wrath of my elders. That would have been it for the eternal life of my soul had my brother not run downstairs in his towel, still dripping. When he saw Nonna waving our venti mille lire above my head, and foaming at the mouth in my general direction he stepped right in the middle of us with a quickness that was ages beyond his years. This little dude loc-d up like a true OG, and launched a counterattack of unflinching ferocity. He had an answer, in flawless Italian, for every question she rapidly launched. The money was his! He found it randomly on the beach while she was having lunch. I didn’t even know he had it at all. He went pee in the downstairs bathroom right before I’d gone in for a shower. He was the one who hid it under the soap bottle because he knew she’d never believe that he’d just found it. She never believed him, and always overreacted, just like she didn’t believe him, and was overreacting right now . How dare she scream at an innocent child, and threaten her with physical violence! This was the 90s, for god’s sake ! I was just a small helpless girl, and she was making her only granddaughter cry for no reason! She was such a mean Nonna. She didn’t love us at all. We had travelled all the way from America to spend what little time she had left on this earth with her, and this was how she treated the only grandchildren she would ever have? She was the one who should be ashamed! He obliterated her with the last bit, guilt tripping her back to original sin. In the end, not only did she hand back the money, she also apologized to the both of us, weeping and crossing herself as if she were at confession. When we were finally alone in our room, my brother looked at me with the kind of joy one can only acquire through borderline sociopathic self-satisfaction. He asked in annoyed disbelief why I was still crying. “What the fuck? Relax, Tash. We got the money back.” “I know, Joyo,” I sniffled, utterly confused. “But I broke the rules and got us caught. God, I’m so stupid!” “Yeah,” he scoffed. “You are.” Then he just shrugged his shoulders, and told me to forget about it. “Besides,” he laughed as he rubbed the alfalfa sprout on the back of my head. “I owed you one.”

The showrunner nearly tripped on some cables as he ran to meet the contestants. “Good of you to come in so early. I hope that the car got there in time and that you had...” Michael could tell that they were not listening, no matter how excited they were to be here. “It’s Never Too Late!” had been the top reality-television show on the network for the last five years, but it seemed as if the contestants were just getting worse and worse as the ratings got better and better. The woman - a “Rachel” in this particular season - was trying very hard not to use her cell phone as her hand dangled over the padded swivel chair. The man - “Donald,” conveniently, his real name (legal issues notwithstanding) - was looking at his watch and grinning at him. “We had the talk in the limo. You second came over and had a chat with us.” Already, this Monday morning was turning out to be a real pain in the brain for him. Micheal enjoyed watching the contestants going through the motions - they knew who the final couple would be, but were legally blocked from revealing this or any other details of the show (NDAs are wonderful things, he thought). He even liked some of the contestants over the years - their “Mitchum” and “Suzanne” were a good match - and he could imagine many good things happening with this show. It made people happy and they had their People’s Choice Awards to prove it (record number for reality TV). But there was always something to trip him up; something that would make his day that much annoying. “My second? No one told me...” “It was a woman who was in the nice car when it picked us up.” She finally spoke up and shared this info while texting (did she know that this would be the last time she could do that for several weeks; very smart). “Okay, look, I don’t know who that was supposed to be, but we just have to get you on set for...” “Said her name was Laura and that she knew you.” He kept the grin going, now with some sort of gum or cud stuck between his teeth. It was going to be an ugly day. Laura... Laura, Laura, Laura... She was back. It had been a very difficult time in both of their lives - her divorce; his uncommitted girlfriend - but she was now back. The idea of this being a prank was becoming much more believable. “Okay...I...” “I think that we have everything we need right. She said that you would take us to the main set when we were ready.” The woman dropped her phone into a clutch purse Michael had not noticed before and she finally looked at him with a soft smile. “I think we’re ready.” The two of them stood up at once and he barely recalled what he wanted to say next as he walked them both to the set. He thought about what Laura must have said to them. And then he tripped over the cable. * Laura... She was here, actually in the building again. All those plans that he allowed to rise up and stay unformed in his thoughts were coming back to him. She had also been a showrunner when he started here. Her job was to make sure that he knew that he had a job (basic assistant and gopher for various people who went on to bigger roles or vanished once the season ended). She had lit up the place like no one else could... “You heard who’s back?” Guy wasn’t supposed to be here for another hour, thought Michael. What the hell was this waste of skin doing on set? Everything the man said sounded like it was a challenge to him and his responsibility on the show. Michael felt some comfort that he was not the only one who hated the most popular member of the cast (damn Neilsen ratings and surveys never lied). “Hi, Guy.” “Hi, yourself. Did you hear what I said? Laura is back on staff now. She was brought in to save all of our skins, I guess.” “Yeah, I heard. But why are you here so early?” “Are you kidding? I got called in. That’s how I found out about the return of my beloved, my dear. Our beloved Laura.” Guy, with that perfect smile, suit that cost what Michael had paid for his first car when he moved to Hollywood, and hair already set and perfected, was the one person who could get away with calling him “Dear” or “Dude”. He had been with the show from very beginning when they were both looking for PA work and a casting director decided to give them both screen tests. Several awards later and many late-night meetings that Michael was not privy to, Guy had a certain amount of power that other showrunners might have respected. They just might have... “Anyway, is there anything you need before...” “Nah, dude. She gave me all her notes. All she recommended was that you stay in the main office and see if she can have a chat with you.” Now Michael felt like breaking his jaw. “She wants to see me?” “Yeah.” Guy sucked his teeth, looked out at the set, and smiled until the glare hurt Michael’s eyes. “Better get up there, my dear.” He walked off, leaving Michael wondering about fate and the problem of hard work versus results. * No one in the office. No one in the main hallways. No one anywhere he would have chosen to be. Michael was aware that Guy played pranks on people, but he never did so when they were about to go to air. He would have to think about what to say to whomever was in charge when this was all over. And he felt that it was over. All those years in the business; all those years on this show... There was not much to show for it except one relationship that ended badly for him, and his feelings for Laura. Nothing else. He decided to not stay on the set during the first take. His office was not too far from the exit. Michael stepped inside for a moment and looked for paper. A handwritten letter was probably the best way to resign. Would they even accept...? There was a letter on his desk. It was handwritten. Michael felt a pain behind his eyes that quickly turned into a twinge through his back. If they were going to fire him, that would be the way to do it. So, let’s get to it. Michael dropped to his desk and blinked. It was from Laura. * Dear Michael, Well, by now you have heard I am back. I decided to give this place one more chance and I found that they were willing to promote me this time. No longer showrunning this one. I am now one of the producers! Your boss, yes, but I don’t think that will change our feelings for each other. Yes, feelings do matter. I went through a terrible time with that divorce while you were being cheated on by my ex. Is that some sort of sign that we should have noted? Is that something that we can ever get over? Is it something that means we can have a second chance? Can we give this a try? I love you. I do love you. I know that with a change in our relationship, this is completely inappropriate, and you have probably moved on with your life. Please talk to me when this day is done. Laura * He did not hear much else beyond one of the other staff informing the audience that the show would be on in about ten minutes. He did not care about Guy, the fake “Rachel” and “Donald”, or his own feelings about the job (the resignation could wait). He sat with the letter and let the show go on. “...And, ladies and gentlemen, we are back!”

I could see what she was trying to do from a mile away--simple mirroring techniques to build a rapport. I didn’t have to study psychology to understand her techniques, she wasn’t even trying. “Do you have any siblings?” She asked. She looks quizzical, interested in my reply. It was all an act. “Yeah, I’ve got 3 older brothers” I answered without even thinking. She started moving her pen in erratic strokes across her pad. I bet she wasn’t even making any notes. Probably just drawing pictures and doodling. When her pen stopped moving, she asked another inane question. “I’m the youngest of 4 girls. How was it growing up surrounded by boys?” This was a complete waste of time. I was sent to see this woman to deal with my outbursts. She was just making it worse. I could feel my fingers gripping the armrests of the chair. My nails were digging into the soft padding. I could throw this chair at her, that would shut her up. She didn’t matter, she was useless. She couldn’t help him, no one could. “We used to fight, like most brothers” I answered while imagining what her face might look like after the chair had hit her. Blood pouring down her face. Again, with the notes. What was she even writing about, what was so interesting about my upbringing? So what if I got into fights with my brothers, everyone fought with their siblings. Okay, sure, theirs were probably more violent than the average. Blood was often spilled, but they always made up afterward. Or at least enough to trick our parents. “My sisters and I used to get into fights too, they sometimes got out of hand. Did your fights ever go too far?” She stared at me, unblinking, waiting on a reply. It was as if she was transfixed. Simply following a script. Psychology 101. Time to have some fun then. If she is going to reflect everything I say, let's see how far she'll go. "Oh yeah, all the time. One time they locked me in a shed and left me overnight." She looked shocked, and hastily scribbled more notes. This was probably going to get him in trouble with the principal, but it was worth it. "That reminds me of a time my sisters tied me to a tree. How did it make you feel, being so powerless?" Why was she reflecting such an obvious lie? Maybe it wasn’t obvious enough. He would have to go further. “It wasn’t fun, but I had to accept my place in the food chain. I’m the youngest, the runt of the litter.” I didn’t take my eyes off her, speaking without thinking, studying her motions. I’d work out her game soon. More scribbles. This time I won’t give her a chance to continue with her line of questioning, it was my time to have some fun. “This one time when I was younger, I was annoying my oldest brother. He wanted to stay in his room, but I was insisting he come play with me. I was banging on his door, ignoring his protests to leave him alone. I think I even dented the door at one point. Eventually, his shouts got so loud I could hear him straining his voice. I’d pushed him too far. He barrelled out of his room, grabbed me by the collar, and threw me down the stairs. I don’t remember the fall, just the impact. My head hit first, there was a deep ringing inside my head, then silence. I came to a few minutes later, in a small pool of blood. I cleaned the wound from my head and just ignored it like it never happened.” There was no way she could reflect that much detail. I’m not sure if that event even happened. Was I modifying a memory, or was it completely made up? I was just speaking. The colour drained from her face; her hands had started to slightly shake. Had I gone too far? She was definitely going to report me now. Well, at least I wouldn’t have to see her again. I wouldn’t be subject to this farce anymore. She didn’t reply, just continued with her notes. Was she on to him, had she worked out what he was doing? “Excuse me for one moment.” She got up from her chair and made for the door. She was trying to hide her hurry. It wouldn’t be long until I’d be escorted out of here, given to the next amateur psychologist to try their luck. Looking at her empty chair I spotted her notebook. She’d left it behind by accident. This was my chance to review her notes - more likely just doodles. I looked and listened to the door, making sure no one was coming. Then quickly jumped at her chair, retrieved the notebook, and got back to mine. If someone came in, I could throw the notebook back at her chair. No one would know. It was a simple book, with no distinct logo or patterns on the front. Lined paper on the inside. Flipping through the book I could see records of all her sessions, with other people. She marked each session with the person’s name, age, and a brief profile at the top. I scanned through the pages until I saw my name. *Name: Jonathan Hilcrest* *Age: 15* *Jonathon suffers from outbursts of anger. He grew up as an only child with distant parents. Been bounced around many psychologists, none of them able to help him. He shows above-average levels of intelligence for a child his age...* The profile continued for a few more sentences. I’m more interested in her notes about the session we just had. Why did she leave, what did she think about his latest fabrication? *... I’m not sure how he knows some of the things he is saying. He obviously knows some psychology tricks. Unsurprising, he has seen enough to pick up a few things. He seems to be trying to reflect my experiences back at me...* What was she on about? Me, reflecting her experiences? That’s what she was doing to me. *... But he is doing it before I even tell him about them. He must have researched me before our meeting. Manipulated a few of the other children to give him details about me...* I haven’t even got to her notes about my made-up story yet. These were all the notes, from the beginning of the session, about the real events that had actually happened. How was I mirroring her experiences, when it was all real? Maybe she knew I would read her notes, so she kept the game going even in her notes. This might have been all part of the plan. *... He grew up as an only child...* Why had she written that? I have 4 older brothers. No, 3. I have 3 older brothers. Their names are... Why can’t I remember their names? I haven’t seen them for a while, that’s probably why. I can’t remember exactly the last time I’ve seen them. This isn’t concerning though; I often struggle with recalling events. My memories turn into fog-covered dreams. It was like trying to see through a frosted window. Maybe I don’t have any siblings. Had I started making stuff up, testing her, before I’d even realised? No, don’t be silly. Of course, I’ve got siblings. I’ve got 4 older sisters: Anabelle, Daisy, Polly, and Margaret. We used to fight, just like any sisters. I was the runt of the litter, always the one to receive the beatings. Once they tied me to a tree. Another time I was banging on my oldest sister’s door, trying to convince her to play with me... No! They aren’t his memories, they’re someone else’s. A shadow appeared across the frosted pane of the door. It was her, the woman. I know it. As quickly as the shadow moved away from the door, the memories were gone, drifting back into the fog.

Amelia leaned up against the taxi and stared as the sheriff and repossession team emptied her home and memories onto the front lawn. Her father was fighting back tears, as he pleaded and begged the officer for another chance or more time; the alcohol on his breath disgusted the sheriff, but even he didn’t lack the empathy to arrest a man who had already been so thoroughly embarrassed in front of his family. Amelia’s mother stood with her back to the whole ordeal, chain-smoking cigarettes and massaging her temples with the free hand. The next thing her father slurred was what set Amelia off. “[...]if you’re gonna’ jusht throw us on the st-street like a bunch of bums, at least... at least look at my fuckin’ daughter in-in the eyes.” He pointed at her from across the lawn, but the sheriff only glanced at her and back to the belligerent man who was sending spit in every direction. Meanwhile, Amelia’s jaw was dropping at the nerve it took to use her as a prop, regardless of her father’s shaky history. She felt like storming towards the useless man and screaming every infuriated thought that entered her head, but it was no use; he’d already spent on alcohol what he hadn’t on gambling, and she had already spent every emotion she ever felt. So, she stood there, as hollow her house was. As a repo man carried out the stuffed dog that had sat in the corner of her room since she could walk, she looked back at her mother and felt the urge to ask for a cigarette.

I awoke screaming, waist-deep in beans. My hands were chained above me in the dark, my hands having long since gone bloodless. A few moments passed, I was hyperventilating, my stomach rising and falling with my full body breaths, pushing the beans out in tides. The small slit in the metal door of my cell scraped open. An oily voice oozed in, “I should kill you for that.” It was the bear. Always the bear. “No! I’m sorry!” I yelled back, my tears adding to the bean’s juice around me. The slit shut. “No!” I called out, “please, give me something to eat or drink, I don’t even know how long I have been in here!” The slit opened back up, the yellow bear again. “Eat the beans, I gave them to you, do you not like them?” it responded. I hung my head and kept crying as the bear left again. I was fed beans, a spoon floated out of the slit, shoving the mush into my mouth. I shit beans, and it joined the pool around my body. The bear told me I would become the beans. Always the yellow bear. I woke up screaming again, I was having memories, dreams, of my past life. I had a past life right? The bear told me these were dreams, that it would have to hurt me if I screamed again. It said it hurt the beans, I didn’t want to hurt the beans did I? The bear let me out today. The top half of the door was opened, my chains were unlocked and I was dragged out onto the floor. I curled up and lay shivering, hugging my oily, bean covered legs to my chest. The bear stooped down and picked me up. I was like a child curled up in its arms. It carried me down a sterilized corridor under the glare of fluorescent lights to a large open room. Inside sat rows of tables, lined like a military graveyard. At least a hundred people sat in the chairs. They had clean clothes and smiled, some would laugh at an unspoken joke, and all of them turned to us when we entered. Sitting in front of each of them, laying on the stark white tables, was a bowl of beans. Almost mechanically, they each picked up a spoon and simultaneously slid beans into one another’s mouth. The room was filled with the sound of a hundred jaws pumping like pistons, and a hundred simultaneous gulps. As I lay watching in the bear’s arms they all, in unison, said, “become the beans, join us.” The bear carried me back down the hall to the cell, my heart pounding in my chest as we approached the door. I heard screaming coming from one of the other cells as we walked down the hall. The bear whispered to me in its oily voice, “You don’t want to be like her do you?” I shivered as a chill set over me, “no... no, I don’t, don’t put me back in there, please.” I responded shakily. “If you don’t want to go back, you must become the beans,” it said. I lay in the beans. It wasn’t so bad after all I guess. There were worse things weren’t there? I was fed here, and the bear watched me. It said it only did what it had to for my own good. I swung my feet up, feeling the little globs slide through my toes. Things could be much worse. When the bear came back next I told it. I told it I wanted to become the beans. It pulled me out again, it was like being born again, sliding out of the womb of beans. The bear carried me, lovingly, back to the large room. It called out “This one wishes to join us!” “Become the beans! Become the beans!” chorused out from the crowd. A pool was brought forth and set on the ground. Pictures of those that had come before me lined the wall behind me and my fellow beans sat in front of me, watching. Every eye was on me as the bear approached. I sensed its form’s presence looming above me like a yellow god. Soon I would join them at the table, I would be welcome, I would be family, I would be a bean. “Today you join us!” I heard from behind me, as a bucket of warm beans splashed over me, oozing down my body like a comforting second skin. Today I became the beans.

It was an unfamiliar world she was in. A world imbued with many hues and flora of the most outlandish design. Yet there was a sense of familiarity about it. The tree under which she sat and pondered this world’s intricacies was short and stout. It had the slenderest of branches, branches that could almost be passed off like leaves. Set upon these branches were scores of thick pointed leaves the weight of which caused the branches to bend towards the ground and even touch the ground at places. Like the braided hair of a woman she thought they were. The entire sky was suffused with a dull yellow colour that gave the illusion of warmth but in this world, the colour of the sky did not affect things the way they did in her world. A perpetual fog permeated the world around her. None of the objects in this world cast any shadows. Besides the sound of her measured breathing, not a single sound could she hear from anywhere in this world. There was no wind. Nothing moved unless she touched it. The framed door through which she had entered this world stood before her. She only had to proceed through it to escape this dream world and grasp reality. But it was also the door through which she had chosen to escape reality and enter a world that challenged every notion of reality she had built up over the years. Once she stopped looking around, she began to feel the world. It was cold. She was alone yet she felt calm and unafraid. It was a fantastical realm, yet everything had parallels with reality. She walked on through the haze the sound of her footsteps and the sound of the grass crushing under her feet magnified by the silence of everything else. The braided branch trees she saw everywhere. No birds nested among its branches; no fruits hung off them. Where had all the birds flown away to, she wondered? The sun gave life to every living thing she had been told. Yet no light gave life here only the light that kept away the darkness. She walked on for a while. The grass beneath her feet grew sparser and the trees she could see became fewer. It began to brighten, and the ground began to grow translucent. She walked a few more steps until there was nothing more on the ground. It was like standing on a glass floor. She was enveloped by a brilliant yellow light. That was when she realized that the light had always been coming from below the ground. That was why nothing cast shadows as she expected. After her eyes had adjusted to the brightness, she began to perceive shapes and movement beneath the surface. She lay face down on the ground pressing her face as close as possible to the ground. She saw what appeared to be the same trees she had seen before moving gently this way and that their slender branches waving like tentacles of a jellyfish. One of the creatures was moving upwards heading to where she was lying down. Its movements were so graceful she wished she could reach through the ground and touch it. The creature was now so close that only the ground separated her from it. The tree-like structure formed only the upper part of its body. Below that it had a heart-shaped head with hundreds of blinking eyes set upon it. They all blinked at the same time when it looked at her. The creature began to come even closer. It began to pass through the ground and came so close that the top of it brushed against her face. She tried to push her hand through the ground to touch it, but the ground remained solid. The creature shrank away at this gesture and floated downwards gracefully until she could see it no more. Where had it disappeared? She needed know more. She walked a few steps further and then broke into a run. The creature was nowhere to be seen. She stumbled on a tree root and fell. She pounded her fists into the ground in frustration. Every time she pounded her fist, the light beneath her faded just a little bit more. Tears began to stream down her face as she began to pound harder and harder. Just as she was about to give up the light vanished, and she fell through the surface. She could see nothing, but she felt herself floating downwards. Where was the world she had seen from above? She felt herself land on something soft. The light began to come back into the world. She blinked once and it was as bright as when she first got here. The same tree appeared above her. She got up and began retracing the path that she had taken before. Everything appeared as it had. The world was suffused with the yellow light. Things didn’t seem quite wondrous now. The yellow began to feel ominous and foreboding. Her mind couldn’t grasp the unreal. This time when the light began to fade, she stopped and turned around. She couldn’t face the darkness again. As wondrous as this world had first appeared, she craved the familiar. The more answers she tried to seek the further they crept away. There was nothing more she could discover here. The door to reality called to her. She headed back through the door. She looked back one last time at this world and thought of the world that lied beneath it. A world she could only see but not touch. She woke up with a start. Her eyes hurt from the sun rays filtering through her window. The room glowed with a yellow light. Her heart began to race. Was she still dreaming? She got up, rushed to the window and pulled the curtains aside. The searing light caused her to close her eyes. She felt something brush against her. When she opened her eyes a hundred eyes were looking back at her. The creature from her dreams was back. She jumped back from the window in fear. She tripped backwards onto her bed and sank into it. The lines between reality and dreams had now vanished.

August 16th - it’s our one year anniversary. Nate and I are sitting in a small Italian restaurant, an empty bottle of red wine between us. We’ve ordered another. It’s easier to let myself forget, to simply exist in this moment I’ve created, with the soft veil of alcohol clouding my thoughts. I feel myself slipping into the skin of the person that I’ve been waiting for all evening, like I’ve shifted into a parallel reality. This Lucy is flirtatious, care-free, basking in the candle-lit glow of a perfect romance. Nate is everything I wanted after all. Handsome, stable, fun, sweet. We spend our time together roaming the city, bar-hopping with adoring friends, then slipping away to a dark corner to indulge wandering hands, our bodies familiar but mysterious still. It’s the type of love where arguments and resentment don’t exist, like trying to ignite a flame in a vacuum. There’s simply no air between us. “Lucy?” Nate puts a gentle hand over mine, which have been folding and unfolding a straw wrapper for an unknown amount of time. “Did you want dessert?” “Oh, uh, no thank you.” I respond, my words slightly slurred. “I’ll stick with the wine.” “Just the check then, thank you.” Nate addresses the waiter who’s been anxiously hovering over my right shoulder. I can feel him towering over me, and though I can’t see his face without turning awkwardly, I somehow feel a piercing gaze boring a hole in my back. Sometimes I wonder if people can tell just by looking at me that I’m keeping an enormous secret. That tonight Nate and I will make love, and then I’ll go home to my boyfriend. -- Max and I met my senior year of college. I don’t remember going on any dates or being wooed with flowers and fancy meals. There was simply a day that he didn’t exist, and the next day he did. And once he was in my life he consumed every thought that crept into my tired brain. It’s true that I’d been somewhat desperate for a boyfriend at this point. The long nights of drinking and searching with wandering eyes for someone equally lonely were getting stale. It wasn’t particularly difficult to find company though. I’d learned to embrace my subtle beauty and gentle curves, tamed my wild, strawberry blonde hair, and played up my long pale legs with heels that toned my muscles, but didn’t make me taller than most men. After living a plump, pimply existence through childhood and adolescence, I harnessed this newfound power of seduction with the voraciousness of a vampire. I spent more time chiseling away at my body with hours of exercise and carefully planned meals. I wore my hair up because men complimented me more when it was pulled into a tight, high ponytail. It became easier and easier to fill the holes created by teenage bullies and endless nights alone. And yet, after just a couple years, my body felt empty, like I’d already given everything away. Every new touch felt the same, boring. I craved something passionate that would send adrenaline coursing through my veins, like the very first time I locked eyes with a stranger and just knew in that instant that he was mine for the night. So when I met Max in line at a coffee shop near campus, something lit up inside me that I’d forgotten was there. Less than a second after “Hi, my name is Max” and “I’m Lucy,” he bent so close to my ear that I could feel the loose hair from my ponytail brushing his cheeks. “You’re driving me crazy in that skirt,” he hummed. He was handsome in a non-traditional way, his skin an unknown shade of pale brown, his hair messy, but purposefully so. His eyes were dark, with a gravitational pull unlike anything I’d known. We spent an hour talking over cappuccinos, absent mindedly sipping the deflated foam until the cups were dry. I skipped class, and frankly, didn’t think once about going after our conversation began. Max asked me question after question - Where did I grow up? Why did I choose to study literature? What was I scared of? - it was like he was a magician pulling an endless string of scarves out of my mouth only to be left with a mess of rainbow-colored silk. I was spread open, naked in front of him and I knew nothing about him. When he asked me to come back to his apartment, a modern loft with sweeping views of the Seattle skyline, I quickly answered “yes.” __ “Let’s take a walk, yeah?” Nate holds out his hand and lets it linger as I remove my sweater outside the restaurant. The wine has created a rush of heat through my body that was masked by the crisp air conditioning inside. In a single motion Nate tosses the freed sweater over his shoulder and takes my sweaty hand, guiding us confidently. “You’re on a mission, huh?” I giggle through a hiccup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m just enjoying a brisk walk with the most beautiful girl in the city.” Our banter is one of my favorite things about my relationship with Nate. We tease and poke each other in a way that’s never felt safe before, but that now feels as easy as laughing at a stupid joke with your best friend. I laugh so often in fact, that I have a near constant pain in my ribs. So very different from the one in my stomach, a malicious knot born from nightly sobs on the bathroom floor. Nate loves my laugh too, and every time I let out a true howl, he pulls me close and kisses the little creases around my mouth that never seem to disappear when I’m with him. This time he hovers over my lips for a moment, crouching down slightly so our faces are aligned. His is strong and tan, lined with stubble that softens the sharpness of his jaw. “I love you.” “I love you, too.” We keep walking toward the pier, the city alive and swelling with laughter and music. People here know to enjoy the clear skies and warm breeze while it still exists. The water laps playfully against regal sailboats and luxury yachts, but inside I feel perfectly still. I’ve learned to savor these tiny moments where nothing exists outside the air I’m breathing, and choices have no meaning. “Lucy?” “Hmmm?” My eyes are closed and the back of my head rests against Nate’s chest, his arms around my waist. “Can I ask you something?” I tiny swell of energy surges through my chest, though I keep my eyes closed in some manner of self defense. I don’t like questions like this. Not in my predicament. “Sure.” “Will you move in with me?” The lump in my throat drops to the pit of my stomach, awakening that familiar throb of pain. I hold my breath and try to slow the thoughts flying through my head, like sheets of paper in the wind. It gets easier with practice - lying. But each deception is a piece of straw forming this flimsy house I’ve built for myself, and in this moment I realize that I’ll have to decide how to destroy it: with fire or wind. __ I didn’t leave Max’s apartment for three days. Hell, I didn’t leave his bedroom for three days. The sex was rough and raw and real, and in the hours between I slept, letting my body recover. The bruises settled into my skin as though they’d always meant to be there. It was easy, at first, to ignore the way they multiplied. We’d made a mess of his place, dirty sheets and clothes strewn about. Empty take-out containers lining bookcases and the kitchen counter. His cat, Dixie, stayed curled in the window sill all day long, occasionally glancing over at us with judgmental eyes. “I’m going to need the apartment to myself for a bit,” Max declared one afternoon, climbing off of me. “Oh, yeah sure.” It’s not like I’d expected to stay there forever. The fake illness I was battling got me excused from five classes that week, but I’d need to spend hours catching up. I wasn’t prepared for the sting though. Max was a bandaid covering every inch of my bare skin, and he’d been ripped away with no warning. I was left red and tender. “I’m sure you have to get back to work,” I added, making up a logical explanation for his sudden desire to be apart. But that likely wasn’t true. Max had a cushy job in tech that allowed him to work whenever he wanted, often through the night while I slept curled up next to him. When I walked out of his building an overwhelming sense of fear and isolation washed over me. I was completely invisible to everyone I passed on the walk home, and in some ways, I was convinced Max was the only person who would ever be able to see me again. We spent the next month in the same cycle - fuck, eat, sleep - and in between I’d try to pry tiny pieces of information from him. About his family, his life. But after muttering a couple vague answers, the conversation always ended in sex. His mouth covering mine, keeping me from digging too deep. His hands around my throat, getting a little tighter each time. I knew there was something dark in him, I wasn’t oblivious. I’d try and meet his gaze while he thrusted, hard, in me, but it was like looking down an endless well. Afterwards, we’d lay silent, comfortable in this ambiguous routine. "Let’s go to dinner tonight?” I asked, my head on his chest. “I don’t really feel like going anywhere.” “Oh okay. It’s just...we never really go out.” Max pulled himself away from me, my head falling to the bare mattress. The sheets and mattress cover tangled at the end of the bed. “Is this not enough for you or something?” He stood abruptly and put his boxers on. “I...I..didn’t say that at all,” I stumbled, replaying the last few seconds and searching for where I went wrong. “It just seems like you’re guilting me or something. I mean, you practically live here now what more do you want?” “Max, I...I thought you wanted me here, Jesus.” I sat up, reaching for the covers to wrap around my vulnerable, naked body. “Now you’re just twisting my words! I didn’t say I don’t want you here” Max spoke slowly and with force. It was like the words were coming from deep within him, sparks flying off a raging fire. “Max, calm down, I’m not trying to argue with you!” “Damn it, Lucy!” I didn’t see the water glass Max had picked up until it hit the wall. Shards scattered across the floor, with a few glittering fragments making it all the way to the bed sheets. I felt frozen, like moving might physically cause me pain - the glass leaping through the air to pierce my skin. The tears came in one big swell, uninvited, but unavoidable. Max sighed. “I’m sorry.” With his head hung he inched his way back to me. “I’m so sorry.” Ignoring the glass he crawled into my arms, and I wrapped them around his sagging shoulders. We sat like that for 30 minutes - or maybe an hour, I don’t know - our bodies melting into one. _ “Lucy? You with me?” Nate cups my face in his hands, his eyes sparkling expectantly. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here.” “I want to live with you, Lucy. I want to do this,” he expands his arms, gesturing to the world around us, “together.” “I’m just... surprised I guess,” I force a small laugh to lighten the moment. “Do you remember the day we met?” Of course I do. “Yes.” “You had come into the pet store crying...” I think back to that day, the tiny store where Nate worked on the weekends while he finished law school. “Your...dog had just died,” Nate adds carefully, always worried that any mention of this fictional creature would upset me. “And you just wanted to be around some animals.” Also wrong. The feeling returns immediately. The hole in my chest, the walk to the pet store to buy Max’s cat some more food because he was out and I needed to breathe. My arm still red and sore from where he grabbed me, his words reverberating in my head. Why do you push me like this?!” “ I knew from the first moment I saw you,” Nate whispers close to my face. “That I wanted to be with you, that you were special.” I never expected it to come to this. I deserved it after all, didn’t I? I deserved some warmth and kindness in the midst of all the distress. It wasn’t even a decision, not really. Nate just...happened. “Nate...I...” choices, lies, the truth, pain. “I have to tell you something.” _ Max and I never had a discussion about being “official.” During one of the rare instances we had dinner with his college best friend, he introduced me as his girlfriend and in that moment, it felt like the very first time we met. I couldn’t hide the grin that grew on my face, the heat in my cheeks. It was the reward I needed, the one I’d hoped might be coming. “So, you called me your girlfriend today,” I said when we were in bed later, my voice idiotically giddy. “Oh, yeah, I guess so.” There it was, the pin in my balloon that was constantly being inflated then popped. I was nothing but holes at this point. “So, I’m your girlfriend then? And you’re my boyfriend?” “Why do you have to make everything such a big deal, Lucy.” “I’m not, I just want to know how you feel about...this.” I put my hands out indicating the proverbial us to which I’m referring. “You know I love you.” I did. He’d said it many times, the first being two months after we met. “Yeah, but...” “But what!” His body grew tense, sitting up arrow-straight in the bed. Tears started stinging the backs of my eyelids. I did my best to hold them back, my forehead straining with effort. Crying only made things worse. “Sometimes it feels like you’re using me. Like I’m not really your...partner or whatever.” “Oh my god,” Max sighed, exhaling a frustrated growl at the end. “We spend practically all our time together, I mean, why are you trying to control me like this?” “I’m not trying to control you, Max,” my voice was shaking. “I just want some reassurance I guess. Like, are you sleeping with other people? Because I’m not!” I’d said the wrong thing. I knew it before the words were even out of my mouth. We didn’t talk about others . Max’s hand flew to my throat, the tips of his fingers hitting the sensitive muscles that shot pain through my temples. “Lucy...do you not want this anymore? Are you going to leave?” Despite him physically overpowering me, Max looked frightened in that moment, and in his eyes I could see the reflection of my own loneliness. He needed this, needed me. And in a matter of seconds I would apologize, we would forget this ever happened, and we’d sleep soundly in each other’s embrace. “No. I’ll never leave you, Max.”

STORY CONTAINS SOME DEPICTION OF VIOLENCE, MENTAL HEALTH, PROFANITY, DARK HUMOR ASHLEY SHAFER The Cost of Healing Others Here we go again. It’s freaking 2:30 a.m. in the morning. I begrudgingly get out of my bed, taking off my comfy work shorts (honestly, they’re like basketball shorts), slide on my pants with its many pockets, and quickly shove my feet into my black boots. My boots have laces like normal work boots, but these also have a zipper on the side. It’s really nice when you’re barely awake and rushing to get out the door. I go to the bay. The bay is where our firetrucks and ambulances reside. My best friend got me into this job. I never thought I would ever find my calling, but then he invited me to come hang with him at the firehouse. I got to talkin’ with an older guy, a veteran in the service, really. He’d been in the fire/EMS service for 40 years. Talking to him that night, I just knew that this was going to be the job that I would be in for the rest of my life. I jump into the passenger seat of the ambulance and pick up the tablet from its dock that sits in the center of the dashboard. I look to see what the call is for. The dispatch notes say: F 73YO CHEST PAIN FEELING SICK AND IS ALONE Under that is the address, dispatch identifying number, and time of dispatch sent out. I look at my partner, Garner, at the same time he looks at me. We don’t even have to say anything, our expressions, mood, and eyes all say the same thing. We’re really fucking tired, and this is another bullshit call. “Seventy-three-year-old and the 970 address, that’s Rose ain’t it?” I ask Jack. In the firefighter world, it can be like the military in how we talk to each other. Everyone calls each other by their last name, it’s just a thing. Don’t ask me why though, ‘cause who the hell knows. “Yep. What a great fucking time, amiright?” Garner sarcastically replies. We drive to the house in silence. Most people are zombies in the morning without some type of caffeine flowing through their bloodstream. Let’s just say, us firefighters and EMS run on caffeine. It’s pretty much how we survive. Arriving to the house, I get out of the ambulance and take the tablet with me because I know she’s going to refuse going to the hospital and Garner grabs some things from the back of the ambulance. We walk in and it smells like it always does, cat piss and baby powder. Everything in the house seems to have a layer of grime. We greet her, take some vitals, ask some questions. Same thing every time. And every single time it is the same outcome, the same diagnosis: she just wants someone to talk to. After talking to her for 45 minutes, we leave and get back to the firehouse around 3:30 a.m. I take my boots off and strip off my work pants, putting my comfy shorts back on. I blissfully fall back asleep. We don’t have another run for the rest of my shift. . . . . . Four years earlier: “So, how’s your first two weeks been?” Tyler asks me. “I think I finally found my job, my calling, man” I answer, grinning. We’re sitting outside on his back patio, drinking cold beers, country music playing in the background. “I told you you’d love it” Tyler says to me, with a smug look on his face. “After talking with that guy, umm..” I blank, forgetting his name. “Deets” Tyler tells me. “Yeah. Deets. He had so many stories. Him just explaining his time in the fire service was pretty interesting." “So, how is Ellie doing? Hunter is the cutest baby around. You’re gonna have your hands full for a while” Tyler says. Ellie, my sweet, kind, and selfless wife just gave birth to our son, Hunter. He’s 3 months old and the cutest little guy. He had a full head of light blonde hair when he was born. He’s got his momma’s hazel eyes and little cute nose. He has my full lips, and a little freckle here and there sprinkled along his cheeks and nose. His cheeks are a little chubby, the same as his mama when she was born. He has a long torso and legs. Ellie’s only 5’1 in height. I’m 6’5 in height, fit but not ripped, black hair, brown eyes, black glasses. Tanned arms, or t-shirt tanned arms, and the rest of me is as white as can be. Ellie’s white but she has a nice, light tan every summer. “She’s doing okay. She’s still sore but her c-section is healing nicely. It still blows my mind that Hunter was nine pounds and six ounces when he was born. He’s got those long legs” I say, drinking a big swig of beer from the bottle. “What sucks the most is I know I’m going to be away from home a lot and it will be just her. I know we can ask friends and family for help, but y’see, when your kid is first born, everyone is all ‘call us if you need help’ and ‘I can take care of him so you can have a break’, but ninety percent of the time it’s all BS. I know they mean well and it’s a gesture of kindness but that’s all it is. They don’t actually expect to help. ‘Cause I know if we asked for the help that we’ll actually need, it’s gonna be ‘I can’t today’ and stuff like that.” Tyler looks down at his bottle of beer, nodding his head and agreeing. It’s quiet for a moment. I look up at the sky, staring at the red and pink hues of color from the sun setting. Tyler clears his throat and looks at me. “You know I would help you every time you asked, right? You know I would drop everything for you?’ he asks, but it sounds more like a statement. I grin, “of course. You’re my best friend.” “Shiiiitttt- “he says, dragging the word out. “Look at us getting all mushy and cute. I’d touch that booty anytime” he says, starting to laugh. I hear the sliding door to the patio open and we both turn to see Ellie and Cassie, who is Tyler’s wife, coming out to the patio. “What are you two laughing about?” Ellie asks playfully. Before I can get a word out, Tyler says “butt stuff with my boyfriend.” Ellie and Cassie both shake their head at the same time, smiling at how ridiculous Tyler and I are. “Well, lovebirds, dinner is ready” Ellie tells us. She comes over to my patio chair and kisses me deeply on the lips. I love her kisses, just can’t get enough of em’. Cassie takes Tyler’s hand, and he stands up. We all walk into the house for dinner. Six months later “Honey, I can’t do anything about it. You know that! I am sorry that I got forced overtime but being the new probie, I’m at the bottom. I don’t get priority, and I don’t get to choose.” Being a probie in the fire service basically means you’re the new guy. You get all the crap no one else wants to do or deal with. At the Forte Fire Department, there’s a list of names. If you’re at the bottom of that list, you’re the first person forced to work overtime. Once you do work that overtime shift, your name moves to the top of the list. But being the new guy, that list doesn’t really matter. At least for the first year of being at the fire department, anyway. I don’t like arguing or fighting with Ellie. We hardly ever fight. I think we’ve only fought or argued like this 3 or maybe 4 times since being together for five years. We’re a pretty healthy couple. We communicate with each other very well and we trust each other. It amazes me how a lot of couples don’t communicate in their relationships. Right now, I’m being forced overtime for Thanksgiving. I don’t have a choice. Ellie is very upset with me about it, which is fair. I can’t do anything about it, though. They call it forced for a reason. “I told all of our family that you would be there, that we all would be there! We had this planned out! We were going to go to your parents’ house tomorrow and spend Thanksgiving with your family. Then the day after, we go to my family’s Thanksgiving dinner” she says, her voice becoming angrier and more hysterical. “I know what we had planned. You don’t have to remind me. I can not do anything about it” I say slowly, hoping that she will calm down and understand what I’m telling her. “I don’t want to go by myself. I already have major anxiety around big groups of people, whether they’re family or not. I don’t want to deal with the anxiety of having both of our family’s’ judging faces with how I take care of Hunter. I get overstimulated so easy. Honestly, if you work, I might just stay home instead of putting myself through that stress.” I can see tears forming in her eyes as she tells me this. Whenever she’s angry she cries. She hates that about herself. We’re standing in the kitchen, me leaned up against the counter and Ellie in the middle of the kitchen floor. I stand up, pulling her into my arms and she wraps her arms around me. She puts her head against my chest. I can smell her floral shampoo and her Coach perfume that I got her. “I know, baby. I know. I love you so much. If I could do something about it, you know I would have already. Being the new guy sucks. But we’re getting closer to the year mark and soon I won’t be the new guy anymore” I say. She makes a big sigh sound. I pull her back a little so I can see her face, still holding her. She looks up at me. “You are the most beautiful woman and the best mother in the world. I love you, Ellie” I compliment her, admiring my messy haired wife. She smiles softly, pulling me down to her by the back of my neck so she can kiss me. We passionately kiss for what feels like forever. I know this won’t be the last time that something like this situation happens again, and that sucks. It really, fucking sucks. ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ It’s been almost two years since the Thanksgiving disaster. I’ve missed birthdays, events, holidays all throughout the passing time. Off and on, mild arguments have taken place. At least Ellie understands now nothing can be done about forced OT (overtime) and me picking up shifts for extra money. When I started my fire/ems journey, I was young and filled with fire and I was so excited to experience everything this job had to offer. I still love my job, even on the shittiest days. What I wasn’t ready for is the sacrifices and the things that this job takes away from you. I wasn’t ready for how this job can affect your life in all types of different ways. From home life to mental health, it takes a big bite out of you. Five weeks ago, there was a shooting. Four people dead and 6 more injured. It was a freaking birthday party for a teen girl. She was turning 17 years old. She won’t be seeing 18... ever. I can’t really talk about all of the details because HIPAA. Which, that’s basically a medical law/policy. You can’t talk about patients or about any of their personal information. But basically, birthday girl, what we’ll call her, had broken up with her boyfriend. But she had a new boyfriend. I guess ex-boyfriend, who was the shooter, didn’t like that. Obviously, because he went into the house while the birthday party was going on and just started shooting. I wasn’t the one dispatched to that tragic call but a colleague at a different station had been. Being dispatched to call like that can mess with your head. Or a better-known term: PTSD. When us firefighters and EMS go to bad calls like this one, it can stay with us. We can be traumatized by the horrors we see. At least mental health is recognized among our line of work now. After that night the call happened, our city fire departments had debriefed with all shifts at all stations. After a bad call, we all come together to talk about it. We go over the resources available to us again. I knew when starting this line of work, there was the possibility of bad calls and bad days, but it never put me off. I love helping people and I still love this job. TODAY I wake up, my alarm going off. I grab my phone, hitting the X on the screen to stop the alarm. I get out of bed, stretching as I stand up. I yawn, still a little bit tired. ‘I need coffee’ I think to myself. I take off my work shorts, put them in my thin locker that is against the wall at the end of my bed. There are 3 more lockers that are like mine, beige, thin, names taped above the doors. They’re all attached together like you would see at a school. The lockers go from top to bottom, long. I put my shorts on the little shelf at the top inside the locker. I slip on my work pants, dark navy blue, and pull on my tennis shoes. I put my boots inside my locker at the bottom. I like to leave my boots at work because even though I clean them after a gross run, whether it be blood, vomit, or someone’s feces (yeah, that happens), I don’t like to take them home with me. I don’t want to bring that gross shit home to my wife and son. I pack up my bedding and other stuff like toiletries and things I take to work. There’s a lot of us and not a whole lot of beds, so you bring your own bedding and make your bed when you get to work in the morning. I work every third day, and shifts are 24 hours. I walk out of the bunk room and into the kitchen. I fill my stainless-steel cup, that I take with me to work, with coffee that’s already been made by one of the other guys or Mason, the one girl on my shift. “Morning” Mason says, filling her own personal cup with coffee. “Morning” I mumble, still not fully awake. The living room, dining table, and kitchen are basically in one big open room. Garner sets his stuff down against one of the walls. Guys from the oncoming shift are just arriving, thirty minutes before the shift start time. Everyone always shows up 30 minutes before their shift so a debrief about calls and information can be passed from the last shift to the new shift. We always talk about different things like the runs we had the day before or that morning, what supplies need refilled on the ambulance or firetruck, fire department information that the new shift needs to know, etc. I look at Garner, taking a sip of my coffee, burning my tongue but not caring. “Don’t you look beautiful” I joke, Garner’s hair a mess. “Oh, thanks babe, it’s my new style” Garner replies, smirking. We both chuckle. “Man, two weeks of no work. I bet you’re excited to have some vacation time. Don’t forget to cuddle your pillow and think of me” Garner says. I laugh and tell him “don’t worry I will.” “But for real, enjoy that time with the wife and kid. Everyone needs a good break after a while. It’s hard enough being away from family as is” he says, looking more serious. “I know. Trust me, I know.” We all debrief the oncoming shift, sit around for a minute and talk, then we all leave to go home. I arrive home, parking the car in the driveway. I leave my bedding and other work stuff in the trunk of our blue 2021 Honda Civic for now. I walk to the front door and step inside the house and as soon as I’m inside, Ellie comes to me, grabs me, and pulls me into a hug. I hold her as she holds me. “Good morning, baby” I greet her. She looks up at me, a small smile playing on her lips. “Good morning. I missed you” she confesses. “I always miss you. C’mon, let’s cuddle on the couch for a little bit before getting up and doing stuff today” I tell her, taking her hand and leading her to the couch. She tucks her head under my chin, laying on my chest. We pick a movie from one of our streaming services that we pay for and settle in. Neither of us say a word, blissfully happy, Hunter still asleep. I smell her shampoo, like her own personal scent. I love it. It’s moments like this one, right here, that matter the most. Because not every day is promised, and the time that we get together is made more special because of my line of work. I love these moments. I smile to myself, happy with how my life has turned out. I have my dream job, the love of my life, and my amazing son. It’s funny how you assume or think that one thing is going to look and be a certain way, but it ends up being like nothing you imagined and surprising you even more.

Normally, my alarm would start singing at 7:01AM alerting me that it was time to start the routine of high school. I would check my phone for the typical “good morning” text from you before the long walk down my cold hallway into the bathroom. I would turn the shower on, and like clock work my mom would start brewing coffee to bring me out of my morning zombie state. After the thirty minute shower you would send me a second text saying to, “hurry up” and not be late, as I so often was. These messages gave meaning to this monotonous routine, because I knew light was at the end of the tunnel when I would finally see your face at school. Then, after picking out what I thought to be a presentable outfit I would make my way downstairs to the kitchen around 7:45, thus giving me the exact time to make it to school right as the first period bell rang at 8:05. I would grab my coffee and hug my Mother good bye as she give me her usual request to give you a hug from her. I would get to school around 8:01 and wait for you by your locker until you pushed through those two grey doors at 8:04 without fail. I was always bothered by the light illuminating from behind you, as the doors slowly shut, that would cast a shadow upon your face so I could not see you as soon as I wanted. However, today my alarm clock was screaming at 7:01 and the shower never seemed to reach a temperature to warm my cold skin. The coffee my mother made just ran through my zombified organs failing to bring life to any part of my petrified body. My hug good bye with my mom lacked the tenderness as I noticed she chocked on her usual request for me. When I got to school I walked past your locker, because I knew you would not be coming in those grey doors within the next minute. Light would not shine through the hallways today and I would not be irritated from the shadow covering your gracious face. Today you would not come to school, and I would only see you in the picture frames and slide show that the school had put together for your ceremony this morning. Everyone’s eyes should have been on the beautiful memorial they had set up for you, the vibrant arrangement of roses surrounded photos of you at your most joyous moments, but instead they were watching me. Every one waiting for me to breakdown, cry, do anything besides remain emotionless. What they do not understand is that you gave me the source of all my emotions. Everything from my happiness and love when I would hear your laugh to the sadness and regret whenever I was the source of your sorrows. I could only feel a void in my chest where all of those feelings used to be. My focus remained on that photo that sat on the table of roses, which captured your freckles perfectly, as the presentation began and the teachers began talking for what would seem like hours about how great of a student you were. I could not seem to listen as my memory of you always expressing your disinterest in their totalitarian mindset overshadowed anything escaping their lips. The irony of these people, who were always reprimanding you for your free thought, are now explaining what a gift you were to have in their classrooms. The school cheerleaders in the front row could be seen sobbing hysterically. I think Amanda, The Captain, how she liked to be addressed by her mindless squad of blondes, acknowledged your existence one day in homeroom while you your fixing your hair with your phones camera. I remember how confused you were when she offered you some eyeliner as if you have ever worn make up since you have attended Patterson High. Well people deal with death differently I guess. “Bro, let’s get out of here,” Jason whispered, bringing me back from a trance state. He was the only friend I have at this school since you left. We met in the sixth grade when Greg was smashing my face into the summer asphalt for the third time that week. Jason, a significantly larger man, mostly due to being held back twice in kindergarten, grabbed Greg by the shirt and threw him to the ground. I still remember the look on his face as he too knew what the scent of dirt mixed with blood smelled like. Jason and I were essentially inseparable from that point forward. “Go where? The whole school is in the auditorium and will definitely notice me leaving in the middle of her ceremony,” I whispered back. Just then a video started playing about the dangers of texting and driving. Unreal, using you to initiate fear in kids of something that anyone with a brain realizes, but never seems to care until it’s too late and their phone is flying through the windshield as they collide into a stopped car. They are just diminishing your tragic accident to nothing other than a simplistic human error. “Just follow me, man,” Jason insisted as he attempted to squeeze under the handrail of the bleachers. I tried to nonchalantly follow, but Jason’s rather large figure made this an infeasible task. I can only assume my fellow peers thought I needed a moment to my self once this horrendous video started playing. We left through the back doors unnoticed by any faculty and continued down the hall. The hall decorated in posters made for you that I had not noticed this morning. “RIP Jazz”, “We miss you dearly.” When the hell did you start going by Jazz? I can only wonder how many likes these attention whores got on social media for posting these when they were finished. People love to use death as a publicity stunt. “Ok, where are you taking me?” I asked Jason as my heart sank. As I asked this question we had turned down a hallway. Your hallway. The one with locker 42. The locker that I was too afraid to stop by this morning. Sure, on the outside it was as dismal as the rest of them, but once it was opened your vibrant individualism radiated through the hall. It is your locker, or more correctly, was your locker. “Well, it won’t be long before they clean out Jasmine’s locker for her family, if they haven’t already, and I thought you might want something for yourself,” Jason sincerely explained. “Thanks bro, but you don’t think I would have done that already if I had known her combo?” I rhetorically asked. You always enjoyed keeping secrets from me insisting it kept the passion in our relationship alive. If I ever needed an explanation you would simply state that once you know everything about a person then there is no element of surprise, and you equated the lack of surprise to the lack of passion. “Well that’s what these are for my friend,” He smiled as he reached in his coat pocket pulling out a stethoscope. I laughed at the simplicity of his plan. “I hear a stick of dynamite can work just as well. Do you want me to keep a look out for any coppers?” I asked. “Well, I would’ve asked but being a white male in the state that you’re in I knew that teachers would be keeping a sharper eye on you than usual.” Jason knew just how my humor worked, and besides you, he was the only one that could execute a joke with such subtle darkness. I remember being at his Grandmother’s eulogy when he jokingly stated how surprised he was that she had made it to her late 60s while being as promiscuous as Eazy-E. Most likely due to him not accurately gauging the age of his audience nobody laughed, and they just blew it off as an immature coping mechanism. Again, everyone deals with death differently. “And relax, champ, I watched a couple YouTube videos on it the other night. Hell, you can learn more from there than anything these dense teachers spew at us,” Jason said with a tone of a bad con-artist trying to scalp tickets outside of a sold-out show. As he started to fidget with your lock I kept watch for any faculty members walking around searching for delinquents alike. In reality I was just hoping to see you come around the corner, hair still wet form the shower, your freckles on your cheek that presented your natural beauty, wearing your favorite pair of converse with a simple T-shirt and blue jeans. Then I see your face lighten when you look up from the floor and see me standing by your locker. You say nothing, but give me that smile that could clear up the rainy skies in Seattle. “And, ya, I’m the shit!” Jason exclaims, snapping me back to reality as I hear the padlock crash down to the floor. In pure astonishment that this oversimple plan worked I reached for the locker handle and the sheer coldness ran revelations through my body as I understood that your hand has not touched this since last Friday. The door slowly creaked open revealing everything remained just the way you left it. The collage of your favorite bands and moments at Patterson High line the door with your favorite picture in the center. The one I gave you the last time I saw you. It was of us laying in the warm sand at our favorite beach on a slightly overcast Tuesday. I remember how red your cheeks were when I gave you this small gesture of my kindness, as you adored my photography. “A perfect fit for a perfect photo,” your words still echoing through my head. “Are you ok, buddy? Do you need me to give you a minute?” Jason said as I noticed his hand was on my shoulder in an attempt to be comforting. “Ya, I just haven’t seen her locker since last Friday,” I calmly explained. My eyes moved from the door that froze our happiest moments in time to the cheerless bureaucracy of school textbooks, US History, Literature, and Trigonometry all vertically stacked together. However, sandwiched between the unread Dante’s Inferno, and the cold wall of locker 42, rested a withered black leather notebook that had the word “Dreams” written on the spine. I vaguely remember you talking to me about the joy you recently began experiencing from recording your dreams, but I had hardly gave it a second thought until today. I reluctantly pulled this book from your locker as I did not wish to encroach on your privacy, however, I needed something of yours. A small feather bookmark floated down to the floor inducing the realization that this was the journal you always had your face in between class. This too was another one of your secrets that you kept from me. I hope you don’t mind know given our circumstances.

I was standing on the edge of an open field. Shaking enough to start an earthquake. Asking myself how I got into this trouble in the first place? Trying not to show any fear as I heard the hammer of the gun being pulled back into cooking position. The gun was close enough I could reach out and touch it. A large 44 magnum chrome plated, you could hunt the big five with this gun. Looking at the barrel and asking her, "Do you really need a gun like that?" It's for your own good she said My mind flashed back to the day it all started. I had just won the court case of the year. It had been a high profile divorce. The mayor had been caught with a lady of the evening. Tv and newspapers had spent the week outside the courthouse. Alot of secrets came out. The ex wife was later charged with embezzlement of a local charity. I had just left the press conference and returned to my office. Checking in with my secretary as I sat down to return my calls there was a commotion in the outer office. Suddenly the door burst open and a woman came storming in. The secretary said she tried to stop her. I motioned it was ok. Slamming papers on my desk and screaming. "I want a divorce." My forest response was, " but we're not even married. " 'I know that you imbecile from my husband." " OH that's better. " I said. She just glared at me for a second. "I've been told you are the best in town at this." It was. "I am good at my job," I replied. After A quick introduction I learned her name was Sue Highridge. I knew that name. Her husband was a prominent contractor for the city. I made a quick observation of her. Taller than most women with rough hands. She was not afraid to work with them or get them dirty. Well toned muscles, would not have been surprised if she carried a weapon. My kind of girl. I listened with interest at her story. How unfaithful he had been, his extravagant spending, and holding back on his business with her although she was half owner. When she was done. I asked her what she wanted? "Half of everything, " she said. That meant the classic cars, house, secret bank accounts, and any stocks. This was a little bit of a surprise. Usually the wives wanted everything and put the guy on the street. She just wanted her share. I could tell money was no problem for her. Sue filled out the proper papers and I asked her, "was she afraid of what he might do when she gave him the papers?" Without blinking and eye Sue said, "No he knows better." Quickly putting my P.I. on the husband's trail. I also had Sue checked out clean came back stamps on all the reports, except one. Sue had been citated with a disturbing the peace at a local restaurant. Seems she had bumped into her husband mistress. It had not been a peaceful encounter. After a few months of working together, I found we had some of the same interest in common. We both had started to like each other. Going against all my best judgment we went out. Sue was intelligent, fun, and a bit of a short fuse with the ability to back it up. I was getting in deep. I tried to call it off. The way she squeezed my hand and told me it was a bad idea had me worried. Her husband's lawyer had also put a tail on Sue. I had recognized him from a previous case. So the cat was out of the bag. When I mentioned it to Sue she asked, "should we be worried?" "Not at this point," I said. But that soon changed as we continued to see each other. Her husband's lawyer had put up a good fight. I was afraid he would bring up our friendship, but everyone he looked over at Sure he changed the subject. She had wanted to go out after the win getting everything she wanted. Telling her I had lose end to wrap up we could meet later. Later came one evening in the parking lot. I saw a flash of red a a classic firebird convertible candy apple red with a pearl finish pulled up behind my car. I was mesmerize as Sue stepped out of the car. Even though my mind screamed no I walked over and slowly started sliding my hands over the ventral curves of her body. My pulse was pounding as I felt the warmth coming off her body. Leaning into her wanting to wrap my arms around and caress every inch of her. The world around me disappeared. I didn't care who was watching a I slowly unhooked her top and started folding it down. My body betrayed me as I pulled out my phone. I got to have a photo of you baby. I handed the phone to Sue asking her to take a shot of me with her car. Oh yeah, Sue looked good too. She snatched the phone from my hand and took a photo or two. It was a whirlwind affair. I could not get enough of the car. Little did I notice the jealousy in Sue's eyes until it was too late. She had picked me up on a Friday night as usual in the red firebird to go eat. This time she headed to the open road towards the country. Looking into her eyes and only getting a cold look of darkness back sent a chill down my spine. Traveling well above the speed limit I did not dare jump out. She quickly turned off the main road heading out into no where. She had barely some the whole time. Suddenly the car slides to a stop at the dead end of the road. Turning asking the tree line we finally stopped. I had never seen her like this. It was not a request but an order. My hands were starting to shake as I stepped out. It was dark and cold. The car was still running a she got out holding a her purse. I was still beside the car when she said to stand in front of the headlights. Doing as ordered I stepped in the glow of the lights. My heart skipped a beast and my stomach turned sick as I watched her pull a gun from her purse. "Sue, come on, it didn't have to be like this." I heard the shaking in my voice. She pulled back the hammer and raised the gun. "Quit your sniffling be a man about this," she said. "It ends here now." Looking me straight in the eye no sign of emotion no hint of regret she leveled the gun. I closed my eyes and heard a deafening blast. I could feel the cold fingers of death on my face. "Wake up. Come on you can do it." Sure was saying. My mind was a blur. " It's cold or here," she said. "What happened," I asked? You passed out you dummy, Sue said as she helped me back to my feet. "I am not shot," I asked? No! Why should you be? But the gun, I saw you shoot me." I said. Then I saw the steam coming from under the hood of the car. You passed out just as I turned to shoot the car. Still puzzled I asked why? You were becoming obsessed with the car. Quite frankly I was getting jealous. She smiled at me as I still tried to get my brain around all this. " How are we getting back," I asked? I have a back up car on the side of the entry road. She said. Let's go, I'm getting cold. Just think years from now we will be laughing about this, Sue said as we walked toasts the other car hand in hand.

There was no bloodshed, splattered walls, or screams of agony. It was the worst battlefield Cerelia had ever stepped foot in. She had walked knee-deep in the blood of her brothers, wrapped their wounds while the light in their eyes faded with the whispers of the lost flying by her ears. Hundreds of dying wishes intrusted in her heart, their lasts breaths of life seen only by her. Cerelia had wept for the lovers of those she had never met before the day she broke the news that families would never reunite. She prayed for the survivors she carried in her arms, just for them to never smile the same again. Cerelia always thought she had seen the worst, but each new fight always proved there was more evil in the world. A symphony played around the twirling skirts, each woman outshining the next with lace and jewels embroidered throughout silk fabric. If she were to close her eyes, the mix of different perfumes would have transported her from the ballroom to a garden of exotic flowers. Cerelia would give anything to be there instead of here where she was about to dip her soul into bloodshed of her own. “Are you going to ask me to dance?” Princess Amelia asked with her stone-cold face, one that was hiding a sinister smile. Her act had always been fake, but her smile was too real. Cerelia offered her hand up in the same fashion a suitor would have and awkwardly led her Princess to the dancefloor. Cerelia’s father had always warned her about getting involved with the royals. He lived his life in severance to the King without ever having a say in his own choices, burdened by the hierarchy and meeting the ever-so-demand needs of his family. Cerelia had been determined to follow her father’s words to her own grave, but that became impossible the day Princess Amelia showed her interest in the simple healer. The youngest of the King’s daughter never listened and ended up seeking out Cerelia’s services so often it was hard to ever say no to any request. Princess Amelia shined brighter than any light. Her skin was irresistible to the hand. When she called Cerelia to her private chambers, there was nothing more Cerelia could do to stop herself from falling. “M’Lady, are you not afriad that the King will repremend you for not dancing with a suitor?” Cerelia whispered in fear that somehow the Royal Highness would hear her faint voice from across the vast room. The Princess scoffed as she spun slowly to the music, her purple gown glimmering in the light of the room. “My father is too distracted with a bottle of wine, besides he cares too much about my brother coronation celebration to worry about who I am dancing with,” Princess Amelia moved the hand on Cerelia’s shoulder and used it to push Cerelia’s hand down harder on her waist. “I wouldn’t let him stop me anyways.” Many feared the fierce hand that King used to rule, the hand that sent so many to their graves through war and starved the poor peddlers on the streets. Cerelia learned to fear him after watching her father being sent to death in a battle that never needed to be fought. Princess Amelia never knew to have that fear of her father, and that both enticed and scared Cerelia. “Are you sure that you want to go through with this, M’Lady? What if soemthing were to go wrong and it was lead back to us? Do you not fear being executed for treason?” Cerelia scarcely whispered as she clung to Princess Amelia. “Stop with this nonsense, you said it yourself that the poison has no cure, does it not?” Princess Amelia tilted her head as she glared in on Cerelia as her mind filled with horrid memories of the many souls she tried to save from the very poison she was about to use to kill many more. She weakly nodded as Princess Amelia gave a wicked smile. “Then all who drink the celebratory wine shall be brought to their death and then the throne shall be mine. All shall go just as we have planned, we have many who stand behind us.” “Of course M’Lady, I shall not question you again.” Cerelia lowered her head, red in shame, before a hand lifted her chin to meet Princess Amelia’s gaze. It was the same look her father would use when he saw her mother, more passionate than any kiss Cerelina had shared with her in the darkness of the night. “Question me all you wish, I shall never be as rigid as my father is. You shall rule by my side not as just a consort, but as my equal.” “Do you truly mean that, M’Lady?” “With all of my heart, for I am yours as you are mine.” The whole room disappeared as the song came to its end. It was just the two of them, dancing together as if they weren’t about to commit treason against their kingdom. For a moment, just a single moment, this was no longer a bloody battlefield. Cerelia had taken a vow to use her hands only to heal. Still, Princess Amelia had brought her reason to defy her own words. “Thank you for the dance,” Princess Amelia curtseyed, smirking as attention was turning to the servants who were passing around goblets of silvery wine to grabbing hands who hardly waited to sip the celebratory brew. She grabbed a goblet of her own before passing it off to another guest who was more than eager to take hold of his oblivious death. The two lovers watched as the King rattled off his congratulations to his eldest son, preaching his upcoming marriage and coronation where he shall become the new King. Cerelia could feel her heart shaking, watching the mouths of royals, members of the council, and nobles sip her elixir of death. So many of those she had been called to before to heal them from sickness, now here she stands watching them take death from her hands. “This is beauty,” Princess Amelia spoke as she took Cerelia’s hand, grounding her back to the reason for it all. “Now, all we must do is wait.”

Sean Morrison was walking to town with his son Daniel. They both loved going to their favorite sandwich shop out by Ashsoll Run River. Daniel would always laugh and giggle about the ridiculous name, and Sean would too, but being the adult, he had to carry himself more seriously. It was a warm spring day, and it was perfect for relaxing on the park bench and watch the river roll by. Sean would like to tear little bits of bread off his sandwich and throw it to the ducks, thinking about the inevitable. Daniel, being the absent-minded child he was, would be playing his video game, worried only about how happy the characters were. After Sean had given most of his bread to the birds and Daniel only got a bite out of his, before the damn ducks took the whole sandwich, they got up and started off on their “field trip” of sorts. “Are we going to the flea market?” Daniel had asked. “Yes, we are, we just got to make a stop by the doctor so we can get you checked up alright?” “Fine” Daniel muttered. Sean was worried about Daniels declining health and was trying anything he could to help his son recover. He had spent all his money, took off weeks just to stay with Daniel and take care of him, He even left his wife because she didn’t care about Daniel. He would do anything for Daniel. They came up to a small doctor’s office which looked more like a crack house then a doctor’s office, but it was all Sean could afford. The doctor already tried hundreds of tests to try and find out what was wrong with Daniel, to even get an idea. But nothing came of it, all they could do was just hope it gets better and monitor his health with routine checkups. “It seems to just be getting worse and worse doc, are you sure there is nothing we can do?” Sean knew the answer, but he thought he would at least ask. “How long does he have?” “At this rate we aren’t even sure, months, weeks, days even.” “I am sorry Mr. Morrison but I think our best bet is to put him in a hospital room where we can monitor him and see if we can’t find out anything else about this disease.” “Would that really help?” Sean asked the doctor. “It's either that or he may never recover.” Sean was devastated. He didn't want to leave his son, but he also didn’t want him to be hurt. He thought about it for a while and reluctantly accepted. “Dad lets go, I wanna go get the Tom Nook toy, the guy said he would save it just for me.” Sean didn’t know how to put it. “Daniel you’re gonna have to stay here for a while alright bud?” “But dad you promised, you said we would go.” whined Daniel. “I know I did but we really need you to stay here, I don’t want you to get hurt.” “I am a big boy I won’t get hurt, please, you promised.” “How about this.” Sean offered “I’ll go to the flea market and get your toy.” “However, you must stay here, deal?” Daniel thought about it for a moment then, knowing he wouldn’t get a better deal, accepted his dad’s terms “Ok well I guess I am off, please try and act good for the doctors alright?” “Yes sir.” And with that Sean was off. Sean was looking around the flea market and when he finally got to the table with the small Tom Nook toy, he picked it up and examined it. He chuckled a little but, wondering what was so damn fascinating about a small little raccoon toy. Then he turned the toy around to look at the tag. TEN DOLLARS FOR A LITTLE FIGURINE! Of course, he had to get it, anything for Daniel. He looked in his wallet and all he had was eight dollars and 20 cents. “Sir is there any way you could take a little less for the raccoon toy?” “What, really? I already held the toy for over a week, and you now want a discount?” the clerk sighed “Fine how much do you have?” Sean showed the man his money and the clerk took it with a bit of anger in his tone. Sure, Sean felt bad, but he just had to get that stupid raccoon toy. I mean what kind of father would he be if he broke a second promise. On his way out of the flea market Sean noticed a small man sitting in front of a small wooden hut of sorts with a sign that said, “Welcome to The Gauntlet of Isdall.” Sean was a little confused about the stand, so he went up to the man. “Hello, I was just wondering, what is it that you sell?” “We don’t sell anything; we offer up a challenge.” The man spoke in a weird accent, but Sean was more interested in the challenge. “You can enter through this curtain but know that in every room you go through, you will have to give up something very dear to you.” “What is the prize?” Sean asked. “The prize is determined by you.” “Whatever you desire most will meet you at the end of the gauntlet.” “However, if at any time you decide to turn back, you will gain nothing and will have lost whatever you gave up.” Sean was sort of mesmerized by the idea of such a challenge. “Anything I want...” He was thinking. “Yes, and you can enter for free.” the man said as if he had heard what Sean was thinking. “So, are you up for the challenge?” Sean looked at the entrance and then back at the man, he thought about what he could wish for. Could he really wish for his son to get better? Sean desperately wanted his son to get better, and he would do anything for Daniel. Finally, he decided he would do it; he would face the challenge. “It can’t be THAT hard right...?” The small man opened the curtains and Sean disappeared inside. The first room looked a bit like a dungeon, it had gray painted walls with a table in the middle. Sitting on the table was a Speaker with a bowl in front of it. “For your first challenge you must break a promise.” It spoke “You must give up the toy. Do you wish to continue?” Sean was surprised at how the small man knew about his promise to his son, he had not told him this fact. He was also a little bit confused as to why the small old man would want a little toy raccoon. He needed to give it to his son, but he also didn’t want to lose the challenge over something so stupid as a toy. Sean knew he would never hear the end of it from Daniel, but he didn’t want to waste his only opportunity to help his son get better, even if this whole thing seems nonsensical. “Yes, I wish to continue” Sean said. “Place the toy in the bowl, then step back and wait until told otherwise.” Sean placed the toy in the bowl and stepped back. The next door slowly creaked open and the speaker told Sean to move into the next room. As Sean stepped into the next room, he noticed that the wall was a little bit darker... but still gray. The room was very similar to the other room with another table, that looked exactly like the last room. However, in this room the speaker was suspended from the ceiling, very low from the ceiling, but suspended nonetheless, and there was no bowl. After Sean got a good look in the room the door closed behind him, making him feel like an animal trapped in a cage. The speaker started to speak “For your second challenge you must give up your emotions. Do you wish to continue?” Sean was kind of scared by that statement. How was he going to give up his emotions? Could he really give up something like that? He thought about it for a few minutes and realized that he couldn’t really turn back now, he had already given up Daniels’s toy. I mean what kind of father would he be if he really turned around and walked out, over something so insane. I mean it can’t REALLY take away his emotions, could it...? “Yes, I wish to continue.” “To start close your eyes and count to ten.” the speaker replied. “Easy enough” Sean thought, and closed his eyes. “One, Two, Three,” Sean was counting slow but as each number rose higher, he was getting more and more nervous. “Four, Five, Six,” I mean all he had to do was count, but he could notice himself speaking slower. “Seven, Eight, Nine,” Sean held out on the last number, struggling to get it out of his mouth. Would he really be able to live without emotions? “No” he thought, forget about that, all Sean should focus on was Daniel, anything for Daniel. “Ten.” As Sean said the last number, he readied himself for some sort of change, but he didn’t feel anything. He just felt like himself, no different. He chuckled at how he believed such a stupid idea, he couldn't really lose his emotions. The door to the next room opened and before the speaker even said anything Sean stepped into the next room. “How many damn challenges are there?” Sean was wondering to himself. “The hut was tiny on the outside.” As he walked into the next room, he saw that the walls were ever darker than before, almost more of a black than a gray color, but it still had some white to it. There was a table in the middle just like the last and, of course, looked exactly like the last table. This speaker was also hung up on the ceiling, however it was a bit higher, as if in the middle ground of the table and the ceiling. Sean realized that this time something was sitting on the table. The bowl had returned, a bit bigger than last time, but back. Next to the bowl was a powered handsaw, which gave Sean the chills. The door closed behind Sean and the speaker then spoke “For your third challenge you must give up the hand you gave to your ex-wife in marriage. Do you wish to continue?” Sean felt his heart drop. “What kind of sick game was this!?” Did the game really want him to give up his hand? HIS OWN HAND! Sean’s head was spinning in circles, he couldn’t give up a HAND! Then he thought about Daniel, how sick he was, how if he did nothing that he would... “FINE” Sean stormed over to the power tool and grabbed it, anything for Daniel. His hands were shaking with fear. He didn’t even know if he could follow through with cutting off his entire hand. He pushed the thoughts out of his head. He turned on the saw... then he started inching the saw closer and closer and as he was, the fear... went... away? He started to get braver! Sean felt like he could take on the world. He cut into his wrist and to his surprise it didn’t hurt. “What the fuck is going on?” before he knew it his hand was sitting there motionless, detached from his body. Sean picked up the hand and threw it in the bowl, as if it was nothing. Sean looked at all that was left of his hand and felt... happy. Happy that he passed the challenge, Happy that he was one step closer to getting his wish. The next door opened, and Sean walked through the door. The speaker didn’t even make a sound this time. This room was black, there was no gray left on this wall, only black. There was again, another table, this table had nothing on it but a button. Above the table was a speaker, suspended by the ceiling, however it was even higher than the last, almost touching the ceiling. Sean stepped in and just as before the door closed behind him. Sean was getting tired of these challenges by now and all he wanted to do was get his wish. He wanted to help Daniel, but he also wanted to try and get something for himself too... I mean why not, it couldn’t hurt. “For your fourth challenge you must give up your morals. You must kill a sick child. Do you wish to continue?” Sean was taken aback. “Another child? I can’t hurt another child!” Sean couldn’t pinpoint what to think about this situation. A human being, a living human being. Could he end a life? Sean then thought about Daniel, what he had already given up, what he would lose if he didn’t do the challenge. “Yes, I wish to continue.” Sean said coldly, the voice answered back “To complete the challenge you must press the button, when you do a sick child will die. The child’s name is Jarred Stout.” Sean didn’t want to hear the child’s name. All it did was make it harder to press the button. Sean moved closer to the button and looked at it. It was a red shiny button, despite its purpose it looked kind of... pretty. The shine on the button reflecting Sean’s face didn’t help but he knew he had to decide, and he knew that thinking about it would only make it harder. “Anything for Daniel.” The door opened and Sean stepped through. The next room was darker than the last room, Sean didn’t even know how that was possible. In fact, the room was so dark he couldn’t even tell how long it was. There was another table in the room with a button, however this one was black instead of red, you could barely even see the button it was so black. The speaker this time was embedded in the ceiling, you could barely see it either. The door closed and Sean just ignored it. He didn’t care what this next challenge was going to be, he was going to complete it no matter what. However, he wasn’t doing it for Daniel anymore, Daniel was the one that caused this. Daniel was the one that Caused him to cut off his own hand, and even caused him to kill a KID! Sean just knew that when he gets his wish, he was going to spend it how HE wanted. Daniel’s time was over. Daniel had never given up anything for Sean anyway. And with this wish Sean could get his life back. He could do anything HE wanted. The speaker suddenly spoke “For your fifth and final challenge, you must give up your hope. You must give up Daniel.

There was a light breeze from the open window on a warm Friday afternoon, a boy with golden hair, a red race car shirt and blue shorts was playing in the small back garden as his father worked on something in his workshop. The boy was playing with a toy bird that his dad had built for him, it was almost completely yellow with some black eyes. The boy walked up to his dad's small, shed-like workshop and knocked on the door, "Dad, can I come in?" He asked his dad in a timid voice. With a small creak, his dad opened the door for him to come in. Inside the workshop were boxes and boxes of small trinkets and parts, and the wood panel floor felt relatively sturdy. Some of the half finished things in the workshop were quite spooky to the little boy, he had never been allowed in the workshop before now, and he almost started to understand why. His dad turned to him, "What a nice afternoon, don't you agree Jack?" He asked his son, who replied with a single nod of agreement as he looked around. "Curious as to what I've been working on little buddy?" His dad asked him another question, "Mhm" Jack responded with a nod and a sound of agreement. His dad opened a cabinet and took out what seemed to be a small toy robot, it was purple in colour, there were all kinds of strange markings, a strange door, yellow eyes, and it had small pipe arms with claw-like fingers. "HELLO, JACK!", the small robot said in a very robotic voice, it only stood about as high as Jack's knee, it walked towards him slowly, taking big steps as it made all sorts of mechanical sounds. Jack's eyes widened as he kneeled down to see the robot closer up, "Hello, Mr robot" Jack said excitedly to the small Machine as it turned it's head to look at him. "WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY?" the robot asked Jack, "Oh boy, of course!" He exclaimed, "Can I go play with the robot, dad?" Jack asked his dad, "Alright then, just don't go too far into the woods" his dad told him as he left the shed. Jack went into the woods with his robot toy and set it on the ground, he pressed a big red button on its body and it turned on, "HELLO, JACK!", It said in the exact same way as before, "Hello again Mr Robot, would you like to play?" Jack asked the small robot, "OF COURSE I WOULD, WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY?" the robot asked Jack, who looked at the robot's body and saw that it had 3 buttons on it that all had words on them; 'Hide & Seek', 'Catch' and 'Simon Says', Jack pressed the button that said 'Simon Says' and the robot said "OKAY THEN, FOLLOW MY MOVEMENTS AND TRY TO KEEP UP!". Jack began to follow the simple movements that the robot made while it played a short, looping chiptune song, it was as if the two were dancing together in sync with the music. After some time, Jack decided to press the 'Catch' button on the robot, the small door on the robot opened and a ball came out of it, "LET'S PLAY CATCH!" the robot said. Jack picked up the ball and threw it a short distance, then the robot went after it and after a short wait, brought it back to Jack. After a bit more playing catch, Jack grew tired of the other games the robot could play and decided to press the last button, 'Hide & Seek'. When he pressed the button, the robot's feet retracted and a pair of wheels came out from the sides, it darted off, "LET'S PLAY HIDE AND SEEK!" it said as it went, "W-Wait!" Jack shouted as the robot went away, Jack tried to chase after it but it was much faster than him, and after not much time the robot was lost. Jack panicked, *"Oh no, what am I going to do? My dad's gonna be so mad at me."* Jack thought to himself as he tried to find the robot. "MR ROBOT! WHERE ARE YOU?!" Jack shouted for his robot, going deeper into the forest in search of the robot, his steps made the small chips of wood beneath him crack as he ran through the forest, looking for his purple friend. Until he stopped for a moment and remembered what his dad said... *"don't go too far into the woods"*, Jack gulped and realized that he had done exactly that. The sky was pitch black and the moon was out, Jack began to shake, his chest felt tight, and he had the strange feeling that he was being followed, he decided to just turn back the way he came and forget about the robot. Jack walked for a while before he heard a cackling laugh from the darkness, he turned to look at the beings and saw strange, sharp teeth and eyes that appear closed, with thin lines showing that. Jack screamed at the top of his lungs as he ran away from the strange figure. The face began appearing more and more in the darkness, as if it wasn't just a singular entity, and instead was spreading, "Wh-What are you?" Jack shouted as he kept trying to run from them, the laughter began to echo as the faces began to take up more and more of the darkness, Jack's breathing started to be heavier, and he felt short of breath, he kept running but it was getting harder and harder to do so and he was beginning to slow down. After some more running, his legs grew tired, he fell onto the floor, and curled up into a ball, crying, "Please, just don't hurt me!" He cried to the beings in the darkness. Jack kept crying with his eyes closed as the laugher began to echo, he started to hum a short lullaby to himself as he rocked back and forth, and eventually he fell asleep in the woods. After sleeping in the woods, when he woke up again, the robot was right in his face, "FOUND YOU!" the robot said to him. Jack's face lit up and his eyes widened, "Mr robot! Where did you go?" He asked the robot, but it didn't respond, *"huh, weird"* Jack thought to himself as he walked home with the robot, when he got home he realized that he hadn't come home that night and that his dad was probably angry with him, he gulped again as he knocked on the door, after a few seconds the door opened, "There you are! What happened last night?! I was worried sick about you!" Jack's dad asked him as he walked through the door. After Jack explained to his dad what happened, his dad sighed and said "I'm not stupid, there was no weird figure in the shadows laughing at you, if you're going to lie at least make it believable." His dad told Jack, "Now, go to your room, you're grounded for the rest of the day." Jack's dad told him, "Okay dad" he said as he went upstairs. Later that night he was sitting in bed, thinking about the faces he saw, *"what were those things, I know I saw them, I know I did"* he thought to himself. Eventually he decided to just go to sleep, and when he did, he began hearing the same cackling laughter and seeing the faces that he saw in the woods, they felt like they were mocking him, his chest felt tight again and he started to shake, his eyes watered up, he closed his eyes tight and hummed himself the same tune as in the forest as he drifted off to sleep again. .............................................................................................

When I was 8, I saw something that I’d never forget. It was just me and my dad, with the house all to ourselves. Mom was away, though I don’t recall why. But I didn’t care, because that meant that I got my Dad all to myself. Pizza, hiking, and many other adventures ensued. It’s one of my fondest memories of him. Which makes what capped it all off that much worse. I remember need to get a drink of water. Tiptoeing into the hall, I heard something. Something wrong. It was a dull thump, and it sounded like it was coming up the stairs. Nervous, thinking my Dad would be upset I was out of bed late, I hid in the bathroom. The sound continued up the stairs, and into the hall of the second floor. I wanted to peak out, to see what it was, but something held me back. Soon the thump went quiet, and I heard a creak of my parent’s bedroom door. *Creeeeeeaaaak* I didn’t hear the thumping again. I guess it was just Dad going to bed. ... I was back, snug in my bed, when I heard the worst of the sounds that night. It was like someone was trying to chew through a large piece of steak. A wet crunch, followed by more chewing. Rising, I needed to investigate. I slowly crept down the hall, stinking to the least creaky floorboards. The sound was coming from Dad’s room. Silent as my little feet would allow, I slunk to the door and slowly turned the knob. When I had it open a crack, I peered inside. The sight the greeted me was sickening. At first all I could see was a silhouette, a person-like shape sitting bolt upright in the bed, facing the headboard. It then leaned forward, and hunching it’s shoulders, I heard the chewing again. As I was standing there, entranced by the sight, a car passed outside. Its headlights just barely illuminated the grisly scene. The thing was sat, straddling my father’s stomach, eating a hunk of meat that must have come from the massive hole in his chest. I couldn’t hold back my gasp, and the creature sat bolt upright again. Its face, if you could call it that turned in my direction. It had no defining features, no eyes, nose, nothing. But as I gaped in horror, its face split in a grin, filled with too many teeth. It slowly raised its hand to its mouth, the finger crossing its lips. It was telling me to keep quiet. I fled from the house, screaming the entire way to the neighbor’s house. In between bawling and wiping the tears from my eyes, I recounted my story. They didn’t believe me; neither did the policemen that came later. I eavesdropped on them, and they said that it was a break in gone wrong. I was shocked. How could they say that? What burglar would do that? Before long, my mother arrived to collect me and we stayed in a hotel for a few weeks while the house was cleaned. Eventually, we returned to stay there, but I never felt safe. Before long, we’d moved away from that ghastly place. ... I thought that would be the end of it. But I was wrong. I saw it again last night. I awoke to my bedroom door creaking. Open just enough to see beyond, I saw the thing again. It’s finger to its lips, crossing that horrible smile.

&#x200B; **Sneakers and Keys** &#x200B; "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times... You need new sneakers! These ones are just hanging together with smiles and hope!", Linda said, holding a disheveled shoe up with two fingers, arm fully outstretched as if the thing might give her rabies if it got too close. &#x200B; Max turned his body slightly, so he was now fully facing away from the kitchen behind, where Linda sat smoking. He slunk down further into the couch and refocused on the story he was reading. The room was dark except for the dim yellow light of a lamp in the corner. It was hazy with Linda's slowly dispersing smoke. &#x200B; She's right, he thought. The shoes are terrible, but dammit he loved that pair of Nikes, and he wasn't about to throw them away yet. Also, they seemed to annoy her, so there's another win! He smiled a secret little half-smile in the half-darkness. &#x200B; Linda continued, "And have you put the spare key case back under the car yet?" "You haven't, have you Maximillian? Get off your lazy ass and go do it right now, before you forget again." "The rain will do you good! Wash some grime off your bones." "Get off my back Linda! I don't even know where the spare is." "I'm going to work now. Back ... late." &#x200B; Max opened the door, pulled his jacket up over his head, and ran out to the car, through heavy rain. As he ran, Linda opened the door behind him and called out sarcastically: "Have a nice niiiiight..." "You too, bitch", he muttered under his breath. "I heard tha.." - he slammed the door shut, drowning her out. &#x200B; Sighing heavily, Max put his phone on the mount, started up the Uber Driver app, spun his wheels and drove off into the rainy night. &#x200B; &#x200B; **Four McLaren Drive** &#x200B; "Hi there ... Xavier?", Max asked, as the man got into the back seat. "Yes." "Okay buddy .... going to Four McLaren Drive?" "That's right." Max waited for the man to put his seat-belt on and pulled out into the flow of traffic. Another rainy Uber night. Max turned the windscreen wipers up to the next speed, and peered ahead through the rain. He sighed. &#x200B; "Pretty crappy weather hey,'' Max said. "Mmm.", the man grunted. "So what are you up to tonight?", Max asked. "Nothing.", he said. "Hoookaaaaay thennn....", Max mouthed silently. &#x200B; He felt for the volume control on the steering wheel and turned the radio up one click. He snuck a quick look in the rear-vision mirror. The man was tall, with a lean face. He had on a black hooded poncho and had left the hood on, even though he was now out of the rain. Straggly wisps of wet dark hair were poking out of the front of the hood. &#x200B; Max felt a vague uneasiness when he glanced back at the man, but he couldn't quite put his finger on the reason. He looked back at the dark wet road ahead. He made a few turns before getting onto Magilvray Road. The road started to rise slowly, as they moved towards the hills. They reached the edge of the suburbs, where Magilvray turned into McLaren Drive. Still rising, the road continued ahead, straight as an arrow. &#x200B; Through the rain, Max made out the first letterbox, and a big white "1". The properties were large around here, and streetlights were few. It took another few minutes before they finally came to a driveway, with the number "4" on a post. Max slowed the car down, but not quite to a stop. &#x200B; "Just here", the man in the trenchcoat said. "Are you sure? Looks like a long walk up to..." The man cut him off: "Just drop me here, I said!" &#x200B; Max stopped suddenly, flinching slightly at the man's words. The man got out, slamming the door behind him, and started striding off through the rain. Max cracked his window open a fraction and called after him: "Have a nice waaaaalk..." &#x200B; What an asshole, thought Max. Through the darkness and the rain he thought he saw yellow light dancing in two windows in the distance. Good night for an open fire, Max thought. He hit the second star out of five on the rider-score selector, and chose the reason “Attitude”. He scoffed “Some people!”, turned the car around, and headed back down McLaren Drive, towards the city. &#x200B; &#x200B; **Valerie** &#x200B; The rain stopped briefly, as Max reached the edge of the suburbs. The road turned back into Magilvray, and a few seconds later the four rising chimes of the “Trip Found” indicator sounded. Max hit the “Accept” button, and started following the blue line on screen, to pick up “Valerie M”. &#x200B; “2.7 km”, the indicator showed. After about the first kilometer the rain started up again. Max continued following the map, and eventually pulled up to the curb outside 29 Drivat Lane. &#x200B; After a few seconds there was the sound of little feet running up to the car. Max hit the ‘unlock’ button, and a girl got into the front seat alongside him. &#x200B; “Hellooooo”, she said musically, smiling at Max, then reaching to put her seatbelt on. “Oh! Hello there!” said Max, thinking to himself wow she’s just a kid. She couldn’t be more than 10 years old. There was an Uber rule about picking up minors without an adult, but other drivers had told him they just pick them up anyway, and he needed the money tonight, more than he needed to kick up a fuss about it. &#x200B; “Valerie M.?”he asked. “Yes, I’m Valerie Margolis, nice to meet you!”, the little girl answered. “Oh, well you probably shouldn’t tell drivers your surname, but nice to meet you too! I’m Max.” “Why shouldn’t I? I’ve got nothing to hide!”, Valerie chirped. “Oh, indeed.” said Max, deciding to leave the point at that. “Can we hurry a little?”, Valerie asked. “I’m late going to my uncle’s.” “Well, I can’t break the speed limit, but I’ll do what I can.”, Max answered. &#x200B; He looked at the address on the screen and wondered if he’d forgotten to hit the “Complete Trip?” button on the previous job. The address still said “4 McLaren Drive”. But no, he must have completed the last job, else he wouldn’t have been able to start this one. What the hell?, he said to himself. &#x200B; “Are you going to 4 McLaren Drive?”he asked her, puzzled. “Yes, that’s my uncle’s place”, Valerie answered, beaming at him. “Wow, I just dropped a man there a little while ago!”, Max told her. “Oh cool!”, Valerie said, seemingly missing the enormous coincidence “Umm could we start going please? I’m late!” “Oh, right!”, said Max, spinning the wheels slightly on the wet road and heading off. &#x200B; The rain was still falling heavily, and there were few cars around as he made his way through the backstreets, and eventually onto Magilvray for the second time that night. The road was dark between streetlights, with only the Skoda’s headlights to light the way. Valerie was turning some little furry object over in her fingers, and singing quietly to herself, over-and-over: &#x200B; “Eckery, ackary, you care-an, Fillisin, follasy, Nicholas jan” &#x200B; They reached the edge of the suburbs, and just as the road changed into McLaren Drive, something small and dark ran out in front of them. &#x200B; There was a low double-banging sound, as the car hit the thing. It went under them, with a horrible scraping sound. &#x200B; “Shit!” exclaimed Max, braking and looking over at Valerie, who had braced herself with both arms on the dashboard. She looked back at him calmly, with a half-smile on her face. Max pulled the car over to the side of the road quickly. He was breathing fast, still holding the wheel with both hands. &#x200B; “I’d better get out.”, Max said, reaching for his little umbrella and opening the door. He quickly went around to the back of the car, and a few meters behind, there was a horrible moaning sound coming from what looked to be a black cat, lying broken on the wet road. &#x200B; Suddenly Valerie was there too, with no umbrella. Before Max could protest, she ran to the cat, saying “I’ll take care of it, poor thing!”. &#x200B; And with that, the little girl scooped up the cat, with its neck in one hand, head in the other. She twisted her hands sharply, and there was an audible snapping sound. &#x200B; Max lost his dinner in a pool on the road. He wiped his bottom lip and watched as Valerie smiled and went to drop the dead cat by the side of the road. She trotted back quickly to the car, getting in and closing the door. &#x200B; “Bloody hell...”, was all Max could say. He was shaking. He took a couple of deep breaths and joined Valerie inside the car. “Are ... are you okay?”, Max asked the girl. “Here, dry your hair,'' he said, handing her the little towel he kept in the console. “Oh yes I’m fine!” she said, smiling. “I’ve killed lots of animals before.” &#x200B; She dried herself off, wiped her hands and handed back the towel to Max. “Thank you.”, she said, still smiling. Max took the towel and placed it back in the console. He wondered why she had “killed lots of animals”, but was still shaking, and didn’t ask any more. &#x200B; “Okay, I’d better get you to number 4,'' Max said. “Oh yes, I’m very late now!”, Valerie replied. &#x200B; Taking another deep breath in and out, Max put the car in ‘drive’ and pulled back out onto the road. A few minutes later they reached the post with the number “4” on it. “Shall I take you up to the house?”, Max asked. “Yes please.” Max drove slowly up the muddy, bumpy driveway. The house was set back on the hill, and there were stone steps leading down to a parking area. As the car approached the parking area, a man was running down the steps. Several more umbrella-clutching people stood under a light at the top of the steps, looking down at them. &#x200B; The man was the same one Max had dropped off earlier. As Valerie stepped out of the car, the man ran across and wrapped his arm around her neck, covering her with his poncho. &#x200B; “Where have you been? Everyone is waiting!” he snapped, as he led her up the steps. Max listened for Valerie’s answer, but they were getting further away, and the sound of the rain drowned it out. The man in the poncho looked back over his shoulder at the car, and gave a shooing gesture in Max’s direction. &#x200B; Max hit the five stars button (it wasn’t Valerie’s fault he had hit the cat, and she had taken care of the situation for him). He turned the car around, and started heading slowly back down the driveway. As he drove, he turned for one last look in the direction of the people. Valerie and the man were at the top of the steps now, and Max thought he saw the man shoot one last look in his direction before they disappeared into the darkness, in the direction of the house. &#x200B; Pulling gently to a stop near the end of the driveway, Max strummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He still felt uneasy, and he felt a gnawing pull, stopping him from just driving away like he should. He drove the car down the road fifty metres or so, and parked it behind some big bushes on the side of the road. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; **Smiles and hope** &#x200B; W*hat are you doing??* he thought, as he grabbed his umbrella and got out of the car. He felt there were a number of odd things about the man and girl he’d taken to number “4” that evening, and he just wanted to make sure she was alright, he told himself. &#x200B; His old Nikes were fully waterlogged by now. “Held together with smiles and hope”, Linda had said. They made a loud, high-pitched squelching noise as he walked up the muddy drive towards the parking area. *So much for stealth*, he thought. His collapsible umbrella did little to keep him dry, as the angled rain hit his legs and back. &#x200B; Finally Max reached the bottom of the stone steps. He stood under the stone archway for a few moments. He took a deep breath .. *Come on man, just get back in the car and go to the next job*, he said to himself, and yet he couldn’t make himself turn around. Taking one last deep breath, he passed under the stone arch and walked up the steps. &#x200B; Max just wanted to make sure that Valerie was alright, but he wanted to do that undetected, with no fuss. When he’d done that, he would quietly sneak back to his car and head off into the night. The old Nikes were making the “quietly” part difficult, so he walked extra slow, on tip-toes, trying to minimize the noise. The rain had stopped now, so at least there was that, he thought. He collapsed his umbrella and dropped it on the ground. &#x200B; Max approached the house, keeping low as he crept. In the darkness, he could barely see the ground under his feet. There were two windows at the front of the house, lit with a dim dancing yellow light. He was sure now that the light was from an open fire. Stepping ever so slowly and carefully, he went over to the wall of the house, next to one of the windows. He slowly leaned over and peeked in the edge of the window, hoping to see Valerie. What he saw froze the blood in his veins. &#x200B; It was a large room with a fireplace at the far end, and in the middle of the room, a group of people stood around a long dining table. The people wore black hooded-cloaks, with the hoods up, such that their faces could not be seen. The cloaks were hemmed with bright crimson. Some of the figures were very short - they must be children, Max thought. In the gaps between some of them, lying on the table, Max could make out the shape of a woman, lying face-up, naked on the table. "*What the fuck... "* Max whispered. He could hear a low rhythmic chanting sound coming from the cloaked figures. Standing at the head of the table, a tall figure stood with his hands raised. They were bony, but clearly a man’s hands, and Max knew that this was the man he had dropped off earlier in the evening, “Xavier”. &#x200B; The man’s hands were level with his shoulders. He slowly raised them higher in the air, and as he did so, the chanting became louder. The man reached into one of the sleeves of his robe and drew out a dagger. Max’s mouth dropped open and he thought he felt his heart stop. *He’s going to KILL her,* he thought. &#x200B; Without thinking, Max started banging on the window with his open palm. Immediately the chanting stopped and every hood in the room turned towards the window. The man with the dagger pointed at Max, shouting something to the group of cloaked figures. They sprang into action, and so did Max. &#x200B; He sprinted away from the house, back into the darkness towards the steps. He could hear the front door open and people shouting, as they started chasing after him. &#x200B; One of Max’s Nike’s was losing a sole, making it hard to run. He slipped on the muddy ground and fell. He cursed and sprang back up, ripping off his shoes. He made it to the steps and started running down them, trying his hardest not to slip again. The first of his pursuers had reached the top of the steps. Max jumped the last two steps in panic, landing hard on the ground and falling. He groaned in pain but sprang back up, just as the rain started again. &#x200B; Max started running towards the road. His feet were landing on stones, but with the adrenalin surging through his system, he barely felt them. He made it back to the road, and started running down McLaren Drive towards his car. The dark figures were not far behind him. He reached his car and felt for his keys. &#x200B; Again his blood went cold, as the realisation hit him. His keys were not in his pockets. He fumbled, checking his pockets again, madly, while at the same time looking back at his pursuers. *Shit, shit shit,* he thought, before having a sudden brainwave. “Spare keys!”, he said, dropping to the ground and reaching under the back of the car. The container wasn’t there. “Oh shi-”, he started cursing, just as something hit him hard in the back of the head. &#x200B; Then there was just blackness and silence. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; **If your Snark be a Boojum.....** &#x200B; Max wondered what that strange sound was, why this bed was so hard, why the light was dancing on the ceiling. And his arms - he couldn’t move them. His head was hurting. In a flash, it all came back to him. He realised he was inside the house now. He looked about, and saw the cloaked figures standing around him. They were chanting rhythmically like before. He was manacled to the table. &#x200B; “What are you doing - let me go!!”, Max screamed at them. &#x200B; A man stepped forward and stuffed a gag in his mouth, tying it around his head. &#x200B; “You do it,” the man said, pointing to the shorter figure at his side. A girl’s hands emerged from the long sleeves and reached for the dagger that was sitting on the table. Max knew who it was. He screamed at her to stop, but only muffled sounds came. &#x200B; “Let him see your face.” the man said. &#x200B; Valerie pushed back the hood of her robe and beamed, raising the dagger with both hands. The man was also raising his hands, and as he did so, the chanting got louder and faster. By the time his hands were right above his head, the chanting had become frenetic. &#x200B; Valerie looked into Max’s terrified eyes and sang, smiling, “Enjoy your riiiiide!!”. &#x200B; She swung the dagger down hard. &#x200B; Outside in the darkness, a cat’s scream echoed loud in the distance, then there was silence.

#“Contact!” The cry rang out, cutting through the low murmur of normal operations on the bridge. “Bearing three-two-four, at zero-five-two by zero-one-five.” “What’s the word, Lieutenant?” the captain answered as he settled into his chair. “Not sure yet, sir,” the Lieutenant answered, studying the screen in front of him intently. “I’ll know more in a moment.” “Keep me posted, Pan,” the captain ordered, before addressing the bridge. “Engines ahead one-third. Make our heading three-four-zero level.” “All ahead one-third, aye,” came the response, followed shortly by “New heading three-four-zero level, aye.” A tense hush had fallen over the bridge. The captain counted twelve heartbeats before the comms officer spoke up again. “Sir, contact matches the profile of a Council frigate. Engines are cold and it looks like it’s putting out minimal power. Transponder is active, though...” The lieutenant checked his screens again. “IFF signal identifies it as the *Polo*, sir.” The captain’s brow furrowed. “The *Polo*? That can’t be, this isn’t their sector. The hell would they be doing out here?” He contemplated for a second, then keyed his earpiece. “Talk to me, Shack. What exactly are we looking at?” “Lieutenant Panzavechia is correct, Commander,” confirmed the voice in his ear. “The ship is broadcasting the proper Council identification codes. As far as we can tell, this is in fact F-324, SCV *Marco Polo*.” “Shit,” grumbled the captain. “Something’s not right here... Alright Pan, let’s say hello.” He tapped a button on his screen. “*Polo*, *Polo*, we have you on sensors with dangerously low power outputs. Confirm identity, and advise if you need assistance.” He tapped his screen again to end the recording. “Message away, sir,” reported Panzavechia. Twenty-eight heartbeats passed, when suddenly the captain’s earpiece chimed. “What is it, Shack?” he answered. “Commander, I wanted to let you know that Lieutenant Commander Luca has been notified of this development,” declared the voice in his ear. “She is arriving on the bridge imminently.” “*Shit*. I don’t need this right now,” the captain mumbled. “Noted, Commander.” The connection ended just as the bridge doors slid open. “What’s the situation, Commander?” Luca asked, almost out of courtesy as she strode onto the bridge. “Nothing that requires your attention just yet, Inquisitor,” the captain sighed. “Your ship’s computer tells me otherwise, Commander,” Luca argued, halting next to the captain’s chair. Her grey-and-white uniform was in stark contrast to the midnight blue of the bridge crew. “Yes, he does love to stab me in the back,” the captain countered dryly, making it a point to avoid looking at her. “As of yet, no Council protocol has been broken. This situation falls entirely within the jurisdiction of the Ranger fleet.” “Fine,” Luca spat, not looking entirely convinced. “I agree with your computer's analysis that something-" “Incoming message, Commander!” Panzavechia interrupted them. “Play it, Lieutenant,” the captain ordered, almost relieved to be able to shut Luca up. “Aye, sir.” The comms officer tapped his screen, and a voice came over the speakers. “Council frigate, this is the ship’s computer for SCV *Marco Polo*. We have suffered a major failure across multiple systems. We have no engines and limited power. Life support is failing. Requesting assistance and evacuation.” The captain and the Inquisitor glanced at each other for the first time since she had entered the bridge. Both wordlessly reached the same conclusion. “Lieutenant Patterson, bring shields to full,” the captain instructed. “Shields to full, aye, sir,” acknowledged the operations officer. The bridge was dead silent as the captain’s earpiece chimed again. “Commander, I should remind you that ship’s computers are not authorized to record or transmit messages. For this ship to do so would be a severe breach of Council regulations.” “I am aware, Shack, and I think the Inquisitor is perfectly aware as well,” the captain muttered. “One other thing, Commander,” the voice in his ear continued. “The voice in that message carried distinctly non-synthesized inflections, and did not match the profile of any computers that I am aware of. It is likely that the message was sent not by a ship’s computer, but by a person claiming to be one.” Eight heartbeats passed in the silence, then Luca spoke up again. “Definitely a trap, then. Pirates?” she suggested, a wry smile on her face. “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” the captain snorted. “Novak, engines ahead one-half. Okeda, make our heading three-five-zero by zero-one-five.” The responses came in rapid succession from the engineering and navigation officers. “All ahead one-half, aye.” “New heading, three-five-zero by zero-one-five, aye.” “Pan, keep an eye on that ship. Let me know if they-” “Contact!” cried the comms officer before the captain could finish his instructions. “Bearing zero-five-four at zero-two-seven by zero-one-three and closing.” “What is it, and where did it come from?” barked the captain. “Not sure, sir.” responded Panzavechia. “Size and energy signature are about what you’d expect for a cruiser. No blue-shift, it just popped up on sensors out of nowhere. Engines look like they just fired up, and their weapons are heating up as well.” “A cruiser? How the *fuck* do you hide a cruiser out here?” the captain exclaimed. “Commander, we-” Luca started to interject, but the captain cut her off. “Lieutenant Son, I want full power to all batteries as soon as possible. Open the point-defence lasers while you’re at it.” “Aye, sir,” the gunnery officer replied. “Novak, I want all ahead full. Pan, prepare to get a message away,” continued the captain, his heart pounding as he keyed the button on his screen again. “*Paradigm*, *Paradigm*, this is Commander Koenig of the SCV *Shackleton*.

The Boy sat on the hill. It was a gorgeous sight. Like something you might find in a Walter Scott novel if he actually cared. It had grass and lots of it. A few stones and even rummaging sheep. A snapshot - a *great* snapshot - of a world in harmony. But not to the Boy. To the Boy, the hill was wrong. *For* the Boy, the hill was wrong. A real, three dimensional reminder of how shitty he truly felt. The pain still raw - still *red* - from his unfortunate dance with Love. Why care, why bother. He gripped a Stone. Its rough surface felt cold and unkind. A reminder - no, a *contrast* - to the skin of his beloved. Soft, gentle, warm. Often lost himself with her, in *her*. The memory a furious spear, the Boy fighting off the tears. “Do you know Love?” - he asked the rock. “Is Love worth it?” To his surprise. To his *astonishment*, the stone replied: “I do not know Love. I cannot Love but wish I could. I’ve been in this place for what seems - and maybe is - an eternity. I’ve never felt warm eyes, soft hands. I was never desired and could not even tell you what that means. I’ve seen people, I’ve heard them talk but I cannot love as they do. But I wish I could” “Well, you’re better off for not knowing. I wish I had never felt it. I truly wish I had never loved. And probably never will. You’re better off being a rock but you cannot help me.” The Stone fell silent. Surprised yet again but aren’t stones *quiet*? After what seemed like an eternity - and maybe was - the Stone replied: “You should ask the Wind. He has gone far and wide and has seen more than you ever could. He knows Love, I am sure of it”. The Boy dropped the Stone, the floor shuddering with the impact. The Stone - all Stones - now black as coal. “Do you know Love?” - he asked the Wind. “Is Love worth it?” A gentle breeze made itself known. A Stone that speaks so why not a Wind that blows? “I’ve crossed this world more times than all the beats of every heart of every Boy. I know Love. In countless Boys, I’ve seen this pain. It grips them, they suffer, they move on. So shall you” The Boy’s eyes widened with surprise “But I do not wish to move on. How do I stop it?” The Wind replied: “You do not. You suffer. You move on and then you Love again” “I do not wish to Love again, I wish to kill it. I ask you again. Do you know Love?” The breeze grew stronger, now a storm in the horizon. After what seemed like an eternity - and maybe was - the Wind replied: “You should ask the Sun. He has shone upon this world before there was even a world to shine upon. He has seen all matters of life. He *tends* to life. He knows Love, I am sure of it” The Boy looked upwards, the Sun bright with radiant fire. But it didn’t bother the Boy, not this time. “Do you know Love?” - he asked the Sun. “Is Love worth it?” A bright yellow turned into soft orange. The sheep scared with the sudden change. “Love. I’ve seen many Boys writing, singing, talking, thinking about Love. It grips them, they suffer, they move on. So shall you.” The Boy frowned. A *frown*. At the *Sun*. From a Boy. To an entity worshiped by billions over history. Such are the actions of a broken Boy “But how do I kill it? How do I stop it?” “You cannot. You cannot stop Love the same way I cannot stop shining. It consumes you but it is You. In a hundred million of your lifetimes I will burn out. I will die because I shine. Because that is who I am. Do you ask the Ice not to melt? If you do and it doesn’t, is it still Ice? Is it still Water?” The Boy replied: “I do not care for Ice or for Water. I wish to rid myself of Love. If you do not know how, then you cannot help me”. A soft orange morphed into a raging red. After what seemed like an eternity - and maybe was - the Sun retorted: “You should ask your Heart. He has been with you since you were born and he knows you better than anyone or anything that ever was. He does not know Love, but he knows *your* Love.” The landscape now belonged to a science fiction novel. The Stones black, a furious storm and an horizon filled with a hellish red. The end of times. In this place, in this *time* the Boy asked his Heart: “Why do you Love? Is Love worth it?” The Heart replied: “Do I ask you why you breath? Love is my nourishment. I do not beat so you can Love. *You Love so I can beat*. Without it I am not a Heart, I am not alive. What other reason to beat? What other reason to continue this tormented life if not for the time, for the *instant* in which you (we) truly Love? I am a Heart and I am lonely. I need another Heart to beat with me - maybe even at a different pace - with intent and with purpose. To relinquish that need is to die, to stop. You ask me if Love is worth it. No, it is not worth it. To me, *Love is It*.” The Boy now angry: “I do not care if you need it. I don’t need it. I know its tentacles and I wish it to die”. After what seemed like an eternity - and maybe was - the Heart replied: “You should ask God. He created all life and everything that ever was. I can take you to Him” “You can? How” “For those who listen, all Hearts show the way to God. But to see Him you (we) must die” The Boy replied: “Death is preferable to this. I wish to see God” And in that second the incessant beat of a broken Heart - of a *broken Boy* - was no more. A thump to the ground. A body now lifeless. A tunnel of white light and in an instant the Boy found himself (itself?) in an endless field of White. An enormous but silent voice inquired: “WHY?” The Boy - the *Nothing* - replied: “I did not wish to Love, I wished to kill it and I have. It is better this way.” The White responded: “Love is Life. You cannot live if you do not Love. You sought Love from others because you had your own Love to give. Loving is being alive, the culmination of a Universe created to Love itself. You were my ultimate expression. In the moment you Love, you are doing what you are supposed to do. It is the only time the Universe is at peace, in those moments of Love, in those frail times of true happiness. I have toiled for endless eternities to create such a Universe, one that could eventually Love itself, if even for just an instant. If you do not Love then you do not Live.” The Boy would look down if he could. But he couldn’t and he didn’t. The darkness came anyway. No more White. No more Heart. No more anything.

I met Addison in German 102. He came in late, so he sat down in the seat closest to the door, which just so happened to be the seat right next to mine. I didn’t notice him at first until our professor gave us an exercise to complete and told us to work with a partner. That’s when I turned to my right and there he was. I remember my eyes growing wide and my blood pressure dropping. I know people talk about attractive people all the time and their reactions to them sound hyperbolic, but I swear on God this guy unbelievably attractive. His style was effortless, wearing a simple white V-neck and blue jeans and keeping his beard neatly trimmed. I turned pink when I realized I had been staring at his deep blue eyes for an obscenely long time and I saw him smirk as I darted my eyes away. I tried to convince myself that he didn't notice. For the months that followed I would become extremely anxious to get to my German class. I’d even get there early sometimes in hopes of spending just a little more time with him. I knew deep down I was being naive, but I didn’t care. My heart was fluttering and I was falling deeper and deeper and he had no idea. Eventually I became his go-to partner and occasionally we’d finish early and get to know each other a bit, which was the highlight of my day. He told me about his older brother, who coincidentally was also his best friend. He told me about his current two year relationship with his girlfriend who was from a small town in Germany, which was why he was learning German. We talked about music sometimes and he introduced me to Tame Impala. Eventually, I summoned up enough courage to ask him for his number under the pretense of “in case I have any homework questions.” I knew he had a girlfriend, so nothing could ever come of it, but even being his friend sounded wonderful. When you meet special people like that, you take what you can get. Sometimes we’d leave German class and walk to our next class together which had the same route. It was all so innocent and felt like it was straight out of a fairy tale. Once the semester was over, I was sure I’d never see him again. I mean, why would I? It was his last German class and let’s face it, why would he want to hang out with me? But I was insistent and dismissed those pessimistic thoughts. Once--with the encouragement of my best friend--I texted him inviting him to go to a German event that occurred weekly. I think if my best friend had never pushed me to do it, I probably would have never seen him again. So to her, I am eternally grateful. I figured I would invite him to it because there was going to be a lot of people around and I could play off my feelings for him. He ended up going. Female eyes followed him as he walked in and hugged me. I could feel their jealous stabs on my back wishing they were me in that moment. I was living. We mingled, we laughed, we drank and we enjoyed each other’s company. I learned about his recent breakup with his girlfriend and I made sure to let him know I was available if he ever wanted to talk. This is the part where things kind of get fuzzy because I don’t quite remember when it was that we started hanging out so frequently, but it’s like my memory ends after that moment and jumps towards the summer. So, I apologize for my incompetent long-term memory. Summer came around and I was going over to his place almost every day. We would watch movies, drink wine or talk for hours. Never in my life have I ever been able to talk to someone for so long, about so many things and be so happy to do so. Addison just had this way about him that made me feel like I was home. I spent so many nights curled up on one of the corners of his couch while he sat on the other. Sometimes he’d grab my feet and very delicately massage them. We’d talk for hours on end about all the things I was always too hesitant to talk about with anyone else. It’s really quite something when you find someone who you can have such meaningful conversations without much of an effort. I was never completely myself as I was when I was with him. Addison treated me well and complimented me frequently. A part of me would gush every time , but I wasn’t a fool, I reminded myself not to get too carried away. I tried really hard to stay realistic, but the fairy tale caught up to me and I eventually gave in. I believed him when he called me beautiful. I believed him when he said he had never met anyone like me and he was so happy I had come into his life. Addison was such a rare individual and I was ecstatic and honored to have even an ounce of his time. So, when he’d stop mid-sentence to tell me how beautiful I was, my lungs would collapse. I remember a time when he asked me to meet him in the parking lot outside of the architecture building on campus. This didn’t strike me as unusual since sometimes we’d park our cars there and walk around campus together, but what did strike me as unusual was when he started walking *towards* the architecture building. I asked him where he was going and he asked me in a calm, but playful voice to “just play along.” We got to the doors and took the stairs up to the top floor. Once we reached it, I asked him again what we were doing there since I knew that there were only classrooms on this floor. He put a finger to his rosy lips and grabbed my hand. I followed him through a passageway that I had never noticed before and in seconds we were standing in front of a fancy conference room. I looked at him inquisitive, but he avoided my stare. I watched him jump over a fence behind the conference room and then climb up metal stairs. I stood frozen because this really felt like we were trespassing and I was afraid that we would get caught. He motioned me over and whispered to trust him. Reluctantly, I followed and climbed the stairs, too. We were on the rooftop of the architecture building. There was so much space up there that it made me almost want to dance around like you would in a meadow of peonies. I peered over the edge and could see the white and red lights from oncoming traffic and the first sightings of the night sky. I turned over to see if he was enjoying himself as much as I was, but he was rummaging through his backpack. A smile drew over his face as he pulled out a bottle of our favorite red wine and looked at me. Then his brows furrowed as he realized that he had forgotten to bring glasses. I saw this, laughed and reassured him that there were worse problems than not having glasses and I took a swig from the bottle. He asked me to sit next to him while we drank liquid courage straight from the source. I wish I could remember what we talked about up there, but all I can remember was the wave of calmness I felt sitting next to him on the rooftop and drinking wine under the night sky. At some point he asked me for my hand and led me onto the dance floor. We danced quite silly at first making light of the situation because we were both secretly afraid of the intimate moment that was unveiling before us. But, eventually we gave into the moment and we danced slowly in each other’s arms. I looked up at him and he never looked more handsome than in that moment when the moonlight was shining so carefully on his face. The thought of me touching his body would cross my mind often. But, I never could imagine us going through with it because it was such a ludicrous idea. Little did I know that he had had those same thoughts cross his mind, too. And I remember that night vividly. I remember driving up to his place and him answering the door with a smile on his face. I sighed deeply and walked in and sat on the couch while he ran back into the kitchen to pour us some wine. Pink Floyd’s *The Dark Side of the Moon* was playing on his stereo and he asked me about my day. The night went on as it usually did with us drinking a little too much bitter grape juice and sharing a little too many secrets. But that night when I was in the middle of a sentence he leaned over without warning to kiss my lips. The kiss was brief because he pulled back to apologize for his lapse in manners. Words failed me in that instance because I could still feel how soft his lips were and how good they tasted on mine. His deep blue eyes met mine trying to distinguish whether the kiss was a mistake or not and when he saw my approving eyes, he leaned over again, only this time slowly. He lingered a few inches from my face and I could feel his breath. I couldn’t stand it any longer and met him the rest of the way. It was pure ecstasy. Suddenly I was twirling in a moving room, my skin glimmering as I soaked in sunlight beams. I fell into a rabbit hole, deeper and deeper until I couldn’t see the ground anymore, but I could breathe. God, I could *breathe.* Our chests fell and rose in unison and our hands wandered over each other’s skin. The bottled up feelings we both had for each other completely shattered and there was no turning back. Our breaths were getting heavier and he picked me up and took me to his bedroom. I read his skin like braille until my eyes closed and he held me in his arms. I woke up the next morning and turned to look at him sleeping soundly. If I ever have a near death experience, Addison sleeping is what’s going to flash before my eyes. A few days later he asked me to come over again. He didn’t smile when he opened the door this time and instead, he motioned for me to sit down on the couch. It had only been a few days since we had last seen each other, but the way he carried himself felt rigid and cold. He opened his mouth to speak and said he just found out he got an STD from his next door neighbor and I probably had it, too. I thought he was joking at first, but his face was motionless. “Your neighbor?” I asked. He nodded. Apparently they had been sleeping together the entire time and I was none the wiser. He talked for some time, but his voice was muffled until I made out the words, “You should see your doctor.” A few days later I got in to see my doctor and sure as shit, I had the same STD. Luckily for me, it was easily remedied by a few pills. I informed him of that and that was the last time I spoke with him. You’d think I’d be pissed off by something like that, but he meant so much to me that I was actually willing to overlook it, except he didn’t give me the opportunity to do so. He said he had been talking to this girl for a while, too, and he realized that she was the love of his life. He had told me that his spirit animal was a tiger a month prior and he concluded that hers was also a tiger, while mine was just a bunny. It’s fitting, I guess. I don’t really have that fire within me like he did. I shied away at most things and I ran faster from my problems than I did marathons. I guess you could also say I was weak and light-hearted. Maybe even naive. But I swear, I never wanted to be someone else more than in that moment. Sometimes the reminder of him sneaks up on me. Like this one time when my friend served me cold brew from a French press--the memory of him explaining the mechanics of it to me came flooding back and I had trouble finishing my coffee. Or once when I was walking to class when I saw a guy who looked just like him and I was overcome with excitement because I really thought it was him, but once I realized my mistake, my vision blurred as I tried to rub away the water building up in my eyes. Sometimes I’m reminded of him from the very first sip of coffee I take because of all the memories we made at Café Luce when he was here. But, for the most part, I’ve become good at desensitizing myself to reminders of him, but sometimes I catch wind of his unique personality and it surges through me because he was in everything. He still is in everything. I miss him almost every day and it’s an awful thing to admit when you’ve put up such a strong front all this time. I think a big part of me took these memories and shoved them so deep in my mind where the cobwebs lie as some kind of defense mechanism. But, the lesson I learned from this was when something as big as this happens to you, just let yourself feel things. It’s going to be an absolute shit-show at first, but it will be better in the long run for you to feel all those emotions right now and try to make sense of them over time. You may be tempted to ignore the feelings you’re having because you’re afraid you won’t be able to deal with them in a healthy manner, but holy shit please try to. If not, you’re going to end up like me writing a lame memento that no one is ever going to read. What therapy failed to help me realize was that you have every right to feel sadness just as you would happiness. Because ultimately, they’re both emotions and both equally important to feel at different stages of your life. After the sadness reaches its end you will feel anger and resentment and these, too, are normal and part of the process. When I reached this stage I was running five miles four times a week and sprinting for half of them from the pure rage I was feeling and didn’t know how to properly deal with. I ran and I ran for months until on one of those runs my legs fell out from underneath me and I crashed face first into the dirt road. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I bellowed out the most ungodly scream--not from the pain of the fall, but as a result of so much bottled up emotional pain I had. Addison damn near killed me. It's been several years since all of this happened and I still can’t understand how someone who said they loved you could just leave like that. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how someone could light up your entire world one day and then break every bone in your body the next. The worst part is that even after all this pain, I can’t bring myself to hate him. Or even resent him, although I really want to. I still love him and I think I always will. The thing is, the way you fall in love with someone doesn’t have to follow the same trajectory as what you saw in Disney movies as a kid. You can love someone deeply simply because their company burns a fire within you. You can love someone because they make you feel important... valued. The way you love people is never the same, either, because people have different effects on you and they come at different points in your life. Addison was my world. I wanted us to be happy together more than I wanted anything else and that in itself is the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced. Since Addison, I haven’t been able to truly be myself again. I’m still able to love, of course, but never as deeply and never as ignorantly. Because of him, now I actively look for faults in people, just so it doesn’t hurt me in the future once the cats out of the bag. I’m actively on the lookout for any sign of disloyalty or any indication that I’ll be burned in the crossfires and the second I see it, I pull out my toolbox and start building my 10 foot wall. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse because as a result, I don’t fall as deeply for someone anymore and therefore, don’t get hurt as intensely when the relationship fails. I do realize that it’s a pretty destructive way to view relationships. It’s almost like I expect a bad outcome every time so when the relationship inevitably fails I’m not phased.. But I also understand that by expecting the worst, I’m subconsciously resigned to the fact that the relationship is temporary and so I don’t give it my all. I can definitely see how that could contribute to the relationship failing. It’s a vicious cycle, but I don’t know if I have it in me to give someone my all again. Maybe someday in the future I’ll learn to let go of my fears and give someone the power to break my heart because it’s kind of beautiful if you think about it. As humans we only get so many years of life and to be willing to let someone be a part of those years is heartwarming. At this point in my life, even a broken heart sounds nice to me because at least then, I’d feel something. Feeling heartbroken is yet, just another feeling and it is equally important as feeling happiness. I guess the takeaway is that no matter how much someone hurts you, you shouldn’t let it influence you in your future relationships. Continue to be your soft-hearted-self and don’t let anyone ever try to make you hard because once you give into the pessimistic view of love, it will take a *lot* for you to snap back out of it. I’m afraid that some people have been hurt so bad that they never learn to love again because they can’t bring themselves to be that vulnerable a second time and rightfully so. But listen, if you keep doing that you’re never going to be happy because you’ll never be at peace in your relationship. You thinking that something will inevitably go wrong, will *make* something go wrong. Even though deep down you may be worried you’ll get hurt again, I think it’s worth the risk. While I am deeply saddened that what Addison and I had ended, overall, I am happy it happened. How’s that saying go? “It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all?” Cliche as hell, but it’s a good one. So this one’s for you, Addison. The memory of you will live until my dying day. I hope you’re off somewhere sparking a change in someone else’s life, as you did with me. I will always care for you and I hope someday we cross paths again so I can thank you in person. \ Thanks for reading guys. I've been thinking about writing a book on the small things I've learned from life, as well as, detailing some beautiful and traumatic experiences I've had. However, I am uncertain whether my writing has what it takes. I would appreciate your opinion on the matter, as I feel anonymity makes people act in a more truthful manner.

For as long as she could remember, Agatha hated the dark. It was cold. It was bitter. It was unforgiving. Even sitting still in the dark room, illuminated only by the crescent moon, made Agatha feel like she was writhing in her own skin. As her impatience grew with each passing second, she chewed her lip. The bright red numbers on the digital clock by her bed made a ticking sound every time they changed, and Agatha kept track of every minute. This time, her attempt would work. When the time was right, Agatha would get out of bed and leave her room. Careful to avoid squeaky floorboards, she’d crawl down the stairs and skip the 7th step, because that one always creaked when someone stepped on it. Then, she’d slip out into the night through the back door. Agatha’s knee bounced with anticipation as she waited for the right moment. Now! As the minute changed, she sprang up out of her bed, tiptoed across the room, and gently opened the door. If only her parents didn’t have such an odd obsession with black furniture, maybe Agatha could’ve seen something in the dark. She stepped into the hall and felt her way around the house. Turning the corner and walking down the stairs, Agatha descended. Thirteen, twelve, eleven. Agatha shuffled around as she went down the stairs, stepping left and right, only putting pressure on the parts of the stairs that she knew were silent. Creeaak. Agatha froze. She’d forgotten to skip the 7th step. She bit her lip and slowly lifted her foot, resulting in another loud creeaak . After quickly stepping down the rest of the stairs, Agatha turned. It seemed no one had woken up. She sighed in relief. Making sure she went unheard, Agatha crept through the kitchen and pushed the back door open. A strong gust of freezing air blew into the house, and she quickly shut the door behind her as she stepped outside. Across the yard, her eyes found her target: the ladder that her father had left leaning against the shed the night before. She crept across the yard, the icy air stabbing away at her face. She reached the shed and placed a cold hand on the ladder. Almost there . With both hands, Agatha lifted the ladder and pulled it off the wall. “You know it’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be out here.” Agatha sharply inhaled at the sound of a voice. She turned around and sighed. Standing there in a puffy black jacket was Eve. Eve was, well, Eve. She fit the perfect stereotype of the nosy younger sister, and, coincidentally, was also the one sibling Agatha was most afraid of waking up. “Well, neither should you,” Agatha said. Eve rolled her eyes. “Just come back inside, come on. It’s too late for this.” “No, I can’t!” Agatha continued dragging the ladder along through the grass. “I have to do this now. I’ve never gotten this close before. You know I always get caught. As soon as I’m done, I’ll come right back down.” Eve sighed. “If I help you move the stupid ladder, will you promise to come back into the house immediately after?” Agatha nodded. The two of them hauled the ladder across the yard and propped it up against the house’s wall, fully extending it. Agatha could hardly contain her excitement. Today, she’d finally do it. Eve helped hold the ladder in place as Agatha began the slow climb up to the roof. One, two, three, four. Agatha ascended each step. Five, six, seven, eight. Up, up, up. Higher and higher still. Agatha kept climbing until she finally felt her hand touch the tiles of the rooftop. She’d done it! Agatha pulled herself up, her feet dangling off the roof. She looked around, seeing houses, trees, and mountains for miles all around. As the sky slowly got lighter, every little detail of the suburban neighborhood around them became more and more vivid. “Alright, you happy now?” Eve said, exasperated. “Come back down.” “Are you kidding? Not yet!” Agatha could hardly contain how eager she was. She chewed her lip so hard the skin ripped, though she was so excited she couldn’t even taste any blood. “We made a deal, Agatha!” “Just a few more minutes! I have to see it at least once!” Eve sighed. “Fine! But I’m not going back inside until you do, so if Mom and Dad wake up and find me out here, you are the one who’s getting in trouble.” Eve sat on the ground. “Suit yourself!” Agatha rested her head in her hands and continued to admire the mountains off in the distance. Just a few minutes and the sun would come up. She’d finally see it. Her parents would’ve killed her if they knew she was up on the roof this early. The sky began to lighten, turning from navy blue to shades of lavender and orange. “Time’s up, Agatha! Come on, seriously!” Eve stomped her foot impatiently. “This isn’t safe!” Agatha’s heart soared as she saw sunlight beginning to spill over the distant mountains. The sun! She jumped to her feet as the warm sunlight began to touch her toes. Agatha felt warmth pervade through her ankles as the sunlight spread. Agatha had never felt like this before. Could this really have been what the sun felt like? The heat slowly traveled up to her knees. “Agatha, get down here, now ! In a few minutes, you’ll-- ugh!” she sighed. “I’m gonna wake up Mom and Dad!” But Agatha could barely even hear. The sunlight was so warm . It was so comforting. It was so forgiving. The warmth traveled up to her waist, then through her arms. Like a blanket, she was soon totally enveloped in soft golden light. She shut her eyes. Why didn’t her parents ever let her go out after sunrise? This was wonderful. She wanted to stay like this forever. Like a statue, Agatha refused to move. Why would she ever want to? “Agatha, no !” Eve began climbing up the ladder as fast as she could. The dark may have been scary and dull and boring, but it was the only place where their family could be safe. Eve made it up the ladder and screamed. She was too late. Her older sister had already turned to stone.