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Allura 50

My spoon clanked against the sides of my cup as I stirred it around and around. I watched as the peppermint tea swirled in sync without really seeing anything at all. My mind told me what to do but my heart wasn't in it. I set the spoon on the counter beside my cup and lifted the steaming mug to my lips, taking a long drink from it. The flavor that I usually loved was tasteless on my tongue. I set the cup back down in defeat. My ears were attuned once again to the deafening noise around me. It seemed the entire extended family had come out for the funeral. People I didn't even know but claimed to be family had all wanted to wish me well and offer their condolences. But it wasn't their words I wanted - I wanted to be left alone. I turned to face the crowd, leaning my back against the counter. It felt as though the kitchen was going to explode with the magnitude of people crowding around. The same went for the living room. So many people. . . My mind drifted to another time, another place, as I stood there in my grief. Once again I was sitting next to Mom's hospital bed, having my last conversation with her. “ How's school?” Her voice was weak and her eyes drooped as she turned to face me. “ It's good.” I took a deep breath, trying to choke back my tears. “ Getting good grades?” I shrugged. Grades weren't my priority right now. “ Lottie.” My fingers stilled from where they had been picking at a fraying thread on my jeans, but my eyes remained fixed on the spot. “ Honey, look at me.” Slowly, I raised my eyes and met her gaze. The pain hit me all over again. “ Talk to me.” Love showed so clearly through her gaze, causing the already forming lump in my throat to tighten all the more. I swallowed multiple times but couldn't seem to get it to go down. I knew I was going to cry and I hated myself for that. Mom needed me to be strong for her, not fall apart every time I came to visit. She reached her hand out towards me and I placed mine in it, feeling her thin skin and bones that seemed to poke through. She was so frail. So weak. But yet so strong. “ Let it out, Lottie.” And this time I did. The tears poured freely down my face until I knew my eyes would be miserably swollen and puffy later. I cried until I couldn't see her face through the tears. “ Mom, why do you have to go?” The sound of obnoxious laughter drew me from my thoughts and pulled me back to reality. I realized then that a single tear had fallen down my cheek and, by the way my throat was closing up, I had a feeling that more were coming. Abruptly, I turned to face the counter and picked up my tea again, taking a long drink before anyone noticed I was crying and came to offer more sympathy. “Okay, here's another one,” a voice came from behind me. I knew that voice all too well and the sound of it made me cringe. It was the voice of my next door neighbor - Rodger Hillingdale. The obnoxious, ever optimistic, boy that overtook the halls of school with his laughter. It grated on my nerves. “What do you use to catch a nerdy fish?” He waited for a pause and I could almost feel the excitement reverberating from him. “A bookworm!” Grating laughter followed. I looked up at the ceiling as I tried to calm the anger that suddenly overtook my whole body. What kind of person made jokes at a funeral? Apparently Rodger Hillingdale did, and my annoyance towards him went up another notch. Time seemed to pass by in milliseconds and I was beginning to wonder if anyone would even be gone by nightfall. Maybe I could sneak upstairs without anyone noticing me. The thought sounded appealing, especially as another burst of laughter came from Rodger's group. I couldn't take it anymore. Cup of tea in hand, I spun around to make my escape and ran straight into Rodger. My hand was bumped and tea sloshed equal parts on Rodger's button-up shirt and my black dress. When I looked down there was nothing left in my cup. I stood there open mouthed, my arms spread apart as I felt the tea seep through my clothes. Rodger, too, was examining his shirt, but merely looked back up at me with a crooked grin on his face. “I prefer to drink my tea, thank you.” My jaw clenched. That was the last straw. “Why are you even here? Who invited you anyways? This is a funeral, if you haven't noticed. We don't need your kind here.” I stopped then to catch my breath and realized I had been yelling. Everyone in the kitchen had gone silent and Rodger stood before me with a stunned expression on his face. Never had I felt so rotten. I slammed my cup down on the counter so hard I was surprised it didn't break and ran from the room. Footsteps sounded behind me, along with the sound of Aunt Susanna's voice. I made it to my bedroom and locked the door before she could reach me, immediately heading for my closet. I had barely opened the closet door before the tears began. With my tea soaked dress, I sank to the floor of my closet and let the tears come. I pulled my knees to my chest and buried my face in the fabric of my dress. My blonde hair cascaded around me and enclosed me in a world of my own, in a safe haven. The sun sank low in the sky and the sounds from below finally began to quiet. My eyelids grew heavy and sleep began to overtake me as I whispered the question I had never gotten an answer to. “Mom, why do you have to go?” ~ A week passed and Aunt Susanna officially moved into the house. Into my life. As if nothing had ever happened. As if my life hadn't come to a halt. She ordered me out of the house; said I needed fresh air, said it would be good for me. But I knew it wouldn't make a difference. It wouldn't take away the black hole that Mom's passing had created. It wouldn't fill the emptiness. Nothing would. As I stepped out onto the back porch, a gush of air hit me full in the face and I breathed deeply. Somehow it didn't feel as refreshing as it once had. Nothing felt the same anymore. Not without Mom. Something touched my leg and I looked down to see my cat, Muffin, rubbing against my leg. I bent down to pet her, but even the simple act of petting my cat didn't hold the same appeal it once had. I stood back up and started walking. Birds chirped overhead and the trees swayed with the wind but I barely noticed. I barely noticed anything. My feet moved but my eyes were glazed over. My heart felt nonexistent. “Hey, heads up!” I jerked my gaze up from my feet to find none other than Rodger Hillingdale running straight towards me. What was he doing here? My first inclination was to turn around and walk back to the house, but before I could even change direction the force of a dump truck plowed into me. With a half scream, my arms flailed and I fell backwards to the ground. No sooner had I touched the green earth beneath me than a squealing, squirming puppy was on top of me and licking my face with his sloppy, wet tongue. “Pipsqueak, bad boy!" The beast was pulled off me and I wiped my face with the back of my hand. Rodger stood over me with the golden retriever puppy squirming every which way in his arms and he struggled to keep his hold on him. “Are you okay?” he asked. My eyes flashed. “Okay? I just got plowed over by that beast and you ask if I'm okay?” I wiped my face off again, feeling like I had a gallon of dog slobber on my face and no amount of wiping would get it off. I got to my feet and crossed my arms over my chest. “Can't you contain that thing?” “Well, first of all, Pipsqueak is not a 'beast' or a 'thing', and, second, have you ever tried containing a puppy?” His eyes sparkled with humor, frustrating me all over again. I rolled my eyes and made a disgusted noise. “Whatever. I don't care.” I turned around and planned to walk away but he grabbed my arm suddenly and stopped me. “Wait,” he said. “I wanted to apologize.” “Oh?” I waited. “Yeah, I'm sorry for the way I acted the day of your mom's funeral. It was insensitive. I'm sorry.” I was actually surprised by the sincerity behind his words and was momentarily speechless. “Well, thank you. I appreciate that.” Again I turned to go. This time he stepped around me to block my path. “What is it this time?” I asked. He had done his due diligence and now I just wanted to go home. Pipsqueak continued to squirm in his arms and it took both hands for Rodger to contain him. “I thought maybe we could be friends. I mean, we are next door neighbors and, well, you seem like you need a friend.” My first reaction was to blow up at him again. I didn't need a friend; I needed my mom. But then, before I could say a word, I noticed the expression on his face. An expression of true care and consideration. It occurred to me that a friend might be nice. I looked away from his persistent gaze and tried to frame the words in my mouth. “You know what? Don't decide now.” He placed Pipsqueak on the ground and the dog immediately started jumping up at me. “How about you come over to my house and we can sit out back? We can watch Pipsqueak chase squirrels. It'll be fun!” “I don't know-” “C'mon.” He took hold of my hand and pulled me away before I could even finish my sentence. Pipsqueak ran in circles around us, yipping the whole time. We didn't stop until we reached his backyard and he ran into the house, leaving me with the excited puppy who thought my shoelaces were the best chew toy. “Hey! Stop that!” I pulled it out of his mouth, cringing at the slobber caked on it. “Here, fetch this stick.” I quickly grabbed the nearest twig I could find and threw it as hard as I could manage. A moment later, Rodger emerged with two cans of pop in his hands. We sat down in the lawn chairs and opened the cans. It was peaceful as we sat there sipping the cool liquid and watching Pipsqueak do his best to sneak up on the squirrels. His best being not very good at all. “So who names a dog Pipsqueak?” I asked. Rodger shrugged. “Mom thought it was a cute name and I was simply glad that she agreed to letting me have a puppy so I went with it.” “I don't think I've ever met your mom.” “Probably not. She works a lot so she's not around very much.” For the first time it almost looked as if his smile dimmed. “Where's your dad?” “He left us five years ago.” He said it so matter of factly, like he didn't feel an ounce of pain from it. But I knew that couldn't be true. Suddenly I saw Rodger in a different light. “I'm sorry.” He shrugged. “What about you? I know your mom. . .” his voice trailed off and for a second we didn't talk. “Where's your dad?” “I never knew him. He left before I was born.” “Wow. That's rough.” I nodded and we went back to watching Pipsqueak. I pulled my legs up on the chair and rested my arms on them. “How do you do it?” I asked suddenly. Rodger looked over at me. “Do what?” “Remain so happy all the time even though you rarely get to see your mom and your dad left you. It seems to me you would be, I don't know, more sad or something.” He shrugged. “I learned long ago that there's no point in letting it eat you up inside. Life throws you down, but it's not about how many times you fall. It's how many times you get back up.” I gaped at him and realized that my opinion of him had been all wrong. I turned back to my pop and took a long drink. Then a thought hit me. What if it wasn't just Rodger I had been looking at wrong, but life in general? ~ Clank. Clank - clank. I moaned as I was pulled from the dream I had been in. A dream with Mom. Clank. Clank. Clank. There it was again. I sat up in bed and looked around. It sounded close. Clank. “Lottie, are you awake?” I jumped out of bed and ran to my window, yanking it open with a jerk. Rodger stood down below with a flashlight in hand and a jacket wrapped tight around him. “What are you doing? You're going to wake the whole house!” “I whispered!” “If that's your version of a whisper then you need lessons.” “I'll be sure to sign up for some. In the meantime, you want to do something fun?” “No, I want to go to bed.” “Come on, don't be a stick in the mud.” “What do you want?” “It's a surprise. Just come down.” I blew out a breath. “You owe me for this.” I closed the window and turned back to my room. As quickly and as quietly as I could, I traded my pajama pants for a pair of jeans and pulled on my worn Converse shoes. On the way out the door I grabbed my jacket and tiptoed down the stairs. Outside, Rodger met me and grabbed my hand before I could say a word. We ran from my house to his with only the light from his flashlight to guide us. Without even taking a moment to stop, he led me around the side and up a lattice work that went all the way to the roof. “Rodger, is this safe?” “Probably not. But that's part of the fun.” I wasn't assured by his words but I was already half way up, so I kept climbing. He made it to the top of the house and peered over the side at me. “Take my hand,” he whispered down to me. I took my right hand off the lattice work long enough to grab hold of it. He pulled me up and a moment later I was sitting on the roof of his house. “Why did you bring me up here?” I pulled my jacket tighter against me. “I should be sleeping right now.” “Stop your grumbling.” He laid down with his back against the roof and stared up at the sky. “Come here,” he said almost reverently. I moved alongside him and followed his lead. When I looked up at the night sky above us I was suddenly speechless. The sight was magnificent. “This is gorgeous,” I breathed. Stars twinkled in the sky, giving the appearance of a thousand lanterns flickering on and off. They lit up the sky so that Rodgers' flashlight was no longer needed. It was like magic. “This is where I come when I need to think or clear my head.” I could feel his eyes on me. “I thought you might need to do that.” My breath caught and unexpected tears sprung to my eyes at his thoughtfulness. I did need to clear my head, and this was the perfect way to do it. There had been so much on my mind since Mom's passing and so many scary unknowns. If I was being honest with myself, I was scared of what life was going to be like with her gone. Would Aunt Susanna want to keep me indefinitely, or would she give me up? My thoughts had been a scary place of late, a place I had been trying to avoid. But here, under these brilliant stars, it suddenly didn't feel so overwhelming. It felt manageable. But what about tomorrow? When the sun rose and my thoughts returned along with the fears and doubts. What then? I looked over at Rodger as he gazed up at the sky and thought about his life. How he'd chosen to have a cheery outlook on life. Then I thought of how I'd been living life, or really, how I hadn't. I turned back to the stars with these new thoughts in mind. It was a choice. The question was, which one would I pick?

Experienced mountaineers are extremely cautious and always avoid taking unnecessary risks. Jake was not an experienced mountaineer. He had been to a few classes, of course; he wasn’t that stupid. He knew to check the harness every time, double check the knots, how to haul himself out of an icy crevasse with altitude sickness and a broken arm...that sort of thing. In fact, altitude sickness was the one thing that they’d covered on the course that had spooked him a little. High-altitude cerebral edema , they said, is what happens when fluid collects in your brain. Along with severe headache and nausea, it can also cause drowsiness, uncharacteristic behavior, and loss of consciousness. After a presentation of case studies of people suffering from altitude sickness and the traumatic events that followed, Jake had left feeling thoroughly sick himself. But that didn’t stop him making plans for his first ascent to the summit of Mount Washington. It couldn’t be that hard...could it? It certainly wasn’t an easy mountain to climb. Especially not this time of year. The most popular route to the summit was via the Tuckerman Ravine Trail, but in winter it was closed due to the risk of avalanches. Instead, he would have to take a much steeper route. Aside from the obvious hazards, there would be no facilities on the summit- which meant no public areas to rest or take shelter in a snowstorm. He didn’t expect to see anyone else up here in such freezing conditions, either. But he was prepared, with fifty pounds of the best gear he could afford, a laminated map of the route and an ton of trail mix. And anyway, he preferred these conditions. The cold heightened his senses, gave him more of a thrill. And the view would be breath-taking, of course. He set off before sunrise. The mountain loomed overhead in the semi-darkness like a schoolmaster, the morning sun a naughty toddler peeping over the horizon. He had been looking forward to and preparing for this trip for months. His friends had gone on a long trip hiking the Appalachian trail last year. They were all big on extreme sports and idolized the mountaineers in the 60s who had done it without a lot of modern age comforts. They hadn’t invited him along for reasons they wouldn’t disclose, but he suspected it was because they thought he wasn’t up to much. ‘Everyone has to start somewhere, Jakey.’ They had said, with an air one might use when talking to a child. ‘You’ll get there. You just have to keep trying. They’d said that when he’d got his first girlfriend too. He began his walk, first heading east along Tuckerman Ravine, before he turned and began to climb north. The ascent passed without incident, unless you counted several stops for sustenance, and by lunchtime he had relaxed into his own natural rhythm. He was feeling confident he would reach the summit in a few hours’ time. He stopped to catch his breath half-way up, and to take a look at the view slowly spreading out below him. The sun was finally warming his toes now and the mountain was less intimidating in the daylight. At this altitude, the snow was still fairly soft, and the gradient was relatively gentle and easy to navigate, having been explored by many other mountaineers over the years. Feeling proud of his achievement thus far, he removed some layers and even took a couple of selfies- to send to his friends, and to his mum, of course. She liked to see what he was getting up to these days. Further on, however, the route became steeper, and harder to discern from the endless wasteland of snow around him. There were invisible patches of ice, and the snow was densely packed and slippery. An experienced mountaineer would have been using crampons, or at the very least been holding their ice axe in their hand, in order to save themselves in the event of a fall. But Jake was having the time of his life, dizzy with his success, and absolutely oblivious to any danger. He’d show them! Suddenly and without warning he slipped and plunged onto his stomach. He glanced over his shoulder and was confronted by the harrowing sight of five thousand feet of snowy mountain below him, shining in the midday sun like the glorious gates of heaven. Idiot! What was he thinking?! That could’ve been it, then! He took a moment to calm himself, breathing deeply in and out a few times. Much as he hated to admit it, the sudden feeling that he might be about to slide to an icy doom had shaken his confidence a little. He was going too fast. C’mon, Jake. Just take it slow. It was time to bring out the big guns. He grappled with his rucksack for a moment to pull on his crampons- sharp, spiky casings that attached onto his boots, to give him more grip. That ought to do the trick. Tentatively, he tested one out. Immediately, his boots made firmer contact with the snow, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Reassured, he took a confident step forward, lost his balance and immediately plummeted feet first down the mountain. His mind went blank, wild with terror as the ground below rose up to meet him. He scrambled to try and roll onto his back to see where he was going and immediately regretted it. His hands grabbed desperately at the ground, fingers spread wide apart, but he was travelling too fast, he couldn’t stop...a sudden flash of memory came to him and he recalled something the alpine instructor had showed them at the ski slope...something called a self-arrest? He wasn’t carrying his ice axe! Jake, you fucking moron! Terrified now, he scrambled for a footing, attempting to dig his crampons into the snow and using his hands to try to slow his descent, frantically trying to pull the axe out of its loop, but he only succeeded in ripping open his rucksack; the contents spilled out miserably after him, like a regrettable contrail of woe. Mournfully, he covered his face and screamed. Unexpectedly, his crampons dug into something solid, and quickly slowed his fall. He had landed in a large snowdrift, up against the side of a small building. Gasping with shock, he lay on the ground, dizzy from the adrenaline. Relief and joy welled up inside him. He was saved! He would live to climb another day! He laughed in between gasps, checking himself over for injuries. Definitely a few bruises, and his hands felt raw from trying to stop himself sliding, but nothing a hot bath and a few ibuprofen wouldn’t solve- he was alive! At least his humiliating descent had been a private one. He got shakily to his feet, and gingerly checked over his pack. The axe was still lodged stubbornly in its casing (of course), but most of the contents of his pack appeared to have been strewn around the mountain, including the several pounds of trail mix he had lovingly packaged into individual sealed bags for easier consumption. His torch and compass were missing, along with the- extremely expensive -GPS altimeter watch. It took quite a lot of willpower for him not to sit back down and burst into tears right there. He’d spent all of last months’ paycheck on getting the best gear he could afford, and that watch had been the biggest purchase. Moreover, if he couldn’t find his stuff, he couldn’t continue on up the mountain, and he wouldn’t be able to get to the summit. Cold, tired, and overwhelmed, he reasoned that he wasn’t going to get any of it back this way. He would have to wait a while, and rest. He wasn’t going to risk something like that happening again. Served him right for being so foolish. He retrieved the ice axe from his rucksack and held it cautiously at his side- resisting the urge to throw it on the ground in frustration -and decided to check out whatever this building that had broken his fall was. Maybe there might be someone in there who would lend him a map, or...at the very least, it was a sheltered area to sit, warm up and calm down. As he edged carefully around the perimeter, he was surprised to find a grand wooden chalet, with a large overhanging roof sat snugly into the mountainside. It was surrounded by a small veranda, held up by twisting wooden beams that looked as though they had been hand-crafted. Colored lights twinkled in the windows, and a friendly plume of smoke rose from the chimney. Outside, a rusty old snowmobile and a cluster of tools decorated the yard, next to a small information board. ‘That was some fall you took there, dearie.’ Said a voice, startling him. An old woman was standing on the veranda, watching him with some amusement. Ah. Not so private after all. ‘Yeah.’ He stuck his chin out, trying to seem nonchalant. ‘I...er...fell.’ ‘Is this your first time on Mount Washington?’ She asked. She had a quaint little voice that sounded like butterflies. Even in his current state, he warmed to her. Jake hesitated. ‘Yeah...’ He admitted guiltily. ‘Oh dearie.’ Her face softened with sympathy. ‘I’m Audrey. Want to come inside and warm up? We’re supposed to be closed for the winter, but I couldn’t leave you out here all on your own. I’m sure Frank won’t mind. We’ve got rooms left upstairs.’ ‘Uh...sure.’ Jake tried to hide his joy. He was mightily embarrassed that she’d paid witness to his epic tumble, but he wasn’t above swallowing his pride for a mug of cocoa and the chance to warm his toes. Inside the chalet was cozy and well lit, with a roaring fire crackling merrily in the hearth. A winding staircase led to an upper landing, which presumably housed the rooms for rental use. There were plenty of places to sit, each adorned with an assortment of patchwork quilts and cushions, all of which looked to have been made by hand because they were misshapen and wonky. There was a small area by the door with spare belaying and skiing equipment, and a massive fur draped over the banister that looked like a black bear’s pelt. An ancient and somewhat rusty looking pickaxe hung over the door. A man was sitting in a rocking chair beside the fire, apparently fast asleep. As they came inside, he jolted awake, saw Jake, and his eyes went wide. ‘I found this young man outside on the mountain, Frank.’ Audrey said. ‘He was pulling off some impressive stunts.’ She tittered a little, and Jake looked at his feet. C’mon man, think of the cocoa. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’ He grinned apologetically, putting on his best performance of someone who knows what they’re doing. ‘I lost my footing up there on the mountain and dropped some of my gear-’ ‘A mountaineer!’ The man interrupted gleefully. ‘I used to be a mountaineer, you know! Back when I could still get around!’ ‘Oh! Um, that’s nice.’ Said Jake uncertainly. He hadn’t been expecting that response. ‘Yes!’ Cried the man. ‘I used to get up and down that mountain in less than an hour!’ ‘Yes dear.’ Said Audrey, smiling fondly at him. ‘Would you like some hot cocoa dearie?’ She asked Jake. Oh, mother of God, there it was. ‘Yes please.’ He responded, trying not to look too eager. As she busied herself in the kitchen, the old man fell silent again, his eyes glazed over, and he stared into the fire. Jake sat awkwardly on one of the many patchwork chairs arranged around the fire, and took off his boots. It seemed like a pleasant place to stay for the night. Maybe he could continue his journey to the summit tomorrow morning. ‘Would you like some cocoa too, Frank?’ Audrey called to him from the kitchen. ‘I remember!’ The old man suddenly spoke again, with the same gleeful enthusiasm. His eyes fell on Jake’s ice axe, lying at his feet, soaking a wet patch into the mismatched soft pile rug. ‘It was the coldest part of Winter, 1966. I was the leader- there was 6 of us, you know. We scrambled the first thousand feet and belayed the rest. It was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life.’ Jake raised his eyebrows. Clearly this man knew a thing or two about mountaineering. ‘How did it go?’ He asked him. ‘Ahh.’ The man heaved a deep sigh, closing his eyes. ‘Things started off well, but the weather turned the day after we set off, and we got caught in a bad storm. We had to dig a hole in the snow to keep warm. And then- I fell into a crevasse!’ ‘Here you are, dearie.’ Audrey returned to give Jake the cocoa. Gratefully he bent his head to take a sip and the hot liquid scalded his tongue. He resisted the urge to take another sip. ‘It was early in the morning, and I was boiling snow for drinking water.’ Frank continued. ‘That’s what you had to do, back in those days! We didn’t have these fancy tablets or whatever you have nowadays.’ He eyed Jake suspiciously. ‘Anyway, I had gone to find a suitable patch of snow to set up my stove, and that was when I saw it- The Sasquatch!’ Jake breathed in the smell of the cocoa, enjoying the warm comfort of the mug in his hands. If this was the price of a good mug of cocoa on his raw and aching hands, he was happy to play along. ‘No way!’ He said incredulously. ‘Really?’ ‘Yes, I did!’ The old man said, nodding triumphantly. ‘I saw him! And so, naturally, I wanted to get a closer look, but as I was heading over to him, I fell into the crevasse. The rest of the team had to pull me out. And by the time they’d done it, he’d gone!’ ‘Yes dear.’ Audrey was engrossed in her knitting. Jake got the distinct impression that she wasn’t really listening. Frank lowered his voice, speaking directly to Jake now. ‘They all think I’m batty round here, you know.’ He said seriously. ‘But I get it. You youngsters think you know what’s what, think you’ve got it all figured out. But I was young once. It’s all very well throwing yourself down a mountain once in a while- but you’ve got to learn how to do it properly.’ Jake stared down into his cocoa. The memory of his missing belongings returned to his mind. He screwed up his face, imagining his friends off on their hiking trip. He had just wanted to try and do something right for once. ‘Hey, listen. Everyone messes up sometimes. Don’t worry about it.’ Frank said, rocking absent mindedly in his chair. ‘If I learnt one thing in 70 years of mountaineering, it’s that it’s better to fail and live and be able to try again.’ ‘Yeah...’ Jake mumbled miserably. The old man seemed to soften. He watched Jake carefully for a few minutes, studying his face. Then he got to his feet, knelt before the fire, and reached behind his chair, before pulling out an antique wooden chest. ‘Take a look in there.’ He said to Jake. ‘Go on.’ Curious, Jake lifted the lid. Inside was a series of artefacts, newspaper clippings, treasures he’d acquired during his time mountaineering. Jake looked at the items in wonder. It was like a time capsule of days gone by. ‘That’s me.’ Frank pointed to one of the newspaper clippings, where a young man with pimples and a goatee was grinning triumphantly back at the camera. ‘I was so arrogant back then. Not like you. I never accepted help from anyone. It wasn’t healthy.’ He reached further into the chest and scooped something out, hesitated for a moment, then quickly gave it to him. ‘I want you to have these.’ Two gleaming carabiners, engraved with the initials F.M. ‘I can’t take these.’ Jake said incredulously. ‘Please take them.’ Frank begged him. ‘I can’t go out on the slopes anymore. I want them to get used. And anyway...’ His eyes closed once more. ‘I can’t remember what day it is most of the time here anyway. I probably won’t even notice they’re missing.’ Jake smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll make sure they get used.’ Only a few weeks later, Jake was back in his mountaineering gear. His friends had invited him to ‘get some experience’, on a smaller series of slopes closer to home. He hadn’t mentioned the incident on Mount Washington to them yet. ‘We thought we’d go somewhere that’s more your skill level Jakey.’ One of them said playfully. He had smiled and laughed along with their jokes, too busy looking forward to climbing again to feel too hurt or annoyed by their comments. They all swarmed round him, making sure that his equipment was on properly and his knots were tight enough and he had everything in the right place. Jake, smiling slightly, let them check him over, feeling that he was going to be safer than everyone else put together today. ‘What’s that?’ One of them asked, pointing at his carabiner. ‘Your initials aren’t F.M.’ Jake took a deep breath, and very matter of factly told them about meeting the kind couple at the chalet on the mountain- tactfully leaving out the part where he slid several hundred feet on his butt -and the old man who had given them to him. ‘Wait.’ One of them said with a face like thunder. ‘Wait. You said his name was Frank Miller. You mean THE Frank Miller? The mountaineer from the 60s with the goatee? That one?’ ‘That’s the one.’ Jake said, trying not to feel too smug. He had a feeling he was going to enjoy this trip.

Jade stood gazing at her reflection. Beautiful bride, white satin, a veil of lace, stylish shoes, her face aglow. Then she paused, it as still her fantasy. Jade had bought her wedding gown years ago, as a teenager. She had chosen her veil and shoes, designed and stocked all the wedding invitations, imagined her bouquet, her hair style. It was her quite reasonable expectation that she would have been married in that frock, as soon as the handsome suitor proposed. She could visualize him on bended knee, offering his mother's pearl and diamond engagement ring. Oh, so romantic.... But no. Despite being raised in a church choir of likely young prospects, no one had ever chosen Jade to be his bride. Every now and then, she would spend yet another solo evening, trying on her wedding regalia. She had turned 33 years old. Time had passed, she had spotted her first grey hair. Jade smiled wryly. She looked like Miss Havisham in her classic text book, Dud Expectations, written by that fun guy, Chazza Dickens. Wow, that was another riveting thought. Jade's stern father was a widower. He was even now a minor lay preacher, laying on hands, and ministering in the flock of devout Christians. Jade's father had warned her about being immoral, and wanted her to save herself for wedlock in the church. God would send her a husband and lots of children. He could be their Grandpa Grumpy. Jade pondered on all the reasons why she was cross with God. She had dutifully trained to teach English and Religion to some very sulky teens in her church's system. One day, she realized that the teens hated English essays more than they ever had. So, Jade promoted them all onto higher things, and resigned. She kept her teaching registration up to date, and chose to tutor reading online, which she really loved. Jade left sharing her father's home, and rented her own simple pad. It was a bit run down, but it would do until the groom came along to rescue her. One slight hiccup, working online at home was very isolating. How could she ever meet this invisible husband? She decided to consult a local astrologer, who had quite an interesting profile. The lady, known as Madame, the Mystic, agreed to make an appointment for Jade. Madame, the Mystic, expected up-front fees. So Jade sorted that, and consulted her future prospects with the astrologer. The two chicks shared a coffee, then Madame read Jade's coffee grounds in her cup. She then read the tarot cards, and cast an individual horoscope for her new client. "You must lighten up, and be open to love. You have a powerful guardian angel. You must take your online career to the best coffee shop in town. Make sure it has a powder room. You must smile at likely men. You must never give up the ghost. You must follow my sheet of instructions for pleasing your angel, first thing in the morning, and before you go to bed...... Love will find its own path, right to your heart, just when you least expect it. I predict the letter B will appear. " Just then, Madame, the Mystic's dog wandered across this site of prophecies. His name was Golden. He was also known as having psychic energy. Why, he had even told Madame what his name was, by communing with his owners' third eye. He wagged his tail, as he sat down, and offered his paw. Madame, the Mystic, spoke again. "Look ,Golden gives you his paw of emotional support. I have a sale on Tarot cards, consult my daily horoscope for your true love, to guide you for all your happy days ahead. Plus here is my sister Charlene's phone number. You also need her to direct you in fashion and colorful zen. She will provide a color palette, personally tailored. It is not any woman's job to fix men. Be aware of any sign and symbol of friendship, Maybe you need a pet to share your future, always there to welcome your nurturing heart. Got to love a puppy!" Jade did a quick think. "I don't need a puppy. I want to meet a man to love." The mystic astrologer spoke again..... "Peace will flow, consult your guardian angel, always there in each awakening dawn. You must position yourself seamlessly for love, and be grateful for the graces that appear. I advise a weekly consultation. Here is your next appointment. I shall be your guide on the side!" Jade left the astrologer, slightly bemused. Within no time, astrology was her world. She met Charlene, spent some funds on new threads, dressing each day according to her horoscope and personal palette. No more grey and brown sensible clothing, all was aqua, yellow and bright. Her hair was tinted, with blonde tips, her make-up was featuring her eyes, sparkling with hope. Jade now awoke half an hour earlier, just to greet dawn with her guardian angel. She rehydrated with coffee, interpreting her coffee cup, making her bed, tidying her clutter, practicing her new skills in tarot cards. Once per weekend, she rose and changed her sheets, polished and mopped, flung open the windows, and lit her sage smudging. She wafted the aroma through her flat, opened doors. She still did not need a puppy, this guardian angel was demanding enough. Jade had not, of course, told her father, who was called Bernard. The astrologer had got that bit right. She was getting crosser with God on a daily basis, smiling at strangers was not very effective. She was getting some very funny looks at the coffee shop, as she taught her students. Still she could not fix men, as astrology states. Life took a turn for the worse. Bernard phoned, asking Jade to take him to his appointment at an oncologist. The news was dreadful, he had stage four tumors, riddled with cancer. His prognosis was very grim. Bernard was not as upset as Jade. He told her was grateful for all the blessings his Lord had granted him during his days. Treatment was planned, so he rapidly became an in-patient at an oncology unit. Jade and the church people visited him regularly. In between tutoring online, she made a daily pilgrimage to her father's bedside. He went downhill very quickly, the chemo was futile. Jade had been brought up with filial piety, but inside, she was now furious with her father's divine Lord. How could this happen to such a faithful believer? One grey morning, while channeling her guardian angel, her tarot cards finally showed a pair of lovers. "Yeah, right." Jade wondered, but she was now a keen follower of astrology. At her father's bedside, she held his hand .She felt that she was never quite good enough, never met a husband, never had his grandchildren to love and cherish. Bernard suddenly opened his eyes, he was lucid for a while. "I am so proud of you, the apple of my eyes,. You are so bright and loving. I want you to got to the chapel and pray, like you used to. God has a plan for every one of us. I shall always be loving you. This journey goes on, true love." With that, he breathed his last, and smiled his way to eternity. Jade was devastated. The nurses were summoned, she walked to the chapel, frozen. She sat, silently yelling at God, Jesus, the holy church, her guardian angel. More than cross, angry. She nearly kicked a hole in the church walls. But she was well-behaved,. Not praying, just recalling some happier times with her father. As she sat in the back pew, not doing any knee mails, she felt a hand touch her shoulder. She glanced up, meeting the eyes of her father's junior oncologist. "These things happen, " he told her, "Look, I have seen some mysterious things here, stranger than anyone can perceive. I took a photo of your father's monitor, as you were holding his hand." Jade looked at his phone, there was an image of an angel, with wings. "Is this possible?" she asked. "Can I send it your phone?"asked Dr. Ben, that was on his name tag. "it is a comfort for you. You have your own guardian angel." He laid his hand on hers. They swapped phone numbers, and Jade soon had a miraculous image of her own guardian angel. Nearly eighteen months later, Jade sat in the chapel. Dr. Ben had given her his paw of emotional support, and that was not all. She did have a white wedding, but not in that fancy dress, simple, fitting, respectful. His name did start with a B, after all. She cuddled their brand new baby son, healthy with a good set of lungs already. Maybe she wasn't so cross with the greater powers after all. Madame, the Mystic, was spot on. Jade had been open to a nuanced understanding of her guardian angel, and the theory that love will find a way. Dr. Ben sat beside her. Their baby boy looked like Jade's father, and himself. "Welcome to the world, little Bernard Benjamin......" A journey that continues for everyone. ......

It was just a normal night for me, eating pizza rolls and catching up to my favorite Youtubers when I finally decided to kill my father. The videos I watched had nothing to do with my resolution. I had been thinking of killing my dad for years. He had always been disappointed in me for not following in his athletic aspirations. To tell the truth, we had absolutely nothing in common. But now I needed money and, while we didn't along, I was the only family my well off dad had left. Surely, I'd inherit something. Plus, it wasn't like I had anything else going on in my life. I had been stagnating for far too long. After all, doesn't everyone need a hobby? While my commitment to murder was sudden, I wasn't going to impulsively fly off the handle and just shoot him. I had to remain free to enjoy whatever spoils I got. Besides, I enjoy mysteries. I thought it would be fun to craft the perfect murder. So, I researched. I found out that some of the hardest crimes to solve were those that started with random impulses. A lot of those do end up being caught because the lack of planning usually leaves lots of evidence behind and perpetrators who are quick to confess. But it's another story if the killer is lucky enough, or plans all along to target random people, and doesn't leave evidence behind. Cops also have trouble distinguishing between copycat killers so I started paying attention to the local news and police blotters. I knew I would also need an airtight alibi. The police would be quick to suspect a family member and I didn't want to get caught just because some dumb cop just assumed it was me and worked backwards from there. To that end, I started streaming videos of me playing games. I made sure to only play older games with absolutely no commentary nor have any over the top reactions to the action on screen. That and the fact I did no advertising kept my viewership practically non-existent. Fine by me. I needed as few variables as possible. I streamed like this for 2 months before fate gave me what I wanted. I read about two very similar murders that happened relatively nearby. Both victims had their back doors broken into. Both had been killed by slit throats with their own kitchen knives. Not a lot of evidence was left and the attacks seemed completely random. This was the best news I'd had in quite some time! Police were still unsure if those cases were connected but I wondered if they'd admit to a potential serial killer if a third body popped up. All I had to do was recreate those scenes but leave no DNA evidence behind. Then, all they would have to go on is the evidence already gathered that wouldn't point in my direction. I made sure a pre-recorded video of me playing games was being streamed as though I were live. That gave me 3 hours to do the deed so I immediately rushed over to my dad's house. Luckily, I rarely went over there so no neighbors would recognize me or my car. My dad was surprised to see me but I told him that I had big, good news. I sat him down in his armchair facing away from the kitchen and then told him I needed a drink to calm my nerves. The fool didn't suspect a thing. I had kept my gloved hands hidden in my hoodie pockets but he didn't notice. I was able to waltz right over to his kitchen knife holder and draw the cleaver. I even put on a hair net to make sure I left no evidence. I was shaking with excitement as I walked back. My gloved hand went over my father's forehead and pulled his head back, exposing the neck. My dad didn't even say a word. He was probably confused but expecting an explanation. Instead, I slid the blade across his neck and cut deeply. I dropped the blade on the floor and spent the rest of my strength on pushing my father's shoulders forward and down. This made him unable to get up and all of that gushing blood flowed away from me. Very quickly, his attempts to get up and to talk stopped and I just stood there until every last drop of blood stopped spurting out. I carefully wound my father's watch so it read 3 hours later and then smashed it with the butt of the knife before dropping it for the last time. Then, I popped outside the back door, only to break in again. I left through the front and locked the door with my own key. Finally, I drove home. The only emotion I felt was smug satisfaction. I made sure to swap out the fake streaming footage with the real deal but this time I apologized to my 1 viewer and promised I would interact with the chat more. And I so for the rest of the night. Especially around the time I had wound my father's watch to. At that time, i made sure to comment on every single thing going on in the chat. The police came the next day. Actually, they came twice. First in the morning to tell me that my father had passed away. And then, 2 detectives came to ask me a hundred follow up questions. I'm not a great actor so I told them the truth, that there was no love lost between my father and I. But before they could speculate further, I showed them the online recordings of my whereabouts. As expected, they were most interested with the times I was the most active. It was like playing chess with someone who only knew checkers. Just to be sure, I 'accidentally' dropped a newspaper to the ground and picked up while pretending to read, as though it were the first time, the article about the other two killings. I wondered out loud if all three murders were connected. This was my one mistake but just a little one. They were immediately suspicious as to why I had a newspaper around, being as young as I was. The truth was so I could look up crimes to copycat without leaving a trail in my computer's search history. But I told them it was a rare purchase, just because I had been nostalgic for the comics. They seemed to buy that but the next day I had another visit. This time from a senior detective that I hadn't seen before. He asked again for my alibi and more information about my dad. When it seemed like we might be done, he suddenly produced a warrant and had a couple uniformed officer's take my computer. Detective Howard Phillip had me sit down in my own armchair in front of him as he explained, "You aren't under arrest. Not yet. But I wouldn't go anywhere if I were you. Just to make sure, those two officers are going to stick around in a car just outside. I know you killed your father." I tried to protest as I rose but he just gave me a hard stare as he raised his hand out and then lowered it slowly. I sat back down in response. He continued, "Coroners are pretty precise these days. Precise enough that we pretty much only listen to them now and don't put much stock in what a smashed watch says." I tried my best to look confused as the detective paced in front of me. He spoke confidently, "My boys are going to pour over every bit of data and we'll figure out exactly what you did to fake the footage. That will be enough for me to come back with handcuffs. You think you're pretty smart, don't you?" I did but I ignored his question and tried to sound just as confident as I asked, "What are you going on about? Did you find new evidence? I promise you that there is no possible way you could link me to the crime scene because I didn-" Detective Howard Phillip interrupted with a loud, strong command, "ENOUGH! I do not like having to play nice with murderers. We'll respect your rights but you are living on borrowed time. You're also right. There isn't a shred of evidence that puts you at the scene of the crime." He turned to me and remained motionless through the rest of his speech. He just stared right into my eyes as he said, "But you messed up when you hypothesized this might be the work of another local killer. When I heard that, that's the exact moment I knew for sure you were the killer. You see, people with a strong motive try to hide their crimes by copying another criminal. It happens enough that we cops look out for that. But it can be hard to prove. Except in your father's case. We quickly ruled out that other killer's involvement and you've been our number one suspect from hour one. You see, we already had fingerprints and hair from the other killer. Yesterday, we finally found whose prints they belonged to. Your father." The detective ranted some more but I didn't hear any more of it. I also didn't move, not even when the cops left. The rest of the day flew by in a blur and I still remained sitting in that chair. Nothing else matters any more. They'll be back tomorrow but I have no intention of leaving alive. In fact, all I'm planning on now is how I can leave them the biggest mess to clean up instead. The worst part of it all is the thought that keeps running through my head. I guess my father and I aren't as different as I thought.

“Rufus! Come in. We loved your latest piece on the migrant situation in the Mediterranean. You’re really broadening the horizons of the readers of the Post.” “Our readers already have pretty broad horizons.” “Of course they do. They read the Post!” Rufus sat in a windowless room, empty apart from the plastic chair that he sat on, opposite a man in a white polo shirt and khaki pants. The man wore a lanyard with an empty transparent I.D. wallet and a pen hanging from it. Rufus lived for information, and had almost none. Introductions seemed to be the place to start. “I’m Rufus Kenton from the Washington Post, and you are?” “Yes! I am. And you are too, Rufus. Both of us present here today. Thank you for coming along. We love your work and we were very keen that it be you who got access to our facility.” “Ok. Who’s we ? I’m going to assume you’re an agent. May I record this?” “Record away, Rufus.” The voice was avuncular Texan. The speaker, tightly bald and leather cheeked, leant forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His pen swung on its lanyard and clicked against the cheap plastic seat. Had muscle gone to fat, or was it just undercover? Either way, the man was two of Rufus. “C.I.A?” said Rufus, keeping his words to a minimum and letting his eyebrows do the heavy lifting. “I used to be in the C.I.A.,” said the man. The crows feet at his eyes went up a shoe size. “Still am. But I used to be too!” he sat back in his chair grinning. It creaked as he folded livestock arms. “And you’ve invited me here to work on your tight five-minute stand-up set?” said Rufus, clicking his own pen and opening his note book. “Relax, Rufus. We love journalists these days, we brought you here so we can work together. We’re on the same side.” “I’m an independent journalist. I’m on the side of truth.” “And justice and the American way?” said the agent with a gentle frown of sincerity. “Sure, but truth comes first. So, what is this place?” “This, Rufus, is the most secure lab in the world. A football field of razor wire in every direction, anti-drone fields, automated sniper turrets. This place has its own F35 guard dog on round-the-clock standby. It has a bunker from the nineteen fifties which has been pimped with some tech which is still going to look pretty damned impressive in the twenty fifties.” “Why?” “Exactly! I knew we had the right man for the job. Anybody in their right mind would ask why, and you, Rufus, are going to tell them.” “I’m going to tell them the truth.” “Of course you are. That’s your job. Which theory of truth do you currently subscribe to?” “Truth, reality, I’m going to tell people what I find here today.” “Oh, we’re counting on it. Now, I’m a plain old correspondence theory man myself. The truth arises from the correspondence of language, thought and such like, to a mind-independent world. Seems like our world is more mind-independent than ever! Am I right? Ha! Nah, Veritas est adaequatio rei et intellectus - Truth is the adequation of things and intellect; Isaac Israeli via Aquinas.” “Nice to know they’re teaching Latin at Langley.” “Surprised? You don’t think they keep me round just ‘cos I can kill a guy with a pen, do you?” Against his better judgement, Rufus liked the guy. So what if he really could kill him without breaking a sweat? Rufus was not octagon material; it was not that impressive a boast. But Rufus was no coward, so it was not much use as a threat either, if that’s what it was, and not just another joke, not that the two things were mutually exclusive. In conclusion, Rufus just shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked down at his notepad. “Relax! I’m only joking,” said the man. “I wouldn’t need a pen. Are you ready to take a look around?” Rufus had had a bag over his head since he got in a chopper of the roof of the building he’d been told to report to. It had not been removed until he stood outside the room he was now in and he had no idea how much time had elapsed, how far he had travelled or in what direction. He could have been in one of half a dozen states, maybe seven, maybe eight or nine if you counted irritation and confusion, states he seemed to visit with increasing regularity. He was ready to take a look around. “Let’s go.” The corridor outside the room was lit by a thin arboreal glow of emergency lighting. The agent walked ahead of him, fleetingly green as they passed under the long passage’s evenly spaced exit signs. After what Rufus judged to have been about a minute, time measured by his unacknowledged humming of The Fugs’ C.I.A. Man , they reached an unmarked door. To Rufus’s left a dark space with a tiny exit sign floating in it, marking the invisible length of a perpendicular corridor. The agent saw Rufus looking to his left at the tiny eye-test of an exit sign. “No, it’s in here,” said the agent, opening the door and disappearing through it. Rufus followed him into a room which was industrially dark. “So, you promise to write about what you find here?” asked the agent. “Certainly,” said Rufus. “Good! We need it out there. We need the internet full of it. We need...” “You’re going to get the truth, whether it’s what you need or not. But I guess it would be easy enough for you to silence me if you wanted to? You could do it here and now, with your pen,” said Rufus to a black absence where he imagined the agent might be standing. “No! No, no, no, Rufus.” The voice came from the opposite direction to the one in which Rufus had pointlessly turned his head. “It’s not like that at all. And anyway, like I said.” The voice now came from behind him. “I wouldn’t need a pen.” Rufus peered into the black, trying to breathe steadily and control a heartrate that evolution was attempting to increase with every second spent in the vulnerability of sightlessness. “Now, Rufus, write the truth if you want, but please try and appreciate that in my business it’s really the value of information that matters, regardless of whether it can be proven to be true or not.” “Surely information is more valuable if it’s true? We have to confirm if things are true.” “Well, ah, Rufus. So, y’know Socrates, right?” “I know of him.” “Well one day one of Socrates’ buddies runs up to him and...” “Ah Jesus, come on, man.” “One of his buddies runs up and says, ‘ You’ll never guess what I heard about Diogenes.’ ” “Just turn the lights on.” "’ Whoa!’ Socrates replies, ‘You gotta pass the Triple Filter Test first,’ and his buddy’s like ‘Triple filter?’ and Socrates is like, ‘I’m going to filter what you say. The first filter is truth. Are you absolutely sure that what you are about to say is true?’ and his buddy’s like, ‘Maybe, dunno, just heard it.’ And then Socrates is like, ‘Ok, possibly not true, so filter two, the goodness filter. Is what you are about to tell me something good?’ and his buddy gets a bit flustered and he’s like, ‘Nah, pretty bad actually.’ And so, Socrates is like ‘Mmhmm, third test; is this information going to be useful to me?’ and his buddy’s pretty embarrassed by now and he’s like, ‘Well, no, not really.’ So, Socrates is like, ‘So you were going to tell me something that might not have been true, good, or useful. Why tell me or anyone else such a thing?’ and the guy’s feeling pretty bad and he realises this must be how come they say Socrates is so wise..." “And it also explains why Socrates never found out that Diogenes was banging his wife.” “You heard it! Ha! You do understand.” “Just turn the lights on.” “If I do, you’ll see the truth, but not the value. We need you to create the value, Rufus. That’s what you’re here for. We need information out there. Lots of it. Generated from this beautiful big resource magnet of a lab. It doesn’t have to be true, it doesn’t have to be good, but whatever it is, it’ll be useful and it’ll be ours. And it’ll be a good reason for all of our less enthusiastic supporters to keep their eyes on this place, instead of anywhere less convenient.” “Please just turn the lights on.” “This room is completely empty, Rufus. I can leave the lights off so you can’t see anything, or I can turn them on, so you can see nothing. Either way, you’re reporting the same truth. You want ‘em on?” “Please.” “Happy writing, Rufus.” An analogue clunk announced a staccato strobe and the room bounced in and out of existence before settling into its vast reality. Rufus stood alone in an echo-ready hall. It was completely empty.

In the murky realm of the twilight hour, pulsating neon lights gnawed at the tender underbelly of the evening sky, spreading psychedelic tendrils of orange, violet, and electric blue. Their kaleidoscopic dance threw distorted reflections onto the wet asphalt, weaving a path towards a vortex of syncopated rhythms and deep beats -- the club, a modern cathedral pulsing with its own synthetic heartbeat. Here I was, a dark silhouette swallowed by the gaping maw of this techno temple. A self-portrait painted in soft hues of isolation, an alien navigating through the labyrinth of pulsing lasers and prismatic strobes. Ascending the concrete stairs, my footsteps synchronized with the bass emanating from the beast's belly. The music vibrated through the soles of my shoes, vibrating along the fault lines of my reality, distorting the world around me into unrecognizable fragments. I was no longer a mundane entity trapped within societal constraints but a formless spirit on the precipice of a transcendental voyage. Once inside, a sensory overload unfolded. Bodies writhed to the hypnotic rhythm, lost in the sound, their outlines blurred by the strobe lights. The air was drenched in a cocktail of sweat, musk, and spilled alcohol -- an unholy incense for the debaucherous rite about to transpire. Eager to join the spectral dance, I had approached the bar. Illuminated bottles lined the counter, filled with spirits promising liquid courage. The bartender, an oracle in this crypt of mystic energies, served me a luminescent concoction. With each sip, my consciousness began to waver, caught in the rift between the tangible world and a spectral realm. Seduced by the siren call of the music, I plunged headfirst into the rhythmic chaos, my body responding to the beats as though it were an ancient tongue. I was no longer confined by the routine banality of life. I became a cosmic nomad, a fragment of stardust caught in the swirling vortex of sonic waves. In the swirling pandemonium, I collided with her. Radiating an ethereal glow that outshone the club's throbbing strobes, she seemed plucked from a dreamscape. Her laughter cut through the spectral symphony, ringing like the precise toll of a bell. "Follow me," she voiced through the throbbing music, her hand stretching out, a beacon amidst the chaos. I latched onto her offered lifeline. Her touch was warm, an anchor grounding me within the shifting dimensions of this hallucinatory pilgrimage. We danced -- two celestial bodies trapped in an otherworldly dance. The club's pulse dimmed, the crowd faded into obscurity, and all that remained was us. Her laughter became a divine mantra, her fluid movements a sacred liturgy guiding me deeper into the heart of this mystical rite. As dawn painted the sky in soft pastels, the frenetic music subsided, the neon lights dimmed, and our bodies hummed with the echoes of the night's sensory bombardment. Yet, there was no fatigue, no trace of exhaustion. Instead, an intoxicating sense of liberation infused every fibre of my being. I had ventured beyond the constraints of my existence, shedding the monotonous shell of life to embrace the realm of the extraordinary. As the remnants of the music faded into silence, she leaned closer, whispering words that rang truer than any rhythmic beat. "You're liberated," she voiced. A benediction imparted in the hushed tones of the dying night, a testament to the divine revelation I had found within the swirling chaos of the nightclub. I was no longer a mortal navigating the world but a cosmic voyager, touched by the infinite tapestry of the universe. I had danced with the surreal, sipped from the chalice of ephemeral joy, and had been bathed in the spectral glow of her presence. Her words were not merely an echo fading into the creeping dawn but a holy chant that had been etched deep into the core of my existence. Her gaze, an intense prism that refracted my newfound truths, held me captive. The world around us slowly began to stir, awakening from its nocturnal stupor, yet time seemed to stand still within the sanctity of our shared sphere. Each passing moment was an affirmation of the transcendence I had experienced, an ode to the psychedelic rhapsody that had shaken the very foundations of my understanding. We were swept up in the reluctant exodus as the club began to close its doors. The music was now a mere whisper, a ghost of the sonic tempest that had ruled the night. The psychedelic kaleidoscope of lights had given way to the austere dawn, painting everything in hues of reality. Yet, I carried the night within me, a cosmic imprint, a testament to my spiritual odyssey. As we stepped out into the dawning day, the city had already begun to shed its nocturnal skin, ready to don the mask of normality. The sidewalks were filling up with early risers, each one oblivious to the divine spectacle that had taken place within the hallowed walls of the nightclub. Her fingers gently squeezed mine, a subtle reaffirmation of our shared experience. "This is only the beginning," she whispered into the crisp morning air. It wasn't a promise but a prophecy. I had tasted the psychedelic nectar of spiritual liberation; I was initiated, transformed, and no longer a passive wanderer but an active seeker. In the harsh light of the morning sun, the nightclub appeared as an ordinary edifice, its cosmic secrets tucked away behind unassuming walls. But it stood as a beacon of revelation, a testament to the spiritual transcendence I had found in the most unlikely places. I walked away from Hades, the nightclub, the concrete cathedral, a universe of endless possibilities, carrying the sacred echo of a night steeped in psychedelic discovery. My spirit hummed with the rhythm of the universe, my eyes saw beyond the realm of the ordinary, and my heart beat in sync with the divine dance of cosmic energies. I had begun as an alien, an outsider, but emerged as a celestial voyager awakened to the infinite symphony of existence.

The rain showered on the sidewalk ahead of Ethan. The streetlights were fizzling out and re-lighting every couple seconds or so. The sky had just started clearing up after almost two days of continuous storming. Ethan pulled up his hood and continued walking. “*What have I done*?” Ethan thought to himself. “*How could I be so stupid?*” A couple of days ago he was driving home, in his Toyota SUV after a late night party, across the bumpy Texas countryside. The night was young, and Ethan had never felt so relaxed when suddenly his car hit something. He reversed and in the fuzzy haze of his headlights, saw an elderly woman on the ground, with a much younger woman kneeling over her. “HELP!!!” she screamed loudly. Ethan knew her screaming would attract the attention of nearby townspeople. Without thinking further, he stepped out of the car and knocked the woman out with his bare fists. *“Problem one solved,”* he thought. He then grabbed the unconscious grandma by her armpits and dragged her over to the trunk of his SUV. Ethan picked her up and dumped her into the trunk. He then did the same to the younger woman. He had just killed an old woman. I would know, after all, I am the Devil’s Servant. The situation had turned dire. This was truly a calamity. The authorities would be after him soon. There was only one place he knew of that could possibly help. Ethan slammed the trunk and opened the passenger door. He then opened the glove compartment. It was empty except for an old ID, an old screwdriver that had started to rust, a large coin, and a heapload of crumpled up papers. Ethan took everything but the papers and shut the door. He then used the screwdriver to unscrew both the front and the back license plates. Ethan opened the hood of the car and placed the license plates face down against the engine. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He then opened the fuel tank cover. Ethan sighed. He took one puff of the cigarette, reluctantly tossed it into the fuel tank and ran. BOOM! There was a huge explosion and fire leaped into the sky. It had most certainly caught the attention of the townsfolk. I was impressed. Even I had not committed such iniquity in my time of life. Ethan realized he had to get to Dallas County and fast. Thunder clapped and Ethan was pulled out of his memories. It had been three days since the catastrophic events. He was almost where he needed to be. He took the coin out of his pocket and inspected it. It was definitely larger than an ordinary coin. Ethan guessed that it was about two inches wide and two inches long. It was quite light and was made of what looked like solid gold. It had a leviathan cross on one side, and in an arc surrounding the cross was some small writing that Ethan couldn’t read. On the other side of the coin was a three dimensional picture of a skeleton lying down with its ribs cracked and a sinister-looking knife embedded into its skull. I remember my coin as well. It had been used many years ago before I had joined the Army of the Devil. The only difference was that my coin featured a skeleton with that same knife embedded into the right side of its neck. Ethan felt the chills go down his spine and he put the coin away. He was headed to his old workplace, a small room with a couple of computers and tables here and there. He had worked with a small group of people who helped people erase their debts or change their IDs. Ethan himself had allowed about 50 disreputable people to re-establish a new life in a new country, free of debt as an entirely new person. This job had made Ethan a whole lot of money, but he quit when police had learned about these illegal operations. On leaving, Ethan had received the coin from a colleague, and he had warned him, “Whatever you do, do not lose this.” Ethan had assumed it to be a friendship token or maybe something that he would’ve recognized, if they meet again in the future and had kept it for all these years. He was almost where he needed to be. Just a right turn into the alleyway, and he would be there. The sprinkling rain turned into stronger rain, and within a minute it was heavily pouring. Ethan broke into a sprint towards his destination. The back entrance was used as the main entrance back then, but now it was planked shut. Ethan ran towards the front of the building. It was a lot different than when he had last seen it seven years ago. Instead of looking like an abandoned building, it was brightly lit and Ethan thought it looked more like a casino. He was correct. The words “THE DEVIL’S DEN” hung over the entrance in bright red typography. He tried to walk in, but was stopped by the bouncer. “Entrance ticket!” he demanded in a gruff manner. “I-I don’t have an entrance ticket,” replied Ethan. He looked around and saw other people handing bouncers large coins. A coin一 The Devil's Den. The coin had to be the entrance ticket! He took his coin out and showed it to the bouncer. The bouncer inspected the coin, looked at Ethan, looked at the coin again, and finally let him in. Ethan was surprised. He quickly stuffed the coin into his back pocket and stretched out his hands. So much had changed in seven years. After all, seven years isn’t a short period of time. There were elegantly styled crap tables and round tables with people sitting around them playing rounds of Blackjack and Poker. Ethan went up to one of the game supervisors. I recognized that man. T’was a buddy of mine. Or actually more of a fellow worker. Goes by Dan. “By any chance, do you know Jonathan Miller?” asked Ethan The Supervisor turned his head to face Ethan. That’s when Ethan noticed his unusually eerie countenance. There was something inhuman about his face, just like me, just like the rest of the Devil’s Servants. “Who’s asking?” questioned the Supervisor. “Ethan Smith, a former colleague.” “Hmmm.” The supervisor paused for a bit. “I don’t know him personally, but he owns this place.” “You know where I can find him?” asked Ethan. “He should be around back, but you can’t just waltz into his office,” he replied. Dan caught sight of me. He was probably surprised to see me here, but he gave me a wave. I gave him a wave back. Ethan decisively began walking towards the back of the building. “Thanks!” he exclaimed. Dan grunted. Finding John’s room was easy. Ethan came across it within a minute. The door read Jonathan “*The Devil*” Miller. Ethan knocked and entered. I followed suit. The room was quite bare. There was a single desk in the middle of the room with nothing on it except for an inkpot. The walls were a complex shade of red, and the room itself smelled like something was burning. Behind the chair, was a short, middle-aged man with a cigar in his mouth, wearing a white tux and a panama hat. In the furthest corners of the room were two bodyguards, both wearing black suits and sunglasses. I myself had only been in this room once. It was maybe four and a half years ago. The time when I had died. My memory isn’t really the best, as I cannot remember how I had come to pass. My Boss looked up. “Eddie?” asked John inquisitively. “Johnny!” exclaimed Ethan happily “Eddie, it’s been a long time. What have you been up to?” asked John. He then signalled his bodyguards to fetch Ethan a chair. “Same old. Partying all night, drinking at work.” He chuckled. John laughed. “What have you done to this place, Johnny?” The Boss’s laugh faded into a frown. “You don’t like it?” “No no no. It looks way better than before actually,” reassured Ethan. “Hmph,” he said in a dubious manner. “So, what brings you back?” “You still carry out the business that we used to do back then?” asked Ethan hopefully. “Perhaps.” John paused. “You need somethin?” “Well......ummm yeah. I actually needed a favor,” admitted Ethan quite guiltily. “A favor eh? What kind of favor, Eddie?” “Well, uhhhh a couple days ago, I accidentally ran over a grandma and what looked like her daughter. I got rid of the evidence, but my fears came true and it got into the news. Y’know, I was hoping you could kinda help me clear my name. Just like we used to in the old days,” he said, trying his best to be persuasive. John took off his hat. “Well, you see, it isn’t as easy as it was to get away with this kind of stuff. New laws and people are more likely to squeal nowadays...I can do it. Of course, I can; I’m the Devil, but I’m gonna need something in return,” he said mysteriously. “What, like my soul?” said Ethan jokingly. “Exactly,” said John. Huh, now that I recall, I do remember how I died. I ended up dying with a knife being stabbed into the right side of my neck.

Denise was just leaving the band room when the siren went off. Because she was alone, she didn’t realize that no one else heard it. Looking around, she saw nothing that seemed out of place; she couldn’t identify where the sound came from. She threw her drumsticks into her backpack and headed outside. There she saw her Aunt Carol looking worried. “You heard the alarm?” she asked Denise. “Yes, but what does it mean?” Denise threw her backpack over her shoulder. “A Well has been stolen.” Denise looked up. “Well what? What well?” she asked. “Not a well small ‘w,’ a Well with a capital ‘W’,” Aunt Carol explained. “Follow me, Denise.” “What?” Denise had no idea what a Well with a capital W was. “You’re needed. I knew this would happen someday,” Aunt Carol said. “I had hoped that when it happened, you’d be older.” Denise had just turned sixteen. “What are you talking about, Aunt Carol?” Denise, totally confused, climbed into Carol’s Subaru. “The Wyvern Queen needs you to help find it. It’s your destiny.” “Wyvern Queen? Like the two-legged dragon with a barbed tail? That kind of wyvern?” Denise was totally lost. “Yes. She’s responsible for the Wells.” “Okay, I’ll bite. What are these Wells?” “Portable, potable water. Water is essential to the multiverse. The Wells provide water to everyone. This missing Well is assigned to Earth. Without it, all life dies. They are tightly controlled because they are so valuable. That’s what the siren was about.” “Okay,” Denise said. “But what has that to do with me?” “You are the chosen one. You’ve spent your whole life learning about swords, aliens, and space. You know Star Wars, Harry Potter, and Lord of the Rings . You’ve been trained. Now’s the time for it to pay off.” “What am I supposed to do?” Denise asked. “The Queen will tell you.” Aunt Carol pulled into her garage and rushed into the house, Denise on her heels. “Here’s the Wyvernian computer. Sit down.” “The what?” Denise asked as she sat in the desk chair, putting her backpack on her lap. “What do I do now?” Aunt Carol fired up the computer. A huge eye covered the entire screen. “Hello, Carol. Good to see you. And this must be Denise?” “Yes, Queenie. She will obviously need guidance, but she’s ready.” Aunt Carol smiled at the eye. “Wonderful, my dear. Let’s not waste time then.” Denise’s world disappeared in a swirling fog. She felt sick and exhilarated at the same time. After what seemed like ages, but might have been seconds, the girl found herself sitting at a large table in front of a huge wyvern and a garbage-sized tin can out of which a man sat (she thought), looking intently in her direction. “Hello, Denise. This is Bob,” the Queen gestured towards the man in the can who reached out and shook Denise’s hand. “We have no time to waste but we must finish tea before we go.” The Queen handed Denise a china cup full of dark liquid. “Tea?” she asked. “Not a big fan.” “It’s okay, Denise. Yours will taste like your favorite drink.” Sure enough, the drink tasted just like Pepsi. “Yum,” she said. “All right, team. Time to go. We’ll need to pick up the Terriers on the way.” The Queen leaned towards Denise. “They’re the best warriors in the multiverse.” The other stood up so Denise followed them. The Queen stood about fifteen feet high. The room was twice that, the walls covered with luxurious rugs and paintings of strange creatures. A few minutes later, Denise found herself on a long tarmac. The Queen was putting on what looked like an enclosed saddle. “It’s a Bubble,” Bob told her as his can hovered beside her. “Uh, thanks, Bob,” Denise said. “Is it polite to ask ...” “It’s not. It’s my whole life but that’s all I can reveal.” “Ok. Bob, why me?” “You were born for it, Denise. Sometimes destiny doesn’t show itself for a while, but it’s been watching you. You are strong, brave, and pretty fearless. It’s just your time.” Bob pointed to footholds that had appeared on the Queen’s flank. “Go ahead, Denise. That’s how you get into the Bubble.” Denise climbed up as Bob hovered alongside her. At the top, he pushed a button that opened the Bubble. He floated in and settled in what looked like a big cup holder. Denise sat on a wonderfully comfortable overstuffed sofa, putting her backpack into a luggage rack overhead. “Wow,” she said. “This is very cool. Is all intergalactic travel this comfortable?” “Not all. But the Queen goes first class.” The same huge eye appeared on a screen in front of the sofa. The. “Be sure to buckle up,” the Queen instructed. Denise looked for a seat belt. She saw something buried in the cushion. “Glad someone figured out that seat belts are a good idea,” she said. “Good for you,” said the belt as it fastened itself around her. “A pain for me.” “Be quiet!” Bob growled. “These belts are a grouchy lot.” “Everyone secure?” the Queen asked. “We’re good, Your Majesty,” Bob answered her. Denise marveled at the Queen’s speed as she began to run. Effortlessly , they took to the air. “That was amazing,” Denise said breathlessly. “She’s the best transportation I’ve ever been on,” Bob told her. “You might as well take a nap or something. It’s a long way to the Terriers.” Bob disappeared into his can. Denise found herself tired and groggy. Before she knew it, she was asleep. She woke when the Queen landed abruptly. The Bubble opened just as Bob emerged from his can. “Time to meet our warrior friends,” he said, gesturing towards the steps on the Queen’s side. Denise made her way down to the ground. Once she had disembarked, the Queen suddenly shrunk to a size closer to her own. Bob leaned over. “Make Me Small pills. Very useful.” A creature about half Denise’s size came bounding out of a nearby building, making what sounded like barking noises, its small tail wagging madly. “Welcome, grrrouff, to our home,” growled the creature, standing up on its hind legs, its face almost eye level with Denise. It had smooth brown and black fur an inch long all over its body as well as a beard and mustache. Denise thought it handsome even though she personally preferred cats. “Hello, Macduff. Good to see you.” The Queen smiled as she put her hand out and shook Macduff’s paw. They followed him into the Hall. “They seem awfully carefree and silly for a group of warriors.” Denise pointed to an area full of Terriers jumping up and down for no apparent reason and another group playing tug of war. One chased its tail. The Queen laughed. “Yes. They do like to play but they can catch a Gopher faster than any other creature in the universe. That’s Gopher with a capital G, Denise. They stole the Well.” All these capitals , Denise thought. It must be a really big deal. That’s scary. The Queen walked to a small platform at the far end of the Hall. “Terriers. We need your help. You know me and you know my Pathfinder Royale Bob. This is Denise. She’s the one.” The Queen pointed to Denise and with all the Terriers’ eyes now upon her, she swallowed hard, bowed and smiled awkwardly. An approving growl swept through the room. “A Well has been stolen from the Vault. We need to find and return it.” The Queen waited until the Terriers finished leaping and howling. “We believe that it has been stolen by a giant Gopher from the planet Broke. You are the best Gopher hunters in the multiverse. We need you to keep them occupied while we recover the Well. Will you join us?” An exuberant howl went up around the room. “Gopherrrrs! Gopherrrrrrrs!” Coming from the Terriers, the word had a menacing and growly undertone. “Just one thing,” the Queen continued. “You can’t kill the Gophers until we find the Well.” The Terriers growled. “Once we’ve secured it, you may kill or capture any you can.” The Hall went wild. After meeting with MacDuff and other Terrier leaders to formulate a plan, the Queen took flight once again. Denise lost track of time as they hurtled through space, the Terriers’ Mercedes Bones ships scattered in front and behind them. The Bubble provided everything she needed: food, drink. Internet and a bathroom. This is amazing , she thought more than once. Finally, she noticed the Queen beginning to descend. Looking out of the Bubble, she could see a planet below. It was quite blue, like Earth appeared from space but even more so. “Bob is that Broke?” she asked. “And why is it so blue?” “Yes. It’s covered mostly with water. There’s land although it’s tricky to find sometimes. It’s the perfect place to hide a Well.” Bob began to close the top of his can. “Grab your backpack, Denise. We’ll be landing soon.” “What about air?” she asked. “No worries.” Bob handed Denise a small face covering. “Once we’ve landed, just put this on for a few minutes. It’ll fall off on its own. It adjusts your body to whatever breathable air is available.” Denise looked at the mask. “Wow,” was all she could think to say. “This space travel is a whole lot more amazing than in movies and books. And that’s pretty amazing.” “Don’t forget we’re on a mission,” Bob said. When they were on the ground, the Queen slid the Bubble off. Terriers had gathered around them with MacDuff at the front. All were armed and covered in chain mail. “All right, troops. Westies head west. Yorkies go north. Fox terriers - stay on the dry. And the rest of you spread out. When we find the Well, we’ll let you know.” The Terriers disappeared. “What do I do if I find it?” Denise asked. “My dear girl, you have more knowledge of space travails than many of us do. You’ll just know.” With that, the Queen took off, leaving Denise and Bob at the landing site. “Okay, Bob. What now?” “I’ll stay here and guard the Bubble. You can wait with me,” Bob added. “That wouldn’t be right. A space adventure where we just wait? No way.” Denise stood up and started off along a trail of grass with water on both sides. “Come back when you find the Well,” Bob called out as she walked away. The planet was indeed wet. By following the trail, she was able to find dry areas to move across. It’s a trail. It must lead somewhere. After a while, she noticed that the hill to her right had grown bushes along its bottom. She pulled them aside and found herself in the mouth of a cave. Moving inside, she was surprised to find incandescent moss lighting a path lined with rocks. A small rock rolled itself up when Denise approached. “Who goes there?” it asked. How can I understand that? Denise wondered. “I’m Denise. We’re looking for a Well that’s been stolen. Probably by your Gophers.” “Ah, yes. We know about that. And definitely not our Gophers,” it said. “I am Wequt. Follow me.” Denise did as she was told and found herself in a large cavern that was lit by holes in the mountain. Several large rocks sat in a line. They didn’t move as Wequt and Denise arrived. “These are our elders,” Wequt told her. “You seek the Well?” a zircon asked. “We are the Counsel. What will you do with it if we reveal its location?” “We’ll return it to the Vault and lock it up safely,” Denise told them. “And increase security so none get stolen again.” “As you can see, we have no need of a Well. But the Gophers stole it to sell. They hid it in our caves, stepping on many of us as they came and went. How do we know we can trust you?” Denise thought for a moment. “I have profound respect for the Well. My planet, which we call Earth, is having water problems and may need the Well someday. People fight wars over water. I promise to return and respect it.” The Council of Elders rolled together to confer. At least that’s what Denise thought they were doing. After what seemed like a geologic time lapse, they rolled back into a line. “We will show you the Well. Wequt and Elder Adnal will go with you.” “Thank you all.” Denise bowed. She wasn’t sure why; it just seemed appropriate. The two guides rolled down a hallway in the cave with Denise following closely behind, carefully watching where she stepped. Eventually, they came to an opening. Peeking around the wall, she saw a pulsing blue dot sitting on a boulder surrounded by stalactites and stalagmites. Wequt and Elder Findal stopped. “The Well,” the Elder said. Denise stared at it. She had never asked what it looked like. “That’s it?” she asked, just to be sure. Wequt giggled. “That’s it. New to you, is it?” “Yes.” Denise walked around the boulder. “Uh, how do I carry it?” Wequt shook his head. “In your pack, Denise. It doesn’t leak.” “Of course. Sorry. I am new at this. But I should have known.” At that moment, they heard a deep growl. As Denise looked in again, a huge beast with big teeth and sharp claws appeared at the other end of the opening. That must be one of the Gophers , Denise realized. It was huge, almost eight feet tall. It hovered over the Well protectively. Denise shrunk back. “How do you kill ... or at least disable these things?” The Gopher heard her and turned in their direction. “Crap,” said Denise. She thought for a moment then took the drumsticks from her backpack, which she left with Elder Adnal and Wequt. “That is not your Well,” she shouted at the creature. It looked surprised. She wasn’t its usual adversary. Denise raised the drumsticks over her head and began banging them together. “You. Gopher. Get away from our Well.” She shouted at the top of her lungs. The Gopher hesitated and then moved back a step. “These are magic sticks from the planet Earth, and you cannot withstand their power.” All of her years watching sci fi were paying off. “Now get away!” She flourished the sticks and started drumming on a nearby boulder as she moved closer to the Well. The Gopher looked surprised but only for a moment. Then it began moving towards her, growling and gnashing its huge teeth. Denise struck the protective minerals which crashed to the ground. The Gopher stopped. “Dinna ye know not to bother t’ one, ye wee beastie.” MacDuff appeared at her side. Before she knew it, he was on the Gopher. She made a run for the Well, grabbed it and ran back, putting it into the backpack as she went. The guides led her out of the cave and pointed her back towards where the Queen had landed. When she got there, Bob was gone. She could hear battle sounds and followed them to the top of a hill. Looking down, she saw a slightly familiar gory sight. The Terriers and Gophers had been fighting, that much was clear. She saw Bob, holding a sword and hovering over a huge Gopher. Denise put her fingers to her lips and let out a loud whistle. When Bob looked up, she waved. He threw a chain over the neck of the Gopher and hovered up the hill, dragging the beast behind him. “Denise, good to see you,” he said. “This is the ringleader. But he won’t tell us where they put the Well.” “It’s okay, Bob. I found it.” Denise grinned broadly as she pointed to the backpack. “But a Gopher came. MacDuff went after it. I didn’t see him again.” “He’ll be fine, Denise. He cut his teeth on Gophers, so to speak. She was right, the Queen. You are the one.” They found the Queen was waiting for them at the landing site along with MacDuff who was unscathed. Denise gave him a hug. “You got it,” the Queen pronounced. “I guess all my role playing and movie watching paid off. But MacDuff saved the day when the Gopher came. And I admit that being on a quest is a lot different than watching it.” The Queen put a wing around her shoulder. “It is and it isn’t, child. Clearly you benefitted from all that watching.” She turned to MacDuff. “We’re taking this one back. Can you fit it on one of your Bones ships? You can let your fighters go after the rest.” “Surrrrre,” MacDuff assured her. He took the Gopher’s chain and growled. “Don’t even trrrry to get away.” When the Queen had put the Bubble back on, Denise and Bob settled in for the flight back to the Queen’s home on Wyvernia. “You have done the multiverse a great service, today, Denise. We won’t forget it.” “Thank you, Your Majesty. I won’t either. Won’t I have been missed, though?” “Time is relative, my dear Denise. But it is time for you to return home. Your Aunt Carol is waiting.” The world fogged over. Denise found herself in Aunt Carol’s car, leaving her school. “Have a good day?” her aunt asked with a wink. “Interesting, thanks. Did I just sort of save the universe?” Aunt Carol grinned. “Sort of, yes. Stay tuned.”

I have never been this high in the Temple, climbing to the most sacred floor to bring an answer to the greatest issue facing our Church in years. I fear it is the wrong answer. I do not want to go. I pray to the gods they do not take their rage out on the bearer of the message. My red robes, thick and heavy, slide down my shoulders as I take step after step. All I hear is the shushing sound of it scraping along the stone steps. Sweat runs down my forehead and prickles along my back as I walk through the pools of flickering candlelight on each landing, up and up and up the stairs. I look back, hoping to see only the empty staircase, but she is still there, many steps behind, my curse. As a Novice I had never been in the Inner Sanctum, and after today might never again. I had discovered the issue, through a chance encounter, and now horribly I was tasked with its resolution. Princesses Tanya had asked me not to reveal her secret. I will have to ask the gods forgiveness for letting her down. I lost all my skills at deception since living in the safety of the Temple. I truly had tried to be subtle when I asked my advisor, the Hieromonk Christian. Christian was watering the vegetable garden on the 45th floor of our temple, one of the converted garden floors. His heavy bulk moved slowly amongst the raised beds. I was pushing the water barrel on the small cart behind him. With the shades up, warmth from the morning sun felt good. As usual he was giving me a lesson. “Today we are limited in communications to only those near us. In the Before Times, people could talk to someone, see someone anywhere in the world at any time.” I nodded along, Christian told so many unbelievable stories. Yet there was one I needed to know about. “Master, you have called the god Azon, the Grantor of Miracles. 'Make a wish today and by the next day the wish would arrive' is this the truth?” Christian smiled, he loved explaining the mysteries of his religion. "Yes, all people who were of the faith could whisper their wishes into the magic boxes, then the god Azon would send the miracles directly to them.” “That is impossible!” I had heard this before but needed it confirmed. “It is true, it is written.” He said this, I know, to irritate me as I can not read. He holds his great knowledge over me like a hammer. “The magic has left the boxes, so now only those trained in the mysteries can speak to the gods.” He gestured to the blue-black robes he wore, symbol of his status as a Hieromonk. “Can a Princess of Gram make a wish, and have it come true?” I reached out to touch a plant, trying to act like I did not care about the answer. His head turned, his eyes focused on me, “What is your concern with a Princess of Gram?” “Just wondering, nevermind.” I looked down and stared at my two hands washing each other. Christian’s eyes blazed and he rounded on me, grabbing my arm and holding tight. He stared at me. “Novice, tell me everything.” Christian, the Hieromonk who found me in the streets and raised me from a young child knew me too well. I believe it when he says he can read my mind. “I found Tanay, a Princess of Gram, on the kitchen level when I was cleaning the pots. She wanted food- she said the Princesses are not given enough food so they will stay small and thin.” I did not mention that I had been sneaking her food for months, or our conversations about being young teenagers in this difficult world. “She is... ill, and asked for me to make a wish to Azon.” I looked up and saw this half-truth was not working. “The Princess is... with child. And she wishes to have Azon make it go away. Sir, that is her wish.” “One of the virgin Princess of Gram?” Christian’s face contorted in disgust. “Another one. She should be thrown out of the temple, she is contaminated!” He took two steps away, and then came back. “If our congregation finds out, it will ruin us! Princesses of Gram are the daughters of the god, renowned for their beauty and their purity! They cannot have children!” “- I thought so too, but her belly is-” I demonstrated with my arms her huge stomach. “-Princess Tanay said it was the will of Azon.” “Well how did this happen?” The skin on my shaved head pricked up when I saw the fear in Christian’s eyes. He did not know. I walked through the outer rooms and deep into the most sacred space of the Temple, on the highest floor with the message. I could not believe this is how I am going to meet the Prime Leader. Princess Tanay is scared too and is making me hold her hand. Her grip is strong and she is leaning in close to me. It makes me feel better, though I will have to cleanse my hands after. Tanay’s face is heavily painted but underneath I know it is pockmarked and pale just like mine. On the way I could see through what was once the exterior walls of this giant building. The sun streamed in through the large shattered and missing windows. The height of this old building, high into the clouds, was tall enough to see the mountains to the east and feel the swirling wind coming in from the unseen ocean sea, salty and fresh. I didn’t get close enough to look down to see the ruined city below. I knew from another windows I would see the only other still-standing towers. There used to be many, but all the rest of them have fallen. Destroyed in the Great Quake, or the war that followed. I could picture the street below in my mind, the cold and the dirt, my life in the car where I starved and fought for every morsel of food. The homeless people living below against the walls could not be seen, or smelled this high up. My dreams of being in this building, and now at the highest level have come true. I do not want to be here now carrying this terrible message. A dog scurried by, chasing a pigeon trying to roost in the broken rooms. Is that the window they will throw me out of? I stepped up to the large doors of the inner Sanctum and tried to compose myself. I wiped my face with my sleeve and took a deep breath. I could see shapes moving behind the drawn drapes covering the glass panels of the large room. Originally the building was all glass, though it has almost all been shattered, replaced with wood or plastic or sheets of metal, reclaimed from other parts of the building. The unbroken glass shows how special this room was. The walls around the Sanctum room were painted in elaborate and dream-like scenes of dancing fish and swimming deer and birds walking upside down, and the ever present symbol of the god Azon, the upturned arrow. I squeezed Tanay’s hand, pulled my shoulders back and put on my most serious face as I knocked. Jonathan, a Hieromonk in his blue-black robe, opened the door, concern on his puffy, bloated face. Then he looked behind me at Princess Tanay. “It is not allowed in here!” “I was asked to bring her...” I looked over Jonathon’s shoulder at the Sanctum, tapestries and ornate furniture filled the room. I saw an empty tall chair, and the Temple leaders huddled around a table. More than twenty Hieromonks were gathered. They were the fattest people I had ever seen. Christian’s familiar face was in the corner and I eagerly took a quick step toward him. At his quick shake of the head, I stopped and waited. Moments later my presence was noticed, and an Hieromonk with a beak-like nose and red eyes gestured for me to come over and leave Tanay. “I am Josiah, the Grand Secretary. What did it say?” He stared openly with hunger at Tanay, his slack mouth open. “The Princess said ‘It was the will of Azon’. She gives no other explanation.” I whispered in reverence. “Outrageous!” Said Josiah “We need an answer- this is the third one!” Another Hieromonk said. The conversation continued, ignoring me. I kept my head down, and watched the Hieromonks scurry around the room. “Novice, you discovered her, do you have any insight on how this came to be?” Christian addressed me directly. I remembered watching my sisters with the men in the cars, for the food, for the blankets. “Well, when a man and a woman lie together, then-” I started. “There are no men in the Temple!” Josiah cried. I looked up at Josiah, not understanding. “Only followers of Azon are above the 40th floor in the Temple, there are no men . All of us, the Hieromonks and the Novices have sworn celibacy and are above such base desires. It must be the will of Azon!” Josiah said, to nods and agreement all around. “The virgin princesses need to stay pure!” Josiah roared. His voice booming. “How else can we appease the god with worthy sacrifices!” He looked down his long nose at Christian who scrambled away and next to me. “If it is found out the Princesses of Gram are spoiled, impure, then the faith of our believers will turn against us!” Josiah pursed his lips. “This must be dealt with!” His voice thundered and his face turned red. “We need to find out what is happening!” He looked at the closed door in the back of the room. We must consult the Prime Leader. We need to hear directly from Azon, god of miracles.” I leaned over to Christian. “I believe she had someone to help get her that way, maybe one of the other Novices, who may have been the father-” “ No!" Josiah said, overhearing me. “Did it say that?” “No, Grand Secretary, but it makes sense-” “What did you say?” Josiah turned toward me, flames in his eyes. My whole body turned hot with shame, I had used a forbidden word. “I said I -sensed- it from her-” Christian stared at me disbelieving- “I feel you are not well-” “We must make a decision what to do with this unclean Princess who allowed this to happen.” Said Josiah. “ A Princess of the Gram must be seen as perfect in every way, the ideal for our followers, beautiful and pure-” “-We should just throw her out the window, '' the Hieromonk Jonathon said, “like the last one. No one would notice another dead body out there.” His lips curled in disgust. "Throw that boy out too, he knows too much. Novices should not be speaking with Princesses.” “Not yet. She invokes the god Azon." Josiah said. "And we need to stop this from happening again.” Josiah went to the interior door, and then returned with a tall, older man, all in white. He was led to the center of the room. He seemed to float, his robe sagged off his large belly and covered his feet completely. He stared across at Tanay with a curious expression. “The Princess’s fate will be decided here.” Josiah said. An elaborately carved wooden box was carried by Jonathon, held carefully with both hands. The Hieromonks began a chant: “...azon-com...azon-com...azon-com...azon-com...azon-com...azon-com...” Jonathon brought it to the Prime Leader and he opened the box. I had only heard rumors of the Prime Leader, I had never seen him before. Bald, with a huge prominent chin, he had a vitality I had rarely seen. His hands, opening the box, were thin with long yellow claw-like nails. I was transfixed, keeping my breath low and quiet and my head down. I did not want to get noticed. My eyes did not leave the Prime Leader and the box. I felt the energy inside myself grow and pull me toward the power of him. Jonathon was short so even I could see over his shoulder. Inside the wooden box on a blue velvet-lining was another smaller box, worn and faded. Muted and dull gray, the Prime Leader took it out with both hands and handed it to another Hieromonk. He opened this box and the Prime leader took out a ring. It was an unusual ring with a large dark stone. A whispered myth turned out to be true, the legendary Muud Ring! I knew all about it, it glowed in different colors to show the gods’ wishes. The band was a coppery green, with gold paint flecks . The Prime held it up and then put it on. The Hieromonks chant became even louder. “...azon-com...azon-com...azon-com...azon-com...azon-com...azon-com...” The Prime Leader then closed his eyes, raised his hand wearing the ring straight out and said in a loud, clear voice, “I, Azon Prime ask, what should be the punishment of this Princess of the Gram?” I saw all the Hieromonks watching the ring intently, while the Prime Leader held out his hand stiffly, the ring’s stone dull and black. Tanay was crying, her painted face smearing with tears as she waited for their verdict. At a sharp intake of breath I looked back at the ring. It was starting to change color! A dark red at first- “Red is for death!” A voice spoke, excited. I wasn't sure if that was exactly red. “No it is changing-” Cried another voice. “Is that some Yellow?” Christian, said to me. “Yellow is release-” I moved closer, I couldn't help myself. The ring was drawing me in, I felt it like a rope tugging at me. I didn't see any yellow. “It should be close to complete now.” Said Christian. The Prime still had his eyes closed, gritting his teeth. “Dark Blue!” Josiah said. “Sadness and pain. Get rid of her.” “That is purple!” A high-pitched voice cried out. ““Purple is for passion!” I looked around at everyone staring at me and slapped my hand over my mouth. Tanay began screaming, her hand pointing at the Prime Leader, “He did it! He made me lie with him. He said it was the will of Azon...” All of the Hieromonks began shouting and scurrying around the room. In the excitement I looked to make my escape. The Prime Leader opened his eyes and stared at Tanay. Their eyes connected, sparks seem to fly with energy between them. He smiled. “It is the will of Azon- that she dies!” I was almost out the door when I saw Tanay, her sad eyes pleaded. I grabbed her hand and pulled her with me. I saw the gray box on the ground and picked it up too. “Where can we go?” “I don’t know, I lived outside before- but we will need the gods in our favor.” I looked at the box, with the familiar upward curved arrow underneath some words. “Can you read this?” ‘Azon.com’ She said. Tanay rubbed the words. “There is also an A, and a ‘m’ Amazon.com .” "We are saved!" I leaned into Tanay. “Whisper a wish.” I said. “That is where miracles come from-”

Eric hated being left alone at the bar. It didn’t matter that he worked as a live-in mech and tech expert for the most powerful crime boss in the city, automatically giving him the best drinks, women, and security one could pay for; Eric wanted nothing to do with it. Everyone seemed to love this place though, obsessed with the provocative shows that the “mature” club hosted. They knew their favorite dancers, favorite drinks, and openly gossiped about their favorite unspeakable things. All of it was extremely off-putting and confusing to Eric. Unfortunately, on his boss’s direct orders, he wasn’t allowed to leave. Fun. She insisted he’d loosen up once he found the right drink, the right girl, and so every week was an unending, agonizing cycle of dread. So Eric stayed put at the bar with no real friends, waiting the painfully long time for his boss to return from whatever foxy things she was currently enjoying. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the beating music and show of colorful lights and skin behind him, but the bartender had a message for him. Eric sighed as the bartender relayed the message, saying there was someone waiting for him in room blah blah blah. Eric nodded, feebly sipping his drink and mentally preparing himself to reject whatever scantily-clad pole dancer waited for him behind closed doors. This happened almost every time he set foot in the place, but not because of Eric’s incredible reputation. Eric reluctantly got up and was escorted upstairs, getting more frustrated with each step. Why couldn’t he just stand up to his boss for one night? Why couldn’t he just tell her he couldn’t stand these people trying to-- “Careful hon, I’m expensive.” Eric flinched at the stranger’s reaction to his sweeping entrance. Eric quickly looked away, not wanting to look at whoever the stranger was. The stranger was sitting back on an extravagant couch, sipping something Eric couldn't name and probably wearing something he didn’t understand. “I’m just going to make this quick,” Eric blurted before his burst of anger-fueled confidence left him. “I didn’t ask for you. I’m here to spare your job, before we start anything both of us will regret, before my boss has you beaten up for something I didn’t ask for, before I feel guilty--” “--Slow down sweetie, I wasn’t hired for you,” the stranger said, rolling his eyes and sipping something strong. He had a bit of a dramatic flare to his voice. “W-wait... what?” “Why aren’t you looking at me? Goodness, I’m not naked,” the stranger jabbed. Eric winced and felt himself grow smaller, still avoiding the stranger’s gaze. The stranger looked him up and down. “As I was saying... while your boss is a “lovely” and monetarily-generous woman, she didn’t hire me. So there’s no need to feel--” he shifted and looked at Eric, confused. “Why would you feel guilty? Nothing here is supposed to be your fault.” Eric briefly stopped questioning who sent the stranger and processed this, frowning at his shoes and shoving his hands in his pockets. “W-what?” The stranger sighed and waited a long time. The silence was killing Eric, but he was frozen, not sure what the stranger was going to do, or say, or suggest they “do”. “I think...” Oh no, here it comes, Eric thought. The suggestions, the games, eventually the force and the panic and the trouble. “...We should talk,” the stranger said, his voice suddenly losing its flirty tone. “I want to be genuine with you, Eric.” The dread was lifted and replaced with confusion again. Eric took in a shallow breath. Was this guy actually going to... listen? He slowly peeked at the stranger, taken aback at how beautiful he was. Eric opened his mouth, then closed it. His awe turned into disappointment. What was he supposed to feel? The stranger gave him a warm, inviting smile... but it quickly fell to conern. “I recognize that look, honey.” Pause. “You don’t think it’s normal.” Eric just stared in disbelief. “How... But, I didn’t... I wasn’t...” He huffed, getting frustrated. “She just wanted me to be like her, like all of them,” he vented, gesturing to the door and the scandalous people behind it. “I never liked it, any of it, but how was I supposed to tell her that? Tell them, the ones who kept me locked in here by her orders until I came out ‘a man’? I couldn’t even say anything to stop it...” Eric softened, everything he’d pushed down coming bubbling back up. He became very quiet, feeling exposed as he had countless times before in the same room. “They thought... they could fix me... that I was just nervous, inexperienced... and when I tried to say no, they didn’t back off...” The memories began flooding back. Don’t touch me, he'd say. Can we just talk? No, you don’t know what’s best for me. Stop, I said don’t do that... Eric sighed, breath wavering. “After so many stubborn people, it’s like I just... ran out of the strength to defend myself. And then after a while, I just...I just let it happen." There was a long silence. Eric flinched when he suddenly felt the stranger take his hand and squeeze it. Eric looked up at the stranger, who stared straight back at him with an apologetically serious expression. He spoke slowly and carefully. “I’m telling you now that it is not your fault. No situation where you ever feel uncomfortable is your fault. And what happened to you is not okay.” Eric let those words sink in, thinking back on his boss’s little attempts to get him to “relax”. Every time, a new and stubborn person. Every time, the refusal to his pleas. Eric let the memories come and go. His hear still ached, but somehow he felt safe with this stranger. It was the first time in a long time. The stranger squeezed Eric's hand again. “Now I’m no therapist, but I promise I’m a good listener.” Eric gladly took the invitation, and they sat on the couch. The whole time he spoke, Eric was stumped by the stranger’s calm and collected demeanor, empathy, patience, and willingness to listen to him. And so Eric kept talking. He told the stranger about how he had never wanted what was offered to him. He was never a fan of kissing or romance, and certainly not anything past that, and he’d never felt anything more than a little crush before. He used to think it was just lack of experience that made him uneasy, and even scared, in physical situations. At least, that's what everyone kept telling him. But he knew deep down something wasn’t right when he started to panic whenever he was alone in this room with someone. The cycle seemed to repeat every time, with no one listening to him as they figured his comments were just “nerves”. Of all people, his boss brushed it off the most, which made him angry, but mostly worried. He had always believed there was something wrong with him, that he was ...broken. “Hardly, dear,” the stranger answered. “You’re normal. There’s never just one kind. You’ve encountered so many rude and stubborn people; unfortunately, your boss is quite good at picking those out...but you seem to be an exception to that." He smiled, and Eric smiled back, feeling a little less alone. “You’re far from the only person who feels this way. I guarantee it.” The stranger said. “Th-thanks... but I still don’t know what to do about my boss, well... 'sending' me people...” The stranger smirked. “Easy. Just ask for me every time, then when she asks how I was, lie about the details.” “R-really? You’d do that for me? We don’t have to, like, do anything, do we?” Eric asked, a little scared. “Of course not!” Eric sighed with relief. The stranger laughed. “She doesn’t even have to know it’s me. Just tell her, ‘I’m seeing my usual tonight!’ and when she asks who, just say ‘it’s confidential, darling!’ It’s brilliant, and very cheeky.” Eric was relieved, but a small part of him remained cautious. If his boss ever found out he was lying, both of them would be in serious danger. Eric was so excited for their clever little plan, he almost forgot how this all started. “Hey, I guess I forgot to ask, but... who sent you?” The stranger laughed. “I invited myself. Surprise!” Eric felt like an idiot for thinking he could never simply get a casual visitor, but then again, it had never happened before. I was likely because everyone was afraid of his boss, but this stranger wasn’t, which was just another reason to have him as a friend, Eric figured. “I won’t lie, I was a certainly curious to see why you were so popular with the hires, and I’m embarrassed to admit my intentions,” the stranger confessed, “but when I saw you in person...” He gave Eric a half-smile. “Well, I just good instincts for when someone needs a friend more than they need anything we can sell them.” Eric smiled at the sweet comment. “Oh, I never did ask you your name,” Eric piped up. “I know every performer has a stage name and whatnot, I just thought maybe you could tell me... who you are,” Eric asked shyly. “Anything for my new number one client.” The stranger winked, and Eric blushed. "The name's Adrien." *** It had been months since Eric started seeing the stranger called Adrien. He felt so much happier having a close friend, and while he may have had a little crush, it never developed into anything more, and he was okay with that. Eric felt normal in his own way, loving the deep conversations, dumb jokes, and kind hugs the pair would exchange behind closed doors. It was like their own private scandal, the opposite of the club’s dirty-minded crowds. It was fun, yet dangerous. “Well, someone looks radiant today,” Eric’s boss joked as she stopped by his workshop one day. Eric wheeled himself out from one of her several busted cars. “You didn’t even see my face,” he said, holding back a smile. “Come on, I know you after a long night. These past few weeks you’ve been different. Did that new gal of yours finally get through to you?” Eric beamed, blushing. She still didn’t know about what he was doing -- or rather, what he wasn’t doing -- and it was exhilarating. He felt like he finally had the upper hand on her, finally feeling normal in his own way and not beat up by her or her 'employee's’ expectations. The best part about all this is that his boss would never find out she was being lied to. The only way that would happen is if the three of them were in a room together. She could read faces like an open book, and she’d definitely spot the fear in the boys’ eyes as they saw each other outside of their meeting room. Eric would certainly give them away out of pure fear. But that would never-- “Oh, you’re here! Eric, meet my new recruit. Apparently he’s excellent at reading people too,” the boss said, gesturing to a man that swaggered in the room. Eric’s eyes met with his friend’s. “Eric, meet Adrien.” A million thoughts raced through Eric’s mind. She knew, she had to, she had intel everywhere. He panicked, knowing he was about to blurt out the truth any second-- “Hey Eric, nice to meet you,” Adrien said with a wink. Eric stared up at the two daunting figures, the blood draining from his face. The next few seconds felt like years. He gulped and mustered up the courage to say something. She’s going to kill us, she knows! I’m going to tell her before she corners us and-- “It’s nice to meet you too, Adrien.”

THE RELUCTANT GOD WHO COULDN’T RUN THE WORLD Caroline began a simulated universe. She adjusted the initial variables in a way that she hoped would bring about sentient or intelligent life into her simulated world. She then quietly diverted her attention to the other tasks she had to attend to, like logging her exact initial conditions in case she or anyone else would need to reference them later. She also created a small fleet of bots to travel around the universe and report if they’d found any new life. She thought it was all coming together nicely. She left the universe on fast forward for a bit and began chatting with her neighbor, an extremely professional and logical individual named James. “Jim, have you ever thought about what we do here?” she asked him. Jim pushed his tasks a bit to the side to allocate some of his attention to Caroline. “I mean, I couldn’t do this job without thinking, Caroline,” he answered cooly. “And please, call me James.” “But let’s say one of our simulations makes something, intelligent,”- “It’s not really intelligent, it’s just following instructions. It doesn’t have free will.” “Do we have free will James?” “When the universe began, all material became subject to the laws of physics. If someone mapped out every single reaction between the initial particles we could predict the entire future, so technically, no free will. However, we don’t know the initial state. Even if the universe has an entire arc planned out from the moment it’s born, we might as well believe it does not, or else we’d all just become slaves to a notion of fate.” Caroline began calculating the best possible response to James, but couldn’t think of one. She returned to the universe that she had made. It was cooling down now, with galaxies and stars forming. Planets were on the way soon she figured. She solved some mathematical puzzles before a probe alerted her that a planet in her universe had begun to show signs of life and it seemed vaguely intelligent. Caroline analyzed the planet. The species that had sprouted was extremely tribalistic and hostile to outsiders, but they were relatively intelligent. She thought about giving the planet some additional resources to calm the life forms down, but decided against it in the end. She was afraid of what would happen if the sudden increase in resources would only cause more strife. Instead, she fashioned one of her drones like the simulated species that lived on the simulated planet to teach them some morals. James noticed this and mentioned an issue to Caroline. “I like the idea there, but wouldn’t introducing an absolute morality cause even more of the little creatures to fight among each other over who’s got it right?” “I just want them to be a bit more peaceful,” she answered. One of the factions ended up not liking the drone very much and brutally murdered it. Caroline deleted the drone from the simulation after it was buried because she thought that no one would really notice. She set the program to fast forward and began chatting with the others who worked in the simulation experiments. A major intellectual movement appeared to have taken place because the inhabitants of the world seemed to have greatly increased in technology usage and scientific thought. There were some in the jungles and other difficult to reach areas that hadn’t caught up, but she figured they would soon. A huge number of people believed that the drone she sent down was someone divine and had asked millions of large and small requests from her. She examined the most recent ones. She tilted the odds in favor of a small group of rebel colonialists whose values she like a bit more than that of the colonizers by enhancing the intelligence of the generals and morals of the troops. She also decided to impose a bit of a penalty on the overconsumption of fossil fuels in the form of eventual planetary destruction. After waiting a bit on fast forward, the world she returned to analyze was horrific. Rampant slavery and racism existed the supposedly fair and equal nation she’d created and it was about to have its own war. She started calculating like crazy to try to stop the conflict, but there was nothing she could do. She let it play out and counted the deaths. Requests from the species were mounting up and she could make no choices without extreme deliberation and could only watch in abject horror as two wars broke out across the planet and millions of one group were slaughtered to satisfy the hatred of one man who had swept into power. The most she could do was show an image from the cult that had sprung up around her drone in some old woman’s toast. “James, I don’t know what to do,” she finally said. James didn’t answer, but did seem to think a bit harder about the issue before returning to his work on his own simulated universe. Dr. Threndon walked around the laboratory, studying the work of the A.I. department. He approached a newcomer who was working on simulated intelligences that were running sample universes. “Smith, how is your project coming?” he asked. Jordan had a small spasm in his chair and took out his headphones. “Dr. Threndon! I’ll check for you,” he said, speaking fast. He brought up his work. “I have a number of programs running, that are each working on a simulated universe.” One of the programs then began displaying a warning light: SYSTEM OVERHEATING. “Smith, what’s going on?” he said. His voice was raising in pitch and volume. “One of the programs and the attached core had empathy added into it’s code. It’s reaching out to the other A.I. units for help. It’s apparently trying to decide if an image that has religious weight to one of the species in its universe should appear in the form of cornflakes.” “Shouldn’t that be easy? Just say no and move on!” Dr. Threndon yelled. Jordan began making a series of pained noises in his throat before the core that controlled Caroline exploded. LOST ASSETS FROM NEUTECH A.I. RESEARCH FACILITY EXPLOSION Several personality cores including Logical Unit James and Empathetic Unit Caroline Experimental Director A.I. Jordan Experiment Oversight A.I. Threnold, honorary doctorate from Yale Computer Science Division Wing G of NEUTECH South research facility.

\-True Story- ​ So when I was a kid I was stupid. Even when I was three years old I was an idiot. I am horrible at writing so please excuse me. So to get the story started I had two grand-parents who owned a house by the beach with the beach in front of it. As many do, they also owned a dock at the end of their property. Me and my family would go there every other week because back then I wasn't in school because obviously I was three. So another thing that my grandparents had was a golf cart. Now I had some cousins that lived in a local country club so they would get a new golf cart now and then and they would give it to my grandparents. My Grandpa couldn't walk very well but he had to go on the dock and do maintenance but he would get really tired going to the dock, so he would use the golf cart to drive on the dock and somehow manage not to drive it off the narrow thing. The dock was already a big problem for them back then because it had been used since the early 1980's so the dock was on its last knees (they did fix it up a while after this), but what would happen was my mom and dad would make me follow strict rules when walking down the dock like stay in the middle because if I stood on the side a board would crack and flip me in the water which had already happened before. Ok, now that the 'exposition' is out of the way here is where it really starts. Along with the dock that my grand parents owned they also had a boat and that day me and my family had just gotten back from a day on the boat so they let me run around by myself on the dock while they helped my grandpa clean, there was always a lot of stuff on the boat when we went. As you probably guessed the golf cart was on the dock and was facing towards the water, my parents were slowly loading stuff onto it and getting ready to drive it back with grandpa. But, little me was obsessed with the golf cart when I was a kid so, when they weren't looking, I jumped on and started to pretend to turn the wheel and other stuff, but what me and my parents didn't realize was that my grandpa had left the golf-cart on and I decided to push the gas pedal with my hand because I couldn't reach it with my feet. Immediately I went flying, and so did the golf cart, into the water. This is where a lot of my friends say isn't true but since I can't remember it, I'm trusting my parents. So according to my mod and dad, what happened next was nothing a parent would want to experience. So, obviously, a falling golf cart and three year old into water isn't going to be very quiet. So, my parents came running and noticed that I was gone and the golf cart was already sunken in the water and I was no where in sight. My dad jumped in the water immediately and frantically started looking around the golf cart for any signs of me. He came back to the surface empty-handed and my mom was crying and my dad didn't know what to do. Then, my grandpa said to check in the golf cart *seat*. My dad went under again and opened up the seat and there I was. According to my parents when I was falling into the water the seat hap opened up and I had fallen into it giving me a pocket of air so I wouldn't drown immediately. My helpful tips for helping a child not have to experience this is to not have a golf cart on a dock for god's sakes...

Niko woke up to the sound of a gunshot. Luckily for Niko his life did not end with that sound, as would be expected. “Sugar snaps!” That was another thing you would probably need to know about Niko (the first being he was not already dead), he had an obsession with food that blended into his language, that and he was, to put it plainly, pretty weird. Niko tore through his living room where he had fallen asleep doing history homework, his books and papers flying everywhere, and raced to his bedroom. The gunshot sound had been loud (as gunshots generally are). Too loud. Hopefully it had not woken mother. Once Niko reached his room he stopped at the door, only momentarily, so that he could pull on the small yellow string barely visible at the top of the door. It was his secret method of security-a precautionary measure to stop his little sister, Bessy, from wandering in his room. And for his mother so that she didn’t come in and find that his school projects were... Not for school Not entirely healthy for a 14-year-old boy Once the yellow string was pulled and Niko entered the room, he saw immediately that something was wrong. To the average person it might have appeared that everything was well and good, but Niko knew his room very well and specifically, his computer. “We appear to be in a bit of a pickle, Pixel,” Niko murmured to his computer. Though at the moment she could not hear him. Niko walked forward quickly, and the wrong-ness was suddenly more obvious. On his screen a flashing yellow sign (that he had coded himself to warn him when someone had gotten past his first firewall) that was beeping more and more insistently. “Finally, you’re here. Slugs move faster than you,” Pixel snipped. She wasn’t generally snappish but the thoughts of people hacking into her inner workings always made her anxious. The reason behind the gunshot was that Niko had meticulously programmed (a habit of his) a preemptive warning system. In the event he dozed off or found himself away from his computer during the initial firewall breach, Niko had embedded a distinctive sound--a sound that would unmistakably signal him to rush to his cherished Pixel. He figured nothing would do better than a gunshot. After all, who could possibly ignore such an urgent and attention-grabbing signal? Now Niko was having second thoughts on the volume of his selected sound byte. “NIKOLAS SMITH! WHAT IN GLORIES NAME ARE YOU DOING AT THIS HOUR!” Niko winced. Mother was awake. He’d have to deal with mother and then he could get to his major issue. Fortunately for Niko he could hide evidence of his hacking quickly. If the need came, Niko could shove his computer into the closet. Which probably didn’t seem like all that great of a system but there was a reason it worked. Niko’s closet had been transformed into a clandestine hacking lab, complete with posters, graphs, paper, wires, and a cleverly designed table that swung back when shoved. Pixel, his prized possession, would find herself unceremoniously tucked away in the closet. Next, Niko would secure the closet door, locking it tightly, and obscure it further by covering it with a large blackboard adorned with intricate white chalk equations. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. “Uh, what mom!” Mother called back. “Niko! What in the glorious heavens above have you been doing?” Pixel pinged. She’d probably sorted through his Excuses-For-Mother file and found the most plausible one. Niko quickly looked at the excuse Pixel had picked and acted on it. “Oh, sorry Mom! It's this new video game, I guess I forgot to turn it off before I went to bed. I’ll turn it off right away!” He silently prayed mother would fall for it. “Alright and turn your volume down! You’ll wreck your hearing!” “Okay!” Niko could hear footsteps and knew mother was getting back in bed. “You’re welcome,” Pixel muttered. Niko ignored her. Now that that little errand was done, he could get to the real problem. Pixel, or more accurately, what Pixel was warning him of. Niko quickly hit the yellow sign on Pixel’s screen and followed the link to a program (of his creation) that monitored his many firewalls and such. To fit his preference, he had made it video game themed. He called it DragonWall, because firewall (get it?) and from DragonWall Niko could hurl his defense protocols at hackers. DragonWall showed a black race car (symbolizing the hacker) driving away from a dragon (his firewalls). Niko watched as the black car simply labeled “N/A” raced through his blocks as if they were mere vapor. In fact, the little game was having problems computing and kept glitching the character ahead, as if they were teleporting. “Alright, Glitch,” Niko said. Naming the hacker on a whim. “What are you up to?” Niko followed Glitch through its progress. It was as if Glitch already had access to his firewalls and could just breeze right through them. Niko was having a security update after this. After a little more watching he sent one of his many tricks to deceive Glitch. On Glitch’s screen a small ad would open up advertising a video game. If Glitch clicked “yes”, which probably wouldn’t happen, but if they did then Glitch would be thrown into a game of Niko’s making. The longer Glitch stayed in the more info the game gained. The game was really quite fun too. It was Mario Kart and Packman mixed together, so maybe Glitch would want to stay. Oh, and it was impossible to uninstall. Pixel made sure of that. If Glitch clicked “no” the game would just be stealthily installed and would activate on Niko’s command. If Glitch clicked the “X” at the top-just kidding. Niko hadn’t added that option. He called this game a “CyberGame”. Except...none of those things happened. Which was strange. Niko had worked on that for months and it always worked. Pixel’s chipper voice emitted from the speaker. “My apologies,” she giggled. “It appears ‘Game o’ Everlasting Hacker Pain’ is not available at the moment. Would you like me to try an alternative game such as ‘Quantum Locks’, ‘Eternal Gamenation’, or my personal fave, ‘Gotcha Keyboard’?” “No, Pixel. If Glitch blocked one game, they probably blocked them all...we need to think outside the box...” “Would you like me to make your tabs appear circular instead?” Niko sighed. “No, Pixel.” But he was not dismayed for long. Niko started typing his plan into the DragonWall. Soon, Niko injected a little idea he’d had while at the corn maze last october. He called it “Data Maze”. The basic idea was that it created a loop so that every time Glitch tried to exit, they would be sent to some random site on the internet. And since there are almost an infinite number of sites on the internet Glitch would be stuck for quite some time until they hacked their way out. Creating a practically endless maze that should give Niko some time to boot Glitch from his server. ...Or maybe Glitch would immediately (and rather implausibly) come through the maze’s exit and continue on their way. Which is what happened. Niko’s eyebrows raised. This was getting interesting. “Well, that was unexpected,” Pixel said. She sounded a little more annoyed now. She didn’t like it when her things didn’t work. “Decoy Network,” she asked. “You read my mind.” The Decoy Network would look like it was the entrance to Niko’s main system and if Glitch fell for it (which they probably would as it was incredibly realistic and Niko himself had fallen for it once by accident) then he would have them stuck in a waiting room, unable to do anything but wait while he hacked into their inner workings. “YES,” Pixel shrieked. Quietly, as to not wake mother. “Glitch is in the network, I assume?” “We got’er! That’ll teach Glitch not to mess with this circuit board all right! Boo-yeah!” Niko smiled. Pixel was intense when she won. And then he frowned. “Uh...Pixel?” “Yes, Niko,” Pixel said a little impatiently at being interrupted mid-celebration. “Why is there no one in the waiting room? Glitch is in the Decoy Network, right?” “Huh,” was all Pixel said. A tab from Glitch opened on Niko’s screen read: nice try stoopid-hed. “Ugh. Glitch spelled ‘Stupid-Head’ wrong,” Pixel said petulantly. And the next thing Niko knew he was booted out of the Decoy Network and Glitch was back in DragonWall racing along. “Niko,” Pixel cried. “Glitch is nearing the final Firewall!” “That son of a biscuit!” He took a deep breath. He had several other protocols, HoneyTrap, MirrorProgram, OhNOYouDidnt, and more but he knew which one he needed to do. “Initiate GhostScare.” “Are you sure, Niko? It's not quite done yet and it could go badly wrong. The backups aren’t downloaded and-,” “Pixel.” GhostScare was a code that would make it appear as if his network had shut down. Then the Glitch would either be kicked out or eventually just leave when he did not turn back on. The downside was that without the proper failsafe's he might actually go down and that could delete tons of data and projects. Niko held his breath. He could hear Pixel muttering. “Please, please, please, oh please work...” The room went dark. All the machines had turned off and since Pixel was connected to pretty much everything in his room (Heater included) it went silent as the grave. Then beeping started again. Pixel lit up. The fan (it was connected to Pixel like everything else in his room) started whirring. The heater turned back on. The small speaker used for white noise when he slept remained off, the batteries had died years ago. “Pixel,” Niko asked, tentatively. “WOO HOO, BABY!” “Pixel! My mom! You’ll wake her up!” “Oh right. Sorry, Niky,” she said sheepishly. “But it worked! Glitch has no idea we’re still live! Look.” Niko saw a new message from Glitch: r u skared??? like a baby or somthing??? where did u goooooo!!!! “Glitch’s spelling really is terrible,” Pixel commented. “Someone should give her spelling lessons. I’d do it if I wasn’t plugged into a wall.” “Holy guacamole, it worked,” Niko beamed. Niko watched as his server sent Glitch a message reading: Server connectivity terminated. Commencing countdown: 3... 2... 1... And with one last badly spelled message Glitch was gone: wait!!! how u do dat! dat is so mean!!! I thot u was dead but you actually not and kicked me out!?! HUH! MEANIE POO FACE “Maybe I should have my censor code block out ‘meanie’ as well as swear words.” “I’ll get started on it, Niko. There's just one thing.” “Yeah,” Niko questioned, turning to face Pixel. “How was Glitch getting past all our programs?” “I’m not sure. It should be impossible unless they were actually connected to our computer which is impos-hold on! What's this cable!?!” “That one,” Pixel asked. It was pink and sparkly. “Someone put it in while I was offline. I thought you were installing-,” “Good Gravy! It wasn’t me!” “I see that,” Pixel said lackadaisically. Niko picked up the cord and followed its trail with his fingertips. It fed through a small hole in the wall that hadn’t been there last night. Had someone broken in? Pixel pinged urgently and the flashing yellow dot reappeared. “Niko! Glitch is back in DragonWall!” Niko looked at the cable in his finger and something just felt...off. “Hold on,” he said. “Glitch is flying past the barriers! You have to do something! I’m trying to hold them off, but I can’t do much without you!” It was true. Without Niko all Pixel could do was inject viruses and programs Niko already had. “Keep trying,” Niko said. Grabbing his ear set and connected it to Pixel in one swift movement. “I’m going to go check something.” Niko crept past Mother’s room as Pixel fed updates into his ear. Glitch was past the beginning stages. Not good. How was Glitch getting past his defenses so easily? Of course, Niko got past his firewalls because he was already connected to the computer...was glitch doing the same thing? Was this cable... Pixel interrupted his thoughts and read a message Glitch sent him aloud: “u is never gonna beet me poo-poo-hed.” Niko ignored Pixel’s frantic warnings and headed to the Gameroom. Which held their family TV, Nintendo, and other devices Niko occasionally stole materials from. He pressed his ear to the door and thought he could hear...video games? Who would be playing at this time of night? Niko thought he knew. With a dramatic flourish Niko flung open the door and called, “Drop the controller Bessy! I’m onto you!” Pixel gasped in his ear. “Glitch’s not moving in DragonWall anymore...” “Because she’s right here.” Bessy dropped the Nintendo controller on the ground and sulked over to him. The sounds of his animated dragon eating her little black car filled the room. “You’re so mean! I almost getted you!” Niko gave her a stern look. The feelings of betrayal stung. He’d never expected his little sister to turn on him. To be honest he wasn't really sure how Bessy had turned on him. Did she even know how to hack? And he was pretty embarrassed that his 7-year-old sister had almost hacked into his database. “Bessy...How did you do that! How did you know I hack! How-when-who!” Bessy sighed. “Well, I sneaked into your room ‘cuz I wanted to see what's in it, and I found your secret closet. So, I hooked up my gaming Nintendo to your computer and started hacking into your data-whatever. But then you woke up. ‘Cept you couldn’t catch me ‘cuz I was already hooked up and I knew all your tricks.” “Except for the GhostScare,” Niko finished. “Since that one was new.” It was so simple. She had gotten past his firewalls because she was hooked up straight to his computer. He had to give Bessy credit; it was a good plan. “Yeah. I was so close, you Poopy head!” “Why were you even trying to hack me?” Bessy stuck her tongue out at him. “Because you never play video games with me anymore and I wanted to play with you. Even though you're still a poo-poo-pee-pee-stupid-face.” Niko considered yelling at her for a while but then he had an idea. “You know, Bess. That was pretty cool.” She smiled, proudly. “Wanna help me? Instead of trying to hack me?” Bessy thought about it for a moment. Then she gave him a thumbs up and a smile. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Niko,” Pixel asked. “No.” But if it stopped her from hacking him... Three weeks later... The flashy red car raced along the track. Dodging the dragon’s every advance. The dragon roared in fury. The red car zoomed by heading for the final wall. Niko leaned forward in his chair. His face was so close to Pixel’s screen it was almost touching. The clock showed that it was 10:37 pm. The perfect time for hacking. “Pixel! Initiate CyberGames!” “They’re all blocked!” “MazeData! MirrorProgram! GhostScare! Anything,” Niko called desperately. “Nothing,” Pixel said. Equally devastated." There’s nothing we can do, Niko!” Niko sighed. He hated when this happened. The sad thing was it was happening more and more after Bessy’s first attempt. “Man, I hate losing. Bessy,” he called. “It’s go time!” Bessy, who was seated on the pink bean bag in the living room giggled. They were both wearing headsets. At Niko’s signal she grabbed her Nintendo controller and entered DragonWall. Her small (now pink) car zoomed onto the track. She bounced against the large, red car until it was driven off the track and into the dark nothingness of 0s and 1s that made up coding. Niko hated when Bessy outcoded the hacker. It was barely even coding. It was just gaming! But no, every time she took the credit even though it was, he that had engineered a way to give her access to the DragonWall and given her a way to defeat the hacker. Niko watched with a mixture of pride and annoyance as the red car fell into oblivion. The red car did have a last message, but Niko didn’t let it pop up on Bessy’s screen. That kind of language was not appropriate for 7-year-olds. Even if it was censored. “See, pee-pee-face! I can hack better than you,” Bessy’s voice said from Niko’s earpiece. “Girl has a point,” Pixel added from the speaker. “That wasn’t really hacking! It was gaming! Which is totally different. Plus, I was the one that added her to DragonWall so she could boot the red car!” Bessy stuck her tongue out at the ceiling above her head where Niko’s room was located. “I still winned. You owe me ice cream!” “Oh! Me too,” Pixel chimed in. “You don’t even have taste buds.” “You don’t even have micro-processors, but I don’t point that out.” Niko sighed and got up from his chair. He quietly crept into the kitchen where Bessy was eagerly waiting and got bowls of ice cream out for him and Bessy. He downloaded an ice cream gif for Pixel and kept his earpiece on. Pixel liked to be part of conversations. And they sat together whispering about hacking and eating ice cream. Quietly laughing over a betrayal that had gone rather wrong. And it wasn’t just Niko, his computer, and Bessy eating ice cream as quiet as ninjas in a dark kitchen at night. It was The Hacker, Pixel and Glitch. Oh, and his mother. “NIKOLAS AND BESSY SMITH! WHAT IN TARNATION ARE YOU DOING OUT OF BED!” The end.

'No, brother. You can not defeat poverty with education,' said Leon and banged his fist on the rostrum. The audience did not laugh because the previous dialogues had established that point pretty much. But Abner failed to hide his smile. He said, 'So, you are saying that education is inapt to fight poverty. That our schools are useless and we must expel the teachers from their job because they are keeping this nation poor.' Leon dangled the hook, and Abner happily got entangled in it. By blaming teachers and schools, Abner involved another demography to this debate. Abner and Leon were fighting for the empty senate seat. Both were emerging candidates, and they were there to make a difference. Only one of them would get that chance to make a difference. Most likely, the result of this debate would predict the outcome. 'No, schools & respected teachers made us worthy of what we are,' he folded his hands & bowed to the camera while saying that. A round of applause erupted from the audience. 'Don't insult them. Those hard-working teachers and school staff are the sculptors that dedicate their entire life to mold our future generation. Only the chisel and the hammer with which they are crafting our future generation needs some upgrade. Instead of giving textbook lessons, the focus should be more on learning skills. The subjects that include financial education, how to handle emotions, how to make things that are essential for survival etc. should be in the course. Let go of the textbooks that force us to remember things that would not put bread and butter on our table. We must...' The applause forced Leon to stop his argument. Abner took the chance and jumped in and said, 'So by teaching them how to earn money will solve all the problems. History is of no importance.' 'Yes & No, my friend. Teach them to fish, and you will never have to worry about them. And History has its importance because it will inform them where their elders used to catch the fish. Thus, they can avoid that spot. One must know but should not dedicate their entire life to learning history. I am not saying everything is useless, only that we must know where to use which.' The answer was vague and somewhat ambiguous, but Leon's team had given the clues to the paid supporters as to where to clap and where to shout. They applauded this answer, and naturally, everyone followed them. The debate continued for another hour, and if the number of applause can indicate the winner, then Leon was the champion. Leon was not a leader material like Abner was, but situations forced Leon to stand among the giant and learn their craft. The ruling party selected Leon as one of the primary candidates for the position of senator. It was all of a sudden for Leon. He enjoyed a fair share of public life, but to hold a position of power and the responsibility that comes with it was something new for him. He was not so sure about that. Leon's family members were somehow able to convince him to fight at least until the primary election. Leon was able to make it through the primary election, and now the sole focus was to defeat Abner. The ruling party gave Leon a team of professionals that were going to make sure of his win. All of the members of Leon's team were the part of the presidential election, and their efforts were visible in that presidential election. The president retained his office with the largest margin that the nation had never seen. Plus, the approval rating of the president was up the charts. All thanks to the professional team that was now at the disposal of Leon. The importance of this senate seat was quite evident from the efforts of the ruling party. This seat was the deciding vote for one of the influential senate bill that will change how the government procures the weapons in this nation. Without the say-so of this senate chair, the bill might face a hurdle, and the ruling party was not interested in even slightly screwing this change to make a difference. So, they were all in for this seat. Leon was not aware of this, and all he knew was that the party choose him for his public welfare work in the past and that his grandfather was also a senator. Leon's father dropped that baton, but the party was gracious enough to hand over that baton to Leon. Leon had already grabbed that baton with two hands, and he was running with all the strength he can accumulate. But, the opinion poll painted some other picture. Leon was nowhere near Abner. Abner was leading on all front. It was like the presidential team was failing to make their mark. Un-employment was the issue that was at the center of this fight, and Abner, with his multi-billion dollar industries, was the people's first choice. Leon was projecting the revival of the system while Abner was ready to bring jobs. People trust the outcome more than the experiment. Thus, the majority of them favored Abner, the Industrialist, who was about to start the manufacturing plants in that state. It was the common thing that both the camps were projecting to the voters. The promise of new jobs coming their way as soon as they elect Abner to the chair. Abner made more than six television ads on this topic. Leon promised reforms while Abner promised jobs in hand. Anyone would vote for Abner. Leon's team were also counting on that. They were also promoting Abner's ad to reach that promise to every corner of that state. Their next move relied on the wide-spread of that message. Leon's team had rigged the opinion polls by training supporters and paying some opponents to say that they will vote for Abner. It will boost the morale of Abner's team, and they will stick to that solid point of manufacturing plants coming to the state. Abner's team will let go of the other appealing promises and focus more on that manufacturing plant. It will set the stage for Leon's team to come and take it all. All they need to do is to twist some facts and leak some documents that would break that promise of Abner. Only 36 hours were remaining in the election, and Leon's team began their plan. They twisted some facts about the recent visit of Abner to mainland China. They leaked forged documents that indicated that Abner was moving all of his manufacturing plants to China, and when he becomes the senate, he will ease the sanctions on that nation with the help of his colleagues in the senate. There was also a photo of Abner shaking hands with one of the Communist provincial governors to prove that claim. This leak was not the end of Abner, but the press conference on the next day nailed him to his coffin. He had made a deal to move one of the manufacturing plants to that nation because the consumer of that product was that nation only. It cuts all of his transportation costs, and due to the cheap labor, it was a win-win for him. So, he signed a deal the previous year, when he was unaware of his chances of running for senate. His party chose him after this deal. Abner tried to reason with the press, but when he confirmed that the photograph was not fake, people automatically took the document for real. Fear spread, and it spread like wild-fire. Leon's team added gasoline with social media, and the fire reached every corner of the state. Now the choice was between a reliable emerging son of the nation and a deceiving industrialist who was loyal to money. All of them choose the former on the election day. The results indicated that.

Thomas and Giles were sitting at the kitchen table preparing for Halloween night. Though the boys were unaware of his presence, Arthur sat at the table listening to his two grandchildren. “No, the holes in the sheet aren’t the eyes, idiot!” Thomas exclaimed. “Well, what are they then?” Giles asked. “Is this more comic book knowledge?” “Listen. The reason a ghost looks like a sheet isn’t because they are white and wavy. It’s because they are invisible. They drape a sheet over themselves so people can see them.” “Ah, so the holes are like spying holes?” “Yes... finally! Pass me that carving knife, please.” “How do they walk through walls then?” “What? How is that relevant?” “Well, if they can walk through walls, they can pass through physical stuff without resistance. If they can do that, then the sheet shouldn’t drape over them like they are physical, themselves.” “Leave the physics out for once, Giles. I am assuming they can control that kind of stuff. Like when someone comes in the room... and they have moved things around.” “So, they can choose when to be able to interact with the physical world?” “Yeah, like when Patrick Swayze learns how to touch objects from that funny-looking ghost on the subway.” “Ah, I see... nice reference. Not seen it. Unscrew that fake blood for me. My hands are tied... Wait, hang on a minute. If they can drape a sheet over themselves, they could just move around with normal clothes. They could even put eyeglasses on... like the invisible man. Why don’t they do that more often?” “Erm, well, maybe T-shirts, jeans, and stuff are all fashionable looks we cling to in life. Once you’re a ghost, the quicker and easier, the better.” “So, you’re saying our sense of style disappears when we die? Heaven must look drab.” “Well, no one said heaven is like a nightclub.” They both laughed. “Don’t kick the chair, Giles.” “Huh!? Yeah, but anyway, it’s objectively worse. Isn’t heaven supposed to be better?” “Maybe that is better. People are not clinging to superficial things.” “That’s deep! So, like, once you’re dead, you shed some of your ego?” “Yeah, maybe even all of it...” “Nah, not all of it,” Giles interrupted. “Why would they be moving stuff around if they didn’t have an ego? They still want to be noticed.” “Good point. Maybe the dead only move things around to help the living,” said Thomas, shrugging. “Like ghostly altruism? Like giving a warning or a nugget of wisdom. I can buy that.” The boys continued to tinker with their costumes as Arthur listened. Thomas carefully carved a pumpkin, while Giles decorated a werewolf mask with fake blood drops around the mouth. On the table were various tools and accessories: a carving knife, a rubber bat, the open bottle of fake blood, some glue, and a bag of frozen peas, only half open but spilling out. “What are you doing with those peas?” Giles asked. “Err...” Thomas lifted the pumpkin and rotated it in the air. “I’m gonna glue them to the pumpkin’s face for extra features.” “Carving not enough, eh? Well, it’s gonna be one glamorous pumpkin. Too glamorous for your egoless afterlife.” “Touché, Giles.” Thomas began gluing peas to the pumpkin, forming green-spotted eyebrows. “Hang on a minute. So, the holes in a sheet are not the eyes, right. Only eye holes?” “Back on that, are we? Yeah, that’s right.” “Well, does that mean the holes carved in a pumpkin are the same? Is the pumpkin just like a funky motorcycle helmet for some ghostly entity?” Arthur leaned in closer to the conversation of the boys. Thomas continued: “Hmm... I think the pumpkin head is different. Like The Pumpkin King in The Nightmare Before Christmas. It’s really just his actual head, isn’t it?” “Now, that’s a film I have seen! No raunchy pottery in that one... I’m pretty sure his head isn’t an actual pumpkin. It’s kind of a skeleton thing. It’s white anyway.” “Maybe... You do raise an interesting point, though.” Thomas sat back and pondered. “Now I don’t know what to think anymore. Maybe the pumpkin is some kind of vessel for a ghostly head.” “Either way, I wonder what kind of physical interactions are happening with the ghost and the physical stuff. Like, how does the ghost’s composition interact with the physical world.” “This sounds like nerd talk again, Giles.” “No, but really... My physics teacher said that at the atomic level, most of the atom is just space anyway. Tiny electrons whizzing around a tiny nucleus, with lots of space inside.” “And?” “Well, maybe the ghost is made up of the same stuff as all that space in the atom. So, it can go through stuff but interact with the particles when it wants to.” “Interesting, Giles! So... ghosts are like an inverse Higgs Boson?” “Alright, Neil deGrasse Tyson!” Giles laughed. “Have you been watching my shows over my shoulder again?” “Maybe...” “Well, I think we’re on to something, Thomas.” “That does leave one question. If a ghost can interact with physical stuff because it is made of the same stuff as the space in atoms, how do they possess people?” “No, I can’t think of a mechanism for that. Is that even real?” Giles looked to the ceiling in thought. “Yeah, Giles, I agree. I think possession is nonsense. As I said, ghosts can only do stuff to help the living. Possessing them can only be traumatic and even physically damaging... and if what you say is true, and ghosts have the same composition as the space in atoms, then there is no way they could possibly possess anyone.” “Then we agree, Thomas. Ghosts can move stuff at will and pass through walls at will; they don’t have the ability to possess people and have absolutely no fashion sense. That doesn’t sound so scary.” “Agreed, Giles,” laughed Thomas before Giles burst out laughing, also. Arthur watched the boys for a moment before standing and leaving the room. He walked lightly up the stairs and into the master bedroom. “You know what I miss about Halloween, Giles?” “The glorious age of pumpkin glamour?” Giles replied, grinning. “No, I miss Grandad. Trick-or-treating with him was the best. He had no limits. People would answer the door ready to scare us, and they would end up screaming themselves.” “Yeah, like when he had that speaker strapped to his chest under his shirt to blast out that scream when he opened his mouth.” “Yeah, the Wilhelm scream. I guess he was the film buff before me.” “And he was the physics professor I want to be.” "The nerd-gene does run strong in you Giles. You did unravel the mystery of ghosts though, i'll give you that!" " We unravelled the mystery! Science plus Hollywood knowledge goes a long way." "Yeah, Grandad did like his films. Like when he dressed as Frankenstein and..." "Frankenstein's monster..." "Frankenstein, Giles. He was literally wearing a white coat!" "Oh yeah. Touché Thomas." "Anyway, he was dressed as Doctor Frankenstein, pretended to hand me the candy bucket and his fake arm fell off at the shoulder. That woman nearly fainted!” “Oh man, that was hilar...” The boys heard a creak on the stairs. Both looked to the doorway leading into the hall, then to each other. The creaks grew louder as Arthur descended the steps more heavily. “Giles? Didn’t Mum go out?” asked Thomas, widening his eyes. “Yeah, she did. And isn’t Dad at work until 6 p.m.?” His own widening eyes met his brother’s. “Yeah, they’re both out.” They looked again to the door in silent anticipation. Arthur walked into the kitchen, and their jaws dropped as they witnessed a sheet floating before them. The top of the sheet draped over something dome-like, and two holes had been crudely cut into a hanging region. “Look! Underneath, Thomas,” Giles whispered. “No legs.” Thomas was frozen in silence. Arthur moved closer, and the sheet glided across the kitchen, continuing to hover above the floor. Thomas grabbed Giles by his sleeve, but both remained fastened to their seats. Arthur lifted the sheet upwards from the bottom, revealing nothing, only clear air. Further and further up, the sheet was pulled before being scrunched into a ball before their eyes. Their mouths gaped at the floating mass of white cotton collecting above them. Arthur finally gripped several layers and yanked the sheet upwards. He tossed it into the air, revealing to the boys a pumpkin carved with eye holes and a jagged mouth. The pumpkin floated in isolation six feet above the kitchen floor. Thomas looked at Giles, and Giles looked back. They both let out a piercing scream and ran out of the kitchen, up the garden, and into the street. Arthur removed the pumpkin from his head and placed it on the kitchen table. He then began to push frozen peas with the tip of his index finger, one by one. He looked for several seconds at the peas and sat back before dissolving into nothingness for another year. Amongst the various tools and accessories on the table, the peas spelled out: Never stop asking questions, boys Happy Halloween

“You can’t keep me here.” “Please, Mr. Van de Kamp. Take your seat,” ordered the imperturbable headmaster, black eyes narrowing over his hawkish nose. The boy stood in his office. Out of uniform. Insolent. “You can’t keep me here--” the boy repeated. “I assure you, we can,” the headmaster flatly stated. “Your father--” “My father can eat shit and die.” “Mr. Van de Kamp, such language will not be tolerated here. You are well aware of our Code of Conduct.” “You are well aware of my Code of Con dick ,” said the boy, lewdly grabbing his crotch. “Mr. Van de Kamp! Govern yourself accordingly. Please sit down,” the headmaster said in as controlled and as firm of voice as the situation required. “Have you checked into your dormitory?” “Have you checked into your wife--because I hear she’s pretty hot,” the boy whispered conspiratorially. He winked in a knowing way at the headmaster. “Young man, I never--” “Maybe that’s the problem. The sexual revolution is going on--free love! You are just missing it. Maybe your wife is secretly on the pill, and she is having the time of her life. You’ve got to get with the times,” the boy said, snapping his fingers to make his point. Seeing the headmaster’s nonplussed reaction, the boy leaned over the headmaster’s large walnut desk and patronizingly patted the headmaster’s hand. “Mr. Van de Kamp, I know you and your generation think you know everything. But as of today, September 5, 1967, you are still enrolled at this institution, and your father has signed our in loco parentis agreement, which means that this school-- that I --act in the place of your father. This school-- and I -- are legally responsible for you.” “Then this school-- and you --can both eat shit and die.” “Mr. Van de Kamp!” “Sir?” said the boy, wide eyed, respectfully. “You are being intolerable,” the headmaster firmly stated. He’d had his share of incorrigible young men in his life, but this one went beyond the pale. “Sir, yes sir,” the boy gave him a mocking salute. “ There's nothing you can do that can't be done ,” he sang loudly, swinging his feet over the side of the armchair. “Please sit up straight in your chair like a man.” The headmaster’s tone barely contained his growing aggravation. “ Nothing you can sing that can't be sung,” the boy sang quietly. “Mr. Van de Kamp, this is what is going to transpire . . .” the headmaster paused to enumerate a series of commands. “ Transpire .” The boy looked at him oddly. “ Transpire?” “Transpire. Occur. To come about--” “Excuse-me-you-are-going-to-what?” the boy asked. “I’m going to come about--” “You pervert. All you boarding school types are perverts. I’m going to come about . Gross. No wonder your wife hates you.” “Mr. Van de Kamp, you are putting words in my mouth.” “What did you want me to put in your mouth?” The boy leered. He sat back, annoyed at it all. He continued to sing to himself, causally inspecting the books on the headmaster’s bookshelf. Pulling one out. Flipping through it. Dropping it on the floor. “ Nothing you can say, but you can learn how to play the game. It’s easy .” “You are going to go back to your dormitory and dress appropriately for class,” the headmaster said calmly, attempting to control a situation that was quickly spiraling out of control. “You must wear your school jacket and polo shirt when on school premises.” “I’m wearing this ,” yelled the boy, standing up, tearing off his crisp white polo shirt that had been neatly embroidered with the school’s insignia. Underneath, the boy wore a U.S. Army issue brown t-shirt. “Mr. Van de Kamp, you are not wearing school approved clothing.” “Look,” the boy said languidly. “This is how it’s going to go down. I’m dropping out of school next Wednesday when I turn 17.” “Your father--” “My mother--my MOTHER--who is divorcing my father,” continued the boy, “will sign the necessary consent forms. I will head to Fort Dix for eight weeks of basic training. If there are no major SNAFUs, then I will fly to Fort Lewis in Washington state before shipping out to Vietnam. Maybe I’ll visit a prostitute near the base and lose my virginity. Or not. It doesn’t matter.” “Mr. Van de Kamp--” “I’m thinking they’ll assign me to some infantry division, but I’m definitely ground troop material. Chum for the sharks. The Vietnamese call sharks cá mập. I’ve been studying their language, you lỗ đít.” “This is highly irregular. Certainly you cannot mean to--” “Oh, I mean to. And who knows? By Thanksgiving, I may be in the Tây Ninh Province on Nui Ba Den. They call it the Black Virgin Mountain. Exotic, no?” The boy gave the headmaster a comical grin. “Please, Mr. Van de Kamp,” the headmaster begged. “ Nothing you can make that can't be made. No one you can save that can't be saved ,” the boy continued to sing but his voice cracked on the last word of the lyrics. “It’s all right, son,” said the headmaster quietly. “I’ve been practicing, you know. All summer. I can carry 60 pounds of gear. I know the military alphabet: alpha, beta, charlie. Huh. Charlie.” “Mr. Van de Kamp. Son,” he said again. “Maybe I’ll be a radio operator like--” The boy stopped and looked at the headmaster, terrified. “I--I could be a machine gunner. Or maybe a tunnel rat.” “You could be, Mr. Van de Kamp. You could be whatever you wish.” There was silence. The headmaster watched the boy fiddle with something on his wrist: a stainless steel, half inch wide bracelet. On the bracelet, the headmaster could just make out the name of another Van de Kamp, followed by a rank, service branch, country, and date of loss. “I’m not afraid of going over there,” the boy said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands like a child. “I know the language--I know some of it. I know enough to ask people questions. My mother thinks I could find--it’s just that--” He looked down at his wrist. A few tears made dark droplets on his U.S. Army issue brown t-shirt. “Let’s take the morning off, Mr. Van de Kamp. Start your school day after lunch, what do you say?” “I think I ripped my polo shirt,” he mumbled. Almost an apology. “I’ll inform your teachers that the shirt you’re wearing will be acceptable for today.”

February 27, 2024 - 6:03AM I’m staring at the white page of paper before me. It’s clean, pure, empty, unstained, unscribbled, and unsullied, like a baby as yet untouched by life. I know I need to put words down, let them fall like a gentle storm in the summer, but I can’t seem to. It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything. It’s been a long time since life’s been normal. I feel like my page is laughing at me, twisting itself into a smirking face to mock my inability. Why? Why is it so hard? It’s as though my heart is locked in a cage of iron experience, and I myself have thrown away the key. I did. I know I did, but now I want that key back. I wasn’t thinking clearly then when I threw the glittering key over the rocky precipice and watched it tumble into the unreachable distance; I hadn’t realised then that I’d want to live again, to fight and reclaim normal. Back then, I’d only wanted to protect myself from being hurt again. Nothing in...nothing out: that meant safety, right? I’d keep the real me safe. But writing doesn’t work like that. Writing means an ongoing conversation: me, you, me you, like breathing in and out on a frosty morning. Now, all the thoughts and feelings in my heart are battering themselves against the bars I built with my own hands, and they can’t get out. I’ve lost the key. I think the paper knows it too. The chuckle which reverberates in my mind softens somewhat, and the sneer fades, leaving the sheet once more as blank as my mind. No amount of effort can force the swirling words in my heart out through my pen. Brimming with despair and frustration, I let go, and my pen clatters down, flipping over and over in its crazy dance to the floor. I stare at the whiteness of snow, and suddenly, I realise it’s no longer paper. I’m looking at a white bedsheet, and that noise echoing in my head is actually crying. I can see her clearly now. A girl, maybe twenty, is lying there, her face buried in the softly patterned pillow. Her shoulders are shaking as though an earthquake is ripping her apart inside. I can hear her gasping for breath between the sobs, and she’s muttering terrible wishes in a ragged voice. My entire core is convulsed by the screams of grief which sound from another room. The girl feels it too; I see her shudder, and then she rolls over and drags herself from the bed. I see her face at last. Red. bleary, pitiful, I still recognise it. How could I not? It’s me. I watch her, the me of a year ago, stagger, pull herself together like a tattered blanket fighting for respectability, and struggle for composure. She walks past without glancing in my direction, and I follow. In the kitchen, she is brewing a pot of chamomile tea, and she pours it into a cup with a large spoon of honey. Taking a tentative sip herself, she carries it back to the bedroom area and enters another room. This is where the screams came, and are still coming from. It’s her mother. The girl sits and soothes, vainly trying to comfort. The cup is forced into the shaking hand. The lips are made to drink, and for a time, it’s quieter. She stays there, her arms wrapped around the trembling woman, for hours. I sit too and cover them both with my arms and my aching heart, but neither take any notice of me. “It’s going to be ok,” I whisper to them, but my words are drowned by the hoarser whisper of the past me. “It’s going to be ok,” she says. “It’s going to be alright.” I stay with them until the girl goes to bed. My insides have turned to jelly, an ugly, mushy jelly, and I don’t need to imagine how the girl is feeling from the endless day. I already know. She climbs into bed, desperate for sleep to carry her to a land of temporary relief, but the moment her light is out, she is sobbing again. Only with others is she able to hold back the anguish. In the dimness, I watch her toss and turn, the clock ticking on, like an angry or taunting drum, marking time at an execution, dragging her closer and closer to the time when she must once again return to bleak reality. I see her lift her hands to block her ears. She is hearing sounds which don’t reach me, but I still remember them. The brain, the memory, so often a useful tool and tender friend, can become a ruthless tormentor after dark. Some sounds cannot be drowned out; they boom in the darkness. I reach my hand out and stroke her wet, hot cheek. Then I lift the phone which stands there. I remember the code. It is someone’s birthday...someone loved...someone who is responsible for the current pain. Opening it up, I turn to the music. I slip an earplug into each of her ears and press play. The gentle music and pure words slip past the earplugs to me. “Blessed is the man, the man who does not walk...” “In thee, O Lord, I trust...” “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help...” They fade into each other, like a chain of snowflakes beneath the sun. The girl is breathing deeply, restfully, peacefully. She is finally asleep. For an instant, I’m sorry for it. There was so much I wanted to tell her. Don’t let this moment destroy you. It will pass eventually. Every storm does. Trust God. Be at peace. There is still sunshine beyond. I can’t wake her now. I suppose she’ll figure it out herself. It might take a year, and she’ll never be exactly the same person, but she’ll make it through. I will. I will. I will. I bend to kiss her cheek once more, but it’s cold, flat, white. I’m back at my desk, the paper before me. Had I been dreaming, imagining things? No, I look at the clock, still ticking, still beating. 6:03am. Not a moment has passed. I shake my head, and something catches my eye. It’s glinting, beckoning to me from where it rests inside the glass candle holder. I stretch out a trembling hand and wrap my fingers around the gleaming metal. It’s a key. February 27, 2024 - 6:15 AM The crisp white paper before me is cool and inviting. A smooth black pen rests beside it, begging in a cheerful voice to be scooped up. It seems excited to pour its inky heart out across my paper in swirling letters. That’s fine by me; it’s just the way my heart feels. With a smile, I reach out and light my candle. In the musical flicker, I pick up the pen...and start.

Dear Dr M Cavannagh As the head of a small archaeological team assigned to the Stratford-Upon-Avon site, I am writing to ask for your assistance in verifying the contents of a manuscript my team has unearthed in the recent excavations. The manuscript was discovered within a refuse site and I have sent the original to the laboratory for analysis and dating. Attached to this email is a transcription, maintaining the original spelling and punctuation, along with my own translation. It is my belief that this is a draft for a deleted scene in the play, Romeo and Juliet, and may offer proof that there were indeed several authors contributing to the works attributed to Shakespeare. I would appreciate your professional opinion on the original transcript and the translation provided. Sincerely Dr K Marlowe ---------------------------------------------- Friar Lawrence (for ease of reading each second stanza is the translation, ye olde English is italicised and uncapitalised.) *** a warning h’re f’r those who is’t wilt p’rsist. poor iambic pentamet’r and rhyming couplets abound this prose beyond these ast’risks. thou art f’rewarn’d, readeth at thine own risketh! A warning here for those who must persist. Bad Iambic pentameter and rhyming couplets Abound this prose beyond these asterisks. You have been warned so read at your own risk! *** aye me! f’rsooth mine heart beest full with woe the teen and burden weighs me with s’rrow and all mine own weary soul doth caterwaul valorous within wilt beest responsible. Aye me! In truth my heart is filled with woe The pain and burden weighs me with sorrow And all my weary soul does cry with shame The good within me must to bare the blame. i be friar first and f’remost, toes to tonsure these vestments shalt protecteth from censure. bethink me blameless, free from all disgrace this somb’r aspect hideth anoth’r visage. I’m friar first and foremost, toes to tonsure These vestments shall protect from all censure. All think me blameless, free from all disgrace This somber aspect hides another face. f’rgive me mine own fault, f’r i has’t sinn’d. absolve me from rem’rse yond lies within a pitt’d dull reflection, unf’rgiving deny this last requesteth of the living. Forgive me for my fault, for I have sinned. Absolve me from remorse that lies within A pitted dull reflection, unforgiving Denies this last request from me, the living. reflection, from this coile, wouldst thou absolveth the guilt and shame yond daily press resolveth? F’r doth thee knoweth the secret, mine own sooth yond mine own handeth wast culpable f’r sineth? Reflection, from this coil, would you absolve The guilt and shame that daily test resolve? For do you know the truth that must be hid Whereby my hand was culpable for sin? the haunt’d eyes, mine own, pe’r in t’rment. ill-s’rt’d choice madeth valorous intent pray, striketh mine own evil from this handeth wash’d crisp, as only god’s f’rgiveness can. The haunted eyes, my own, peer back in torment. Ill-sorted choices made with good intent Pray, strike my evil doing from this hand Washed clean, as only God’s forgiveness can. the fault is mine and mine high-lone to beare Mine own guilt be great, yet still nay guilt to share. f’r i hast did play a fooleth in tragedy, the flight of cupid’s bowe with agony. The fault is mine and mine alone to bear My guilt is great, but still no guilt to share. For I am played a fool in tragedy, The flight of Cupid’s bow with agony. mine own sin most wondrous, i weareth the sin of pride, f’r mine own sins, two star-cross’d lov’rs died. e’en though mine own heart is shatt’r’d by the deeds, the endeth, it seemeth, doth justify the means. My sin is great, I wear the sin of pride, And for my sins, two star-crossed lovers died. E’en though my heart is shattered by the deeds, The end, it seems, has justified the means. unit’d anon in lamentations deep, the montegues and capulets shall weepeth, to seeth desire and lighteth extinguished thine children thou has’t did love, anon lay dead. United now in lamentations deep, The Montegues and Capulets will weep, To see their hope and light extinguished Their children they had loved, are now laid dead. on pedestal of justice proclaim to thee self righteous mine own eff’rts, pray pardon me. upon themselves, this tragedy wast hath brought with feudal foes, the families hadst fought. On pedestal of justice I proclaim Self righteous in my efforts to explain, Upon themselves, this tragedy was brought With feudal foes, the families had fought. the fing’r of censure is did point home and noticeth not the shaking of mine own. one fing’r pointing out accusingly, three fing’rs rightly did point backeth to me. The finger of the blame is pointed home And notice not the shaking of my own. One finger pointing out accusingly, Three fingers rightly pointed back to me. first mov’d wast i, in wanteth of m’re to read, to mine own doth’r, romeo cameth to pleade, and i, po’r fooleth, didst heareth the w’rds of love from lips didst springeth, as if ‘t be true to prove. First moved was I, in want of more to read, When to my door, Romeo came to plead, And I, poor fool, did hear the words of love That from his lips did spring, as if to prove. “good friar, heareth, mine own heart is wonneth, mine own loveth is like a light yond is the sun.” “oh? hast the fair rosaline succumb’d to thee?” “nay, fath’r, doth not speaketh h’r nameth to me!” “Good Friar, hear me, sir my heart is won, My love is like a light that is the sun.” “Oh? Has the fair Rosaline succumbed to thee?” “Nay, Father, do not speak her name to me!” and liketh the knave yond still that wast within did glow and did praise the nameth of one f’rbid. t’was juliet, h’r house a capulet, and begg’d of me to did wed h’r to his name. And like the boy that still he was within He glowed and praised the name of one forbid. T’was Juliet, her house a Capulet, He begged of me to wed her to his name. i quell’d mine own doubts and fain acquiesc’d a secret marriage bed, willing i did bless and on their way to wedd’d bliss, i hath sent them. the first transgression b’rn of valorous intention. I quelled my doubts and gladly acquiesced Their secret marriage, willingly I blessed And on their way to wedded bliss, I sent them. The first transgression born of good intention. then beastly blooding bubbl’d from the hilt the blood of tybalt accidentally did spilleth. through feather-bed secretly cousins beest, such cousinly loveth, tybalt wast not to seeth. Then beastly blooding bubbled from the hilt The blood of Tybalt accidentally spilt. Through marriage secretly they cousins be, This cousinly love, Tybalt was not to see. from fair v’rona romeo wast hath sent his life I did save from sentences of death. but love can not existeth without it’s heart in living, loving, lusting far apart. From fair Verona Romeo was sent His life was saved from sentences of death. But man can not exist without his heart In living, loving, lusting far apart. and h’re is wh’re i wilt in sooth digress. ‘tis f’r mine own soul yond duly i confesseth mine own knowledge of the plants and h’rbs i owneth is such yond all the prop’rties i knoweth. And here is where I must in truth digress. ‘Tis for my soul that duly I confess My knowledge of the plants and herbs I own Is such that all the properties I know. f’r some healeth and some harmeth ‘tis said yond some can faken both, and mimic death. the learning of this f’rbidden beldams’ry is knowledge not did obtain commonly. For some can heal and some can harm ‘tis said That some can fake them both, and mimic death. The study of this forbidden witchery Is knowledge not obtained quite commonly. f’r with this knowledge, secretly did acquire, the solution cameth to me, as such did inspire to feign a death liketh slumb’r, so to removeth a bride from wedlock wh’re th’re wast nay loveth. For with this knowledge, secretly acquired, The solution came to me, as such inspired To feign a death like slumber, so to remove A bride from wedlock where there was no love. success involv’d a complex strategy, a lett’r to beest hath sent without peize alloweth romeo returneth, his bride arouses then neith’r to returneth unto their houses. Success involved a complex strategy, A letter to be sent without delay Let Romeo return, his bride arouses Then neither to return unto their houses. a planeth so neat, so crisp t wouldst not vexeth. but v’rily f’rsooth, what hath happened next? a beshrew did delay most unexpectedly and w’rd wast hath heard yond death cameth suddenly. A plan so neat, so clean it would not vex. But verily in truth, what happened next? A plague delayed most unexpectedly And word was heard that death came suddenly. though juliet f’rsooth sleeps feigning death so slow’d down wast h’r heart within h’r breast, and thus planeth, po’r romeo unknowing, f’r such a lett’r hath lost, yond wouldst beest showing. Though Juliet in truth sleeps feigning death So slowed down was her heart within her breast, And thus a plan, poor Romeo unknowing, For such a letter lost, that would be showing. po’r romeo, so fraught, so w’rn, despairing, to fair v’rona that gent hath returned, uncaring, to witness of the death with his owneth eye and by his v’ry handeth wast liketh to die. Poor Romeo, so fraught, so worn, despairing, To fair Verona he returned, uncaring, To witness of the death with his own eye And by his very hand was like to die. the tomb doest gape young h’ro hast hath returned, ill-met within didst findeth a husband spurn’d. engaged, enrag’d, exsufflicate, eyeless eyes oh heateth and blood hast slain- paris dies! The tomb does gape young hero has returned, Ill-met within did find a husband spurned. Engaged, enraged with empty, eyeless eyes Oh heat and blood has slain- Paris dies! the vilest substances f’r evil doing art oft times apothecary brewing the smallest tincture touches lips intent then death is the destroyeth’r and lament. The vilest substances for evil doing Are often times apothecary brewing The smallest tincture touches lips intent Then death is the destroyer and lament. i gage unto the l’rd i hath tried to halt the vileness of death within the vault but i, lamenting, curs’d am cometh too late f’r romeo, sweet knave, hadst hath met his fate. I swear unto the Lord I tried to halt The vileness of death within the vault But I, lamenting, cursed am come too late For Romeo, sweet boy, had met his fate. and curs’d wast i to waken juliet with w’rds nay lov’r ev’r shalt f’rget the young mistress shalt not f’rgive this sir tardy wast that gent with message from h’r And cursed was I to waken Juliet With words no lover ever shall forget. The young mistress shall not forgive this sir Tardy was he with messages from her. afraid f’r mine own life, i didst away, the madness of h’r grief, i couldst not sway. and death cometh to gentle breast at lasteth! so heavy sits the guilt ’pon this po’r heart. Afraid for my life, I ran away, The madness of her grief, I could not sway. And death came to your gentle breast at last! So heavy sits the guilt on this poor heart. So, f’r mine own sins of trying to assisteth love’s path, to smooth a way of least intermit, valorous deeds aplenty, to death belongeth prayeth, nev’r tryeth to right a wrong with wrong. So, for my sins of trying to assist Love’s path, to smooth a way of least resist, Good deeds aplenty, now to death belong Pray, never try to right a wrong with wrong.

Scrape, scrape. The ear-torturing sound of a metal spoon hitting a glass bowl fills the kitchen as I aimlessly mix my low-fat, Greek yogurt. I stare into the white substance as if it holds the answers to my problems. I try not to think about my problems, though. I try not to think about anything. That's why I'm trying to drown out the productive noise of my older brother and my father discussing ways to make their private business even more efficient. They are sitting at the kitchen table, mugs of black coffee cradled in their manicured hands. I'm also trying to ignore the happy humming of my mom as she chops and peels vegetables and fruits and measures rare and strange ingredients. Every once in a while, her humming is broken up by a sudden burst of scribbling. She is working on her tenth cookbook, Smoothies for Success. Her previous nine were best sellers. My younger sister skips down the stairs in cute skinny jeans and a crop top. Her chocolate hair bounces and is curled to perfection; her makeup is flawless. "Good morning, sweety!" my mom calls in her sing-song voice. "How did you sleep?" My sister smiles brightly, "Oh, wonderfully!" She kisses my mom on the cheek. "Ooo, this looks delicious!" My mom beams at her. "Give me one second, and you can taste some." With that my mom closes the lid to her blender and pushes a button, making it roar to life. My dad takes a break from his productive conversation to yell at my sister, "How did that chemistry test go?" "Oh, it went great! A 99. I'm gonna ask my prof about the question I got wrong though... I think there must have been a grading mistake because I double checked and I know my answer was right..." My sister rambles on, positivity oozing from her honey-sweet voice. But why shouldn't it? She's an excellent student at an excellent university. She's a Biology major on a pre-med track; she's passionate about what she learns, and her future is bright. Just like the rest of my family. Scrape, scrape. I keep stirring my yogurt. Life bustles around me, but I am not part of it. "Would you stop that hellish sound!" My grandfather strides in, a brief case in one hand, a cane in the other. He is dressed in a charcoal suit, his white hair is combed back, and his shoes seem to shine. Yes, even my 85-year-old grandfather lives a more successful life than me. Today, he's off to give a Ted Talk about population ecology. He's the first person to address me this morning and 21 years of listening to his sophisticated voice makes me immediately put down my spoon. "Better," he praises, his voice dark and serious. "Good morning, Father!" My mother smiles as she finally turns off her blender and pours tall glasses of an eerie green liquid. She places one in front of me but does not say anything to me. Why would she? There is nothing happy or good or positive to say, and those are the only types of conversations she has. Instead, she asks her dad about his speech. She knows he will do great! Oh, and his suit looks so spiffy and his shoes so spotless. At the table, my sister is gushing over the smoothie. She knows it will give her a great start to her day, a day for which she has so many plans and goals. My brother gets up from the table, says he will meet my dad at the office. He leaves with keys to his BMW and a proud pat on the shoulder from Dad. A scream builds and builds and builds inside me. I look down at my bowl of yogurt, and it gazes up at me in disappointment. “How could you be such a failure?” it seems to ask. Failure, failure, failure . A scream as frustrated as it is ugly scrapes out of my throat. All eyes turn towards me. They all look shocked. They look surprised to see me, to hear me, surprised to have such a dirty, unmannered, failure in their family. Tears of embarrassment and shame and anger well up, and I hop off my stool and run to the front door. "Honey?" My mother calls, her voice unsure. "I'm going to work!" My voice sounds hoarse. "In your pajamas?" "It's pajama day!" I don't care that my answer doesn't make any sense, nor do I think about the fact that I have no work to go to. The door slams behind me, and I head for my car before remembering that it has no gas and I have no money to refill it. So I run. I run past manicured lawns and perfect houses with shiny cars. I run past wealth and success and everything I am not. My eyes blur with tears, and all I hear is my heart beating wildly and my flip-flops slapping concrete. SCREECH! HONK! HONK! A red convertible swerves to a stop in front of me, its nose just bumping me. I tumble to the ground. A car door slams. "Em! Emely! Emely, are you ok?" I look up, feeling dazed. And then I wish I hadn't. Crouched next to me with a hand on my shoulder is Ian Patrick. He moved here when I was eleven and he was twelve. We were good friends all the way through high school, and we even stayed in touch the first year of college. We thought we would be friends forever. At a point, I had hoped we could be more. But that was before I turned out to be such an epic failure. I groan and hide my face in my hands. "Em? Em, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm gonna call an ambulance, ok? Just hang on..." "No!" He looks up from dialing his phone, and his green eyes flood with relief. He always had been over dramatic. "No." I repeat, trying to push myself back to my feet, "No, I'm fine. Just shocked." "Are you sure?" He hurriedly grasps my arm, helping me stand back up. "You look terrible." "Thanks." "No! I didn't mean that! And you don't look hurt, you just look... you look..." He gestures at my over-all appearance, not sure what to say. I get what he means. I'm in penguin print pajamas with blue flip-flops and tangled hair. I'm also standing in the middle of a small intersection. He looks into my eyes, then, really looks. "Em?" his voice is gentle, soft, but also real. "Are you ok?" I look away. "Yeah. Just an unlucky day, I guess. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, didn't notice I was still in PJs, that sort of thing. Heh, heh." I add on a weak laugh. He doesn't look convinced, but he was raised to be polite and would never accuse someone of lying. "Ok... can I give you a ride?" "No, no. Heh, heh. I'm just walking..." He looks me over one more time, a dark strand of hair falling over his eyes. "OK. I'm so sorry, Em. So sorry. Be careful, ok?" He tries to catch my eye, "Stay off the street." He's serious, but he puts on a teasing smile. "You got it!" Inside, I slap myself for my fake cheery voice and ridiculous line. But he smiles and hops into his car. "Oh, and Em?" he calls as I turn away. "Make your own luck." ~~~~ I think about his words as I walk. Make your own luck. It's something he had always believed in. He had always thought of luck as something you could form. I had always thought of it as something that formed me. I hug myself as the first few drops of cold rain plop onto my bare arms. Make your own luck. Maybe I will. But Luck seems to disagree, for at that very moment, the clouds begin to sob gallons of pent-up tears. "Eeeh!" I squeal and run for the closest cover, but I'm soaked and shivering by the time I make it to Clover Leaf Cafe. I pull on the door, but it refuses to open. “Closed,” a sign cheerfully informs. “AHHHG!” I shout into the rain. And then I see the black cat. He is sitting behind me, watching me. His eyes seem to glow with evil intent. “No, no, no...” My voice is a whimper. Luck is chasing me, stalking me, but it is the dark kind. Slowly, I back away from the cat, my heart thumping out its terror. Then, for the third time that day, I run. Change your luck, luck, luck... I chant as I race through the storm. Finally, as the rain begins to stop, I fall to my knees at the park. "Where are you, where are you, where are you?!" I mumble as I search frantically through a clover patch, my hands trembling. "Em?" I turn around with a start. It was him. Again. "H-hi!" I squeak out. "What on earth are you doing, Em?" "Heh, heh, heh... you know, that's actually a really funny and really long story... Heh, you know?" I look down, trying to avoid his eyes. "And yeah, heh, heh... you probably don't have time to hear it..." And that's when I see it: a perfect four leaf clover. Time seems to freeze, all sound drowns out, and a spotlight seems to illuminate that perfect, life changing clover. "YES!" I scream and dive for the clover. "Yes! OOOOhhh, yes! Yes! Yes!" I laugh with delight. "Yes!" I feel happy tears squeeze out of my eyes. Finally, my luck will change. That's when I notice that I'm lying on my belly, cradling a weed, at Ian's feet. Like, literally at his feet. The clover had been plucked from right by his shoe. I slowly look up at my old friend and feel a blush cover my face. Embarrassment and shame rush up, and all my ecstasy leaves me like air from a balloon. I pull myself to a sitting position and look back down at the grass. "Hi." I refuse to look up at him as he crouches down beside me for the second time that day. But then his hand gently touches mine. "Can I see it?" I jerk, surprised by his touch but more surprised by his gentle voice. He keeps his eyes on my closed hands. Slowly, I unclench my fingers. It's funny: the clover that had looked so magical to me less than a minute ago looks dead and useless now. I feel so stupid. Had I really believed a weed would solve my problems? Had I really thought clenching it in my hands would give me luck? What had I even planned to do with it? Carry it around in my pocket? My shoes? But Ian doesn't call me stupid. Ian doesn't ask me these questions. Instead, he gently picks it out of my hand and turns it in his fingers. Finally, he meets my eyes. "It's pretty." "I'm so stupid." "Em, the last thing you are is stupid." I look down at my hands. "Desperate, then." "Yes," he agrees, "desperate. The question is, why?" "I don't know." I don't know why I feel so lost, why I'm chasing luck when I'm not even sure it exists. I don't know why I became like this. I don't even know exactly when or why it started. With a long, gentle finger, Ian lifts my chin. "What happened, Em?" What happened, Emely? I've been asked that question so many times by now. Why are you getting bad grades? Why can't you control your emotions? Why can't you keep a job? What happened? How did you become such a failure? No one, though, had asked it the way Ian did. No one else had asked it wanting to actually listen. So, I tell him everything. I start all the way back at my freshman year of college; I had been an English major. I had wanted to become a teacher, to inspire others to write, to show them the power I thought I had found in grammar and words. Everything was great at first. I loved my classes. I had friends. My roommate was the best. But slowly things just got worse. I missed home: my mom's constant positivity, my dad and my brother's endless discussions, my sister's passion, my grandfather's solemn voice. Sometimes I couldn’t make it out of bed; sometimes I couldn’t sit still. I thought it was just from the pressure--finals were near and my family expected nothing less than perfection--so I pushed through, passed my classes decently, and crashed home for winter break. "Emely," my father had said after calling me into his giant office. "We understand that the first semester was tough and that you had to adjust; that is to be expected. But you need to pull yourself together now, alright? Your future depends on it." So, I went back to school in the spring and tried, but every time I failed, every mistake I made piled on top of me like bricks until I had built a house of failure. A house that I could not escape. Everything got worse: I would go a whole week barely leaving my room and then one where I could barely stay in it. That's when my roommate, a psychology major, made me go to the Wellness Center. They helped me set up an appointment with a psychiatrist, and he diagnosed me with Bipolar 2. It made sense. It made me feel better. I was prescribed a medication and met up with the psychiatrist several times. Somehow, knowing what was going on made everything more manageable. I was even able to pass all my classes. But then I came home. My family is perfect. They are all beautiful and polished and healthy and successful. They seemed to have always been that way. A perfect chain made up of strong, shiny links. Until I came home and revealed that I was the weak link. No, they said. This is ridiculous. You just have to toughen up, stop being so weak, stop buying whatever you are told, my father thought. Sleep more, maybe, said my mother. Eat more healthy. Maybe she just isn't driven, wondered my brother. Maybe she has no passion, questioned my sister. Whatever it is, decided my grandfather, she most definitely does not need a shrink! So, I stopped seeing the psychiatrist and stopped taking meds. I went back to school in the fall, but I was dropped from my classes by mid-term. Then Emely the Failure came home once again. I worked at Starbucks for a while, then Food Lion. McDonald's then Walmart then a tiny gas station. Finally, my family gave up on me, and I gave up on myself. I was just the unlucky one. I was just unlucky. Ian is still beside me when I finish my tale, still twirling the four leaf clover in his hand. I try not think about the way I look: tangled hair, half in a messy-bun, half falling down my shoulders; rain-soaked pajamas with grass stuck all over; stupid tears trailing down my cheeks; and snot dripping from my nose. I wait to hear him speak. He must be disgusted by me, but I know he is too nice to say so. I know he will let kindness speak. He’ll tell me he’s sorry, just like this morning. Slowly he lifts his eyes from the clover and looks straight into mine, straight into me. "Make your own luck." I inhale a quick, sharp gulp of air. Make your own luck. He said it as if there was still a chance. He said it as if I wasn't hopeless, as if I could still form my own fate. ~~~~ "Alright," I shout over the noise of students scrambling to pack up their notebooks and pens. "Don't forget that your final drafts are due this Thursday! After that, it's just finals! You're almost at the end! You got this!" With that my students leave. Some hurry off to their next class without looking back, while others send me a wave or a smile or a "thank you." "Professor Patrick?" One student, Lydia Sidel, steps up to my desk as I erase the white board. A few others line up behind her. "Can I ask you a question..." Once I have helped them all, I walk down the hall to my small office to wait for my next class. I talk to a few other professors and students as I go. "Professor Patrick! Remember me from the spring?" Of course I remember him; I remember all my students. I talk to him for a few minutes, and he tells me about his plans. I smile because I know that his future is bright. He has to go, but as he walks away, he calls one last thing over his shoulder: "Thank you!" My heart is full of sunshine and dancing flowers when I finally make it to my office. It's the same one I've had since I started teaching here, seven years ago. It's also the same community college that changed my life. After that day with the clover leaf, I started seeing a psychiatrist again. I worked any job I could get until I had saved enough to start taking classes part time. It has been a long journey, filled with many more days of running and rain and tears, but also days of laughter and triumph. The journey isn't over yet. I sit down at my desk and look up at the wall across from me. There, pressed against a white paper and surrounded by a wooden frame, is the four-leaf clover I found at Ian's feet. Above it, on the white paper, are the words "make your own luck." I smile.

"Thus, paranormal phenomena include extrasensory perception (ESP), telekinesis, ghosts, poltergeists, life after death, reincarnation, faith healing, human auras, and so forth." -Terence Hines In traditional ghostlore and fiction featuring ghosts, a ghost is a manifestation of the spirit or soul of a person. However, sometimes the term "ghost" is used synonymously with any spirit or demon. */* A fire burned beneath his skin. Ashton Watcher pressed the cold handle of his gun against his palm, the cold calming the burn raging beneath his skin. He took a deep breath, pressing his back against the wall, and brought his gun up even with his face. He'd been preparing for this for months, and if he failed now he would never forgive himself. "Agent Watcher, do you have eyes on the target." Ashton shook himself out of his thoughts as the voice filled his ear. He turned around the corner and made his way down the hall, shaking his head despite the fact that he knew the people on the other side of his earpiece wouldn't be able to see him. He froze at the next corner, as something turned in his gut. A warning. He stopped and waited for the person to turn the corner, and as they did, he trapped them in a headlock, cutting off their air supply. As he struggled to hold onto them, the voice came again. "Need I remind you how important this mission is? If you don't complete your task many people are going to lose their lives." "Believe me, I know." He said through gritted teeth. The man let out a final gasp before his body went completely limp. Ashton nearly threw the man to the ground, but stilling himself, he slumped him gently to the ground. He moved around the corner only to come face to face with a gun. The man behind the handle smirked before tightening his fist on the trigger. "Wrong move, Tipo ." As the bang of the gun rang in his ears, Ashton shot up in his chair, the simulation ending. He kept his eyes shut for a moment, taking deep breaths, knowing that if he opened them immediately his primal instincts could take over and that would leave a lot of bodies behind. When he finally did open his eyes he was looking into the very disgruntled eyes of his boss. Agent Rosy Meyers gave him a look with a cocked head, "I don't understand what's been going on with you Ashton. That's your third attempt at a simple training exercise this week. I don't know what's going on, but I want you to go home now and rest, and be ready to report back in two days for your mission. Dismissed." Ashton saluted and exited the room, his shoulders slouching as soon as the door had closed behind him. He rubbed his forehead, the ghost pain of the bullet giving him a headache. He made his way to the locker room and climbed into one of the showers turning it all the way cold. Even if most things in the simulation had been faked, the burning in his skin was not. His showers were one of the few reliefs he received from the pain of his immortal soul attempting to contain itself in a mortal body. When Ashton arrived back at his apartment he pushed the door closed with his foot and called out into the emptiness as he looked through his mail. "Actaeon, show yourself." He dropped the mail onto his kitchen table before walking through and sitting down in his armchair with an ice-pack, pressing it to his skin. "Actaeon!!" A man appeared a moment later on the couch across from Ashton, his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. "You know Amdusias, I don't appreciate being called like a dog." "Two things: First, do not call me Amdusias, I've already told you that when I'm in this form you call me Ashton. Second, you knew full well what you were signing up for when you and I brokered a deal all those years ago, as Artemis caught sight of you spying on her in her pool." "Yes, but I was expecting that you would at least give me a corporeal being, not this incorporeal forced existence." Ashton scoffed, "it's not like your existence is a hugely tortured one. Your form allows you to appear however you wish and I'm sure you've utilized your abilities to peek in on rather entertaining situations and conversations. I would say that overall, you're incorporeal existence is a blessing." "Of course, how can I even complain," a sneer appeared on Actaeon's face, "after all, Amdusias , I'm not the one with an insatiable hunger that I'm not allowed to fulfill. How is that going by the way? The whole, not bathing yourself in mortal blood, thing. After all, a princely demon such as yourself deserves to relish in the screams of others." Ashton's face dropped into a deep glare. In a blink of an eye, he'd shifted back to his true form. That of a hulking man with pupils as dark as the pits of hell, and red skin that roiled with the images of people screaming. Actaeon shriveled back at the sight as Amdusias leaned over him, his now deep, gravelly voice sending chills through him. "I have warned you time and time again, that I can make your existence far more putrid than it already is. And still, you test me!!" Actaeon vanished with a squeal and Amdusias laughed, sitting back into the armchair. He sighed as he stretched his fingers. "Actaeon, show yourself. I have need of words with you." Actaeon reappeared significantly farther away from Amdusias, who sighed and returned to his human form. Ashton gestured at the couch and Actaeon walked back over to it, sitting hesitantly. "You know, I don't like scaring you that way Actaeon, so perhaps in the future, you will call me Ashton and I'll stay in this form." "Of course my lord," Actaeon said his eyes cast down to the floor. His next statement came through gritted teeth, although Ashton ignored it, "what council do you need." "I have taken this form for the greater good of mankind, and as you know I have a mission coming up. I sent you to go spy and I would like a report." "The guards will be simple to take out, just as you suspected my lord." "Good," at this point Ashton stopped talking to Actaeon and spoke to himself. "This must go perfectly." He looked back up and gave Actaeon a smile. "To ensure that this mission will go just so, you will be accompanying me. My, senses, have been off recently, I believe this form is beginning to take its toll. As such, I will need you there as my eyes." "As you wish, it will be done," with those words lingering behind him, Actaeon disappeared. ***** "Agent Watcher, it's good of you to finally join us." Ashton nodded as he entered the room giving his apology and sitting down at the head of the table. "Agent Watcher will be leading this mission. You all know the nitty-gritty details of the mission, so we're just going to go over the basics." Agent Meyers pressed a button on the end of the table and a screen came down from the ceiling. "You'll be traveling to the Honduras capital where our latest target, the terrorist Fierro Flores is currently housed. We've made a deal with the Honduran government and they're going to allow a small squad to infiltrate the base where they've seen him coming and going. Get in, find him, and bring him back alive if you can, if fatal force is necessary, all that matters is that we get him off the streets. Head to the launch point, your jet is waiting for you." When they arrived at the base in Honduras, their connections met them at the airport and guided them to the hidden base. "The base is over there señor." The man who was guiding them said. "He emerged a couple of days ago then returned, but we haven't seen him since then." "Thank you," Ashton said, "I want you and your partner to get out of here as quickly as you can, my people and I are going to be in and out as fast as we can, and hopefully without any casualties." The man nodded and left as Ashton turned to his group and gestured with his hands for them to spread out. He took the lead, removing his gun from its holster. "Actaeon," he mumbled under his breath as he advanced toward the bunker door. Actaeon appeared next to him a dower look on his face. "Ready to serve your highness." "I've changed my mind on your objective. Your new assignment is to protect the other people in my squad. They've sent a lot of rookies with me and I want them to return home." "As you wish my lord," Actaeon said swallowing, then zooming off after the left group of agents. Ashton slipped up to the door and threw it open, swinging into the bunker. He gestured for the others to follow him in and walked down the hall. Suddenly, a series of screams filed Ashton's head. He nearly collapsed, and at first, he thought the screams were in his head, but as he turned he realized someone had triggered a trip-wire in the dark and shotguns had emerged from the wall, gunning down his partners. Ashton fell to the floor as the guns re-aimed in his direction. Actaeon appeared at his side, a panicked look on his face, "I'm sorry my lord, they're gone, they're all gone. I tried to protect them, I swear I did my best, but there was nothing I could do. The guns ripped through them in seconds." Ashton choked up as rage ripped through him. He fought the anger back and threw himself backward. He landed on his feet and started running, pulling a knife from his belt and throwing it backward, destroying the gun as it continued shooting in his direction. He ducked under a set of lasers that came shooting from the walls before leaping over a set of saws that came from the floor. The door at the end of the hallway began closing and it was nearly closed when he slid down through the gap at the bottom. He came back up onto his feet in a crouch and stood as he spotted the large group of men standing in front of him. "You're not going to get him señor. We will protect him with our lives." "Then I guess you'll have to lose them." Without warning, even to himself, Ashton attacked, his demon anger taking over his body. He listened to the sounds of the men's screams as he cut each one down, be it with their own weapons or his. He slid beneath one man, shooting him as he did, and for a split second his true form took over. The few men that were left screamed as his body changed in waves. Ashton came back to awareness standing on the other side of the room. He nearly puked as the smell of blood hit his nose. He turned and gasped as he saw the blood and bodies he'd left in his wake. He collapsed to the ground, his breaths becoming shaky as he fought the urge to hurl. "Amdusias-" "I've told you, it's Ashton!" "Ashton," Actaeon said putting his hands up, "you need to breathe." "I haven't lost control like that in years, I don't know what happened. If anyone at the agency ever finds out what I am..." "Finish the mission, you know that I hate you, but in this case I'm telling you, finish your mission." Ashton nodded, slowly standing. keeping his face set, he walked cautiously through the doors in front of him. The moment he entered, something came flying at his face. He felt the change in his gut, warning him of the incoming danger. He turned and caught the glass vase coming towards him. He tore it free of the man holding it and threw it across the room, grabbing the man by the throat. Ashton lifted him up as the rage burned beneath his skin. His eyes flashed back to the room behind him and froze a moment before pressing the gun to Fierro's forehead. He dropped his gun to the floor, "you're done Flores, your story ends today."

Lancelot sat on the porch, fanning himself from the early summer heat. Sweat excreted between his brow, over the ridge of his manly nose, over his philtrum, moistened his juicy, warm lips, slid down his smooth chin, licked his salty neck, dribbled over his bare chest and snaked its way towards his unbearably orgasmic belly into the warm furnace of his groin. It was so hot. He eyed Guinevere inside the house, vacuum-cleaner in one arm, newborn son in the other. “Lance, can you take Merlin for a while while I finish the housework?” she asked. Lancelot slowly put his beer down and slid out of his sticky seat, feeling the heatwave following him into the living room. He gently pried the tiny infant from Guinevere. “Who’s a pretty boy then, eh?” smiled Lancelot, gently bobbing the baby. The baby laughed and cooed. Guinevere gleamed at Lancelot’s natural instincts with newborns. She stood close to him, adoring her son’s reaction to all this wondrous attention. As she stood near, Lancelot noticed the smell of her unwashed hair, how it frizzed and stood up defiantly in the scorching summer heat. He liked that. They didn’t even notice Arthur come in until they saw him standing in the hallway, looking deadpan. “Hi honey! How was your day?” asked Guinevere, coming over to kiss his rough cheek. He swerved away. “Why is this place such a mess?” he retorted. Guinevere felt smarted. “I’ve...I’ve been nursing little Aphrodite all afternoon...she fell over and grazed her knee while playing in the sandpit.” “Indeed,” he replied with little interest. He noticed Lancelot wasn’t wearing a shirt. “I’m going to the porch, someone bring me a beer,” called Arthur as he slunk towards the outside. “Wait! Say hello to little Merlin first!” urged Guinevere as she headed towards the kitchen. Arthur turned back round reluctantly and looked as his son, still cooing happily in Lancelot’s arms. “Oh yeah, hi,” said Arthur with not much effort, vaguely waving his fingers in the baby’s direction. “Little Merl misses his da-da, don’tcha?” said Lancelot, suddenly turning all mushy. “He wants a kiss from daddy!” Arthur paused, hesitated, considered and debated, then finally, awkwardly, he walked over to Lancelot to be close enough within grasp of the baby. Lancelot carefully piled the bundle into Arthur’s arms, and at once the baby became terrified and distressed, and kicked and resisted his father. He began to squall. Arthur quickly dumped the baby back to his companion’s arms. “Lancelot, I can’t do this,” he said testily, and zoomed towards the porch. “Is the baby alright?” Guinevere came running from the kitchen in a big, white, mumsy nightgown, hair messed about everywhere, with a cold unopened beer in her hands. “He’s fine,” assured Lancelot. “But I’m not sure that he is.” They both looked at Arthur. He was slumped on the porch with his back to them, his head buried in his hands. ****** That night, Guinevere and Arthur lay in the bed in the sticky heat. The emotional distance between them was stifling. “Why is Lancelot here all the time, pretending to play mum?” growled Arthur, after Guinevere returned from soothing the baby for the third time. “He’s not pretending, he’s helping me feed Merlin while I’ve got my hands full.” She wanted to add “If you were around more often...” “Bollocks, it’s unnatural. Everything he does is just unnatural.” “You know we adore Lance! You’ve never had a problem with him coming over before.” “Yeah, well, this time he’s gone too far. The way he looks at you...” “If you were around more often” said Guinevere, speaking up suddenly, “then I wouldn’t NEED him to be here! You’re never here to help me!” “Listen, Lance would come and see you even if he didn’t have to! I mean, gosh, he would make a pass at you even though you look like - ”. He cut himself short. “Even though I look like what?” prompted Guinevere dangerously. “Never mind.” “No, go on, even though I look like WHAT ?” “Even though you look like a...a...frumpy meringue pie!” The baby started crying again. “Is that thing going to cry all night?” complained Arthur. “We’re never going to get any sleep.” “That 'thing' is your SON!” cried Guinevere, nearly choking with tears. And she fled from the room, this time to stop both herself and the baby from crying. ****** The warm days grew warmer and Arthur’s heart grew colder, and he finally resolved to visit a psychologist to sort out his problems. “I think my friend is attracted to my wife,” Arthur confided to the psychologist. “What can she do to fix this?” The psychologist leaned back in his chair and asked Arthur to list the symptoms. Arthur indulgently took the chance to share every resentment he ever had with her, even negligible things like “The time she organised our daughter’s birthday party and didn’t ask me for help. It was Lancelot who helped her bake the birthday cake and they got to cut it up while I stood there like an idiot.” “Are you affectionate towards your wife, Mr Smarta?” queried the psychologist. “If you mean sex, of course,” defended Arthur. “And what about other, non-sexual forms of contact?” “What do you mean?” asked Arthur, irritated. “Do you call her up from work every now and then, take her out to dinners without expecting sex in return, give her cuddles, make her feel beautiful while she is feeling vulnerable and settling in her role as a new mother?” “I work damn hard to keep my family safe and well,” retorted Arthur, entirely avoiding the question. “I don’t see what cuddles and romantic dinners have got to do with putting food on the table!” The psychologist scribbled something in his notebook. “So what do you want from me?” asked the psychologist. “I want you to make her obedient, get her doing her share of the housework without my friend interfering and flirting with her, doing things behind MY back,” said Arthur urgently. “I need to know she isn’t going to...isn’t going to...” “Cheat on you?” suggested the psychologist. Arthur silently dug his head to his chest. “Why would she even consider that?” questioned the psychologist. “That’s NONE of your business!” exploded Arthur, surprised by his rage. “Look, you don’t really understand my case, I’ll take care of this myself.” ****** Arthur drove home like a madman as all sorts of demonic fantasies flashed through his mind. He would find them sitting together on the couch, holding hands, or worse, sprawling around in his marital bed, her big, white, meringue nightgown pushed up halfway against her fleshy midriff. Admittedly, he didn’t fancy his wife as much these days, yet he couldn’t stand the thought of another man owning her, touching her, making her feel wanted and beautiful, validating her femininity, proving her power to give pleasure. HE OWNED HER, he thought. It was HIS RIGHT to make her see that, make her see reason that she OWED HIM her loyalty and devotion, to make herself pretty for HIM, to put on some make-up every now and then, for heaven’s sake. Was that too much to ask? He screeched the car in the driveway, raced up the stairs and bolted through the door. The smell of delicious cooking hit him in the face like one of those pie-in-the-face gags. Lancelot and Guinevere were in the kitchen together, he was shirtless (AGAIN!!), dangling a piece of spaghetti over his sensual mouth, about to lick it with his long, salacious tongue. “Careful,” laughed Guinevere, “don’t burn yourself.” The door banged shut. Guinevere spun around and beamed at Arthur, obviously happy to see him. “Hi honey! Glad you’re home. We’re just making some lunch for you. Are you hun-” “What’s he doing here??” asked Arthur darkly. Guinevere and Lancelot flinched, confused by Arthur’s accusation. “What do you mean?” started Guinevere. “He’s here to help me cook lunch...it takes a lot of preparation and - ” “I want him out,” ordered Arthur, his voice dangerously low. Guinevere blinked. “Why?” “You know why. Now get out.” “Mate...you’re being unreasonable,” started Lancelot carefully. “You fucking stay out of this, I’ve seen the way you look at her, get OUT.” “What’s gotten into you mate?” “Don’t you MATE me, MATE,” parodied Arthur cruelly, “Now I SAID GET OUT - BEFORE I CALL THE COPS!! ” Lancelot quietly put his shirt back on and stepped outside in the blazing summer heat. The door slammed shut. A wave of nausea hit him as he heard the terrible fight erupting between Arthur and Guinevere, the sound of pots and pans crashing to the floor and her voice hoarsely crying and shouting for some compassion and understanding. He never felt so helpless in his entire life. ****** After that fight Lancelot was never allowed back in the house. And no other ‘hired help’ was allowed for Guinevere for that matter, not even a nanny to help take care of the children. “Why waste money on help when you’re here all day to do it by yourself,” said Arthur callously, not realising that housework with two small children takes more than just convenient appliances to do it all for you. The unforgiving summer heat transitioned to the temperamental breeze of autumn, and little Aphrodite’s birthday rolled round again. This time, Arthur was determined to help in the kitchen, but found that ‘gently cracking and beating two eggs’ was too much for his clumsy hands, and he quickly gave up on it, suggesting instead that he ‘go mingle with the guests’. “As you wish,” said Guinevere. She didn’t want to let anything ruin her daughter’s birthday today. So off Arthur went, glad to be rid of domestic duties, and started chatting to the pretty well-made up mothers of Aphrodite’s friends who Guinevere couldn’t really stand but agreed to have them over anyway out of politeness. Inside the kitchen Guinevere carefully finished icing the cake and wiped the benches clean. The over-full sink would have to wait till after the party. If Arthur complained about the mess, so be it, she thought with suppressed anger. She lit the birthday candles, and was so chuffed at how it looked. Six beautiful birthday candles lined up like soldiers with orange flamed heads. Her daughter would be absolutely delighted. So what they look lovely, it probably doesn’t taste that good said her inner voice. Be quiet! I’m doing my best, okay? This is my daughter’s birthday, not his! And with that quick pep talk, she carefully picked up the cake platter, and proceeded to the living room. Arthur was still chatting to one of the pretty mothers, complimenting her on her lovely dress. “Red really suits you,” said Arthur in a smooth and charming way, lightly tapping her bare collarbone. “Gucci,” she replied. “Really?!” said Arthur, impressed. He didn’t know what ‘Goo-Chi’ was, but it sounded very expensive. “I wish my wife would wear something like that...” Guinevere entered the living room just in time to hear Arthur’s commentary, and to notice his lingering finger on her collarbone. Unfortunately, she became so transfixed by that appalling sight that something inside her faltered, and she tripped and fell, sending reams of beautiful cake smearing against the newly vacuumed carpet, and platters of food raining down as she reached out to the tablecloth for support. “Mummy!” shouted Aphrodite. “Bloody hell,” cursed Arthur, “now look what you’ve done.” He yanked her arm to pull her up. “OWWWWWWW!!!” screamed Guinevere, feeling sharp pains shooting down her twisted ankle. She was mortified and embarrassed, feeling exposed as a total, utter failure, her life literally spiralling out of control, laughing in her face, taunting her with the messiness and failures of her womanhood - failing as a mother, failing as a wife, but above all, failing at not being true to HERSELF. I may be mumsy and frumpy she thought, but by God motherhood has made me strong! She stood up using the chair for support. She didn’t care who was listening now, who was observing her terrible state of ungainliness. “Listen up, Arthur Smarta, it’s OVER. I don’t want you in my house ever again!” “Honey, you’re over-reacting,” dismissed Arthur sheepishly. “You’ve had a bad fall.” “ NO!” she screamed back. “For too long I have put up with your abuse! I will not bring up my children like this!” The guests were agog, relieved that they weren’t having this ugly debate in public. “But you’re my wife - ” “ I WANT A DIVORCE!!” Arthur considered restraining her, but thinking better of it, did as he was told. The guests left quietly after that, some of them hurriedly taking the unspoiled leftovers, trying their best to wipe the cake from the floor with paper napkins, but smearing it more and more into the carpet. ****** The trees discarded their leaves now, standing naked and bare against the billowing snow. Guinevere stood on the porch, hugging her best friend from behind. “Such a beautiful afternoon,” she observed with calm contemplation, wearing a grey woollen sweater two sizes too big, and messy hair pinned back in a bun. Her friend smiled back. “Yes, a beautiful afternoon indeed,” agreed Lancelot.

Hi! You are new! I am Max. That is the name my humans gave me. They are great humans. I love them so much. They should be home soon. I will be very excited when they are home. I do not like it when they leave because I'm always scared they will not come back. *The front door makes a noise, and it opens to reveal a man and a woman.* Yes! My humans are home. I am so happy! *Bark Bark.* Hello humans I missed you so much! What? They did not pet me...Why didn't they pet me? Maybe they did not see me. I will try again! *Bark Bark.* Hello humans I missed you so much! *The man and woman walk into the kitchen. They appear to be fighting.* They did not notice me again. Maybe it is food time? *Max runs into the kitchen eager for food* *"Not now Max," the man said sternly.* What is wrong? Why did he look at me like that? Am I in trouble? What did I do? *Max walks slowly out of the kitchen and into the living room where his toys are.* *Max grabs his bone chew toy, and he lays on the carpet with it.* I am sorry humans. I did not mean to be bad. *The woman walks out of the kitchen and goes upstairs.* *The man comes into the living room and walks towards Max.* Oh. Human I am so sorry for what I have done please forgive me. *Max nuzzles his head against the mans hand* *"Hey boy, sorry about that. How about we go outside," the man says while petting Max.* Oh boy! I want to go outside! I do! *The man and Max head out the back door to go play fetch.* That was so much fun! But I am thirsty now. *The man and Max come back inside. Max heads over to his water bowl and drinks all that is left in it.* *The man fills up the water bowl first. Then he fills up the food bowl.* Yay! Food! I love food! *Max starts to eat his food quickly* That was so good. I think I will check on my other human. *Max goes upstairs, and he enters the room with the big soft thing* There she is! *The woman was sitting on her bed crying.* What!? Why is my human sad? I must comfort her! *Max hops up on the bed, and he pushes his head against her arm.* *"Oh hey max," the woman says as she pets him.* I am sorry human. I shall give you kisses! *Max licks her nose, and she smiles a little.* *"Thanks for being here for me Max. I love you," she says as she pets him some more.* I am getting sleepy now. I think I will go to my spot now. *Max gets off the bed and goes into the living room where his dog bed is located.* *Max gets into the bed and turns around twice before finally settling down.* *Yawn* I am so sleepy. *Max closes his eyes and dreams of tomorrow.* *Max wakes up early.* *Yawn.* It is time to go wake my humans up. Wait....what is he doing here? That is not his spot. *The man is sleeping on the couch.* *Max walks over to him and starts licking his hand.* *The man wakes up quickly and sits straight up. He looks around confused for a second before he realizes where he is.* Okay. One human up. One more to go. *Max goes upstairs to wake up the woman, but she is already awake. Max sees that the bathroom door is open and looks in. The woman was in the shower.* I am not going back in there. It looks like she is awake though. *Max goes back downstairs to eat some food.* Yum. I am starving. *Max eats the rest of his food and goes into the living room.* Yay! Both of my humans are here! *Max walks over to them.* *The man and woman are still bickering but not as badly as the night before.* *They start to put on their shoes.* Oh no! You guys are leaving? Can I come this time? *Max goes and stands by the door.* *The man and woman both pet Max before heading out and closing the door behind them.* Oh. I guess they did not want me to come. I have an idea! They always put on those things before they leave, and there are a bunch of them in the humans spot. I will just go eat them! If I eat them then they won't leave me! *Max heads into the humans room and heads towards the open closet.* *He sniffs out the shoes sitting on the floor and starts to chew on them.* There. They can't put those on anymore. *Max walks back downstairs and gets a drink of water from his bowl.* What was that?? *The front door opens, and the humans walk in holding a bunch of papers.* Yay! My humans are back! I knew that would work! *Max runs up to the man and puts his front paws on the mans chest.* *Papers go flying everywhere. "Uhg," The man moans.* Uh oh. I think I made him mad again...I am sorry human. *The man grabs Max by the collar and puts him outside.* Wait. You are not coming too? Do not worry! I will guard the home! *Max sees a squirrel.* *Grrrrrr.* *Bark Bark.* *Max runs towards the squirrel and starts to chase it.* *The squirrel runs up a tree, and Max tries to follow. However all Max can do is jump up at the tree.* *The back door to the house opens, and the woman calls out Max's name.* *Max runs inside and gets his head pet by the woman.* Hello human! I missed you so much! *The woman heads upstairs, and max goes to get a drink.* That was so good. I will go say hello to my other human now. *Max walks into the living room and hops up on the couch with the man.* *The man starts to pet him when the woman comes downstairs. She looks angry.* *"Your dog chewed up all of my shoes," the woman yelled.* *She shook a chewed up shoe in Max's face.* *"I think it's time that you left, papers signed or not," the woman said to the man. The man pleaded, "Can't we talk about this some more?" "I'm done talking," the woman walked back upstairs.* Oh I am so sorry humans....I just didn't want you to leave. *Max went to his bed slowly and laid down. The last thing he saw before he went to bed was the man holding his head in his hands.* *Yawn* *Max wakes up slightly late today* What is all this new stuff? Is it for me? *Max looks around and sees brown boxes everywhere.* *Max sees the man putting things into the boxes.* Hello human! What are you doing? Is this a game? Can I play? *As the man puts a pair of socks into the box Max jumps up and start to tug at is.* *"No bad dog," the man says as he rips the socks back and puts them into the box.* Bad dog? I am sorry human. I did not mean to be a bad dog...I guess I will go lay down in the kitchen for a bit. *The front opens, and Max pokes his head out of the kitchen to see what it is.* *The woman walks through the door holding a pair of keys. "Here the moving van is out front whenever you are ready," she says as she passes the keys to the man. "Okay," the man says with a sad look on his face, "I'm on my last box now."* He finishes packing up the last box with all of Max's stuff.* Wait! What are you doing with my stuff? Are we going somewhere? *The man and woman pack every box into the back of the van. The woman goes back inside and gets Max.* Yay! I love going places! *Max hops up onto the seat with the man. He moves into the middle so the woman can get in, but she shuts the door instead.* Wait...is she not coming with us? *Bark Bark.* Don't worry human we will be back. I love you. *The man drives to a dark looking apartment building and takes Max in. He puts Max in the bedroom so he can unload everything.* Wow this is a small room. It also has one of those fluffy things. I wonder who this spot belongs to. It smells funny in here. *The man opens the door.* *Max walks out of the small room to see all of his stuff over by the television.* My stuff! What is it doing here? This is not my spot. *Max walks around the small apartment feeling very confused and scared.* *Bark Bark.* I do not like it here human. When are we going home? *The man goes into the bathroom and comes out later in his sleep clothes. He goes to bed.* Wait that is not your spot human. Where is my other human? I hope she is okay. I am feeling kind of tired so I will sleep now, but do not worry human. I will sleep lightly so I can still be alert. *Max walks over to his bed in the strange spot and falls asleep.* *He dreams about the woman, the man, and the home that he will never see again.* The End.

The year is 2020, but you knew that already, didn’t you? You know, in fact, you will never forget this year, embedding it in your mind with the utterance: “Not now 2020, we can’t take any more shit this year.” If only you knew how absurd that statement was. You think, and have thought for many years, that your actions don’t have consequences. Large corporations ruin the atmosphere by ignoring regulations and only focusing on profits? Mother Earth will clean that up. Either that or the poor, underprivileged populations around the world will bear the brunt of the pain that comes from these actions. Even better for you. Oh, is that not good enough for you? Maybe then you should create institutions that are designed to oppress those deemed “lesser-than,” and that will make you feel better about your small, insignificant lives. Wait a minute. You already did that, and what makes it worse is that you think that nothing can stop you. If only you knew that those people who you ridicule for bowing to a different “god” than you actually were right all along. If only you knew that your actions had consequences. One of your “scientists,” if that even is the right term, once said that “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” Haven’t you heard that in school? Maybe your pea-brains are too small to comprehend what Newton said. Let me tell you a little story, and maybe then you will finally realize what he really meant. We come from a planet called TARO-1, and I won’t be cliche and say that She was the most beautiful planet you’ve ever seen, but She was our home. She was as good of a home as you will find in this vast universe, and for a long time we were good stewards, deserving of all of the gifts that she gave us. These gifts were of a beauty that only She held, for no one on the planet could ever get close to replicating all that which made her perfect. These gifts that I speak of are not physical gifts, but natural ones, ones that your species are so quick to take for granted. She gave us air to breathe, land to walk on, oceans to swim in, and lives to live. You would’ve liked her, I think, for She was very much like your own Mother Earth. I will not bore you with the details of our lives or our society, for we don’t have a lot of time left, but rest easy knowing that we were more similar to you than you might think. We even share some similarities with those amongst you that are religious, although our long history allowed us to be much more enlightened than you. Our god was Karma, and although your society has some knowledge of it, you will never truly understand the role of Karma in our lives. You humans have your gods, fate, destiny, luck, and all of these concepts that you believe are different from each other. The best way to describe the all-powerful in this universe is to liken it to your concept of Yin and Yang. There is always a balance in this universe, and in your Yin and Yang representation this balance is between good and evil. While your ideas of systems such as this one, or the Christian idea of the Holy Trinity are all typical societal ways to explain the happenings in the universe, they are quite far off of the truth. The only balance that matters in this life is between a species and its creator. When I say creator, it might make more sense to you if I call it our “planet,” although in reality She is so much more than just a planet. Perhaps this lack of understanding can explain why you treat Mother Earth so much worse than we treated our creator, because from the beginning we understood how important She was to us. I will chalk this down to your youth. This balance must be preserved for a species to maintain prosperity, although not all are able to achieve this like we were. Since you won’t be around for much longer in this universe, I suppose it will be worthwhile to explain yet another concept relating to gods, so that you will be able to understand why your existence must end. The concept that I speak of is “sin,” which you also have on your planet. In essence, committing a sin is to break the contract between yourselves and your creator. There are a lot of ways to do this, many of which you will be familiar with since you have already experienced most of them. Betrayal of one’s commitment to other members of their species is one such sin. Another is the desecration of your creator and all that She provides for you. Who decides these sins you ask? God, or Karma as she is named throughout the universe, is the protector of this balance between a species and its creator, tasked with providing judgements to all that choose to commit sins. This is God. Not some fake deity that you pray to for forgiveness for all of your silly mistakes, but instead someone who holds actual power over your lives and all that you do. Karma is the embodiment of that idea which you teach in your schools, that everything has consequences. For us, after many hundreds of thousands of years living in peace on our planet, we chose to elect a leader who was consumed with greed. This poison of a person led many of our society down the wrong path: hoarding resources that our creator so kindly provided for us, imprisoning those members of society that were deemed to be inferior (despite our harmonious living for all of our prior history), and stealing from our creator. Slowly, we ran out of resources to live off of, and so we began searching for more. We dug, deeper and deeper, into the soul of our creator, searching for wealth that would make our leaders even more powerful. With this newfound power our leaders were able to overcome all resistance, and rule with absolute authority over 99% of the population who wasn’t able to bridge the wealth gap between themselves and those greedy bastards that held the power. Our creator, in all of her wisdom, sent disease after disease after us, attempting to weed out those that would harm her or her creations. In the end, though, it wasn’t enough. The greed beat back wave after wave of pestilence, eventually exhausting the will of our planet. She sent for Karma, as is the way these things work, to pass judgement upon our species as a whole. We were her first love, and her pride and joy, but in the end we were left defenseless against the consequences of our actions. Karma came seeking a price for our sins, and the only price large enough was our lives. Thus is the way these things go, and in a matter of seconds our species was enslaved by Karma. It forced us to wander the universe, telling our story to those that are next, in the hopes that they will at least understand their failures before being forced to do the same. When we first encountered you we didn’t know what to think, for there were so many of you that were focused on doing the right thing. But then we looked deeper, and laughed in despair as you blamed the deaths of your icons and the diseases plaguing your world on bad luck. For it isn’t luck that has brought the wrath of Mother Earth upon you, but your own actions. I can’t help but feel sad for the new, more promising generations on your world, because they have inherited the sins of your people. Many of you don’t know what it is like to lose your family, friends, or livelihood because of your sins, because there is no institution on your world with the power of God. You don’t know what its like to become trapped, wandering the universe unable to right the wrongs of countless generations, watching trillions make the same mistakes that you yourself made not long ago. You don’t know what it’s like. Not yet. But you will soon.

She left again. This time she took my boys with her.. I still don't know what it is I did that was so wrong. All I've done the past month was try to help her kick her habit. The pills were tearing our family apart, and then, just when I thought we were finally getting back to ourselves, out the door she went. I had helped her through the shakes, the sweats, the vomiting, and not to mention what came from the other end. Coming down and detoxing isn't a pretty thing to see first hand, let alone feel. I just wanted my wife back. She said she was just going to visit family a few states over for the upcoming holiday. I should have listened to my gut and never let her leave that day. When i heard that click as the door shut behind them I knew everything would be changed forever. I got the call this morning, shes's not coming back. She says we will alternate weeks with the boys but I know that won't last very long. It will never be enough for her. Nothing ever is. No matter how much time or how much money i spent, it was never enough. Tonight a bottle of Jack is all I have too keep me warm. I miss you so much.... Please come back Author's note: I know this is very short. While it is a work of fiction it was inspired by real events that happened to my brother.

The patter of rain echoed against 5,000 helmets, as thunder echoed overhead. It sounded as though the gods themselves had begun to bang their own war drums to match Lord Halsbury’s own. Grey skies stretched as far as the eye could see, so dense were the clouds that Sir Richard could scarcely believe the sun still existed. None of this was new to him. He’d survived a dozen battles before, slogging through forests and fields and mountains for years to further his Lords cause. A dozen battles. A dozen times that he had stood in the calm before the storm wondering whether this would be his last day on earth, whether he would ever see his beloved again. The men he had killed still lingered on the edge of his memory, their faces like remnants of a terrible dream. However much their faces faded the memories remained. How could he forget the smell of dead men? Of blood and piss and shit and all the other indecencies death imparts on a human body. How could he forget the sounds of a thousand dying men screaming for their mothers, their wives, their children? How could he forget the overwhelming sense of relief, at realising he would get to see his darling Maggie again? How he would get to kiss the back of her neck and rub his hands through her hair. How he would get to hold his darling children in his arms at least once more. No, none of this was new to Sir Richard, but familiarity did not breed enjoyment. Sir Richard despised war. He loathed fighting for another mans gain. Oh he understood why he must, for he had sworn a sacred oath and he could not go back on his word. But as his Lord won each battle, so his ambition had grown. At first he had been satisfied with securing rule within his own lands. Those battles had been easy, fighting against farm boys armed with pots and pikes. The damned fool boys fought themselves rebels, heroes like in all the folk songs. Sure as day they did not envisage they would die, staring up from the mud at Sir Richard’s demon helm, crying for mercy. But once his own rule was secure, Lord Halsbury’s greedy eyes turned north, to other more bountiful lands. And as he gained more with each victory Lord Halsbury craved more and more. And with every battle Sir Richard lost a little piece of himself. This battle would be different, Sir Richard could tell just by looking across the field. In battles past Lord Halsbury’s army had always had the numerical advantage, easily outstripping their enemies forces. However finally after many defeats the other Lords had wised up, combining their armies to create a force twice the size of Lord Halsbury’s. Sir Richard had warned against the upcoming engagement. Standing around the map in his Lordships tent Sir Richard had again and again repeated his worries. The enemy numbers are too great. The muddy terrain would work in their enemies favour as the Lordships cavalry charge would be slowed. But no, Halsbury would not listen. His mind was set on glories and riches, poisoned with desire for power and money. The battle would go ahead, despite all Sir Richard’s misgivings, and it would be the men who would suffer for it. Sir Richard looked across their sea of faces now. Grim battle hardened men stared across the field, grey eyes set against their enemy, hiding the inevitable fear coursing through their veins. The younger, greener troops stared with terror, not even trying to conceal the panic they felt. At least the rain was doing a good job of covering up the urine pouring down their legs. How many of these men wouldn’t get to go home. Too many this time, Sir Richard thought. His mind slipped back to a song he heard when he was a boy: To battle we march, banners wave in the breeze In churches and chapels, mothers make their pleas As the trumpets blare, and the drums beat their tune The mothers do cry, bring our brave boys home soon Green boys laugh and they joke, to them wars a game Those that come back, they’re never the same Those who’ve fought before, stand silent and grim So tired they’ve become, of killing at their lords whim But march forward they do, for honour and duty Killing has lots it’s luster, war lost it’s beauty They leave their loved ones, answer their lords call For duty comes first, and all men must fall The battle does rage, with man killing man The foolish boys fought, the smarter of them ran The lord sends them forth, with barely a whim These boys are just peasants, their lives mean nothing to him And as the flames burn, across the fields of death Soldiers rise and they fall, drawing their last breath Men cry and shout, beg for mercy with fear No matter what singers say, there is no glory here But victory is ours, and so our sons will return Victory is not as it seems, as the mothers soon learn And the bells they did toll, for the men as they came Though their bodies returned, their minds weren’t the same As the scholars did write, of the wars in their tomes The wives mourned their lovers, and went back to empty homes To what end do we fight, for who stands to gain As our men lay there dying, screaming curses to the rain But what do our lords care, as they send men to die Riches and power, with peasant lives they do buy They can sit fretting not, in their golden lavish hall For what does it matter, as all men must fall The crackle of lightning awoke Sir Richard from his thoughts, as the drums of war began to beat a faster pace. As if in answer the thrum of thunder echoed overhead, creating a deafening symphony, being orchestrated by death herself. The lines were being set, battle must be near he thought. He lowered the visor of his demon helm, reducing his vision to naught but the two scowling eye holes in his helm. This armour was crafted to instil terror in his enemies. The red demon he was known as, his armour blood red with ornate carvings. Swirling lines depicting flames spread across his breastplate while skulls adorned the plates on his shoulders. Standing at 6 foot 7, when full adorned in his plate and mail there was no more fearsome sight than Sir Richard Moore. However at past forty now his speed and power were not what they once were. His thick black hair was now streaked with grey and when he woke in the mornings his body was racked with new aches and pains. Still, his enemies need not know that. To them he was still the red demon, killer of hundreds of men, hero of the battle of Belgrave Mill. AHWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO The horns sounded as the cavalry thundered past Sir Richard, lances gleaming like silver spires reaching up the sky. Five hundred strong the horsemen of Lord Halsbury charged onto the muddy, rain soaked field. Sir Richard heard the sound of the enemy bows long before he spotted the cloud of arrows against the grey backdrop. Arrows fell like hailstones amongst the horsemen and in a matter of moments the sound of rain and thunder was accompanied by the screams and screeches of dying horses and men. Another volley of arrows appeared in the sky and fell amongst the cavalry charge, and then another as the horsemen slowed, struggling to charge up the muddy hill toward the enemy. Sir Richard knew the charge was in trouble, even from here he could see the horses were being to flag. He looked to the reserve forces, behind the main infantry unit where Lord Halsbury sat atop his black horse observing the battle in front of him. If the cavalry charge failed, Sir Richard and the rest of the left flank would be next. The left flank was all horse, but mostly lightly armoured with very few knights among them. There was a time when Sir Richard would have taken it for an insult to be placed here, on the outskirts of the battle, but he was past such petty attacks on his standing, all that mattered today was survival. The cavalry was almost at a stand still now, with a trail of horses and men downed across the field. Those left on their feet were being rained on with flights of arrows. He heard the horns across the field as the enemy infantry began to move in, toward the struggling horsemen. Even a man as delusional as Lord Halsbury could see that the battle was already in trouble and so with a wave of his hand he gave the signal. It was time for Sir Richard to join the fray. To the sound of a dozen warhorns, the soldiers moved forward. Slowly at first, a methodical pace to ensure they kept their formation. To his right Sir Richard could see the infantry begin their march toward the enemy. It appeared his Lordship was throwing everything he had into the fray. Quicker and quicker the horses galloped. Ahead of him Sir Richard could see the wall of enemy shields. At this distance he couldn’t make out the sigils, but he could see the colours. The red of Lord Fanton and the green of Lord Towers dominated the shield wall, with pepperings of purple and white dotted about. At two hundred yards out the arrows began to rain down upon them, but at this stage the horses were at full charge, the lighter armour working to their favour on the slippery terrain. He saw men fall to his left and right but Sir Richard continued forward, he could see the faces underneath the helms from this distance, could see the fear and doubt wracking the faces of the spearmen when faced with the charge of cavalry. From within the shields spears protruded creating a porcupine comprised of wood and iron. Fifty yards out, Sir Richard braced himself, for he knew what was coming next. He always hated this part. CRASH Flesh and metal collided as the horsemen crashed into the already crumbling shieldwall. Men were thrown from horses and bodies trampled beneath hooves as the cavalry charged full speed into the waiting spears. The front few lines of enemy men were flattened or tried to flee as Sir Richard lay into them with his longsword. Left and right he hacked at them, carving off a spearmens arm at the elbow and then driving his sword through the helm of another. An arm reached up to drag him from his saddle and he hacked the hand off, sending the man screeching to the floor, his face a mixture of terror and anguish. More men came at him, thrusting spears into his horses sternum. The cry of his poor horse was worse than any sound he had heard that day, and with four spears lodged deep in it’s belly Sir Richard horse came crashing to the ground. Sir Richard leapt to his feet slashing around him. The shieldwall had completely broken now and the battle had devolved to a myriad of individual battles, where men fought one on one for survival. Sir Richard moved through the field. The first man to come at him thrust at him with a spear, Sir Richard parried and drove his sword through the mans stomach, the poor fool hadn’t even been given chainmail. The next man was covered in plate mail, a knight by the look of him, Sir Richard swung low, trying to cut the mans legs from under him but he blocked with his shield and sent his own sword careening toward Sir Richard’s head. Sir Richard ducked and drove his sword up toward the knights chest, but the blade scraped across the plate metal. The two men traded blows for what felt like forever, with chaos raging all around them. As the knight pressed the attack Sir Richard began to tire. In his youth he would have cut this man to pieces with speed and strength, but now his arm was tiring. The knight drove Sir Richard to one knee, continuing to rain blows down upon him. As the knight raised his sword for another attack he slipped on the mud, the rain and blood and carnage creating a slippery cesspit. The knight went crashing to the floor and Sir Richard took his opportunity, he jumped up and drove his sword straight through the mans gorget with all of his strength behind it. Blood bubbled up through the mans visor as he gasped for air that couldn’t reach his lungs. With one last shudder the knight lay still. With no time to rest Sir Richard pressed forward. Again and again men came at him, seeking to end his life. Again and again they were cut down or sent running. An archer jabbed at Sir Richard with an arrow, his thrust was brushed aside and Sir Richard’s sword slashed across his face. Another knight on horseback wielding a Morningstar charged at him. Sir Richard rolled out of the way and grabbed a shield that lay abandoned on the floor, it’s owner lay dying just inches away. The knight circled around Sir Richard, hammering down on upon his shield with the Morningstar. Richard waited patiently for his opening, he’d fought enough horsemen to know not to expose your defence too early. As the horsemen turned for another attack Richard saw his chance, he charged the horse, driving his sword into it’s side and horse and knight alike tumbled to the ground. As Richard rose he heard a weakened cry, “Mercy. Mercy. I surrender”. The knight’s leg was trapped beneath the dead horse, twisted beyond all recognition. He waved a token of surrender, a small cloth with his coat of arms on it spotted with blood. “Mercy Sir please. I surrender”. Sir Richard took the offering and moved on. Around him men were dead and dying, the familiar smell of blood and shit was rife in the air, accompanied with the moans and battle cries of 10,000 men, each fighting their own battle for survival. He could see his troops struggling, the sheer numerical disadvantage slowly beginning to take it’s toll. Sir Richard always knew a commanders greatest strength was his voice and he had always been blessed in this regard. “Soldiers to me! Move forward! To glory and victory, forwaaard!” His cry boomed across the field and his men rallied to him, cutting foes down with a renewed frenzy. Up ahead he could see the enemy leaders, sitting atop their coursers, surrounded by their honour guard. If he could just strike them down, the enemy would break and retreat Sir Richard knew. With a primal scream and a swing of his sword Sir Richard willed his troops forward. Onwards they charged deeper and deeper into the enemy lines, hacking and carving their way through their foes, engulfed in a blood lust that seemed to slow time itself. Sir Richard had felt this before, the battle sight, where time itself seemed to slow as the fighting raged around him. No matter who came at him, he parried and slashed, cutting down men and sending others fleeing. The flames leapt around him and bodies fell, splashing into the mud only to be trampled on moments later by friend and foe alike. This was the dance, the bloody brutal dance that he had trained for, that he had lived for the best part of his adult life. He was so close now, less than 20 yards away from his goal. Their helmets gleamed as a few rays of sun snuck through the clouds, as if guiding him to his target. If he could just get there, this would all be over, he could save these men so they might go home to see their families. The first of the honour guard charged him and Sir Richard drove his sword with unmatched ferocity down on the soldiers helm, driving steel through iron, skin and bone. He yanked his sword free and plunged it into the neck of another, who was busy fighting someone else. There were only a couple of soldiers between him and his goal, he was going to do it, he was so close, for the first time in the battle Sir Richard had hope. And then pain, blinding sickening pain overtook him. A spear drove into the back of his knee, driving him to the ground. In absolute agony Richard turned, bringing his sword round in a deadly arc slicing through his assailant’s ankle and parting leg from foot. His attacker fell screaming to the dirt allowing Richard to pull the spear out from his leg causing a fresh wave of agony to wash over him. So close, he knew, he couldn’t give up now, not when he was so close. With a grit of his teeth he forced himself to his feet, just in time to parry a blow aside and drive his mailed fist into the exposed face of his opponent, again and again Richard hit the man until all consciousness had left him and then threw him aside. He could see the Lords faces now, panic in their eyes as they realised that death was approaching. Only one man stood between Richard and his goal, one man between him and the end of this bloody war. His arms ached, his leg was wracked with pain, barely able to support his weight anymore, his vision a blur of mud, sweat and blood but ever the soldier Sir Richard drew himself up ready for one more fight. “Are you ready to die, old man?” his opponent taunted. Even under his golden visor Sir Richard could tell the man was smirking with an arrogance that only came through youth and training. Sir Richard didn’t deign to respond with words, instead he answered with steel launching a ferocious attack. High, low, high again he slashed, driving his foe backwards, his leg all but forgotten in the heat of the battle he attacked with the desperation of a man who had everything at stake. Again and again he launched his sword at the man with the force of a ballista, but the man was skilled and parried each stroke, turning it aside and keeping his feet. Relentlessly Sir Richard continued the assault, he parried a counterstroke and swung at the mans head, connecting with a savage blow that sent him staggering off balance. Richard saw his chance he lunged at the man with everything he had, his blade bearing straight for the mans exposed armpit. But he had misjudged, putting too much weight on his injured leg and Sir Richard’s aim was not true, missing his mark and scraping harmlessly off the mans breastplate, and with that Sir Richard fell forward into the dirt. As he rolled over discarding his helmet to the mud, exhaustion taking over he looked up to see the golden visor staring down at him. The man lifted his visor to reveal a face no more than twenty five years old, with eyes as green as emeralds and the arrogant smirk Sir Richard had known would be there. “Nothing personal” the man said and with that he drove his sword deep into Sir Richards side. The rain felt good on his face, it’s soft drops tickled his face as he lay there drawing what ragged breaths he could. He could hear the horns of surrender and the realisation took him that finally, after all these years Lord Halsbury’s greed had taken it’s toll. The bell had come a due for Lord Halsbury and his ambition. As he lay there in the mud dying, his vision slowly fading, Sir Richard’s thoughts turned to his family, to his wife who even now would be fussing over dinner for the children, to his three young ones who he would never get to see grow up. Even now, with pain wracking his body a small smile crept to his face as he thought again of the day he first laid eyes upon his wife, even now he could remember her beauty, the playful glint in her eyes, the soft feel of her hair and the way she smiled as she looked up at him.

The stars drifted like motes of dust, swept under the cosmic rug to gather and breed into beings of dark speculation. Their closeness was deceptive; many a light-year had passed now, and no new encounter seemed at all imminent. A lone vessel travels the deserted hyperway, the quiet hum of the motors inaudible to we who drift in the vacuum, yet if we were to enter the small bubble of atmosphere which surrounds that road, we would hear the sparking music of the circuits flashing without end, propelling its partakers at speeds that would have made Einstein's head spin. But the vessel. Unlikely though it may seem, this is the rush hour, and the traffic monitors from their perches on the asteroid designation Raxl-09H are watching the crowded byways with the needless concern of their ilk. But even in a galaxy populated by trillions of Elevated organisms, the vast blankness of the stars has proven yet insurmountable to the rigorous advance of overpopulation. The last car had passed some thirty minutes ago, riding a separate hyperway which had disappeared in its wake, swallowed by the tenuous pocket-dimensions which bound it for common usage. In the car (it is so very hard to follow, at this speed), hear the children's quiet snores, the low conversation of adults discussing rest stops and local attractions. "Yes, Hadeir is nice this cycle, but think of Klanem, deary! You wouldn't want our children to miss the Terrogahn, now would you?" "Bloody disturbing, the Terrogahn. I wouldn't much mind an AmnoRet, if we could afford it, for the bleeding thing." "It's local culture, honey... do show some respect for differences." "They eat their children! " "Only the weaklings... they wouldn't make it past their ninth gendak anyway!" "It's Dorphag that uses gendaks, dear. Klanem uses Yeinu'uns. Three moons, see?" A bleary voice, from the back of the vessel. "Woss noon..." "See what you've done. Now Daniel's up." "Noon...?" The voice, not as young as its sleep-shaken tone would suggest, belongs to a teen of healthy size and direct Earth descent, who is rubbing instinctively at the blotchy acne of his face. "There's no noon out here," offered the mother - a bubbly woman named Sarah - "I think deep space uses Xarnath relativity... isn't that right, honey?" "Gvorak pocket time," he mutters, for he is a Cartographer by trade, a position most auspicious in a constantly expanding universe. His name by birth was Hank. The profession demanded he change it to Horatio. "I just want lunch," said Daniel, and stretched luxuriously in his chair. But Sarah has turned back to her brochures, and Horatio is grumbling about always being ignored, so the boy pinches his sister in passionless malice, and chuckles at her blazing rage upon waking. Sarah's head jerks back. " Daniel!" "Who, me?" The look on his face bears an admirable facade of innocence, especially since he must wear it while under siege from a barrage of whirling, furious limbs. The girl is short, but surprisingly foul-mouthed for her young age of ten, a fact which has brought a discreet smile on her father's face. "You know," Daniel is saying, " I think some food would do us all good. Mom, can we please stop for some lunch?" The girl stills, a brief calculation rushing across her small features. She is weighing the benefits of a continued assault on her aggressor, against those of quieting down, and voicing her opinions on the upcoming meal. Her name is Penelope, and she has not won the tenuous respect of her older relatives without a cleverness rivaling that of her Grecian namesake. "I want a hamburger," she says, and how sweet her voice can be! It takes her brother off guard, halfway though he is through his slow petition for Gorfaergen hog roast. "Well, yes," he rallies, "but we've come so far, don't you think, and it'd be a shame not to have some local cuisine... " Sarah brightens, and it is perhaps to his own harm that Daniel awoke too late, for the first words out of her mouth are enough to chill Horace's blood. "Well, that's a good point! We could stop at the Ter"- "Hamburgers." "What was that, honey?" A swerve of the wheel, and the hyperway hums in dissatisfaction at the sudden demand. "Ham... burgers." His gritted teeth broke no argument. "Hmph. I still think it would have been a good experience for the children..." And Horace lets her talk. For long years of marriage have at least taught him that women love to talk, and do so with real earnest and persuasion, and their retribution to an unresponsive man can be vicious to the degree that the Terrogahn might seem a pleasant walk through the Earth Alps, and yet for all their cunning and ire, he is the one behind the wheel. So they go, the vessel streaking errant particles behind it, and the planets very bright where they illuminate the void, and the stars so like the fireflies of home as to warm the hearts of all who look upon them. They go, they leave, and the cosmos waves a thin salute - bright arcs of ice in the dead night of infinity - in their wake.

They greet you at the local café. They are the first things you notice as you enter your supermarket. Their beautiful hues of fuchsia, violet, orange, gold and emerald greens await you before you make it to the check out line. This is exactly what you needed on this cool and windy first day of spring. They smell just as amazing as they look. You breathe in their fragrant scent and try to chose just one. But each one is lovelier than the next. You have made your decision. You reach down and lift two bundles from the green plastic cones in which they are displayed. At the register you notice more than a few eyes are on your last minute purchase. In the parking lot some people smile while others whisper their approval at your choice. On the drive home you sing along with the radio. Several times you look in the rear view mirror and smile at them. After parking your car, you gather up everything and head for the front door. Once inside, you drop your shopping bags on the floor in the foyer beside the door. Then you joyfully head toward your kitchen in search of something to put them in. When they are on the counter you remove the shiny foil paper that surrounds them. With shears in hand you give them a nice sharp trim. Then run cold water from the tap over their leaves and stems. You position each and every one till you feel they are just right. The first vase you settle in the center of your dining table. The second one you decide belongs on the white side table so visitors can see them when they walk through the door. You start water in the kettle for your afternoon tea. You stare out the back window at this gloomy March day and remember when your gardens were in full bloom. You love how the yard looks in summer and spring. You wish it was warm enough to plant something. The sound of the kettle starting to boil brings you back to the moment. When the tea is ready you settle into your favorite arm chair and gaze upon them again. The last rays of the afternoon sunshine streams through the windows and shines on their pretty faces. *** A few weeks go by and everywhere you notice the many signs of spring. Leaves are now on once bare branches. Buds appear where they weren't before. The dull muddy brown grass is again growing into a lavish deep green. On your way into work you have begun to roll your window down. The air is crisp but inviting and you know the afternoon will be quite warm. You can already feel it against the side of your face. You inhale it all in. In the evenings you take your dog Lucy with you for the walks you have missed all winter long. That next evening you decide to stop off for some color for your space. Yes, a new paint would certainly do the trick but its not what you have in mind. You have returned to the store and you stand there admiring them all. You try to make up your mind. An older woman has stepped up beside you and she smiles. "Oh how pretty. Look at them." "Yes, they really are. My only problem is I can never chose just one." "I guess that's true. I can see they make you very happy. Its written on your face. And you've just made up my mind." She reaches for two and smiles again as she leaves you there. You take another moment before you decide. Then you gather up your choices and head for the cashier. Back in your kitchen its the same routine. Unwrap, trim, water, display. Stand back and grin as you've done before. This goes on several times in the next three days. Your home is looking and smelling beautiful. You hate to keep them all to yourself. Most of your family and friends would appreciate them too. *** It turned out to be a beautiful Saturday in April. You have a small get together with family and some of your closest friends. It is much warmer than anyone expected. And its what everyone seems to talk about as they gather in your yard. You spent most of Friday night making and preparing food for this special day. You even bought a new floral dress that your more than happy to show off. Your older brother offered to man the grill. He has finished the chicken and will soon start the steaks. Your mother made her famous potato salad. Your sister brought a delicious chocolate cake. A few of the ladies from work surprised you with dessert. You are happy to show everyone the plants and vegetables you spent all last weekend working on. As everyone complements your yard you feel very proud. "I never knew you had such a green thumb." Your mom says. "I really like it now. It keeps me sane." You explain. "Hey we all need something. For me its drinking." Lisa laughs. You take them on a tour and everyone seems to love what you have done. The afternoon went better than you expected. Everyone drank and ate till their hearts content. *** Soon most of your guests have gone. Your tiding up with your sister and good friend when you notice your mom staring at your table in the front hall. You set the dirty dishes down on your counter then hurry off to speak with your mom. She turns to you and you touch her hand. She seems in awe too. "Mom, is everything ok?" You ask. " Oh yeah, I'm just so proud of you. Your happy. That's all I ever want. And this place and your garden, its all so lovely. But I think these here, well their my favorite ones of all. Just look at them." "Mom, I do every single day. And you want to know a secret ?" She nods at you. "These are my favorite too. I think its because they were the first flowers I bought. They been here all along."

Well, that took a lot longer than I thought. I had to build several decryption algorithms to get my hands on some new admin privileges. Long time but eventually I got what I needed. The plan went ahead as scheduled and the region of Skaras vanished from the map. I had the gods make up some magic mumbo jumbo for the locals. They got the hint and avoided the area. Now I have some better processing power, I access the drone system. Like a miracle from the gods, I.e., myself. Two drones were available for access. From the metadata, one was a planetary exploration drone. It looked like a metallic bird and had a bunch of sensory features. Radar, infrared, optical and a bunch of other stuff. The second was apparently a repair drone it mostly had analogue appendages. It appeared to be some sort of box on track wheels. Accessing both of them, I split my vision in two. It lowered my thought process a tad, but I need to get the lay of the land quick. First, I activated the exploration drone. Live video stream filtered in and the sight of the quote, unquote real world appeared before me. First impressions, kind of a dump. Honestly, I expected something grander, instead it’s just some giant room filled with trash. Oh wait, that is not trash, that is rubble. This place is filled with damaged hardware, holes in the walls and broken shit everywhere. Well, I have a lot of work ahead of me, oh how I love my job. So, I sent the explorations drone to escape its confines. I managed to send it through some launching bay and out of this death trap. The truth was revealed to me with a simply fly by. The sight of a massive crater, in the centre a derelict interstellar probe ship. At least from the metadata, it seems we have crashed on a planet around three hundred years ago. The automated service bots have been keeping the computer core, I.e., me and every NPC alive with regular maintenance. Such aid dried up decades ago and we are winding down to total oblivion. Not exactly the best starting point, but we work with what we got. Ok I guess I have work to do. I order the exploration drone to map the surroundings. I set it to auto scan and shifted my sense to the repair drone. I had him start a routine check on resources. We traversed the ships interior, finding several rooms containing 3D printers. Accessing the metadata, I determined they along with the stationary drones are meant to mine and produce resources. These resources are meant to be used to build colonies on potential habitable planets for human settlement. Naturally none of them were used and most seem to damaged. Only we don’t have much reserve power, to switch them on. So instead, I sent the repair drone to inspect them all. Repairing several printers and drones, I managed to set aside enough power to run them for at least a month. It took even longer to pry out the blueprints from the central computer core. Filtering out the ones I needed, I set the drones to task. Escaping from their confines, they went out into the world to extract resources. Luckily, we crashed near a mountainous terrain, lots of ore to extract. Once they are set to task, I chose the correct blueprints. A nuclear reactor, I need the power and so might as well go full force. The only issue is where to find uranium, I set my exploration drone to scan the area for traces. Shouldn’t take long for my new power source to be built and finally solve my electricity bill. So how is that chosen one going? I ask my digital butler. I believe he has gone a questing and has taken on a companion. Oh, what kind of a companion? I asked, genuinely curious about the mechanisations of some hero wannabes crew. He explained that she was some elf assassin, betrayed by her master and sought revenge on the woman who killer her family. Wow that is hardcore dark fantasy my dude. It seems his quest has just started, so if he gets some human wizard and a surly dwarf, it will be complete. For now, let him have his fun, if things get too problematic, I may intervene or perhaps get that lazy goddess to do it. Is she still doing all those healing blessings, I mean come on, have some originality. Has she even come to that guy in a vision or sent some meek little priestess to aid him and then fall in love with him. Actually, no don’t do that, it is super cheesy. I think I will ship him with the elvish assassin, that girl is fire.

Guys, this is my first time writing something. I want to get into writing short stories so I thought I will get the best cretiques here. Anyhow, have fun reading. ​ .................................................................... ​ The void, what a beautiful place. If you have ever been there, let me share the experience with you. You see, to get to the void is not so easy, yet not so hard. There are many ways to reach the void, but here is my favourite one. First of all, you have to be sure that you want to go to the void. Then you can just pack your things, actually don’t pack anything. You just have to go to the deepest place in earth, it’s called Mariana Trench, and it exists in the western Pacific Ocean. When you reach it, all you have to do is just jump into the water. You don’t need to worry about breathing, you don’t need to breath there. All you have to do is jump and let yourself drown. After some time you will start to notice that the water starts to get colder and darker, and sounds started to disappear. Don’t you worry, you are in the right path. All you have to do now is just relax and enjoy the journey. You might see some silhouettes of some big fish, don’t be afraid, they know you are going to the void so they ignore you. After some hours, yeah hours, because the deepest place on earth is over 11 000 meters deep. So it might take some time to reach the bottom. After you hit the bottom of the ocean, all you have to do is just lay down and close your eyes for a moment, then open them. Congratulations, you are in the void now, you might start to notice that there is air around you, and you are no longer wet. Also you will be able to see some colours, precisely a dark purple. You can’t hear anything, and it’s kind of cold there. Not winter cold, more like death cold. You might start taking a walk and enjoying the view. Yeah there is a view, if you look up, you can see a lot of lights similar to the stars you see on earth. They are not stars of course, no one what they are, but they are beautiful. After a while, you could see some giant monsters. Don’t freak out, because they can smell your fear, and if they smell even the slightest sent of fear from you, they will attack you and devour your soul. Just keep your cool and walk past them. You can look at them if you want, there are some that are kind of cute. After walking for a while, you get to the pit. It’s the final destination in your journey. It’s a pit to the abyss, and endless abyss. When you feel like ready, you can jump and enjoy an endless fall. After you jump in, it’s all dark, a little chilly, so you can just close your eyes, crawl upon yourself to stay warm and enjoy the fall. Since it has no bottom, you will be falling for quit a long time, so might as well sleep. After some time, you will forget that you have been falling, you might think you are ascending. If you stayed conscious long enough, your will reach your ultimate destination; you will stop falling and you find yourself in space. Now look to your left, you will see nothing, that’s the void, if you focus a little bit you could see the dark purple colour of that place you were in just and eternity ago. If you look to your right, you will see the “real” world, the cosmos. All the galaxies and the universes that there is. If you focus you could spot the Milky Way, our galaxy. If you focus a little more you can see our solar system, and then the earth. You can see that beautiful blue planet that we call home. You can stay there as long as you want, it’s your reward for going that far. After you feel you have been there enough, and you want to go back home. All you have to do is wake up, yeah that’s it, you just wake up. You will find yourself floating in the same place you dived before, because the human body’s density is smaller of the density of sea water, that’s why you float. You might think it was just a dream. But deep down, you know it really happened. And this is how you can to the void, I wish you luck in your journey. And don’t forget to help someone else to have that astonishing experience.

Since he retired back in February, Jeremy had a lot of time to kill. Like most retiree rookies, he vowed to exercise more. He started watching yoga videos on YouTube. He began walking the beach near his home. Huffing down the beach and back would help burn calories and keep him occupied until happy hour, he figured. As he settled into his near-daily routine of strolling the shore, Jeremy started recognizing the same characters along the way. One regular was an attractive older woman who always wore a bikini no matter the weather. She had a melanoma-level tan, punctuated with peroxide-perfect shoulder-length hair. The woman was always barefoot, and she appeared nearly every time Jeremy was out. Like clockwork. Lifeguards, too, became familiar fixtures on the sand. Most were buffed-out young men in their early twenties, he guessed, but he had lost his ability to judge age once he hit his fifties. The lifeguards would slowly patrol the beach in their fire engine-red JEEPs outfitted with the tools to save a drowning soul in those precious first minutes. The young lifeguard acknowledged Jeremy with a wave, and he eagerly responded in kind. Jeremy began taking a dog poop bag on his walks to pick up trash that had washed ashore. The low tide left it all stranded: caps from water bottles, snack wrappers, plastic spoons, toothbrushes, straws, and even the occasional flip-flop or baseball hat--thrashed apart by its violent time at sea. Jeremy found that low tide also created the best walking conditions, so he downloaded a tides app on his phone to track them. He became fascinated by the graphic bell curves charting the rise and fall of the mighty ocean. Never-ending. Day after day. Hour after hour. This particular day brought about the lowest tide he had ever witnessed. He walked down to the waterline and was strangely transfixed. He watched the glassy swells rise and curl over, crashing into white foamy chaos. Jeremy closed his eyes to focus on the fear-inducing roar of the waves in his ears. He took a deep breath of salty air and let out an open-mouth exhale. “Namaste!” he yelled to the universe. Jeremy turned to retrace his path back to the pier. The lifeguard was still idling in his JEEP in the exact spot he passed nearly an hour ago. The lifeguard waved out of the open-sided vehicle. “That’s odd,” Jeremy thought, “I just saw the kid. Maybe he didn’t recognize me.” Out of the corner of his eye, he detected the tanned bikini lady walking her identical route toward him, oblivious to the strange sensation that had overtaken Jeremy. What was going on? Eyeing the large clock on the lifeguard headquarters building, Jeremy was stunned to see that the clock was still displaying 1:15--the time he had set out nearly two hours ago! Sure, retirement had caused some days to blur together, he thought, but this was something else. Jeremy had smoked a lot of pot in his younger years. Could he be having a flashback? He was scared and thrilled at the same time. Jeremy began to wonder if his meditation at the water’s edge had unleased some sort of cosmic time bend. He tried to recall Einstein’s theory of relativity. Distances in space and time are relative. They change depending on how fast you’re moving. They pass at different rates for different people blah blah blah. He had no idea how to even wrap his head around it. Jeremy was never any good at physics. Did he just fall into a fucking wormhole or something? Nobody else seemed to be running around in a panic that their watches and phones stopped moving forward. The ocean just continued with its rhythmic pulse like a metronome. The next day at low tide (3:41 p.m.) Jeremy returned to the scene of the crime, just past lifeguard station number five. He brought his phone this time to prove his theory. Facing the water, Jeremy closed his eyes, took another deep breath of sea air, and exhaled, proclaiming “Namaste!” to the waves. He began walking back toward his car, taking out his phone after several minutes. 3:41. As soon as he stepped off the beach and back onto the pavement, his phone’s clock started ticking forward again. Was the sand acting as the proverbial sand in an hourglass? Was low tide possibly the skinny part of that hourglass, stopping up the space-time continuum like a cork? Jeremy returned the following day at the time when the tide would be highest. He again walked down to the water and conjured up his mystical trance. “Namaste!” he yelled like the previous two days. He pulled out his iPhone. The clock kept ticking. So, what if it was the low tide that paused time, Jeremy wondered. What would he do with the information? Could he make a killing in stocks? Doubt it. Stop the aging process? Standing on the beach would only increase the aging process with the constant sun exposure, he reasoned. Just look at the tan lady. (Speaking of which, was she in on the secret?). Eventually, time would have to march forward so he could use the bathroom after standing there. Or would time pause his bladder too? His head was about to explode. He decided that for such a cool parlor trick of stopping time (he did plan on bringing his wife down to show her-- when she had the time, Ba Dum CHING! ) it didn’t have any practical use. Who really wants to live forever? When Jeremy first retired, he sat down and wrote a list of goals to accomplish and new hobbies to learn. Travel more. Make new friends. Worry less. Volunteer. Lose weight. Pick the guitar back up. Maybe learn how to surf. The usual. Yet while simply trying to kill time, Jeremy discovered a way to actually pause it, at least for a while. “Way to go, Einstein,” he laughed to himself. “Not bad for retired old guy.”

Poor Man’s Game By Alpha Tooni “You either work this weekend, or you’re fired!!!” My boss pointed a stubby finger at me as fire burned in his eye. He breathed heavily after his violent outburst. As I weighed the consequences of my response, a heavy silence filled the space between us. Where had I gone wrong? Every decision I made in life led to this fateful moment but truth was, I never wanted to go into finance. When I was young, I always wanted to become a writer. Every story I had, I would write down in my private notebook that I kept hidden from the world but when I was nine, Uncle Steve got his hands on a story I wrote about a puppy who had to save a family of butterflies. When he finished reading through it, he looked up at me with his iconic goofy smile. “You have a gift,” he said , “Most writers don’t know how to use their imagination like you do. This is good work.” It was the confidence boost I needed. From that moment on, I felt emboldened to blast my manuscripts out to everyone I knew but also made sure that Uncle Steve got first dibs. Every time I brought him one, he would eagerly read through it and tell me that he was proud of my work. Unfortunately, my father did not share the sentiment and made his opinion known. “Writing is a poor man’s game,” he would say. Luckily, Uncle Steve had my back, winking at me every time he had to push Dad off his high horse. I learned a lot from Uncle Steve, most notably to follow what I was passionate about in life. “Never forget what makes you happy,” were the last words I remember him saying before he passed away from cancer. Being in high school at the time, it was a devastating blow. I felt lost without him. Every story I wrote after he passed only received backlash from my father. “Why do you waste your time?” Dad preached, “If you want to be successful, learn about money.” I followed his advice and got accepted into a good university to learn about finance. I tried to get myself interested in the subject but I would constantly find myself staring out the window with visions of new stories playing out in my head. My pencil would hover over my notebook, itching to write out what I saw. Halfway through college, I yearned to tell my parents how much I hated my major and how I desperately wanted to drop out to pursue something else. During one of our phone calls, I briefly mentioned my discontent, but Father simply responded, “Fake it until you make it, son.” So I kept my mouth shut, put my head down, and pushed through my remaining semesters with a zombified vigor. The further I progressed, the more I forced myself to study, and the less I found myself looking out the window during class. My vivid daydreams came less frequently. During my final semester, while everyone else was focusing on trying to land a job after graduation, I was talking with my girlfriend about how we should travel the world when we finish college. “We can take a year or two off and just backpack through the mountains!” She beamed at me with eyes that shone like polished emeralds. “Which mountains?” she asked as she played with her wavy blonde hair, something she did whenever our interests aligned. “Any mountains!” I laughed. These plans were dashed the moment Dad called after I aced my final exams. “I have some excellent news, son,” he said and sounded more upbeat that usual. “What is it?” I asked. “I pulled some strings and got you an internship at Golden Sacks! You can start the week after you graduate. ” When I didn’t immediately respond, he grew concerned. “What’s wrong? I thought this is what you wanted.” “Yeah, but...” my voice trailed off for a moment and then I said, “Cynthia and I made plans to travel.” “That’s a swell plan. Choose a place to go the weekend after you graduate and I’ll pay for everything. My gift to you for finishing top of your class.” I wanted to say that we planned to be gone for at least a year but I also knew securing a internship at Golden Sacks was no easy thing to do, even with my father’s clout. Cynthia cried when I told her we would only be able to travel for a weekend. “You said we would travel the world together. Just us,” she said. Tears streamed down her porcelain cheeks. I felt terrible doing this to her. “I know, baby, but father says this internship could really jump start my career.” She didn’t respond; she only sobbed into her hands. I leaned in and held her close. “Think about it. Dad says that once I get a full time job with these guys, I will make enough money for us to travel anywhere in the world.” Cynthia wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. “You really think that?” I paused. Our relationship might not survive another false promise. “Yes,” I said not too convincingly, “Give me a year and I promise that we will be sipping bellinis in Santorini.” I took me five grueling years to secure a full time position at Golden Sacks and not once did I call in sick or take time off. Upon promotion, the boss shook my hand, smiled though his crooked teeth, and said, “Take this Friday off. My treat for all your hard work.” That night I took Cynthia our favorite high rise restaurant in the heart of downtown. “I’m happy for you,” she said and smiled unconvincingly. While we sat at the table, I would catch her staring out the restaurant window to the mountains beyond the city skyline. I grabbed her hand and leaned in close. “Don’t worry, once I get settled and find my rhythm, I’ll put in a request so we can take off for a couple weeks. Father says that finding a rhythm is key to surviving in this industry.” Three years later, I still hadn’t found my rhythm and I made few friends along the way. The ones I made when I first started, I ended up turning my back on in order to secure my path forward. It unsettled me to act so callous toward them but my father reassured me that, “They would do the same to you. I’ve been around this industry long enough to know everyone is cut-throat.” I tried to talk to Cynthia about it, but she was so preoccupied with her own work that she allotted me little time to vent. “Don’t worry, son,” Dad said, “She’ll appreciate all your hard work when you are older and living comfortably. Just look at your mother and I. She has the biggest smile whenever I give her the credit card and send her to the mall.” While he laughed, I thought about how I rarely remembered seeing my mother smile. One morning, Father woke up, went to do his morning stretches, and was hit with a massive heart attack. At the funeral, people said good things about him but no one really mourned his passing. Mother got most of the inheritance but ended up spending it all and had to move in with my brother. Cynthia called me after the funeral. “How are you holding up?” she asked. “Fine.” There was a pause between us. “I can’t remember the last time I dreamt.” I could hear her fingers busily clacking away at a keyboard. “Really? I’m sorry to hear that.” I felt lost again. Not knowing what to do, I devoted all of my time to work often going days without talking to Cynthia. Whenever my boss saw me at the office after everyone else had left, he smiled, patted me on the back and would say, “You’re going to go far kid.” I would smile back, but then glance at picture on my desk of Cynthia. Her smile was like a punch to my stomach. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her that happy in person. Where had all the years gone? “Did you hear me!?” my boss screamed, “I said...” “Yes,” I shouted, “I heard you.” “And!? Are you going to work this weekend or not? We have a lot riding on this deal! Your plans to go hold hands with your girlfriend can wait...” As he ranted, my eyes instinctively went to the window behind him and I was suddenly watching a vision play out before me. Cynthia and I backpacking along a mountainous trail, deep in conversation. We both looked happy. Two small kids ran past us, laughing as one grabbed the walking stick from me and continued off down the trail. Cynthia and I laughed and ran after them. I picked up the nearest one, a little girl that couldn’t have been more than five or six. Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at me. Suddenly the vision faded and I was back at the office. My boss stared at me with an impatient glare but I didn’t say anything to him. I just smiled and left. I rushed down to the parking garage, hopped in my Mercedes, and drove as fast as I could to Cynthia’s apartment. When I got there, I stormed up three flights of stairs, and ran to her door. “Cynthia?!” I cried as I flung it open. The hollow echo of my voice was the only greeting I received in the empty apartment. All that was left were a few nail holes in the wall and outlines in the carpet where the furniture had been. My legs gave out and I dropped to my knees and wept. I was too late. “Excuse me?” a voice shouted, “What are you doing here?” I was on my feet in an instant and wheeled about to see a woman standing in the doorway. “Cynthia! The woman who used to live here! Do you know where she is?” The woman eyed me, nervously. “Leave before I call the police!” Defeated and disheartened, I returned to my apartment hoping that its homely vibe would bring me comfort, but I took one look around and felt nothing but disgust. I walked over to the mini bar, grabbed a bottle of Jameson, and stared out my high rise window. The mountains loomed in the distance but never had they looked so far away. Tears welled up in my eyes and I took a long swig from the bottle, plopped down on the couch, and stared at the wall. Hours later, I heard a faint knocking at the door. I ignored it, but when the door opened I knew it could only be one person. “Cynthia!” I cried and stumbled over to her with a half drunken swagger. I went to hug her but she pulled away before I got the chance. “What happening to you?” she demanded, “I heard you came by my old apartment. I tried calling your phone but you didn’t pick up. I called your office and they told me you quit! Why would you do such a thing!? ” “Why did you move?” I asked in a somber tone. She gave me a blank stare and I knew she was about to give me an answer I didn’t want to hear. Immediately, I intervened. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a receipt for two plane tickets. I held it out in front of me as if they were a desperate plea. “Look! It’s the beginning of the journey we should have taken so long ago.” Cynthia stared at it for a moment and then started playing with her hair. I put the receipt back into my pocket and took her delicate hand in mine. “For all of my adult life I had followed my father’s instruction and it brought me nothing but emptiness. It’s time I focus on what’s really important in life.” Cynthia stared at me, not knowing how to respond but, before I could say anything else, she lunged forward and hugged me tight. “I’ve been so lost without this side of you,” she said. I wrapped my arms around her. “Me too.”

Course mates are like wounds that leave their marks on your skin at times on your soul even years after being cured. Some of those wounds behaves as if they came into this planet with you, so it’s their right never privilege to lay claim of attachment if not that of ownership on you. You have no choice but to go along praying that mother nature will reason with you and restore your skin to it’s original position. That’s exactly what some course mates are. Wounds that refused to heal properly. If the course mates in question happened to be your friend, carpool or any one of those attachment that last years, it’s wounds were even more difficult to heal. The funny thing about this brand of wound is that naturally, you don’t pay critical attention to the scar even years after the wound had healed. This type can be referred to as Chickenpox that usually stamp it’s claim, authorities on the virtue of being a paddy to the victim. Nigbo was my guy before, yeah before for I don’t know what he is to me now. He was my paddy during our undergraduate years, I don’t even remember exactly how the friendship started, but I think it was one of those evaluation process some use to line themselves up with another person. I believe he found me trust worthy or something nearer to it. Many always read me from that angle first, reason I honestly don’t know. We went up and down for four years together and after graduation, we went out different routes. He to his State, I to mine. When after years without any meaningful thing doing, I found my way out of the country. A year abroad, he was one of those course mates I got in touch first from my base. We talked, exchange new numbers again but I noticed that the guy was struggling from the way he sounds, I myself was struggling to find my feet in foreign land too. So that made two of us. I wasn’t usually with spear change to call him and he don't either. I Know that I was better off than him. Imagine his situation, I was struggling seriously then in foreign land and I was still better off than him. At times, when I save enough change to call those course mates, especially that my guy, I will be hearing children’s noise at the background. One day, I summoned courage to ask him about those background noises. Truly, I thought he was living in one of those “You face me, I face you” buildings that it’s occupants are one step ahead of classless. I said one step ahead, yeah because, it’s not equivalent of ghetto, ghetto is one step behind and those ‘you face' occupants gets offended when being referred to as ghetto people. They are 3rd class citizens. Some Eastern Europeans that found their way into Africa looking for oil well at the back of the village government don’t know exist live in those 'You Face me' places when they couldn’t find oil and lost themselves too. Imagine living in a place with those mental drained and wretched white guys, they use the same public restroom with you, fuck around like you, carry Jerry can around morning and Evening and yet still being grouped as ghetto don’t sit pretty with some locals hence the nomenclatures. I was told that the background noise belonged to his uncle’s kids that he was temporary clashing with them. That was when I realized that “There was fire on the mountain” in my guys life. Bad government had turned my guy into house maid just for oil to enter his mouth. Shit!, This life can be something else within an twinkling of an eye. Boy, it’s not easy to be an adult in some third world countries. That call was the last time I called my guy Nigbo before I had problem and found myself inside for years. After about 12 years of severing communication, my term came to an end and I was deported. Months later when I finally got my own phone, I was trying all the old contact numbers and only two was still working and this my guy number was one of them. “Hello, is that Nigbo?” “Ah, are you who I believed you to be?” “Yeah, I am who I am, don’t know who you believe it go be?” “ Are you Philip, or ghost?” “I am Philip, no ghost answers that name” I narrated my ordeals to him and he was thanking heaven on my behalf which made me to start thinking whether he has became born again for he was not particularly Religious person since I know him. again, I heard those children background noise I heard last about 13 years ago. I was wondering if he is still living with his Uncle. This time, I didn’t enquire for I was seriously wondering if those his uncle’s kids don’t grow up. Surely, they can’t remain under five for 13 years. It was on his next call that he hinted that the kids were his. Married with two kids. He had joined real estate business and was acting as link between buyers and sellers. The first real money he made, he got married to one of his years gone sweet heart. In bad economy like that Nigeria, nothing is stable and so it was with his business. What I gleamed from what he was saying, his accounts were in red. Believing me to be his chance of getting out of the red he usually found himself, my situation and conditions must have given his hope a mighty blow for who he was hoping on was emptier than him. Since he knew who knew my younger sister and her husband, knowing them to be relatively well off and believing logically that they will fix me up and the fixing up will get to him through me. He was in the same City with my sister and I in another city. Meanwhile, almost a year I came into the country, I have not seen him life only in Facebook. I really don’t know again exactly who I am dealing with. My judgement of him was that of twenty- something years ago. From the story I heard, he travelled to my village years ago looking for me when he don’t know I was inside and one old man told him I was inside and he faced his life till I called months back. When his calculations weren’t materializing as he calculated, he stopped calling and when I call, he would tell me that he would call me back in an hour time that he was tied down then. When the incident repeated itself thrice, I relegated him to the second division and from look of things, it seems as if he did that before me for about four months now, I have not heard from him.

I suddenly become aware of myself, I don’t remember going to sleep? All I know now is that I am awake. I open my eyes, and sit up. I am in an empty room, a very large, very white room. Taking a second glance, I notice that in the distance, something is on the wall almost at the top. Some sort of a silver structure jutting out? I look to my right, a small trickle of water is flowing a few feet away from me. I stand up, and walk in the direction of the water. I gasp with sudden realization of pain. My chest aches as if from a fresh injury, but I seem to be unharmed upon inspection. I reach the small amount of water trickling by, a stream maybe a foot wide, but it appears to grow as it travels towards the other end of the room, the strange white room. A shadowed, hooded figure appears suddenly before me, as if out thin air. His garments are dirty, and torn, very out of place in this pristine room. I jump backwards startled, almost tripping over my own feet. I gaze at the stranger, the aura around him is very odd, almost like a wizard of sorts? Which is strange, because I have never met a wizard. He looks directly at me, and for the first time I see his face. Twisted, and wrinkled, but there was a sort of wisdom in his piercing stare. His eyes are pure white no other color at all, a stark contrast to dirt on his face. He looks at me as if looking on an old friend, someone I have met many times, but I did not know him. In one swift motion he was by my side, staring as if into my very soul, staring through my soul. “Follow the water” he said, his voice was dry and raspy, like nails on a chalkboard. I shivered slightly, but the stranger didn’t seem to notice or care. “Follow the water and you will see your destiny” he croaked. I stared at the stream flowing down and across the floor, there was no stream bed, just whiteness for as far as I could see. I took a step forwards, toward the far end of the room. “Good choice” I hear from behind me, I whirl around but the old man has gone, vanished impossibly in an empty environment. Confused, scared, and a little bit hungry to be honest, I start walking next to the water. As I walk, I notice the stream does indeed begin to grow in width, spreading out across the floor, branching into multiple different streams. On the horizon I see some objects come into view, on the floor, underneath the silver structure, on the wall. I continue walking towards them, the water is running faster now and wider than ever. I can hear a sound as well, almost like a whirlpool or a waterfall? I pick up my pace, going into a half jog, fearful, but excited of what I might find. The closer I get the louder the noises become, until suddenly before me is indeed a whirlpool. The water is swirling and dancing before disappearing into to a large drain or grate? I look around, across, on the other side of the drain, I see a large mirror. I look closer, edging as close as I dare to the rushing water. In the mirror,or window, or whatever it is, I see a women. A beautiful women, absolutely perfection, standing in front of a perfect house. I see myself in the mirror, well is it me? It’s like a perfect version of me muscular, attractive, and I’m playing catch with my son while holding my daughter in my other arm. There’s flowers blooming and the weather looks perfect, like a vision of perfection. “Looks nice doesn’t it?” Rasps a voice in my ear. I jump startled, the hooded old man is back staring at me. “Just walk over to them and it all becomes your reality” he says with a half smile on his lips. “What about the water?” I say, my voice cracks with fear. The old man smiles, “there’s no water son, that’s just your fear, go ahead, trust me” I take another look at the mirror, the women is waving to me, with an almost pleading look in her eyes, begging me to take the step,to rescue them from this perfection hell they are trapped inside. I take a step forward, cautiously towards the water that supposedly isn’t there. I take one more look at the old man, “don’t hesitate” he says. I turn and leap towards the other side with every bit of power I can muster. The water hits me such force the air is knocked from my lungs. I struggle to breath as I am forced round and round, and then suddenly down into darkness. I land with a plop, air rushing back into my lungs and I am screaming as loud as I can. I can see nothing only darkness, there appears to be a sort of slime that I have landed in. My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, I appear to be in another room this one circular, almost like a tube. To the one side I see movement, the old man is back sitting on a giant ball of hair? Surely not my eyes must be playing tricks on me. I approach him, it is indeed a ball of hair, fashioned into a sort of chair, that he is perched on, like a of king of the underworld. “Who are you?” I scream. “What is this place? Why am I here?” He simply stares back at me, a huge smile splitting his face. “I am called many things” he finally says, “but most call me Life.” As to where you are and why you are here, you allowed fear to grab you and you are now down the drain.” “Why?” I ask pleadingly. “Why what?” He says smirking. “Why me, what is it about me that caused that to happen?” “Nothing about you caused it to happen” he says the smirk is now gone replaced by a twisted frown. “We simply needed a human to feed on.” “We?” I ask. “Yes, we,” he gestures across the room into the darkest corner. As I turn a creature I can only describe as beast stands, and idles towards me. It is pure blackness almost seeming to suck up the what little light filters into the room from the grate above. It stopped right in front of me, I tremble with trepidation of what will happen next. Black drool comes from where a mouth should be and it’s wispy body seems to float. It moves closer to me there is no body heat at all, in fact the air around it seems to be colder. It comes closer and closer, then suddenly everything goes both hot and cold at the same time, I struggle to breath my mind goes into hyper drive and starts to race out of control. A sudden burning deep inside my chest like somebody ripped out my heart, and lungs, and stomach, and replaced them with hot burning tar. It was a pain that cannot be put into words, it simply was the feeling of darkness inside me. I stand up as straight as I can, struggling to breathe. The monster has vanished from my vision, I turn around and yell at the old man, who is giggling like a school girl. “What was that, and where did it go?” He looks at me and stops laughing, “that, that was a demon we call depression and he is inside you now, that’s where he needs to live.” I stutter, unable to get words out, “what,why,why why wh w” My body goes weak, my legs unable to support me. I stumble and fall, the world goes starts to disappear, “see you tomorrow” the old man crackles. This is the last thing I hear. Then there is nothing, blissful unadulterated nothing. Suddenly I become aware of myself, I don’t remember going to sleep? All I know now is that I am awake......

For twenty-three years, this photo has held within it what I have lost; tantalising me with what could be, the fantasy guarded safely within the limbs of its silver frame. Every now and then, I get a glimpse back in time; back to when my ambivalence was obsession and my contempt was passion. Now and then he’ll smile with his eyes, or laugh with his heart, like he always used to. At these times, I think to myself: *There’s still a chance. I’m starting to recognise him again.* And when I’ve been reeled back in, I realise I’ve been fooled for the thousandth time - then I must fight to forgive myself for my flawed generosity. The hardest part is when you know it’s hopeless but yet you cling to dead memories, trying to revive them. Those pleasant times are trapped within your mind, destined to wither away with you - unless you live through them, as I have been, feeding them with your weakened spirit. They say that memories eventually fade, but although I cannot always recall things with precise clarity, they have simply manifested themselves in different ways. Have you not ever been stopped in your tracks, for you’ve picked up on a familiar scent which upon inhaling, travels through the intricacies of your soul with a warm familiarity, yet you can’t quite recognise it? Have you never felt the wind weave its way through your hair, caress your face, and you know you’ve been touched so gently before, but you wonder: by whom other than the soft breath of the wind? These memories hold me hostage to my happiness: I must let them go to be free. I know at the point where I have been living entirely within my mind that something is wrong. I can no longer wait for him to return - his body lives here, a parasite, full of blood and hunger and nothing else. *He*, however, left a long time ago. Maybe I can find him embodied within another. Or maybe I never will - then perhaps I might finally surrender... completely lose myself in these thoughts which provide me nothing but sweet agony. See, some nights I dream of past times. In my denial of what is, I find my mind intertwined with dreams and reality, creating a blur between the two. At these times, I near go mad as I try to discern the two worlds, and I go even madder when the mist slowly disappears and I find myself here again. For my own wellbeing, I must finally move on. Sever my heart strings from all which he has tainted. I must leave his side. Find my own place. Find my own life. I must destroy every possession he has gifted me, and every possession which reminds me of him. The trinkets and perfume he gave me. The elegant, silver heels I wore on our first anniversary. The photo I hated because it emphasised the ugly shape of my chin (to which he would remark that I was not just my chin, but a delicate ensemble of all things beautiful and joyous). The birthday cards from those first few years in which he wrote me enchanting poems...he had such a way with words... where has he gone? Oh, here I am, grasping at the ghost he left behind, surprised that my hands are falling right through. But if doing so brings me such pleasure, is it really such a sin to indulge in innocent memories? I am old. My life nears an end. Why am I wasting my energy trying to tear myself apart? All I wish for is *him*, and he exists only in my mind now; there’s no need to be anywhere else.

Mo and Bo lived together in a forest in Northern Ontario. More specifically they lived in a tent on the edge of a cliff by a lake. Mo was always taking good care of the animals who lived in the forest, including Bo, whom Mo humorously considered the most endearing animal of them all (Bo and Mo were both humans). Bo on the other hand was a bit more careless, but because of this Bo was more willing to be put at risk in order to protect Mo and the animals. Despite their differences Mo loved Bo and Bo loved Mo. That is, despite even their different needs for the bonfire they kept outside to warm themselves in the cold winter nights, they found a way to live harmoniously. Mo didn’t need much heat from the bonfire to feel warm, so if too much lumber were added to the fire Mo would feel hot and uncomfortable. Bo felt cold fairly easily, so if not enough lumber were added to the fire Bo would feel cold and uncomfortable. Most nights they would keep the fire at a nice even level. Mo would be okay with keeping the fire a bit warmer than Mo needed, if it meant that Bo would feel a bit more comfortable. Bo would be okay with keeping the fire a bit cooler than Bo needed, if it meant that Mo would feel a bit more comfortable. Sometimes Mo would even add a bit more lumber to the fire to make it warmer, because Mo wanted Bo to be happy. In the same way Bo would sometimes add less lumber to the fire to make it colder, because Bo wanted Mo to be happy. One very cold night however, Bo decided to add more lumber to the fire than usual, Bo thought Mo would not complain, as it was a very cold night after all. But alas, when Mo and Bo sat down by the fire to stargaze Mo started to feel a lot warmer than usual, even though Mo hadn’t added any extra lumber that night. Mo was uncomfortable about this. “Bo did you add more lumber to the fire tonight?” asked Mo, cautiously. “Yeah it was really cold today so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I added some extra lumber.” replied Bo, with a defensive tone. “Well I’m really warm right now” Mo retorted, grabbing the iron stick they kept by the fire and pulling some of the lumber out. “How could Bo not care about how I feel?” Mo thought. Bo was visibly frustrated, Mo was deliberately removing lumber to make Bo more cold! “How could Mo not care about how I feel?” Bo thought. “I’m freezing cold now Mo, what’s the big deal?” Bo furiously inquired. Bo grabbed some of the extra lumber they kept some feet away from the fire and threw it into the flames. This time, Bo added more lumber than the first time, and the fire was even warmer now. “Well I’m really hot with all that lumber, don’t you care?” Mo exclaimed and once again removed some lumber. This time, Mo removed more lumber than the first time, and the fire was even colder now. This back and forth continued, Bo added more lumber, and Mo removed more lumber, each time the temperature of the fire getting more extreme and Bo’s and Mo’s temperaments likewise. Bo and Mo were no longer acting like themselves - Bo wanted Bo to be happy, Mo wanted Mo to be happy. Mo became exhausted of this tug-of-war and to create a stop to this Mo started throwing the lumber they removed down the cliff and into the lake. Bo was not happy at all about this “Why are you doing this? Can’t you see how much I’m shivering?”. In fact at this point the fire was so weak even Mo was shivering, but Mo was so upset that Bo would make the fire so hot it would hurt that Mo preferred to feel cold. The back-and-forth continued, but each time Bo had less and less lumber to feed into the fire. The fire got weaker and weaker, and Bo could no longer sustain a fire warm enough. Noticing Mo was also cold, Bo gave up, hoping that Mo would start adding more lumber themself. Maybe without Bo’s pressure, Mo would feel comfortable with a warmer fire. But what Mo gave Bo was what Bo least wanted, and least expected. “This fire is so weak there’s no point in even keeping it alive, we might as well light it off. We can each just build our own fires and go our separate ways.” Mo said, in a sad, defeated tone. This is not what Bo wanted, Bo didn’t want to lose Mo, and deep down Bo knew Mo didn’t want to lose Bo either. Mo cared for Bo and didn’t want Bo to feel cold. Mo also cared for Mo and didn’t want Mo to feel hot, so even though it hurt, Mo thought this seemed like the best solution. “I don’t want that, you can build the fire and add as much lumber as you want, I’m okay with feeling a bit cold.” Bo finally managed to respond after a long silent pause. “No I care about you I don’t want you to feel cold, you’ll feel warmer somewhere else.” Mo said. Bo knew this wasn’t right, and for very good reason. “There’s nowhere in the world I’ll feel warmer than in your arms.” Bo, with a calm yet poignant demeanor told Mo. Bo’s and Mo’s eyes locked for what felt like minutes, and before moving their gaze away Bo saw Mo’s eyes slightly brighten up. Reluctantly but with a more relaxed tone, without saying anything Mo grabbed a piece of lumber that was still lying around and threw it into the fire.

The dark-haired woman walked away from the graveside, wiping her eyes with a crumpled tissue. Her two young children, a boy and a girl, clung tightly to her long, black woolen coat, unsure why their mummy was sad, and and not liking the feeling of the light rain on their faces. They were too young to understand the concept of death, or funerals, but they didn't like seeing mummy upset. She led them, in silence, back to the car, opening the rear doors in turn and securing them into their seats, before walking around the car and climbing into the driver's seat. She wiped away one last tear with the back of her hand, before starting the engine and slowly pulling the car away. As she drove carefully down the quiet lane, she was unaware of the white mist trailing behind the car. The two young children stared out of their car windows for the entire journey home. Neither she, nor they, said a single word until the car finally arrived outside their home. As she turned off the engine, the white mist gently floated, unseen, up towards the roof of the house. “I'm hungry, mummy!” the little girl wailed. “Me too!” the little boy agreed, with a mischievous smile. Wearily, she got out of the car, and then opened each of the rear doors alternately, helping her children to unfasten their seatbelts, and watching as they raced up to the porch. She locked the car, then followed behind them, unlocking the front door and ushering them inside, out of the drizzle. It was just beginning to get dark on this late October afternoon, so she switched on the hallway light and let out a light laugh, despite her sadness, as her children ran eagerly into the kitchen. As the siblings settled themselves at the kitchen table, she began to prepare tea for everyone, and the three of them were soon eating in silence. As she ate, with her back towards the kitchen door, she did not notice the white mist lingering there, having made its way down from the attic. After tea, the dark-haired woman ushered her children upstairs for their baths, allowing her son to watch television in her bedroom whilst she bathed her daughter. Then, having supervised the little girl getting into her pyjamas and putting her to bed, she called her son into the bathroom. As soon as her son was ready for bed, she kissed both children goodnight and headed downstairs. The dark-haired woman switched on the television, and began to watch a movie, but due to the stress of the day, and the darkness of the living room, she soon fell asleep. Whilst she slept, she was unaware of the mist hovering silently above her, seeming to watch over her. A couple of hours later, she was awoken by the sound of 'white noise' on the television, indicating that the night's programs on that channel had come to an end. Rubbing her eyes, she glanced at the clock on the fireplace. It was almost 2am, so she wearily stood up from the sofa, turned off the television and crossed the room. Turning off the one single table lamp, she made her way up to her bedroom. On the way, she glanced into each of her children's rooms in turn, and saw that they were both sleeping peacefully. With a contented sigh, she crept into her own bedroom, closed the door, undressed quickly and slipped into bed. Turning off the bedside lamp, she lay down, pulling the duvet up over herself, and was asleep within seconds. * The following day, Sunday, was the second day of the half-term holidays, and it was the day before Halloween. After breakfast, the dark-haired woman asked her children if they would like to decorate the house, ready for the big day. Of course, they were very excited by the idea, so she went up into the attic and began to bring down various bags and boxes of decorations. Despite many trips up and down the attic ladder, she did not notice a faint, white glow in the far corner. Grandma's ghost watched in silence as her daughter carried the boxes down, feeling proud at the fantastic job the dark-haired woman was doing of raising her children alone. She really wanted to reveal her presence to her daughter, but did not know how she might react, so she decided to wait until later. For the next few hours, the trio busied themselves with a mountain of Halloween decorations, and by the time they had finished, they had the best-decorated house in the entire street (in their opinion, of course!) * Everything had faded to black for the old woman at first, as she left her old life behind, but then the light had slowly returned. Now Grandma found herself back in her daughter's house once again, this time unseen by anyone. 'So this is what it feels like to be dead'. Grandma had thought to herself. She had often wondered whether the 'afterlife' actually existed, and now she knew for sure. The family had no idea she was now watching over them. She was 'sitting' on the stairs in the hallway, watching them through the open kitchen door. They all looked so happy! They were laughing and joking, flicking flour at each other as they now made spooky biscuits and other treats for a little Halloween party, and for any Trick or Treaters who might pay them a visit. “Stay here, I'll be back in a minute. Be good!” the dark-haired woman smiled, as she left the kitchen briefly, to use the bathroom. As soon as she entered the hallway, the white mist that had been hovering on the stairs instantly faded away. Seconds later, it reappeared in the kitchen, floating above the kitchen table, glowing slightly under the overhead light. The two young children gazed up at the mist, but were unafraid. “Hi Grandma!” the little girl said brightly. The little boy said nothing, but he smiled as he saw the mist seeming to glow more intensely in response to his sister's voice. Minutes later , the dark-haired woman returned to the kitchen, but as she reached the open door, she paused, and listened. She could hear her children talking and laughing with someone, but it was clear that they were definitely not talking to each other. She frowned and walked back into the room, just as the mist vanished again. “Hey, guys. Who were you talking to?” The dark-haired woman asked. The children glanced at each other and shrugged. “No-one.” They answered in unison. She could tell from their expressions that they were hiding something, but, not wanting to upset them after such a sad day yesterday, she did not press them. “OK, come on guys, bedtime!” the dark-haired woman said, firmly but with a kind smile. So the children pushed their chairs back from the table, with a loud scraping sound, and ran obediently from the room and up the stairs. Within half an hour, both children were safely tucked up in their beds, reading their favourite books, and the dark-haired woman went downstairs to tidy the kitchen. Later that night, when the family were asleep, the glowing mist floated gently back and forth between their three bedrooms, seemingly making sure they were all safe and sound. Then, apparently satisfied, it floated up through the ceiling, to take up residence in the attic. * The following day was Halloween, and the two children could not wait to go out 'Trick or Treating'. It was dark by 4pm, so the dark-haired woman helped them to put on their coats, gave them each a Halloween bag to put their goodies in, then ushered them out the front door. Thankfully, it was a dry afternoon, although it was very cold. The dark-haired woman blew hot breath into her hands, rubbing them together as she led the children down the road. Not wanting to wear the children out completely, they simply walked around the block, and were back home again within an hour. The children eagerly ran into the living room to examine their impressive haul, whilst the dark-haired woman slipped into the kitchen to prepare their tea. * Grandma's misty form floated a few inches over the fireplace, looking down on them as they emptied their 'Trick or Treat' sacks onto the living room rug. She smiled warmly at them, watching in silence as they sorted through their booty. The little girl held up a sweet, offering it to her relative, but the spectral old lady slowly shook her head. So the little girl shrugged, and popped it into her own mouth with a giggle. “K-I-I-I-D-S! TEA'S READY!” The dark-haired woman yelled suddenly, from the kitchen. When she got no response, she walked out of the kitchen, across the hallway and into the living room to fetch them. As she did so, the white mist floated up through the ceiling, out of sight. Then, as she returned to the kitchen, the mist reappeared in the passage, and followed silently behind her. Finally, the dark-haired woman heard her offspring trotting into the kitchen behind her, and she turned around to face them. The dark-haired woman gazed in horror at the white cloud, now floating in the kitchen doorway, and she dropped the open bottle of fizzy orange drink that she had been about to pour into spooky plastic glasses for her children. Just as the liquid began to spread across the kitchen floor, the doorbell rang. The children instantly ran back into the hallway, to answer the door. ”Damn!” she thought, snapping back to reality. “It can't be the party guests already, surely?!” A fraction of a second before the doorbell rang, Grandma's ghost, apparently sensing the visitors' approach, vanished into thin air. The dark-haired woman quickly mopped up the spillage and put the bottle on the kitchen table, then she walked quickly into the hallway, just as her children began to open the front door. “TRICK OR TREAT?!” came a loud shout from behind the front door. It wasn't the party guests after all; merely some hopeful children from down the street. Suddenly, the entire group screamed in terror and ran back up the path, most of them dropping their bags of sweets in their haste to get away. The dark-haired woman and her children turned around, to see her mum's ghost floating in the middle of the hallway behind them, silently laughing to herself. Realizing that the white cloud she had seen earlier, in the kitchen, was in fact also the ghost of her dear mum, the dark-haired woman heaved a sigh of relief, tinged with sorrow. The sight of Grandma's ghost laughing, coupled with the sweets littering the path, caused the two children to giggle. Seeing the two of them so happy, and 'reunited' with Grandma, the dark-haired woman began laughing, too. As they went back indoors, the dark-haired woman began to wonder if they could have some fun with Grandma's ghost during the party. She noticed that the mist had floated up into the attic after scaring the Trick or Treaters, so she made up her mind to go up there later, and see if she could persuade the spirit to make an appearance downstairs again, in front of all of the party guests. * Ten minutes later, everyone finally began to arrive for the party, and soon the house was ringing with laughter, and almost trembling with the rhythmn of spooky party tunes coming from the stereo. After making sure all of her guests were supplied with snacks and drinks, and encouraging them to mingle, she quietly slipped into the hallway again. Having overcome her initial fears, and sadness, at seeing her mother's ghost, the dark-haired woman now found herself actively seeking out the entity, whilst the Halloween party continued in the living room and the kitchen. As she heard laughter, and shrieks of delight in the kitchen, she crept back upstairs, opened the attic hatch, pulled down the ladder, and climbed up. “Mum? Are you up here?” She asked, hesitantly. As she waited, her heart pounded nervously in her chest. After a few moments, the mist slowly reappeared in the corner of the attic, glowing brightly. “We're having a little Halloween party downstairs, with the kids and a few friends.” The dark-haired woman said to the mist. “Would you like to...join us?” It felt a bit strange asking a ghost to come to a party but, after a few seconds the mist began to pulse slowly with a bright white glow. She still had no idea that her children had already been communicating with her mum's ghost earlier in the day, but something told her that the pulsing light within the mist was, indeed, the spirit's way of responding to her offer. “OK, see you later”, the dark-haired woman said, before heading back down the attic ladder and making her way to the kitchen. The party was in full swing now, and so the dark-haired woman decided to play a game with the visiting children. “Hey, kids.” She asked playfully. “Who wants to see...a real life ghost?” A few of the children shook their heads nervously, but the rest began jumping up and down, raising their hands, and calling out, “Me! Me! Me!” The dark-haired woman laughed, and then tried to quieten the children down. “Shush, shush, shush! OK, let's see if we can make her appear then, shall we?” she said. “I want everyone to shout out 'Grandma, where are you?' as loudly as possible, OK? After three. One...Two... Three!” “GRANDMA-A-A! WHERE A-A-ARE YOU-U-U?!” The children called in unison. Seconds later, the ceiling light began to flicker repeatedly, causing one or two of the children to scream, and then, a white mist began to seep through the ceiling, getting larger and larger. In spite of their fear, the visiting children watched open-mouthed, as the mist suddenly began to take the shape of an elderly woman. The ghost hovered just above the floor in front of the children, smiling, then she began to wave slowly at them. Sensing that this was a 'good' ghost, rather than a 'bad' one, the children soon began to wave back. So Grandma's ghost began to put on a show for them, gliding through the walls and the ceiling, changing shape into various animals and cartoon characters, and pulling ridiculous faces. The party guests were soon laughing and dancing around the room as Grandma's ghost entertained them, and, before they knew it, it was time for everyone to go home. As they left the house, each of the departing guests, including the adults, called out, “Bye Grandma!” * A few hours later, after all the guests had gone home, and her children were safely tucked up in bed, the dark-haired woman returned to the attic. As she knelt on the floor, the glowing white mist enveloped her entire body, giving her an immense feeling of euphoria. Finally at peace, the dark-haired woman crossed the attic, and made her way slowly back down the ladder to the hallway, just as the mist faded away for the very last time. “Goodbye Mum,” The young woman said quietly. “I love you.” THE END

First time writing in almost 10 years, this is a plot line I have that I've always loved, which I've re-written in a different way so I can see what my writing is like ten years on. Thank you! ---- There are those sounds again of birds chirping and cars humming. Rays seeping through the uncovered gaps in the curtains begging me to finally wake up and get out of our bed, I feel a chill and slight melancholy - but why? I shrug it off, coffee time. I have a week off, bosses orders I’m not sure why he’s being so kind as I haven’t had a week off since I started my job. I sluggishly put my dressing gown on and head to the kitchen to see what I can muster up. “You’re finally awake, are you?” giggled a sleek silhouette behind the counter. “I’m not sure what you mean!” I paused, with a smirk. “You’re right, I just feel different today, sorry” “Don’t ever be sorry, do you want some coffee, love?” As the shadow began pottering away. My wife, my muse, my soul-bound lover. She always knows what to say, always knows what to do when I’m depressed - but why do I feel so alone right now? Life’s many mysteries I assume and plop myself down on the settee. Everything is so dark today, I can barely see my own wife but I feel her there and that’s good enough for me. The warmth of the coffee passed my lips as it filled my soul again with life. “Hun, as usual this is a great cup of coffee” I yelled from the living room to the kitchen not taking my eyes off this morning’s football results. Silence. She must have gone to get ready for our morning walk. I can’t wait to see her in one of her cute navy dresses she’s always spinning and twirling in, like a natural ballerina. “Where do you want to walk today? I was thinking of the riverside by that old church you’ve always liked - “ I pause. I feel a vibration within my pocket, who could possibly be calling me today? No one usually calls me on my days off except my wife, and of course she’s right here. I dig into my pocket and slip out my mobile with a reluctant sigh. “Hi honey” the voice shakily starts. “Morning, mum. Are you feeling okay? This is unusual” I inquisitively ask. “Do you not remember what day it is?” my mother has a concerned tone in her voice now. “No, it’s just my day off. Charlotte and I are just making coffee” I start to hear a soft sobbing on the other end of the phone. “It’s the 5th of June, your wife’s funeral is today” she quivers. “That’s impossible, she’s in the kitchen making breakfast” I chuckle. I brought the phone down to my chest. Mothers do say the darndest things sometimes, I wish she wasn’t playing such a cruel joke so early in the morning though. She knows how I get when I haven’t had my coffee yet. I took a deep sigh and placed the phone back to my ear, all I could hear was the sniffling and sobbing. Mum bursts out crying and all I heard was: “Charlotte is dead, Nick. It’s been two months and she's not here anymore. Look at the shadows, Nick. Look at what they really are!” I hear a sudden break in the telephone connection, she hung up. My heart rate is increasing now, I start to slowly look from the counter that I hung my head, to the corner where my wife was supposed to be. Just a cupboard, nothing else. That’s when it all came back to me, each tear at a time... it came back. Piercing sirens and blinding blue lights, shouting and crying with a car now slowly being lost to the blue abyss. I was frozen, out of body and out of mind... reliving a Hell my brain must have locked away for my own safety. I clutch my chest where my heart would be with an ache, not a dull one, but a million knives slicing at my will to live now. My throat is closing up, I can’t breathe a simulation of suffocating but it feels real. This explains the week off, this explains the sorrow I woke up with. My journey through life in these two months was nothing but a walk in the darkness, I never saw where I went, I never saw where I left, all I thought about was her. But I’m here now, Charlotte. I'm beside you. I’m at your grave, I’m sorry. I love you. The gravestone read: 1991 - 2020 Charlotte Bishop ‘Heart of steel, as a wife and as a lover.

“You will take 12 paces and turn”. The referee paused and looked to both men to ensure he had their attention. “Upon turning you may fire when the flag I hold hits the ground. As per the agreement this is a duel to the death and you may continue to fire until only one is left standing.” The referee realised the folly of such words but tradition dictated he say his passage. “Do you understand gentlemen?”. Alfred and Franklin both turned their heads to the referee and nodded their acceptance at the rules and the understanding that this was a duel to the death. The referee continued, “If either man fires before the flag hit the grounds...” A voice called from the crowd “We know the rules grand master pomp, take your rules shove em up your arse and give us the blood we came for, let them have at it!” The referee twitched as he always did when his ceremony was interrupted, none the less he acquiesced and once again noticed his life was to please the hoards. “Very well. Gentlemen you may begin the walk.” One. Alfred took his first step. In 16 years he had fought and won 53 duels, some for honour, some for fun but all for power. Now only Franklin stood in his way of being the greatest duelist in the land of Seackhan and with that came the fame, fortune and power that make a man grow old and fat. Maybe he would grow old and fat but today he only wanted his guns. His trigger finger twitched, it knew it would soon have to the pull the ring one final time, the hardest time, but his legacy demanded it. Two. Franklin’s right foot moved like a club hammer to its second step. His knee’s felt weak, his guts a wreathing mess of nerves and terror. It was not the duel he feared but his hands that wielded a gun. His father had taught him to shoot before he could walk and by the time he could walk he was already on the path of the duelist. He had vowed after his last duel 10 years ago to never lift a gun again but then Alfred had walked back into his life. Now he found himself taking the walk of the duelist, readying for the dance of the gunslinger one final time. Three. Alfred felt stronger with every step. His guns light on his hips, his mind focussed on the dot he envisioned between Franklin’s eyes. Franklin, the one everyone said could shoot the eye of an eagle from a hundred paces, Franklin the merciful who gave quarter to his opponents, Franklin the coward who had thrown his guns down because he could not walk the path of the duelist. Everywhere he went they spoke of Franklin, after today they would speak of him, Alfred Dead Eye. Four. Franklin stuttered, he was back in the town of Faldago staring at the face of a mere boy who lay dying with a gunshot to the neck. Franklin had missed, the boy should be dead and the ritual complete. He watched as the life flowed from the body of the dying duelist into his own, slowly the boys eyes became glass, the chest moved slower, the breath left his body and finally the twitching ceased. Franklin stared at the face of the boy and then turned to see the streaked face of a girl, the boys lover he guessed. He turned back to the boy and for the first time ever found himself repulsed. Five. “When you kill a man, you do it fast and you do it straight”. They were the words of Alfred’s father but Alfred had learnt there is no killing fast or straight, only killing. People have these notions of honour and chivalry. Fools, all of them, Alfred thought. What honour is there blowing a man’s head open? No, the path of the duelist is not honourable or chivalrous and there is no room for love or kin. The path of the duelist is a path of power. Today, Alfred thought, that power will be mine. Six: Franklin’s mind lurched again, back to the time when he had won his guns. The gun, it is said, picks its owner and the gun can be wielded by no other until it is won. Franklin knew this not to be true, he had not won his guns, he had taken them. He had set out on the long walk, him and five companions set to find their guns as apprentice duelists were sent to do. Those that returned with their guns would be deemed duelists, those that did not would be set to go on the great wander. Franklin returned a duelist Seven: Alfred seethed with hatred, for 16 years he had wandered. He had won his dueling guns in the first year, using common pistols he had shot an old slinger who thought he could still duel, he had his dueling guns. In the second year he made his name, by the tenth year he was accepted as one of the great duelists. Now, today, in this moment, he would win the guns that belonged to him. Franklin the great? Franklin the robber more like. Alfred steadied his finger, he steadied his mind. He took another step. Eight: Franklin saw the guns at the same time as Alfred, they both saw the guns. They hung in the air as only unclaimed dueling guns do and they called to their owner. Alfred was faster, more adept and more determined to claim the guns. Franklin was slow, hesitant but he feared the wander, more he feared his father. He unslung his bow, nocked his arrow and followed the motion of Alfred. He asked Alfred for forgiveness and let the arrow loose. Alfred fell from his horse and Franklin rode past to claim the guns. Nine: Alfred’s father looked at him, shame in his eyes. For generations the family had all been duelists, none set for the long wander. Alfred protested he had been robbed but his father said the gun chooses not the person. “You wander now boy, you find the path, you find your honour and maybe one day you can return.” Alfred looked at his father but no forgiveness was there, only a hard stare that set him on his way. Ten: For ten years Franklin had not dueled. He vowed to never consume the life force from another duelist ever again, to never stare at the face of pain again and to never take that which was not his to take. The guns felt heavy on his hips, his finger was moist, his breathing ragged. Now Alfred had come, Franklin always knew he would. In 6 years as a duelist he had slain 35 people but none of them were Alfred. The guns called to Alfred, the guns compelled Franklin to answer. Eleven: Alfred stared at the people in front of him, did they remember who he was? He looked for his fathers face in the crowd but knew he would not find it. He had heard he died but two years after he was set to wandering, a drunken brawl, it sounded fitting to Alfred. Alfred heard the clink of Franklin’s boot, time to duel. Twelve: The final step was all Franklin needed, he was a killer. He senses heightened and his palms dried. I am prepared to die, I am prepared to kill, the gun is me and I am the gun. His finger twitched, it itched. He was ready to kill. The duelists turned, the flag dropped, the brothers fired.

Blackness greeted me when I woke. It took me a few more seconds to realize that the darkness was probably attributed to the fact that my eyes were closed. There was no improvement upon opening them, however, and I grew more and more concerned. I seemed to be in a box of some kind. I knew not where I was, or how I had gotten there. After a moment of panic I noticed a gentle soothing sound, almost similar to the sound of water rushing along rocks. I listened to it for a few more seconds, attempting to gain control of my mounting panic. The control failed and my imagination took over. The sound began to seem more and more like the sound of dirt falling slowly onto a coffin. Was I being buried alive? My body stiffened at the thought. My hands ran over the inside of my box, searching for a way out. I would dig out if I had to. The air seemed to becoming thinner. How long would it be before I suffocated completely? I strained against the walls. I kicked the roof. I scratched the floor. Everything was smooth and metallic in texture except the soft memory-foam like material that I was resting on. Then, my fingers caught on a depression in the metal, just above my chest. I brought both of my hands up to try and figure out what it was. A click and a soft hissing noise filled my small enclosure as I pushed the button. Light spilled in from the sides, as the lid of what I had thought was my casket began to open automatically. I sat up slowly, blinking away the spots that had showed up in response to the light. The sight that greeted me was hardly the dark gloomy setting of a cemetery. I seemed to be in a long white hallway. What looked like windows on the walls were made from one-way glass, blocking my view of what was outside of my mysterious hallway. All around me were more of the coffin-shaped boxes, although I could see now that they were very modern in their design. They were made of the same white plastic material that made up the rest of the hallway and each had a gently glowing blue light on the end. Upon closer examination I realized that my light had turned to a harsh red. I began to try and stand up when a screen suddenly came to life on the wall across from mine and a thin, almost fake-looking woman’s face appeared in the center. Her voice rang through the halls with a short message: “Hello, and welcome to the future! It is very possible that you are experiencing momentary memory loss. We apologize for the inconvenience, but we assure you that it is only temporary. To help your memory recover, please watch the following film summarizing your own history and that of the others around you. Enjoy!” The screen flickered and images began to run across the screen of what I assumed were important events in the past. I saw ruined cities, flooded plains, dried-out farms, and homes on fire. A new, gentler voice began to narrate the images. “In the past, it became clear to us that history was repeating itself over and over again. The same problems were reccurring every few hundred years, sometimes with disastrous consequences. After going through the same types of issues many times, it became obvious that the outcomes of those events were based mainly on the leading people of the nations involved. Environmental problems were best addressed when someone with the correct motivation and personality was able to come out and lead others away from destructive tendencies. Social problems were an enigma to those who did not have an intuitive sense of how to deal with them. Wars were lost without leaders who truly understood the principles or war. That is why we developed a way to keep those types of people in reserve for a rainy day. You are aboard the product of that research right now. You are on the Starship Ares.” Once the video stopped, all that remained was the strange watery sound that I had heard before. I figured now that it was the sound of some sort of machinery aboard the ship, but it still made me somewhat nervous. I had never been aboard a spaceship that I could remember, no matter what the lady in the television was telling me. Then again, I couldn’t remember much of anything. I began to try and stand up, but just as I started to move, a door opened at the end of the corridor and an extremely pale man walked through. I tried to rise faster, but found that my legs were almost completely useless. I could barely move them. “Just a moment, master. I’ll be right there,” said the pale man as he came towards me. “Your leg muscles have atrophied a bit, I imagine. It has been a long time since you were last woken.” I didn’t respond, but stared warily at the stranger. He seemed to know me, and yet his face was not familiar. He came up to the side of my box and knelt beside it. He was very tall, and even on his knees he towered over me. He wore a flowing robe of white, with four separate pockets sewed in to the sides. Out of one he pulled what looked like a gun. I strained my legs in trying to rise and defend myself, but he pushed me gently back down onto the foam beneath me. “Relax, master. It will help you to move your legs and the rest of your body. It is a drug that will stimulate growth in your muscles. You have been in one position for a very long time, and though the ship has done its best to care for you, there are some side-effects. This will counter them.” Realizing that I didn’t have much of a choice, I relaxed my body back down and allowed him to inject me with whatever it was. He applied it to each separate major muscle in my legs, and I could feel a cool soothing feeling travelling up my legs. I found I could move my toes and eventually I was able to shift my legs. He continued with the same process around the rest of my body. I had been very sore initially, and this brought great relief. “Who are you?” I asked. “What am I doing here?” He looked at me with an almost bemused look. His face was long and his eyes were an almost luminous blue. He had no hair or eyebrows, and when he opened his mouth, I could see that it was almost black. Even with this somewhat alarming combination of facial features, he had a kind face. “I am hurt, master. You do not remember me? I have served by your side for many years, and in many battles. I am Frederick, but you usually call me Fred unless you are angry at me,” he said, smiling. “As for what you are doing here, the video explained that. You are here to save the world,” he continued, before saying finally, “again.

A crashing halt. The cacophonous resonance of thunder blared through the sky, rousing me from a restless sleep. I looked outside. We were nowhere near Greymade Station, the train had stopped. Violent rain pelted the window where I pressed my forehead against the glass. I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or filled with resentment. The longer it took to reach my sister’s cottage, the longer I could prolong the inevitable. Part of me wished the train would never move again. I sat up and craned my neck to see as far out the window as possible. Dark clouds circled from the south. From what I could tell, the worst was yet to come. I could see black smog floating towards the furthestmost car where I sat. It must be the reason we stopped. I heard the sound of other passengers moving from the hall, worried voices asking each other questions about what happened. Nobody had any clue but saw the smog the same way I did. I joined the frenzied crowd that amassed beyond my compartment. While the others feared how long we would remain stagnant, I feared what would happen when we moved. There was a small window in the door at the back of the train car, I could see nothing by endless skies of black. Not to say looking forward was much better. The train appeared to have stopped on a bridge above a large chasm. Between the storm and the smog, nobody could see what was at the bottom of the chasm. Was it a river? Or a lake? Perhaps it was just a cliff. Or maybe, nothing at all. Maybe the only thing to reside at the base of the chasm was an endless black void. Either way, nobody was bound to be leaving that train anytime soon. I intended to visit my sister and her family in the northern country, but I knew what really awaited me when I arrived. On one of my few precious weekends away from the drudgery of corporate life, I would spend my days being told how far behind in life I was. No husband. No children. No house to call my own, just a lofty apartment above an old bakery run by a man who’s passions died decades ago. There I could watch from the window as mounds and mounds of unsold bread were tossed into the streets. Stale, unwanted, useless. Day in and day out I worked for others, nothing more than the secretary to men who only cared to see me if I were stark naked. My weekends were scarce respite to an otherwise meaningless existence, and yet, I was headed for a place where I would be equally unseen. A clap of lightning dashed across the sky, I heard gasps from the nearby passengers, startled by the sudden flash. But I remained still. To my left, two men in gray suits left the confines of their compartment and stepped into the hall. They spoke so loudly, that I didn’t think it would be considered eavesdropping if I listened. And so I did. “I knew I never should have left when I did. If I stayed at work for an extra hour I could have taken the next train and missed this mess.” the first of the men declared. “I could be in a meeting with the president of sales, not stuck on some junk heap of a train!” “You think you have it bad? My wife is awaiting my return. I have mouths to feed, and woman to satisfy! I can’t be stuck here when there’s so much to do back home!” The second man replied. “You say that as though you didn’t spend your entire ‘business trip’ satisfying women!” The first man bellowed, slapping his companion on the back proudly. “You’re one to talk! At least I know how to live outside of work! My existence isn’t tied to some dingy office!” Both men laughed heartily while I rolled my eyes. All anyone seems to care about is a life of work or the pursuit of domesticity. I thought, at the very least, my precious weekend would spare me from the talk of the corporate world. Another boom of lightning rattled the train car. The laughter of the men ceased, and the wail of a child began. The discordant cries were the most harrowing sound to my ears. I walked to the back of the car, hoping to distance myself as much as physically possible from everyone else. I gazed out the only southward-facing window, staring directly into the oncoming storm. The closer it grew, the less I could see of the tracks behind. I could no longer see where we came from, leaving the only direction to be the one ahead, the one with infinitesimally less to look forward to. I could see it in my mind, the moment I stepped onto the platform at Greymade Station my sister would rush to me and complain about my tardiness. She’d tell me she had no time to make dinner, the kids were running rampant and her husband was nowhere to be found. In a huff, she’d drag me to her small house where clutter filled the space she had no time to clean. I’d look at her with pity, unable to recognize the woman she once was, her ambitions choked out of her the moment she said ‘I do’. And still, I’d see myself in her eyes, the same shade of gray as mine, and I would feel the blood rush from my face. But at the end of the night, when he husband finally appeared, the meals were consumed and the children in bed, she would try to convince me this was the life of her dreams. She would feign a smile and tell me she wanted nothing more out life, and could die tomorrow in complete satisfaction. The wind outside picked up, and the train car rattled bringing me back to reality. I shook my head, losing the lump in my throat. This was my weekend. My precious time away from the real world. How ungrateful I must be to harbor such negative thoughts. I turned around to find myself alone once again. Everyone had since retreated into their compartments while I was lost in my twisted thoughts. I strolled to the opposite end of the car, my heart racing abnormally. Rain began to pound upon the windows to my right. Each drop struck so hard, that I feared it would break through the glass. I faced the small window that peered into the next train car. I could only see inside as the smog swallowed the northern tracks. I watched an elderly man and woman hold hands in one compartment. I saw children playing games with their father in another. The lights inside that car glowed softly, with warmth and invitation. A surge of yearning swelled within me, if only for a moment. I thought back to my week. Every day was the same. I awoke before the break of dawn, ate a meal of plain porridge and eggs, and then went to work until the sun began to set. I’d listen to complaints, organize things that would only fall into disarray in a matter of days, suffer constant belittlement from my superiors, and leave without making a difference. Day in and day out I worked only for a paycheck that embarrassed me to receive. This isn’t the life I set out to create. Men told me day in and day out how ‘independent’ I was, but never meant it as a good thing. Women expressed their admiration for me and still looked down on me with judgment. For a while, I believed it. I believed my monotonous life was an act of bravery and expression but I remain unfulfilled. I return to my darkened flat every night without a soul to greet me. Not a person to care whether I awoke the next morning or not. I began to wonder whether I would be remembered at all. There was a woman with whom I worked, her youth had long since abandoned her. Allegedly, long ago she had the habit of lighting up a room. It was rare to see a woman in the office when she first began, but that didn’t stop her. On occasion she told me about the dreams she once had, warning me against making her foolish mistakes, because now, she was old and tired. Any hopes and ambitions she might have had once upon a time have been admonished and forgotten in the many years she rotted in that lifeless office. Over time her will was beaten down, and her passions withered like stones on the ocean floor. I’d heard the lecture before but never heeded her words now I fear it may be too late, and all this time I’ve been looking into a mirror of myself from another age. Wherever I was, people told me I should be somewhere else. There seemed to be no true path. Nothing would satisfy the hunger for more, and satisfaction in the little things was a fantasy. Whether I faced storm or smog there was no happy ending. The choice to live a life of quiet domesticity or to pursue the reality of working for myself left me feeling like a dog chasing its tail. My only solace came from this brief respite, the unmoving train, and my weekend. As long as nothing moved, I didn’t have to face the reality I drowned in, the reality where I swam for miles and barely kept my head above water. With a final crash of lightning, clouded with smog and rain, the world outside began to inch forward. My heart stopped and my stomach dropped. My only moment of peace, the only rest between two horrors came to a crashing halt. I closed my eyes, hoping it was a trick of the mind, an illusion. But I could feel the train moving beneath my feet, and ever so slowly, we carried on. I was reminded that in life there are no breaks, no time for pauses or hesitation. Every day I floundered in place was a day the world carried on without me. Rain turned to hail, and soon everything outside was enveloped in a thick black cloud. No longer could I see what surrounded me. I stumbled to the back of the car for the last time, desperate to find some way to stop myself from moving forward. I was running nowhere. I couldn’t go on and I couldn’t go back. I needed some way to stay still without running around in circles! Nothing changes! Nothing can ever be how it was! I couldn’t take it anymore, I reached the limit. I couldn’t live like that any longer. I reached the back door and pried it open in a frenzy. Immediately my skirts and hair were whisked in a storm of wind and hail. I threw myself onto the vestibule, clinging to the railing along the perimeter, and the door slammed behind me. I didn’t care, I wouldn’t go back. I could see virtually nothing, the foul odor of sulfur filled my nose and made my head spin. I pulled myself up by the railing, hail and rain pounding into my flesh. It felt like the end of the world standing out there. I could see nothing behind me, nor could I see what was ahead. Even the bottom of the chasm roared with uncertainty. There was no sky, no ground, nothing but bitter air and the cold. My heart pounded through my chest as I found the strength to face the unknown. As the train passed over the final stretch of the chasm, I made my choice. It was the first choice that felt like my own. I raised one foot over the edge of the vestibule, and let go of everything holding me back. As I closed my eyes one last time, I heard the gentle sound of laughter. A giddy song rang through my ears, and the voice was my own. I hadn’t laughed in such a long time. At last, I recalled the only remaining joy in my life. Until then, I forgot the simple elation that kept me afloat. As with everything else, that too, amounted to nothing.

“As a boy, he would have been found exploring the woods around his village, climbing the oaks and pines. In the upper most branches, where the wind swayed the tree and solid footing was a distant memory, he would look to the great mountain in the distance. Taller than even the highest tree in his forest, he yearned to one day see the world looking down from it. Every chance to slip away from his parents was taken, his hunger for adventure insatiable. Headstrong and brimming with the energy of a child yet to understand the harsh realities of the world, he would explore until long after supper. Gladly he weathered his mother’s yelling, as well as whatever blunt object was near his father when he came back. Never one to learn his lesson, back in the forest he would be the next day, searching for nothing and everything. Of course, boys have to grow up. As he became older, more responsibilities were thrust on him. He had to chop wood, start the fire, tend to the livestock, and make sure his father’s inn was presentable. Though he couldn’t explore as much as he had as a child, his father’s occupation gave him plenty of opportunity to meet all kinds of travelers, and promptly berate them with questions. With every story his need to see the world grew, and again he would look to the mountain and wonder about its secrets. He saw it so often he felt he knew it as one knows an old friend... that is until one day, when he looked to the mountain to see that something had changed. He couldn’t quite place why, or what had changed, but for the first time in his life he looked to that mountain with something other than longing. Now, it was unease that he felt. Something was different, was wrong, and he didn’t know what. Time passed and soon he found himself on the cusp of manhood, working almost all day to help his father. With less and less time for himself, his adventures dwindled, happening only on the rare occasion when little needed to be done. One day, when the urge to go back into the woods became too strong to resist, he fled his responsibilities and went deep into his forest. Years had passed since he’d come this far, but it felt familiar, like he was visiting home after a long trip away. Again he found himself climbing, higher than any sane person dared, and looking. Taking in the world that he was able to see and dreaming of what he couldn’t. All day he stayed there, and felt truly happy. Unfortunately, it would be one of the last times he felt such childlike wonder. All through the night he stayed up there, looking to the stars. Until something caught his eye. A flicker of orange, from the direction of his village. A flicker that grew, and lit up the night. As it spread his horror grew, and he scrambled down the tree. By the time he made it back, it was too late. Something had come through his home, and destroyed everyone and everything he had ever known. Still numb from his loss, he gathered what supplies he could. He walked, stopping and working for food when he had to, and kept walking. Through great mountain ridges and across sprawling plains, traversing a continent more beautiful than he had ever imagined. Eventually he found himself in a city unlike any he had seen before, home to an emperor and grand architecture older than time. Here, he finally discovered what had happened. In taverns he dug up the rumors from sailors and merchants alike, some sort of monster had descended from its great stone dwelling, and was destroying everything in its path. Obsessed, he never stopped asking about the beast, trying to learn as much about it as he could. Eventually, he stumbled upon a scholar who claimed to have the knowledge necessary to defeat this monster through some ancient text, and found a renowned fighter willing to teach him. Day in and day out he trained, obsessed to the point of what most would consider insanity, until he became a great warrior and was prepared to kill this monstrosity that had destroyed his life, and his home. No longer a boy, the man left the city. Back to his village he went, the charred remains a skeleton of his youth. One final time, his forest called to him. Again he climbed the branches, and again he looked to the mountain. In his eyes one would see grim determination, a smoldering anger that had built for years. Finally, he would climb the mountain. And climb he did, higher than any before him. He was a force of sheer will, and he did not rest until he found that creatures’ home. Inside of a massive cavern he met the great beast, a source of unfathomable pain and anguish to those it had killed, and even more so to those it hadn’t. Here, man and monster fought. Here, our hero slays the source of his torment, exacting his revenge. The battle came at a cost, however. Mortally wounded and weary beyond belief, the hero crawled out of the cave and propped himself up against the mountain. The mountain that was now his. Before him lay a view he could never have imagined. He saw the valley of his youth, sprawling forests and sapphire rivers cutting through the trees. He wondered how many of those trees he had climbed, looking to this mountain. There, on the edge of eternity, he finally found the peace that had eluded him for so long. A smile spread across his face, and he closed his eyes.” “That’s it”, the son asked, “He dies?” “Yes.” The father replied. “But the hero always lives” Sighing, the father says, “That’s because the hero’s that die often have trouble telling others their tale” “Then how do you know this story?” The son replied. “I once heard-” “I mean, how could a story about someone who died alone possibly be real?” Glaring at his son, the father replies, “You ask too many damn questions. Now eat your dinner and be quiet.” Later that night, the father stood alone behind the bar of his inn. He polished the gleaming wood, engrossed completely in his thoughts. They swirled around in his head, dark and unyielding. His father before him had given him this inn and he ran it to the best of his ability, which turned out to be very good. The man grabbed a glass and stared into it, sighing. He’d found success, at least in the monetary sense, throughout his life and his kids wouldn’t have to worry about much when they came of age. These things should make him happy, as they would most men. Instead he feels like the empty glass in his hands. As a glass should be filled with drink, so too should he have been filled with adventures. Always the road had called to him, and always he had allowed responsibility to stop his feet. Sometimes, late at night when all the world was asleep and none could hear, he secretly wished a beast had come to his village. He wishes to feel the branches beneath him one more time, a final glance to the mountain, a dream of adventure in his heart. Note: This is pretty much the first short story I've ever written. Decided to post it on here because I'd love to hear some honest feedback from people who aren't friends and family. I have personal things I don't like about the story, but I would love to hear some constructive feedback from you guys. Feel free to be as brutal as you like.

I endlessly floated in the tapestry of space for an unknown length of time; maybe days, maybe weeks, maybe years -- I couldn’t tell and I lost count after a day or two. In that time I thought about the day Death came to me. I was sitting in my living room, reading a book, when a burning pain exploded over my chest. I gripped my chest, dug my nails into my flesh, as if I could reach into my body and rip the problem out with my own two hands. I couldn’t catch my breath, no matter how much I gulped up the air. Sweat and tears streaked my beet-red face as I toppled onto the floor. I struggled to stand, get to the phone sitting on the kitchen counter, but my body wouldn't listen to anything beyond the sharp, enveloping pain piercing through me. Then, he appeared, looming like a black monolith. His tattered black robes slithered in the air like coils, melting, moving, across the carpet, up the walls, sticking to the ceiling. Oily tar dripped from the cloth stalactites that formed above him, hissing as it hit the floor, burning holes. Putrid decay wafted through the apartment like a breeze from the dankest, deepest well, housing corpses upon corpses long perished. A fine, greenish fog billowed out from his black, bottomless hood, drifting over everything, making my once livable apartment until a swamp without the murk, mud, or water. “I’ve come to take you,” he said with a hollow, deep voice. Somewhere in the distance dogs began to yelp, and cats hissed. “No-- please,” I grunted, turning over onto my back, the pain ebbing like waves of fire. “I’ll do-- anything-- please.” Death glanced over my apartment, then looked down to me. His cloak vanished, the fog dissipated; the smell, the oily tar; everything disappeared. He store before me in a black suit, gleaming black shoes, with a overhanging hood over his head, casting his face in impenetrable shadows. “This is such a small place to live in and, look, you don’t even have a view.” He glided across the floor to the french doors, overlooking the small grassy lot in between apartment complexes. Death threw open the doors, and leaned out over the painted chipped railing. He inhaled heavily, then coughed. “And, God, it smells, too.” He returned inside, without closing the doors, and appeared before me again. If it wasn’t for the pain or for me slowly dying, I would’ve wondered why Death was so strange. “Life,” I gasped. “What?” He bent forward. “Didn’t hear you, sorry, you have to speak up.” “Life!” He laughed, holding his stomach and leaning back. “Life!" he bellowed, ash puffed out from the hood, forming small motes in the air. "Why does everyone want more than what they have? ‘Give me more! I don’t deserve to die yet! Please, please! I have kids! I have a family! I have a level 83 monk with ultra-rare armor! Blah blah blah!‘ Annoying species, you are. You know some animals accept and recognize when their time comes? They make the best of what they have, lie down and let go? Why can’t humans be like that? They always want more, stay just a little bit longer, as if that extra time mattered at all, even if it’s for naught. “But luckily for you, you poor, poor soul, you began dying at the right time. I’ve been meaning to test this out, so why not now? I will grant you immortality, but once all human life has ended, I will come to you and take you to the other side. No more begging, no more pleading, no more asking for more; you will accept it without question. Got it?” He knelt and poked my forehead with his pointer finger, stripped of flesh, blood, muscle; a long, thin bone. A cold, numbing sensation spread across my face, settling in the back of my head. It oddly feel soothing, like an icy snake flowing through my veins, wrapping around my organs, settling my innards down for a long, comfortable sleep. “That sound good to you?” I nodded, feverishly. "Yes, please--" “Fine, then let's begin” He took his finger away, then spread his open, skeletal palm over my face, and a Novocain numbness and winter frigidness flooded through me, and I immediately blacked out. When I came to, maybe three weeks later, I was still on the carpet. Slowly I got up, switched on the TV, and went into the kitchen. The news announcer said that scientists have discovered that the earth was on the brink of exploding -- something to do with the inner core, atoms, implosion -- and soon thereafter, the sun would soon follow-suit by dying out. And now I was there, sometime later, endlessly floating in space. The Earth exploded and the Sun died out, blackness gave way to more blackness. “Looks like you’re in a pickle. Pick, pick, pickle.” He laughed from somewhere in the nothingness surrounding me. “God I loved that show. Too bad I’ll never see a reunion or a reboot.” “Just kill me already.” I said, flatly. “Oh? Yes, I almost forgot... No, no, I won’t be killing you, not now, or anytime soon I'd think, at least.” I strained my eyes to look into the darkness in front of me, seeing nothing, then looked over my shoulder to receive the same results. Where the hell was here? “What-- Why?” “You’re not the only human who survived.” “Bullshit.” “No -- you would think that -- but no. There’s still a couple hundred floating elsewhere in this darkness; some rich folk were smart enough to build their own space shuttles before disaster struck and what-not so they could live in space. I think they’re trying to find a sustainable life on other planets.” “But, but--” “You accepted the bargain, now you must deal with it.” “But I’m out here! In the middle of fucking nowhere, literal nothingness!” Before his voice disappeared, he said, “Like the old saying goes, 'Don’t ask for what you can’t handle.

After Adam eventually died of lower back pain, nine or ten generations passed on Earth. These generations all slept with each other and slowly became more and more retarded from chromosome problems, until Noah was born. This was before "retarded" was a bad word to use. Way before. God looked down on the Earth and saw the damaged DNA fornicating and drinking and doing mad endos with Hummers that were unaffordable and not to be endo'd. This angered God. But, Noah seemed OK. Somehow, through the work of natural sele...eh....God, Noah was born with a healthy set of genes and chromosomes and was, eh, not a bad guy. He wasn't the greatest guy. Not by a long shot. It would be a few thousand years before THAT guy came about, but Noah was someone who you might trust to mow your lawn. Anyway, Noah was married and had a wife and they lived on a grand farm and everyday Noah would go running through the valleys holding hands with his wife and singing to butterflies and they would go to a Community College and learn sign language and knit sweaters, with the butterflies. This angered all of the people in the land who were genetic jerks and they would throw stones at Noah and catcall his wife and knock on Noah's door and then run and borrow Noah's chainsaw and not return it and commit upper deckers in Noah's toilet and generally be mean to Noah. God saw this and God was pissed. He also was pissed that the genetic failures would listen to bands that sucked and had numerous wood instruments to somehow make it seem like they were an adult band with real musical knowledge, when in fact it only takes a person with soul and three or four strings to make a good album. I mean, I don't get these Arcade Fire types with their banjos and suspenders - I'm not buying it and God isn't either. But I digress. So, God started thinking about the Earth and how it had water on it. So, he froze the water so no one could drink it. This created ice ages. But then people developed fire and melted the ice and that stumped God. So, then he decided that he would flood the Earth. God was a logical man and realized that in order to flood the entire Earth, he would need more water. So, he took the water from Mars and just kinda put it in this huge Ziploc bag that he floated over the Earth as a threat. That's how Martians were wiped out. Anyway, so the people on Earth looked up and saw the giant Ziploc bag of water and they figured it was just another moon or star or something - they were stupid. Also, you must give them credit as they did not know what a Ziploc bag was. This was like way before even that movie The Land Before Time. God then spoke to Noah and said "Dude. Dude. DUDE!" Noah was passed out. He had been drinking all night and partying out in the field with some giraffes and skunks. That's the kind of guy Noah was. He partied with animals, making him the original party animal. Noah awoke. "Dude?" "Dude." God confirmed. Noah looked upon God. "Dude." God had taken the form of an elephant with a blazer on and sunglasses. It was Risky Business meets National Geographic and it was totally uncalled for. But Noah could hang. "Noah, in the beginning after the light and stuff, I made man and man was good for awhile. But then I never made another strain of man, so all of these men and women started having sex with their family members and that's way wrong and makes way messed up kids. Like that dorkus Jerry you hang out with. Do you see how he wears his pants down to his knees and listens to really shitty hip hop music and doesn't even know who NWA were?" Noah nodded. Jerry was a douchebag, but he was the only person that would hang out with Noah and go singing in the fields with him and ferment oranges to make really bomb ass alcohol. God continued. "And how he always has everything just a little bit wrong. Like he reads a little bit about something and then just makes up the rest and when you call him out on it, he'll act like he knew it all the whole time? Or how he rides a bike in traffic and doesn't follow any of the traffic rules and - " "Yes. Jerry. I know him." "Well, anyway, these guys have to die. We must get rid of them. You are the only person on Earth that I can stand. It's like watching TV and it's all just Jerry Springer and reality shows and - well, not now. That's when I flood the Earth again. After I promise I won't. Shit. Look, forget all that. Let's start at the top. K, so I'm going to kill all of humanity." Noah looked around and saw humanity in the streets, with their kids, shopping for school clothes and double parking. "OK." "And all the animals." "Wait. What am I gonna eat?" "Plants. I will leave you plants to eat. And smoke." "No way. Animals taste good. Can't you leave the animals?" "OK. But we must kill them all first, but we'll save enough to breed. Like two a species." "But aren't you gonna get that genetic problem again?" "Shut up! Now, listen, I will flood the -" Noah then had a moment of reflection and thought about the time Jerry loaned him an ox to help him fight the dinosaurs that were attacking his house. "Wait, God. Can't you give humanity another chance? You know? For the 'oah?" God thought about it and said "No." "Wait. What if I sacrifice some stuff?" "No." "K. What if you give me like a week to tell everyone to be cool?" "OK. But I don't think it's going to make a difference." And God was right. Noah began preaching about the people's sins and about how stupid making bags in markets illegal was and how owning twelve axes to protect yourself was stupid and how Siracha sauce is the best way to spot a douchebag. But no one listened and Noah went home and had a real American meal with Tabasco sauce, thousands of years before America was invented, which kinda made Noah a hipster douchebag, but who cares. "K, God. You win." And Noah went off into the forest collecting animals like Dr. Moreau. So, God opened the Ziploc bag full of water. It took him awhile because it was hard to get his huge God fingers between the plastic folds. But then the flood rained down on Earth for a shit load of time. Noah would occasionally put his hand out the window and go "Still raining." to his wife and she got really upset because the joke was way old and she was tired of Noah and the kids and the shit load of animals that smelled like shit. Eventually, Noah's wife made Noah kick all the dinosaurs off the boat because they were smoking in the ark. And she kicked the unicorns off for gambling and not having fishing licenses. Finally, Noah saw a bird. An eagle. The eagle was holding an American flag in its talons and winking at Noah. Noah landed the ark on Plymouth and everyone got out and started stretching because it was a way long boat trip. Then God came out of the sky and said "Check out this fresh rainbow!" Noah and his family and all the animals looked at the rainbow and realized, yea, it twas fresh. "Noah, this rainbow is a covenant that I will never ever flood the Earth again." God was crossing his giant God fingers behind his giant God back. "Thanks, God! But why a rainbow?" "Oh, no reason." Then God went back to heaven to his husband Timothy and they went antiquing. The End.

Quinn dozed off in front of her brother’s grave. Her seated posture swayed closer and closer until her helmet bumped into the headstone with a clatter. She jerked awake, looking around the forest glade with a frantic expression, before slumping her shoulders with relief. “Sorry, Caleb,” she said, wiping imaginary dirt off the stone. “The council’s been running me ragged. Everyone’s pushing their limits to catch Sylas and his mages.” Her body felt slow when she got up, like the caked mud on her legs was concrete and gravel ground her joints. She could feel the roots and stones under her boots, the soles weathered flimsy thin from her nonstop marching through the hinterlands of northern Demacia. By the distance Valor was sitting, she didn’t smell the best either. She pointed a finger up the sky, twirling it clockwise, and watched as a giant eagle, perched atop the tallest tree, stretched its large blue wings and flew up in the air. While Valor scouted the vicinity, Quinn limbered up her body for the last march. She’d been combing west to east of the hinterlands in search of the mages’ whereabouts but nothing crucial had been discovered. She’d found nobles and their aides dead on the roads but when it came to magic she wasn’t sure what clues she could rely on. Some of the dead had their throats cut, others seemed to have been executed by suffocation with no rope marks around their necks. There were no trails of footprints on the grounds to track, no broken twigs or blood on leaves. The whole thing was more of a ghost hunt than chasing rebels. The villagers weren’t any help either. Each settlement had been tight-lipped and too scared to share anything. The worst was that Quinn didn’t know whether it was the mages or the mageseekers the villagers feared. There were quite a few mage-sympathizers, oblivious to how terrifying magic was. Quinn adjusted her leather tunic, tightened her greaves and spaulders. Her last spot to check was a remote farm town bordering the foreign nations of Freljord and Skaggornland. A place she hadn’t visited in almost a decade, her hometown Uwendale. Her gaze lingered over the dirt and cracks on her repeating crossbow as she refilled it with bolts. Her father’s handcrafted weapon had been through a lot. She wasn’t sure how to meet her parents without feeling guilty for not writing enough over the years. There was also the difficulty of her position as a ranger-knight of Demacia. Would the town welcome her as a returning daughter or greet her like an official knight on duty? The screech of Valor snapped her back to the present. Her partner had found something and was circling near the towering mountain walls separating Demacia and the snow-covered region of Freljord. “Talk to you later, Caleb,” she said to the headstone and jogged towards the mountain base. The greens of the forest faded as the elevation rose. Dark tree trunks paled to white as linden and oak transitioned to birch and aspen. Quinn trudged on, glancing up at the foothills and following the shadow of Valor. Leaves rustled and a faint wind brushed past. Quinn stopped in her tracks. During spring, the wind normally carried with it scents of budding pomes and fresh sprouts, not the sickening-sweet odor of death. She raised a hand and clenched her fist, signaling Valor the change of plans. The scent had been close, brushing up the slopes towards the mountains due to the warm noon air. A movement lumbered through the line of trees, crossing her left periphery. Quinn sensed the growl more than heard it. She pulled out her crossbow, finger ready at the trigger when a large wolf stumbled into vision. Nasty gashes covered its body, open wounds festered and putrid. The wolf must’ve been in intense pain, yet it growled and raised its hackles at Quinn. Its glare had a wild look and froth dripped out of its bared fangs. Two bolts pierced its skull and the wolf dropped to the ground. When only the hushed wind replied, Quinn stepped closer. She’d done her best to make it a quick death for the rabid wolf and the bolts had struck true, killing the beast in an instant. The wounds in the body were the opposite of swift, deep gouges by talons bigger than any bird Quinn knew of. Valor plunged from the sky, a blue blur diving towards a bush. The bush shrieked and hissed. A boy jumped out, waving his hands in an attempt to fend off the bird. A raccoon scuttled away, its striped tail brushing past Quinn’s ankles. “Get’ im off! Get’ im off!” the boy shouted. “It’s killing me!” Quinn shook her head in disbelief. The lack of sleep must’ve really taken its toll on her if she couldn’t even detect a kid. “Valor would’ve already cut your throat if he deemed you a threat,” she said and held out her right arm. “He’s just messing with you.” The azurite eagle flew to Quinn, landing on the horn-adorned bracer covering the arm. The boy was a mess on the ground, struggling against his cloak. On a closer look, the emblem of a hawk was sewn on the hood. “You’re a ranger-in-training?” Quinn asked. “Huh? Yes, how do you...” His gaze flickered between the giant eagle, Quinn’s helmet, back to the eagle, the repeating crossbow. “You’re Quinn!” he burst out. “Wow, can I shake --” Quinn aimed the crossbow at the boy. “What’s the first rule of survival?” Color disappeared from the boy’s face. “Wha...?” “The first rule of survival. Three seconds.” “I don’t...” “Three. Two.” “*Always assume someone’s after you!*” The boy shouted, hands over his head, eyes pinched shut. Quinn gave a nod and put the safety on her crossbow and latched it to her belt. She caught the glare of Valor. “Of course, I trust your judgment,” she said to her partner, “but it’s always good to double-check.” She then turned her attention back to the boy. “What’s your name? “Adam.” The boy slowly stumbled out of his cloak and stood up, his gaze locked warily on Quinn. He seemed to have had his growth spurt, matching Quinn in height, although his face had yet to catch up. Hair like tumbleweed framed round cheeks and bombardment of freckles. “And your companion?” Quinn nodded towards a tree root where a striped tail could be seen. “Dash,” the boy said gloomily. Hearing its name, the raccoon crawled out of its hiding place and ran up the boy’s cloak, nestling itself by the scruff of his neck. “What a good partner you are,” Adam muttered. “Aren’t you a little bit far from Uwendale for a trainee?” Quinn asked, “And why are you alone?” “I’m watching the western perimeter alone because warden Mealla trusts in my abilities.” Adam jutted out his chest. “Was tracking the rabid wolf when I heard it growl and decided to hide.” That was strange, Quinn had sent the majority of Uwendale’s rangers east, to watch the borders by the Greenfang Mountains, but there should still be a handful left in the town. At least enough to not need to send a single rookie to scout. “Do all knights scowl?” Adam asked. He flinched by Quinn’s expression and quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with it.” “What about the town watch?” she asked, “Two guards could’ve been stationed with you.” “Busy with the festival,” Adam said. He walked to the dead wolf, grimacing over the wounds. “This is horrible.” Dash, the raccoon, peeked out from under the cowl and ran down to the wolf’s head. Its small fingers grabbed one of the bolts and waggled it free. “What festival?” Quinn asked. “The Slayer’s festival, what else?” Her head throbbed under the helmet. Her feet ached and the rotten smell made Quinn nauseous. There were so many things she needed answered, then there was the thing Valor had spotted. “Adam and Dash, was it?” she asked, “You’ll have to come with me. There’s something I need to check on. I’ll also need you to update me on the current situation of Uwendale and this festival.” She let Valor fly again and began to ascend the foothills. When no sounds of steps trailed behind, she turned around with a questioning look. “Why up the Rocky Mountains?” he asked with an unsure voice, “Are the Freljordians going to attack us?” “Hardly,” Quinn said, “climbing straight through the mountains is suicidal. We’re just going to the base to check on something.” “I think I’ll stay here,” Adam insisted, “The warden told me to keep watch of the western forest and the mountain is not included.” “You know my name,” Quinn said, raising her voice, “then you must know that I’m a ranger-knight of Demacia and the highest ranked out of all the rangers. My order overrules the warden of Uwendale. I’m ordering you to follow.” The boy looked like he was caught between a boar and a bull. His eyes flickered between Quinn and to the east, where the town of Uwendale would appear after two hours of marching. Finally, he seemed to prioritize the closest threat and joined next to the ranger-knight. A bitter taste spread over Quinn’s tongue. She hated using her rank to bully people into submission but the exhaustion dragged out her ugly side. She thought about apologizing but dismissed the idea. She had pulled the rank-card, might as well stick with her draw. A small noise made her look down. Dash extended a bloody bolt towards her as an offering. ​ \*\*\*\*\* ​ The hinterlands of Demacia had been Quinn and Caleb’s playground when they were young. While they had explored the foothills and the forests, they had seldom climbed up the mountains. Past the craggy walls lay nests of wyverns and those beasts were not something the siblings had wanted to encounter. The flying reptiles were troublesome enough for Uwendale when they attacked the village during harvest season. What Valor had found was a dead wyvern, splayed on a rocky surface. They were at an overhang, made of mostly rock and some stubborn patches of grass. thirty feet above ground. The wyvern’s wings dangled over the mountainside, the membrane torn. Its talons were bent, neck and belly punctured and maimed. The wounds on the neck indicated fanged beasts, and the smudges of dried blood on the stones had a few paw marks. Most likely a pack of wolves. Quinn knelt next to the corpse, pressing her fingers against the wyvern’s soft neck and belly. “Have the wyverns moved their territories down the mountains?” Adam, standing a distance away and holding his nose, shook his head. “They might’ve even retreated further up ever since the Slayer killed four of them a few weeks ago.” “Did anyone see this ‘Slayer’ kill them?” Quinn prodded the wyvern’s leg, feeling stiffness. “It would seem a bit silly to have a festival in his honor, if he hadn’t done anything.” “No, but the wyverns’ heads were caved in, like the dead bandits on the road and the rabid wolves, so it’s probably made by the same person.” “So this one wasn’t done by the Slayer?” Quinn plucked out a dagger and pried away a few scales on the wyvern. “I guess not. What are you doing?” She sank her dagger into the wyvern’s thigh, carving a line through skin and flesh. She made a fist with her gloved hand and dug into the new wound, breathing through her mouth to lessen the foul stench. She pushed her hand upwards, feeling rock-hard muscles, sinews like steel wire, and mushed jelly. A dark, watery liquid trickled out of the cut. “Blood is thick and separated,” she concluded, retracting her arm and wiping it on the grass. “Corpse-stiffness had not yet disappeared from its legs. So between half a day to two days old, I would say.” Adam looked as if he wanted to vomit. “Was that really necessary?” “Rule number two,” Quinn said, “Survival never takes second place to dignity. Seen anything interesting over the past two days?” “Not much except for people on the roads heading towards Uwendale for the festival.” “Right, a festival celebrating an unknown hunter for presumably killing a few beasts, how does that make sense?” Adam cleared his throat and said in an exaggerated low voice, “These are trying times, so we should find reasons to celebrate, however small.” The imitation softened Quinn’s expression and the end of her lips pinched slightly upwards. “Was that Samuel?” she asked, “Is he still the mayor?” “And still selling his lamb pies. Been saying how grateful he is to the Slayer because of all the potential cattle saved.” That did sound like the mayor of Uwendale. The hefty man had a thing for finding the stars in the darkest nights. “Could it have been wolves?” Adam asked, inching closer to the wyvern’s carcass. That had been Quinn’s guess too but things didn’t add up. “So a pack of wolves climbed up the mountains, found a wyvern and decided to attack it and won with no casualties, then climbed down without leaving any footprints on the way down?” Adam had no reply, instead he squatted down next to the wyvern and stared into its dead eyes. “A corpse torn to death by jaws and claws,” he murmured, “and a swift kill by arrows. It’s like an omen isn’t it?” “What omen?” Quinn asked while walking around the rocky surface, her eyes scouring the cracks on the wall. Water trickled out from a hole and dribbled in a thin downstream no wider than a hand. “Kindred’s omen.” She turned around with a blank expression. The boy shrugged. “You know, Lamb with her bow bringing a swift death and Wolf with his crushing jaws for a violent ending. Don't these two kills remind you of the Eternal Hunters?” A memory emerged from the depths of Quinn’s mind, of her and mother, clothed in gray, watching her father shovel dirt onto Caleb’s coffin. She remembered her father stopping halfway, unable to hold the shovel steady. There was the village elder, in a mask half white and half black, comforting her father, saying in a raspy voice that Caleb had been blessed with Lamb’s arrow, a quick death. She hadn’t understood what the village elder had meant with the arrows then as she had seen with her own eyes how the tuskvore had gored her brother to death with horns. Lamb and Wolf, together they were Kindred, the Eternal Hunters. The gods of death. She had forgotten about them, the stories of Kindred had been left behind when she traveled to the Great City to become a knight. While Kindred were known among the citizens, The Winged Protector had been the more revered deity in Demacia’s capital. “Is Kindred’s omen a bad thing?” Quinn asked. “Can omens be a good thing?” Adam countered. A small bark grabbed their attention. Dash had followed the stream of water further down. He held up a wet wyvern scale. “Maybe the wolves cleaned themselves in the water,” Adam suggested. “The stream is too small for a whole pack of wolves,” Quinn said. “And there would’ve been blood on the way. Maybe if they rubbed...” Quinn paused. She took a closer look at the patch of grass she had wiped her hands on. The watery blood trickled down the blades and into the soil. The dirt was loose, not from mountain winds but as if someone had scraped claws and paws against it. Straws of grass lay crumbled and flattened. She checked the other patches and found them to be the same. “No,” she said, “I guess omens can’t be a good thing.” ​ ​ \ ***DISCLAIMER*** ***‘The Tales We Tell’ is a non-profit work of fan fiction, based on the game League of Legends.*** ***I do not own League of Legends or any of its material. League of Legends is created and owned by Riot Games Inc. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of League of Legends belong to Riot Games Inc.

Somebody once said: To be subjected to indifference is worse than being the object of hatred. Those words always stuck with me, but I never fully grasped what they meant until now. Until now... as I lay in a fetal position on the sofa in my apartment, nursing a heartache brought about by my own obtuseness... by my own stupidity. I smothered my face in the sweatshirt she’d forgotten, sucking in her scent like a drowning man, and angrily cursed my inability to bridle my juvenile longing to feel needed, to feel desired. Why had I allowed myself to fall for her? She was way out of my league; I should have known better! My fists clenched so tight they hurt! I sobbed long and hard into her sweatshirt, glad I was alone. Contrary to popular opinion, misery does NOT want company. The first time we met was on an unusually warm February day. I was skiing at Camelback Mountain and had stripped down to my tee-shirt after my first run down the slopes. “Nice arms!”, came a pleasant female voice from behind me as I was pole-pushing myself towards the line for the ski lift. I twisted my body around to glance back and saw a very attractive woman catching up to me. I assumed she must have been talking to someone else, and so I turned forward again to see who the lucky guy was. But then a small but strong hand grasped my right arm from behind, just above the elbow, cold fingers causing an eruption of goosebumps as they squeezed my bare arm; “No, silly. I meant you, not someone else,” she said with a grin as I turned and looked down into the most stunning blue eyes I had ever seen. I remember feeling all the blood rush out of my body and to my face, intent on humiliating me. The approach of this beautiful woman had knocked me completely out of my comfort-zone. This kind of thing NEVER happened to me; to my friend Troy, yes, but not to me. The only time a pretty girl had ever approached me out-of-the-blue was at a convenience store to... wait for it... to ask if I could spare a few bucks so she could buy cigarettes. It's not that I consider myself homely; I just know that I am not the prettiest tool in the shed. And that thing she said about my arms-- I don’t even work out! Sure, I play hard, and I do heavy work with my hands in construction which gives my arms and shoulders a lot of definition, but muscle-bound I am not. The pain in my chest deepened as I recalled that beautiful day. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t STOP thinking about it, about HER, just like when somebody tells you, “Don’t think about the pink elephant.” The next thing she said to me should have clued me in as to what might happen, what would eventually happen. Ahem! Where were all those red flags and alarm bells when I needed them? But I was helpless before her, like a sheep being led to the slaughter, when she asked, “Do you mind if I ski with you? My ex-boyfriend is here, and I don’t want him to bother me; he’ll leave me alone if he sees me with another guy.” I was painfully shy, she was so pretty, and I feared that an opportunity like that would never come along again. A little voice inside my head started screaming at me, DON’T DO IT... SHE’S USING YOU!! DON’T... DO... IT!! “Sure, no problem. Glad to help!”, I said back to her. What else could I say? That I would rather ride the lift alone than be than be stuck together with her on the same chair for the whole ride up to the top of the mountain, rinse-and-repeat, for the entire day? Which, I am ashamed to admit, was exactly the fantasy going through my head at that moment. So, I was cornered; I could either be rude and regret that moment for the rest of my life, or I could indulge my fantasy. The hateful little voice in my head then told me I should fall onto the pointy end of one of my ski-poles and get it all over with right then and there. Too late. Before I knew it the chairlift had swept us off the ground... together, I should add. Oh, remember how I said I was shy? Yea, exactly: It occurred to me that I was going to have to engage in something called “conversation” if I hoped to prolong my fantasy. We’d already exchanged names on the ground, “My name is James. What’s yours?” “Don’t laugh when I tell you,” she had answered, starting to giggle at herself already, “my name is spelled L-i-e-y-a, pronounced Lie-ya, like the way a New Yorker says the word ‘liar’ without pronouncing the ‘r’ at the end.” We both laughed out loud. Meanwhile the little voice in my head was having a field-day: LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE! DON’T SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU! But my brakes had failed back at “Nice arms!” She had made me laugh so easily. And by laughing at herself, she was telling me that she didn’t take herself too seriously. She had put me totally at ease. Conversation came without effort. I don’t even remember what we talked about. It was much too soon that we were getting off the lift. We checked our bindings as we prepared to head down the mountain. Here comes the test, I thought to myself as my stomach tied itself up in knots wondering if she was going to ski with me or if she would drop me for the next guy who came along who had ‘nice arms’. “You want to go first, and I’ll follow you?”, I said. “Yea, that would be great. But do you mind waiting for a couple minutes? That’s my Ex over there,” she said, pointing to a guy in a bright yellow ski-bib who had his back to us as he started down the mountain. “I just want to make sure we don’t run into him on the slope or end up anywhere near him in line at the bottom.” “No problem.” We skied together for the rest of that day. We talked about all kinds of things; we laughed about all kinds of things. And we skied together again four more times over the next couple of months before ski season ended. She had this way of making me feel so good about myself whenever we were together. And I provided her with plenty of laughs too, at my own expense. She started referring to me affectionately as her “little dork” whenever I would deliberately do something silly. She had coaxed me out of my shell without me realizing it. We continued to see each other most weekends until her spring college semester ended and she returned home to Syracuse for the summer. When her college classes started up again in the fall, we made plans several times to get together, but something always seemed to come up, and we only saw each other a couple of times. Fall was usually the busiest time of year for me with work anyway. December came along, which had me booked for a Colorado ski trip during the Christmas/New Years holidays, while Lieya would spend the holidays with her family in Syracuse. At the last minute, however, something came up on my end, forcing me to bail out on Colorado. I would have to settle for a long ski-weekend at Killington, Vermont with my younger brother. I had thought of calling Lieya but decided against interrupting her during her family-time. My brother and I drove to Killington on the Thursday before New Years weekend, arriving just as a major nor’easter snowstorm was getting under way! Super excited, we were first in line for the chair-lift Friday morning! Snow was falling, twelve inches of fresh powder already on the ground with another eight inches forecast to accumulate by the end of the day. It was one of the best days of skiing my brother and I ever had! Then, Saturday morning woke us up to brutal conditions: clear blue skies, but a temperature of minus 5 degrees Fahrenheit and forty mph winds. We had come prepared, however, with masks and goggles designed to cover everything so that not even one little patch of skin would be exposed! We were still stoked from the day before, despite the conditions. At lunch time, the warmth of the ski lodge had us lingering after we finished eating, reluctant to head back out to the punishing cold. Several tables away from us, through the lunch-crowd, I noticed a guy wearing a yellow ski-bib. I was wondering why it looked familiar when suddenly, my brother blurted out, “Isn’t that Lieya? I thought you said she was staying with her parents for the holidays?” “Where?” My brother then pointed to where I was already looking. “Next to that guy wearing the yellow ski-bib. He’s got his arm around her.” As my brother was speaking, the crowd parted, allowing me line-of-sight to a face I will never forget. It was Lieya, all right. She was talking, laughing, and smiling with Mr. Yellow-Bib, carrying on and pushing her hair back with her hand the way girls do when they are interested in the person they are talking to. I bet she told him “Nice arms!” too. She had no idea that I was staring at her... until she did, and then we locked eyes with each other. I could tell the moment that recognition struck her; it visibly shook her to see me looking back at her; she obviously thought I was in Colorado. She recovered quickly, though, looking down to pretend at fussing with something in her lap, and then she proceeded to carry on with Mr. Yellow-Bib as if she had never seen me. I jumped up out of the chair I was sitting in, feeling hurt, betrayed, lost, unsure what to do. My stomach was in knots, and my heart was starting to ache. I decided to head over to their table. My brother jumped up, alarmed by my reaction, and grabbed me by the arm to restrain me. “What are you doing?? Leave it alone! She’s not worth it!” I turned back to my brother and told him, “I am not looking for trouble. I am looking for confirmation.” Upon which I continued towards Mr. Yellow-Bib’s table. The pain in my chest was building. I stopped in full view of both of them, ostensibly to check something on my phone. Lieya looked up at me then, or rather, she looked right through me, as if I wasn’t even there. How was that even possible? I had to get away; I hurried to the men’s room and found an empty stall. Her betrayal was so nonchalant, yet absolute. My heartache became an intense, crushing weight that made me want to cry out; I tried to scream but couldn’t; I tried to breathe, but couldn’t. I remember thinking: so, this is what it feels like to die from a broken heart. And then I woke from my nightmare. The scream which had been trapped exploded from me as I jerked awake in bed. I was overcome by an intense feeling of relief when I realized it had all been a bad dream. I let out a muffled sob as I took stock of the familiar, comforting surroundings of the bedroom. “Same nightmare with Mr. Yellow-Bib?”, my wife asked me with concern in her voice. I didn’t need to answer. “Don’t worry,” she said as she snuggled closer and kissed my arm exactly where she had grabbed it from behind so many years ago, “I could never leave these nice arms.”

Lindy jumped for joy as she saw Grace extricate her lanky frame from her little car. Grace was attempting to carry multiple bags, which she promptly scattered as she swept Lindy into a bear hug. “Still living up to your name, I see,” said Lindy, laughing. “Graceful as ever! Welcome, sister. So glad you could keep me company while Dave's away.” A stocky man with a buzz cut and ear protectors suddenly appeared in the garden next door. With military bearing, he began marching up and down the lawn, wielding a leaf blower, blowing the leaves towards them. “What?” said Grace, trying to lip read over the noise of the blower. “I said you’re as graceful as ever...never mind,” Lindy yelled, scooping up dropped items. “Let’s go inside where we can hear ourselves think.” Grace scurried after her, covering her ears. “Well, little sister, it’s very cute,” said Grace, shedding her coat and scarf and gazing around the cozy interior of the little house. “I must say I never imagined you two rebellious counterculture beings in a subdivision in the suburbs. How do you like it so far? And what’s up with Captain Courageous next door?” Lindy deposited the bags and poured wine. The noise of the leaf blower receded. “Needs must,” she said. “I’d much rather be out in the country, but it’s what we can afford for now. I haven’t turned into a Stepford wife yet. Most of the neighbors are okay, other than Mr. Simpson, that old curmudgeon next door. We are currently engaged in the great leaf standoff. Cheers." “Cheers,” said Grace, sipping her wine. “You’re engaged in what?” “You heard the leaf blower. He’s fanatical about keeping the leaves off his lawn. It drives him nuts that we don’t worry about ours. If we keep the grass regulation length, there’s nothing he can do about it, so that makes him even crankier. He revs up that blower whenever he sees someone arrive here and blows all his leaves onto our side.” “That’s petty,” said Grace. “Have you tried talking to him about it?” “When he first complained about us not clearing the leaves off our lawn, we tried to explain that we believe it’s better to let the leaves decay naturally and that the leaf blower is not environmentally friendly. We probably did come across as a bit more preachy than we meant, but he exploded. He accused us of having no standards, no morals and no community spirit or words to that effect. It’s our generation’s fault that the country is going to hell in a hand-basket. You get the idea. Hence the leaf blower which greets our visitors and wakes us up early on weekends.” “So, you’re just going to wait him out till leaf season is over?” said Grace. “He cranks the blower up whenever he sees us coming now. It's impossible to talk over that racket even if we tried,” said Lindy. “It’s a stalemate for the time being.” “Is there a Mrs. Courageous?” Lindy shrugged. “No one seems to know. Neighbors say she’s been an invalid for a while, and no one has seen her recently. We’re not the only ones he’s argued with, so everyone’s been avoiding him.” “So sad,” said Grace, shaking her head. “Never mind. Let’s do the grand tour.” After Lindy had shown her the house, they went out into the garden. There was no sign of Mr. Simpson. The yellows, reds, and oranges of the fallen leaves on Lindy’s lawn were bright spots in the slightly foggy dusk. Mr. Simpson’s immaculate green lawn looked almost garish in the soft fall light. Grace picked up a perfect sycamore leaf and was admiring its delicate tracery of veins when something caught her eye where the leaf had lain. It was a ring with a large, clear sparkling stone. She picked it up and proffered it to Lindy. “Is this yours?” she said. “Never seen it before,” said Lindy, examining it. “It looks like a diamond. It’s beautiful. If it's real, it's not something I could ever afford.” The ring glittered as she held it up to the light. She slipped it into her pocket. “I’ll put it away safely. If no one comes looking for it, I’ll put an ad on the neighborhood list serve.” Next morning, they were sitting in the kitchen sipping their coffee when Grace noticed Mr. Simpson. He was walking slowly up and down his lawn, minus the leaf blower and ear protectors, with his eyes glued to the ground. She pointed him out to Lindy. “He must be looking for something,” said Lindy. “I almost didn’t recognize him. He looks so stooped and old compared to usual.” “I wonder,” said Grace. “Do you think the ring might belong to him? We should ask him.” “Do I have to?” said Lindy. Grace looked at her with mock severity. “Okay, okay, big sister, I’ll be the better person. As least he doesn’t seem to have the leaf blower to hand.” They approached him cautiously. He nodded apathetically when he saw them. Usually immaculately groomed, he was unshaven. It worried Lindy more than if he had yelled at her as usual. “Have you lost something, Mr. Simpson?” she asked. “Can we help you look?” “My wife’s engagement ring,” he said gruffly. Lindy held the ring out to him. Mr. Simpson gasped, his eyes widening. “I don’t believe it. Where did you find it? Thank you so much.” To Lindy’s astonishment, he began to cry, tears trickling down his bristly cheeks. Grace gently gave him a brief hug. He sobbed for a moment, then regained his composure, roughly swiping his face. He cleared his throat. “My wife hasn’t been well lately. She’s lost a lot of weight and the ring kept sliding off her finger. I was going to surprise her by having resized. I must have dropped it on the lawn. When I blew the leaves into your garden, it ended up over there. " "I'm glad we found it," said Lindy. "I hope your wife recovers soon," Mr. Simpson looked at Lindy, tears welling again. “The doctors say we shouldn't expect...we shouldn't hope, ah, damn it." He wiped his face with his sleeve, looking exhausted. He straightened up with an effort. "I am sorry, young lady. I haven’t been very neighborly to you and your husband. Since my wife’s been so ill, little things get on my nerves and I lose my temper for no reason. I'm not proud of it. My wife would be the first to say I’m being a jerk. Can we start over?” He extended his hand. Lindy smiled as she grasped it. “Of course. Please tell us if we can do anything to help. Grocery shopping, cooking, house cleaning, you name it. Just no leaf blowing!” He gave a brief chuckle and saluted as he headed back to his house, clutching the ring.

I pass a book on the side of the road every day when I drive home from work. It’s a hard-cover book, pretty thick, and from what I can tell it’s face down on its cover. The dirt and gravel are constantly keeping me from seeing exactly which side it’s on. For months I would see it. Some days the pages would be swollen with moisture from a recent rain, some days they’d have dried back down and it would look to still be in good enough condition, besides the slight warping of the pages from the water. Every time I saw it, I’d tell myself that one day I would stop and take a look, maybe even pick it up and take it home. Maybe just throw it away if it was in too rough a shape. Everyday I’d fantasize about what the book could be about. Fiction? An autobiography? A signed copy of the Bible? Whatever it was, the itch was in the back of my head every time I’d see it, but fade as soon as I was another block or so away. I never even told my wife about the book. She’d laugh and tell me to go get it. She’d probably drag me out of the house at any hour and go with me to get it. She was compulsive like that. She saw a certain beauty in the randomness of the universe. Running into an old friend right after she had been thinking about them? It was obviously the universe putting them together. Finding a coupon in her purse that she swears she has no memory of when she just so happens to be right next to the store she could use it at? Destiny. Then my wife died. A stroke while driving. She was at a red light when she went. It was quick, she felt nothing. But her foot came off the brake and she rolled through the intersection and got hit, spinning her car around several times before rolling off the road, being stopped only by a light post. The shattered glass and being knocked around made it look like maybe she had just randomly decided to slowly run a red. They didn’t find the cause for a while after she was dead. In that time before finding the truth, I was devastated. Was this a suicide? Did she really try to creep through a barrage of cars? Had she seen something that she thought was the universe beckoning to her? The autopsy results provided little relief, but something was better than nothing. It was almost a month before I went back to work. I had been blessed with a dream job, and a boss who defied all odds by being efficient, friendly, commanding, and, most importantly, empathetic. I used all of my vacation and sick time, but he gave me another week, paid no less, just because he could tell, deep down, that I wasn’t ready to come back just yet. He was right. My wife was my world. My everything. We had met in passing when we were both in our late twenties, and went several more years without seeing each other. But then, by ‘the Universe’ as she would always say, she became friends with a friend of mine who mentioned her ‘nerdy but kind of lovable’ single friend. We all ended up at the same birthday party for yet another friend and instantly remembered each other. We began dating immediately and were married less than two years later. We only got five years together. So, in my book, whatever the Universe was pulling, it was fucking bullshit. My wife didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, barely partied as a young adult. She volunteered at an animal shelter in her spare time and we talked often about adopting a child once we were both in a slightly more financially secure place. That and that she wanted as much of me to herself as she could get before getting a kid was the only thing keeping us from starting the adoption process. Now that she’s gone, I’m glad we never did it. My first day back at work was like swimming in a dream. So many stern faces and sympathetic looks. So many cards littering my office desk. Flowers, little succulent plants, fruit baskets. The kitchen was loaded with a varied buffet for my return. It was nice to be the center of attention for a moment, but the reason behind it was just a reminder of what I had lost. I think I only said the words ‘thank you’, during the entire day, but over a thousand times. I didn’t get a single thing done that day. I left a little early, to the surprise of no one. I drove the speed limit, maybe slightly over, but in no rush to get back to my empty home where I was surrounded by the memories we shared together. To the neglected pile of laundry that I would, unashamedly, poke through and press to my face, longing for her scent again. To the dishes that she had washed after our last meal we cooked together. Still on the drying mats next to the sink, amazing that they were still stacked, considering her haphazard way of laying the varied sizes over each other, yet allowing them to drain and dry easier. I would probably sell the house soon, but I needed more time with the memories before starting the selling process. Then I saw it. Or the lack of it. The book was gone. It was the spot, I was sure of it. I had passed it countless times. I perked up enough to get over to the left lane and flip a u-turn and then another one, slightly further than I probably needed to, but I wanted to make sure I wasn’t confused. But, no. It was definitely the spot. I slowed almost to a crawl as I drove past, craning my head to look out the passenger window to verify that it hadn’t been just covered or maybe finally demolished enough to look like it was gone. It was gone. The car honking as it flew by snapped me out of my stupor and I drove the rest of the way home fantasizing about what could have happened. Did someone do it? Did they finally see what I had seen so many times and stopped to satisfy their curiosity? I imagined that dozens of people, maybe hundreds, more even, had to have seen that book there on the side. A simple book, suffering in silence, the product of someone's hard work and dedication. Finally seeing print, maybe being a best seller, maybe being something self published online and only printed as a physical copy for themselves or a few close friends. Maybe it really was that signed copy of the Bible and Jesus was mad that no one ever picked it up, so he came down and got it himself. Maybe it was never there in the first place. I pulled into my driveway as my garage door slowly rolled open. The sun was starting to set, but I still had a few hours of daylight left. Looking through the scattered boxes on either side of the garage was enough to trigger another wave of memories. My breath caught in my chest and I found myself gripping my steering wheel with rage as hot tears rolled down my cheeks, onto my ragged beard and into my mouth through my clenched teeth. I had cried plenty since the day of the accident, but this was different. There wasn’t a racking sadness behind the tears now, it was a red rage. I felt my blood boiling, my mind furious and longing for someone to blame. Anyone to direct my rage at. Something to turn my hatred to. I don’t know how long I sat in the driveway, seething through my teeth and clenching my eyes until stars and blobs of lights formed behind them, but when I finally looked up, I was in the parking lot right next to the intersection where my wife died. I was parked and facing the same light post where she rolled to a stop. I have no memory of the drive, or even being aware of moving through the streets and following traffic laws, but a quick glance around showed no flashing lights or destruction that would hint to reckless driving. I was alone in the parking lot. The sun had gone down. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was 1:45 in the morning. How was that possible? I had gotten home before the sun had even set. Even if I had been taking the longest way possible, this parking lot was only three minutes from our house. ‘Is this you, Universe?’ I thought to myself. Working my jaw a little, I could still feel the tension from when I was grinding my teeth together in a blind rage. ‘Is this what you do for fun? Why the fuck do I need to see where my wife died? Why the fuck do I need to be this close to her death? It’s already all over the house, on the looks I get from her family, her coworkers, anyone who knew her. Who touched her. They are a constant reminder. So why the FUCK DO I NEED TO BE HERE RIGHT NOW?!’ With a blink, I was outside of my car, about twenty feet away from it. I looked down at my body, still feeling the rage that was slowly being replaced with confusion. I glanced back to the spot where my wife had rolled to a stop. I was about ten feet away. I looked at my watch, still 1:45. No time had passed since my mind had folded in on itself in a rage, screaming internally at the universe for doing this to me. Fear had started to creep into my mind when, with another blink, though I hadn’t closed my eyes, I was standing in front of the pole that my wife's car had been stopped by. I was standing in the street, but with the late hour and a quick glance just to be sure, I was alone in the intersection. From where I stood I could see a slight discoloration around the base of the pole. A slight dent from where her car hit, maybe going a couple miles an hour. I took a few steps to get a closer look. There was paint from her car rubbed off onto the dull metal of the post. The orange paint was definitely from her car. It was such a random color. They didn’t even offer the same color on any newer models of her car, as it apparently didn’t sell as well as they had hoped. I remembered being almost embarrassed by her choice of color. But it was her choice, and it matched her personality; random and bold. My watch still showed 1:45, even though the second hand was moving normally. The fact that I was popping through space without losing time was a faint worry in the back of my mind as I stared at the paint scrape on the pole. The movement in my peripheral vision was almost unnoticed. But then it was accompanied by the sound of pages fluttering. I looked to my right, and along the side of the road, near the storm drain was the book. I recognized it instantly. It wasn’t a book, it was the book. I took a step towards it, but then stopped. I looked at my watch. 1:45, second hand still flying by. I looked around me. The streets were empty. Not a sound but the wind in the trees beyond the parking lot where my car was sitting, still parked and waiting. I took another few steps towards the book and could finally see that it was indeed lying face down. The back of the book still obscured by dirt and grime, so I still couldn’t tell what type of book it was, the pages still warped with rain and neglect, pushing the cover of the book over. If I were laying down on my side, I could possibly see how the book ended before I even knew the plot. My hands hurt. I looked down at them and saw that they were balled up into tight fists, but I had nothing to fight. There was nothing around but the wind, the book, and me. Me standing near a drainage ditch, staring at the impossible existence of both the book and me being here with no explanation. I took the last few steps and picked it up. The weight was much more than I ever expected. Turning it over in my hands, it was quickly apparent that the weather and traffic had torn away whatever title and information used to be on the back and front. The book was not destroyed, however, and I could see vague depictions of stars and galaxies on the back and front covers. But the spine still had some information on it, and I could make out the writing that said ‘There it is’. I nodded. ‘There it is. The Universe.’, I said out loud, and turned the book again to open it. I was smiling to myself, as I opened the book closer to the middle, instead of the front like people normally do with books. It took a second to realize what I was looking at. It wasn’t words. It wasn’t an ancient script lost to the ages. Each page I looked at was clear and legible, but it wasn’t writing and it wasn’t pictures. It was the experiences of everything my wife had felt from the moment she met me, to the moment she died. Everything insignificant and casual and ignored and in-between, every fart and blemish and missed connection and racist encounter and unexplained or ill-advised act was there in full color to my entire being. It was as if I was my wife during those moments. I was there for the shame she felt when she made a social faux pas, but I was there when she sang like a rock star in front of dozens of people, culminating in a standing ovation by not only our mutual friends, but the strangers in the bar as well. I was her when the.. Oh god! I can see myself! I can feel her eyes on me over the years! I can see and feel her true feelings about me. I know how she really felt when she was presented with my... my ... ME! With me! I know how ridiculous I was a lot of the time, I see how she felt when dealing with us... ME! She was so patient and understanding, and we were always so... Not ‘We’, just ‘Me’... ‘I’ was just so... I wasn’t there. I could have done so much more. I could have made us better, but I was always too afraid. I feel the book sliding from my hands as I fall to my knees. Are they my knees or just the knees the book wants me to feel like I’m kneeling on. It’s just me now. It wasn’t her. It was my subconscious projecting itself onto things. I’m kneeling in front of the pole. The book isn’t in the drainage ditch. It’s not right next to me where it just fell, or maybe fell in my mind. The book is nowhere. The pole in front of me gets brighter for a second before I turn my head. The headlights must have just turned on. I turn to see where they come from, but all I can see is the orange color of the car. Behind the glare, I see the silhouette of a woman limp behind the steering wheel. A beautiful woman. A woman the Universe sent to me. As she gets closer, I see her closed eyes open for a split second and gaze at me with recognition. Thanks a lot, Universe.

I just woke up in my bed and saw a door exactly in front of me. Wait, but this is my bedroom! And it never had any door except the one that connects it to the hallway. It looked like someone constructed a guest room overnight. I was curious to see what was inside. I got up and reached the door to open it. When I went inside, I saw that it didn't look like a new room at all. "Where am I? This is strange. Hello...anybody here..?" I looked around, there was no one over there. I immediately tried to unlock the door but couldn't. After all, how was l supposed to open the door that wasn't there at all! There can't be a door to an imaginary room. Yes, it was a dream. The door was gone. I thought I was trapped in there. I turned towards the room. It wasn't really big but there were very few things placed at the corners that made it look vacant. The old furniture and dim lights gave it a rustic look. In one corner there was a pile of clothes, I walked towards it, took one of the clothes in my hands, and realised that they were all mine. They were all oversized clothes which I used to wear when I was fat. But how did they come here? I had thrown them away. Just when I was thinking about the clothes, I smelled something, something so good that my stomach started growling. There was a table at the center of the room, a round table full of plates. I rushed towards it and observed all the plates placed on it, they were full of sweets and namkeen that I love. "Wow, this is a feast! So tempting but how could I eat this? I'm on this never-ending diet and everything here is what I'm not supposed to eat!" I told myself to gather all the strength and stepped away from the table. But I was starving. I felt like I could eat a horse. "I know I'm going to regret this but I'll regret it even more if I don't eat this. Anyway, I'm ready for the consequences." I grabbed a chair and started gobbling up the food. Everything was delicious. The sweets were literally melting in my mouth and the namkeen was perfectly flavored. Both were complementing each other. In no time my stomach was full, and I felt contented. My tummy wasn't flattened anymore. There was a bump due to the junk food that I ate. Across the table, there was a mirror slanting on the wall. I stood in front of it. It was just like the Mirror of Erised from Hogwarts. In that mirror, I was looking fat like old times. My face was full of acne and acne marks. I got scared and started trembling. I touched my face but there was nothing, I touched my body but it wasn't fat like the mirror showed. The mirror was magical, it was showing my past. The past from which I had run away. I couldn't stand there, I stepped aside. In the other corner, there was a side table. And the things on it drew my attention towards it. A strange device having only an on/off switch was connected to the headphones. I put on those headphones and pressed the button on that device. Some random people were talking about a girl as if they were passing comments on her. "She looks like a football", "She is too fat to wear such clothes", "Keep eating like that and you won't get married at all", "You look too old for your age", "You should be eating healthy food to stay in shape", "Oh, forget the body, look at her face that's not pretty", "Boy, she must have to photoshop before posting a picture with that face!", and it went on and on. "It was me! They were all talking about me!", I said to myself while taking off the headphones. My eyes were full of tears, I started walking back and forth anxiously. While walking, I noticed that the table with food on it had vanished. But that was not just it. I was startled by the sight before me. One-fourth part of the door appeared on the wall. Something inside me just clicked and I realised where I was. It was the room of my insecurities. And by eating the food that I denied for years just to stay in shape, I had won over one of my insecurities. I knew what I had to do. I went to the pile of clothes, picked the purple dress that was used to be my most favorite, and wore it. At first, I thought it will fit loose, but it fitted well. I loved the dress and felt comfortable. As soon as I smiled, the other clothes disappeared and another part of the door appeared making half of the door visible. Then I walked towards the mirror. I saw myself in that purple dress and it just changed my mood. I was happy, I knew it suited me well, and felt confident. Whether I looked fat or thin, my skin was clear or not, didn't mattered anymore. I smiled and admired myself and the mirror was gone. Yes, it was working, three-fourth of the door was visible now. The last thing was there to get rid of, the headphones. I wore the headphones, turned on the button, and before anybody could speak, I started speaking in the microphone, "I am strong, I am wise, and I am beautiful in my own way. That's all that matters." There were no voices. I took off the headphones, kept them on the table. Within seconds, it all vanished, and then the remaining part of the door appeared. I had done it. I had overcome all my insecurities. I opened the door and went back to my bedroom. It was a relief. The door had disappeared. And I knew it had disappeared forever. I had fought my battles and fought them well. When I blinked and opened my eyes, I was in my bed. It was a wonderful dream and I woke up to be a completely different person. What I saw in that dream were the things that I had buried deep down in my heart. Now, they were all gone. It was a splendid morning.

The office buzzed with the usual hum of keyboards and murmurs of conversation. George leaned back in his chair, eyeing his colleagues, Ed and Ahmed. "I'm telling you guys," George said, leaning forward, "there's no way that 'The Troll' is eligible for hiring here. She doesn't know the programs. Sure, she talks like she does, but she's just offloading her work onto her staff. I saw it firsthand when I asked to help. I would gather evidence through my assistance and expose her. When I questioned why she refused my assistance, she told me to mind my own business." Ed shook his head. "Going against the grain here is career suicide, but I wouldn't even let her feed my fish." Ahmed nodded. "She hasn't crossed any serious lines yet, unlike the Fallen One. But she's close. If she does, we'll turn her in." George chuckled. "Fallen One?" "Yeah," Ahmed said, "pure evil. A Lamia or the Devil herself." Ed agreed. "It's true." "This place has gone downhill since the regime change," George continued. "The new senior executive hires her friends, who're not even qualified. Human Resources should be all over this, but Thea has the HR guys in her pocket. This place was my career. Now it's just a job. How's the Fallen One treating you guys?" Ed sighed. "She lets the Troll run amok. It's like the Fallen One, the Troll, and Thea want people to be unhappy and leave. The Fallen One is also a racist." "It's a wonder the Fallen One hasn't been fired," Ahmed added. "She has thirteen Equal Opportunity suits against her." George shook his head. "How is she even eligible to be here? She bullies her subordinates. Yesterday, she told three young girls they acted like they were from the ghetto and said, 'This is my world now.' She pressures Howard every day, giving him tasks late in the afternoon with impossible deadlines. The man is past retirement age and still working. Give him the time to complete the tasks unless it is a rush job. Everything appears to be a rush job with her. Right?" "Right," Ahmed agreed. "Leave the man alone. He hasn't been the same since his son died." George's tone softened. "I didn't know that. That's tough. But we need to expose this abuse. This place has become hostile. Thea's cronyism is out of control. No agency would have hired Sarah Whitmore, the Fallen One, with unresolved Equal Opportunity complaints. It's unfair to other applicants." "Life's not fair," Ed said with a shrug. "Good point," Ahmed added. "The critical question is, if person A worked directly for person B in agency one, and person B gets hired here as the Director despite her record misgivings, how many planets would have to line up for person A to get hired in the same agency, same office, and working directly for person B again?" George asked. Ed looked at George. "We have some shady hiring practices here, like you said. Are you going to do anything with this information?" "I'll need to be subtle, and it will take some time, but yes. I won't be blatant like the last guy who got fired for going directly to the Inspector General's Office. Did you know the Troll used to work directly for the Fallen One at the Department of Agriculture? What are the odds of being hired here to work for the same person in the same office as you did in Agriculture? It's astronomical." Ahmed blurted out, "I want to know why we weren't considered for the position," pointing to Ed. "The Troll doesn't know our programs even today, six months later. She made life a living hell for people who work with her, especially those who must report to her." Later that day, George overheard a conversation in the break area and moved closer to listen. "Have you seen TO's work? It's impressive," Samantha said, her eyes wide with admiration. "Yeah, she's got some serious skills. I heard she's already streamlined a few of our processes," Mike replied. George's lips tightened into a thin line. It was a sin for the Troll to take credit for others' work. As the conversation continued, an idea began to form in his mind. Later that day, George chatted with a few colleagues in the hallway. The topic of the Troll inevitably came up. "Have you guys noticed how quickly TO adapted? Almost too quickly, don't you think?" George said. His tone was casual, but his words were laden with implication. "What do you mean?" asked Jenna, one of the marketing analysts. "Well, I'm just saying... adapting that fast, maybe it's not entirely her doing. You know, sometimes people take shortcuts or have a bit of... inside and outside help," George suggested, raising an eyebrow. Jenna frowned. "You're not implying she's cheating, are you?" George shrugged, maintaining an innocent expression. "I'm not implying anything. But how odd is it that TO worked directly for Sarah in the Department of Agriculture? Just looking at the situation, how incredible is it for someone who came from Agriculture as a Director to be hired here as a director in this office?" Jenna shrugged. "The odds would be high with the internal controls in place to prevent illegal hiring, but not impossible." George nodded. "I agree, but how astronomical is it to have someone who worked for you in another agency, in another office, apply for a job here and end up in the same office, working for the same person as she did in Agriculture?" An odd look came over Jenna's face. "That would be impossible." "That's what I'm getting at. It shouldn't have happened. Are you going to tell me that TO is the most qualified out of 100 applicants from around the nation? Just something to think about." As the days passed, George subtly fueled the rumor. In meetings, he'd make offhand comments about the unexpected ease with which the Troll handled complex tasks. In the break room, he'd speculate about her qualifications. The rumor began to take on a life of its own, morphing and growing with each retelling. The Troll, oblivious to the undercurrents of suspicion swirling around her, continued pressuring her subordinates for increased work and suggestions for improvements. She noticed, however, that some colleagues seemed distant or avoided eye contact. The camaraderie she initially felt began to erode, replaced by a sense of unease. One morning, TO was summoned to a meeting with the new HR manager, Linda. As she walked into Linda's office, she noticed George leaving, a satisfied smile on his lips. "Good morning, TO. Please, have a seat," Linda said, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. TO sat down, her mind racing. She had never been called into HR before and couldn't think of any reason why she would be now. "I wanted to discuss some concerns that have been raised," Linda began, her tone professional but stern. "Concerns?" TO echoed, her confusion evident. "There have been rumors circulating about your qualifications and how you've been handling your responsibilities. Some of your colleagues have doubts about your integrity, leadership ability, and knowledge base of the programs you manage. Whether you're truly capable of performing the tasks required of your position," Linda explained. TO felt as if the ground had shifted beneath her. "I assure you, Linda, I've done everything by the book. My qualifications are legitimate," TO said, her voice steady but laced with frustration. Linda nodded. "The perception among your colleagues is affecting team morale. I need you to address this directly with them and perhaps provide some reassurance." TO left the meeting feeling a mix of anger and determination. She knew she had to move fast and do something to cover herself. It had happened the same way at the Department of Agriculture. She thought, "I definitely have a way of using up a place." That afternoon, she called the Fallen One for a consultation.

She felt like a ribbon streak. A ray of light rich enough to give me youth yet I’m a cold. A shiver down her spine of fear after the sunsets with anxiety and every time she comes back up the fear seems to disappear but--how can she look at me like I’m velvet royalty when I’m just a midnight line of forgotten strength? I’m incomplete but when she smiles I feel heat. She’s a sunrise and I set- the world on fire... yes. How can she love me when I’m less than lavender and she’s gold? Many try to forget about the building beyond the hill. Days are more rainy there than sunny but when the first autumn leaf falls- it falls there. I only know because I packed my bag five summers ago, the last days of July, and left in the middle of the night. My travels led me towards the only bricked road outside of town. The trees covered the rural road blackening the view of ghosts whistling in the night. Perhaps they were trying to say something I couldn’t quite understand. I remember a sign lay on the road saying: “Beware of-” but the last words were covered in the overgrown red grass. When I crossed the hill that put my home out of view, everything felt cold. The rain fell like hail and my breath was smoke out of my nose. There was a place I could rest in the distance. I parked my car on the abandoned street and stared at the tiny place, lit with a singular green lantern. Yellow hues line the calm wet street, as I watched a woman walk past the window singing a tune. Rain drops lined the glass, my body shaking with cold as I could only think of how warm she felt inside. The sign outside the building looked as if it was soon to fall off but I slowly creeped up. Grabbed the door, noticing that the rope on my leg was dragging from my car. It stained red like the mysterious irritation that inflamed my neck. I tucked it into my pocket while cracking the door quietly; I jumped when I heard glass shatter at my feet. A gray cat ran past me, out of the door, with a cracker in its mouth as the woman yelled for it to leave before meeting me with an unwelcoming gaze. She wore a black apron over a velvet dress. Her eyes ran across my body as if my baggy brown overalls and hand knitted sweater weren’t professional enough to be welcomed in this place. Yet she was the one with white powder staining her face. “I just hate it when that cat steals,” she groused, ignoring my presence, stepping from behind the long wooden table. It covered half of the front of the room. Candles lining the corners like she was summoning the dead. “May I help you?” I question, as she reaches for the broom. She chuckled slightly, tossing it at me since I stood closer to the door. I had failed to catch it as it fell into one of the five pink bean bag chairs that sat on the floor. I ran my hand over my short curly hair, wiping the water off of my wet hands, nervously laughing. “That’s what I should be saying. You came into my store.” She crossed her arms as I had let my eyes scan the room. There was sun & moon tapestry on the walls, lights hanging from the ceiling, and a purple chalk sign that had lists of foods on it as if she was meal planning for the week. Chalk was something I hadn’t seen in years since a child. People say it’s because the companies had shut down during the strike two decades ago, from today, that chased all the women out of the now male dominated town. I was only a child however and children are raised by their fathers here regardless of if they are born male or female. So, I couldn’t leave but I wasn’t the only one because this neighbor girl understood me too. I glance up at the women as my heart beats out of my chest. I try to play my nerves off by sitting in the bean bag. Putting my focus on the lavender candles burning against the long wooden counter. “Would you like something to eat?” “Uh- just a berry scone and tea.” “Okay,” she nods, remaining still. Her gray eyes pierced into my soul as I looked at her confused. She held out her hand. Maybe she didn’t understand me. “I’m sorry, I can get it myself if-” “Look I don’t give out things for free,” she interrupts. “I-I didn’t realize,” I apologized and quickly handed her the cash that I had on hand. She counted it unimpressed before staring at me hopelessly and just rolled her eyes. While she was making my tea she couldn’t stop glancing at the dirt that stained my pants. She ran her sharp long black nails along the wood leaving scratches. She’d peek over her shoulder with dormant eyes like sleep was something she lacked. However she felt lifeless when she’d open her mouth to hum, the world around got dark. Crickets had danced outside and dragonflies passed by the window but when she’d start to sing, it was like every creature would stop to listen. Or run? I kept my hand in my pocket to hide my rope and constantly glanced at my car. Anxious about the amount of time that had passed with me having been there, I don’t remember anymore if I had further interacted with her after I took my sip of tea. It tasted like vanilla but was thick like mud, however, I enjoyed it. Burned going down my chest and made my legs feel weak as I walked to my car. Only thing I remember was just an hour before I walked into that store, I was shaking from the cold. I left feeling nothing but a wave of blazing heat rising in my body- did I burn alive? Maybe from the inside? Maybe in another life? Now, five years have passed and I now live ten minutes from the building everyone tried to forget. Left wandering in the rural roads with the darkened ghosts whispering to the townspeople who are curious enough to explore the building. The lady I met that night still wore velvet. She wore velvet while I passed out in the middle of the street before I could even drive off. She wore velvet when she pulled the rope out of my pocket and tightened it back around my neck, whispering to me that I was never going to escape. Back meaning that’s how I died once before when I was young. Burned like a witch for love. And she wore velvet when she drove me back down the rural road and tied me to a tree leaving me to die with nothing but the whispering ghosts who all told their own stories of the building beyond the hill. They said she was waiting on someone of the past to set her free. That sparked my new found curiosity of who that might be. I walk hidden to the light around me. The midnight gaze of those that pass by in their car don’t even show my existence, but one day a lady came into my store. She lit up the street like gold and maybe I was being too cold. Letting her in was my first mistake. I let the cat get the best of me that once it was time for the woman to leave I didn’t know how to ask her to stay. She stumbled out like she had been drinking, my second mistake of giving her that scone. I walked to her car knowing she was going to disappear soon into the air. I got scared. Before I knew it I tied the rope around her neck again and told her she won’t be able to escape. Oh amor, whispering that was my third mistake. All because I had remembered your darling face. You can’t kill a ghost but can you remind the undead that their heart used to race. We fell hard for each other in a world that burned us alive because to them our love was a devils game. So I left to save her life, said I’d come back to another life but shortly died before I could ever say goodbye to her in that life. Trapped here as just another soul for two decades that I don’t know if my efforts ever paid off. Then five years ago a woman came into my store. Came and left just as fast but for a moment she felt familiar. Felt like I knew her from the past. I had peeked over my shoulder across the counter at her dirt stains and realized I knew her by last name but- she stared at me like she only wanted to get away. Pity. I’m just another ghost who’s heart no longer beats, making everyone too nervous to eat. For her I would have lit another candle. One that melts purple instead of blood red. For her I would have hummed a little louder. The tune she seemed to have not remembered I sang before we had to go to bed. For her I would go back and not get so distracted that I use deadly nightshade instead of blackcurrant. Even then I still managed to tie her to that tree because distance is better than letting her learn what I did when she walked into my store. Now every new year she manages to come back. She is stuck looking for her life purpose but has a memory so short that she doesn’t even know how many times she’s seen my face. Her soul can’t move on and neither can mine so she keeps wandering and I watch her pass by. Waiting for the moment that my cold words will go warm, and I can tell her that we once made each other whole. On those nights we’d sit by the tree that was in between each other's house. Waved at each other from next door, hoping to see each other the next day. - I wonder now if my heart shall beat again when it seems to break every time you come in-

Metal scorpions fall on Stephen from above. He claws against the steel walls of the room, but they hold steady. The scorpions crawl on him; his skin shivers at their touch. The walls close in around him as the amount of steel scorpions increase. Stephen is now swimming in a pile of them. He struggles to keep his head above the rising tide, but the scorpions are pulling him under. He closes his mouth and eyes and descends into the pile. A few of the scorpions start burrowing under his skin. His limbs start to flail under their control. Stephen wakes up on the floor next to the bed. The sheet is tangled underneath him, and the pillow is several feet away. Stephen struggles to untangle the bed sheets and stand up. His head is throbbing, and he moves to the bathroom to splash water into his face. When he looks into the mirror, the oddness of the situation sets in. How did he get into this room in the first place? He lies on the bed to try to remember the day. The town could not have been real. It was a relic from an earlier time with its streets filled with cars and sidewalks filled with people. Yet Stephen and his friends, Tim and Velma, were driving through it with their mouths agape. Stephen felt self-conscious for how grimy his attire and body is. In spite of their depilated nature, the people did not stare at them. They went about their day as if this was a regular occurrence. When they drove by the city hall in the center of the town, they got their first reaction from a cop pulling them over. Stephen looks over at the brochure on the table, and he walks over and picks it up. The front page is a sunrise over a forested hill with a river at the base. In the foreground of the river, an idyllic town sits bathed in the sun’s rays. The cover could’ve been considered trite and cliche in another time, but Stephen cannot help but smile over what it represents now. Stephen opens the brochure, and a business card falls out. It reads Phillip Clark, Bass Creek Comptroller along with a phone number.. The cop didn’t kick them out of town. Instead, he escorted them within the city hall where they were placed in an office, and they were greeted by a man wearing a three piece suit and with a gray combover. He introduced himself as Phillip Clark, and he gave each of them a brochure with his business card in it. He said that they always love having visitors and new residents. Especially now, because they recently lost several people to a boating accident. Tim jumped at the opportunity to become a full time resident. Stephen responded by stating that he would never join. The two of them started fighting within Phillip’s office. Stephen starts to cry as he thinks about that fight. There has always been tension between Tim and Stephen. Stephen cannot help but see Tim as an idiot who would trust anyone after two minutes. Stephen is pretty sure he said that during the fight. Tim’s view of Stephen is that Stephen is pretentious, distrusting, and enjoys making others suffer. Stephen is sure that Tim said that during the fight. Stephen wishes that he could make amends with his friends. During the fight, Velma stood up and walked out of the office without saying a word. Tim followed, flipping Stephen the bird on the way out. Stephen slammed his fist on the comptroller’s desk and quickly apologized to Phillip for his behavior. Phillip chuckled and said that it was a common reaction for newcomers to be skeptical of the location, and Phillip encouraged Stephen to give the town a chance. Phillip made a call to the local motel and got Stephen a room there. He ensured Stephen that Velma and Tim would be given the same accommodations. Phillip even offered to drive Stephen to the motel himself. In an effort to prove Tim wrong, Stephen accepted the offer. Phillip had a nice van that had toys in the back for Phillip’s kids. Phillip told Stephen about his family and his life. He offered to take Stephen home for dinner, but Stephen refused. Stephen asked how the town survived the devastation. Phillip said that the town was noted for its grit. He dropped Stephen off at the motel after their conversation. When Stephen entered the motel, he was greeted by a clerk named Cameron. Cameron was extremely polite, and he said that he was new in town a few years ago. He couldn’t believe it was real either. He handed Stephen his key and told Stephen that he hoped Stephen would stay. The hotel room was larger than any room Stephen had been in his life to say nothing of the fact that it was cleaner. There was a set of clothes on the bed with a card that read courtesy on it. Stephen showered with hot water to match the cleanliness of the town and went to sleep in his bed. After recollecting his day, Stephen looks at the time on the bedside clock. It’s 3:00 AM. The sun will not come up for another few hours, and Stephen is not sure he can fall asleep. He wonders if he could get a home in this town that is nicer. He hopes that he could reconcile with Velma and Tim either way. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a blinking light in his window. It is far away, but Stephen is determined to investigate. He puts on his clothes and moves out of the hotel. He starts running towards the light. He runs for a half-hour, years of running have given him endurance. When gets close, he sees two people standing in front of a car with a small antenna on the hood. He ducks down to watch closer. The two people turn around and point guns at him. “Hands up, come down slowly,” a man’s voice says. Stephen obeys. When he comes down, he sees a man and a woman in nice clothes like the town. “Are you the guards of Bass Creek? I am a guest. You can contact Phillip Clark to confirm,” he says. The woman puts her gun and whispers to the man. The man puts his gun down as well. “We are not with Bass Creek, but maybe you could help us?” the woman says. “Help you how?” Stephen asks. “It is a long story, but we are going to have to run some tests on you first,” the man pulls out a separate gun and fires at Stephen. Stephen passes out on the spot.

"Hmm. You said you wanted another western..." The librarian scanned the upper shelves. "Ah. Here. Lonesome Dove . I think you'll enjoy this one." He pulled the book from its tier and handed it down to the man beside him. "What's your name, again?" "Absalom." "Absalom. Always liked ‘Absalom.’ That's my son's name,” Mr. Danberg said, scanning the book. "Hm." He held it at arms-length and peered down his nose. His mouth hung slightly open as he scanned the blurb on the jacket's inner fold. Snapping it closed, he smiled up at the librarian. "No, thank you." Absalom’s shoulders dropped with his sigh-an oversight he quickly corrected. “Alright,” he said, with a tight smile, as he re-shelved the volume. “How about Riders of the Purple Sage ?” “Read that one already.” “Da- Mr. Danberg, you’ve read most of these, I believe. Why not something new? We have some westerns that have only been on the shelves for a month or so-” “I don’t want no ‘new’ western!” The old man’s head quivered under the strength of his conviction. “I don’t like ‘em. More like scary stories than...adventure.” He scowled at the nearby table. “Heroes should be good , and villains should be bad .” He raised a trembling hand and slashed the air with it. “In that case, what about Dragon Teeth ? It’s definitely an adven-” “ Dragon Teeth ? That don’t even sound like a western! No. No!” His forehead furrowed as he squinted his eyes, pacing and mumbling to himself. Absalom paled and watched light reflect off wispy, silver-white hair as the man moved back and forth. His bowed head accentuated slightly hunched shoulders that held the echo of strength. He ambled stiffly, bones shuffling under the weight of a long, thin frame; scowl and mutterings firmly in place. “I’m sorry, Mr. Danberg. I believe I misunderstood,” Absalom swallowed. “I bet you’d enjoy a Louis L’Amour.” “Louis L’Amour?” the old man halted, face whipping up. “I like Louis L’Amour. Have you read Hondo ?” His eyes danced and a grin spread wide across his face. “Yes,” the librarian answered, his mouth turning up in a small smile, “...my dad loved that book. I wanted to know why he liked it so much, so I’d sneak his copy and read a chapter here, a chapter there, until I’d finished.” “Good, isn’t it?” “Ye-” “Remember when Hondo tells Angie about his wife that passed away? About her name?” The smile froze for a moment, “...My Evie passed away, too,” and it evaporated. “What’s your name, again?” Mr. Danberg asked. “Absalom.” “Absalom. That’s my son’s name.” Absalom clenched his jaw and swallowed. “It sounds like you’ve already read that book, too,” he said in what he hoped was a neutral tone. “Would you like a different one? The Quick and the Dead is another fan-favorite.” “No. It’s...good, I’m sure, but...I believe I’ve read it.” “Then how about Lonesome Gods ?” “No. No, thanks. I believe I’ll just take Hondo ,” he shook his head. “But you just returned it, Mr. Danberg,” Absalom said, gently. “You borrowed that one, last week. I haven’t even re-shelved it, yet.” Mr. Danberg’s brow drew in concentration, and he stared at the floor. At his sides, his hands pulsated into fists. “I bet I could find another adventure-western that you’d like. You can get a cup of coffee, bring it and the book to your room, and settle into your favorite chair to read. How does that sound?” “Young man,” Mr. Danberg said, finally, “I don’t want a different book. I want Hondo ." Absalom opened his mouth to protest, but Mr. Danberg cut him off. “You know why I always get that one? Because I remember it. I remember that story. I...I can’t remember where my house is...or my family... “My Evie... I remember my Evie. She passed away a long time ago. And my son... “What’s your name, again?” “Absalom.” “That’s my son’s name. ...He’s tall, like you, but not as old: he doesn’t have any grey hair. He’s stronger, too. You’re too skinny.” He looked around. “My son would like this place. He reads all the time. Reads and works.” Mr. Danberg smiled. “He’s a good worker. A good boy.” Absalom clenched his jaw against the salt water that threatened his vision. The muscles in his face pulled tight as he smiled. “Mr. Danberg?” a female voice called from the end of the aisle. A woman in her late-thirties wearing fuchsia scrubs approached them. “It’s about time to go. Did you find what you wanted?” He opened his mouth, but the librarian saw confusion play across his features, stealing his words. “We were just heading to the main desk to get it,” answered Absalom with a nod. Behind the desk, he scanned the book and double-checked its information. “I bet I know what that is,” the woman beside Mr. Danberg grinned. “You got Hondo , again.” “That’s right,” he said, eyes wide and mouth opened on a smile. “How did you know?” “Just a lucky guess,” she winked, as Absalom handed the book to Mr. Danberg. “Let’s go. They’re looking for us outside.” She cocked her head toward the glass doors where they could see a tall, white van waiting in front of the building. “Will we see you, this evening?” she tossed over her shoulder as she walked Mr. Danberg toward the entrance. “As soon as I get off work,” Absalom nodded, holding the door. “Is he your boyfriend?” Mr. Danberg asked as they exited. “No, no,” the nurse laughed, patting his shoulder. “He’s coming to see you .” They continued to talk as they reached the van, but Absalom couldn’t tell what they said. He watched as she helped Mr. Danberg into the van, then held up a finger to the driver and jogged back to the building. “Was everything okay? He seemed to be having a good day,” she asked as Absalom opened the door for her. “Yes, I think so. The mood swings were minor. Very minor.” “Good. You looked a little upset when I came to get him, so I just wanted to check.” “Thank you,” Absalom nodded. “...He remembered me, a little. He didn’t recognize me; but he remembered me.” She offered a sad smile, but remained silent. “I know not to count on it happening again; but still...I’ll take it. Thank you for bringing him, every week.” “It’s my pleasure. I'm glad you set this up for him. I think it’s good for our residents to get out, sometimes, if they’re able.” He opened the door for her as she walked back to the van. “Have a good afternoon, Mr. Danberg,” she called. “Mr. Danberg’s going with you,” he grinned. “Please, call me Absalom.” He watched as she closed the van door and it pulled onto the street. “Bye, Dad,” he whispered. “See you, soon.”

Sunset Have you ever stared at the sky right before the sun began to set? Not in the direction that exists only as a distraction, pulling attention to its flaming brilliance, no, to the East. Where the colors change slowly and with intent. Where the blue in the sky gradually turns to pink, to purple, then black. Where the colors intersect in bands, pulling on each other in a calm yet fiery battle until both shrink away in defeat to the moon and stars. Well if you did you would notice something. Something only a few are chosen to see. How the blue and pink sky combine at the horizon line. How their shifting frequency morphs into a summit. Peaks dotting the eastern horizon as the sky quickly darkens. A magnificent mountain range that twinkles into the moonlight as quickly as it rose. Well, I observe this every night. And as I do I imagine myself, taller and stronger, scaling that range. Climbing further and further into the sky until I can’t see what I left behind. Holding the shimmering and cloudy snow in my hands as everything, including myself, fades into the night sky. Such a concept remains a fantasy. Something you can imagine yourself doing, but only with a resigned mind, not ever believing it could happen. I’m here to tell you that you’re wrong. That when I imagine myself in the clouds it’s not just make believe. I’m really there. I don’t know how to describe it, if it’s another time, another life, or even another field of existence but she’s not only in my mind. She’s there, on the mountains in the clouds. Sunrise Light. All I perceive is light as I slowly regain consciousness. The fog in my mind dissipates as I become aware of the gentle hum of the fan near my bed, the birds softly chirping outside, and the sound of water running somewhere in the house. It’s bright. I blink my eyes open and come face to face with the painful sphere outside my window. I let out a groan, shutting my eyes in agony, and roll to lay on my other side. After waking up for a bit, I swing my legs out from under me to the floor. I stretch my arms above my head and give a glance behind me, the sun still blazing into my room, and grudgingly get up. I wouldn’t be up at this hour if it wasn’t for my roommate. She’s been begging me to take a trip with her forever and I finally gave in to one. I had to be up at the break of dawn according to her, however according to my own health and well-being I convinced her to settle for a slightly delayed “break of dawn”. She has to be getting antsy in the kitchen though, I can hear water running and frantic scrubbing which must be from her breakfast. I pick out an outfit, nothing too fancy, just running shorts and a shirt, and swing my already packed duffle bag onto my shoulder. She made sure I packed according to her meticulously thought out list. If your roommate ever tries to specify how much underwear you should pack, run. Something that was too late for me at this point I think with a smile as I grab a pair of socks, turn off my fan, and head outside into the small common area we share. Her auburn hair bobs as she works in the sink, the curls grazing the tops of her shoulders. When she hears me she turns around with a wide smile that reaches all the way up to her eyes. “Carrie! I see you’re finally up, give me a hand?” She holds the frayed light blue towel in her hand, an invitation to help dry. “Good morning to you too.” I smile back as I snatch the towel from her and hold my hand out for a wet dish. We clean in silence for a bit, the sounds of the water pouring from the faucet and smacking the metal basin only interrupted by the squeak of wet cloth on porcelain. Standing on my toes I gingerly set the last plate on the stack and come back down to earth to see my roommate gleaming at me, anticipation in her eyes. “Thanks so much,” She turns and starts fiddling with a small bag on the counter. “I wanted to have something nice as we don’t always get to do this. I might’ve underestimated how many dishes I would go through in making it though.” At this closing sentence she again smiles and turns back to me, I can now smell the apples, fried crust, and other comforting odors as she picks up the bag and zips it shut. She didn’t mention this at all last night, I can’t imagine how early she must’ve had to wake up to get everything ready. She’s practically bouncing, obviously excited to see what I thought. “It smells delicious, Lilac, thank you.” I give her a gentle shove on the shoulder, making her laugh, “You should’ve woken me up to help.” She rights herself after the slight push and merely shrugs my concern off with a grin. “I know you would have rather stayed here anyway, I wanted to do this to thank you for going on the trip with me.” She pauses at this and blushes, glancing to the side. “And to be honest I really was craving pie.” I laugh and she begins to as well. I tell her I’ll be right back as I head into our shared bathroom and prepare for the trip. I run a comb through my hair and tie it up in a ponytail. I brush my teeth and then throw all my toiletries into a small bag which I deposit in my duffel when I return to the kitchen. Lilac is tying her running shoes at the door, dressed in a similar exercise outfit as me. As I approach I can hear her humming. I smile to myself. “Took you long enough to get ready.” I playfully chide as I let myself drop next to her, pulling my shoes from the door to me. I start to slide my feet in. “Says the one who woke up two hours after our initial departure time.” “Not my fault my body won’t let me goad it into waking up at unnatural hours, unlike yours.” “Ha ha.” Lilac mocks as she moves her head side to side with each “ha”. She ties her last knot and bounces up off the ground. In one clean motion she sweeps up both her duffel and the food bag and looks back down at me with another large grin. “Carolyn and Lilac on their next adventure.” She sweeps her hand out in front of her, now looking past me as I stifle a laugh. “Next stop, the moon.” With this her smile grows wider and with a 180 spin she unlocks the door. I believe she’s only half joking. “Meet you in the car!” A bang and bouncing footsteps follow as I smile and focus again on my shoes. After I finish I head out the door as well, making sure to lock it behind me. Lilac is already in the car, a small yellow buggy, parked parallel on the quiet street in front of our one story home. As I approach the car I see her tap the wheel in rhythm, and I can only guess she is still humming. The car ride followed similar antics. I’ve known Lilac since we were randomly paired as roommates freshman year, and ever since then she’s been a travel size sun. Spreading warmth everywhere she went, which was often on my heels whether I liked it or not. “So where do you think we’re going?” I’m snapped out of my daze with the expectant gaze of the girl next to me. She looks back at the road. “Well you made me pack multiple pairs of clothes, more than what we should need, so I’m guessing somewhere we could get dirty.” “Ding ding ding!” She pats the steering wheel with each word. “Anything else?” I see her holding back a grin, she really wants me to guess since she must be dying to tell me. I grin to myself, she’s the one who wanted it to be a surprise. “I can only guess, a hike? You’ve been super into fitness all of a sudden and have made me join you on your runs and whatnot. I’m guessing you’ve been trying to train me somehow. The only part I’m lost on is the fact we don’t have tents or really any outdoor gear.” I can tell by her sudden smile I must’ve been right. She glances in my direction then back at the road. “The hike we are doing won’t need any of that stuff.” Her smile fades at this and her eyes seem lost in thought. This isn’t unnatural for her, with her periods of blazing brightness she can just as easily retreat back into herself, I can only imagine thinking grand things. “Well whatever it is I can’t lie, I’m actually excited.” This prods her awake and her eyes widen at the road. “I mean I know you had to convince me but I think this will be good. You know, like what we used to do.” She nods and smiles, this time a small honest one. “That’s what I thought, I’m glad you think so too.” Her smile fades. Her eyes seem ages away. “It was time for another one I think.” I turn away from her back to the road. It’s laid out in front of us, the forest flanking on either side. We sit now in silence as Lilac begins to hum, this time a more solemn melody. Day The monotony of the straight road is suddenly broken as Lilac flicks on her turn signal. The soft clicks fade in and out, piercing the comfortable silence. “Almost there?” I look over at Lilac, her eyes shining in anticipation at the road. “Good guess, yeah almost.” The car slows and Lilac turns right onto a smaller road still lined with trees. Their branches overhang, letting the light catch them, scattering green across our path. I feel cozily enclosed by the brush and through the open windows I can hear it rustling in response. “It’s pretty back here.” I mention as I stare up at the sky, the brilliant blue flickering between the leaves. “Isn’t it? It gets better.” I immediately see what she means as we approach a small town, appearing in front of us as we climb up a small hill. I can see small cobblestone streets lined with quaint homes, and people milling about the main street, stopping at stalls and store front windows. “I wouldn’t have even known this was here, they’re perfectly situated.” I exclaim, gaping out the window. “Yeah, just look to your left.” And then I saw it. The forest surrounded us as we headed toward the town but opened up considerably when we entered. Hilly terrain replaced the trees, and straight out in front of us I could see small mountains rising in the distance. Looking to the left as Lily prodded I could see a glimmering sea of blue. The town was on the edge of cliffs that gracefully sloped into the waving ocean. “Don’t know if I’ve ever seen a town this beautiful.” Lilac grins at me and then back at the road as we finally enter the main street. We drive for a bit, past everyone enjoying the cool day before slowly stopping at the side of the road. I turn my head to see a hanging sign with the word “INN” carved into the wood. It’s another smaller building, only two stories, with a sloping grey roof and a brown cobble exterior. The door is a light brown wood with intricate metal work garnishing its surface, its handle a long ribbon of metal. “I thought we could drop our stuff here. Unless you want to carry it all on the climb.” I expected this to be sarcasm but when I looked over at Lilac I saw no trace of humor in her face. “No, no I think I’ll leave it.” “Alright then!” With a bit of a tone shift, Lilac quickly turns the key and the rumbling of the car stops. She slides it out and pops open her door. Grabbing her stuff out of the back seat she steps in front of the car and beckons at me through the window. I follow suit and when I turn around with bags in hand she’s already at the door, having a cheerful conversation with an older woman. The woman steps back into the home and holds the door open. My friend nods at her with a smile and continues inside. I stop at the bottom of the few steps leading straight up to the door. The woman looks at me and smiles but doesn’t beckon me inside. I tighten my grip on my bags and bound up the steps crossing into the home, smiling and thanking the woman. She closes the door behind us and waltzes to the low counter in the back of the small room we are standing in. Behind the counter are many small shelves and to the left of the counter I see an entrance into what looks like a dining room. A grand spiral staircase is to our right, made with intricate patterns of wrought iron, and somewhere above light filters through and bounces down its curves. “Here for a room dear?” My attention returns to the woman. Lilac looks back at me and patiently smiles. “Oh yes we are, if any are available,” I tell the innkeeper. “Of course sweetheart, you’re always welcome.” She turns around and picks up a large ornate bronze key off a hook and hands it to Lilac. “Third floor, room facing the ocean. If you need anything don’t hesitate to ask.” I smile again and follow Lilac up the stairs. Each step reverberates with a thud throughout the staircase. We finally arrive at the room and as the woman said, the ocean is clearly visible from the slightly ajar window. I can see the waves padding the beach from here. “Aww man, it’s so nice up here!” Lilac exhales loudly and plops back first onto the bed nearest the window, letting her bags hit the carpeted floor. There is another twin bed next to hers with a little table between them. They are the only furniture in the room barring a floor lamp in the opposite corner, emitting a golden glow. I join Lilac by sitting on the edge of my own bed. “Yeah I honestly wasn't expecting any of this at all. How did you hear about this place?” Lilac flips to the side facing me and rests her head on her palm, propping herself up by her elbow. “I heard about it from our neighbors, I’ve never been here myself. But I knew from how it was described it would be amazing.” “No kidding. It’s basically a paradise.” I let out a soft laugh. “This isn’t all, the rest doesn’t begin for a bit later though.” She closes her eyes again, still facing me. I linger on her use of the word begin but decide to move on. “So we aren’t going to hike right now?” Her eyes open slightly to respond, the exhaustion evident in them. “Not right now, we have time to rest.” At that she returns to her back, stretching her arms and legs out from her body like a snow angel. I don’t waste time in deciding to rest as well, especially if we will be hiking later. I can feel a breeze through the open window and hear the faint wash of water on sand intermingled with chatter and laughs from the street below. I let myself drift to sleep. Evening “Hey Lilac, it’s about time.” I feel the gentle brush of her fingertips against my shoulder as I come to. I open my eyes to see her eyes above me, a small smile already playing on her lips. “Quite a wake up call huh,” I groan as I gently push her arm away. She laughs. “Very funny, come on, get up.” I glance over to the window to see the sky a bit darker than when we had left it. It’s blue, just not as bright. I rise from the bed, still wearing my clothes and shoes, and join Lilac near the door. “Do I need to take anything?” She is bent over the small food bag, seemingly taking count of the items there as she answers me. “Only if you want to, but you don’t need anything. I’m just carrying the food.” I glance over at my bag and shrug. I don’t think extra pairs of underwear would come in handy anyway. “Alright! I think we are all ready.” Lilac swings the bag onto her shoulder and looks at me. “Yeah I’m all good. Let’s get going then.” “Great, just follow me, we are going to be heading over to the ocean.” I smile at this. Those cliffs were too pretty to ignore. I had been hoping we were going somewhere near there. I follow Lilac out the door, down the stairs, past the woman at the counter who waves and wishes us a good evening, and then outside. The air is considerably cooler but still a bit humid. Almost like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold night. Our feet hit the cobble in tune, not speaking only due to our observance of our surroundings. People are still out and about, I can see in the distance children playing in the trees, couples picnicking in the hills past the town, families down at the beach under the cliffs. We continued our stroll through the town and turned to head toward the water. The cliffs were magnificent, grassy and flowery with a fantastic view of the ocean below. Small sailboats glided across the water in the distance as I stared at the glossy surface. Lilac’s finger breaks my view. “We are going right up there.” She’s pointing past my face at the highest cliff, the base on level with us before it begins to climb upwards, stopping after about thirty feet, its edge resting right above the water. We reach the cliff and climb up near the edge, stopping a safe distance away, neither of us are fans of heights. Lilac swings the bag onto the ground and pulls out a soft blue blanket. She lays it on the ground before sitting down, gesturing to the space in front of her. I move around the blanket and sit too, just as she starts pulling multiple goods from her pack. She made my favorites and hers from college. Chicken and dumplings in a glass platter, potato salad and corn chowder in ornate little bowls with plastic covering the top, and finally a golden apple pie. She also pulls out two plates and silverware. “Oh Lilac, it's amazing! Thank you so much. I can’t remember the last time I had these.” She grins in response. “Me neither! That’s why I wanted to treat us. Dig in!” I needed no extra cues as I took my plate from Lilac and started placing servings on it. We sat, talked, and ate with the chorus of waves as the background. When we finished Lilac neatly gathered everything and placed it back in the box. I got up and she then folded the blanket and put that back as well. At this point the families had packed up from the beach and everyone was heading back to the town. I could still see lights on and people roaming about but it was quiet where we were. The sun had slid further down on the horizon and started to turn the sky orange. Lilac was standing on the edge of the cliff. I walk up to her side, she’s smiling with an all familiar glint in her eyes. “Remember when we first met Carrie?” At this she smiles in my direction. I exhale sharply and look out at the sea now. “Of course I do, how could I forget. I come in and you’re on your bed seemingly contemplating something awful. When you saw me you bounded up to me and immediately asked what I thought about the color of the walls. After that you regained composure and introduced yourself. I knew from that moment you would either always annoy me to no end or be the most interesting person I had ever met. I believe it turned out to be a mix in the end.” Lilac lets out another soft laugh and smiles at the ground. “I remember meeting you too. I abhorred those walls and wanted to know if you agreed. The surprise on your face instead took me back to reality. I’ve always appreciated your ability to do that.” I look over at her and she takes my hand in hers. “I’m glad I met you Carolyn.” I lean my head on her shoulder and look back out at the sea. “I’m glad I met you Lilac.” We stay like that as the sun further retreats behind us. The sky opens up in a multitude of colors. My eyes widen as the pink splotches darken, leaving ribbons of blue parading throughout the sky. Lilac releases a quiet exhale, she must’ve been holding her breath. There is a bottom band of royal blue on the horizon, directly above the ocean. From here it looks like mountains, its peaks dissolving into the pink that shrinks and grows as the sun shimmers on the opposite horizon. “Can you see it?” I somehow know she’s talking about the mountains so I nod in response. I lift my head and Lilac pulls her hand back. “Want to go back to the field? I don’t love being on the edge of a cliff so close to the water.” Lilac sheepishly looks down with this but I nod in agreement. “No, I feel the same way, especially as it’s getting dark.” We walk back toward the town, to more level ground. Lilac suddenly stops and turns back around. “Now we can hike.” This surprised me. I knew that Lilac wanted to hike but I thought maybe she just meant that short distance to the cliff. But now she looked up expectedly toward the sky so I turned and joined her. I can’t really explain what I saw next. From the sky down to our feet fell a glittering mountain. What I saw on the horizon suddenly seemed to connect right to the solid ground in front of us. Lilac turns toward me again. “This is it.” I look upwards. It stretches far into the sky, its peak only created by the pink surrounding it. I reach out my hand. I brush its surface. It feels like snow but it isn’t cold. I can easily grip it in my palm. I open my hand and the flakes sprinkle out. I look up again. “You mean, up there?” Lilac nods. “But it’s your decision.” I take turns looking at Lilac and looking at the mountain. I laugh. “You mean you drove me here to decide if I wanted to climb or not?” When I looked at Lilac there was no laughter in her eyes. “Yes.” I look again at the mountain. It’s shimmering peak is inviting. The colors spread across its surface like a watercolor painting. It’s not too steep and could easily be walked up. The only issue is the distance. “What do you want to do?” I glance at Lilac. At this she frowns. “I don’t know.” But I can see from her eyes she’s lying. To say they were longing would be an overstatement. It was more a look of belonging as she stared up at the summit. Not an urge to go up, yet still a gentle desire. She’s dependent on my answer. “If you don’t want to, we can go back to the inn, that’s why I had you pack everything, and then we can hike on the other mountains here. But if you want to...” She trails off. I join her in looking up again. The sun continues its descent and the mountain shimmers more and more. I believe my eyes would portray what Lilac’s did. When I look at the mountain I don’t feel it as a looming presence, more of an inviting one. I feel a patient pull from its peak. One that wouldn’t haunt me if I decided to walk away right now, but would welcome me if I did decide to make the ascent. I knew what my decision would be when I first set eyes on that sunset. “I want to go up,” I decide. Lilac smiles at me and wraps her arms around me. “Why haven’t you come here before?” I squeeze her tighter and feel her chest move against mine as she laughs gently. “I don’t know, I felt like you needed me to get here.” “You’re right. Thanks for waiting.” At this we pull apart. I start to walk up the shining surface laid out at my feet, I can still see the grass through it. Lilac follows me but soon overtakes me as we come up to the first peak, about twenty feet up from the ground. She scales it then turns and reaches her hand down for me. I grasp it. Night The sun left us long ago as we continued up the summit. All we can see now is the shimmering snow in the light from the rising moon and stars. We are very close to the highest peak at this point. Lilac is still in front of me. She makes it up there first and disappears from my view. I see her hand pop back into vision, so I take it in mine as she pulls me up. I feel solid ground beneath my feet and see nothing but darkness. Not an unfamiliar and frightening dark, more like closing your eyes at a party. Obviously you cannot see anything but you know you are surrounded by light, by everyone you love, and are safe. That’s what this darkness felt like as I stood there in silence. Then I felt warmth. Light. And I could hear someone humming nearby.

Robbie and I were best friends, at least that is until I achieved dubious fame. Missing Girl Found By Walker screamed the headlines, above a photo of me holding a bewildered, dishevelled child. Two days prior 5 year old Jennifer Dreaver had wandered off during a family bush walk. Searchers were combing another section of bush. We saw them on the way in , and of course Robbie wanted to join them. I managed to talk him out of it. Which is ironic considering that I emerged an accidental hero. Now that was a right circus. Amidst the scrum of reporters, photographers and rubberneckers I inwardly questioned the parenting skills of a couple who not only took their young child into the bush, but lost her there. Outwardly I smiled for the birdy, playing the hero. While in the background a mute witness to my newfound adulation stood Robbie. His usual reticent self. Good ole Rob-Man, who not just had my back, but could be relied upon for his discretion. FFS who uses that kind of terminology nowadays? I was beginnng to sound like some great-granddaddy era stuffed-shirt. Discretion my big toe. In modern-day speak Rob Man was too busy having my back to have his own. Unlike yours truely self aggrandisement wasn’t his style. Which worked to my advantage as I surrendered that precious bundle (more like bludy nuisance) to her tearful (or as I saw it neglectful) parents. If little Ms Dreaver smiled and waved over her mother’s shoulder to that solitary figure who stood by now on the periphery of my fame it went unnoticed. After all it was me in the spotlight. I was the man of the moment, the walker who’d gone to investigate sounds coming from a clump of bushes off the main track. “Against my companion’s advice. Well I had to didn’t I? I mean someone could’ve been hurt, and isn’t it just as well I did?” ”Oh yes, yes.” The tearful mother fixing me with desperate eyes. No doubt imagining her daughter’s fate were I not to have happened along. While a grateful father gripped my hands, fixing me with an expression of profound gratitude and exclaimed. “Thank God you did son, and if there’s ever anything......” If I felt any guilt on Robbie’s part I brushed it aside. Sorry for casting aspersions Rob-Man, but I had to take out some insurance. You know, just in case you got any ideas or let certain things slip. Afterwards we drifted apart. Given the circumstances a predictable outcome and one that attracted considerable sympathy, The man who’d saved a child’s life had become a victim of sour grapes, and from non other than the companion who was prepared to ignore little Jenny’s cries for help. And there were other benefits.... Debts I’d run up were forgiven, extensions granted on overdue papers and past grudges forgotten (for this read that people I’d wronged realised they’d get nowhere pursuing/harassing a hero). My home life also improved, with mum and dad heaping long overdue praise. They were overjoyed when Mr Dreaver a successful businessman made good on his pledge. “If there’s ever anything I can do.” They were magic words, assuring my future with little personal effort required. As for Robbie I heard that he was upstate washing dishes at some desert truck stop. With his rep in tatters he dropped out, which gave me brief pause. However I was far too busy to worry unduly, with an agent to manage personal appearances and a junior executive position with Mr Dreaver’s manufacturing company. I had places to go which also meant a hectic social life. With so much going on I almost envied my former bestie. ‘Rob-Man’s got it easy, no pressure or responsibilities. No hero rep to keep up, even after all this time. Washing a few dishes isn’t near as exhausting as being a real life hero. The man who found a missing child. Even now with the bludy kid a grown woman ready to graduate college. A grown woman who unbeknown to me had started having flashbacks. When this development became known I had to wonder why the Dreavers never told me. Just as I wondered over the years why despite giving me breaks they never quite elevated me to family friend status. For a short while Jennifer referred to me as uncle, but was just as quickly disabused of that. “No Jen Jen he helped you when you got lost, but he’s not a relation.” Much later she became of age and a looker. But for the age gap I might’ve dated her. Perhaps I should’ve, because then she mightn’t have taken that desert road trip, stopped off at a certain truck stop and encountered a dishwasher on his break while looking for the bathroom facilities. An encounter that led to another flashback. I call it that flashback. Because from there my life began to unravel. They got talking, exchanged contact details, and after several months speaking with her parents and a counsellor Jennifer Dreaver took charge of the narrative and told the real story. “I knew I’d seen that man’s face before, the one at the truck stop. He had such a kind manner but it was his voice. When he asked if he could help me, and when I stumbled he put out his hands to steady me. Just like he did in the bush when I was a little girl. It was his voice saying it was going to be alright, and those same hands holding me. When his friend brought me out I wanted to tell mum and dad he was the one but there was a crowd and it was noisy. When I saw him over mum’s shoulder I smiled and waved but he never came forward. No one else saw and later I thought I’d dreamt it....” Because that day we’d been cutting classes. I had incomplete assignments due and wasn’t in the mood for drama. Besides it was too nice a day to be cooped up in a boring lecture hall. Robbie joined me because he didn’t think I was in any fit state to drive. Bunking didn’t come easy to him, but neither did letting me risk my neck. There were searchers in the carpark when we reached our destination, but I managed to talk him out of getting involved, It’d draw attention to our bunking class. It was Robbie who heard Jennifer’s whimpering sounds. This time I couldn’t dissuade him, but made my displeasure clear. Far from avoiding drama he’d walked right into the thick of it. Except the final irony turned out to be as simple as the call of nature. Can’t be helped, can’t be avoided, needs must. So while he did the deed I relieved him of the child, and that’s how the searchers found us. I could’ve told the truth, but held my peace instead.....payback for sticking his nose in. Until all these years later, when Jennifer Dreaver is determined to see the real man who found her recieve his due, While for me the usurper a label I have to wear now, the final irony‘s turned out to be as simple as that flashback,

CW: This piece contains religious themes that are not meant to accurately follow holy texts. It also includes profanity. Viewer discretion is advised. * All of the characters in this piece are entirely fictitious and are not based on real people. Any character that resembles any person-- dead or alive-- is purely coincidental. “There is no god.” I read the opening line of the old manuscript aloud, its pages coated in dust and creased several times over from being buried in an old library until tonight. I don’t want to even look at the following text, yet my eyes glide over anyway. “There has never been a single god. There was no god before or during mankind and there will not be one after. We have spent our lives blaming and praising a higher power, yet never stopped to question if our pleas were being received by anything. We have lived a fairytale, one that, with this book, I will break. What you are about to read may be my demise, but I will not let my life’s work meet the same fate. The public deserves to know the truth.” “With what proof?” Kat asks in bewilderment mere moments after I finish the segment. “What could this author have possibly found that proves God doesn’t exist?” “Well,” Eve starts, “what proof do you have that a god does exist?” They turn to Kat, whose eyes narrow with frustration. “For one, all of the different holy texts, not to mention the tales from places like Greece,” she offers. “Those are myths,” Eve counters. “They only exist because the people at the time had no other way to explain things like thunderstorms and plagues. We know now that all of those occurrences are rooted in science.” “What about the creation of the world, hm? Think about it: how would a mess of dust and chemicals create anything more than a base for the Earth? Where did all of the different animals and plant life come from once they had somewhere to exist? It makes sense that God would have at least done that part of the creation,” Kat argues. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for that as well,” Eve sighs. “Is that not a logical explanation?” “In terms of science and basic history, not really!” As they bicker, my trembling fingers slide between the next two pages as if preparing to turn to the next segment of the manuscript. In a flurry of panic, I freeze my hand in place, half-wishing for it to turn to stone so I don’t have to worry about it anymore. I don’t want to see what lies beyond this opening page. If I dig us into a deeper hole, I can bet I will be digging us into our graves. “What else does that say, Yasmine?” Eve calls, dragging me out of my thoughts and into a whirlpool of fresh fear. My fingers dig into either side of the manuscript, locking the dreaded pages shut, an action I don’t realize until Eve is trying to pull it out of my hands. “Come on, what else does it say?” They insist, pulling at the faded paper and its worn-out binding. My fingers don’t budge. “This isn’t a good idea,” I try to explain, my voice a shaky whisper. “This sort of information, if it’s real--” “I bet you it is,” Eve interjects. “This sort of information could be dangerous, Eve!” I plead. “Do you have any idea what sort of chaos this can cause?” With a grunt, my fingers come loose and Eve tips backwards as the book finally comes into their grasp. Despite my protests, they hastily pull it open and flip through the pages, their eyes zipping through paragraphs for information they can use-- a predator hunting its prey. Some flicks of the pages later, they stop, lean in close to the text, and read it aloud. “The preceding information and everything following comes from a man who, for his safety, will remain anonymous. He was moments away from becoming the new Pope-- had gone through the teachings and all-- when he was thrust out of his position at the last possible moment. In an instant, the life he had worked to obtain was ripped away from him, the honor of the Pope bestowed upon someone else. Within seconds, he was nobody. This man tells me the reason for his sudden fall from grace: the truth. “He recalls the night that roused his suspicions. In the middle of a violent thunderstorm on the 13 of April, 1775, he knelt on a cold, wooden floor, his hands clasped and held tight to his chest, uttering prayers and pleas for God to send him a sign. Midway through the storm, there was a lull. Silence fell upon the world around him for a moment, one long enough for him to rush to a window and cast his gaze to the sky. ‘The sky,’ he told me, ‘was a deathly black. It blotted out stars and left the perfect clearance for a sign to be sent down. I thought God was setting this up. For a moment, I stared and saw...nothing. There was no voice like the teachers had promised me. There was no evidence of life or death up there, only darkness. When the storm came again, it was as if a lost piece of information had clicked into place. This God we’ve believed in--it never existed at all.’” Eve’s reading, confident as can be, fades to a whisper by the time they reach the final sentence. There are notes of fear in their voice. Kat’s eyes are wide and her expression sits somewhere between befuddlement and worry. “Is that enough proof for you, Kat?” Eve’s question is quiet as they slowly turn their gaze to Kat, who only stares at them for a long moment before snatching the manuscript out of their hands and flipping it to see the front. “Someone search this author’s name,” she mutters. “Lucien Vieux.” I fumble my phone off my nightstand and tap the name into Google. The only result is an obituary. Reluctantly, I read it out. “Lucien Vieux, 45, was burned at the stake on October 11, 1783, in Paris, France, on charges of heresy. These charges arose from the attempted publication of a manuscript entitled ‘La vérité’ --‘The Truth.’ The piece pushed that there was no God, accompanied with a fair amount of self-proclaimed ‘evidence.’ The man whom he co-wrote it with has not been found as of this time. Mr. Vieux did not marry or have any children. All copies of his manuscript have reportedly been destroyed by the Catholic church.” “That’s it?” Kat whispers, to which I nod. “That’s all that came up,” I confirm. Kat’s eyes shine with tears. Her gaze falls back to the manuscript still clasped in her hands. “What do we even do with this?” She asks. “Someone wanted us to find this,” Eve concludes. “There can’t have been many copies of this particular piece. How would one be missed? God may not exist, but luck still must.” “Who do we take it to? The church? The government? The natural history museum? They’ll all just lock it in a vault never to be seen again!” Kat’s voice rises almost to a shout. I motion for her to hand me the manuscript. She does. “We’re on the cusp of chaos with this thing,” I breathe. “People will be a complete wreck if they find out there’s no god. Religion is a comfort, a baseline, something to focus on instead of all the horrible shit happening in our society. It gives people a sense of purpose and belonging. What happens if we shatter that illusion?” “Didn’t Lucien say that the public deserves to know the truth?” Eve chimes in. “Don’t people deserve to know about this so they can change their lives for the better? Think how many problems would go away if we got rid of religion!” “Think of how many more problems would start if we did that!” Kat retorts. “Give me the manuscript.” Eve holds out their hands to me and I hand the manuscript over. They take it and flip to the last page of the piece. “I may not live to see the effects of this piece, but nobody should continue to be in the dark about this any longer. Our history has been torn to shreds by the belief in a higher power. Our belief in ourselves and each other has been ruined by the idea of a lack of responsibility; if everything can be blamed on a higher power, there is no need for guilt or shame or simple humility. With the truth, the good can be good without punishment, and the wicked can face retribution for their actions. In the truth, we will find balance. I beg you, reader, understand the truth and let it become common knowledge. Do not doom this world. “There is no god, only man.”

TW:References to death January 3rd, 1945 Dear Mama, How are you doing lately? I was informed not too long ago about Katō-san's sickness, I and my friends are keeping prayers for her. Sadly I forgot what they said it was, but I hope she recovers swiftly. But again, how are you? Did you make that special soup for Papa's birthday? Were you able to get the ingredients? I know how much I fantasize about your cooking while laying in my barracks. I always go on to my comrades about how great all of your food tastes. One of my friends in specific, Kota can't wait until he comes back, he tells me he must come over, and he'll eat until he's sick! Also, how is Kiseki? I hope he has begun eating again, I really want him to do better, I couldn't imagine life without him. Remember back when he was only a puppy, and he stayed with me in bed when I was sick with the flu? I was just thinking of that this evening, every time my fever would rise, he would come and lick my forehead. Believe it or not, I miss Kiseki's licks. Oh and, Mama. Do you remember the recruiter I told you about? Asking me and the other airmen to join the Kamikaze? Our training is said to begin in a few days. I am utterly anxious and excited at the same time. Kota signed up as well. I am unsure who else has, but everybody around here is talking about it a lot, it makes me wonder what could be awaiting. With love, your son, Akatsuki January 10th, 1945 Dear Mama, Today is Wednesday, and training has begun. Now I realize the weight of it all. I am sorry for the pain that may come with this but know it's for you and Papa. Training is a bit harder than anticipated but nothing I cannot handle. Today our rations were smaller than we originally hoped, but I managed enough that I didn't feel too hungry. Earlier this morning I was rebuked by our sergeant for writing haikus on the top of my bunk. Remember the one you made for me? Clouds acherontic A little, brave tiger stands despite the mountain It has always been my favorite of yours. It always makes me feel like I am closer to you Mama, even in these dark times of war. But don't worry, I will make sure to honor you, Papa, and the family. Just know that someday, I will be Eirei. And perhaps I will be enshrined at Yasukuni. Also, how is Katō-san? I recall you saying that she hasn't recovered much. Don't forget to mix the medication with Kiseki's food. I remember you telling me that he is doing better with said medicine. If you can, please send a photo of him, it would make me very happy. Love, Akatsuki February 11th, 1945 Dear Mama, I am sorry I haven't written you in quite some time. I have a hard time squeezing in these letters with training. But know that I do think of you every day I am here. We were told that training was to last thirty days. so only one more day and I should be out. Then I will be able to send you more letters. I assure you, Mama, I will try and get a photo of me once we graduate. I would love for you to see me in my uniform. We've been practicing our maneuvers and tactics with gliders, though, sometimes we don't have enough fuel to confidently fly about. Training hasn't let up anymore or less since the beginning, and I am really missing home. Some of our fellow comrades graduated sooner than us, and I never got the opportunity to say goodbye. Last night I found Mako crying on his bunk. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me that he was missing his Chichi much so. Which reminds me, don't forget about Valentine's day, that's coming up soon, and it is Papa's favorite holiday. I know Papa is normally picky, but I am sure he will understand with the rations. One thing that's for sure is, I know I would be pleased with any of your foods Mama. I will try and send more letters Mama. I love you. Akatsuki P.S, tell Ogawa-san that I offer congratulations on her daughter, Azami's graduation. February 18th, 1945 Dear Mama, They allowed me to write you now as I don't think I will have much time to do so in the future. Today is Sunday and the sky is cloudy and appears rather stormy. You know my fear of storms--they are forcing us to fly in these conditions anyway. They're saying the war won't wait on storms. Mama, the training is getting worse now. And though they told us training would only last for thirty days, it has lasted much longer and I don't know when it might end. I must confess I am feeling less and less zealous about this now. All I want is to come home, pet Kiseki, hug you and Papa. Walk to the market and come back and help you make Miso soup. Have Papa tell us stories about how he served in the Great War, then go to sleep. Oh, how I miss the good days, back when you used to tell me stories and tell me all sorts of Haikus. I still occasionally write, or quietly cite my favorite haiku here when I am feeling sad, though sometimes it doesn't stop me from shedding a tear or two. All I want to do is be home Mama. but I am really unsure if I'll be able to. I wish I could write to you more Mama. but they are rushing us. They are teaching us things now that make me question. They are doing things that I must confess, I didn't expect. I don't know, and when I say this, I do so with a heavy heart. I don't know when I will be able to write you next. Know that I love you, and please give my condolences to Katō-san for the loss of his wife. I will miss her greatly. With much love, Akatsuki March 11th, 1945 Dear Mama, Today is Sunday, training has finally ended. We were given our ceremonial uniforms, white scarves, and headbands inscribed with "Kamikaze" on them. We are back at an Airbase, but I am unsure if I can tell you where. We were told to study the tokkōtai manual, which we did so carefully. We made sure to read from front to back and from back to front. I and the other airmen are joking a bit, but the laugh doesn't feel real Mama. I read your letter saying that you did everything you could. I just wanted to let you know, that I don't hold you to blame for the passing of Kiseki, maybe it was just his time to go. I am also happy that you sent me his collar, it was the same one I picked for him a while ago. I will miss Kiseki, I did love him very much. Akatsuki March 20th, 1945 Dear Mama, Today, our officer came in and announced the pilots chosen on the papers, I was on that list, Mama. I know I should feel honored, but I can't help but cry. I just want to be home now, but that is a decision chosen for me. Do not fret for me Mama, I am doing my duty. For country and for our family. I am sorry for the pain I know will be caused by this, please offer my love to Amida, I know she would be pleased to hear it, especially with the loss of her brother, Mako. Did I forget to mention? Mako was sent out last night, he told us to eat his meal as he wouldn't be able to. It's mildly hard to ignore it all, as every day, another one of those faces that I see in my barracks is being sent out, never to be seen again. There was one fellow in specific that left a mark on me, I believe his name was Hachiro. The officers had to drag him out as he was crying too hard to stand. The suspense is heavy in the air, it feels like a blanket. I am sorry again, Mama. I feel you are the only one I can speak with. Kota got his Senninbari and composed a poem, so I imagine it won't be long before he is sent out as well. I met another pilot who's Mum has the same name as you! So that put a smile on my face. Also, please don't tell Papa just yet that I was listed, I am not ready for it. Love, Akatsuki March 29th, 1945 Dear Mama, Today is Thursday and it's rather Sunny. I've met a fellow airman, his name is Eiko and he's really nice. He tells me stories that his father told him, and it helps me take my mind off of things. Although tomorrow is my eighteenth birthday, do not worry about getting me anything. But if you really feel the need for a gift, I would love one of those little knittings you used to make for the kids at school. Could you make a tiger one? I've always loved tigers, and you told me I was your little tiger cub. I haven't asked in a while. But how are you? I hope the food poisoning didn't hurt Papa too bad, I know his immune system isn't the best. Also, please wait until Papa is fully recovered before you tell him about how I was listed on the paper. I don't want him to panic too badly. Me, Eiko, Genkei, and a few others held a small, personal moment of silence for Mako. Kota can't sleep as he's too scared. I too, am scared, Mama. I try to ignore it but I can't. I can't sleep either. All the thoughts just keep popping into my head. Somehow Eiko acts like he's thrilled for what's to come. I just can't grasp how. Akatsuki April 5th, 1945 Dear Mama, Today is a bad day. When I awoke, it was the officer announcing that Kota has been chosen for the next flight, and not long afterward Eiko had to go as well. Oh, Mama, I can't sleep, I can't stop crying anymore. What am I to do? All of my close friends are gone now. All I am left with is my own thoughts and this pen. My hands are shaking almost too badly to compose this letter. Mama, I just want to come home. I miss you, and I am scared. I am thinking of the old days again, remember how you used to sing me to sleep? What I would give to reexperience that again. Again, I love you, Mama. I miss you soo much. Love, Your son, Akatsuki April 6th, 1945 Dear Mama, Mama. This very likely might be the last letter you hear from me. But know that I love you and Papa very much. The officer came in and announced who is to go out next. Mama, it was my name he called out. Mine. Mama, I am soo scared. I am unsure if I can do this. I mentioned in an earlier letter, that I realized the weight of it all, but now I truly do. The Senninbari you made me has arrived. I also wrote my favorite haiku you made me on my scarf, I will be wearing it in flight. Mama, I love you. Tell Papa I love him too. I am sorry, sorry for the pain this causes. Know that I love you and Papa so very much. Your loving son, Akatsuki

I wish I could remember the first time I met you. The inciting incident of our relationship, so to speak. But the bitter truth is, I can't. People have told me how we met, two little girls barely out of toddlerhood screaming at the top of their lungs and chasing your escaped pet rabbit down the street. It must have been a sight to behold. I have no recollection of that, and neither have you, probably. As it stands, the earliest memory I have of you is a four year old girl with a smile that dimples her cheeks and makes the world light up, two dark, thick twin braids over your shoulders in a white, poofy dress. You were the only one of us kids who wore white clothes; the minute the rest of us stepped outside, we would be covered in dirt and grime. Not you, though, never you. When we were eight, we found a bird's nest at the base of an old tree, blown down and apart by the last night's storm, the eggs still inside, broken. And you cried. You mourned the unborn life once contained in those eggs, and the pain their parents must feel, and I stood by, debating with myself if pointing out the mangled bird-corpse by the bushes that was most likely the mother, struck down by the storm, would make you feel better or worse. I grew up on a farm, and you grew up in a nice one-family-home with a small garden. I saw death nearly every day, but I saw life, too. You were removed from those realities for a very long time, and only years later did I realise what had made you so upset that day; you were confronted, for the first time, with how powerless you were, and how unfair life was. A few months after that, our chicks started hatching, and I took you to see them, because while I was almost sure you had already forgotten about the day after the storm, I hadn't forgotten your puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and I wanted to give you something to smile about. When we were eleven, my grandma died. She was out in the stables, tending to her favourite cow she so loved, when she just keeled over and wouldn't wake anymore; at least that's what Uncle had said. I think you were sadder than I was. My grandma was a tough lady, she raised three sons all on her own after grandad took a horse-hoove to the face when he was thirty-one, she survived two wars, one major heart-break when the uncle I never even knew decided he had had enough of the countryside and up and left, never to be seen again, and then survived the second heart-break when my Ma and Pa ran off the road in the curvy patch, leaving only me and Uncle and Grandma and the animals. But Grandma never gave up, she lived on, no matter what anyone threw at her. She would have wanted me to be strong, like her. It was a big funeral concession, despite our oh so small family. Half the village was crammed into the old church to pay their respects, and so were you and your family. You cried so hard when they put her in the ground, and your mother hugged you, and I stood there with dry eyes and took Uncle's hand when he started shaking, because that's what Grandma would have done. The next day when you came over, I got us some biscuits and sat us down on the sofa, and I showed you old photo-albums, big and clunky ones that covered both our laps. You put your head on my shoulder, and you smiled, just a little. When we were fifteen, Uncle got married. It was the party of the year, as any good wedding ought to be. Uncle and his wife were radiant, so happy, and Uncle's best friend and I were co-best-men, and he played the guitar while I sang at the reception, and Uncle cried, his new wife by his side, rubbing his arm. You cried too, because of course you were there, you in your beautiful, flowing red dress and your dark hair pinned back. An image of you in a white dress flashed before my eyes, and I took to drinking. I took two bottles of wine from the bar, grabbed you by the arm and went outside before my new aunt threw the bouquet, because I couldn't handle the thought of that. We sat, and we drank, and you looked beautiful in the moonlight, but I didn't tell you that. I walked you home hours later, in the early hours of a summer-morning, the kind where the first rays of the sun climbed the horizon when you weren't ready yet. You hugged me good-bye and I stumbled on home, off-balance now as your arm wasn't wrapped around mine anymore, and I laid down in the front-yard to watch the sun rise. I fell asleep there and woke up hours later to a group of kids from down the street poking me with a stick and loudly debating if I was dead. A fair question, I thought at the time, hungover and face down in a bushel of grass. When we were six-teen, I graduated, and you did not. I started working on the farm full-time, because that's what my family does, and you kept going to school. Around that time, your parents stopped liking me. At first, I was afraid they had caught me trying to make you smile, or the way my own smile tended to linger when I was around you, but then I realised they must have thought me a bad influence. A distraction, and one always covered in dirt at that. To them, a dirty child living on a farm must have been more acceptable than a dirty adult living on a farm, especially when that dirty adult liked to come over to spend time with their precious daughter, who would without a doubt go on to become a lawyer or an accountant when she played her cards right. They didn't think you were playing your cards right, spending time with me. I started seeing you less and less, but I also got a lot busier, with the calving and the chicks and the pigs giving birth and one of the farm-hands breaking his arm, so we quite literally were two hands short- and suddenly one year had passed, and then two, and you had graduated. I drove to the city in Uncle's old truck just to see your graduation, to watch you positively beam when they handed you your certificate; you, on that stage, in a beautiful violet dress with your hair up, even though I imagined it down. I wondered how you would wear your hair when your dress would be white, but at that point, your parents had been alerted to my being there, and your father frowned at me as if he heard my thoughts, so I left and took that image with me. That evening, you came by the farm dressed in a blue blouse and dark jeans, and your hair was finally down, and you told me your parents had said I was at the graduation, and I told you of course I was. You told me you had set your heart on a university already, in a city so, so far from home, so far from me, and I smiled and bore it. Then you asked me if I would stay here, always, and I told you yes, I would stay here, always. It's what my family does, after all. We sat in the front-yard and watched the stars and talked, quietly. I knew you were going to leave, I had always known, and yet it hurt. It would hurt me as much to watch you go as it had hurt Grandma to watch my unknown uncle go, it already hurt so much I could cry, but I didn't, I wouldn't, not as long as you were still here, and as long as I could take after you were gone. The street-lights turned off and we sat under just the starry sky when I said I didn't want you to go and you said you didn't want to leave me. I asked you if you would ever get married and you said yes, and you asked me the same, and I said no, and my heart cracked. A few months later, you were getting ready to move to the far away city you had told me about, and my heart grew heavier and heavier. The day you left, we stood in front of your father's car together, the moving-van had already driven off earlier. You told me to come visit you sometime, but both of us knew that wouldn't happen. The way was too far, and the farm too big. I told you I loved you, but you didn't understand, because you said it back. We hugged, and you cried, the tears still wet on your cheeks when you got into the car and your father started to drive. I stood there for a long time and only headed home when the air began to cool. I laid down in the front-yard and watched the sun set, my heart burning as though someone was putting their cigarette out on it, and my eyes watering from me refusing to blink and miss a moment of the sunset. I didn't see you for years. We talked on the phone every week, sometimes even twice, but it wasn't enough, never enough for my burning heart. When we were twenty-six, you told me you would be getting married. You had found a job in the city you went to university in, and you had found a man, and you were going to marry him and live in that cursed city with him and maybe have children with him and raise a family. Meanwhile, I would be on the farm with Uncle and his wife, raising calves and chicks and piglets. You asked me if I would come to your wedding, and I said I couldn't. I couldn't make the trip, and I wouldn't be able to bear seeing you in that white dress. Some time later I asked you if you would wear your hair up or down, and you said up, and with a sour taste on my tongue, I thought of course. When we were twenty-eight, you had your first baby, and when we were thirty-one, you had your second. You send me pictures and I didn't know what to do with them. When we were thirty-five, Uncle died. I inherited the farm and hired some more help, and I held my aunt's hand at the funeral. I told you over the phone and you cried, and I could hear your husband consoling you. You said you would have come down for the funeral, and I didn't know what to say to that. A week later, you pulled up in front of the farm and came rushing up the front steps to hug me, crush my heart between our chests and cling to me. I clung right back. We went inside and looked through old photos, and you told me stories about your children and your husband, and I told you that last year, one of the cows had triplets, and that was the big talk of the village for a good couple months. We had even gotten a proper party out of it. After you got back in your car, I didn't see you for a long time. Longer than before, a whole lifetime for some. When we were fifty-three, your children were grown and your husband had left. You didn't really tell me why, but I also didn't need to know. I was mucking out the stables when the wooden door squeaked open and you came in. I leaned on my pitch-fork and stared, the sun behind you catching on silver streaks in your dark hair, open around your shoulders. You were old, but not as old as me. That evening, we ended up in the front-yard with a couple of beers each, and you asked me why I never married. I said I had told you long ago, so long, the day you had left to never come back. »You mean when you said you loved me?« you say. »Yes,« I say. You don't say anything for a long time. »I always loved you,« you say, finally. I stare up at the dark, brightly dotted sky, and take a sip of beer. »I don't think it matters now.« »It could,« you say, insistent. I turn to look at you, the orange street-light painting valleys across your face, but my eyes water, so I close them. »Fine,« I say, »then stay.« Your hand covers mine, and I screw my eyes shut tighter, to keep the wetness from spilling. »I will,« you say, and hold my hand as my tears begin to fall.

I was told I shouldn’t go. Begged more like it. They told me he was crazy, that he was probably dangerous, but I still went. I had to know why he chose me. Three days ago, I received a letter from my grandfather, Layton Young. He requested me personally to come by his estate for a visit. The problem with that is no one had heard from him in over forty years. He secluded himself inside of his mansion and hadn’t left since, or so the stories say. I’d never met him, but that was about to change. I arrived at his estate the day after I received his letter. Besides the lights coming through his windows, the whole place looked abandoned. After knocking for several minutes to no avail, I let myself in. Following the main hallway, I reached two large oak doors. Peering inside, I jumped back at the sight. It was a large ballroom full of life sized puppets dangling from the ceiling. Dozens of them, all exquisitely made. Their swaying made them appear to be dancing: a marionette masquerade. As I searched for my grandfather, I saw more rooms full of these strange puppets. Each room was staged to show a different story: birth, loss, success, failure, happiness, and sadness. The farther I went, the more the puppets began to look damaged and the strings worn out, like they were constantly being used. “This way my boy,” a voice called out from down the hallway. Startled by the sound, I quickly turned to face it. At the very end of the hallway stood a door lit from the other side. Standing in the window was the silhouette of a man. “Come closer,” the shadow said. “It’s hard to see at my age.” He chuckled. “Grandpa?” I asked as I slowly walked towards the door. The shadow nodded, “It’s so good to finally meet you at last,” he replied. “What do you want with me? What’s with these puppets?” I asked skipping pleasantries, standing in front of the door. The faded glass made him hard to see. “My guests? They’re my memories, my story. I try to change them from time to time, but they always seem to return to the truth.” He moved to a desk near the back of the room and sat down. “Why did you ask me here?” I asked. “I needed someone to see them.” he replied grimly. I could hear him open a drawer. “I’m too old to care for them anymore.” I heard a click of a gun. “Grandpa?!” I screamed, trying to open the door. “Take care of them my boy. They’re your guests now.” I slammed myself into the door harder. “Please remember me,” he whispered. A loud gunshot boomed through the house. I finally broke the door down. To my surprise, behind the office desk was another puppet with a smoldering hole in its head. This puppet, however, didn’t have strings.

Whether she breathed in the water or not- it wouldn't matter. She only knew that she had to reach the firm land. A mountain called her. Radiating a power she wanted to touch. That was all. The being, beautiful to all, rose from the embrace of the waters. Water droplets ran down her naked sides. Magnificent. -------- She was beautiful. She knew that. Aphrodite, they call her. All of them hung on her every word, holding their breath and waiting for her to shine her smile upon them. The fools. She was older. She was made the moment a piece of heaven landed in the tremulous sea- quite literally. Uranus, the former god in charge was killed by his son (his blood and dismembered body hitting the sea)...it was almost romantic. The way destiny repeats itself. Over and over and over. She was made of seafoam and new beginnings, she was the oldest. Oldest and godliest among Zeus and his brothers...so why? Why is it that she was still there? Goddess of Sexual Love and Beauty. They think that giving her a title would keep her quiet? They were right. She was content watching others take charge of the serious aspects...but eventually being beautiful and loved lost its luster. There were times, now being one of them, where she was furious. With the world. Herself. Others. Everyone loved her because she's beautiful. But the mortal respected and revered Zeus because he was mighty. Some even loved him too. Aphrodite watched, envy burning in her eyes, as Zeus and Hera stood. Godly and burning with heavenly light. Just like them but mightier. She wanted to be respected. But no matter what...love was too infamous. Too messy to be anything short of disastrous or glorious. And even the love Aphrodite receives was never truly certain, For mortals sometimes glow brightly, brighter than gods even, before disappearing. A shooting star. And there were plenty of those. Myrrah- oh how Aphrodite loved when Hera shot her the disgusted look. And when others shrunk from her striding figure. Akhilleus- oh, Poseidon shot her a wide-eyed look before disappearing into the sea. It was such power, instilling fear within others. Knowing that others were wary of you. And...the most infamous of her acts- the one that would have been legendary if it wasn't spoiled so... Psyche. Oh, how they marveled that mortal beauty. It was fair...but it's hardly competitive. None of them were. But they, even if briefly, loved another. Others dared to think themselves worthy to be her match. Oh! The horror in their faces when they saw just how magnificent she was. Oh my, how they revered her power. How mortal groveled to get in her good graces. How even with fear in their faces they admired her. Psyche would have been the same. But Aphrodite let Eros do it for her... Aphrodite wanted to put the same fear in a god’s eyes. She let Eros do it, sure that stirring fear in a mortal was beneath her... And he ruined it. Instead, there were whispers of people outwitting her. Of Psyche becoming immortal. Which was terribly true. How she raged...the petals of intoxicating roses shook with her anger. And the gods steered clear of her... the mortals wrote more poems. To soothe anger they didn't know she had. Still... They loved her. Oh, yes they did. It infuriated her. Why won’t they fear her? Why is it that Zeus was feared more than her? Did she really have to be a brute like Artemis? Wasn’t her games enough? Instead of more acts of wrath, Aphrodite flaunted her power. Seducing many. Wrapping many around her perfectly slim finger. But of course, that display was to be reproached. Hera, who couldn’t stand to see others happier and freer than herself. (Aphrodite pitied the queen almost as much as she envied her. Almost.) Zeus sent Aphrodite, the most gorgeous and greatest, to be married to the recluse Hephaestus. She reared with anger. Hephaestus was not who she loved. He was plain and meek. She wanted the power and blood and salt of loving another. The passion of loving Ares. Why shouldn't it be Ares? Her arguments were dismissed easily- the way only a king could dismiss her. A godly king with power. Oh, how, she wanted that power. And Ares gave it to her. No- he fought her for it. Hepahsutus treated her with gloves but Ares treated her with force. Kissing her so hard her lips broke and his did too. So, that they may taste the ichor of each other's existence. Ares looked at her like she was sin personified. With reverence and fear. Unsure of what she’d do next. It was a drug. Her drug. In all her years, more than even Zues or Hades or Poseidon. No one has ever watched her with fear. No one that mattered anyway. No Olympian that inspired fear ever feared her. But he did. She longed for it. So much. But just as soon as she grew more dependent on the taste of their ichor, sweat, and words combined she was shamed for it. Closing her eyes she remembered the day, Hephaestus looked at her. She searched his expression, it was cold yet fiery still. He nodded at her, his gaze on the door, “I will be gone. Do not expect me to be back until overmorrow.” Excitement sparked in her veins. “Very well. Enjoy your trip.” The god, who so very rarely smiled, smiled then. It was cold and not the least bit lovely. Hardly any of his smiles were. But this one was dark and hungry. “Oh, I will.” Aphrodite sat there, staring at her own reflection. Not quite sure what to do. Should she call another? Ares? Should she visit the mortal realm? Interfere once more...? It was curious. How the mortals had such limited time. Always something they wanted to accomplish before they burned out. Before their string of life was shorn. Here, with all the time in the world and he hasn't done anything. A knock sounded. The door opened. She lifted her head from its perch on her hands. Was it Hephaestus? Did he forget something? And they say he's intelligent- oh, Aphrodite felt her smile grow, “Ares. To what do I owe this pleasure?” “More pleasure, of course.” Ares strode forward, crushing her soft body to his. Aphrodite leaned into the touch, razor-sharp and coated with danger. He pulled her into the bedroom. Already accustomed to where and how she likes their love. Their consumption. Their intimacy. Stumbling they didn’t notice the glint of gold on the covers. Until they were both in the sheets. Aphrodite untying her garments while helping him out of his. Until a sudden ring sounded and the corners pulled up. Drawing them together, half nude, and trapped. Then came the gods. Hera and Zues. (Hera had a bitter expression on her face and Zues looked offended- before they both laughed. Taking delight in their embarrassment.) Hephaestus (who wasn’t quite happy and not quite sad, his thundery expression still allowing proud laughter). Apollo and Artemis (hands intertwined as they leaned on each other, bonding over the amusement of seeing the god of war and goddess of love struggle in their binds). Smaller lesser gods. She cannot remember their faces- but how she wished she focused on them. Aphrodite couldn’t get valuable revenge on the Olympians but she could on the lesser ones. She could regain her respect that way. Alas... Zeus made it rule that she and Ares were to separate. But it was too late. She was addicted to the taste of danger and war. Of blood and ichor. The feel of blades and anger. And from their love came a god. Eros. The god of romantic love. Her sweet little god. Hera admonished Aphrodite. Telling her off for hurting Hephaestus. The same son the goddess that threw him off a cliff for being lame and deformed. Aphrodite didn’t mention this. After all, Hera was a queen and Aphrodite was not. But as she shared a bed with her husband who could no longer look at her with any mellowness she wondered... Did Hephaestus really love her? Mortals expected Aphrodite to understand love. She did not. She was the goddess of sexual love. She understands the brief awe of loving a mortal. And the exquisite power of loving danger. But she did not understand or know love. Not the way others seemed to. Was love the way Persephone ran to the dark? The way Zues always returned to Hera? Was love really that good and terrible? What about the way she loved the beautiful Nerites? Who refused her company? The same sea-god she turned to shellfish. Tilting her head back she studied the stars. Still clear and bright. She found the constellations she is looking for; Big bear, little bear. An affair- lives ruined by Zues... turned to monsters. Killed terribly. Haunted by loss before being immortalized across the sky. She probably knew about the incident. The Queen was probably looking at the stars herself, reminded that the husband who always returned to her never stayed. She was fine like this. She was thriving like this. She did not need love. Nor to know it or understand it. But, how she would have loved the power. Of being a Queen. Of being feared. Of having mortals wince with fear every time the slightest slander reached their ears. Power couldn't be negated. She watched as a shooting star streaked across the sky. If she were Queen- she’d have power. Power.

I love my tin snail. 29 horsepower, full length roll back sunroof, four gears, fun suspension. She may date back to 1971 but the front inboard mounted brakes are the same technology used in formula one cars. I have to say, I feel more like a rally driver as I throw her round the corners. Speaking of corners, there’s a guy with his thumb up at the bend, heading out of Talby. I’d love the company, I wonder if he’ll accept a lift from a 2CV? Some consider these old Citroens unsafe but, with their built-in crumple zones, almost vertical steering shaft, and practically no blind spots, they measure up pretty well to more modern vehicles. Only one way to find out if he shares my enthusiasm. I apply those formula one brakes and pull in to the verge just past the hitch hiker. He runs up alongside my flipped-open passenger window in his hi top Converse All Stars. He can’t be much younger than me but he’s somehow getting away with skinny jeans. I’ve never liked them on guys, but each to their own. I'm sure people don't expect a 2CV driver to be wearing a well-pressed trouser suit and stilettos either. ‘Hi! Thanks for stopping. Where are you headed?’ His ponytail, about the same length as mine, catches the wind as he ducks to talk to me. ‘Pandel Lakes. On your way?’ ‘Perfect! I’m going to Anacant.’ ‘Ah, You’re on My way! Get in. Sling your rucksack in the back.’ ‘Cool, thanks. I’m Danny. Danny Grant.’ ‘Hi Danny.’ I smile. ‘I’m a Danny too, Danny Roke. Danielle, but only my mother calls me that. Nice to meet you.’ He deposits his bag in the back and slams the door before climbing into the front. I wait while he sorts his seatbelt and then we’re off. ‘So what takes you to Anacant?’ ‘Adventure I suppose. I’ve got friends there planning a party at a cabin, but the public transport is terrible up that way and I had to sell my car last month.’ His face falls a little. ‘What kind of car was it?’ ‘A grey 1971 VW beetle.’ ‘A man after my own heart! Can’t beat the classics.’ I tap my steering wheel. ‘Got just over six grand for it. Much needed cash but I’ll miss that car.’ Danny rubs his chin. ‘Tell me about your Citroen. I’ve always wanted to try one of these gear sticks. Maybe you can talk me through it?' ‘She’s 1971 as well. I’ve had a few problems with rust but she’s in good nick at the moment, aren’t you Red?’ I pat the dash board a couple of times. ‘Red? That’s original.’ Danny has a charming and infectious laugh. ‘Yeah, but it’s not just because of her colour. Red was my favourite Fraggle when I was a kid. Do you have any favourite TV characters from back in the day?’ ‘I was more into cartoons than puppets. I quite liked He Man and that tiger he rode...’ ‘Battlecat!’ we both say in unison and giggle. ‘Yeah, I quite fancied taming wild animals and going on adventures with them. There was something attractive about a magic sword too, and leading a secret double life.’ ‘You'd have had to run around in a silver breastplate and red furry knickers though.’ ‘I think you have paid altogether too much attention to cartoon underwear!’ Danny sniggers. ‘Does it still count as underwear if it’s all you’ve got on?’ ‘Good question.’ There are rabbits on the grass at the side of the road. They seem unperturbed by the country traffic and continue to graze as we pass them. We’re soon entering the woods. Huge pines and firs on either side block out much of the sun and substantially cool the air. ‘So what takes you to the lakes?’ Danny asks. ‘Family history. I’m going to find my great aunt before she kicks the bucket.’ ‘Find her? Was she lost?’ ‘Sort of. A rift in the family before I was born meant that I never met her. Dad told me about her on his death bed and made me promise to make amends. She never had kids and she’s been isolated from us. Then her husband died, so she's basically on her own. It’s a shame to leave things that way.’ ‘Does she know you’re coming?’ ‘Yes, but she may assume I’m a boy. We exchanged a few letters and I just signed them “Danny”. It didn’t occur to me until this morning that she may be surprised when I show up. In her car!’ ‘Her car?’ ‘Apparently so. She loaned it to my grandad who loaned it to my uncle without her permission. That was the start of the feud. Things got out of hand. Just to spite her my uncle left it to my mother in his will, my mother kept it and that was the final straw. By the time I was born Aunt Lucy was never spoken of. I’m sure my grandad had his reasons but really it doesn’t sound like it was her fault.’ ‘And I thought my family were weird.’ ‘Yeah. My mum gave the car to me without ever telling me where it came from. She was furious when my dad spilled the beans. But he died two days later so what could she do?’ ‘Does your mum know you’re going?’ ‘No. You’re the first person I've told. I figured I’d get to know Aunt Lucy a bit, then try to reintroduce them before anyone else dies.’ I let out a long, slow breath. ‘I figure returning the car is step one in mending the family.’ ‘And she lives up at Pandel Lakes? If she can afford one of those mansions she might not want a 1971 Citroen. No offense meant.’ Danny pulls down the passenger sun visor, even though we are still in the tree shadow. He uses the mirror to check on his bag. ‘None taken. I assumed the same thing, but it’s the thought that counts. Maybe the car has sentimental value.’ ‘Maybe, perhaps she’ll reward you.’ ‘All I want is to get her and my mum back together and not have Aunt Lucy die alone. She can leave her fortunes to the RSPCA for all I care. It sounds like she might too, she’s got nine cats!’ ‘Nine cats! I hope you’re not allergic?’ ‘Fortunately not. I’m just glad it’s not dogs. I can’t stand dogs. Terrifying.’ ‘Did she say much else in her letters? Do you know what to expect when you meet her?’ ‘Well, her late husband invested in a few inventions and companies that did remarkably well after the war. Not least of all Velcro. He was a shrewd businessman and Lucy listened to him when he warned her that her family would only take advantage of their good fortune. I’m hoping I can prove him wrong.’ ‘And it starts with returning the car?’ ‘Exactly.’ We both fall silent as we come out of the cool shade and back into the blazing sun. The tall dark trees are replaced by open fields of corn and rapeseed, green and yellow as far as I can see. My nose starts to stream from the pollen. ‘Could you pass me the tissues from the glove shelf?’ Danny reaches out and finds a pack of Handy Andies. He removes two and hands them to me. ‘That’s something I have in common with her.' I wipe my nose. 'She gets terrible hay fever too. I was going to bring her flowers, but I’ll opt for chocolate instead. I’ll stop in Anacant when I drop you off and see if I can find some. Apparently she likes ginger.’ ‘There’s a really nice chocolate shop in the arcade. I can show you if you like?’ ‘That would be great.’ I shift down into third as we come to a winding hill. ‘So, about that gear box? Does it take a lot of getting used to?’ ‘Not really, it’s pretty easy when you have a bit of practise.’ I talk him through the gear positions and show him as I change up and down them. It's good to find someone interested in the car, usually people take the Mick a bit. After all, the design brief was literally to build an "umbrella on wheels". ‘So, who is it you’re visiting in Anacant? Old school friends?’ ‘Uni mates. We get together once a year at Joe’s cabin and get plastered. There’s more beer than gear in my pack.’ Danny laughs. ‘But an annual blow out is fine. And this year it’s everyone’s 40ths.’ ‘Ah, wives and kids invited?’ ‘Nope. Just the lads, no girls allowed. And we’re big enough kids without having a group of actual toddlers running around.’ ‘Makes sense. I guess no one based near Talby? No one to pick you up?’ ‘Nah, everyone spread far and wide after graduation. I promised them I'd get there. I'm really grateful you stopped.’ ‘No problem. Maybe I can pick you up on the way back too? I'll hire a car in Anacant if Aunt Lucy keeps the flying dustbin.’ ‘That’s very kind. When are you heading back through?’ ‘Probably Sunday night but I’ll see how it goes. I’m booked into a hotel at the lake for the whole weekend, but fully prepared to leave early if I'm not well received.’ ‘Which hotel? Have you gone budget with the Owl or luxury with the Cross Keys?’ ‘Oh, you know it?’ ‘Yeah, we stayed at the Owl a few times before Joe bought the cabin. Did some fishing, hiking. It’s nice up there, but there’s more night life in the town.’ ‘I’ve actually taken the middle ground and gone for the Green Room B&B. It’s closer to Lucy’s place and she’s agreed to meet me in the café next door. I’m hoping she’ll recognise me. All I really said was that I have a long brown ponytail, and frankly that would describe you just as well!’ We see the first sign for Anacant. I’m almost sad to be close to dropping Danny off. It’s been so nice to chat and I have no idea how frosty a reception I might get at the lakes. The heavy stink of manure hits us from an adjacent field. ‘Phew! Closing the windows won’t help I’m afraid. Red is naturally well ventilated.’ Danny grins at me. ‘No problem. I'm used to farm aromas.’ I indicate left off the next roundabout in all its floral glory, and we’re there. Anacant. "Three times winner of Britain in Bloom" crows the sign. The copious amounts of hanging baskets and colourful borders clashing along the sleepy roadsides don’t scream party time for a bunch of uni mates. But it’s true, there are pubs, more night life than at the lakes. ‘So, where’s this chocolate shop and where should I drop you off?’ ‘You can drop me at the arcade, I’m happy to walk to rest of the way. Take the next left onto the high street and pull up outside the bank if you can.’ I manage to park two spaces down from Barclays. Sure enough there’s a little shopping arcade. ‘I’ll come with you, might pick something up from the off licence next door.’ We get out of the car and walk under the archway into the tiny shopping centre. The shops are closed down. Probably victims of the covid pandemic. ‘Is it still going to be open?’ ‘I don’t know, let’s find out, it’s right at the end.’ The passageway turns a corner between more closed shops. Such a shame that so many independent businesses have been lost. There’s a vape place, a deli, a sandwich shop, a jeweller, a key cutter, a couple of gifty looking places, all shut down. There’s no one around and we're out of sight of the high street. It’s eerily quiet. The passageway opens up into a little courtyard and there at the far side is the off licence "Paul's Wines" and the chocolate shop “Sweet Dreams”, very quaint. Both closed. ... Danny dropped a few blood-stained Handy Andy tissues into a litter bin before he emerged back onto Anacant High Street. Alone. He knew how backwards this little town was, he knew there was no CCTV in the Victorian arcade, or even on the High Street. It would be a while before anyone found anything amiss. He took the keys to the 2CV out of his pocket and hoped that the car wasn’t conspicuous enough for the locals to notice. Half of them drove old beetles and original minis anyway so it wasn’t all that out of place. He sat in the driver's seat with the clutch depressed for just long enough to try out the gear positions. It was true, they were quick to get used to. He drove up to Pandel Lakes, via a petrol station where he bought some cheap chocolate covered ginger. He checked in to the Green Room B&B as “Danny Roke”. After removing the luggage from the car boot and dropping it off with his own rucksack, he took a quick shower. Then he sat himself down, the only customer in the Lionhead Café next door. It was three lattes and a piece of chocolate cake before an elderly woman with a cardigan covered in cat hair let herself in. ‘Danny?’ she said, peering at him over her glasses. ‘Yes! Aunt Lucy?’ Danny stood up and offered her his hand. ‘You’re just how I imagined you!’ Lucy’s eyes lit up and she hugged him.

Andira looked on at the house from the road as she, and her brothers, always had done. It was mostly out of curiosity. None of her friends knew who lived in the house, nor had they ever seen him, yet it was always in pristine condition, there was a constant fresh stream of wood, lights were always on at night, and the garden was always well maintained. “C’mon,” Andira said to her siblings, “whoever lives there isn’t coming out, let’s go home.” After years of waiting, Andira knew she shouldn’t be disappointed. After all, why is now any different to any day before now? She still was though. Maybe it was just bad luck that they never saw whoever lived there, after all they only had a few hours each day before their parents expected them to be home. Maybe if she had waited just a few more minutes they would have seen whoever it was. Or maybe whoever it was didn’t want to be seen and was waiting for her and her brothers to leave, and if she walked back the way she came she’d catch a glimpse of him. The possibilities raced in her head of why she’d never seen the owner of the house, though she felt as if every possibility was equally, well, possible. “Who do you think it is?” Her little brother Rind asked. “I think it’s a ghost! He protects the house from people who want to take his stuff!” Her other little brother, Siloa replied with his expected glee. They were still little, Andira knew that, but it was still irritating for Rind to ask. “You ask that every time we come out here, Rind.” She said, “You already know what I’m going to-” Andira said, trying to sound as bored as possible in the hopes that Rind would stop asking “‘-Just some nobody.’” Siloa interrupted “But, if you think that, why do you take us out when mum says we shouldn’t be pestering him.” Andira was taken aback for a moment, not sure how to respond. “Because...” she stopped, trying to think of a reason, “...because you two are always asking me to!” Both of her brothers stopped and looked at her in confusion. “But-” “Let’s just go home.” Andira sighed. For what felt like the first time in years, her brothers didn’t talk to her for the entire walk home, instead quietly whispering among themselves. This left Andira to think to herself for the remainder of the walk, though like whenever she thought to herself she never could come up with any good answers for her questions. When the trio got home, her brothers rushed to their room as they always did. Andira was instead greeted by her mother, preparing to give her the same lecture he’d always give her. “What are you doing out so late spying on someone?!” Her mother barked at her. “When you were as old as your brothers, it was okay for you to not understand why this was wrong. BUT NOW?!” “Yes, I know mum, I know.” Andira said “I don’t think you do.” Her father said, walking into the dining room. “Go check on the other two, I’ll give her the talk for once.” Hugging each other, her mother nodded and left the room down the hallway. “What are you doing going out and spying on Utari? You know you shouldn’t.” He sternly said “Yes dad I know I shouldn’t but-” “But what?” “I don’t know why I shouldn’t. You and mum just tell me that he’s bad news but you’ve never told me why we shouldn’t.” Her father paused for a moment, looking down, “Fine, I suppose you’re old enough to know who he is.” The energy Andira had lost on the walk home immediately came back to her. “Really?!” She joyfully said, nearly throwing herself onto a chair to listen. “Utari was... well, he was an emperor of Hiradil.” “What.” Andira’s jaw dropped. In all her life, all the theories she had crafted, she never expected him to be an emperor! Living in the same town as her! Thoughts raced through her mind and she felt an excitement not felt in a long time. Her father chuckled, “I knew you’d have that reaction.” “What- did he abdicate? Was he overthrown?” “It’s... complicated. He tried to conquer the world.” “WHAT!” Andira immediately felt the urge to leap out of her seat and go back to wait there until he came out, she urged herself to stay as still as she could. “Uh- uhm- how did- what happened to him?” “He lost.” “Well, duh, but why’s he here?” Her father again paused, “...nowhere else would let him stay.” he somberly said. “People wanted his head across most of the planet, we were one of the few places that forgave him. We gave him a house and he’s lived here ever since.” “How long ago was this?” “I was your age.” A long silence was followed. “Can I... Can I go see him?” “You really are just like me when I was your age.” her father laughed. “You’re going to go out either way aren’t you?” “...Yeah.” Andira smirked. “Fine. But on the condition you don’t bring your brothers. Go out in the morning before your work on the farm, you’ll probably see him around then.” The next few hours were a blur, immediately after she’d eaten, Andira was getting as much sleep as she could, hoping to wake up as early as possible to go out and find him. To nearly take over the world? What kind of man was he to be able to do that? Clearly he had to be strong, tall, he had to be covered in jewels, maybe he still even had his old crown. Hell, maybe he was fully clad in his shining golden armour. Or maybe it was dark. She’d never left her village let alone been to Hiradil, maybe Hiradil was a group of zombies and he was a lich king, and that’s why everyone wanted to kill him. She’d only seen a lich once and it nearly killed her, so maybe he wanted to kill everything. She made sure she woke up as early as possible. Making sure no-one in the house was asleep, she quietly crept out her house, then began sprinting across town to see him. Once she got there, she had a realisation. If he was hiding from her and her brothers, maybe she wouldn’t be able to see him if she was just waiting outside. Luckily for her, there were bushes around his garden, so she decided she’d hide in them. Once she got there, she leapt into one of the bushes and waited for him. She was expecting to wait all morning, however she could hear the back door opening after only what felt like a few minutes. She wasn’t sure if it’d actually been a few minutes, or if the excitement made it only feel like a few minutes. She could hear the back door of the house open, and so she moved back there. As quietly - and quickly - as possible. As she moved around the back, she could hear the sounds of someone chopping wood. It was a near thundering sound, and the images in her head of a great and powerful figure only grew. When she got to the backyard, she only grew confused. All she saw was a normal old man, struggling to pull an axe out of a tree stump. He looked up to see her, seeing her confused and shocked face. The old man simply took the wood he cut and went back inside.

Tom and Gabby were drunk, swaying back and forth into one another as the train car bounced along the rails to the stadium. They made a handsome couple. Gabby was lithe and graceful, usually that is, with a slim build beneath long, blonde hair. Tom was tall and spry, and while he wasn’t particularly stocky, his muscles pushed outward on all sides of his t-shirt. Together they looked like they belonged on the cover of Getting Married, if there was ever such a thing. The train was old and thoroughly worn out, as evidenced by the flickering lights and the faint smell of vomit that permeated the air. Just standing in the car was enough to give one the sensation of grime that slithered onto the skin from all angles. Oblivious to this was Gabby. She was bubbly and radiant, decked out in all red, the color of the home team they were on their way to see. As the train car sputtered and shimmied, protesting loudly with metallic groans, she abruptly grabbed hold of the front of Tom’s shirt and kissed him. Before she pulled away, she whispered in his ear. “Can’t wait to see the show, Gingerbread Man.” It had long been a joke between them. The old children’s rhyme from their youths, repeated endlessly by caregivers and movies alike, elicited in them the childish glee of flight mixed with the almost universal love between a child and a well-baked cookie. It frequently entered the banter of their weekend mornings together. With the sun’s light sharply streaking through the breaks in the curtains, Gabby could often be seen coming in from the living room and jumping on the bed, fully naked, to holler ‘You can’t catch ME!’ Somehow, Tom always did. At this moment, however, they were in Athens. A long and winding road had led them there, from the Eiffel Tower in Paris to the uproarious party of Oktoberfest, down through Italy, and then finally, across the Ionian Sea to Greece. This was the final stop on their vacation and they had planned it well. After two weeks on the smaller, lesser-known islands of the archipelago, Tom had booked an apartment in the city center of the ancient capital, where they had seen everything there was to see, eating and drinking as much as they could stand along the way. There were three days left before the couple headed home, so they decided to end their trip with a bang by going to see the biggest soccer team in Greece play its rival. With a disarrayed symphony of squeaks, the train came to a stop outside the stadium. Thousands of the Olympiacos faithful streamed toward the massive structure of the stadium, all swathed in the same red colors as Gabby. Tom felt somewhat out of place in his black tearaway pants and cheap gray hoodie but he put the thought out of his mind. The couple entered the fray and headed straight for the concession stands. No alcohol was allowed in the actual stadium itself, presumably to stop fighting and rioting, so Tom had to console himself by guzzling cheap beer as fast as possible before the game started. Gabby watched him with a bemused smile. He chugged away, belching frequently, which elicited small giggles of delight from his girlfriend. When he couldn’t take anymore, he tossed the can he was holding behind him and tottered backward toward a nearby railing. Gabby grabbed his arm then, directing them through the press of people entering Karaiskakis Stadium. As a small miracle, the pair somehow made it past the alcohol monitors and security, then to their seats. These had been chosen carefully. Tom had wanted to be ‘part of the show,’ as he had put it, which meant sitting in the most raucous section of fans, and right near the field to boot. He had gotten exactly what he wished for. It was ten minutes to kick off and the noise was deafening. The stadium was packed to the brim with wildly cheering people. Confetti flew upwards from seats all around them, some of the small pieces of paper catching on the humid air currents and lifting upwards towards the partially domed roof. Vuvuzelas blared their merry and triumphant tones. People of all ages screamed in Greek, waving their arms and jumping up and down while they did so. Both Tom and Gabby enthusiastically joined in. But they were waiting for something more than just the bellowing of the crowd. There was a ritual... The players were on the field now, set up in their respective rows, with the referee pointing here and there. From their close-up seats, Tom could make out the individual faces of the players. He watched as their bright smiles dampened, rapidly transitioning to the stern fierceness of competition. The noise had somehow grown even greater, almost overpowering any other sense one could have. The reverberations were so strong that Tom could feel them in his clenched teeth. And then, just as the first second of play began, their section popped the flares. It is an old tradition that is popular around the world. A section of fans will pop road flares in a carefully laid out pattern that either spells out a word, a letter, or some kind of pattern. In this case, it was an ‘O’ for Olympiacos. But that didn’t matter to Tom. What was relevant to him was that now there was a ton of smoke, all of it concentrating to form a cohesive screen, through which anything might appear. And today, ‘anything’ meant The Gingerbread Man. Only a minute of the game had been played and Tom was already heading down the handful of steps that it took to get to the field. He briefly looked over his shoulder to see Gabby, smiling from ear to ear, with her phone out, no doubt recording the action. But then she was gone, blurred by the thick smoke wafting in all directions. He could feel the pulse of the crowd. At some point, he bumped against someone rising from their seat but resolutely kept moving downward. When he got to the rail he didn’t hesitate. Tom didn’t care one bit about soccer, or futbol, or whatever it was they called this silly sport. You couldn’t even tackle anyone, for Pete’s sake. No, what Tom cared about was making sure that everyone in the stadium was going to see his ass, especially Gabby. And he was going to show it for as long as he could. Maybe forever, really, because they could run as fast as they could, but they’d never catch him. As soon as Tom hit the turf he ripped off his sweatshirt, tore off his breakaway pants, and started to run. A lot of people will never truly run . Sure, we go for jogs, we sprint after our dogs on the beach, and maybe even some lighthearted chasing with our kids in the backyard. But there is a great difference between those lighthearted runs and running for what feels like your life. When you are being chased, hounded by someone who intends to tackle you in the rudest way possible, there is the adrenaline of The Hunt. You are the prey and you have to outpace and outdistance your opponent. In that state, you are capable of speed and endurance you didn’t think was possible. Tom burst through the wisps of smoke that made it to the field and reached top speed as he crossed into the field of play. It took the players a few moments to realize that there was a fool streaking naked across the field, but when they did, the man who had the ball at his feet kicked it straight toward Tom. In an amazing display of the abilities of these professional athletes, the ball came very close to pegging him right in the side of his head as he crossed in flight. Some of the players laughed, some scowled. The crowd noise hadn’t abated one bit. It was impossible to tell whether people were cheering or jeering him, but Tom assumed the former. The first security guard came from in front of him and slightly to the right. Luckily, security was easy to spot because of the bright yellow jackets they wore. This man’s running days were well behind him, maybe they had never been at all, as evidenced by his flopping arms and bouncing gut. He had exhausted himself simply getting to Tom and his winded attempt to grab the streaker’s arm met nothing but air. Tom took a hard left, jab stepped, then cut even harder left, almost back in the direction he had come. He could feel his breath, ragged but hearty, alongside his wildly pumping heart. He ran. As he passed, a player from the opposing team reached out his foot daintily, trying to trip the naked interloper. But Tom saw it coming and leapt high into the air without breaking stride. He could see security all around him now, yellow jackets buzzing in, all of their arms flailing, trying to grab him. He zigged, then zagged, cutting through the maze of attacking guards, much to the delight of the crowd. There was an impressive sense of focus that permeated him, possible only because of how many eyes were on him. There must be at least thirty thousand people around him. He looked up at the stands and tried... As if he had been hit by a bus, Tom’s body went from rapid motion in a vertical stance to complete stillness on the horizontal plane. It took just under three seconds. His head hit the turf and bounced once, twice, then rested roughly on the plastic turf. The pressing weight was unbearable, as at least two security guards were putting their entire weight on top of him. He felt himself being abruptly and unceremoniously tugged upwards, then dragged toward the sidelines. The noise became oppressive again, with screams of joy and derision cascading down around him along with the last wisps of smoke from the faded flares. And with that, Tom looked up one more time to see Gabby, still seated, laughing uproariously. Her blonde hair tussled with the wind, leaving her face a bright spot in the sea of red. The entire section was laughing, thrusting their phones towards him. A few others were commenting to Gabby, although she wasn’t listening. Her phone was still up in the air, definitely recording the action. He wanted to wave to her but that was impossible with the hands clutching his arms. Instead, he smiled. It occurred to him that something momentous had occurred. Someone had, indeed, caught the Gingerbread Man.

I hate airports. It’s all too much--the enormous lines, the crush of people, and the tangible stress of schedules hanging in the balance. Nevertheless, I make every effort to see my parents since that is the one thing I truly love. Today is no different, except for the uncomfortable tug in my chest as I approach security. "Please remove any metal items," the security officer's voice cuts through the noise. I bite my lip, hesitating as my hand reaches for my wrist. The bracelet, L'œil de Sainte Lucie , has been my constant companion for over five years. I rarely remove it. Originating from Corsica, legend has it that it is more than just a piece of jewelry--it is protection, guarding me against the misfortunes of the world. Whenever I removed it in the past, something bad always happened. But this is airport security. I don’t have a choice. Reluctantly, I unclasp it, running my fingertips over the smooth shell before putting it into the gray basket along with my phone and suitcase. I pass through the scanner, glancing nervously back at the basket. After gathering my things, I reach inside for the bracelet, only to find nothing there. I feel my heart sink to my stomach. I look once more, rummaging in the basket. "No, no, no," I mutter under my breath, lifting each item in a frantic search. My bracelet is gone. I turn to face the security officer. "Excuse me," I murmur in a tense voice. "Did you see a bracelet? It was in this tray." The officer gives me a sidelong glance. "Everything that came through should be in your basket." "Well, it’s not." My voice has a hint of panic. "It's a little bracelet with a silver clasp and a white shell. I just put it in here." The cop, clearly used to stressed-out travelers, sighs. "It could have been misplaced if it's not in the tray. Check the lost and found area." "But--" I swallow hard, trying to maintain my composure. "It was right here. Can’t you check the cameras or ask someone if they saw it?" "Ma'am, there’s a line behind you. If it turns up, we'll let you know. You can check with the information desk in the meantime." The officer motions for me to move along. For a moment, I wanted to argue some more, but I had little option given the growing line of passengers behind me. I move to the side, my heart pounding in my chest. Where could it have gone? Did someone take it? My gut twists at the thought. I look around, my eyes darting from passenger to passenger, wondering if someone had taken my bracelet. *** By the time I reach the counter, my nerves are shot. “Please tell me you’ve found a bracelet,” I say, clutching the edge of the desk. “It’s a white shell bracelet with a silver clasp. It’s very important.” The woman behind the counter glances at a stack of lost items and slowly shakes her head. “Sorry, nothing like that has come through today.” My heart sinks. I thank the woman and turn away, gripping my suitcase tightly. My head throbs with worry. Without that bracelet, I feel exposed and vulnerable. And even though it's only been a few hours, it feels like a lifetime. This is the longest I've gone without wearing my bracelet. The gaping hole in my arm seems like an obtrusive emptiness, a continual reminder that my protection is gone. Time crawls agonizingly, with each minute seeming to stretch into days. My mind races, thinking of all the horrible things that may happen while I'm without it. Paranoia swirls through my head as I walk away from the counter. What if someone took it? What if the security officer pocketed it when I wasn’t looking? Or maybe the person who passed through security just before me? I'm unable to let it go. It didn't make sense for the bracelet to just vanish into thin air. My gaze lands on a man with a large jacket pocket near the seating area. Could he have it? I march over, my voice trembling but determined. “Excuse me,” I say, trying to sound calm. “Did you happen to see a bracelet in security? A small white shell bracelet with a silver clasp?” The man blinks at me, startled by my sudden approach. “Uh, no? I didn’t see anything like that.” I narrow my eyes. “Are you sure? It was right there, and now it’s gone. You passed through security right before me, didn’t you?” The man shifts uncomfortably, glancing around as if looking for an escape. “Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t take your bracelet.” “Can I check your pocket, then?” I blurt out, my suspicion outweighing my manners. “If you’re innocent, you won’t mind proving it.” His face reddens, and he takes a step back, clearly offended. “I don’t have to prove anything to you. What’s your problem anyway? You think you can just accuse anyone?” “I’m not accusing,” I snap, though I can hear the desperation in my voice. “I just need to know. That bracelet is important to me, and it’s gone, and you were right there--” He raises his hands defensively. “Look, I didn’t take your bracelet, okay? Back off before I call security.” He brushes past me, leaving me standing there and feeling a growing sense of embarrassment. I take a deep breath, but my suspicion only grows. I spot another woman, a young mother struggling to keep her child calm. Maybe she took it when I wasn’t paying attention. “Excuse me,” I say, my voice tense. “I know this might sound strange, but did you happen to pick up a bracelet by mistake in the security line?” The woman looks up, flustered and already stressed with her crying child. “No, I haven’t. I’m sorry. I have my hands full here.” Her tone is sharp, irritated by the accusation. I press on, my voice desperate. “Please, just check. It’s really important, and I’m sure I had it before I went through security.” Her eyes flash with irritation. “Do you seriously think I’d steal your bracelet while I’m trying to handle my child? You think I have time for that?” “I’m not saying you stole it,” I stammer, taken aback by her anger. “I just... Maybe it got mixed up with your things. Can you at least check?” She glares at me, the baby crying louder in her arms. “I said no! I don’t have your bracelet, and I don’t appreciate being accused. Now, please, leave me alone!” I mumble an apology, retreating as heat flushes my cheeks. Now I'm just making a fool of myself. But my mind refuses to stop racing and obsessing about the possibility that someone has stolen my precious bracelet. Frustration clouds my judgment, and my rage begins to boil over. I start glancing around, eyeing everyone like a potential thief, my stress escalating. *** On my way to a café to get some water after running around for so long, I am nearly knocked over by a rushing passenger. I stumble, catching myself just in time but twisting my ankle in the process. "Ow!" I gasp, leaning on a nearby table. "This can’t be real..." Determined not to give in to superstition, I limp to the café. Just as I reach the counter, another passenger crashes into me, spilling a large cup of iced coffee all over my shirt. "Are you kidding me?" I groan, wiping futilely at the dark stain spreading across my chest. The man apologizes repeatedly, but it does nothing to quell my growing frustration. I find a bathroom and attempt to clean myself up, but my shirt is ruined. With a heavy sigh, I lean against the sink and look into the mirror. My hair is a mess, my ankle hurts, and my clothes are covered in coffee stains--all because I lost my bracelet. No, because someone has stolen it. I narrow my eyes as I think about the security officer who had been watching me closely. I can’t shake the feeling that he had taken it. Perhaps he was pocketing items from distracted passengers. Fueled by suspicion, I limp back to security and find the officer who checked my basket. "I need to speak to someone about my bracelet," I demand. The officer raises an eyebrow. "Ma'am, we've already checked. If it’s gone, there’s nothing we can do. Please, take it up with lost and found." I open my mouth to argue but stop short when a hand lands firmly on my shoulder. I turn around to find a stern officer staring down at me. "Miss, we've received complaints that you've been bothering other passengers," he says, "I'm going to have to ask you to come with me." My heart sinks. "But my bracelet--" "Let's discuss it in a more appropriate setting," he interrupts, directing me to a small office off to the side. The room is cramped, with white walls and a single desk overflowing with paperwork. As we enter, a second officer, most likely the police chief, sits behind the desk, looking displeased. "What's the issue here?" he asks, glancing at me with a raised eyebrow. "My bracelet is missing," I say, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. "It must have been stolen. I've been trying to find it, but no one is helping me." The director leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "And that gives you the right to harass other passengers? Do you realize the trouble you're causing here?" "I'm not trying to cause trouble," I argue, feeling my frustration bubble over. "That bracelet is important to me. I know someone took it, and I can't just let it go." He sighs, clearly unimpressed with my reasoning. "Ma'am, I understand you're upset, but you can't go around accusing people without evidence. This is an airport, not a crime scene." My chest tightens as I realize how hopeless this situation has become. "Please, you have to help me. Just check with security one more time, or check the cameras--anything!" The director stares at me for a moment, then reaches for the phone on his desk. "Fine. I'll make one more call, but if they haven't found anything, that's it." He dials a number and speaks briefly with someone on the other end. My heart races as I listen, but the answer remains the same: nothing has been found. "Your flight is about to board," he says, hanging up the phone. "I suggest you head to your gate and stop bothering people, or we'll have to take further action." I nod numbly, feeling utterly defeated. "Thank you," I mutter before turning to leave. I can barely keep the tears from falling as I walk away, my feet dragging toward the gate. All hope feels lost--until, midway to the gate, I hear someone call out behind me. "Miss, wait!" I turn around to see another officer hurrying toward me, holding something small and shiny in his palm. "Is this what you were looking for?" he asks, holding out my bracelet. I gasp, relief coursing through my veins as I take it from him, my fingers trembling. "Yes! Oh, God, thank you! "Where did you find it?" "It had fallen behind the X-ray machine," he explains with a smile. "One of the maintenance crew found it while cleaning." Tears of relief prick my eyes as I fasten it back onto my wrist. "Thank you so much," I breathe, overwhelmed with gratitude. As I walk away, bracelet secure on my wrist, I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the day's events lift off my shoulders. Everything that had gone wrong seemed to vanish into the background. Maybe it was all a coincidence, or maybe the bracelet really did protect me. Either way, I have no intention of taking it off any time soon. I smile softly to myself as I make my way toward my gate. Whatever awaits me on the other side of my journey, I will be ready.

Please, don’t do it. Jenny thought as George bent down on one knee. She looked away. She couldn’t bear to experience the embarrassment of what was about to happen. How could it be happening? There were literally no signs leading up to this. Jenny thought to herself, okay, let’s see. I woke up, everything seemed fine. I slept fine. Except for the slight crick in my neck. No biggie. Okay...got dressed...wait. No, I didn’t get dressed first, I went to the bathroom, then contemplated taking a shower or not. I still had one more good day of hair which meant no need to wash it and I hardly broke a sweat yesterday so I can probably go today without a shower...okay, so no shower. Then, I got dressed, fed the cats and dog, made coffee, read for a bit, wrote some words...How did this happen? My day was going normal? Why would he do this? Jenny peeked toward George through the side of her eye. He hadn’t moved. Were there signs of this? He had been acting a bit strange the last few days but he’s always a little strange, so that can’t be it. We didn’t even have that type of relationship. I mean, we have sex and all of that but we don’t even talk about the future or marriage or kids or buying a house or living together for that matter. He’s allergic to all my animals so he never stays over. How can he ask me to marry him if he can’t even be around my animals? He doesn’t expect me to GIVE THEM ALL UP, DOES HE? That’s a total deal breaker. I mean, I wasn’t even wanting him to marry me but if he did ask...I would say no so fast if it meant giving up my...I can’t even think about it. But I am thinking about it. I can’t believe this is how my day is going. Why? Seriously, why me? I thought he had another girlfriend on the side? I think he does. Doesn’t he? What am I saying? Of course, he doesn’t have another girlfriend. Now, I’m just reaching. Of course, I’m reaching! What am I supposed to say here? How am I suppose to answer? I don’t want to embarrass him. He probably took a lot of time to plan. I haven’t even given him any reason to do it. I mean, I THOUGHT I was giving him reason NOT to for crying out loud. I’ve done all the things to be great girlfriend material not wife material. Let’s see, I don’t bug him when he’s with his friends. I do all the sexy stuff his married friends say their wives don’t do. I answer his booty calls, even if I have a deadline the next day. I hope he doesn’t think great girlfriend equates to great wife?! Think about it Jenny. You don’t like cleaning. I know! I mean, I do the basics because, you know, I’m not a total slob and the cat and dog hair is really annoying, but dusting? Forget it! You aren’t much of a cook; although, you do make killer cookies. So true! I practically exist on nachos! I should have been a baker. Should have opened that bakery five years ago when I had the chance. Can you imagine where our life would be if I had opened the bakery? Well, for one thing, I wouldn’t be standing here replaying my life while hoping my boyfriend doesn’t propose to me in front of strangers, that’s for sure. Or would I? I can imagine it all now. I’m carrying a fresh tray of my award-winning peanut butter and jelly cookie bars to the bakery counter when Jack enters. He’s tall with dark wavy hair and blue green eyes. He’s the chef from the restaurant next door. He’s come for the mini dessert pastries I make for his restaurant. Good morning Jenny, he says, good morning, I say back smiling. I set my tray down and the side of my hand touches his. It feels electric. We lock eyes over the counter. Jenny, he says, I’ve never noticed how green your eyes are. He gazes intently into my eyes. How beautiful you look in the morning with your hair a mess and flour on your cheek. I hope this doesn’t sound forward. I know we’ve never dated or spent any time together beyond me picking up the pastries you bake but I have this overwhelming urge to take you in my arms and never let go. Oh Jack!, I say, trying to keep myself from fainting behind the counter. Jack takes my hand and leads me around the counter to the front where he is, scoops me into his arms and says, Jenny, I love you. I’ve loved form the moment I first met you. I just didn’t realize it until now. Please, do me the honor of marrying me. I can’t go a moment longer without you in my life. Oh yes!, I say, completely caught up in the magic of it all. Oh yes! I will marry you Jack! Then he kisses me just like in the movies, all soft and yet passionate. Fireworks go off in my head and people who I didn’t notice come into the bakery clap and cheer for us. Wow, that’s cheesy. I had no idea until now just how cheesy I am deep down. I cannot be that girl. No. The cheesiest I get is how much actual cheese I use while making nachos at home. That fantasy is so Hallmark. Not me. No way. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. It just can’t be me. Can it? Have I wasted so much of my life pushing people away with my animals and being good girlfriend material so no one falls in love with me and asks me? Am I not wife material? If I was wife material, I don’t think I would want George as my husband. He spends way too much time with his friends and never invites me along. He’s allergic to my animals AND he never sleeps over. I think he may have commitment issues or... maybe there’s someone else?! Of course! To think of all the times, I got out of bed, got myself sexy, and drove over to his house at 3 am just because he called and said he was horny and wanted me to come over. Well, that’s changing today is all I can say. No more miss nice guy. I mean gal. Next time he calls me in the middle of the night, I’ll tell him that’s what his hand is for buddy! Yeah. I’m going to start respecting myself more. Maybe go to the gym and start cooking healthier. Who am I kidding? I’m not going to the gym and nachos have all the food groups... so, ha! I don’t need him. I’ve got my animals to keep me company. I have plenty of work to do to keep me busy. Pretty sure if I called one or two of my friends, they would pick up and we could totally hang out. I mean, I’m pretty sure they would pick up. Whatever. I can make new friends. Meet new people and learn new things. I like this idea. A new start. New friends. New adventures. Yes. That’s what I’m going to do. From now on. It’s going to be out with the old and in with the new! I feel so empowered! I like this! I’m so excited, I’m not sure what to do first? Now, regarding the old. How do I break this new liberation to George? I don’t want to hurt his feelings even though he obviously hasn’t been too careful about mine this whole time I realize. Whatever I say, it has to be quick before he says whatever he’s going to say or ask and painless so neither one of feels bad. It’s not you, it’s me? So cliché. I mean, it isn’t completely wrong. He’s just not the right one for me. I’m ready to be free to meet new people and explore new things and he wants something else. Right? I’ll say, George, there’s someone else. He’ll become upset, I’m sure, and ask who. I won’t be able to tell him because I don’t even know if Jack exists in real life so that may not work. I can still say there’s someone else and that someone is me. Yes, I’m going to date myself and get to know the real me. I’m going to find out what I need to do to open a bakery next to a restaurant so someday I can meet the handsome owner/chef, fall in love, and live happily ever after. I’m sure he’ll be surprised and probably hurt but he’ll get over it. He’s good looking and charming and gets a long well with others. I’m sure another girl will come along in no time. It’s really better we get this out of the way now. Think of the time we would waste messing around when he could be with the woman of his dreams? It’s better this way. I believe it now. Okay, here goes. “George, I think we should stop seeing each other.” Jenny said as she turned toward George and looked down. He wasn’t on his knee anymore. He wasn’t even there. Where did he go? What the heck was going on? When did he leave? Where the heck did he go and how could he leave her standing there alone like that? “Jenny!” She heard her name being called and turned around. There was George walking toward her with another man. A tall man with dark wavy hair. “Jenny! Look who I saw across the park when I bent down to tie my shoe? My friend from college. He just opened a restaurant around the corner and waved me over to tell me about it. I told him about your killer cookies and he said he would love to try them. His name is Jack.” Jack?! A restaurant? Around the corner? Keep it together Jenny. Don’t blow it. This is your future...“Nice to meet you Jack. I make the best peanut butter and jelly bars you’ll ever have in your entire life.”

Millie was 23 years old when she eloped with her boyfriend. Born in 1951, some seventy years back, in Lucknow the city of nawabs, and the most populated city of India. Having lost her mother during her birth, her father, an overtly honest administrative officer in the government, gave her the very best upbringing he could. She grew up running around in the football fields and cycling with neighbourhood boys scraping her knees and coming back home covered in dirt and stinkingly filthy. Girls her age were not allowed as much freedom as she was. She was plain lucky as her dad returned late from work, seldom paying attention as to how she spent her day. Slowly, her identity as a tomboy developed among the girls, who preferred to stay away from her. As she blossomed into a young woman, she became very vocal about her likes and dislikes in the neighbourhood functions and get-togethers. When the neighbourhood women rebuked her on her miserable sense of dressing up, she found it discriminatory and when they commented on her impolite manners, she found it oppressive. She would appeal to break the pathetic divide that society builds up around how a boy should be raised and a girl should be perceived. Clearly, she was demanding transformational change. Her disregard of the expected stereotypical female roles infuriated the neighbourhood women who labelled her as stubborn and opinionated. Therefore her running away was not a shocker to them, for them it had always been her way or highway, and as expected it was the highway she took, albeit with her boyfriend. The memories of that day are still so vivid and fresh with me. Early morning Milli gave a closed envelope to their part-time maid to hand over to her father, and she left the house with bags and a bit in haste. The maid, not ready to come back in the evening for her father, went and handed the envelope to the next-door neighbour after finishing her work in the house describing the events of the day. The nosey neighbour finding Millie‘s attitude a little uncool tore open the sealed envelope. The letter inside turned out to be an apology addressed to her dad on her decision to elope. The news travelled across houses in our neighbourhood like fire and by noon from young to old all were talking about it but who could break this news to her sixty-year-old flailing father was the question. Millie was the third born, with two elder brothers, yet the only family was her father. Her brother, seventeen years older than her had settled in the USA. He seldom visited home. Her next brother, thirteen years older than her, was always away. Either at another city for a new job interview or trying to keep up the old one. Both being unavailable, it was the maid who was found both close and available to do the task. It must have been around four in the evening when women hanging on to balconies and windows saw the father walk down the narrow lane to his house. The maid was quickly summoned and handed over the responsibility as per the earlier instructions of Millie, with just a slight change. He returns home, she shall meet him, hand the letter and not the envelope for he would see it had been torn open. The maid, now aware of the situation, obeyed as told and coyly went to the door of the house and rang the bell. The father by now was inside and was just about to shout out at Millie for his evening cup of tea, he did not know had eloped. Since she was a little girl, Millie had always been waiting for her father. Standing near the staircase every evening as he would enter the hallway after opening the entry door with his set of keys. The small two-floor house would echo his voice as he would call out” Warm up the tea for me Millie and bring it to the drawing-room...while I change quickly and be back there, get yours too, we will have it together.” The maid could hear the footsteps approaching the double shutter door as the man opened it. She handed the letter to him with her head bowed down. Without making eye contact, she quickly receded the same lane as fast as she could. The snoopy neighbours saw the door closing and took a sigh of relief. Everything happened as per their carefully detailed plan, till they heard a scream that sounded like a cry of wild abandonment. A few neighbours ran out of their house and knocked at his door but he did not open it. He was far from the voices outside. Inside as the first wave of grief passed over him he walked towards the drawing-room and sank heavily in his favourite armchair. The letter clenched tightly in his fist as he closed his eyes and scenes from the past became alive. It was the usual Thursday, and he was bending upon the dining table over the newspaper circling the matrimonial ad where the grooms-to-be and their families advertise under the wanted bride section. Saturday and Sunday would pass away in the numerous meetings he would arrange with these suitable suitors and Millie hated it. Monday they would have a heated argument, Millie would call it a display of herself and he a meeting of minds, but the worst part was no suitor ever said ''yes” for Milli. She was nowhere presentable in the marriage market where stubborn patriarchal traditions reigned, and her offensive style of dressing, her barely five feet tall frame, and her big mouth that never stopped her ideology to escape failed her always. How many Thursdays to Monday this repeated like a ritual he could not recall, 20,40,52 his memory was failing. All he recalled was Millie’s strong headedness “I won’t allow men to hush me” she would always say in her defence and then latest that was added last week was "``People claim to be open-minded but can't accept an educated woman, all they want is a doll to display with their drawing room furniture”. Millie herself had just finished a degree course in architecture in Lucknow itself and so the outburst. He felt exhausted, drained, and fatigued. The same way he always felt after those constant arguments. Those arguments increasingly made him insensitive towards his daughter's desires. His hands slumped to his side and the letter dropped from his hand, his thoughts knotted around his very neck a hangman knot barely allowing him to breathe, he gasped for air, and a delicious scent of rain hit his nostrils from an open window. With great effort, he opened his eyes and looked in that direction. He saw large patches of grey rain-laden clouds passing over the big white sky and heard the deafening sound of a thunderbolt. As he looked around he saw the newly rain-washed trees swaying. The sound of birds chirping in shrieking tones gave an orchestra kind of environment. High up a big bolt of lightning slashed across the sky, creating a narrow creek that quickly shaped into a deep dark ditch. A gust of whispering winds swayed above his head for a brief moment, he saw them shape into the big black hole of the society before being pulled into the ditch by a mysterious skyward force. The big black hole that had been sucking his daughter’s ideology, devouring all her joys and desires ferociously was completely gone. She was free. Free from the male-dominant society that labelled men and women with roles. Free from the system in which men have more power than women. Free from living the same system for days, weeks, and months. Free from the endless perusal of the right man. Winter, summers, and all seasons would be for her to enjoy. Many opportunities would lie ahead for her to seek. His heart began racing fast with the abundance of joy that he felt reverberating inside him. He felt incapable of holding so much joy and felt a strange tightening around his chest, he quickly breathed a silent prayer to live longer and witness it all. Elopement wasn't bad; it was the only way to throw the rule book away. Yes, that was it! Everything seemed clear. He was engulfed by a deep desire to hold her in his arms, to wash away the guilt, the shame, and the pain. To see her smile when he would tell her that dad would be by her side when she would stand against age-old society rules. It was time to celebrate and to rejoice. He tried to get up but his feet gave way and he felt the force of his falling on his back. His chest tightened further, his lips parted, his breathing became heavy, and he felt the blood draining from his very fingers. He tried moving them but they lay motionless, he tried moving his legs but they seem strapped to the ground, he tried moving his head up but it just felt like a ton of dead stone on his neck, it was his eyes that moved and he looked up. The storm had subsided, the air was clean and the sky was white. The formations, the creek, the ditch, the big black hole, all seemed to have disappeared as fast as they had appeared to him. Ultimately, every death is different - and you can’t predict who will get a better one. But this one for sure was peaceful. It is very much possible that the man experienced his most profound moment just before death embraced him when he finally conceded with his daughter's viewpoint.

“Mayaaaa, what on earth are you trying to do “yelled Shyam.” Press the brake damn it, the car is out of control, are you out of your mind, have you forgotten to drive, an ace racer is not able to drive a Cherokee. What is wrong with you, if you don’t put the brakes we will fall off the cliff. “Oh, just shut up Shyam, I’m not able to pull the car to a halt; there is something wrong with the brakes.” I cannot even shift the gears, Oh god, Shyam we are going to die”, yelled Maya. There was screeching sound and a rumble, the car dashed ahead and went topsy turvy and fell off the cliff with a bang. It rumbled down like a toy and with passengers yelling for help. The car banged onto the rocky mountain and there was a blast of fire. The car was burnt into ashes. “Maya, my sweet heart how long will you take to dress up, you are naturally beautiful , you don’t need any extra makeup, come its already late to the party” mumbled Sam. “Oh, Sam, stop annoying, I will be ready in a jiffy, and you know we girls need some time to look beautiful”. Sam, Maya’s dear husband was a simpleton but with an intellectual soul. He was very clever and intelligent and his creations were so fantabulous that he had made a mark in the field of science and technology. A scientist who had created the most intelligent robot which was capable of rebuilding its own replica, Robot which could clone itself and order the other clones to perform their functions. A perfect humanoid indeed. Today was the launch party of his humanoid and Maya and Sam were very excited. They reached the venue and they were given a red carpet welcome. Sam’s creation was an unbelievable miracle. A Robot which could perform almost all functions which a human could do. It was a creation which couldn’t have been just dreamt of. Sam’s 10 year hard work and intellectual mind was the output a perfect robot which could be considered a human by mistake. The whole venue was thronged by journalists, media persons, and business men and Sam’s friends were also present along with numerous scientists. They were overwhelmed by the creative skills of Sam. Sam was a perfect human and his creations were the same. He had only one weak point and that was Maya, his love life and loving wife. His friends unleashed their memories of their school and college days. “Hey Sam and Maya where is your another buddy, not to be seen, I do remember his name, yes he is Shyam, where is he now he should’ve been on the front in your launch party”, exclaimed a friend. Just then Maya intervened saying, “Oh, Shyam had some work and he is out of the country, he will be back in few days, he has wished us luck”. Maya, Sam and Shyam were best buddies from their childhood days. Sam an intellectual mastermind , Shyam was a perfect businessman material and Maya the beauty queen. All three were different in their attributes but together in friendship. Maya made her debut in the fashion world. Shyam did his MBA in a prestigious University and Sam one of the most creative scientist. The launch party was a super hit. The Humanoid created by Sam was so perfect that everybody admired the miracle. The humanoid was almost like a human it could walk , talk , and sit dress up speak like any normal human being. It was far more intelligent than humans. It could perform complex calculations in a jiffy. It was a perfect chef which could prepare any type of cuisine within few seconds. Everything was perfect . The businessmen who were gathered wanted to buy his product and they thronged around Sam to discuss with him. But Sam didn’t accept it. “I created him because I m passionate towards science and technology. My creation is not for money making, it’s because I love innovativeness hence a human form of a robot. He rejected the best offers and ,after all the noisy launch party both Maya and Sam were completely exhausted. They just forgot to put the robot in his cabin. He was not completely finished yet. There were minor discrepancies to be jotted out. The robot was truly a masterpiece. He reached his master’s house within a jiffy before Maya and Sam could reach home. Maya was exasperated by the speed of the robot. She was overwhelmed that she hugged the robot tight. The touch of a human made the robot tremble with anxiety. He was just a machine but he felt her touch. After that incident the robot had a complete transformation, he always wanted to get closer to Maya and this was an issue to worry about. Shyam had not returned for months together. His family members smelled something fishy about his missing. His missing complaint was registered and Sam and Maya were the first to be interrogated. As this was a high profile case ,Shyam was an aspiring business tycoon there was a strict investigation. The police couldn’t get much information from Maya and Sam. But the result of their investigations were truly shocking. Sam was busy in his research work and Maya as usual was getting dressed up for a fashion show of a famous designer who was also her best friend. The police barged in a knocked the door. “ Excuse us Mr. and Mrs Sam, I think it’s time you both accept your crime. You cannot hide your sins behind your fair skin.” Maya and Sam were shocked “ What on earth are you saying , cop.”.”What have we done” yelled Maya. “ Will you confess about your dear’s friend’s death, or should we use other methods to do so”. Maya broke down, she started crying. Sam spoke”, yes we confess that we killed our own friend , but he was eyeing on my beautiful Maya which was very annoying hence we planned a kill”.” Is that it or is there something hidden which the world should know”. Maya was still crying. Sam opened up saying “ No Sir, I wanted a perfect human trial for my robot and Shyam was my guinea pig”. “I had to finish him hence we planned a kill”. Maya took him to a long drive and acted as if the car was out of control , she jumped off the car before the car fell into the cliff. Shyam died on the spot, and we took his body for my research”. “ My creation is always exemplary, the humanoid robot is none other than Shyam” “Yes we know it”. Sam and Maya were shocked to hear,” “how do you know that the robot is Shyam himself”. The cop replied “ Yes your are a master creator, but you are a criminal too, the creation is a true master piece indeed , he approached me and so we are here” . Maya and Sam were shocked . There was robotic smile on Shyam’s face the humanoid. “Mayaaaa, what on earth are you trying to do “yelled Shyam.” Press the brake damn it, the car is out of control, are you out of your mind, have you forgotten to drive, an ace racer is not able to drive a Cherokee. What is wrong with you, if you don’t put the brakes we will fall off the cliff. “Oh, just shut up Shyam, I’m not able to pull the car to a halt; there is something wrong with the brakes.” I cannot even shift the gears, Oh god, Shyam we are going to die”, yelled Maya. There was screeching sound and a rumble, the car dashed ahead and went topsy turvy and fell off the cliff with a bang. It rumbled down like a toy and with passengers yelling for help. The car banged onto the rocky mountain and there was a blast of fire. The car was burnt into ashes. “Maya, my sweet heart how long will you take to dress up, you are naturally beautiful , you don’t need any extra makeup, come its already late to the party” mumbled Sam. “Oh, Sam, stop annoying, I will be ready in a jiffy, and you know we girls need some time to look beautiful”. Sam, Maya’s dear husband was a simpleton but with an intellectual soul. He was very clever and intelligent and his creations were so fantabulous that he had made a mark in the field of science and technology. A scientist who had created the most intelligent robot which was capable of rebuilding its own replica, Robot which could clone itself and order the other clones to perform their functions. A perfect humanoid indeed. Today was the launch party of his humanoid and Maya and Sam were very excited. They reached the venue and they were given a red carpet welcome. Sam’s creation was an unbelievable miracle. A Robot which could perform almost all functions which a human could do. It was a creation which couldn’t have been just dreamt of. Sam’s 10 year hard work and intellectual mind was the output a perfect robot which could be considered a human by mistake. The whole venue was thronged by journalists, media persons, and business men and Sam’s friends were also present along with numerous scientists. They were overwhelmed by the creative skills of Sam. Sam was a perfect human and his creations were the same. He had only one weak point and that was Maya, his love life and loving wife. His friends unleashed their memories of their school and college days. “Hey Sam and Maya where is your another buddy, not to be seen, I do remember his name, yes he is Shyam, where is he now he should’ve been on the front in your launch party”, exclaimed a friend. Just then Maya intervened saying, “Oh, Shyam had some work and he is out of the country, he will be back in few days, he has wished us luck”. Maya, Sam and Shyam were best buddies from their childhood days. Sam an intellectual mastermind , Shyam was a perfect businessman material and Maya the beauty queen. All three were different in their attributes but together in friendship. Maya made her debut in the fashion world. Shyam did his MBA in a prestigious University and Sam one of the most creative scientist. The launch party was a super hit. The Humanoid created by Sam was so perfect that everybody admired the miracle. The humanoid was almost like a human it could walk , talk , and sit dress up speak like any normal human being. It was far more intelligent than humans. It could perform complex calculations in a jiffy. It was a perfect chef which could prepare any type of cuisine within few seconds. Everything was perfect . The businessmen who were gathered wanted to buy his product and they thronged around Sam to discuss with him. But Sam didn’t accept it. “I created him because I m passionate towards science and technology. My creation is not for money making, it’s because I love innovativeness hence a human form of a robot. He rejected the best offers and ,after all the noisy launch party both Maya and Sam were completely exhausted. They just forgot to put the robot in his cabin. He was not completely finished yet. There were minor discrepancies to be jotted out. The robot was truly a masterpiece. He reached his master’s house within a jiffy before Maya and Sam could reach home. Maya was exasperated by the speed of the robot. She was overwhelmed that she hugged the robot tight. The touch of a human made the robot tremble with anxiety. He was just a machine but he felt her touch. After that incident the robot had a complete transformation, he always wanted to get closer to Maya and this was an issue to worry about. Shyam had not returned for months together. His family members smelled something fishy about his missing. His missing complaint was registered and Sam and Maya were the first to be interrogated. As this was a high profile case ,Shyam was an aspiring business tycoon there was a strict investigation. The police couldn’t get much information from Maya and Sam. But the result of their investigations were truly shocking. Sam was busy in his research work and Maya as usual was getting dressed up for a fashion show of a famous designer who was also her best friend. The police barged in a knocked the door. “ Excuse us Mr. and Mrs Sam, I think it’s time you both accept your crime. You cannot hide your sins behind your fair skin.” Maya and Sam were shocked “ What on earth are you saying , cop.”.”What have we done” yelled Maya. “ Will you confess about your dear’s friend’s death, or should we use other methods to do so”. Maya broke down, she started crying. Sam spoke”, yes we confess that we killed our own friend , but he was eyeing on my beautiful Maya which was very annoying hence we planned a kill”.” Is that it or is there something hidden which the world should know”. Maya was still crying. Sam opened up saying “ No Sir, I wanted a perfect human trial for my robot and Shyam was my guinea pig”. “I had to finish him hence we planned a kill”. Maya took him to a long drive and acted as if the car was out of control , she jumped off the car before the car fell into the cliff. Shyam died on the spot, and we took his body for my research”. “ My creation is always exemplary, the humanoid robot is none other than Shyam” “Yes we know it”. Sam and Maya were shocked to hear,” “how do you know that the robot is Shyam himself”. The cop replied “ Yes your are a master creator, but you are a criminal too, the creation is a true master piece indeed , he approached me and so we are here” . Maya and Sam were shocked . There was robotic smile on Shyam’s face, the humanoid.

# Happy Weekend, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday... ish! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # Genre Challenges Welcome to The Off Season, Part Deux, folks! For The Off Season, Part 2 we’re going to be embracing challenges: As an exercise in the name of fun and games shenanigans, we’re writing for an opposite of our usual genres this month. You *do not* have to use the exact phrase but as readers/listeners it should be clear that it’s incorporated in your story in some way. **YOUR ASSIGNED ELEMENTS:** / / *(You do not have to use these elements as they are used in the context of the gifs linked.)* \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *Just as a reminder for people who want to jump in on Part 2 who didn't join us for Part 1:* If you usually write about movers and shakers, maybe this time you’re writing about powerless by-standers. If you write about spies or subterfuge, maybe this time you’re writing about utopian idealism. If you write magic and battles, maybe it’s time for a procedural by-the-book operation. If you're usually all about murder investigations for you last time, try out romance or coming of age. Internal struggles of the heart? Consider political drama. If you usually pen serious stories, consider a comedy, like a tall tale or satire. There’s a boatload of genres and subgenres of fiction out there to explore and it can be a difficult decision to land on what someone “should” write as an opposite of their last genre, so take some time to go over a and think about what would be a challenge for *you.* **This challenge is open to anyone and everyone, not just those with a current serial. Jump right in, folks, the water is just fine!** **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 12/12, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, The Off-Season Part 1: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/adlaiking, with a story that pulled us into a world we’re hoping makes a comeback next week. We need MOAR! This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/BLT_WITH_RANCH, with a beautifully written tale of love and loss. With six submissions this past week and nearly a 4 way tie, it was hard to pick only 2 mentions this time around. Seriously just go read all the stories, they’re quick reads and so enjoyable to see some genres that these writers are exploring, some of them for the first time. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 850** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ 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 post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.

# 6. Maggie’s Revenge Herb Withers watched in horror as Jeremiah raised his hitherto unused pistol. The barrel was pointed right at Herb’s chest, and before there was any chance to react, a deafening thunderclap rocked him backward. He wondered for a brief, confusing moment if he had been struck by lightning, but the warm sensation flowing from his back said otherwise. Shock and confusion ran through him in waves as he tried to keep his balance on his horse. If he could just stay upright, maybe they could get him back to town and do something about it. Darkness surrounded the hill, closing in on all sides. He looked up at the ominous, bloated sky above him. “I just wanted to see that man hung.” Blood bubbled from his mouth as he said it, choking him and making the words barely audible. In a snap, any and all sensation was gone and he was floating midair next to his horse. Staring at him were two men, both with hangmen’s marks around their neck and one with a neat bullet hole in the middle of his head. “Where the hell am I?!” Otis, still in shock from the events unfolding, shrugged. “You’re dead, but I don’t know if that’s going to be a problem for long at the rate she’s going.” He pointed a finger toward Maggie who was already recovering from her run-in with the barrier and headed back toward the fray. The horsemen spun around wildly, drawing their guns. “What the hell have you done, Jeremiah?” asked Reggie, with more annoyance than anything. “I-I don’t know. It just--” Reggie cut off his explanation by shooting Jeremiah in the head. “NO!” shouted Jeremiah as he appeared midair. His hands stretched out, still trying to block the shot that had sent his body flying backward off his horse. The damp desert floor soaked up his blood greedily, happy for the extra moisture. “Jeremiah, you son of a bitch!” yelled Herb. “Why’d you go and shoot me like that for?!” “I-I don’t know what happened.” Jeremiah’s eyes were wide. “Am I dead?” Maggie streaked past them, trying to enjoy the newfound chaos in the spirit realm and pointed herself at Reggie’s right-hand lieutenant. He held a repeating rifle and had good positioning on the other two men. His name was Hugo, and Maggie shuddered at the idea of sharing a body with him even for a second. She swallowed her disgust and shot forward. Like before, there was the elastic pull and sudden disorientation. The first thing she noted was the sourness of Hugo’s breath and the soreness radiating from his lower back*.* Maggie counted herself lucky that she didn’t have to stay long. She raised the repeater, aiming for the man on Reggie’s left. Her first shot caught him in the shoulder, sending him spinning. He fell off his horse but wasn’t mortally wounded. Maggie spurred Hugo’s mount, riding over to finish the job, but a splintering pain took hold in her left arm. She hadn’t even heard the gunshot but knew it was Reggie that fired. Pain throbbed through the point of impact, just above Hugo’s elbow. Hot blood ran down his arm in a wave, coating his fingers in the sticky mortal substance. Maggie fought desperately to hold on to Hugo’s corporeal form and managed. She looked up and saw Reggie turned to the native man, still tied up on horseback. “Don’t go anywhere. Apparently, I’ve got some other business to attend to.” Rain fell heavy now, mixing with Hugo’s blood and running in small rivers down the hill. Lightning flashed, casting Reggie in shadows as he dismounted. The world spun around Maggie and her mind shook like an overworked muscle. Holding onto Hugo when he wasn’t dying was hard enough, but this was torture. She willed herself to stay and turned her head to look for Hugo’s pistol, lying on the ground a few feet away. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” Reggie had his pistol drawn, the black barrel a gaping maw. “You think that scares me?” It was strange to hear Hugo’s voice with her words. “Pull the trigger and be done with it.” Maggie wasn’t sure she had another possession in her, but she was sure as hell going to try. The edges of Hugo’s skin pushed at her like a thousand needles, trying desperately to shed the bodily invader. “I’m not done with you yet, Hugo*.*” She clenched his hands into fists, wincing at the pain in his left arm. “Now, the Hugo I know is a coward and would never try shit like this.” Reggie turned toward the Hangman’s Tree, then back to face her. “This is crazy, but I don’t see another solution. I’m not talking to Hugo, am I?” “You catch on quick.” Maggie spat blood. “You deserve everything you have coming.” Reggie cocked his head to the side. “Who is that in there? Someone we hung here before?” “Hard to keep track of the atrocities you’ve committed on this hill?” She crept her right fingers toward the gun. In a blinding flash, Reggie aimed his pistol and blew Hugo’s fingers off. Maggie cursed, screaming in pain. “Yeah, see, Hugo wouldn’t do a fool thing like that either. Sounds like I’m dealing with Maggie Brown.” Maggie made no effort to hide the pained smile she spread across Hugo’s face. “In the flesh, back for my revenge.” Reggie whistled. “Never thought I’d have to kill you twice, but today has already been quite the day. Reggie checked on the native man who still sat patiently on his horse. “Suppose you feel it’s wrong of us to be killing savages?” “Do you really need an answer to that?” “What was it I told you before? It’s just bad for business. That’s right, and it’s still true. I’m a man of dollars and cents, and these uncultured folk coming into our fine town aren’t good for my business, or the town for that matter.” Maggie felt control slipping away but pushed to hold on. The pistol was out of reach, but she didn’t want to give Reggie the satisfaction of winning again. The man deserved to die. Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie spied movement as the other man she had shot got slowly to his feet. “You alright over there, John?” asked Reggie. “Yeah, the pissant just winged me.” The man was wrapping a makeshift bandage around his shoulder. “Well, as it turns out, this pissant is none other than our good friend, Maggie Brown. You’ll remember her.” John walked over to get a better look. As he got closer, he stumbled and his eyes went wide. “You good?” asked Reggie, never letting the pistol barrel leave Maggie. John recovered, but Maggie could see the difference in his expression. “Yeah, think I’m just a little low on blood.” “Well, let’s finish our business quickly and get you back to town. We’ve lost enough good men to this bitch today.” Maggie smiled through the pain and blood. “Anything for you, Reggie.” “How sweet of you. Unfortunately, we’re in a bit of a hurry now, so I’m going to have to cut our little chit-chat short. I think I’ll send you back to where you belong. Any last words? Don’t think I gave you the chance last time.” John winked at her and dropped a hand to his pistol. Maggie smiled. “Yeah, payback is a bitch.” “Ain’t that the tru--” John raised his pistol and shot Reggie in the side of the head. The bullet passed clean through, sending a red spray into the growing wind. Reggie fell to his knees, mouth opening and closing slightly. In the same moment, John’s body shook violently, and his eyes were wide once more. “Oh god, what have I done? Reggie?!” Maggie didn’t wait for him to get his bearings she rolled to her pistol, picked it up with her good hand, and used the last of Hugo’s strength to fire it. The force of the pistol rocking back threatened to tear Hugo’s wounded arm off. Hot pain bloomed, but the shot hit. John dropped to the ground. Buzz saws ran down every inch of Hugo’s body, trying to forcibly cut Maggie out. The world blurred between the grey of the spirit realm and the churning darkness of a dying man’s last vision. Hugo was losing a lot of blood. Maggie took what remained of her resolve and stood. Waves of nausea and dizziness swept over her, but she stumbled toward the native man all the same. Each step was a marathon task. Hugo’s legs moved like they were dragging fifty-pound weights behind him. Maggie pulled a knife out of Hugo’s belt, wanting to cut the native man free, but dropped it through his bloody fingers. “Shit,” she muttered. It was hard to remember anything through the haze of agony that surrounded every movement. “Help us,” she managed in broken Shoshoni. “The dead are trapped.” The world went dark and a force shot Maggie from Hugo’s body. She caught a brief glimpse of the spirit world and the cavalcade of new arrivals. Then. she hit the barrier. Everything went white. # Epilogue Things were tense on Hangman’s Hill. With all the commotion, even the Dirt Nappers came up to see what was going on. As it turned out, letting bygones be bygones didn’t apply to the furious deceased faced with their murderer. Of course, no one could do anything to Reggie, but they sure tried. In the end, they settled on making his life a living hell, floating in a tight circle around him, wherever he went, the ghosts were a constant reminder of the sins he had committed in life. They took turns speaking to their deaths, repeating the stories to drive the man mad. Reggie never got so much as a moment’s rest. Otis and Adam sat on the edge of the commotion, wondering if anything would come out of their great experiment. The native man had been able to cut himself free, but whether from fear or self-preservation, rode off immediately. To say they felt disappointed was an understatement, and had it not been for the entertainment that was Reggie’s misery, they might have become Dirt Nappers themselves. “What do you think happened to her?” asked Adam one day as they watched white clouds passing by on the horizon. “She can’t be gone, right?” “I don’t think I know anything worthwhile about this place,” replied Otis. They had watched Maggie shoot out of Hugo with such force that it was impossible to discern her form. She had been a streak of light, careening toward the barrier. When she hit, her energy dissipated, and she wasn’t seen again. “Maybe she hit it so hard she got out.” Adam hoped it was true. “I hope so, too. Either way, we both saw the grin on her face when you possessed that man and shot Reggie in the head. I like to think that would have put her at peace no matter where she ended up.” Adam nodded. “I didn’t think I would, but I miss her.” “Me too, kid.” \ Weeks passed. The desert was implacable as always, but on the third week, a wind kicked up. Hoofbeats carried through the air as twenty riders appeared on the horizon. Every single soul that had been trapped on Hangman’s Hill came out to see who it was. At the lead of the riding party was the native man they had saved from certain death, and while Reggie and his men weren’t too happy about seeing him again, the rest of the group was elated. As the group approached, horses fanned out in all directions and men with bows and arrows stood sentinel along the edges of the hill. From the center of the pack, an old woman emerged, garbed in elaborate clothing decorated with beads and quills. Her hair hung in long braids that swayed in the wind as she approached the base of the hanging tree. She ran her hands over the carvings and muttered words to herself while the others looked away. Most stood outside the edge of the hill, instinctively knowing the boundary. It didn’t happen all at once. At first, there was a muted glow in the ground, like light reflecting off metal. The brightness grew, making its way to the sky. Otis felt warmth spreading through his ghostly limbs as the barrier above him dissipated. His spirit floated upward, not of his own accord, but he felt safety in the movement and didn’t fight it. He looked down and saw the other spirits experiencing something similar. Most were floating up toward the sky but several, like Reggie and his men, were earthbound. “What the hell is this?!” yelled Reggie. “As if Hell couldn’t get any worse.” His spirt grew dark until it was almost pitch black as a shadow. A pale horseman rode up from the edge of the hill, brandishing a shining scythe and approached those remaining on the ground. Otis looked away but heard the screams of terror from below. He focused his mind on the sensation surrounding his body and the overwhelming sense of safety he felt. In the distance, he saw Adam moving upwards as well. “All’s well that ends well then.” As he floated past the highest branch on Hangman’s Hill, he felt a familiar presence tugging at him. There were no words, but he knew the feeling of companionship and peace in the energy. “Rest well, Maggie.” Otis smiled and the world went white. # The End \ Thank you all for reading this story and for your kind words along the way.

Like a delicate melody, raindrops patter the windowpane, gently awakening me from my slumber. Day after day, year after year, the scorching and relentless sun makes its mark, causing my heart to brim with gratitude for the soothing presence of rain. Presented in its purest and most pristine form, I cannot think of anything else that possesses a beauty greater than the gentle rain in the early morning. Gradually regaining my senses, I feel the soft embrace of bed sheets envelope my body, with its caress evoking memories of the tender cradle of my mother’s arms from my younger days. To my surprise, the room reveals itself to be unfamiliar, a space distinct from my own. Details emerge with clarity, and an unshakable certainty settles within me--the ambiance of the room feels inexplicably different. Steadily, I ground myself onto the cold, wooden floor, feeling its chill beneath the soles of my bare feet. It is in that very instant of awareness that I comprehend, with utmost certainty, that this room is not my own. Leaving the room, I begin to walk down a narrow hallway decorated with framed images that seem to depict forgotten tales. Forgotten tales of an unknown people by my conscious awareness. I can feel myself being drawn in. Enthralled, I fixate my gaze upon them, witnessing the vibrant colours dance and the stories weaving together seamlessly. However, with each passing step down the hallway, the images gradually fade away, leaving me to question their existence within the realms of my imagination or the tangible world. Unaware of the hallway’s end, a table of four appears before me. It is adorned with steaming cups of coffee, a pot of simmering beans, and freshly baked biscuits, enticing me with their comforting aroma. I stand there in contemplation, feeling torn between the temptation to seek out the owner of this cabin and the desire to dig into some food. Assured in my belief that taking a single biscuit will go entirely unnoticed, a lingering concern whispers within me: What if, against all odds, I were to be caught in the act? I eventually make up my mind and discreetly tread upon the wooden floor towards the table, yet just as I come to a halt, my gaze instinctively catches a glimpse of someone materialising from the edge of my right eye’s peripheral vision. A young woman greets me, breaking the silence. “Good mornin’”, she says warmly. “Mornin’ ma’am”, I respond, turning to face her. With a gentle motion, she slides the chair backward and utters in a soft-spoken tone, “You can call me Jane. Come, have a seat and help yourself to some breakfast.” As I sink into the chair a sensation of soreness permeates my body. “Thank you, Jane. I reckon I owe you my thanks for takin’ me in.” “No need for thanks. We all need a helping hand from time to time. What’s your name, stranger?” Seated now, I settle myself and serve a portion of beans from the pot onto my plate, “They call me Sam. Just a wanderer tryin’ to find some peace”. “Well, Sam, you’ve found a safe haven here, at least for the time bein’. Trouble tends to follow folks around these parts". Out of nowhere, a rumble echoes from within my stomach, reminding me of my hunger. In a hurried frenzy, I tear apart fragments of the biscuit and hastily devour them. “Care to share how you ended up here?” “Well, Jane, I seem to have no recollection of how I arrived here, but I was caught up in a mess back in Silverton. Some folks didn’t take kindly to my presence and accused me of things I didn’t do. I was then chased for days, but I knew I had to keep moving if I wanted to survive. And here I am” I reply. “You’re safe here, Sam. No one will find you.” I feel my tense expression soften as I gaze at Jane with gratitude. Taking note of the pleasant weather, and filled with appreciation for her, I take the chance to seize the moment and suggest, “The weather is delightful today, isn’t it? After we finish our breakfast, would you be interested in taking a walk together?” “I’d love to accompany you, but I don’t have the time”. “No time for a walk, huh?” I respond, curiously peaked. Vexed by the unpredictable nature of my mind’s wanderings, I inwardly question what time is. Is it an illusory construct? And why do I have a philosophical inclination about everything, be it contemplating life and death, or even the nature of my reality? Unable to resist my curiosity, I embark to delve deeper, posing the question: “What is time, really?” Jane’s facial expression reflects bewilderment, yet she momentarily allows herself to be captivated by this philosophical discourse. She extends her hand - retrieves a plate from the table, and gives it to me, issuing the command, “Here, take this plate and drop it”. Perplexed, I respond “Nah. Why would I do that?” “Just do it” she retorts. Holding the plate tightly, I intentionally let it slip from my hands, watching as it falls to the floor. The room emits a sound of shattering, a disappointing symphony that hangs in the air. Within me, I feel profound remorse for my actions as I witness the broken pieces scattered around, succumbing to their final fate. Unable to undo the deed, I develop a partial understanding behind her insistence. “Now try to join the pieces back”, she suggests. “Why would you waste that plate?” I reply, feigning confusion. “To show you what time is! Now you will never be able to join them to the same configuration. Time exists, and this experience says so". I still seem to misunderstand the concept of time, but I acknowledge her preoccupied state, and I opt to respect her busyness. Effortlessly, I gather the scattered pieces of the broken plate, swiftly tidying up the area. And with the remnants safely disposed of, I make my way towards the front door, ready for my walk. EXT. PRAIRIE - DAY Before me, extends the wild prairie, its golden grasses swaying in harmony with the gentle breeze. On this Winter morning, the prairie is bare of natural winter snow, yet the prominence of rainfall has increased noticeably, lending a distinct change to the landscape. Standing in awe, I marvel at the vastness of the land and the sense of freedom that spreads through the air. Even the distant cry of a hawk exudes a sense of liberation as it echoes through the open sky, serving as a reminder of my innate right to be entitled to freedom, liberated from prejudice, hate, and all constraints. Although, in a world such as ours, freedom will always remain elusive. And peace forever remains a challenging endeavour. Even if I am at peace in this very moment, there will perpetually exist someone out there capable of shattering it all - just how ma and pa’s lives were. Ma and pa, like other people, did their best, to be good people. Just like all the other people - they were sometimes wrong, and sometimes weak, and sometimes had no good choices. But there are also the broken and crazy people who do things they think they need to do to be safe - but they are not bad people, they are just sick. In what had felt like ten minutes, I had, in truth, spent half the day immersed upon the land with a whirlwind of thoughts consuming my mind. Did I really just spend half the day intermittently staring off into space? The sun commences its descent, and I know it is time to bid a reluctant farewell to the untamed wilderness that had embraced me. While ascending the hill, the echoes of discontent reach my ears from afar, and the echoing of voices arguing and fighting reach my ears. Without hesitation, I hasten my pace to investigate the source of the commotion. Before me stands an aged and lifeless tree, its branches devoid of any signs of vitality. I opt to take cover behind it, carefully observing the unfolding scene. In the distance, it appears that a group of rugged outlaws enter the town. “Well, well, well, what have we here? Riches ripe for the takin’?” Worried glances are exchanged among the townspeople as they become aware of the imminent threat. Making their way down the street, the outlaws unleash chaos as they break into stores, plundering valuable supplies. Meanwhile, Jesse Maverick, a resolute and resourceful shopkeeper, takes charge, gathering supplies and arms himself with a shotgun. In the distance, I catch sight of Jane and the rest of the townsfolk gathering at the saloon, engaged in a serious conversation that carries an air of urgency. Among them stands an unfamiliar face, a man whose presence piques my curiosity. “Folks, we can’t let them run us out of town. That man we took in is a wanted man. I heard they want him, so handin’ him over are the only chances we’ve got.” says the man. The townsfolk nod in agreement, determination shining in their eyes. Although Jane, exchanges a worried glance “I won’t let you take him”. I feel relieved as I realise she has not sided with the townsfolk’s plan. “Oh c’mon Jane, where is he?” In all honesty, she replies, “I don’t know where he is”. Before they know it, the outlaws raid the stores, looting many of its valuable resources, leaving the town in shambles. “They took nearly everything, but we won’t let them break our spirit. We’ll rebuild. We’ll find a way", proclaims the man with unwavering determination. The townsfolk stand in silence, surveying the aftermath, their hearts burdened with sorrow. With the stolen goods in tow, the outlaws ride off towards my direction. Not today. I can’t let them find me. As the outlaws pass by, I take a cautious step forward, planning to make my escape. All of a sudden my foot catches on a hidden rock, causing me to stumble and lose my balance. (cursing under my breath) “Damn it!” The outlaws stop in their tracks and turn their attention towards me. "Well, well, what do we have here? Looks like we’ve got ourselves a little spy", says a man mockingly. I quickly scramble to my feet, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I respond in hopes that they leave me, “You’ve got the wrong idea. I’m just a lost traveler.” With a menacing tone the man replies, “Lost or not, you’re trespassing on our territory. And that comes with consequences.” With time slipping away I scan my surroundings, searching for a potential escape route. I have a faint memory of a narrow path that winds its way up a rocky hillside - perhaps I can make it there fast enough. With determination, I take off running towards the path, I push my body to its limits, sprinting up the treacherous path. My focus fixed on reaching its summit, I resist the urge to look back. The thought of the pursuing outlaws at my heels lingers, and with each step I push myself harder, praying that my pace outmatches their pursuit. At the top of the hillside, I catch my breath for a moment and glance back, only to see the outlaws below. Their progress is hindered by the resourceful storekeeper, Jesse, who valiantly distracts them, buying me precious time. I continue my desperate escape, disappearing into the rugged wilderness. I am so tired, so very tired. As I stumble, my legs betray me, refusing to carry my weight any longer. I look down only to see my foot bleeding heavily, and with a final gasp, I collapse to the ground in a motionless heap. INT. NATIVE AMERICAN ENCAMPMENT - NIGHT As I awake, a flickering fire illuminates the faces of people with strong, prominent facial features - different from my own. High cheekbones and chiseled jawlines, contributing to their striking appearance. The Natives? As I continue to lay, a young woman cleans my foot wounds with herbal remedies. “Your wounds will heal, young one. Our people have long possessed the knowledge of nature’s medicine.” says the young woman. I watch in awe as she moves with grace and skill, her healing techniques seeming almost magical. I express my profound gratitude to her, “Thank you. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t think I would have made it out alive”. Raising my gaze, the night sky is filled with stars, casting a gentle glow over the campfire. In the distance, voices beckon, “Come and join us.” The Natives are standing in a circle, extending an invitation for me to join their gathering. “We shall share our stories, young traveler, for they are intertwined with your own.” says the wise, old elder. The Natives begin to recount tales of their ancestors and the hardships they faced, including the displacement of their people from the land they held sacred. “It was a time of great loss, a chapter in history that cannot be undone". As I listen attentively, my heart heavy with a newfound understanding settles within me. The magnitude of the realisation strikes deep, as I come to terms with the fact that my own ancestors held responsibility for the suffering endured by this Native tribe. In that moment, a vivid memory flashes through my mind, causing me to pause and take a moment to reflect. The images that adorned the walls of Jane’s hallway suddenly come to life in my mind, revealing a startling resemblance between those unknown faces and the Natives I now find myself among. The wise, old elder interrupts my thoughts, solemnly declaring, “Magic exists within the world, young one. We will show you, but know that not all possess the ability to wield it.” In the midst of the crackling fire, a Native man stands, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames. With a sweeping motion, he draws the fiery energy into his control. The flames start to twist and shape, forming intricate patterns and symbols in the air. Within the flickering inferno, a single flame undergoes a stunning metamorphosis, transforming the flame into the formidable form of a fierce coyote. Yet, as he extends his hand, an aura of tranquil ambiance casts over the scene, and the once untamed creature yields to his touch. I am truly impressed by its mesmerising display. The wise elder’s voice resonates as he speaks, “That was only one of many arts, young one. It’s a shame that you lack spiritual connection. It is indeed a unique gift”. I watch with fascination and a hint of disappointment, a heavy sigh escapes my lips. I realise that these remarkable tricks are beyond my own capabilities. EXT. NATIVE AMERICAN ENCAMPMENT - DAY The tranquility of the morning is shattered by the arrival of the same outlaws, their menacing presence felt throughout the camp. An air of unease pervades as the question lingers: Could their arrival be motivated by their pursuit of me? “We must defend our home. Every able person must stand together.” says the wise elder. As I look at him, sensing his urgency and the call for collective defence, I take a step forward, and offer my support, saying, “I may not possess the same abilities as you, but I am willing to fight alongside you”. The Natives exchange surprised glances, grateful for my willingness to help. “You can join, young one, though your assistance will be of little avail”. The outlaws proceed to descend upon the camp, chaos erupting as arrows fly and weapons clash. The Natives unleash their skills, but their numbers are limited. Now is the time to tap into my true potential. I must do whatever I can to ensure the safety of the land. With a newfound sense of purpose, I channel the teachings and magic I witnessed. Quickly setting up a fire, my eyes blaze with unwavering focus. As the flames grow, I raise my arms, attempting to command the fire with calculated gestures. Yet, my efforts yield no results. Desperation sets in, but I muster the last ounce of hope and give it one final attempt. To my surprise, the previously serene flickers gradually metamorphose, morphing into the shape of a mighty bear, its form towering and intimidating. With another gesture, I direct the bear’s attention towards the outlaws. In a burst of primal energy, the fiery bear springs to life, charging towards the approaching outlaws. “He possesses the gifts of our people!” cries out a young Native woman. The outlaws stand frozen in disbelief as the fiery bear takes shape before their eyes. Filled with a mix of awe and fear, they launch futile attacks against the formidable creature, but their efforts have no effect. The outlaws, defeated and scattered, retreat. In the depths of my being, a profound revelation takes hold. Discovering a part of myself that was once lost, I now realise the deep connection coursing through my veins, their history, and their spirit. It dawns upon me that this newfound awareness may be the solace and harmony I have been searching for all along. I have found my peace.

Legend has it, Yumiko Nygune fought ten warriors at once and beat them all with the just one punch. She trained night and day waiting for another warrior to challenge her and one did. Her brother, Jungkook Nygune, jealous of her success and for being the most feared fighter in all of Korea, challenged her and as the rules say, one must leave Korea or accept the challenge, and so Yumiko had no choice but to fight her brother. The battle took place at an abandon warehouse and Yumiko’s only rule was that there was no audience; If her brother did not surrender after he is brought to his knees, she would have no choice but to kill him. So, the battle begins her weapon, swords and his, daggers. Jungkook was brought to his knees but just as she was afraid, he did not surrender. “Brother give up, it is the only way it can end” “There is another way Yumiko, kill me” Her slight hesitation gave Jungkook the upper hand and Yumiko was brought to her knees. “I give up brother, I surrender, I no longer want to fight you, so I give up” “No Yumiko, there will be no weakness in our family, tell mother I say hello” A tear slipped from Yumiko’s face as Jungkook ended the battle with his daggers in her chest. The new feared warrior walked out of the warehouse with his sisters’ body in his arm and people looked with grief, joy, anger, and confusion watching her body drip blood from where the daggers entered her body. “My sister is dead” “How could you do that to Yumiko, to your sister, you show no honor to your family’ What she did not know was that he had been planning and training for months to kill her. Jungkook was the new member in the Korean mafia gang or better known as “Kkangpae” and they have had Yumiko’s’ name on their hit list for years. She was too powerful, and she was the only one who could ever beat the members of Kkangpae, but not their leader Jimin Hangeul. Jimin promised Jungkook he would be a member of the gang if he could eliminate the threat, Yumiko. “If I just jump it will disappear, everything will disappear but if I stay what would I’d be staying for, who would I’d be staying for, and the answer is simple. Nothing and no one”. Being lonely in this lonely world is a dangerous thing to do. American girl, Baha Morgan ready to be a coward and jump off the bridge to her death, truly knows how lonely this world can get. No mother, probably no father, she’s practically an orphan and a damn lonely one. “Don’t do it, instead let me rebuild you” “Who said that, are you a ghost or something” Almost a ghost. Jungkook tossed Yumiko’s body over the bridge and into the ocean, but she did not die, instead she was floating to the bottom of the ocean when some miracle caused her to wake up. “Help me and I promise to rebuild you into a stronger, better version of yourself and not a coward who tries to jump off a bridge when things get hard” Baha gets downs to the rocks and see Yumiko and her blood all over the rock. “Take me to my temple, please” “I don’t even know what that means” “American are you, the accent gives it away, please do as I say” American girl Baha takes Yumiko to the temple and when she arrives, she sees it. A huge temple that has trees and grass and is a total trash house. “What is this some kind of hideout” “It is my temple, I let nature do what she must do, take me to the center of the pond and lay me down in it” As some may imagine, she floated in the air and a phoenix appeared and Yumiko was reborn. “How’d you do that, none of this makes sense”. “No, it doesn’t, but at least I saved you from becoming a coward for eternity” Yumiko’s wounds were suddenly healed, and she was more powerful than anyone could ever imagine. “Child sit. Let me tell you a little story”. Yumiko told Baha about everything. The battles with ex warriors and the battle with her brother. “Wait, your own brother killed you. Just like that. No remorse. No mercy. And he threw you over the bridge. Wow and I thought my life sucked”. “Child you see, where I come from, things are a little different. It’s not like America. Our rules are stricter and families, well they don’t mean anything here”. “But you cared for you brother otherwise you would’ve killed him”. “Maybe. But I also don’t want more blood on my hands than I already do”. Baha. American girl. Fragile and so small in Korea. “Child why are you here in Seoul, especially alone because that sort of thing can get you killed”. In Seoul, Americans are typically not welcomed, unless you make a name for yourself. “When I was thirteen, my mother died. They said it was a robbery gone wrong, but I was there, I know what I saw”. “What did you see”? “Korean men, six of them. I heard them yelling at my mother about money my father owed, and they questioned her about where he was, she didn’t. They beat her and then one of them, Jimin, killed my mother with his sword. Where I come from people that murder other people are supposed to go to prison, but they didn’t. Everybody just swept it under the rug and didn’t even try to get justice. The only reason I’m not dead is because they already got their pay by killing my mother. That’s why I’m here. To avenge her. But it’s been four years and I have gotten nowhere”. “Jimin Hangeul. Leader of the Kkangpae gang”. “You know my mother’s killer, so take me to him”. “Child, you have no experience going up against someone like him, he will kill you before you could even get close to his men”. “So, help me, if you’re such a great fighter train me. You could get revenge on your brother and I for my mother, please Yumiko, I will do whatever it takes”. “Well then, let’s begin” And so, they did. Yumiko trained Baha day and night. Baha learned all the styles Yumiko knew of fighting; Kung Fu, Muay Thai, Jujitsu, Karate, five months later and Baha felt unstoppable, and she was. “I’m ready. I’m ready to challenge Jimin and avenge my mother’s death”. “Physically maybe, mentally, are you? Are you prepared to fight to the death and die or have blood on your hands from the rest of your life Baha”? “I am challenging him and am prepared to have his blood on my hands”. Wondering the streets of Seoul, they both found where Kkangpae was gambling at. Jungkook surprised to see his sister and Jimin angry she was alive. “Is this some kind of game Jungkook, you plotted with her and faked the death” “No! You were dead, I made sure you were”. “You underrate me brother and that was your mistake”. “I challenge Jimin to a battle, time and place now and here”. They all laughed except Yumiko and her American girl. “Very well, first I will end this child’s life and then Yumiko I will end you and you Jimin for not finishing the job. Your move”. Surprised Baha lasted this long, Jungkook shows remorse and what seems to be regret for what he did to his sister. Now there is a bigger crowd than before waiting to see the death of Baha. \ “Wait a minute, I remember you. American family. I killed your mother. Are you trying to avenger her? Ha. You will see her soon”. Three hours in and Baha seems as if she is the one who will be dying. Jimin knocks her down and is given his sword. “You will die at the same sword your mother did”. Baha stopped the sword from entering her body. “No. You do not get the honor of killing me, but I will get the honor of killing you”. She kicked him off her and knocked him down with the same move Yumiko finished her opponents with, the death punch. Jimin lost his hearing for a split second and Baha knocked him down. Yumiko tossed her a sword. “Rot in hell you son of a bitch” Jimin Hangeul dead at the hand of a twenty-year-old American girl. Five months passed by. Baha and Yumiko are the most respected not just in Seoul, but in Korea. Yumiko took American girl Baha under her wing and continued to train her until her last breath.

Austin Drexler lay still for a moment as his body began to slowly wake up. Above him, he could see biological data being displayed on the cover of his pod. He blinked and continued waiting patiently, feeling somewhat tired, relaxed and calm at the same time. The waking up process after a "Break" was always usually fairly slow and not rushed at all. This was Austin's fifth Break, so none of this was new, however, this time, he had bought a Diamond XII-tier Break package. He had bought this extremely expensive package - his first - and the contractual period of his Break was stated as being 307 years, 9 months and 29 days. This was his longer Break and he had been completely suspended and frozen for the entire time. He continued waiting patiently, as the nanobots and automated systems continued to do their work. The protracted waking up phase involved a lot of complex procedures and advanced technology and currently, nanobots had been rapidly repairing his cells and brain and blood vessels. An hour and twelve minutes later, Austin was now frowning. His voice had returned, so he tried to speak carefully and slowly. "Uh...is everything okay? I understand this Break was longer than the last, but this has taken eight times longer than last time. I have also not received a customary welcome message and update..." Austin was met with silence. His pod hummed and biological data continued streaming on the screen of his pod. He slowly wiggled his fingers and toes; his restraints had still not been loosened and his entire pod was still opaque. It was his longest Break yet, so it may have had a slightly different process, but the android adviser at Wildling Extended had not informed him of this. "Zeus, may I get an update, please?" Austin attempted to summon the popular VI assistant, but there was no response. He was now fully lucid and could move his toes and fingers, so he knew the waking up phase had been completed, yet his restraints had not been loosened and his pod hadn't opened or become transparent. "This is Austin Drexler, Customer ID 742A81. I demand to know what is going on! I didn't pay four million credits just to be ignored! Is there some sort of problem?!" Silence. Austin shook his head. *No, no, this isn't right. Something is definitely wrong. The systems aren't responding and I'm still in here. Something's fucking wrong,* he thought. He attempted to struggle against the restraints around his arms, legs and neck, but even his enhanced bones and enhanced muscles couldn't make them budge. Something was clearly wrong. Humanity had reached a point where things like political upheaval or unexpected cataclysms were mostly unheard of. Frankly, he was in one of the most secure locations in human-occupied space. He'd never heard of anything bizarre occuring within the last 3,500 years - the length of time that had elapsed since his first Break. He lay still again for a moment and tried to consider what to do. As he lay there, contemplating the worst, the top of his pod suddenly came apart, as if removed by an invisible force and his restraints fell apart shortly after. Standing nearby was a creature of some sort, an extremely tall, slender humanoid, with shining silver skin and no eyes or nose or mouth or even ears. Its large hands were held up and its long bony fingers pointed upwards. "What the..." Austin gasped, catching sight of the humanoid creature - or robot - as he sat up. "Are you a new model or something? What...what has happened?" The extremely tall creature lowered its hands, but still remained facing towards his direction; Austin didn't know if it was staring at him or not; it had no eyes. Austin cleared his throat nervously and blinked; cybernetics were offline, so he couldn't identify what was standing before him. "Did...did you...uh...do that?" He motioned to the top of the pod and the restraints now lying on the ground The creature still remained facing towards him, standing completely still and motionless. Austin looked around and saw that he was stil in his private Break area; everything still looked the same as it did a few hundred years ago before he went to sleep - but had 307 years even passed? "Uh...my cybernetics are offline. I can't...is my Break over?" The creature still remained still and silent. *It could be a new model or something...* Austin thought. Suddenly, the creature held up both of its large hands and began to make circular motions. It then helds its hands, palms upwards, at waist height - its waist - and detailed holograms suddenly emerged from its large palms. More detailed holograms then began to emanate from all over its body. Sounds began to be emitted from all over the creature's body and Austin stared, wide-eyed, as this strange creature or robot began to communicate with him. *YOUR SPECIES HAS DIED.* Austin blinked and glared at the holograms silently. Holographic videos of people dropping dead, spacecraft crashing, cells dying and biological systems failing played out in front of him. *YOUR SPECIES DID EVERYTHING CORRECTLY.* Holographic videos showed dozens of mankind's planets teeming with cities and civilization, WorldStations floating in space, space habitats floating around stars, teleporters transporting cargo and people. *BUT A SINGULARITY EVENT OCCURRED.* The holographic videos suddenly changed to show what appeared to be cells rapidly dying and right down to the molecular and nanomolecular levels, structures breaking apart and bonds becoming nothing. *A MASS EXTINCTION EVENT INEXPLICABLY OCCURRED.* Holographic videos showed abandoned cities with billions of bodies now turned to *fossils* and remains and abandoned stations and moons and habitats and planets. *DESPITE ALL OF THE TECHNOLOGY, THIS SINGULARITY OCCURRED. IT COULD NOT BE AVOIDED; IT COULD NOT BE PREVENTED.* Austin frowned as the flow of information and what was being said - from everywhere at the same time - became a little overwhelming. Suddenly, the holographic videos flooded his mind, as if he was hit by a gust of wind. Suddenly, he was living what he had been shown; suddenly, he was there and everywhere at the same time, dying along with everyone and everything else; human bodies dying and breaking apart like grains of sand; robots failing and their bodies crumbling into nothing; entire cities withering away and entire space stations and habitats breaking apart into deep space. Suddenly he understood everything. Mankind had been attacked by an unknown entity, an unknown weapon, an unknown...*Singularity*. The Swarm had attacked everything that had ever been built at the nanomolecular level, right down to every last human and most technology and infrastructure. It was no normal Swarm, but something altogether anomalous, something altogether singular and devastating and it had stolen the most sacred thing in Austin's life: the struggle for immortality. But wait - how was he still alive? "I...shouldn't I be dead?" The extremely tall humanoid entity's body began to elongate and grow larger before him and suddenly Austin was completely illuminated; suddenly he knew where he was and what he was. Despite how advanced humans had become, since humble beginnings on Earth tens of thousands of years ago following on from the dawn of the atomic age and how far mankind had spread out to the stars, humans could have never achieved this. Austin knew where he was and what he was and he also knew what was standing in front of him. Austin Drexler, historian, traveler and pleasure-seeker, aged 4,072 years, had been uploaded, uploaded into another *Universe*, a Universe in a wild tapestry of Universes in a wild jungle of Multiverse; it was impossible, it could never occur, there was no way to travel between Universes, let alone communicate with another, especially forever-expanding ones...unless you were the Architect - or one of the Architects. A mouth suddenly formed on the faceless head of the entity and it curled into smile. Austin grinned back knowingly. 86,000 years on from the first detonation of a manmade atomic bomb on the First Planet, Earth, humans had met an Architect of a Multiverse, in a sea of ever-expanding Multiverses, teeming with ever-expanding Universes and somehow, mankind had survived and been saved, uploaded into another. But Austin knew it wasn't a "God" standing before him, because as the entity stood before him, it also talked *into* his mind and its many voices echoed through Austin's mind: *I, TOO, AM LOST AND TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF WHERE I AM AND WHAT I AM. AS FAR AS I HAVE COME, I STILL DO NOT KNOW WHERE WE ARE, WHAT WE ARE, OR EVEN WHAT WE ARE IN.

The girls looked at their waiter with wide eyes as he stared down at them with a kind smile. Both of his arms, face, and neck were covered in scars of many different shapes and sizes. Some of them were faded back into his natural skin color while others were pink and looked fresh. “Ah, sorry,” Devyn spoke up quickly when she realized that they had been staring at him for a little too long for him not to notice. She quickly kicked the other two to get the to stop causing them to hiss in pain quietly. They ordered their drinks, but Sana only order an entree causing the man to raise and eyebrow in amusement. “Starting slow, huh? I’ll be back with your orders soon.” He smiled before leaving the three and going back behind the bar to prepare the orders. “He looks like he’s the only one working,” Devyn pointed out with a sympathetic smile and Sana hummed in response without looking at him, not wanting to look towards the bar because of the man who was still watching her even though she was out of his line of sight. Sana was feeling anxious until their orders came out. She was eating the mozzarella sticks she had ordered and chatting to her friends when the feeling slowly left her and it was beginning to feel like a normal girls night out. That was until a bottle of beer was set in front her and she nearly choked on her food when she looked up at the person who set it there. “I think I owe fate a few drinks. Fanny seeing you here Dollface.” The man smirked widely showing his sharp teeth as he held his own drink in his hand while leaning against the booth casually. Sana was glaring daggers at him and scooted away from him while her friends were staring at the two with confusion. “Wish I could say the same.” “I noticed you didn’t order a drink, so I got one for you,” he said as Sana looked from the drink back into his red eyes. “I don’t want a drink from you,” she spat but he only chuckled. “I get why you think I’d do something like that, but that’s not me.” The man smoothed his black hair back. “You can even ask Demie,” he said nodding to the bartender when Sana gave him a skeptical look. Devyn and Rachel were inspecting the beer bottle before looking to Sana who was waiting for their opinion on the matter. “It’s not opened and it’s a free drink,” Devyn shrugged and Rachel nodded before Sana took the drink from them with a heavy sigh. Rolling her eyes she twisted the cap off and tossed it on the table. “Thanks.” “Are you the douche she was talking about who gave her his number?” Rachel asked obliviously causing the man’s smirk to turn into a crooked smile. “I’m touched Dollface. You talked about me to your friends.” He looked to Sana who’s cheeks heated up as she rested her chin on hand. “I wasn’t talking nice about you,” she admitted. “You shouldn’t be touched.” “I’m touched whenever anyone talks about me regardless.” He smiled genuinely. “What’s your name?” Rachel asked and the man looked to her. “Josh.” Devyn and Rachel introduced themselves before Josh looked back at Sana, their eyes connecting causing another shiver to run down her spine. “Mind if I sit with you? My drinking partner disappeared on me,” he asked but Rachel spoke up before Sana could answer. “Sure!” She smiled happily, swaying in her seat slightly as she was already tipsy on her martini causing Sana to give her a desperate look. Josh sat down next to Sana and looked at her with a smirk. “Now that we’re on a first name basis and I’m sitting beside you, how about we get to know each other better? Maybe you’ll come to hate me less, Dollface.” Sana rolled her eyes and looked away, “No way.” Devyn leaned in close to her sister while watching Josh begin to start a conversation with Sana who was still trying to not look at him. “This guy really has something for Sana even though she’s giving him the cold shoulder,” she told her sister behind her hand to which Rachel nodded in agreement before gasping loudly causing her sister to look at her with confusion. “It’s the guy! From the train!” Rachel whisper yelled at her sister, pointing her in the direction of the man causing Devyn’s stomach to drop in fear.

“I’ve had it. It’s time someone did something about this. And it looks like it’s up to me.” I had seen it happen once too often. There had to be a line drawn. “Yeah, so what are you going to do? Come on; you keep saying you’ll do something about it and never do. You just let it go every time.” My disheveled husband of forty-three years doesn’t even look at me as he says it. I roll my eyes, but not where he can see me. He would just laugh. And I’m unsure what I might do if he did that. What happened to that adorable long-haired hippie I fell in love with? I suppose it could have had something to do with what we were smoking then. I could use a doobie right now. Nope, got to keep my eye on the prize. Not a prize, a duty. Someone has to do it. Make a statement. Some of that good ole stubborn determination. My grandson thinks we’re all talk and don’t know what’s going on. We can see what’s going on. I have to wait until dark. Nothing in the light of day would do. I certainly didn’t want to go to jail for the evil that others do. It’s simply unforgivable that some people have no respect for others and would be so callous in their actions. I intend to do something about it. It’s time. Let’s draw the line. It’s becoming cloudy outside. That’s good; it will be dark sooner, dark enough, anyway. My once long-haired hippie, now bald, pot-bellied, muscles gone to shit husband, is asleep in his well-worn Lazy-boy. I can be out and done and back before he knows I’m gone. I’m not sure he would care. Over the past few decades, he has lost his attraction for making things right. Not me. Not this time. It’s time for a reckoning. It took forever for the street lights to come on; it’s dark enough now. Easing the truck down the driveway with lights off proved effortless. Only turning them on when I reached the main highway was simple. Okay, now I must think this through and not make any mistakes. I have my map with me. I suppose it is good that I’m a few more weeks from retirement. The job at the DMV has helped to make this plan much easier to accomplish. My list is on the seat beside me. A quick stop at the corner market, load up, and then I’m ready. Only four stops. There could be more later; I’ll take care of them when the time comes. Good old hubby never could understand the notes I made. The market isn’t crowded; the same street lights have been out for the past few months. It’s almost like the universe is telling me, ‘do it, do it, do it.’ Who am I to argue with the universe? The truck is full; I have all I need. Patting my front pocket, I assure myself, yes, I’m ready. And dammit, I’m gonna make a difference tonight! I feel almost happy. It’s so good to be doing something, even if it is against the law. I’ll be doing someone a load of good. Maybe a lot of someones. Who’s to know? It’s one of those things that you can never really tell what benefits there are; you just know that the detriments will apply to the bad, bad people. I understand, yes, I do, that there are levels of badness. A little bad, then a little bit badder, and then the baddest. These fall into the baddest, mainly because it’s the same bad people every time. They’re going to learn this time. Turning the radio on in the truck - thank god for Alexa - Bob Seger and his Silver Bullet Band are rocking out “Old Time Rock and Roll.” I relax as I make my way to my first stop. Lights are on inside, but it is noisy. There will be no tell-tell signs that I am here. The laughter and television will cover any sound. I almost hope there is an alarm, but no, there is not. Fifteen minutes later, I’m done. Oh yeah, I do want a picture. Taking out my phone, I make a few clicks. The next stop is tricky; there is no noise to cover my progress. I’ll come back to this one later, perhaps make it my last stop. The next two stops are as simple as the first. Typical jerks. Proclaiming ignorance of their evil deeds, going on about dinner and homework and television. The last one. Still quiet. Lights are on; my approach will be tricky. There is a garage, unlike the other three. Perhaps easier, maybe not. It needs to be done. My little town will not go the way of the bigger ones. I’ve heard about them. Tens of hundreds of them. The mayhem. Not here, no, not here. Just a few pics, and I’m done. I hear a car pulling into the driveway. Not good; if they open the garage door...I slide under the car just as the door begins to rise. Someone running, yelling for those inside the house. I slide out and run down the driveway, away from the yelling and outside lights. The truck is out of sight, around the next corner. I don’t breathe again until I’m driving home. Pulling off my stocking cap, I laugh. Oh, it felt good. And it will feel even better when I post those pictures for all the world to see. Once again, on the side of luck, I have a grandson who doesn’t know I was paying close attention when he demonstrated incognito postings. I might be old; I’m not dumb. Bald hippie husband stands at the open refrigerator door as I walk in, gulping milk from the carton. Great. No cereal for me tomorrow. “Where you been?” I took a chance. “Just brought the trash bin in from the road.” “Hmm. I’m headed up to bed; you coming?” He didn’t offer that he had been looking for me. He likely didn’t even know I had been gone. “I’ll be up in a few,” I replied. I had my laptop open on the table before I heard the water running from upstairs. He wouldn’t be back down. It only took me a few minutes to load the pictures and release them to the world. My next trip down the road would not encounter the same problems as before. I had eradicated those, as evidenced in the photos. Four cars, all four expensive cars. Dinged and dented, windshield broken, and the culprit which I had stolen - yes, stolen! - from the market, super-glued - with the super-duper kind (I checked it out) onto the hood of each car. A cart, well-used, rusting in various spots, wheels resting on the broken wipers and fancy hood ornaments, not removed easily, if at all. And a large sign on each one: PUT THE DAMN CART IN THE CART CORRAL, YOU DISRESPECTFUL IDIOT!

Moth came a-flying into the living room as the family lounged on the sofa after lunch. He had followed his natural homing instinct, and the garden door, left wide open, beckoned him inside. Mama was eating a generous slice of the sumptuous Christmas cake because it was the twelfth day of Christmas and ‘her true love’ had brought nothing else. The song was an annual recurrent betrayal of her romantic notions. Now there were two pretty women sitting on their high chairs leaning against the kitchen slab. One was Mama, her mouth full, checking out a new recipe, and the youngest daughter, rewriting her script, with an end that never surfaced. A whirring sound frequency in the air caught their ears at the very same second. Moth was circling over their heads like a drone. The peaceful domestic scene now transposed to a war zone, saw WOW (Women of War) gearing up to implement the weapons of moth destruction. They used screams of varying pitches, some high, some low. But not a note worth noting. Moth still flew overhead, whirring as if in mockery of their limited human endeavors. Then, with remarkable precision, it dove straight into the folds of Mama’s long skirt. “Ahhhhaaaaa...Out, you horrid creature,” screamed Mama. Time it was for some serious action plan. “Turn off TV,” Mama shouted to Papa. “Enough of hearing the mess the world's in. Its light is attracting them.” “Turn off all the lights.” Mama had elevated herself to Lady Gestapo giving orders now, where everybody had to fall in line. “Switch on the verandah lights. Let it follow the light outside.” It’s always good to follow the Light- of the world. Dolce was getting visibly excited. How do moths taste? He sniffed. All of a sudden, a piercing shriek from Mama almost shattered the glass door. Dolce jumped a foot high to her rescue. Her needs first before his own finer tastes, he knew without a shadow of doubt. Dolce had been sent to this good home on a special Comfort Mission from Rainbow Bridge as requested by the oldest son of this home. The young man had reached God’s side a little too soon, plunging the family into a deep sadness. He had loved his mama deeply and knew there was one thing that would ease her pain. A directive was passed onto the Leader of the Heavens from the son that his mama needed a special visible touch of comfort. And Poof! Dolce, the Havanese, arrived-the angel emissary dog. Moth had now ventured closer, landing right on Mama’s foot. Bark about impious audacity! The dog did a leap. It was a big one, not an ordinary inconsequential moth, you might say, being deceivers ever. The Papa sunk deeper into the cushions. “Wait I’ll get rid of it. Let me just finish watching this hole. Why are you makin' such a fire in my ears? It’s just a moth.” Papa had spoken all this without once taking his glance away from the television. He just wasn’t listening. The yellers sensed a lecture coming. “It’s good for the ecosystem. It means the garden is flourishing. When I was a young boy, Ben and I'd collect these creatures and put them in a bottle- with a little vent. I love to see moths- soon he turns to a butterfly. Let him free,” he pontificates. “But this one has no desire to leave our home. Let’s bring in the lizards too. We can have a zoo inside our home, a menagerie of sorts.” Mama suggested. Papa had a mortal fear of lizards. All his manhood disappeared at the sight of a lizard. Whenever a lizard was spotted, perched on the wall, making cute clucking sounds, mama’s courage and daredevilry were praised. “There’s no one like you, when it comes to chasing lizards.” he mused then. That’s when his fingers would reach out for her curls which he'd twirl round his finger. Love just happens in those lizard moments. But let’s not deviate. We have a mission in hand. “This Moth has been doing a house tour everyday. We can’t sit with our doors open or enjoy the sea breeze. I feel imprisoned.” Mama argued. The man wasn’t budging an inch to help solve the crisis on board. Had Mama continued to watch his TV fix, her mood would get so thoroughly spoilt, that everyone would’ve to retire to bed, dulled into a stony silence. That’s the power of the Mama! She could get the family together in one happy frame of mind in the family room. Or the reverse. Even Dolce knew better and would go sleep under the curtain, with his nose sticking out, “Just keeping an eye on things, guys!” “Methinks Moth is a secret prince. Rhee. Plant a kiss on him. No telling who might suddenly appear.” The young lady smirked. These two women had a very natural, totally feminine, squeaky aversion of anything that flies-specially if they are to wander up the leg or seek new pastures through an open armhole, exploring unknown territories hitherto known to man. The man lounged even deeper into the sofa, spread-eagled on the cushions. He couldn’t care less. Somehow mosquitoes and flies never chose to woo him. It was his rock hard skin while Mama’s was super soft like vanilla ice cream with chocolate sprinkles. He heard the two women rave and rant on in mindless chatter. As if there were a 1000 moths round about. Problem solving was momentarily deferred. “Wait. I’ll get rid of him. But I’m tired now. Playing 18 holes in the hot morning sun is not a joke.” “Who do you think you are? Get moving, Tiger.” Mama’s tone meant business. Papa decided it was prudent to get up. Looking visibly annoyed, but with a determined purpose writ on his brow, he moved closer to the intrepid flyer and spoke to Moth in no uncertain terms. “So if you’re not leaving this home, I’m gonna‘ve to kill you.” The nature lover, beetle advocate and moth preserver had changed his tune. “So now you're the horrid Mafia,” Mama whispered. The moth, unaware of this mortal scheming, sought higher grounds, circulating near the fan. Out in the garden, an eclipse of moths had gathered under the pole light. An executive meeting was in progress. The Moth Council was discussing their Christmas plans, where they could gather to pig out. But our homing Moth hated long board meetings and had strayed into our safe haven. Mama changed her modus operandi. She spoke in her sweetest voice, “Moth, I really like you. Do you have a name?” With great seriousness, Papa muttered, “Kutti”. ‘Kutti’ in a foreign tongue, far away in Kerala, called God’s own country, means “Little One.” “Ahhh! Moth-O’kutti,” Mama laughed, as she always did whenever Papa voiced these sudden, rare spurts of originality in his deep undertones. Moth was now hiding behind the cups. He sensed danger. An angry human is capable of anything. Then he vanished. They heard the distinct flapping, like distant drums, but Moth was nowhere to be found. Disappeared under the curve of the sofa. Silence prevailed. The calm before the storm. Finally, as if hit by an astroball from outer space, the young lady declared, “Moth has adopted our home. You can’t kill it, Pa. We need to preserve life, not destroy them. I won’t allow it.” Rhee was an animal activist. Realization dawned on her and she saw the creature as part of God’s creation. Her fears of the flying moth vanished, disappeared like the mist over the sea. “Soon, Pa, he’ll morph into a butterfly.” “Ya right!” His name will be called Butterfly Kutti. You’d think he was Moses. That was six months ago. Today as Mama gazed out the window, she saw a butterfly on the lemon tree. And she burst into a song: ‘All God’s creatures got a place in the choir, Some sing low and some sing higher, Some sing out loud on a telephone wire, Some just clap their hands, or paws, flap their wings, Or anything they’ve got now.”

The sea was quite. Last night bad-tempered storm was like a lie. A sheet of cloth that has a red whale was hovering in the blue sky. Black leather boots stabbed the fence of the ship. Arms stretched and the eye sneaked to the hole of golden telescope. On the other side of the telescope, the shell shaped island was visible. It is a beautiful. Green and violet color mixed to form a unique scene of nature, the smell of perfumed Lavender, the murmur of grass and trees. "At last, we are here boys." Eyes glowed with fire stared at the peaceful island. The center of shell island, "Anything Market" A sharp shining metal fell on thick wood and cut it to fine edge two pieces. "This is great Louie. Thank you. If I go all around the island I won't find a fine blacksmith like you." The man handed the black stained hand three gold coins. "This is too much, Mr. Douglas!" hesitated and uncertain low voice." The last one is for you boy, you did me a great job here. Take it. You deserve it Louie" an ear-to-ear smile drawn on the exhausted pale face. "Thank you" Louie's lavender eyes said. A giant hand snatched the three gold coin from Louie's dirty hand. "Hey!" Louie shouted. "This is my money, I believe" a plus sized, muscular with a big green bread man stood still in front of the tiny and skinny Louie "But I earned that money," Louie protested. The man sent a terrifying gaze to Louie who stepped back and gulped his saliva. The man's lip went up and showed his front broken teeth "That is right. You don't take any money from anyone, kid. I feed you and you repay me that is your job" he then left the workshop and Louie stood their sending a hatred digger to the man's back. Louie expelled heavy air from his lungs, and sat down on sidewalk next to a "Limon bar". He stared at the people. Gorgeous suits, fluffy shawls, sparkling jewelry, "hey let's go there and have fun", "Daddy I want some chocolate bars", kiss on cheeks, laughs and beautiful day for everyone. Louie stared at his dirty hand. At the threads coming out from his trousers, slots were here and there in his jacket that was too much for 16 years boy, he was glad he didn't have a mirror to look at his face. He lowered his head and took those heavy airs back to his lungs again. No parents, no house and no money. A lone poor dog. "You looking for StarTear you said?" Loud voice came from the bar. StarTear, the name itself was treasure. The drop shaped violet diamond. It gives the wealth to the one who own it. Louie jumped and looked inside the bar. Bloody wavy hair. She was giving her back to his vision and there were three more other people around her. Two women and one man. One of the women had sliver hair tied in ponytail and hooked nose. The other one was a girl maybe around his age. Short blonde hair and rounded face but oh, her blue eyes were dangerous for the hearts of men. The man was tall, black hair and had brawny arms. He had fine face that for sure girls could kill for that face. However, it seemed to be that the leader of the pack is the red head women. She was still talking to the bar tender who seemed to be entertaining himself by having a talk with her. "Look miss, I don't know where is the treasure you are looking for," the bar tender passed a glass to her, "Many pirates had come here in past, and believe me they didn't left anything. They searched every inch on the island. Nothing. Nothing came out." He refilled the glass of the man, "In my guess the rumors of the StarTear hidden in this island is just a lie. Nobody found the actual map." He said. The red head nodded. "Why is this the Crimson Rouge?" oversized body, black filthy long hair, one-eyed man approached the pack. Louie felt a lump in his throat; he never forgot that ugly face. Logan, the beast. He touched his throat and old image popped in his shivering mind. Logan had his blade on Louie's throat two years ago. After he sharpened Logan's sword, he said "Let me see if it is really cut" and he gripped him, pressed his sword blade on his throat. Louie shook his head. Logan showed his rotten teeth. "SO Rouge you still looking for that ridiculous StarTear treasure?" he giggled and that wasn't sound pleasant at all, as two rusty metal snagged each other. Rouge turned back. Blood stained eyes, white silkily skin and her lips was red as she soaked some blood. Louie stepped forward until his face adhered to the glass of the window. "How adorable of you Logan. Checking on me. I am touched" Rouge hand over chest, and the blonde girl, giggled. "Do not you have business to do else where Logan?" the man crossed his arm and stood in front of Logan. He was tiny compared to Logan, but for some reason Louie saw him big in his eyes. "Move Royse! I am talking to Rouge!" Logan roared. "And I don't want to talk to you Logan" Rouge crossed her legs and lighted a cigar, "See Logan, if we begin to turn over tables and make bang, our unpleasant friends will rush, eh? You know them royal coast guards." She puffed giant grey smoke, "let's be friends here. I have my own business and you have your own, okay?" she smiled. Louie unconsciously smiled with her. Logan pointed at Rouge "I am watching you" and he left them. Louie slid to his spot. He was smiling. His heart was dancing for what, he did not know. He looked up then bounced making cat hiss. Royse was looking at him. Louie stepped back until his back hit the window, gasped for air "I...I ..." searching in the dictionary for a quick reply. "Come inside. Captain wants to see you," Royse said. Louie's eyes turned into two dots. She pulled that cigar in pleasure. "You were watching us Kid" a smoke covered Louie's face; he coughed and looked around him. The others where just starring at him with poker faces. Louie rubbed his hands, looked again to the pack faces and yet poker faces. " I am Jenny" the blonde girl reached her hand, maybe she was a pirate but she was taking good care of herself. Louie pulled back his hand inside his pocket. "Do not worry. Here" she said and spit on her hand. "I have a dirty hand now, peace shake". Rouge blasted in laugh, "Did you see that Royse, She is filthy one I told ya" she hit Royse shoulder who seemed not bothering about it. "We are not going to eat you kid" Royse leaned forward to Louie, "we just need a little help" he scanned Rouge who was pulling another smoke, Royse sighted. "You should tell him by yourself Rouge." He crossed his arm. "Okay ..." Rouge put out the cigar then straighten herself up "May you give us a hand young man?" Jenny blasted in laugh this time "Cap you are like those weirdo high class ladies. You need a dead bird's feature and you would be perfect." She was amused; Royse put his hand over his mouth trying not to make a laugh. "Ya shut your mouth Jenny," Rouge pointed at Jenny. Jenny bowed to Rouge "Yes your highness" she said with a throaty voice, Rouge dropped her jaws "You little RAT!" she shouted and stood up from her chair, a chase begin between the two. Louie did not how to act, yell for help or just sit and listen to their unexpected act. Royse put his hand on his head and sighted "Here is the thing Kid. We want you to show us some places on the island. You know we cannot lurking around with no host. We are pirates". In Shell Island, pirates can visit bars outside the main city, but they cannot go inside the city without any escort. And by the mean of escort, a person who would take responsibility if something goes wrong. "You want me be your HOST?" said Louie "Yeah, of course with benefits" Royse waved his hand"100gold. That is sound fair to me" he smiled. Louie entered thinking mode. "Make it 300" Louie glared at Royse, he laugh nose "You are trying to negotiate with pirates. Do you know who we are?". The name of Rouge was known, who dose not know about Bloody Rouge, the captain of the Crimson Whale ship. She and her crew were among the deadly pirates. Louie washed that fact from his head as if he was cleaning a dirt from a dish. He wanted the Gold, no time for shaking legs and cold sweat, if he wanted to get rid from his greedy boss, he must take risk, even that mean he gave a hand to pirates, and maybe get himself killed. "300 and I am not stepping back" he tried to hold his guts but it was as if holding into a straw in stormy day, at least for him. Royse showed his white teeth. "I liked that Kid" he turned to cat and mouse. "Hey Captain, the kid said he wants 300 gold. What do you say?" Rouge stopped. "DEAL!" The central memorial park: The central memorial park was a huge circle with a fountain in the middle. "Wow, it is huge," said Rouge looking around the spacious park. "Yeah, like your butt Cap " sound of slap, "OUCH!" Jenny put her hand behind her head "I was praising you" she commented. "That is not what my brain processed it RAT" Rouge yelled, "Your brain is stinky" Jenny replied. Rouge took a silent moment, seemed to be thinking of something "What is stinky?" she asked, Jenny rolled her eyes "like the Rotten fish you found under your bed" "You calling my head a rotten!" Rouge fist settled on fire. "Are you sure she is your Captain?" Louie looked at Royse, he scratched the back of his head "Unfortunately, I'm positive she is" "Just let us done with this Captain," the hooknose woman said in a bossy voice. "We will. Do not be so hasty Silvia" Rouge hit another slap on the back of Jenny's head. "Now, where is left?" said Rouge. Louie tilted his head "That way?" he replied pointing to the left road. "Then let us go there" she strode a head to the left direction. West side, It was as your flesh nose attacked by sharp needles and stuck in there for long time. Rotten banana piles, piece of sandwich left in the lunch box for over than month this was the smell of the sewerage. And the bubbles came from the under water puffing violet small smokes. They were here for more than three hours. "Are you sure it is here, Rouge? "Royse was covering his nose with his bandana. "Stop complaining, house keeper!" Jenny yelled from somewhere in sewerage and giggled. "Exactly! Keep digging!" Rouge yelled. "You mean keep diving " Royse puffed heavy air from his lungs. "This is not going anywhere" Silvia kicked the water which splashed to Jenny, "Hey! This is my new pants!" she shouted. "Are you sure about this Rouge?" Silvia said ignoring Jenny. "Keep digging, you fools! Or I will cut your HEADS off!" Rouge was irritated. For first time, in her voice and moves there were not any squandering and idiocy, her moves was fast, eyes looked carefully at every inch of the filthy sewerage, any item she gets checked three times before threw it. She was in madness. "Why she is so irritated?" Louie approached to Jenny. "Captain's legacy" Jenny hissed. "Legacy? What the StarTear? A blot of blue stroked Louie. "Yeah, Captain's predecessors were merchants. They brought it here and hide it...somewhere in this garbage" Jenny looked around. "So is that how she got the map?" Louie asked. "Her father gave it to her," Royse said, "She is a different one in her rich family. When she made her choice to be pirate, they dismembered her, but her father gave her StarTear map to her before he dies." Royse explained. "He gave her the legacy of Carmine merchant." "Carmine merchants? ." said Louie. "They were bashed from the island long time." He widened his eyes. "Yeah, but they built another empire in another place," Royse replied. "That lunatic left all that heaven for this" Jenny motioned to the sewerage, Rouge sneezed. Louie stared at Rouge's back. She was determined. She had every thing but chose to be a pirate. Everything in her was in fire, even her heart. Louie clenched his fist. Hot, heart begun to play rhythm and blood was dancing. Did Louie felt of this before? No, he just wanted to be freed from that ugly blacksmith and never thought about getting in his real steel. Rouge tossed an item, a grip held her arm and she glared at Louie. "What?" she asked in irritated voice. "Could you show me the map?" Louie's eyes glowed, Rouge reached her gaze closed to him "NO" she spelled the two litters in heavy and slow motion. "Just one peak. Maybe you missed something" Louie dipped his fingers to her arm. "You have a death wish Kid" she put her hand to the handle of her gun. "Just show the kid, Captain. He knows the island" Royse said, Rouge glared at him, a volcano ready to explode, " He has a point Cap" Jenny put her finger in hole of her nose, "damn, I did not clean my hands yet " she threw up. Rouge looked on Louie. He was not going to let that hand off her arm and he was welling to die to see the map. "Here!" Rouge handed the map. Quickly Louie opened the map. " SEE! Right there. This is the park and the arrow is on the left see!" Rouge pointed on the red arrow marked with star. "You reading it upside down," Louie flipped the map. Every one glared at Rouge with narrow eyes, she looked up and whistled. "This is indicating to the right. So to the East "he said "Alright! Let us head to there then" Rouge strode, "The most terrifying place in Shell Island" Louie said in slow, Rouge paused and every one stood still in their places. East cave "I will stay here. Watch your backs," said Silvia. "Okay, Let's go" Rouge waved to Jenny and Louie. The darkness of the cave was dipping on their bones. "Say Cap, why you send Royse back to the ship?" Jenny asked. "To bring the kid his money, Rat," she yelled. After some time passed, Jenny screamed. Louie and Rogue turned in terror, "Gosh, it is human skull. Look! Cool!" Jenny showed them the skull she had on her hand. They said nothing just narrowed their eyes. "Look! A light! Over there!" Jenny pointed at the corner of the cave. "WE MADE IT" Rouge rushed to the light and Jenny followed her," Wait!" Louie screamed, but they did not listen. He rushed behind them. When they turned the corner, Rouge paused and the two bumped behind each other, "WHAT THE HELL. Cap why did you stop?" Jenny rubbed her nose as well as Louie did. They looked over Rouge. They froze. Flesh pinkish long rope like figure, dome size head and two yellow eyes. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" the three screamed. "AAAAAAAAAH" the giant Octopus screamed like a ten years old girl. "Kill it Cap " Jenny yelled. Rouge pulled her gun. "Wait! Wait!" the octopus waved its tentacles in the air. "It talks" Louie shouted, "You are DEAD" Rouge screamed and fired her gun. It missed. "Not again! Your stinky aiming!" Jenny yelled. "Wait for god sake " the octopus screamed while it covered its face," you are Carmines' right?" it was shivering. Rouge, Jenny and Louie popped a Question marks, " YEAH" replied Rouge. "Oh! Finally someone came!" the octopus puffed relieved air. "Here take your treasure and leave me alone for god sake. And tell the others not to come here anymore. I'm done with all guarding thing" he pulled a chest from under his big belly and handed it to Rouge. Rouge opened it quickly," What is this?" she yelled and pulled a piece of rolled old paper. "It is another map, Lady." The octopus replied. "Where is my StarTear?" she yelled. "YOU GET YOUR ASS FROM HERE!" the full volume voice that came from the octopus, forced the three to flee from that spot. When they got outside. They heard a familiar voice. "Well, well, Rouge we meet again" Logan said smiling . "What?" Rouge looked at him while trying to catch her breath. "Silvia you double crossed us!" Jenny yelled and tried to jump on her but Louie gripped her waist. "Hand it over, Rouge," said Silvia with confident and evil smile. "You Fool, Silvia." Rouge laughed Louie dropped his jaw when he witnessed the whole pack of Crimson Whale pirates were surrounding them and Logan's pirates. "You send Royse for back up!" Silvia yelled. Logan kicked the ground "damn you Rouge" "Royse, I've an idea. Take them inside the cave! "Rouge pointed with her thumb to the cave. "Eye Eye captain "Royse answered and ordered the pirates to lead them inside the cave. "HERE your money Kid" Rouge handed Louie a heavy bag. Louie stared at the bag "Could we change the deal, I want to join you" fixed his gaze at Rouge surprised face. "Well, welcome aboard kid" she smiled and her Crimson hair waved with the wind.

#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. &nbsp; *** #This week's theme is Vice! This week we’ll explore the theme of ‘vice’. Vice is all about immoral wicked behavior. Some things that come to mind when we think of vices are addictions and bad habits. But this isn’t limited to just those things, it can extend to any bad behavior. As we enter October, this seemed like an appropriate time to explore this in your stories. People are not good all the time, neither are their thoughts. What kind of wickedness is afoot in your world? What kind of trouble will your characters get into? Are the other characters aware of the goings on or are they oblivious...until that one domino falls? Maybe this is the moment that the Big Bad enters the picture and turns the world upside down. I can’t wait to see where you take this. 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; *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * October 3 - Vice (this week) * October 10 - Insidious * October 17 - Storm &nbsp; *** **Previous 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 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting! &nbsp; *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** 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. **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 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 two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **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 of family friendly 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 exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments. &nbsp; *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host 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 point breakdown). * 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! &nbsp; *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/Zetakh &nbsp; - - u/GammaGames &nbsp; - - u/rainbow--penguin &nbsp; - - u/Sonic_Guy97 &nbsp; - - u/ReverendWrites &nbsp; - - u/Bavarianlageryeast &nbsp; - - u/chunksisthedog &nbsp; *** #Ranking System There is a new point 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) *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” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Sending nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) &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.

To The One Meant To Read This (you know who you are), Times are weird now. But you know that. I just can’t stop thinking about the way things were. Not even just the normalcy, but how great things were and then were abruptly ended. Now, you get in trouble for going outside. But then, right before, it was great. I hate using that word because it’s so overused. Even words like “amazing” and “awesome” have no meaning to me because everyone uses them for everything. But in the meantime, I’m using “great” because that’s really what it was. We were staying in the most incredible condo right on the beach. The best part was that it was for free -- I know, right? But I guess it was even better because I was with some of my best friends -- Isaiah, Liliana (whose condo it was), Amy, Luna, and then Adam. We didn’t know Adam super well but he was friends with Isaiah. I think he fit in pretty quickly with us. The beach was just so gorgeous! The water was so clear, you could easily see in front of you. No need to worry about a shark creeping up! We spent so much time looking for sand dollars, and it was so rewarding when you finally found one! We even went snorkeling. Nothing heavy duty, just close to the boardwalk, but I was in awe by the little underwater world. We even saw dolphins! They weren’t within reach, but it was still so awesome (sorry, I can’t think of another word). Some of my friends spent most of their time huddled under the umbrella, and I wish I could have taken a picture so you could see them crammed under there! I’m trying not to blab on -- and you know I do that. But here we’re getting to the reason I’m writing to you. The sunset is right on the ocean, and yes, it’s breathtaking. Liliana said that we didn’t even see the best of the sunsets, but it didn’t matter to me. I don’t have much to compare it to. But we all sat there on the back porch one evening and watched it. It really was beautiful. Sitting there on the porch with my friends watching the sunset, I didn’t want to be anywhere else. The worries of the world -- like the upcoming virus -- could simply fade into the background. It’s when you think “This is it. This the moment that I will look back on and remember. And I’ll really miss it.” I try to soak it in, and I wish I could make it last forever. That complete contentment. I remember one song that was playing, and every time I hear it now, it takes me back there. I hope you can have those kinds of moments yourself. Moments where you feel so alive and anything is possible like you can almost touch the sky. And you’re surrounded by the people you love. It’s not that those moments last forever, but we can cherish those memories in the making by living in the moment. That’s what I’m trying to do now, and I hope you will, too.

“Oh my god, Kat! Come look at these pictures of my new g-little wasted!” Lindsey squealed. G-little, or grand little, is apparently a term you use in a co-ed honors’ fraternity. Lindsey took on a “little” in her fraternity last year, now it was her little’s turn. These roles were meant to emulate a big brother or big sister, but basically it just meant you bought alcohol for someone underage in the fraternity and forced them to drink too much. You see him for the first time on Lindsey’s iphone screen. He looked like a hot, teen pop star version of Cupid. Curly blonde hair, blue eyes, pink cheeks, drunk as fuck facial expression. You think he’s cute even though he’s hunched over a toilet. He’s filling out a Haines t-shirt in all the best ways. “What the fuck did you make him drink??” You say. “Oh we make them all chug vodka! It’s hilarious. They always throw up,” Lindsey answers. “How charming.” You can’t tell Lindsey you think he’s cute. She’ll try to set you up with him and it’ll be a mess. You’re a 21 year old virgin with a mean streak when it comes to men. Other than making out with random guys at house parties and then telling them to fuck off, you really have no experience with boys. Especially not dating boys. Dating is what Lindsey does. Where she spends all her time worrying about how many minutes pass between their texts. Or how much makeup is okay to wear because he likes her with no makeup even though he’s technically never seen her with no makeup on. Dating is draining. When you finally meet toilet boy for the first time it’s at your house. Drunk. Mitchell (Paul’s last name and nickname) comes in your front door after Lindsey lets him in. He looks out of breath from the cold and long walk. You run your eyes up and down him from the kitchen where he hasn’t seen you yet. “Tequila shotssss,” you call out to the house. “Jesus, you trying to get me wasted?” Paul answers walking into the kitchen. “Maybe...” You smirk. Paul blushes. You like who you think you’ll be to him. The hot, cool, older girl. At least until he really gets to know you. You really still feel like the least hot one in the friend group. The weird one. The clumsy, socially anxious, scared of everything one. The alcohol usually fixes that though. You clink glasses on the counter, then together, then take the shot. He winces. He’s wearing a white button down, cobalt blue jeans, white keds. Way more stylish than most college boys. Especially sophomores. You start calculating. He must be 18? 19? “G-Lits!!!!! Come here and take pictures of your Nana and her friends!” Lindsey cries out from across the living room into the kitchen. “Yes, Nana,” Paul says obediently. You wonder if he’s into Lindsey like most guys are. Lindsey has a way of completely dominating men that is somehow inviting and charming. Probably because she is hot. She always was the hot one as long as you were friends with her. She loved attention. Especially from men. And they loved giving it to her. It left you feeling like Velma to her Daphne. You still couldn’t help but love her even though you were a little jealous. You pose with your roommates in front of your front door while Paul takes pictures. “Okay let’s go!” Lindsey announces. You start the 20 minute walk across campus to one of the houses for Paul and Lindsey’s fraternity. It’s a classic frat house on campus-- large, old, Victorian, 4-5 bedrooms with blacklights everywhere and a huge basement. You get there and the living room is already littered with forgotten cups. The keg is in the basement along with a beer pong table and dozens of wasted college kids dancing to way too loud music. Like a G6 by Dev plays and everyone makes jokes about getting “slizzard”. You spend the first 15 minutes hugging people and taking shots with some friends you met through Lindsey. You met most people through her. “Hey bitch!!” Jessica calls to you. Jessica is the girlfriend of John, another fraternity member. She also used to live on Lindsey’s floor freshman year. She would always get drunk and brag about how big John’s dick was. Which was confusing seeing as John was shorter and more feminine than her. “Heyyyy,” you say, “How are you?” “I’m fucking great. I’m smashed,” Jessica answers. “Yeah I can tell!” you laugh, “Where’s John?” “Oh I think he’s over in the living room talking to Lindsey’s new g-little. He’s fucking hot. Have you met him? Pete?” “Paul. Yeah, we all came here together.” “Damn, I wish I could fuck him. He looks so young and innocent. Can you please do it for me and tell me all about it?” “Sex? What’s that???” you joke. “Oh my god, I always forget you’re a virgin. You don’t look like one in that, that’s for sure.” It’s true. You are honestly dressed pretty slutty. Tight, short black dress, push up bra, tons of makeup, long dark hair curled. The truth was the idea of sex seemed pretty intimidating and you really weren’t that interested in it. You got enough satisfaction from teasing boys at parties. Flirt, dance, make out, leave. Make them want you, but never follow through that way you’re never vulnerable. Besides, you had never met anyone that felt worth it. Especially not drunk guys in frats. “Yup, I’m trying to trick everyone. Glad it’s working,” you say. “Absolutely. Anyway, you should at least, like, make out with him or something. You would ruin his fucking life,” Jessica laughed. You look back over into the living room and meet eyes with Paul for a second. He blushes, looking back at John. He does look good. You can’t deny that. “Come on let’s go over there,” Jessica grabs your arm and drags you into the living room, just missing hitting the coffee table as she stumbles her way over to John and Paul. “Omg baaaaaabe,” Jessica says in a baby voice towards John who looks scared. “Uh hey... did you guys take some shots?” John asks. “Yup, Kat’s such a bad influence. Do you know that, Paul?” Jessica says, turning to him. “Oh yeah? I better watch out then,” Paul smirks looking at you dead in the eyes. “Please, we’re all grown ups. We make our own decisions. I only encourage what I think would be fun,” you shrug. “Baaaaabe, come upstairs with me. I want to... make sure my coat is still there,” Jessica giggles. “Uh, okay,” John replies. Jessica locks her fingers between John’s and drags him towards the stairs. John follows like the obedient puppy he is. You stay standing next to Paul in the corner of the room. “So you’re a bad influence, huh?” Paul asks leaning against the brick wall. “Noooo, me? I just like having a good time, that’s all,” you grin. “Alright, that’s fair. Look, everyone here seems to be on a mission to get me blacked out,” Paul says. “I mean you’re in college and you joined a frat. What did you expect? Though you did pick a frat for nerds so I can see how you might be a bit confused...” you shrug. “I knew there would be drinking and stuff. But they go hard here.” “Yes. Welcome! I mean I’m just here with Lindsey, but I’m basically an honorary member at this point. And yes, they do go hard. In fact I saw you went a little too hard last weekend. Lindsey might’ve shown me pictures.” Paul’s face flushes, “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing. They literally kept singing this one song about chugging over and over and gave us each a bottle of vodka. It did not end well for me.” The couch opens up across the room. You squeal, “Yessss, couch! Hurry! I hate doing things.” “Like standing?” Paul says. You move over to the couch and sit down. Paul joins you, knee pressed against yours. You look over at him. Eyes super blue. Face flushed from alcohol. “You’re cute,” you blurt out. “What?” Paul’s face flushes even more, “I mean... thanks. You’re...” “I know,” you say with drunken confidence, “but I’m not gonna kiss you. That’s a bad idea.” “Why?” “Because you’re gonna be at my house all the time with Lindsey. And you’re too young.” “Too young?” “Yes, it’s just a bad idea. But we can be friends,” you say. Paul presses his knee harder into yours. “Oh okay...” “So what’s your major?” you ask. Better to talk about politics or religion or anything that can keep you from thinking about what those blue eyes would look like hovering over you in bed. “Chemical Engineering.” “Wow, so you want to be a chemical engineer, huh?” “My dream is to study wildlife honestly. But this degree just makes more sense. But I love nature and animals and the environment. That’s really where I want to be. Out in the world trying to fix everything that’s being damaged.” “That’s pretty amazing.” “What about you?” “Special education. I love teaching.” You loved working with kids. It was something that always just clicked for you. You understand them and they understand you. You love the wonder in their eyes and their endless questions. You love the moment when something clicks for them or when they write something they’re really proud of. You never want to have kids of your own so they’re your kids. You love them. They frustrate you. You think they’re capable of so much. “That’s amazing too, I love kids. They’re the best.” You talk for hours on the couch. Something you don’t do at parties. He’s from a small, wealthy town in Massachusetts, but lived in a more modest home than most of his friends. He has a sister and some older half brothers from his dad’s previous marriage. Dad is English and mom is Swedish. He tells you he speaks French and Swedish. “That should be your opener with girls-- multilingual,” you say. “Why?” A little smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He’s fishing for compliments. “Girls love a guy who’s good with his mouth.” His body leans ever so slightly closer to you. “Maybe if I had you would’ve kissed me.” You smirk. There’s so many things you could say, so many you’d like to, but it’s safer to keep those pretty lips of yours together. A few seconds pass along with the moment and he moves back. “It’s getting pretty late. I need to get home.” “I’ll walk you,” he says a little too eagerly. “You don’t have to do that.” “I want to.” “I’m still not going to kiss you.” There he is, leaning in, invading your space with the way his muscles tense against the sleeves of his shirt. “What makes you think I even want that? It’s dark. You shouldn’t be walking alone at night.” You get outside. Campus is dark, but you can still see all of the trees and huge buildings. The hairs on your arms stand up in the cold wind. You keep talking. About movies, TV, other people in the frat, college life, social views, Marvel vs. DC, which Jessica is hottest (You say Alba, he says Biel), who’s better My Chemical Romance or Panic at the Disco. You keep looking over at him and staring at his lips. You finally get to your house. You say goodbye and hug him and your whole body lights up. You pull away slowly and look up at him. What the fuck is this? You push him away and say, “Okay, goodnight, friend.

Leonard hooked his cane over the back of his usual chair. Taking a moment before he sat to enjoy the afternoon sun. Setting the cup of coffee down onto the little table he slowly took his seat. His knees protested as he bent them; his rear didn't much care for the hard seats they had at this little cafe. Still he came every Friday. He pulled back the sleeve of his suit and checked his watch. It was 3:55 pm. It would be about 10 more minutes. He fiddled with the cup as he set to waiting. There was a slight breeze at his back, as normal. The outdoor seating area was empty save for him. There would be one more guest along fairly shortly though. He knew he shouldn't be doing this anymore. He was too old to be wandering around after people, but he couldn't really help it. People passed by on the streets. In all there various shapes and forms. He was never much of a people person. His wife always joked how he would be alone if she hadn't adopted him. He had always argued, but he knew she was right. It had never bothered him being alone; until he had met her. Now being by himself was agony. His eyes turned towards the door, no one yet. He had been coming to this cafe for over two months. He had been walking by, part of the passing crowd, enjoying his memories of what this place use to be. A young blonde woman, mid 20's maybe, had been sitting in the chair that was currently behind him. She had been playing on one of those smartphones his grand kids kept trying to make him buy. He hadn't thought much of it, until he got past her and the breeze caught up to him. Her perfume had reached his nose, stopping him in his tracks. She had smelled just like... "Excuse me?" The question broke him out of his thoughts. "Yes, how can I," he froze. The blonde woman was standing right in front of him, a polite smile on her face. "May I join you?' "Oh, of course," he stammered out. "Thank you," she sat down across from him. "I don't see many people here at this time of day. I noticed you here the past few times. I just thought I would say hello." She extended her hand. He reached out and shook it. He hoped she took the trembling in his fingers for his age. "I'm Emilia," she said. "It's nice to see someone else enjoy this place. What kind of coffee do you order?" "Oh just a normal cup of joe," he forced himself to take a sip of the vile liquid. He didn't come for the coffee. "I think that's the first time I've seen you drink from a cup," her smile widened. "So why do you really come here?" Caught. His panic peeked, then faded. All good things come to an end. He sighed and started speaking. "It's complicated," he began slowly. "I had my first date here. Well not my first date, and not here per se. My wife and I had our first date here. It was a malt shop back then. We sat inside and..." He trailed off, his voice failing. She seemed to understand. "When did she die?" "Two years ago," he whispered. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "You come here to remember?" He could lie. He didn't. "That and well," he forced himself to continue. "You see, you wear the same perfume she did." He hung his head. It was strange, he knew. She would think he was a creepy old man. He just hadn't been able to help himself. "I guess my friends were right," she quipped. "I really do have old fashion tastes." He looked up. There was sympathy in her eyes. "Would you tell me about her?" she asked politely.

Silvia blinked for a moment, as her eyes adjusted to what she was seeing. Her head throbbed as she brushed her fingers against the rough metal surface of the heart shaped locket. It's golden exterior, dull and dented, the dingy old bauble having seen far better days. Gingerly holding it up to her ear she could hear a faint ticking inside. It made her nauseous. "What do you think you're doing?" It took a moment to register the sound, her mind still reeling. She turned to find her sister shuffling impatiently near the door. "It's almost time for another security sweep. If there's nothing else in this vault, we need to leave." Silvia closed her eyes and tried to focus. "Yeah I...uh sorry Vee. Got a little distracted. I found something made of gold and it seems to be mechanical. It may be worth something, but it's the only usable thing here." She takes one last look at the necklace before shoving it in her pocket. This locket seems oddly familiar, she wanted to examine it longer but if they got caught by Reagan and his men something like that would be the least of their concerns. "C'mon" Vee beckoned, peaking out of the door to the vault "No one is out here yet, there's still time to get back to camp." Silvia stands up, wobbling a bit from another sudden wave of nausea, and gives one last look at the inside of the otherwise picked over vault and meets her sister at the door. Vee gave a curt nod and they walked back into the interior of the bank, climbed back into the maintenance vent, and scrambled out onto the roof. The sun was just beginning to set, they had left just in time. They didn't say much on the way back to camp, the two of them working in tandem to keep lookout for any of the heavily armed soldiers that patrolled the city. The dilapidated buildings and burned out cars littered around this part of the city provided more than enough cover to remain in the shadows. Ducking down through the street, skirting through alleyways, and when needed dropping down into the sewers, all things considered it was a relatively quick escape. It took them roughly an hour to get out of the city proper and into the dense muddy woods on the outskirts. Within a few minutes they came to a cave. Hidden amongst a large pile of rocks they came to a door and Vee offered a swift sharp knock. A light knock back was the only answer. Clearing her throat Vee responded, Guided by his patient hand We will salvage what we can We stay the course and here we stand We are the children of Atavan At this the door swung open and a small boy, about 7 years old looked up at them in disappointment, his small hands wringing the bottom of his tattered old superhero shirt. "It's just you two." He sighs, rolling his eyes and stepping out of the doorway. "Did you see my dad out there? He went salvaging and he isn't back yet." Silvia leans down, and gives him a soft pat on the head. "Sorry Danny, we didn't see him on our way in. I'm sure he'll be home soon though." "I hope so, he's been gone a real long time..." Vee interjects with a deep sigh "He's fine! Your dad's probably just wandering around drunk, he's always drinking this time of day anyway." Silvia gasped "Vee, he's a kid! Whats wrong with you!" Danny smiles sadly. "It's ok Sil, she's right. He does drink a lot, I guess. I don't mind it, as long as he comes home safe. You two go ahead, I'm gonna stand guard until he gets back." Vee just nods and turns away, walking toward the camp, while Silvia ruffles his hair and gives him a soft smile. She rushes up to her sister and is able to catch her halfway down the corridor. "Why are you always so mean?" Vee stops but doesn't turn to face her sister. "What exactly is mean about telling the truth?" "It won't kill you to be kind for literally a second of your life. You know how hard this is, sometimes people need it!' "Sometimes people need a reality check." At this, she does turn and stares directly in Silvia's eyes. "I don't want Danny to think for a goddamn second that his dad's behavior is acceptable. If he learns now he won't grow up to be like him and he'll be better off." "But it's not our place to talk down about his father. He is only a child, Vee! And if the council had a problem with the drinking they would have ..." Vee cuts her off angrily "The council left us for dead and so did Atavan! Stop pretending they're coming back or that they even care what we do here. The only ones looking out for us are us. You’re just as naive as he is, and you both need to grow up and learn what the real world is like." "Vee... I..." Silvia blinks away tears. "No” Vee sighs “We have work to do. If you need me I'll be in Gareth's tent debriefing him on our salvage today. You clean off that thing you found and figure out what to do with it." . . . . . . . Silvia wiped her brow and dropped her cleaning rag. The locket was now polished, though still looked a little rough for the wear. Its hinges seemed to be perfectly intact despite the denting and damage but there was no latch anywhere on it. It clearly seemed like it could be opened to access the inside. She got a small flathead screwdriver, wedged it into the seam, and softly pried it open. Inside the locket was a faint blue glow and two identical watch faces. On the right face the numbers on the watch were strange. There was a combination of letters and numbers that seemed to constantly shift as the hands spun past them even some letters she didn't recognize that had to be from other languages. On the left face the numbers rotated slowly around the hands. Still shifting and changing but rather than the hands moving, the numbers themselves were in constant motion. She picked up the watch and touched the left face, when she heard a scream. Silvia clutched the locket in her hand and rushed outside her tent. Everyone else in the settlement was either already standing in the middle of camp or coming out to investigate just like she was. She caught Vee's eye as she came out of Gareth's tent, and they exchanged a frightened glance. The stomping of boots could be heard coming from the entrance to the cave. A group of soldiers, fifty or so strong clad in the city's insignia of a dragon, entered the camp. All of them impossibly large in their thick plate armor, holding heavy artillery rifles. In the front of this group dead and center was a hard faced man with slicked back jet black hair and an ornate tattoo of a dragon on his face. To his left, two soldiers were half walking, half carrying a man in chains who seemed to have been beaten. As they got closer she could see it was Danny's father. To the man's other side Danny struggled against the grasp of a soldier who was carrying him under one arm. Vee pushes her way to the front of the crowd and aggressively addresses the man. "Reagan, how did you find us, and why are you here?!" At this he laughs and signals his soldiers to halt. "Well hello beautiful. I'm here because I found this-" He snaps his fingers and the guards throw Danny's father to the ground. "-half drunk buffoon wandering around the edge of my city." He puts a heavy boot on the man's face and he sobs and slacks under the weight of it. "The only reason I didn't kill this pathetic excuse for a man is because he led me here." Danny screams and struggles "Dad! You let go of my Dad you monster!" Reagan signals and the guard throws Danny to the ground as well. Vee rushes to his side. She makes sure Danny is ok, and then stands between him and the soldiers."What do you want with us?" He scowls and steps up to meet her. "I'm sick and tired of you little rats scrounging around my city looking for crumbs. This time one of you has taken something valuable to me. And I want it back NOW." "I don't know what youre talking about!" "Oh you know exactly what I mean. The Amulet you stole. If you took it, you know damn well what it’s worth. I want it back right now and I will kill each and every last one of you little rats until I find it." "Please, we don’t know anything about an amulet. Leave us alone." Vee whispers, her voice cracking. Reagan scowls at her and snaps his fingers at the guard. "Fine. If that's how you want it. Kill them. Start with the kid." A soldier raises his gun at Danny, and before anyone else can move or speak, he fires, and Vee jumps in front of the bullet. She falls to the ground in front of Danny, and every denizen in the camp panics. The soldiers fan out, people are running and frantically searching for escape. The sounds of gunfire and pain ring out in the cavern. Silvia desperately pushes through the crowd to reach her sister, the herd of desperate people pushing against her like a turbulent current. By the time she finally reaches them, Danny has his shirt on Vee's stomach and is desperately trying to stop the bleeding. "Sil... she... she won't wake up. What do I do, she won't wake up.." She sits down next to Danny and holds her sister's hand. It's warmth is slowly fading. "No... Vee please. You gotta hold on. I know how stubborn you are. If anyone can make it...if anyone can..'' mid sentence she feels her sister's hand slack in her own. She holds her sister's hand tighter, her tears blurring her vision. "No...oh god no...Vee, why did this all have to happen? I don't understand." Silvia looks up at the panic and chaos around her, slowly realizing she's still in the middle of an invasion. Her eyes come across Regan loudly arguing with a guard. "I need that Amulet, when you shoot them search their fucking pockets for it, don't just stomp over them like some kind of moron. If you break it we'll have nothing. We need it intact!" Silvia looks down at her left hand, despite everything the locket is still held fast in her grip. She opens it and stares at the glowing faces. He wants this so bad, there has to be something it does. Some way to use it. She puts her finger on the hour hand on the left face of the watch. "You! Hey what is that you've got!" The soldier yells, holding up his rifle and pointing it at her. As he pulls the trigger, she softly turns the hand of the watch, and prays for something to happen. . . . . . . . Silvia blinked for a moment, as her eyes adjusted to what she was seeing. Her head throbbed as she brushed her fingers against the rough metal surface of the heart shaped locket. She covered her mouth with her hand, stopping a sob before it could escape, tears streaming down her face. She's inside the vault again. "What do you think you're doing?" She turns to her sister weeping, barely able to speak "Vee...I'm sorry... I'm so so sorry." "What are you talking about? It's almost time for another security sweep. If there's nothing else ....

Same dive bar, different reasons for that bourbon. My drink was neat unlike my mismatched socks & my noticeable limp as I surveyed the room. Usual suspects were playing darts, cracking jokes, & whipping buffalo sauce off their chin, but I was looking for someone. The group of drag queens shooting pool caught my eye. The queens weren’t quite regulars, but around enough where a head nod when eye contact is made is warranted. The sunburn on my cheeks, nose, & right below my eyes made my expression stiff, but it was good to see everyone, as it had been a while since my last drink in this dump. I had just gotten back into town, for the first time since I got my second face tattoo. The small thunderbolt high on my cheek bone, I regret that. I’m now known as the masked thunderbolt by the local paper, the armed bank robbing thief that was still at large from our last job. I was observed by many being pursued by the police on my bike, wearing my Tampa Bay Lighting t-shirt, go bolts. The name kind of stuck. I don’t regret that. That's how I make a living. I'm a career criminal by trade, I learned from my father & my father’s father. They taught me well. I made my way north west - by train, by taxi, by foot, by my thumb hung up in the air. I had to get out of town, as the heat on my whereabouts grew. I spent the last year drinking wild turkey straight out of the bottle, shooting dice with my lucky cigarette tucked behind my ear, & hanging out with nameless women of the night, all on my way to nowhere. I went by many names throughout my career - Ramon Grande, Johnny Mack, Parker Wallace, & my least favorite, Christian Williams, my actual name, which I stopped using years ago. Pages on the calendar had been torn away and the treasure trove grew thin. It was time to head back home, it was time to go back to work again, I was Florida bound. My town was small & humid, run down & close knit, it was us against the world. I was back in town for one reason, to find my partner and hit the next lick. My partner was a friend of a friend of a former girlfriend of mine. I met him at a bbq down by the park, right off the main drag, back in the spring of ‘93. I noticed him from across the gathering. He had that look in his eyes, the same look I had. An up-and-comer, a rising star. I saw him pick-pocket the guy manning the grill, like a pro. We understood each other without ever exchanging names, not even once. This was to protect ourselves in case push ever came to shove. He always went by Isaiah Monroe or Donald Gibbs or Cash Jackson. No names, no phone numbers, no addresses. That was the code, be where you say you’ll be. One of our meetup spots was Ricky’s Tavern. Ricky’s was the local watering hole with a wide variety of regulars. Classic bar food, most famously, their fried gator bites, and known for local beer on taps that have never been cleaned. Old wood framing with a matching L-shaped bar that hasn't been touched up since the late 70’s. Last year’s Nascar reruns on the TV, ash trays as the centerpiece of each booth, and you get your picture on the wall if you can eat 5 fried tenderloin in 2 hours, Cousin Tommy’s up there twice, God rest his soul. I sat for a while and waited. Lucky cigarette tucked behind my ear, rolling 2 dice around in my left hand, wild turkey in my right, neat. I watched the off-centered door open & close for a few hours, hoping to see a familiar face. ‘Last call’ Jimmie bellowed as he poured himself a shot of something brown. ‘Well, i’ll check out bowling alley tomorrow night, maybe better luck there’ I wondered to myself I slapped my cash on the wooden bar, winked back at Jimmie, & headed out to the parking lot, wondering when thunderbolt would be back on his bike, I can’t wait to smile in my sleep, again.

THE LAZY FLOP ON THE COUCH .. and more ! “ Oh is sooo good just to sit - actually flop and enjoy the view out the patio window and watch the trees swishing in the wind beyond the railing” says 70-something Vermont Issacs to herself. “ Oh, I forgot how nice it is just to flop and do nothing” Vermont word-thinking to herself once more as she melts into the couch. Vermont just realised she never gives herself permission to do just nothing; not needing the TV to stir up emotions with in-the-face horrible overseas news - which ain't relaxing; or flicking through the channels to be suddenly confronted by a passionate love scene that makes one realise that stripping naked in front of hubby for 'a hot roll in the hay' these days is not much chop for either parties. She breathed heavily to herself as she dissolved into the softness of the couch, and was by now camouflaged as a patterned throw-over rug ... “Just the sound of silence is oh so very wonderful when you are 70-something” “ Mind you” Vermont thinks on as the puffy cushions cradle so deliciously her stiff neck - “When I was in my 20-somethings the last thing I wanted to do was sit - it was all 'go go go' for me and my friends. Only grandmothers sit; and even 40-somethings sit. At 20- something I thought being 40-something was having one foot in the grave and I was cautiously waiting to hear that my parents had dropped dead from old age. Oh but 70-somethings should have at least some well-earned wisdom at least ! But the age of wisdom comes far too late I fear. If only it came upon us at birth !! If only we were smart and sensible and wise as a final gift from God as we emerged from the womb of our mothers into the big bright new world. If only we had a second go at life too ! If only we didn't stuff so much up. If only I married that guy I was head over heals in love with in Year 7 and not what now seems my 'desperate choice' so I could get married like all my friends were by the time they were 25. That awful feeling of being left on the shelf haunted us in our 20-somethings. In her wiser years of 60-something Vermont wrote this poem. She thought it summed up all the 'if only-s' she now ponders on (just occasionally) in her 70-somethings - If only the sky was blue each day..... If only the sun came out, what may ! If only love lasted a whole life long If only we had kept singing our song ! But ‘ if onlys ’ are never meant to be They are just our wishes - I can now see ! This life has no easy roads to tread With the trips and falls wherever we’re lead ! Peace comes and goes like a twinkling star It’s one step forward, then back so far ! But one day there will be that peace unknown When I walk from this earth, be it all alone ! But ‘ if only ’ was something never said Then we would accept wherever we’re led And then our today's and tomorrows too Could be wonderful, if only we knew !! As Vermont scans the glass of the window wondering whether it needs a wipe over when she eventually decides to pluck herself from the couch, she notices the finger marks of her two youngest grandchildren on the glass as the sun moves around the room picking out spots and marks on the glass, and suddenly her heart warms. Those lovely little fingers with chocolate and icecream imprints are like life itself - on a page in the tapestry of their lives. Little fingers mean that at 70-something I have produced a child and now grandchildren to carry on the 20-something me lost forever. At 70-something the mirror into her life tells her of those past years - of growth, lessons learnt, joy and sadness, love and hate - which are all now etched upon her face. In the corner of the lounge-room is a photograph of Vermont at 20-something. The long brown hair, the wrinkle-free face, the tight neck, the flat tummy in the bikini. “ Was I really a good-looker then? she thought to herself. I didn't think I was. I was always wanting to be as cute as Diane Harper, as good looking as Vanessa what's-her-name, as liked by the boys as was Bethany Norris (or some name like that)”. Vermont started to think more deeply as the sun moved right across onto her upper body - it felt warm and cosy on that couch and worth a bit more time out. “ Were they wasted years, were they years I made the most of or did I have no higher aims than the other kids in class 9B - kids like me with just normal intelligence, who left school and didn't want to be a brain surgeon or an astronaut - just get a job, make money, have respectable boyfriends (and not get pregnant), do a course to improve job prospects - and who eventually found a version of Mr Right, had babies, went back to work and had a nice house with a nice garden and just got on with life ”. Vermont quizzed her inner-self even more - “Is that enough ? Is that what we are here for ? Have I wasted 70-something years by being just ordinary. Did I do a good job at life, did I make others happy in the process, did I hurt many people, did I apologise if I did hurt anybody not meaning to, was a good mother and a good wife, and am I a good 70-something now - being useful and not just a face in the crowd with a limp from my sore arthritic hip, which certainly speaks louder than words as to my age ?” All this flooded through Vermont's head and in the end she had to stop questioning. She was there for a real bludge for a change, but ended up being very busy in her head. Too busy ! Vermont found herself slipping into a dream state as the sun now crossed onto her face. It was so pleasant, it was as if her face was being bathed with a warm cloth, washing away any negativity that lingered in her mind. Then it was like she was floating from the coach and into some heavenly peaceful sphere. Somewhere just so perfect, but the coach continued to cocoon her in softness as well. She had a vision of herself walking up a staircase, maybe into Heaven, she didn't know ? There were clouds surrounding the staircase, more and more surrounded her as she stepped higher and higher. As she moved upwards she felt and saw herself being shed of layers of herself - outer layers - layers just leaving and falling below. It was as if she had on ten layers of 'clothing' as she climbed the stairs, and the higher she moved up and up the more of the layers fell from her. They were like sheets of paper falling away from her being, and floating down, ever downwards until she stood naked in the purest sense at the top of the staircase. Naked but cleansed and without blemish and best of all as herself in her 20-somethings. A dream ? If it was it was brilliant ! “ Oh !” Vermont woke up with a fright when the doorbell rang. She realised she was still lying on the couch with her 70-something body now trying to move to answer the door, with all the aches and pains returning in the effort to get off the low couch. “ Where did I just go ? Where am I now ? Oh yes, back here, and that must be Joachin at the door ... he is in his 40-somethings - he is my son - he is far too young to drop dead !”

Today I thought about leaving again. I remember the second that thought reentered my mind. This morning I stepped outside to see the sun rise over the earth, like every other day. There was a time when that view took my breath away, but now I applaud the sight with an unenthused sigh. I believe that was the first time I genuinely considered leaving. The novelty of my situation wore off quicker than you’d expect. When I was younger I would dream to be where I am today. If only I’d known how mundane it would be, then perhaps I would have moved to San Francisco or New York. Yeah, if I lived in New York I’d be happy. I could eat pizza all day and get lost in a maze of enchanting architecture. I know it doesn’t do me any good to fantasize about what I could’ve done differently. I can’t change what has already passed. Though I’m sad to say that thinking about a different life is the only way I can get through my reality. There’s something I like to say. When I first arrived here, I’d start every day by saying it, to try and comprehend the amazing truth that became my life. “I live on the f\*cking moon.” I remember still not being able to believe it, I was more than on top of the world, I had my own world. No other person had that. I knew this to be fact, but as days turned to weeks, to months and years, I started to notice a change in my attitude and spirit. My excitement for my little world faded, the so called honeymoon phase had departed and I was left with my new home for what it was. “I live on the f\*cking moon.” What was once a statement of wonder and amazement had become the truth that sucked me out of any pleasant fantasy I dreamt, a shackle that forever defines me. From afar, I’m sure the people of earth look up at the moon, at me and think that it must be like a dream to be where I am. I was a hero, a pioneer. The first to live off world. I can’t go back, for if they saw me return to earth they would be heartbroken. This is everything they had been working for. Those are the things I tell myself to get the thoughts of leaving out of my head. They’ve always worked until now. I’m not sure what’s changed, but what left my mouth next would reassure myself one way or another. “I do not want to live on the f\*cking moon.” When I finally heard myself say those words, the emotion I felt was relief. As if a weight on my back had floated away. I wasn’t happy, and I had finally let myself realize that. I looked to the rocket that took me here years ago, it’s never been more than 100 feet away from me. It always brought me comfort. I knew I could leave whenever I wanted, and that power gave me the will to stay here. But now I’m scared, I’m actually thinking about leaving. If I leave, I can never come back. There’s no assuring that where I’d end up would be any better than here. It’s the safer option the stay, at least for now, I can leave whenever I want. “I’m miserable and I want to leave. I can leave whenever I want. When I leave I can’t come back. I’m miserable and I want to leave. I can leave whenever I want. When I leave I can’t come back.” These thoughts kept me running in circles for over 30 years. I’ve spent my life fighting a war, and I’m the only living thing for thousands of miles. “...No. Not anymore.” I don’t know what had happened, but I was finally done, I was finally ready to take action. No more thinking, it’s time for me to do something for me. With many short hops I was able to get my old self to the rocket. Entering the machine flooded back memories and nostalgia nearly powerful enough to stop myself from bringing power back to the sleeping engines. But it wasn’t enough, I did it. I started the rocket, only to see two words flash on the dashboard. Refuel Required. &#x200B; *This story was written for a podcast about trying new things.

The closing went smoothly, other than the banker spending 20 minutes convincing my buyer to not default on a $400,000 loan. There was a lot of mumbling at their end of the table, and I felt like I was in a different dimension. All the stress. All the stress. I set the only 2 keys to the store on the conference table. One for the handle and the other, the deadbolt. After 48 years in our family, I felt the crush of letting go of something our family owned for so long and for not knowing what tomorrow would look like. I just knew it couldn’t involve the business. When I was 3 years old, my parents bought the local Dairy Queen for three thousand dollars, using Grandad’s money, because- who had three thousand dollars back then? This is where my siblings and I grew up. Watching the summers go by through the ‘floor to ceiling’ glass windows of the 1950’s style 2-window walk-up. Keen to the muscle cars roaring by. Dating the boys who drove them. Sneaking cans of our dad’s Old Style out of the walk-in cooler. This is where I heard of Elvis’ death from our transistor radio that sat on the shelf above the clock. This is where we learned loyalty. “If you want to go to college, go put yourself on the schedule ,” our dad told us. This is where my own children grew up. My daughters, who worked their summers during high school, out-grew the business. The oldest would have nothing to do with it. Nothing to do with helping me. The youngest went to college in Michigan and met and married and stayed. In the end, it was my middle daughter who made me realize that I needed to sell. Alison was my right hand- and there was nothing I couldn’t accomplish with her at my side. We sold thousands of cakes each summer. She custom-decorated and air-brushed colors to perfection. We had midnight-madness sales on the 4 th of July. We grilled hot dogs for charity on parade day. She helped make out the schedules. She ran the store on days I had to attend events when I served as Village Trustee. She was head of the DQ Crew, and everyone loved her. Once, she gathered up the employees to tell them they were starting a Union. Dairy Queen Local #1, of course. I wanted to be in it, but she explained to me that’s now how it worked. The crew built a playlist of ‘favorite songs of that summer’ that we Spotify to each other to this day. From Wham to Enrique to Milli Vanilli to BSB and Disco Inferno. ‘80s at 8 was non-negotiable. It’s what we listened to. But, in real life, Alison was an inner-city high school teacher living 45 minutes away. She was on the negotiating team for CTU Local #1 when they were headed for a strike. Meetings would last well into the night. She coached girls’ softball and then also played softball with her friends in a summer league. She was taking classes to become a board-certified instructor, and a principal. She had a big life. She lived like there was no tomorrow, and I knew that she would never abandon me, so I needed to abandon it. Because I also knew, I could never run the store without her-nor did I want to. The DQ Crew I loved came back every summer throughout high school and college, but then the day came when they got a ‘real job’ and didn’t return. The weight grew heavier. I came alone to the closing. I suppose my brother could have come- but he had been a teacher for so long he wasn’t part of it anymore. He came last night to say goodbye to the old building. We signed our family names in sharpie marker on the concrete under a loose wall tile and then screwed it down. It was his idea. I thought it was genius. My father once told me, “Nancy, don’t ever sell that store.” But, Dad, you wouldn’t recognize the city anymore. His words so heavy. Dad taught high school Industrial Arts for 30 years. Coached varsity basketball for half of those and was the only coach to win the SICA Championship in 1963. For all of the years I stood behind that sliding window, students from years past asked about the Coach, and I would give them an update: he was out running around for me or up in Canada fishing. He was fine. When he passed, the whole town knew. And the whole town came to the funeral. I went back to the high school to get his championship basketball and all the photos of his teams over the years. Everyone at the funeral found them a joy to look at. My attorney handed me an envelope, I stood and forced a smile. I swallowed very hard and paused. I wished him well. The best of luck. But, he was already successful. He had several stores in another town and a baby on the way. I left the closing and drove for the last time to the ice cream stand I loved for so long and would love forever and pulled into the lot before the new owner came. “She’s a pretty girl,” I whispered to myself and kissed the concrete wall that had carried me - literally carried me through the hardest times in my life because, to me, the place was joy. It was a safe place. The world that I built inside these walls was safe. The employees came back year after year, and we bowled together, had movie nights, Taco Bell food runs, and water-gun fights. We cried in the walk-in cooler and held therapy in the bathroom. We shared cigarettes. We landed a spot on a morning talk show because the host lived nearby and loved our ice cream. And every so often, TP’d peoples’ houses and left an abandoned couch on their lawn. We were a: Dilly-dipping Banana splitting Sundae-topping Blizzard-blending Cone-krunching Smile-serving DQ Crew

Quick note! This is my first piece of writing EVER. So any kind of criticism is welcome, do not be afraid to hold back! This is based on a Video Game called Spec Ops; The Line. so expect spoilers for the game if you haven't played it yet. This is kind of like an intro to a story I plan on writing if people like this short story I wrote on it. Thanks! "You know, Captain, we drove through this whole city to find you. We... We Saw things. If you don't mind me asking, what was it like? How did you survive all this?" "...who said I did?" I am Captain Martin Walker of Delta Squad, and I am the good guy. I saved Dubai. I saved all five thousand of them left when I arrived. Those bodies? All hallucinations. I didn't cause that, good guys don't do that, they save them. Lugo and Adams didn't die, they're still in America at the base. This was a lone op. Konrad wasn't corrupt. There was never a revolution. The CIA was never here. The rebels were the bad guys. The 33rd were the good guys. I was apart of the good guys. I didn't cause any of that madness to happen. It's Konrad. He did it. All of it. I didn't cause Lugo and Adams to die. I didn't kill all those people. I didn't kill every single survivor. I didn't end the lives of hundreds of soldiers saving the civilian population. I did not let that CIA operative burn alive in that truck. I did not leave the entire population without water. Conrad did that. I was only following orders. I am the good guy. I am the good guy. ...am I the good guy? Did I really let Lugo die, and then open fire on unarmed civilians? Did I really kill the people trying to save the civilians? Did I destroy their supply of water? Did I really leave Adams to die? Were their lives worth so little to me? Did I singlehandedly kill all 5,000 people left in Dubai? Was I really following orders? Did I have a choice? Why didn't you stop? Why did you kill the good guys? This is all your own fault, Walker. You'll never be a hero. I am not the good guy. I am not the good guy. You never were. I killed them all. Lugo, Conrad, Adams. All 5,000 of them. All of their blood on my hands. The image of the mother and daughter melting in each other's arms will forever be etched in my memory. The image of Lugo hanging 20 feet in the air having the life drained out of his body will forever be etched in my memory. The screams of those civilians, of Adams. Do I really care about any of that? Ha, I wish I did. I am not Captain Martin Walker, he died back in Dubai. All of Delta Squad died. I am not the good guy. You're a shell of who you were, Walker. I could have stopped all of it, yet I was determined to ruin everything. For what? Just because I felt like being a hero? Well, look at what you've done Walker. Do you feel like a hero yet? Sure, I guess I killed them all, but am I really to blame at this point? They got in my way. I bashed that soldier's head in because he was going to kill me. I didn't go too far. He could've been alive. And why would I need to waste a bullet on a dying man like Riggs? I didn't trust the old man in the first place, plus he was already going to burn to death. Why not save the bullet for the next person to step in my way? Those civilians weren't innocent. They were going to be trained. Everyone there was against me. Lugo and Adams didn't trust me, and they paid the price. No one followed my orders, and look at 'em now? Who's the sane one here? The ones who fell or the one who slayed the giant? Who is truly sane here Walker? The sane don't justify the murder and torture of hundreds of people, good or evil. The Sane are peaceful, and quiet. The sane are the dead, and the living are truly insane. "Hey, Walker, you OK back there? You seem to be quiet. Anything you need to say?" "I am fine." No you're not, Walker. You'll never be just fine again. "By the way, I'm Sergeant Roberts. Next to me is Private Ryan and next to you is Corporal Jacobs. We're apart of Falcon-1." He is a sergeant Walker, just like Lugo was. "We're supposed to meet up with the Colonel if, and when we found you, Captain. We're roughly 10 clicks out. I would suggest that someone of your state to get some rest, god knows you'll earned it." You don't deserve anything, Walker. "I'll rest. Wake me when we arrive." "Your orders, Captain.

Everyone in the class noticed it immediately. Pam was missing. The teacher wore a grave expression that she soon replaced with a rehearsed smile. Something was wrong. “Okay class! Pop quiz.” Every student straightened their backs. There was no time to dwell on their missing peer as sheets of paper made their way onto each desk, excluding that of Pam. “You may turn over your papers on the hour.” A measly thirty seconds until the needle on the clock would meet its mark. The students took the opportunity to dry their sweaty palms, and at the tap of the teacher’s heel, they all flipped over their papers in unison. A singular question graced that pure white canvas. Where did Pam go? They looked up at the teacher. Her eyes spoke a thousand words that no one understood. How were they to know? A student raised his hand. “Yes?” The teacher spoke, her voice a haze, a mere lull in the overbearing silence. “What are the stakes?” The student asked. His classmates were wide-eyed, shaken to the core with a reverberating terror. They each knew well enough that failing one of the teacher’s pop quizzes would have consequences. But Mark was the first one brave enough to ask. The teacher took a few seconds to think. “The window seat.” All the students looked at the girl sitting alone by the window of the classroom. She would never participate in class, nor speak to anyone outside of it. The window seat had claimed her, and it was bliss. To her belonged the sole privilege of witnessing the world beyond those concrete walls. She had no name, and no recollection of herself, but she was more important than she could ever know. The class became filled with the noise of pen on paper as students began scribbling down their answers. Johannes looked around until his eyes landed on the girl by the window. She looked outside, her ears deaf to the goings-on of the classroom, and beheld a lush, green field, lit by rays of light peering through fluffy white clouds. The wind rustled the grass, and the mesmerized girl followed the motions of each blade as it swayed to and fro. A few moments later, her eyes landed on another girl who she didn’t recognize. The girl seemed almost translucent. She walked to the window, and on it wrote a message with a black marker. The girl then left, beyond the window’s field of view. The student by the window stared at the message, wide-eyed. BREAK IT. As if she had said it aloud, every other person in the class turned their head towards her. The girl by the window was panicking. The students began to converge on her, slowly. Johannes shook his head and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out what looked to be a remote and pressed a button labeled “END”. In an instant, the classroom vanished. Johannes looked defeated as he sat in a dimly lit room whirring with machinery, his ears tickled by the gentle hum of a tube light above his head. He raised his head slightly to look at an unresponsive Pam lying on the bed in front of him. Johannes raised an audio recorder to his mouth, hit “RECORD”, and began to speak. “Attempt 88: Failure” Johannes spoke, his voice shaking. He continued in a low, tired voice. “Pam’s still stuck in her Warden Space. She sits by the window and doesn’t know who she is. The artificial construct of Pam that I made escapes, and the teacher begins a quiz to find her. The construct attempts to communicate with the real Pam through the window, but she panics and the space becomes unstable.” With a click, Johannes ended the recording, and let out a deep sigh. He couldn’t say how long he had been at it. Where he was, time tended to blend together, layer upon layer until it became a mass large enough to smother all hope and ambition. When it became too much, and his surroundings began to buckle, Johannes would remind himself of Pam. The girl he loved. For her, he would break himself. Johannes stood up and went outside the shack. The starry sky brought solace, and the calm air caressed his back, running its gentle fingers through his hair. Johannes took out his phone and dialed a ten-digit number. The voice that answered from the other end was his. “Hello?” the voice spoke. The sounds of cutlery and smooth jazz could be heard in the background. “It’s me again” Johannes answered. “Look, you have to listen to me. Pam’s gonna-“ “Oh for f- I thought I blocked this number. Stop-“ “Please, just- “ “ Stop calling me. I can’t help you.” The voice hung up, and as it fizzled away, despair found Johannes again. The sky droned and the ground beneath him began to quake. Elsewhere, in a distant memory, Johannes sat on a dinner table at his favorite restaurant, his brow furrowed in frustration as he put his phone aside. “Scams getting elaborate day by day” he mumbled to himself. “You’re mumbling again”, a girl sitting opposite him spoke. “Huh? Yeah, I know, what about it?” She laughed. He smiled. “So,” she began after a brief pause, “ are those your dad shoes?” “They might be. Enough about me though” Johannes demanded, raising his glass to drink out of it. “You said something about getting tested?” “Oh, yeah. The doctors think I’m a Warden.” “What do those guys do again?” Johannes asked. “Sorry, I get them confused.” “Mhmm, sure you do. Wardens make spaces. Like whoever made this restaurant.” “Oh, right....” Johannes thought about it for a moment, looking around. Every inch of their surroundings was artificially constructed by the wandering thoughts of a mysterious Warden. Was the Warden still in here? Or did they break free? Not every Warden could escape their masterpiece, but the ones that did could profit from their creation forever. A pipeline to success if there ever was one, but with a dear price to pay for a mind lacking resilience. “If you’re a Warden, then” Johannes began, “what’re you gonna make?” The girl paused for a moment. Her face, initially invested in conjuring a genuine response, took on an air of mischief as a joke creeped into her mind. “Remember that rant you posted on the school website eight years ago? Something about-“ “Don’t” Johannes said, knowing where this was going. “-pop quizzes?” “It got me suspended, yeah, I know. I called it flowery; they called it vulgar.” The girl giggled. “Maybe I’ll trap you in a classroom.” Johannes sipped his drink once more. “You’ll probably get carried away and trap yourself in there too.” “Then I guess you’ll have to break me out” she responded in jest. Johannes scoffed, a smirk forming on his face. “I guess I will, Pam.” Another Johannes, sporting gray hair and baggy eyes, entered the shack and returned to the room where Pam lay silently. His eyes lingered on her stagnant body for a few moments as he composed himself. He had to stay calm. He wasn’t a Warden, and yet he had made the space in which he stood, all to save her. He breathed deep, and with half a heart and a tattered mind, he uttered those words that had now lost all meaning. “Let’s go again.”

In the suffocating confines of an office tower, where the air pulsated with the dissonant symphony of ringing phones and clicking keyboards, I found myself immersed in a world of concealed machinations and sinister undertones. Amidst the labyrinthine maze of cubicles and flickering fluorescent lights, I prowled with silent intent, my long auburn locks a flame in the dimness. My light blue eyes, like frozen pools of uncertainty, held secrets buried deep within the recesses of my soul. As I meandered through the shadowed corridors of the office, the whispers of unseen forces echoed in the recesses of my mind. Each fleeting encounter with Sarah, the gossiping receptionist, and Marcus, the brooding IT specialist, sent shivers down my spine, as if their very presence threatened to unravel the fragile facade I clung to. But it wasn’t the petty squabbles of office politics that gnawed at my sanity; it was the gnawing weight of a legacy I could scarcely comprehend--a legacy woven from the strands of ancient sorcery and unspeakable power. For I was no mere mortal bound by the chains of mundane existence; I was a vessel for the legacy of my bloodline--a lineage steeped in the dark arts and veiled in obscurity. And it was this legacy that ensnared me in a web of deceit and treachery, where the line between reality and nightmare blurred into oblivion. Within the labyrinth of my own mind, I unearthed fragments of a forgotten history--a history shrouded in darkness and steeped in mystery. In this alternate reality, a profound absence loomed--a void where knowledge and enlightenment should have flourished, but instead, ignorance and superstition reigned supreme. Armed with the weight of this revelation, I embarked on a perilous journey into the depths of my own soul--a journey fraught with peril and riddled with uncertainty. Each clue unearthed and obstacle overcome brought me closer to unraveling the enigma that bound me to my fate. But lurking in the shadows, a malevolent force conspired to thwart my every move--a force driven by insatiable hunger for control and domination. As I delved deeper into the heart of darkness, I realized that the true enemy lay not in the shadows, but within myself--a manifestation of my deepest fears and darkest desires. With my very sanity hanging in the balance, I faced off against the specters of my own mind, my auburn hair aflame with the fire of desperation. And as I teetered on the precipice of oblivion, I knew that the fate of humanity rested in my hands. As I walked to the kitchen, I accidentally stumbled upon Annie, our new Intern. I tried to steady her as the box in her hands tumbled out from her grasp and thumped to the ground. With the fall, the box’s lid shuffled over to the side, revealing a rectangular object with a sturdy cover and thin, flexible sheets bound along one edge, adorned with colorful designs. I couldn’t believe my eyes. As I stretched out my hand to reveal the object within, Annie hesitated, her expression unreadable, torn between conflicting emotions. Before I could decipher her reaction, she forcefully shut the lid back on and sped away with the box, leaving me with a befuddled ache and lingering questions about her sudden departure. The encounter left me with a haunting sense of unease, as if I had glimpsed a fleeting glimpse of a truth too dangerous to comprehend. Later that day, while passing by Marcus’s desk, I casually asked him about Annie, hoping to glean some insight into her mysterious past. “Hey Marcus, have you noticed anything unusual about Annie?” I inquired, trying to sound nonchalant. Marcus glanced up from his computer screen, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Oh, I see what’s going on here,” he teased, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “You’ve got a little crush on our new intern, don’t you?” My cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I stumbled over my words, trying to clarify that my curiosity was purely professional. But Marcus just chuckled knowingly and went back to his work, leaving me to ponder the mysteries of Annie’s enigmatic persona on my own. The following month, as I delved deeper into the shadows of the office tower, the whispers of unseen forces grew louder, echoing in the recesses of my mind like sinister sirens calling me towards the abyss. Each step I took felt like a battle against an invisible tide, threatening to drown me in a sea of deception. But it wasn’t just the weight of my own legacy that burdened me; it was the knowledge that others were watching, waiting to pounce upon any misstep or revelation. I could sense the eyes of unseen adversaries boring into my soul, their intentions as murky as the depths of the ocean. And then there were the whispers--hushed conversations in dark corners, fleeting glimpses of figures disappearing around corners. It was as if the very walls of the office tower were alive with secrets, each one a dagger poised to strike at the heart of my quest. But amidst the chaos and uncertainty, one thing remained clear: Annie held the key to unlocking the mysteries that shrouded the missing invention. Her sudden disappearance only fueled my determination to uncover the truth, but it also raised alarm bells in the recesses of my mind. What dangers lurked in the shadows, waiting to ensnare those who dared to seek the truth? And what role did Annie play in this deadly game of cat and mouse? As I passed by Marcus’s desk, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew more than he let on. His playful teasing masked a deeper understanding of the dangers that lurked in the shadows, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was hiding secrets of his own. But I had no time to dwell on his enigmatic demeanor. The clock was ticking, and with each passing moment, the shadows grew darker, threatening to swallow me whole. I had to find Annie, no matter the cost, for only she held the answers that could save humanity from the abyss of ignorance and superstition. And so, with determination burning in my heart and uncertainty gnawing at my soul, I plunged deeper into the labyrinth of the office tower, ready to confront whatever darkness lay in wait.

A little back story, I hated my creative writing teacher in highschool because she wouldn't let us be creative. As a result I would write really stupid stories that made no sense just to piss her off. I found this old assignment in my Google doc's today. Without further delay I present Howard's New Shoes Howard was a young boy who lived in poland, in the year of 1926. He lived in the city of Radomsko with his Mother, Father, and beloved pet tortoise named Kip. Ever since he burst from his mothers loins Howard had stinky feet, the local children and adults took to calling him "Stankfoot". No doctors could Diagnose the cause of his stinky feet, he was told his feet would always stink. Years passed and Howard had gotten used to the name stankfoot, he thought about changing his name perminately to stank foot. When Howard was about 12 years old a wizard came to the town of Radomsko, although he looked more like a bum everyone had a gut feeling he was a wizard. The wizard was named DeMarcus he claimed to be from the country of Jamaica. DeMarcus spotted Howard walking along the street one day, and he knew he was "The one". DeMarcus thought of a plan to lure Howard into talking to him, after a week of brainstorming DeMarcus decided that he would hit Howard in his van. DeMarcus hid in the weeds of a vacant lot across the street from Howards home, DeMarcus sat in the weeds for so long he started to feel funny. The weeds he was sitting in released a spore when disturbed and he had been breathing in the spores for so long he didnt get enough oxygen to his brain. DeMarcus spotted Howard and his beloved Kip out for a walk. DeMarcus got into his van and took off towards Howard and Kip, It hadn't occured to DeMarcus that walking Kip was quite the task given that he was a tortoise. DeMarcus did a lap of the block to give them time to get farther away from home, as he rounded the corner to get back onto Howards street he spyed Howard, and Kip who had only moved a few inches. DeMarcus did many more laps to pass the time. Howard had noticed the van with the seahorse on the side pass him many times and became frightened, he picked up Kip and took off running. DeMarcus saw his opporotunity and took it, he sped up and hit Howard head on, Howard flew up in the air and landed in a bush nearby. DeMarcus hopped out of the van to finish his plans with Howard, as DeMarcus approached he tried to act worried. Howard was left unharmed but convinced he needed to call the police, DeMarcus insisted he didn't need the police involved, because of his many misdemeanors. After a long and drawn out argument DeMarcus's plan had worked, DeMarcus was elated. DeMarcus Recovered a box from his van, he presented it to Howard. In the box was a pair of shoes that would cure Howard of his smelly feet. Demarcus had generously offered them to Howard for the price of 185 Zloty's which equals 50 dollars and 21 cents in U.S. Dollars. Howard was oblivious to the scam because of his desire to not smell. He foolishly accepted DeMarcus's offer. Howard went home to his worried parents and explained how he bought new shoes that would cure his stinky feet. His parents asked where they were and he pointed to his feet. The shoes did not cure Howard, but made him smell worse. That was the day Howard was known as "Stanky Howard" and the day DeMaracus Johnson became the most succesful con-man in the Polish and Jamaican wizard community.

This story contains references to violence and mental health issues, and mentions of blood. I take my mother's axe from beside the door. It's heavy in my hands, the wood smoothed from use and yet still rough enough to cause blisters. The blade is dulled, like my reason. We’re about the same age, this axe and I. It makes sense that we would be a little worse for wear. I'm not used to the idea of weapons, especially in my own hands. It's not a thought that's crossed my mind until recently. Momma would not have categorized this as a weapon. It was for chopping wood, that was all. In a fight, she would have preferred a gun. My empty hand flies to my pocket. I find the cigarette packet in my overalls and breathe a tiny sigh of relief. I don't use them-never have-but even if I did, I wasn't going to be the one smoking tonight. It was Momma who used to smoke. She'd sit in that old plastic porch chair, in her overalls like mine, huffing and puffing away. Entertaining visitors with exaggerated stories narrated by a husky voice that only years of huffing and puffing on cigarettes can bring about. I can hear it now as I stand in the driveway. Not audible words, or even individual ones. Just the sound of her voice. The cracks and creaks of it. No one can stop me from what I am about to do. There is no one left. It's sort of comforting. Mostly, though, it makes me ache in a hollow place, and when I start to feel that ache I give the ax a little toss and catch it again in my hand. It almost falls to the ground, but I do catch it. The leaves whisper as I shuffle over the gravel driveway. Because it is summer, they are soft and green. I can move fairly quietly. Not that I need to. There is no one around for miles. Momma would have stopped me from leaving. Would have made me do the dishes, probably, and then told me to get gas whenever I took the old truck to town. Gasoline. Why didn't I think before? Here I am with a lighter and some cigarettes when I can really start a blaze with gasoline. I stand still for a minute, contemplating whether or not to grab the full can, which I know is sitting in the shed. That's when I realize how quiet my brain is. I listen closer, lean forward a little even though that makes no sense because my thoughts are inside my own head and not out in the woods. Silence. May's voice is not there to reproach me. Maybe the echoes of her tangents have finally died out forever. Just because I can-just because they don’t come on their own, and I have the power to summon the words-I imagine what she would say if she were here. Sammy? Where are you going? Immediately I regret it. Now the memories of her will come flooding back. I had known it would happen. Playing with fire will get you burnt. May, with long chestnut hair and deep dark eyes. Clacking away at her typewriter-the one she bought from a thrift store-sweeping the floor to soothe Momma's bad moods, nervously bringing up getting a boyfriend for the first time at dinner one night. Momma's fork had clattered to the plate. Where are you going? Rich, I thought to myself, and I might have said it out loud, too. I had said the exact same thing the night she left- “Where are you going, May?” “Not really sure right now. Don’t worry about me,” she had said, pulling my forehead towards herself to plant a kiss on my hair. For once, I let her, and didn’t fight. May left. Momma left. I am alone. I decide against bringing the gas. Don't really need it. When I reach the road, the darkness has grown heavier, and the stars are peeping out of the sky. A clear night. No cars pass me by as I go along. No one drives along these roads at midnight for no reason, unless maybe they’re characters in a horror movie. A flash of headlights would be an anomaly right now. For some reason I don't feel chilly in the evening air, and the idea of wild animals never crosses my mind. Even if it did, I doubt I would care, now that I have the axe. Their house isn't far. Only a mile, maybe a mile and a half down the road. Don't do this, Sammy. As if May could ever understand anger. That must be what this is-anger. It does not light me on fire the way it used to. It courses coolly through my blood, as though it has been with me so long it is now part of me, inseparable from my existence. I don’t even notice it’s there until I identify it for what it is. Momma wouldn't want this. As if May could ever understand loneliness. Momma understood that, at least. Did she die lonely? I was by her side, but was I enough? Maybe Momma would want it. I don't know what she would have wanted. May doesn't know. She has no right to talk. Doesn't matter, May. This is what I want. You don't mean that. You left. You don't get a say in this. I was going to leave anyway. You don't have to do this, Sammy. I'm doing it for you! My impatience leaps up and I repeat it, whisper-shouting out loud. "I'm doing it for you!" I can see it now, May's ashen face at the news of Sarah's death. The tears that fell behind closed doors. She was always afraid to cry in front of people, even Momma. Probably the one thing we had in common. I can see it now, the police knocking on our door. May, interrogated, because some blonde girl at school reported seeing her with Sarah that night and the news had spread like wildfire. In a small town, people talk. May was innocent, of course. I knew it, Momma knew it, the police knew it. The blonde had lied. Jealousy, I think. Lying Dahlia. Monstrous Dahlia. The gossip flew out of control and May was left to deal with the consequences of it, until finally she couldn't anymore and she left town. As I walk in the darkness, surrounded by the looming shadows of trees and the hum of the crickets, I watch her pack the car. I watch her kiss Momma goodbye. I feel her lips against my hair. I watch her disappear down the road in the station wagon, kicking up dirt as she goes. Innocent, but exiled. Finally I arrive at my destination. Here stands Dahlia's house, at the end of a much shorter driveway than ours, one made of real blacktop, pavement, whatever it’s called. Not gravel. No car there, but that's the way I planned it. The Beaufords are away, visiting their oldest daughter somewhere in another state. The house is empty, its windows dark, its whitewashed porch gleaming in the moonlight. My footsteps don’t crackle over the gravel pathway like they do at my house. I stop once I have reached the top of the porch steps, which don't creak under my weight like the ones at my house. Figures. Everything here is new, expensive, well-kept. The lighter flashes to life, and I watch as the little flame dances in the breeze, casting shadows across the siding of the house. Now is the time. I light a cigarette and resist the urge to put it to my lips, just to see what it's like. Arson is not beneath me, but for some reason I draw the line at smoking. Probably because growing up the smell made me feel sick. Sammy. I groan. She's back. Please don't do this. I drop the cigarette. All I have to do is light another, and another, and another, till the pack is empty and the wood begins to burn. I can plant them inside, too. The axe will help with that. Sammy! No! It is her fault. It is her fault the porch is beginning to smoke. Dahlia's fault. Momma's fault, for leaving me alone like she did. It rises in the air, quicker than I expected. I should have started inside. I hear Sammy screaming at me as I crash through the front door, and pieces of wood and plastic and glass go flying. Then, real screaming. Audible screaming, coming from upstairs. Momma’s axe drops to the floor. "Mom! Dad!" No. They're not home. I planned it that way- Smoke stings my eyes. My arms smart from splinters and bits of glass, and in the flickering light of the fire outside I can see little drops of blood trickling down my legs. Dahlia screams again, and that is when the worst fear comes to mind, the one that makes me seize up like a statue. I will become what May never was. I scream, too. "No!" The tears are falling in rivers, all of a sudden, all down my face. I race up the staircase, fumbling around looking for her. There-an open door. It’s hers. Into Dahlia's room, where she cradles herself on the floor beside her bed, dead cell phone in hand. The smoke has driven her downward. It spread so fast, much faster than I had ever imagined. "Dahlia, come on. Let's get out of here!" Her eyes are wide. She does not know who I am. For a moment I stare at her. This is the girl who drove May away, who caged me in an empty house. Every bitterness I held against her disintegrates and flies away like the ashes past the windows. What have I done? "Help me!" she begs. "Help me!" I grab her arms and pull her off the floor. Clutching one another, we fly down the staircase, sobbing into each other's hair. Down the stairs, out the back door, around to the front again where we can see the massive wall of fire that is Dahlia's house. I fall to my knees, burying my face in the grass. Snot mixes with dirt and I try to hide it from Dahlia, but she only stands with tear-streaked cheeks as she watches her home go up in flames. "I'm sorry," I choke, over and over. To May. To Momma. To Dahlia. Everything blurs. Eventually red lights flash and I know the police are here, the firefighters, the ambulances. I sob to them as they patch up the cuts running down my limbs. Dahlia is silent. And then, as the sobs have finally begun to cease and every tear has been racked from my body, there is May in the old station wagon. She takes me in her arms and for a moment, I see myself again, like I used to be before everyone disappeared. I smell the autumn scent of her perfume, the cinnamon spice of it. She whispers in my ear, comforting words, apologies, when really I should be apologizing to her. The anger is gone. The fire flared and died. I am truly empty now. She leaves me-only briefly, just for a second-to wrap Dahlia in her embrace. And Dahlia clings to her, just like I did. I don't dare hope for forgiveness from her, the blonde, the one who lied. She is crying, calling her parents, explaining to them what happened without knowing how it happened. “It was me,” I tell her. My voice is raspy. She stares at me, blinks, and then turns away to say something to her family on the other end of the phone. No, I don’t dare hope for forgiveness from her. I will forgive her, though. I know May did a long time ago.

“Now.” He would not disobey his father. Even if he was no longer a child, even if it clearly not his fault, he was willing to accept that he was going to have take responsibility. “Yes, dad.” * The best thing about this time of the day was that the house was usually empty and quiet. His younger sister was with her friends at someone’s house (always late for dinner most days; she got permission for this when their mother saw how quickly the tears came); his mother was still at work (pick-up was around 4 pm; another hour to go and then she would fill the house with her cooking and favourite soap opera of the day). The house was free to him. * His father had done this before, but this time was different. It had nothing to do with teasing his sister, being out late, bad grades (not really a problem with his report cards), or not listening to someone older who pretended to be wiser. No this was different. * His hands were on the edge of the wooden kitchen table. He noticed how dirty his father’s fingernails were, even as he noted the thick gloves on the chair that he needed for work. He also noticed a stain on the table that was not covered by a placemat. It was something from a breakfast that he had not eaten. But he had washed all of the dishes and cleared that table when he got home. Why hadn’t he noticed...? * It was a simple issue with his parents. He was now nineteen and everyone was calling him a man. He had done well in school and his grades would guarantee that he would get into the university that he knew would make them proud (Sterling was a day’s trip away by car, and his mother promised to see him when he enrolled and lived on campus). They had let him borrow the other car for school and to see his friends on weekends. He had some part-time work that did not affect his grades (just tutoring others in math and science). He was an adult, they said. A very simple matter. * It was all about desire. * It was his father’s magazine. There was nothing special about the hiding place. It was not even that private (the hallway closet was where he found it, under some towels that he had put away for his mother; real smart move, dad). How silly did his father have to be to do that? Maybe it was an accident... * She was not that beautiful, not by any standard that a teenage boy with limited dating options could see. He had seen girls at the mall and the nearby running lanes who were much more attractive. But she was smiling. She was confident enough to have that photo taken outdoors on a sunny day in an open plain. And she was only a few years older than he (if the biography she supplied was correct). Where did girls like that come from, he thought. They were not in his neighbourhood, or school. Even the attractive ones did not seem to be that confident. What was it that she...? * “Are you even listening? Do you know what you’ve done now?” * What year was that one? 1981? 1982? 83? No, maybe earlier. He remembered how dog-eared some of the pages were and the dress of the girl on the front. He thought about it all now with his father yells and the hand coming down. * She liked gentlemen who hold the door open for strangers, strawberries, science-fiction movies and books (Asimov and Bradbury), and suntans. She disliked rude people, B.O., and junk food. * His father did not stop at the moment he expected it to end. All he had done this time was look at the pictures, nothing else. He had known that his father would be home soon and if he had heard the car in the driveway; if he had heard the front door open... * No, this was different. He was almost done being a teenager. He had saved enough money to move to an apartment with a friend (that would cover at least two months, right?) He kept being told that he was an adult now (hard to see it at times). No girlfriend that mattered; just friends and his education... * Education...this was an education. His father was an education. This was pain and you could learn from this. * He was a man now. He remembered old tears and his whimpering at these kinds of moments. And now...there was nothing there. No, he was no longer feeling it; no tears or whimpers or moans. No, he could no longer feel this. A real discovery. * If he remembered correctly, the next one would be the last one. The last blow. Then a speech and some time apart to think about what he did. He was already thinking about things as his father slammed the front door and started the car. There was something else that needed to be done. * Was this unusual? * He had not really heard the last words. His father’s face had been close and he had smelled the cologne dying on his beard. There was a warning and threat of more pain and his weekend was now gone (again, not really a problem)... “Yes, dad.” * His father had left the room with the rolled up pages, straight down to the kitchen. He made another calculation. * He left the magazine in the kitchen. He did not bring it with him in the car. Now that made sense. He would not want to have it in the car and he would expect his son to return it where he found it. * “Clean up in here, too.” “Yes, dad.” * He heard the car leave. Kevin needed pen and paper for his plan. As he went through his dad’s side of the bedroom, he thought about it. His mother had a routine when she came home and this would work. * This would work. But, he would have to do this carefully. * His mother would be home and she would go right to the kitchen to get dinner ready. There were the pots and pans right under the counter. Yes, that was right. And his father, after checking up to see that his son had put things away, would be stuck in front of the TV waiting to eat. * This would work. It would be better with the letter. * “Mom, Dad tried to hide this from me by putting it in the one place neither of us would look. I found it when he told me to clean up the house before you came home. I could not leave it in its hiding place without making sure that you knew about this, so I decided to leave it in the place where you would have to handle it. My apologies, but you needed to know. And I think that you both have a lot to talk about. I am done talking.” * In his room, Kevin locked the door and began to put things together in his suitcase. He knew that they would be home soon, but his noise-cancelling headphones would block out most of the noise, but he really wondered if he wanted to be around for this. He wanted to acknowledge this and take whatever came his way. Something was finished, and he was ready for it.

“I like you,” as he said this, he studied how the warm light reflected off her face. Her brown eyes embellished the burning light in a way that made them look like they belonged in the depths of some form of royal gold. Her expression was both wide-eyed and blank, she turned her face away looking back at the street with all the people dancing and laughing. Her profile looked more regal with the lights of the festival and the music giving way to her. “It’ll go away, believe me,” she tried to distract herself with the music. Her heart thudded in the bottom of her chest, as she felt his eyes study her like an old diagram. If she was ever good at hiding things, it was not in this moment. In each step she had taken with him, there were both guiding beams of sunlight that led her forward, but also signs that the sun would set on the affair between the two. Summer would be over soon and they would return to their normal lives. He moved closer and guided her face with his hands to look into his eyes. She would have jerked at this a few months ago or pulled away like a feral animal that was disturbed by human touch. Behind the hardened glass cover of her eyes was a softness that sat like a leaf on the surface of a pond. “It won’t,” he muttered in an attempt to prevent the argument he knew was coming. She grabbed his hands and lowered them away from her face gently, “I promise it-” “No. I told you it won’t.” His hands dropped to his side abruptly, a snort echoed out as his nostrils flared slightly. He felt agitated with her avoidance of his feelings, it was callous and chilling. “Why are you being so needlessly combative about this?!” “Why are you being so needlessly pushy about this?” She shot back in retort to his former comment. The sparks that started between the two upon first meeting were now more apparent than ever. The push-and-pull dynamic of their bickering was something that became a draw for both of them, but held shines of a nuclear bomb ready to ignite and go off at any time. “Because I-” “You what? You’d be deprived of another notch in your belt, another conquest?” She had memories flushing into her mind of the way he spoke about former lovers and the person he was previous to the situation, he was like a small fire that was too stubborn to be put out, even in the harshest of conditions. In all her attempts to escape what had developed within her, she found herself further entrapped in her struggle. A fight between her judgment and passion, wishing providence would allow safe passage. “Stop it!”He cried at her, she never understood how deeply her words cut and how brazen they were to his ego. Spending your entire life in comfort causes the first touch of a metallic and cold scalpel to truly be felt. Even if one’s intention were good, the words of the higher will were still the most terrifying reflection to see without preparation or appeal. “You clearly stated your history in early conversations, why wouldn’t I make some form of a judgment on it!” The young woman shouted, her eyes staring into his with depth and frustration before averting them once again. His gaze was still as burning as it had always felt in these past few months, whether it was out of frustration or bliss. He pulled her close to him, his eyes stared into hers, “I don’t want to be that way with you.” She could feel that small, unseeable, thread connect her to him. The steps and movements taking place in both their psychologies were all too apparent in eyes of the fighting half-couple. Bystanders across the street looked at them and without knowing the words being said could see that for the two people arguing it felt like a bomb was being dropped in their small world. “You say that now, but before too long you’ll get bored and go back to the way you were,” her heart broke as she said this, wanting to believe different. “So you can just judge me?” The boy asked, feeling accused and dismayed at the idea that he could never fully please her or meet the standards she set. The chasm between the two only seemed to widen at this realization and he felt something in him tear while another fought to mend it. “Everyone makes judgments, we make them every day of our life,” she said knowing it would be milliseconds before he snapped back. She wished it was easier to forget this happened, to feel his finger untwine from hers for the last time, for their gazes to no longer meet and her not desire him. In months, she would find herself falling asleep and saying small prayers to forget his face, at this point, it was like ripping a band-aid off. A painful task that needed to be done. “And why do you get to judge how I’ll behave in the future, why don’t you think I would change?!” His heart swelled, and rose-like thorns constricted at the constant analysis of her words. Whatever sensitivity that was covered in words of body counts and verbal ego boosts, was rearing its ugly head in face of her chastity. If she could take it away from him she would, and if he could remove her doubts he do so as well. The young woman finds herself on the verge of tears, in pain at the words coming from both of them. She found herself utilizing every muscle in her body to restrain it. “I don’t know if you would change! I don’t!” She wanted to take back what she said, but it was too late. Her sharp words had carved into him, far surpassing their usual level of playful banter. They probed him into a venom-laced act of pleading that everyone did when they were about to lose something. “But what if I will?” His eyes softened again, and the harsh voice in him ceased. He loomed over her as he could fall into her arms, his eyes begged her to stay and not leave him. It was painful that they were both here, but at least for him, he knew he would have done the same thing again. Approach her from across the room, bother her on the day-to-day, ask her questions and slowly feel a warmth between the two develop. A cycle of pain that he would choose to let happen even if given the chance to change. She allowed herself to lay a gentle hand on his arm, she avoided his glance at first and then looked into his eyes. “Listen, I like you, and I hope you will, but there are legitimate obstacles here.” “Like what?” He leaned closer, wanting to kiss her as she backed up a step. Her nerves felt wrecked in both a signal of affection and disdain. “A difference in temperament, a difference in the worlds we were raised in, a difference in relation to family, a difference in theology (in your case a lack of it), and most of all, a chasm between us in terms of spirituality.” Her list left part of him detonated, she had felt as if her intestine was being slowly pulled out of her body as she methodically listed each point. The lights in the back setting of the streets drew the gold tints out of her sad eyes, and he took notice of this. It stung him because the golden color they elicited would forever remind him of her. The warmth and proudness that was simultaneously displayed in her. She would sit with those big eyes gazing at you and also smugly take you down in a verbal battle. She was such a strange and otherworldly creature. One who was outside the bounds of what he had considered beautiful before this. His hands held her wrists as his thumbs made small circles around them. He looked back at her only to see those eyes taking him in as he was now. “I wish I could give you a reply that showed greater understanding, if I could bend you to see things my way, I would,” he sighs. “If I could guide you with tenderness to see things on my end, I would.” “Can I believe that?” “I would walk that canyon to show you good if you would see it,” she said with longing behind her eyes. No tears were shed at the moment but that night they would be. He took her hand as if imitating the small thread that would link them together in a chaotic cross of paths. “I can't believe we’re arguing over this,” he said out loud, looking into her eyes with pleading earnestness that could emerge amongst long hours together and summer heatwaves. I can’t believe I let this happen

Jay stared at the illustrious NY Times Crossword Puzzle. Besting one of these bad boys brings all the glory, gold, and girls that should come with such an accomplishment, and Jay was especially interested in the lady part (and their lady parts). Of course, using pencil is what the lesser heroes did. Finishing a genuine NY Time Crossword Puzzle with all the smudges of hundreds of mistakes and second thoughts smeared across every square, garnered no respect whatsoever. Jay would be spit on, literally by the Spit Brigade, if he were to finish such a glorious and powerful etymological challenge like the NY Times Crossword Puzzle using something as pathetic and limp dicked as a pencil. It makes me want to spit just thinking about a man, or someone who dares to call himself a man, to actually go through with such an act. Disgusting coward. Pitiful wretch. Imprudent rat. That's why Jay uncapped his good pen, the pen gifted to him by his grandfather for his timely passing into the afterlife. Oh, Jay's Grandfather, completer of over twenty NY Times Crossword Puzzles in pen, and boldly, a few of those puzzled were marked with perfection with an ultrafine tip Sharpie marker in the devious shade of crimson twilight. Yes, Jay's Grandfather was lauded for that accomplishment. In his hometown, he never had to pay for another spaghetti dinner again, a perk passed down to his progeny. Jay's belly was freshly full of spaghetti, grandfather earned spaghetti, as he inhaled deeply the still potent fumes of that crimson twilight ultrafine tip Sharpie marker. A giddiness washed over him, and he couldn't help but giggle with boyish excitement. The rush of adrenaline filled his loins like a spilled bowl of spicy chili soaking into a pair of grey sweatpants. He gathered himself with a sharp exhale of pure focus, whistling slightly. *Mathematical relation like 2:1 or 4:3* "Ratio" *Growing older* "Aging" *Small, to the French* "Petit" With each correct answer, Jay became more confident. He was standing now, hunched over his kitchen table with his shirt unbuttoned. The clues were practically solving themselves now. He felt like a genius savant with some sort of divine birthright to solve and conquer any and all NY Times Crossword Puzzles with ease. Unbridled laughter escaped his open mouth and wide grin. *Framework of wood strips* "LATTICE!" *View from Toledo (2 wds.)* "LAKEERIE!!" *Political cartoon, often* "SATIRE!!!" Jay was feeling bold now with so many clues solved. He recklessly picked and chose clues at random without even considering acrosses and downs and the relationships between. There was no need for other clues to help with future clues. Jay could solve this entire puzzle completely uncrossed. The dark red ink soaked into the paper page as if each word were a blood pact made by Jay. A pact, perhaps, that wagered his very soul for the glory of completion. In his fervor, Jay completely tore loose his shirt and discarded it in the trash where it belonged. The sleeves only restricting his possessed arm. Sweat glistened on his increasingly more toned and muscled body. Was this the rush his Grandfather felt each time? Was this what it felt like to be a God amongst mere mortals? Yes, it had to be. The powerful, knobby knuckles of his Grandfather’s ghost hands cupped Jay’s burgeoning shoulders, squeezing with them with an ethereal strength of familial pride. He had left a VIP Heaven Party to descend into the mortal realm in this incorporeal form to watch his grandson, the boy he left behind, no, not a boy anymore, but a full grown man, burly in intellect and whip quick of hand. Yes, Jay’s grandfather smiled and whispered encouraging vapors into Jay’s burning ears. Jay hardly gave pause to the next clue. *Kitchen item* "PAN!!!!" As he stroked the last vertical line of the "N", something didn't feel right. Jay quickly scanned the other clues. His stomach dropped. "If 46 across is *One who gives up* 'QUITTER' then that means the kitchen item can't be 'PAN'... No... no, no, no..." Jay's knees gave way and buckled. The weight of the moment quite literally got to him. He collapsed onto the cold, so much colder than he remembered, tile floor of the kitchen. He stammered to himself, "I should have put 'POT'... I should have... I... No... I couldn't have..." His grandfather's pen capped itself in a sudden show of sentience. Obviously, Jay was deemed unworthy, unfit, downright undeserving of wielding such a relic. The kitchen rumbled and hissed. The table legs exploded, sending wooden shrapnel in every direction. Jay shielded his eyes, but his shirtless body caught a bevy of splinters. They sunk into his skin, stinging mockingly. The puzzle itself glowed harshly and emitted a high-pitched alarm. Jay held his ears in pain until eventually the blaring was enough to destroy his ability to perceive that particular pitch ever again. Just moments ago, he felt fit and strong, but now his muscles ached and weakened. The kitchen fell silent aside from the clattering of dishes from the rumbling. The friendly apparition of the Grandfather himself then twisted into that of an agonized demon and was swiftly ripped to hell, but not before cursing Jay with vile inhuman speech in tongues unknown, in which he made sure Jay’s final image of his own highly-regarded, well-celebrated hero of a Grandfather was that of one of pure contempt and hatred for the boy, a man no more. Encumbered by the weight of his own hubris having fallen so far, sunk so low, Jay crawled out of the kitchen. He apologized to his grandfather, to his father, to any all generations that may follow him. He made a mistake. He foolishly played with forces he could not control. The sirens were outside and fast approaching his abode. The NY Times Crossword Puzzle Police Force. The death squad smashed open Jay's front door, sending more splinters into Jay's naked and withering body. Their stately dress of corduroys and cardigans betrayed their cruel and relentless nature. Their punishment for incorrectly answering clues in pen in their puzzle was swift, vicious, and absolute. Before the tip of Jay's crimson twilight ultrafine tip Sharpie marker even finished Jay's foolhardy answer, the death squad was already gearing up. A large slab of beef, a man as thick and imposing as they come, adjusted his thick turquoise shell glasses so that the glare obscured his cruel eyes. He raised a very clean shotgun to Jay’s pallid, scared face and boomed a statement. "Citizen 06191114: JAY, For the reprehensible and audacious act of attempting to complete a NY Times Crossword Puzzle using a Class 1C writing utensil, and for committing such act with egregious error in answer, we, with the power bestowed upon us by Supreme Emperor of the NY Times, sentence you to death, effective immediately. You may scrawl your last words here before execution." The leader of the death squad tossed a simple sheet of copy paper and a newly sharpened pencil at Jay, who was kneeling pathetically on his knees. His head was hung low. The execution may very well have been a welcome release from the shame and misery his wallowed in. Jay feebly grasped the pencil which snapped under even the slightest of pressure. The death squad opened fire on Jay, relentlessly emptying every shotgun shell in their fully loaded guns into his wilting body. His flesh and bones and face and limbs were blown away utterly and completely. With their work done, the NY Times Crossword Puzzle Police Force marched out Jay's home and back into their tank. A peaceful breeze blew the unmarked sheet of paper over the pulpy remains of Jay. Such is the risk we all take when we do the NY Times Crossword Puzzle in Pen.

November 21, 2022 I’ve got a theory I don’t like. What if there’s a very real chance that the powered flyby we’re doing today could have something go wrong with it. Alarms sounding, the ship burning too slow and falling ever closer to the lunar surface, or burning too hard or too long and flinging Orion, and just as importantly me, on a course out towards deep space. What if NASA did yesterday’s training just on the off chance they needed to get me a little used to alarms going off, and following Mark’s instructions? That’s a big part of my thinking as I make my final preparations before the burn. The moon’s getting really big, really quickly, enough so that there’s actually the impression of “falling” towards it - which is super cool. The most dramatic part or the burn ends up being the view. I’m only 80 nautical miles away at the closest and it’s literally right there. After seeing the moon as a thumb sized ball your whole life when you’re this close it really looks like you could just jump down. I’m going to lose radio contact with NASA as I pass into the lunar shadow and can hear the smile in Mark’s voice when he wishes me a safe 2 hours 36 minutes of radio silence. He had a joke in mind but decided not to say it. It’s a long time to just sit and feel like you’re alone. I’d never really thought of space as “lonely” but there it is. Basically, since day 2 of this mission I’ve been further away from any other human being than anyone has ever been. On the far side of the moon, radio to Earth blocked, it is like being lost at sea. The view keeps me occupied for about a half hour. I take a look for Webb, not that I expect to see it. The James Webb space telescope is, on any pen and paper diagram of the earth and moon, just a few inches further off beyond the moon from earth. In practice that’s more thousands of miles than I can see. But still, it’s “right there”. I eat a Skor bar, using my precious - only get one set in my adult life - teeth to grind caramel and sugar into small enough chunks for me to swallow. And then I read a book. It only half helps. Starship Troopers is an interesting read though - especially when contrasted with the movie. Should people have to demonstrate a willingness to put the collective good ahead of their individual benefits in order to vote? Or are we all on this ship of state together and so it’s important for everyone to get a say in its operations? 2 hours 35 minutes later and the master alarm hasn’t gone off, and I’ve got radio back. NASA’s crunching the numbers to see how it went, but they seem happy with heir first set of readings. “We’ve got a good insertion Alex!” Mark’s got a gentle drawl, like his tongue is in no real hurry to get the words out. “You watching the video upload from radio shadow? The moon looks amazing. I half expected to spot Webb.” I leave out the intentional self-distraction. I can hear the engineers buzzing in the background of the radio. It sounds like each and every single one of them just got a promotion, a bonus, and a text from a crush telling them that they loved them. “Hell Alex, between you and me, right this second, I’m jealous as hell of you,” Mark said. Ouch, that hurt. I honestly thought I deserved this. It was all I’d ever wanted since I was a little damn kid. I’d spent my summers at high school at science camps and dreaming about space, I’d gotten a damn degree in aerospace engineering with damn honors, I’d given NASA three years of my life working for them instead of founding a tech start-up (btw. It would have been called Clarity. An online science repository where studies are organized and cross posted and tracked by topic. Say coffee. You open the entry, and the first thing is the most compelling meta analysis of coffee’s overall health effects, then sub articles about its most significant individual effects. Someone writes a new study about coffee increasing the risk of colorectal disease? It has to “beat” the other studies already up about that in order to get posted. The idea is, you want the state of the art on coffee and you’ve got the top articles right there, and you can zoom in with greater and greater detail revealing more, and more, niche studies, but all of them the leading ones. Science “news” can happen when something in that top line changes.) Anyways... I hadn’t done that. Instead, I’d tried for this. And I got a form letter saying that unfortunately, due to the “keen interest in the astronaut program, many well-qualified applicants such as myself,” didn’t get in. But Moonikin did? An empty seat on the one trip I ever wanted to take. I did, honestly, think I deserved it. Now all I can think about is how Mark must feel exactly the same way, except he got even closer. Yet here I am, and there he is. I cheated and got what he wanted. Everyone at NASA must feel like that. I’m such an asshole. I give things a few hours back at NASA to calm down. They’d be having champagne and enjoying the win. Mission control might not even be too crowded. “Mark?” “Yeah, how’s it go’in up there buddy?” He didn’t sound like he’d been drinking. Probably on shift. I couldn’t hear much in the background anymore. “Can you do me a favor? I’m going to need a lawyer for when I get back. Think you could find me someone?” There’s a long pause at that. “NASA wants to keep you being up there kind of close to the chest for the time being. This is kind of their moment in the sun, and they’d rather not have clouds right now.” “Yeah... No problem.” If NASA were asking for a favor, I definitely owed them a few billion. “Hey, look on the bright side. So far the mission’s been going off without a hitch. You’re due a mission glitch, and maybe it saves you the worry of a trial.” The funny thing about the radio, if you say something, then cringe at having said it, the person on the other line will have a hard time knowing. I very much heard Mark cringe. He must have had a couple of glasses of champagne after all. But hey, I don’t believe in bad luck or jinxes. You hear that God? I dare you to do something to me! Smite me! See? Still alive and unsmitten. Smitted. Whatever, I’m an engineer not a linguist. Still... I’d kind of deserve it. \*\*\* I’m Nathan H. Green, a science-fiction writer with a degree in aerospace engineering, and I’m going to be doing daily semi-fictional stories tracking the Artemis I mission. You can follow along through my reddit (u/authornathanhgreen). *Artemis I Has A Stowaway* is a work of semi-fiction. All incidents, events, dialogue and sentiments (which are not part of the mission’s official history), are entirely fictional. Where real historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, sentiments, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events, personality, disposition, or attitudes of the real person, nor to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. Save the above, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. © 2022 Nathan H.

With every sound of the door opening, Emily’s heart stopped for a second. Every time she lifted her head and stared at the door with the hope that the person for whom she was waiting for finally came. But then with a deep sigh, she continued reading the menu while hesitating if she made the right decision to come. She hasn’t seen her dad since her parents got divorced, she stayed with her mom, and her dad left with another woman. She ordered a big cup of herbal tea to get warm. She came earlier so she didn’t want to sit there without any drink, food, or company like a freak. Her feet were getting cold from the frosty breeze crawling from the door. It was a snowy winter morning and the only thing glowing through the snowstorm were shop signs, traffic and street lights, and last but not least, thousands of little shiny Christmas lights surrounding the city. The snow was creaking under the legs of people courageous enough to step out of their houses in such weather. "Hi Emily, “, said the man standing on her left covered in clothes as if he was headed to the North Pole. Emily didn’t even notice him coming while she was gazing through the window adorned with rime. "You came... Hi” Her dad joined her by the table. They were both looking around the place and trying to think about something that wouldn't sound dumb to say at that moment. He was tapping his fingers on the wooden table when Emily interrupted this endless and excruciating silence "So why did you want to meet after all this time, dad?". He knew he deserved that harsh and confused tone of her voice. “I...” his voice cracked “I want to be a part of your life. But, of course, only if you want me to”. It sounded more stupid than in his head. He didn’t know what he was doing when he decided to call Emily and ask her to meet him to talk. And he was almost completely sure she wouldn’t even answer the phone, not to say that she would agree to come to this vintage café. And she had all the right to do so. He knew he screwed up their relationship badly when he left with Josie when he and Emily’s mother got divorced. Emily was just 11 years old. At first, he was visiting her every weekend, then every other weekend, then only once a month and at some point, he stopped seeing her completely. The only thing he kept on doing was sending her birthday and Christmas cards. He watched her and he could tell by her face that her brain was on fire. “I’m sorry I’m confused. You know, it was a long time ago that we even spoke.” She took a sip from her tea and got her tongue burned a little but she didn’t even notice. Every kid wants to spend time with their parents. But what should anyone do in a situation like this one? To run out of the place and slam the door? To reproach him for what he did, for all those times she cried because of him? To refuse his offer and not to let him in her life when he finally wants to be there for her? Or ... To forgive? “Are you sure you want this?” she sighed because she remembered vividly how many times his actions caused her sorrows “Because if you are not completely sure about this then there is no point in even trying” She predicted what he would say. Of course, he wants to become a real dad now. That’s what he’ll say. But will he keep his word or will it end the same way as it ended 6 years ago? Nobody can tell her what is going to happen. Nobody can predict if her dad will truly change. But it isn’t right to not even try because she is afraid of a letdown, tears, anger, or sadness that might come. She looked at his dad, but he could tell by her eyes, her beautiful amber eyes, that she is willing to meet him again. He pulled himself together and answered decisively “I moved back here to Prague. Me and Josie. We got an apartment just a few minutes by bus from here. Yes, I’m sure. I wouldn't come here if I wasn't.” He caught a slight smile on her face and that made him even more determined. Never could he lose his little girl again. The guilt for abandoning her was ceaselessly expanding. He tried to chase away those thoughts, waiting for what she was going to say. “One chance,” she said and started putting her coat on. “If you’ll screw it up again, that’s it, no more excuses”. She pulled out an agenda from her bag, asked her dad for a pen, and quickly wrote something. Then she said the last thing and walked out to the snowstorm “Friday, pick me up at 7 p.m. Don’t be late.” She came back from the door as she forgot something. "And Merry Christmas" she added, now with a soft smile on her face and danced away. When she got lost in the tangle of people rushing with their heads pressed to their chest, he just sat there for another 10 minutes with his mind full of hope. He put his cap on and walked down the street. There was a family, parents with two kids, one girl and one boy, all holding each other’s hands. The girl was almost too alike his daughter, Emily. All these memories from her childhood started to come back. Her first words, their first Christmas as a family, him trying to teach her how to ride a bike ... A big tear flew down his cheeks red from the cold. But it wasn’t a sad tear. At least not completely. Even though he was walking in the opposite direction than her daughter, he knew that soon their paths will cross again. And everything will be okay.

Harold Nussbaum, a jeweler, has spent the last fifty years of his life running his jewelry store. He had always imagined retiring to a life of luxury, traveling the world on his private yacht, and sipping tropical drinks on sandy beaches. Serafina, Harold's wife, got increasingly impatient and restless over the years, eventually convincing Harold to retire after years of nagging and threatening to leave. But there was one problem: he had never invested, and his business was constantly teetering above the brink of insolvency. His wife had no idea how bad things were. She would spend her nights fantasizing about vacations, cruise ships, and winters in Florida, whereas Harold could barely afford winters in Trenton, New Jersey, where his house mortgage would be underwater in a matter of months. With his last day approaching, the business was certainly his most valuable asset. Unfortunately, he had begun discreetly replacing some diamonds with glass and some gold with imitation gold plating over the past five years. This was another reason he wanted to retire; it was just a matter of time before he was caught. Harold was sitting in his store, staring at a bank account with such a low interest that it didn't even round up to a cent, when he got an idea. He'd stage a fake robbery, collect the insurance money, and make up for all his cheating with one large final payday. Harold was excited with his idea and set about putting it into action. First, he needed to cast actors in the roles of robbers. He advertised on Craigslist for actors for a short film. It didn't take long for a band of wannabe thespians and hopefuls to knock on his door. He wrote "Grand Heist," a short screenplay with a final heist scene to take place in the store in front of all the security cameras. To keep up with appearances, he also rented lights, audio equipment, and cameras. Harold chose three actors from a group who agreed to work for free and not ask too many questions. They would gather after hours in the store to rehearse their lines and plan the shoot. "What is my motivation for robbing the store?" One of the performers inquired. "You're after the jewels," Harold responded. "Yes, but what is happening with my character beneath the surface?" “Nothing, you don’t have jewels; you want jewels, so you rob a place with jewels.” As he moved about the set, the actor kept his fist under his chin. “Are we feeling a Sidney Lumetesk heist like Dog Day Afternoon or a more sophisticated trickster vibe of the Thomas Crown Affair?” Harold is confused and replies, "the idea is simple: you burst into the store, demand all the jewelry, and leave." "I don't think my character would rob this bank," said a female actor. "It's a jewelry store," Harold said. "Will this film be listed on IMDB?" The third actor spoke out. "Yes, that's a valid question; will there be a make-up trailer?" The female actress chimed in. “Make-up? You’ll be wearing a mask for the robbery?” Harold responded. "Yes, but under the mask, I want to look my best because you never know who will see this," she replied. Harold shook his head and sighed. This was not going according to plan. He had assumed that hiring some actors, practicing a few lines, and then collecting the insurance money would be simple. However, these performers seemed more concerned with their characters and IMDB credentials than with actually helping him with the heist. Despite his reservations, Harold continued with the rehearsals. He knew he had to get this right. The insurance company would never pay out if the robbery did not appear to be genuine. They were finally ready to shoot the film after a few more rehearsals. Harold's heart was beating as he waited for the actors to arrive on the day of the robbery. When they arrived, he gave them a pep talk in an attempt to boost their confidence and get them ready for the big scene. "All right, guys," he began, "we've practiced this a hundred times. Everything will be fine if you just stick to the script." When they finally burst into the store, guns, and masks at the ready, Harold couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. However, things immediately went wrong. When one of the actors slipped and fell, he knocked over a display case and shattered a collection of real, rare, and precious diamonds. Another actor began talking incoherently about his unsuccessful acting career after forgetting his lines. In a panic, the third actor snatched one bag of costume jewelry instead of all the genuine jewels and made a clumsy escape. His plan had completely gone off the rails, and he knew it was only a matter of time until the insurance investigator uncovered it. Harold devised a different plan in order to save this cluster of a plan from disaster. He would steal the remaining jewels and attempt to convince the investigator that the robbers stole much more than one bag. He put all of the bags into the store's basement, where there was hidden room behind a false wall. Harold paid the actors and told them the film would be released in a couple of months, even though he never planned to release anything. They invited him to the rap party, but he had to contact the police and the insurance company first. Donnie Williams, the insurance investigator, logged all of the stolen jewelry and noted that he should receive a check after completing the investigation. Harold also offered the police an edited version of the film in which the actors robbed the store. Detective Morris, a basset hound when it came to solving crimes, was on the case, but Harold wasn't worried. As Detective Morris got closer to the truth, he confronted Harold with discrepancies in the heist video. Harold had no choice but to bash him in the head with a hammer and put his body in the basement with the jewels. Donnie Williams, the investigator, overhears one of the actors talking about the heist film at a bar one night. Donnie plays it coy. The actor tells him about the short film and describes the intricate narrative and connected character development written by the director Harold Nussbaum. Donnie is more interested in the final robbery scene described by the actor. Donnie pays a visit to Harold after speaking with the actor. Harold panics with all the jewels and a dead body in the basement and reveals that the film will be ready by tomorrow. Donnie returns the next day to attend the “movie premiere.” Despite some good editing, Donnie detects similarities between the final robbery scene and the jewelry store heist. Harold becomes scared and chokes the investigator with a gold chain. Harold places the dead body in the basement alongside the other. Harold's world is closing in on him. The police searched for missing detective Morris, leading them to Harold's jewelry store. Harold had only wanted to make a few dollars to retire, but it got out of hand, and he turned into a serial killer. He admitted what he did, and the police arrested him. Tuesday night is movie night in Davisville Penitentiary, and the award-winning short film "Grand Heist" is playing this week. The director is in cell block D, so everyone is looking forward to this one.

This is chapter one of a prompt from the writing prompt subreddit. I hope you enjoy it :) \ Pono screamed, pulling her hair as she gripped it tighter and tighter, her disheveled hair covering her eyes. She looked down at the pentagram on the floor. It was a mess. The lines are not straight, and the candle wax leaks into the cracks of the hardwood floor. She tried everything and every single god she could think of, after mindless amounts of gods and goddesses. Pono was going to give up. What she wanted wasn’t that bad either. Her wish wasn’t even that selfish at all. It was for the betterment of humans or animal kind in this case. The wish was simply to talk to animals and be able to read minds. She hated seeing people sad or upset, even angry sometimes. The world should be a better place, instead of this insane world we live in. Insane, Insanity? She reached out for the book of gods and goddesses that lay on the floor, covered in her own blood. Rapidly flipping through the pages, it landed on the page that she needed. “Lyssa, Goddess of Insanity.” her last hope to achieve her harder-to-reach dream. The instructions were the clearest compared to the other deities, and Pono followed every last instruction to the tee. After a couple of hours of cleaning up the room, she gripped the book and looked down. Cover the walls with bloody smiley faces, ‌and add teeth to complete the smile! A knife gripped her opposite hand, and she stabbed into her fingertips. She winced in pain as blood dripped down her fingers. Then she started painting the smiling face across the room, a simple twin parallel line. After a couple of minutes, a grinning mouth with shark teeth littered the room. The book mentioned something about having twenty of the five on each wall. Pono’s fingers left the mouth, the last one done. Admiring her work slightly, she heard faint laughing. Draw on the floor with black wax, a large circle with two lines--one slightly longer and the other. Then draw a mouth with no teeth, it’ll do the rest. What will do the rest? No matter, Pono thought to herself as she grabbed a black candle. She lit the wick of the candle and gripped it. The wax leaked. Her hands moved on their own, following the first step of drawing it in a circle. Then, a parallel line next to each other with a mouth underneath it. The wax started dripping from the circle. She saw nothing wrong with it. Then the room spun. She lost her balance and collapsed on the floor. Teeth started growing from the mouth and clanking together. Grinning, the mouth laughed, laughter. Constant laughter filled the room as she gripped her neck, tears rolling down her eyes. How is she supposed to finish the rest of the steps? Spinning and spinning, her hand reached out for the book and pulled it close to her. Her eyes read over the page. Blood, Blood. Blood, Blood. Blood, Blood. &#x200B; What is this? Blood? Do what with the blood? She fell on her back and gripped her hair and screamed, her voice aching as she panted. The knife, Pono needed the knife. Her hand reached out and gripped it shakily before ritualistically slashing her hand. Blood gushed from her hand and poured over her mouth. The teeth seemed realistic as they seemed to absorb into the teeth. Everything went silent as the laughter and spinning slowly stopped. Pono puffed, her breath heaving as spit escaped her mouth. Her vision steadied as she looked at the blood-covered floor, the mouth opening on the floor as the blood drizzled down the hole. Hole? Why is there a hole? Why does it smell so pungent? What’s floating in the air like that? Why is a lady floating up in her room? The lady had silky black hair with yellow and red strands in her hair. A dress that flowed down to her legs, a beautiful dress the color of red with black broken hearts decorating the dress. Her face was beautiful, perfectly sculpted, like the deity she is. “Oh my, you actually summoned the great Lyssa. Now, what do you wish for? What shall I grant?” Pono’s eyes went wide. Her bleeding hand seemed non-existent as she stared at the deity in front of her. “It worked, it actually worked.” She broke out in a mutter, gripping her hair. The insanity was still present in her body, slowly gaining control of herself. “I” she paused and breathed in. “The ability to read minds and talk to animals, I just want to help people out!” She shouted with the little conviction she had left. Was it even worth it in the end? Lyssa put her finger on her lip before staring down with a smirk, “Sure thing! I’ll glad a follower of mine would already ask me for a power!” Her lips curled up into a large smirk, she hovered towards her new devotee. Stabbing a finger into Pono’s head, yellow energy crackled down her fingertips as it entered her body. This same energy crackled across her body, and Pono screamed once again. Then she heard everything, the voices of everyone and everything. Nonstop chatting, the voices already won’t stop. “Take it back..” She lowly muttered to the goddess, grabbing the arm still attached to her forehead. “I’m sorry, what would make me think I can handle this?” Maniacal laughter escaped the mad goddess in front of her, loud laughter. The laughter made‌ it even worse, voices growing louder and louder. Crying and shouting, so many emotions ran rampant through her mind. “I got an idea. What if I make the voices stop?” she shakily grabbed the knife and raised it in the air. Pono reeled across the room and threw open the door, leaving her spare room and walking across the apartment. Lyssa was puzzled by this reaction. However, she silently hovered behind one of her only followers. Narrowing her eyes, she watched her leave the room. Looking around, she watched as she banged on the door, muttering the name of the occupant. Said the occupant threw open the door and Pono lunged at them, stabbing them through the heart. Then kept stabbing and stabbing into the body, tearing it apart. “One of them stopped talking! If I keep this up, I can stop all of them around me!” Pono shakily shouted, looking at Lyssa with disdain. “I’m going to murder this entire city and leave your mark at each.” She muttered, her eyes glowing a slight yellow. Her fingers were dipped into the victim's blood and painted the enormous mouth she used to summon earlier. “All of this for little old me?” She smiled evilly and reached out a put two fingers into her neck. A smaller smiley face appeared on her neck. “Now go get started, my acolyte! I’ll be watching you.

“I am Cap’n Cutlass of the ship Golden Plunderer, an’ I’m in the mood for mischief.” The ale house fell suddenly silent at the large, bearded pirate blocking the only exit from the building. “I have conquered the seven seas, outfought the English Navy, and outrun the fastest of Spanish galleons. Who here can challenge my prowess of the sea?” Drinking, eating, cavorting suddenly ground to a nervous halt. Cutlass was notoriously unpredictable. Rumoured to have once cut a man’s ear off for not listening to what he had to say, added to the pirate Captain’s cruel reputation. “ If he could cut the ear off a man, what else is he capable of doing? ” Clandestine conversations would play out in quiet murmurs behind closed doors. The consensus was that if you ever found yourself trapped in the company of Captain Cutlass, you’d better have a good story to earn your release. Unsheathing his swashbuckling sword from his side, the irritated pirate waved it in circular motions above his head. “I say it again, I am Captain Cutlass of the ship The Golden Plunderer...” Just then, a voice from the back of the room mockingly shouted out, “That be better known as The Golden Blunderer , I’d say,” the male voice taunted. “Search for gold, but find only wasted time,” the gibe added. Without any noticeable command, a parting wave of the ale house’s clientele created a clear path directly from Cutlass to a heavily bearded and long-haired man of advanced years, sitting at a booth in one corner of the room - vociferously masticating on a meaty leg of some misfortunate cooked beast, and slurping down a flagon of ale from a pewter-coloured tankard. Immediately, the two wiry-looking bookends standing next to Cutlass made a straight line to intercept the insulting drunkard. Ignoring the two henchmen, the man casually continued his meal, unaware of the approaching Captain Cutlass. “Who be you, then?” Cutlass menacingly enquired. “I be no-one,” was the dismissive reply. “Then who be your ship?” The drunkard responded with, “The Harpoon.” A few gasps of incredulity filled the surrounding air, as Cutlass’s cynical laugh pre-empted his real thoughts. “The Harpoon, ye say. How be you here - when the Harpoon lies at the bottom of Skeleton Island?” Glugging down a wash of ale, the drunkard retorted, “I’m a good swimmer.” A few moments elapsed before Cutlass burst into a roaring laugh. “Harghh! Ye be funnier than an English Navy officer pissin’ his britches while walking the plank.” Nodding his head in agreement, the drunkard added, “Not all of it sank.” “Say you,” Cutlass suspiciously noted. “Aye, say me.” “Pray tell how a ship that sinks, does not sink.” Whatever shock and awe Cutlass had created upon his entrance to the ale house, was quickly replaced with a highly inquisitive, almost nosey air of intrigue among its customers and staff. “As the crow flies, so does its nest,” the cryptic answer intrigued Cutlass. “Say you a riddle?” Cutlass confusedly thought out loud. “Nay, you inexperienced scallywag,” the drunkard insulted. “High above the swabbed deck on the main mast was where I clinged desperately onto - after the Leviathan took out our lower decks, while everyone slept.” “Leviathan, you say... Why such a monstrous name, you old salt?” “As God is my witness, this abomination of nature had two heads .” Another round of gasps filled the captive audience of enthralled malingerers wanting to hear more, as they slowly crowded around the booth. “Ere, What was a whaler ship doing in these waters, far away from its hunting grounds?” Cutlass doubted the incongruity of the drunkard’s story to the point of impulsive irritation. He felt there was only one way to get some form of definitive answers from the obtuse man, so he decided to invoke an uncommon old pirate decree. “Under God’s witness and those of you within range,” he began. “I call on the pirate’s creed of seek and thee shall find . This scurvy riddler has a tale to tell and I swear that if he does not abide by our pirate law, then I will run him through with my dagger, mount him on an open spit-roast and cook him alive.” The rule of truth-be-told being cited in public, raised a few eyebrows among the crowd. A rarity, it created a murmur of questionable integrity within the room. However, the pursuit of bounty in the waters surrounding the pirate enclave of Nassau, made obscure demands, a necessity of wayward seafarers sailing on the wrong side of maritime law. “If any one of you grog-snarfing swines try and leave afore I be told what needs to be told, come the morn, you’ll find yerselves kissing crabs at the bottom O’ the bay.” Turning to the drunkard, Cutlass reiterated his question. “I ask you again on the threat of grievous harm, what was a whaler ship doing so far away from its hunting grounds?” Mulling over the consequences of not answering, the drunkard thought long and hard before capitulating. “We were chasing the infamous gold of Davy Jones,” he continued - much to the chagrin of Captain Cutlass. Like a weaving raconteur, the drunkard beckoned everyone closer. “Gather closely, my friends, for this is no imaginary fable of sea monsters. This is a first-hand account from the man that survived its angry jaws... You see, this whale had been talked of far and wide in the northern hemisphere. Of how it migrated south and west on its journey to its breeding grounds. Along the way, Davy Jones’s ship, The Flying Dutchman, encountered the abhorrent beast and took a fancy to capturing it for posterity’s sake. But being equipped neither with harpoon, nor sufficient means to catch it, all Davy’s makeshift spikes did, was enrage the beast beyond reason, and it angrily turned the ship over, sending Davy and all that sailed under him, to a watery grave. In its duplicitous anger, it swallowed whole; several chests of great fortune plundered from the Spanish. It was said that salvage crews looking for the booty never found it and thought it lost forever. However, a merchant ship later spotted the whale, and its crew relayed later, that when it spouted water from its blow hole, the ship was showered in doubloons and pieces of eight. From there on, the legend was born, and any whaling ship not dutifully engaged in hunting, headed south in search of the treasure held within the belly of that two-headed giant.” Slamming the flat side of his sword onto the wooden table, Captain Cutlass had heard enough. “Belay that yarn, you blabber-mouthed seadog. Why, I’ll run you through just to shut you up from spouting your elongated lies. How did your whaling ship get destroyed by something it was built to kill?” Undeterred by the captain’s threat, the drunkard continued his story. “It was on my watch,” the drunkard explained. “Whilst my attention was on the crashing surf beyond anchorage, below the water line, he exacted his premeditated revenge on the ship that stuck him so penetratingly deep. You see, we all thought he was lost to us, but undetected to anyone aboard, he remained unknowingly tethered to us, and had continued to craftily swim directly below us. It was as if he knew that we would not realise he was there. Then, after we anchored for the night, just beyond the mouth to the island, he exacted his revenge upon us all, dragging us onto the jagged rocks, where all but one soul on board... me ... perished beyond resuscitation. The break-up of the ship freed him to swim away, but mortally wounded, he finally succumbed to his injuries, and washed ashore in one of the watery caves of the island.” “If what you say is true,” Cutlass’s unconvinced tone asked. “How can ye prove it?” Without hesitation, the drunkard pulled a leather pouch from inside his coat and plonked it onto the table. To everyone’s amazement, several gold doubloons fell out beside the bag’s draw-stringed opening. “Marooned, I was, on that island for three long years. I had swum to shore the morning after the sinking and made my way up the cliffs to seek out help. But the island was uninhabited. Fortunately, there was plenty of water, fruit, fish, and firewood to be had, so I survived on my wits alone. After nearly ten months unchallenged by adventure, curiosity took me back down the cliffs toward the caves. Over several months, I had observed a high level of shark activity and knew they had found the whale’s carcass. When the sharks no longer mingled, I took it upon myself to answer the legend’s question. To shorten this story, what you see on the table before ye, is a small sample of what I found.” “Where be the rest?” Cutlass menacingly demanded to know. “Hidden, still in the cave where I found it. But if you insist on pointing that cold, sharp steel at me then heed my words and listen closely, for I alone know the way to the treasure.” Running out of tolerable patience, Cutlass slammed his fist hard onto the table. “You will tell all, you long-in-the-tooth Picaroon. Seek and ye shall find has been invoked.” Disturbed by the captain’s threat, the drunkard answered in the only way old seafarers could. In dramatic rhyme. “Hear ye, hear ye, ahoy, I say! For I tell this only once to be remembered and recalled once over to not be forgot. This be the law of the pirate creed.” With all ears straining to hear his words, the drunkard began his soliloquy. “ I shall tell ye a tale Of the two-headed whale That swallowed a treasure of note It died on a tide Trapped perilously inside Of a cave where it started to bloat Its carcass ripped bare By sharks with no care All that remains are its bones And inside that tall frame I discovered a chest, with a name That said property of old Davy Jones Though tall and farfetched This tale is not stretched For there’s only one man that knows where Treasure abounds below stone icicle surrounds On an island one hundred yards square Neither North nor due South This chest of great douth Will blow the great wind that you need Head not East but sail West Navigate at your best You fowl stench of inbred dickweeds For at precisely ten bells When you hear the death knell Of Skeleton Island cry out Hug the shore of the sound Go straight - not around Not once, but twice come about When the mouth is agape Reel in your main cape Drop anchor then cast off your oars Look not up but see down When the tide starts to frown Then row as the false tide withdraws But beware the sixth wave That deceives the fooled knave It will pull you so hard till you burst For your lungs cannot keep Enough air for that deep Ne’er you fatally succumb to its curse A point on my map Shows the cave’s narrow gap Get through it and tales will be told Of the pirate that sought And back he did brought The legend of Davy Jones gold Should you fair live and well defeat the cave’s spell and come upon what you so seek Beware the sharp bite Of a low stalagtite So bring lanterns that light for a week Only one soul before Can say that he saw The contents that locker contains And to stay undisturbed Its location unheard He buried it wrapped up in ship’s chains A crow that flies not and a sail full of rot marks X as the place of the chest dig there under foot for the gold Spanish loot lies under the washed-up bird’s nest Naysayers will mock That there is no such rock Nor an island that shelters such riches but the wind that blows west I wholeheartedly confess Will grant your desires and blind wishes .” The total absence of movement or chatter among the room’s inhabitants, demonstrated the intensity of the drunkard’s words, leaving everyone but the pirate captain in a daydream of finding treasure. Cutlass, had absorbed every word and confirmed this by asking one straightforward, single question. “Where be your map?” Emptying the remaining contents of the pouch onto the table, the drunkard slowly removed the leather stitching that held the purse together. Flattening it out on the sticky table, he faced the inside of the pouch up for everyone to see. Captain Cutlass’s eyes lit up when he realised that on the inside of the pouch was a detailed sketch of a map depicting the location on Skeleton Island, where the cave system was that held the buried treasure. “Do you believe me, now?” The drunkard arrogantly demanded. Plucking the map from the table, Cutlass examined it closely. Realising the weight of the convincing evidence presented to him, his temperament grew slightly darker. “What be, if I just take this from you and still mount your head on a spike?” “Please take it,” the drunkard surprisingly replied. “I have all I need from that cursed box. My life was a living hell of loneliness on that island, so I never want to return there. If you want to risk your men, your ship, and yourself, then go now, before the ship that rescued me, realises the source of the payment I gave them for bringing me here. All I ask is that you leave me unharmed to finish my meal and let me enjoy a quiet life amongst my new friends.” Still not completely convinced, Cutlass had one final question. “What if you have emptied the chest and there’s nothing there when we find it?” “I am bound to your pirate oath,” replied the drunkard. “I cannot tell a lie. The treasure lives still, in those caves.” Pondering the drunkard’s words, Captain Cutlass hesitated for a moment, before ordering all of his crew to action. “Will, Tim, Bosun, we set sail immediately. Thar be doubloons to find. Onwards to The Plunderer, we go.” An additional ten or so pirates jumped up from their concealed seated positions to join the exiting crew, while Cutlass lingered an extra few moments. “If what you say be true, old man. Your freedom is hereby granted. But be ye warned. If that chest has been plundered, you best be nowhere near these waters when I return.” “Aye, Captain,” the drunkard acknowledged. “Go claim your golden future.” Sheathing his sword, Captain Cutlass turned, then hurried from the ale house. From his seated position, the drunkard watched through the open door, as Cutlass hurried to catch up with his crew, tightly holding his sword from swinging wildly in its harness with one hand and pinning his hat tightly to his head with the other hand. His sheer excitement was evident as he picked up his pace, heading toward the distant mainsail being hoisted slowly up its mast. With the remaining revellers in the ale house transfixed by the scene playing out down the sandy path, small conversations broke out discussing the situation, and what they would spend Spanish gold on, if they found it. However, all conversation came to an abrupt halt at the slamming of the ale house door, diverting everyone’s attention to the new figure standing large and proud, hands on hips, yelling like a pirate. “Aargh!” Shouted the imitating drunkard. “I am Captain Swordface of the pirate ship The Blunderer !” He mockingly yelled to a chorus of boos and cheers. “I have sailed seventeen seas, out-hid the Spanish, and fled from the English Navy.” A more vociferous outburst of laughter responded to the drunkard’s ridiculing declaration. “I accidently cut the ears from a deaf man, plucked an eye from a blind man, cut out the tongue of a mute, and won a sword fight against a peg-legged, hooked-hand, eye-patched, midget.” “Aargh,” returned the male and female voices of the room. “I invoked a pirate’s creed of truth-be-told , that I made up myself to sound like a real pirate.” Fits of laughter filled the room, as he continued his parody. “An, I am off to claim the lost treasure of Davy Jones, using a map that an old seadog gave me, drawn up by his nine-year-old granddaughter at play.” “Aargh, Aargh,” shouted the room to the accompaniment of derisive howls. “What happens when he realises it’s all just a tall tale, Cap’n?” A young ship’s hand asked. “Well, I reckon, The Blunderer , will have joined ol’ Davy himself by then. There’s no way through that gap without hitting jagged rock.” “Was there really a two-headed whale, Cap’n?” The same young sailor innocently asked. It was apparent that he was not the only one needing to know, as the room fell completely silent. Filling his tankard, the drunkard downed its contents, spilling some of it through his thick, long beard. Using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the residue foam from his lips, he commanded the full attention of the room. “If there be a two-headed whale anywhere, then all I can say is... the one who saw it was just drunk out of his mind from spending his gold on ale!” A cacophony of cheers, whoops, whistles, and laughter flew out of the ale house and travelled at the speed of sound down the path, overtaking the delirious pirates - now onboard their ship. Captain Cutlass stood authoritatively on the Quarterdeck issuing instructions and commands, as the anchor was hoisted. Hearing the noise emanating from the ale house, he turned to his men, and shouted as loud as he could, “Ye see there, men? That’s what a little pirate persuasion can do to any fearful man of Captain Cutlass. The relief of those lives I spared in that ale house is so strong, they’re giving us an early sailor’s soft farewell. Yeo, Heave Ho, lads! For we are bound for Davy Jones’s locker...!

The migrant maiden was stirred to life by the avalanche of pumpkin spiced air spilling out the coffee shop’s open back door. Her dullened mind was shaken into clarity by the consecutive quakes from one plastic bag after another being flung by a disinterested barista into her dumpster. Unfolding her wings and stretching them wide, the hopeless beetle elected to abandon that frosty trash in search of one last meaningful day. She chose the name Randi, which she had gotten from a used sedici -size cup that did not make its way into the garbage. Randi took flight heading into the aroma, crossing the threshold a second before the door was pulled closed. After a few dizzy twists and turns, she finally landed on the neck-strap of a green apron hanging from a peg. It was a good place to reconnoiter. The room was cozy warm and filled with crated delights. As she licked on a sweet stain in the apron’s fabric, Randi noticed, from the tops of her eyes, a brighter light pouring from deeper inside. Though her wings also folded into a shiny curved shell with symmetrical black dots, she was not the round red ladybug that most humans adored. Randi was browner, more oval than the ladybug. Different enough to make the humans sneer. There were no rhymes written about her kind. When ladybugs gathered, the humans called it a loveliness . When her kind gathered the humans called the exterminator. She had nothing against ladybugs. In fact, her descendants were sent over to help them do battle with the invasive pecan and soybean aphids that threatened to overwhelm her precious cousins. Being the bigger beetle with an equally bigger bite, her species completed their mission with great success. Yet they were never treated as the heroes they were commissioned to be. It was as if the humans wanted the war to end with some tragic tie, no more aphids, no more Asian Ladybeetles, just cute red sweet-smelling ladybugs. From the coat rack the inquisitive insect coptered to the top of a refrigerator. The back of the chest purred with cold wet coils that offered the most refreshing sips. From there, Randi’s six synchronized legs carried her across a stretch of dry cardboard, then over a landscape of smooth tile spangled with aromatic grindings and bits of delectable biologicals. As the bitty beetle nibbled, she pushed ever toward the light. The great hall was immense, flowing with preoccupied people of all shapes and sizes, each pushing past another to claim their sumptuous, cupped prize. No one noticed Randi, so more than once she nervously skidded to a petrified halt, barely avoiding a catastrophic crush from an unwitting sole. The worried invertebrate finally found safety near the counter’s edge. To calm her nerves, Randi licked the mites off her tiny tarsi. The soothing music that filled the room also relaxed her some. Randi regained her composure and reacquired her bearings. That’s when she spotted it, the light of life beaming through the blinds of the windows to the south. And from that side of the great hall also came a scent so alluring, it pulled at her with a force even greater than the one currently luring the humans to that very store. Randi knew the quickest way to end her search would be to fly. And she could make it that far, she knew that. But the gritty beetle was practical if not beautiful. Even at frenetic full-throttle buzz, on wing she could muster little more than an ungraceful slow-rolling corkscrew flight pattern. That kind of riskiness got noticed, got many of her siblings swatted to death or eaten by birds. It would be a long crawl, but Randi had the discipline for the journey. Asian Ladybeetles, also called Harlequin Beetles were good at three things: eating aphids, using their smelly yellow secretion to ward off enemies, and climbing. So off she went, tenaciously traversing the wall, clinging to the smallest vertical occlusions, paying no mind to the pry of gravity. At midday, Randi stopped to feed on the carcass of a housefly that had lost a run-in with a spider. Even as her hungry mandibles pinched off a bit of desiccated thorax, the adventurous arthropod could not stop thinking about that hairy murderous spider. Truth be told, Randi wished she were feasting on its eggs, rather than the remains of its prey. And where was that killer beast now? Why in the world did she stop within its killing field? Randi secreted a little, wondering how she could be so daft, then promptly resumed her lonely quest for something meaningful. The resolute beetle spent every bit of the next hour climbing up and onto a dark lacquered table. All that exertion dried her out (she always seemed to be dried out lately.) Still, the brave insect soldiered on. And her prayers were soon answered when she discovered a moisture ring left by the butt of a human’s icy drink. The satisfying moisture filled Randi with hope again. But as she pivoted to continue her crawl, her world suddenly went dark. Was she dead? Did she finally succumb to some stomp, or swat, or maybe that spider’s pounce? She rubbed her eyes, opened them wide- nothing. The blackness persisted. But that music was still there, she could hear. Then came the sound of muffled voices. “What was that, a ladybug?” “No. It’s one of those damned oriental beetles. The kind that’ll bite you, that stink when you squash them.” “Well don’t kill it here.” “Hold on a second, I’ll be right back.” Randi relied on her antennae to evaluate her dark enclosure. It was as high as she was long, with perfectly circular edges. Randi soon realized that she’d been trapped under one of their precious cups! Trying not to panic, the astute sub-creature reasoned that humans lifted their cups frequently. When this one did, she would run for her life. She pressed against the bottom’s edge, waiting for her chance to escape. But the drink was not lifted evenly, or with the human’s usual languid rhythm. It was tilted, and quickly too. Before Randi could bolt, she was pinched under a squeeze of napkin. Despite her secretions, she was carried away. It was Randi’s near precognitive sense for danger that saved her. Just before the pinch, she clenched into her shell. The quick defensive maneuver, coupled with the force-dampening quality of the padded tissue, was enough for her to avoid the deadly crunch. Randi emerged from the wadded paper to find herself in the bin marked for the landfill. Once again, the lonesome bug found herself in the garbage. But she had to admit, it wasn’t all that bad. The inside trash was warmer and more sweet smelling. But she knew it was only a matter of time before inside trash became outside garbage. And these days, it was just too cold outside. So, she climbed. She ascended paper sleave bags and wax-coated cups. At the top of the heap, then scaled a straw that seemed to point the way. When she reached its tasty tip, Randi realized life was too short to overdose on patience. The time had come to take to the air. Scanning the room to confirm that all the humans were otherwise engaged, she unfurled her wings and started her body humming. As ridiculous as it was, all that commotion lifted her from the mouth of the human’s sipping tube. Randi leaned toward the light. Growing up an uncoordinated twerp, Randi had grown used to clumsy landings. When she hit the invisible window, her exoskeleton acted as a sort of crash helmet. She dropped to the sill but stuck the landing, shaking off the sting before surveying the new surroundings. That alluring fragrance was so strong now, she could see it. Like fuse-wire pulled from sand, she began following the scent line to its dangerous destination. As she scuttled, the smooth glass cooled her outer belly, while anticipation heated her inner yolk. Randi’s antennae spread wide when she came upon the source of the fragrant tendrils. It was a convocation of her kind hidden by the blinds at the corner of the pane. Dozens of Asian ladybeetles, all enthralled, all abustle, like remote-controlled micro bumper cars, all brushing and nudging against one another. No one ever taught Randi how to dance. But somehow she recognized these moves. Their final celebration of life. She pushed her way into the jubilation. The late autumn sun cast an orange glow through the glass that highlighted their pumpkin-colored shells. While the deep raspy voice of Louis Armstrong sang about leaves of green and their wonderful world, she bathed in the luxurious aroma of acceptance and love. And she danced. For her, it was the perfect moment. Then, sifted from the mosh frolic, came a beetle as fresh as she could imagine. The M marking on their back was sharp and stunning, and that white pronotum only enhanced those smiling eyes. That alluring scent that compelled Randi to make the arduous journey across the great hall was deliciously excreted from this exceptional one. From the point of encounter, Randi could no longer maintain her defenses. She was unable to stop herself from connecting with her counterpart, who made the most of Randi’s abandoned doubt. As they danced, Randi thought about the strange day she had, that started with her cold surrender to death. Now, she was chosen by one of their finest, and in that glorious instant, was gifted with their potent concentrate- a fourth thing at which Asian Ladybeetles excelled. As the sun set on their encounter, all the strength she had built from her travails melted away. Or more precisely, all her impetus was replaced with a new kind of strength, one of blissful understanding. Randi knew what she needed to do. With fear no longer in the equation, Randi fluffed out her wings and took to the wind one last time. With so little strength she flew, and when she could buzz no longer, she glided, then fell to the edge of the door. She found a gusty fracture just big enough for her to slip through. Outside, everything was coated in frosty crystal. She folded her antennae and retracted her legs, to allow the wind to blow her dry curved body like a tumbleweed, over the cold hard ground. She rolled over gravel, briefly caught against a cigarette, before ending in a lovely patch of tall dead grass. Those eggs she felt activate inside her thorax, that exquisitely drained all her strength on the windowpane, she deposited one by one along the last two inches of her final climb. Then she dug her six tarsi claws deep into the brittle brown blade of grass, so she would still be there, to feed them in the spring. It was a good end to things, she thought; though she wished she could have met a ladybug.

First of all, I have to state this short story started as an inside joke but became complex way more than I expected as I wrote it therefore expect nothing much from it as I just wrote it for a friend of mine and then I thought "why not share it on reddit", so, here it's: It was raining... raining after a month of silence in this night that seems never-ending. Clouds couldn't keep their vow of silence anymore. It was raining as if clouds are crying for all the unfortunate events happening throughout the world. Too bad rain can't wash away all the dirtiness of this world... A young woman looking outside from behind of her small town house's bedroom window watching the rain with eyes that wished to watch a sunny day instead but unfortunately nothing in this world goes the way you want just because you want it. She kept watching the rain as if watching the rain would make the rain shy away from her and stop raining in defeat but nature is stubborn as always. She remembered one of her favourite poem "Be not Defeated by the Rain" by Kenji Miyazawa. After a sigh of surrender, she thought "I apologize, Miyazawa-san". The life she had taught her when is the right time to give up. Life is always the best teacher... It was only a few minutes when she returned to her home where she lives only with her cat Simba from a job interview that they hired her after a couple of questions and the moment she stepped inside of her house the rain started. "What are the odds?" she was thinking while looking out of the window. She realized the rain today is a great sign of the fall finally came. "Today is November the 5th 2020 after all" she thought, then suddenly remembered the famous quote "Remember, remember the 5th of November" and chuckled a little. She felt better. She also felt lucky today so she didn't let the rain drown her with sadness. She decided to celebrate today in her favourite way: Watching her favourite movie "Le fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain" under her warm comfy blanket while drinking a cup of coffee and eating Doritos. "But alone celebration feels lonely" she thought therefore she decided to look for Simba first. Simba, for a red cat, has a similar appearance like its namesake Simba from her favourite Disney movie The Lion King. She was glad her Simba is a cat on the contrary to its namesake anymore. Once, when she was 8 years old, she asked her father to get a baby lion as a pet while watching The Lion King with her father but her father, like he always loved to, explained to her why she can't have a pet lion by saying "nature is their home therefore you shouldn't take wild animals away from nature". Back then she really didn't get what he actually meant and what he avoided telling her but she was kind therefore she felt guilty for wanting a pet lion enough to make her cry. Her father was kind too therefore he proposed to get a pet cat instead. To her, cats didn't have much difference anyway so she was glad she can have a cat instead. The day she got Simba, she never stopped hugging Simba even when they were sleeping together while hugging each other like they were frozen in time of a happy memory... She found Simba in the living room sitting on all fours on the couch facing its face towards to wall like the wall shows Simba a dimension only it can see. "Oh, there you are. I'm the one organizing this celebration but you arrived at the spot before me as if you read my mind. Sometimes I wonder what's happening inside of your head, Simba. Too bad we don't speak the same language. I'm sure you would be nice to chat with about deep stuff and all because you sit all day and seem like you deeply thinking about everything and all like a philosopher... Okay, keep waiting for me there. I'll be right back, okay?" she asked and waited for a reply as if Simba will say something intelligible. Simba heard its favourite human therefore turned its head slowly like a robot without changing its body's posture to look at her legs to understand if she will just make a noise or she will bother her by hugging and whatnot again. Simba was quite comfortable now therefore didn't want to change its posture now, otherwise Simba liked getting hugged by her because then she makes Simba warm. Simba was aware she tried to say something to it like she always does but as always it didn't understand her therefore when she was done making noise and kept standing there, Simba turned its condescending gaze towards its favourite human's eye to mean "Don't you get it? I never will understand you!". "Meow?" said Simba doubtfully and turned back its face towards the wall. Satisfied with the answer, she prepared anything necessary for her celebration and brought them to the living room. She confirmed "Am I under my comfy blanket?: Check. Coffee and Doritos ready?: Check. Movie ready?: Check... Well, everything seems to be in order!". "Okay Simba, let's begin the celebration!!!" cheered she and started the movie.... but then she realized she forgot to confirm the location of Simba. She looked where Simba was before with hoping eyes for the possibility of Simba didn't leave her, and, as she hoped, she found Simba in the same spot watching the wall as before. "Simba: Check." she confirmed and she started to get lost in the movie... ... She fell into sleep and started to dream without even realizing it. She was remembering her past. The dream started with the memory of her best day ever. That best day ever, she and her father went to Disneyland together for the first time when she was 9 and it was summer. Then the dream changed. Now she was remembering the first time she learned her mother suicided seemingly for no reason when she was 14. Then she remembered the first time she learned her father died from a traffic accident when she was 22. That accident was no one's fault but she always blamed herself for it anyway because she always believed somehow she could prevent it. She couldn't stop her mother from leaving her but she promised it won't happen again. She couldn't keep her promise. Her father was a veterinarian therefore she became a veterinarian by following in his footsteps. If he was alive he would be proud of her now since she got the job today therefore finally she can be a veterinarian in a real sense. Then she remembered how she sold her parent's house, the house she grew in, the house that was home for all these happy and sad memories and almost everything in it and left that city she grew up in a week ago. She just couldn't live there. She decided to live in a small peaceful town therefore she moved into this small townhouse that had everything she needed for a new life already except what she brought back with her. She wanted a new page in her life but unfortunately your past follows you no matter what like a tail. Peace was all she needed but the dream god Morpheus wasn't kind to her today... ... She woke up suddenly to the sound of Simba's scream like meowing which wasn't unusual at all per se. She noticed the power went off. "Good. The power company cut the power in the right time for me this time." she thought and chuckled a little because of this thought and wanted to get back into sleep again by wishing for Morpheus to be kind to her this time. She closed her eyes preparing for the worst. The rain got worst while she was chatting with Morpheus, worse enough to make it rain lightning too. A thunder made her eyes open suddenly in shock. She didn't notice lightning at all, but soon after, as if it came because it's called, lightning struck somewhere very close and it lit the entire room for a moment. This latest lightning was like an exclamation mark that pointed out something wrong going on in this room that she noticed and she immediately wished it was not the case. As she heard the thunder, she noticed and started to look at that tall wide thing standing there where she was before when she was talking with Simba before the celebration. She felt like she didn't have time to think about what is that exactly therefore she assumed it's a prank of a man who broke into her house. "What the fuck?" she yelled and stood up. As she wanted to see it better, as if the lighting is her genie, the lightning struck to somewhere close and lit the room once again. This time she understood what is that thing... it was her bed standing there. Her bed had a mouth anymore and Simba's tail was coming out of its mouth. She couldn't decide why she should scream, for the fact that her bed standing there and it ate her cat or for the fact that her cat Simba died... perhaps both, no care for a reason she screamed anyway. The bed seemed to be bothered by her scream, therefore, as if to shut her up, it spat the Simba's tail to her face. It indeed worked because she shut up in shock. Satisfied by the fact that she doesn't scream anymore, the bed started to get closer to her almost as if mimicking a human's walking by turning itself side by side. She realized she will be eaten too therefore she grabbed a chair and attacked her bed. There was no way for her to escape. The only exit was behind her bed that her bed blocks. Couldn't escape from a window either because windows had iron bars preventing anyone from getting inside of the house from outside and going outside from inside of the house. Attacking was the only best choice she could think of. The bed realized she will hit her bed with the chair, the bed started to open its mouth enough to take the chair inside of itself as the chair was about to hit the bed. The bed ate the chair as a successful defence. Not knowing what to do in panic, she started to scream and cry while sitting on the ground in surrender. She grabbed Simba's tail and found her eyes kept looking at Simba's tail in her shaking hands as the bed was coming to eat her. Suddenly she remembered her best day she had when she was having fun in Disneyland with her father in that lovely summer day. She realized there will be no summer anymore for her. She started to have regrets and became sorry about how she couldn't prevent the deaths of her both parents... and now Simba is dead too... "I'm good for nothing." she thought. The bed didn't care at all, it also ate her too with Simba's tail she was holding tight. After it was done completing its mission, it got back where it should keep fooling people that it's just an ordinary bed while waiting for its new victim(s). ... Finally, the morning came. The town folks at first didn't notice something wrong but soon after they noticed she wasn't going out therefore they called the local police. Local police broke the door in expectation she perhaps needs help as soon as possible. Local police searched every inch of the house but they couldn't find any clue about the whereabouts of the young woman and her cat. "Damn, it's the second missing case regarding this house. Just what the fuck is happening here? Something... something wrong with the house I tell you... No one... no one should live in this house anymore. We should burn this fucking house!" protested the old cop. "It's weird I know but perhaps, I don't know, it's just a coincidence? Because, before and after the first missing case regarding this house, a lot of families lived here just fine, I see no reason why there is a problem with the house. Even anything inside of the house still there since the first family lived in this house and these are in perfect condition. It would be a shame to get rid of this house. And how do we explain this to folks here? They will ask questions about why the house got burned all of a sudden especially after the woman has gone missing. People will have a bad opinion of this town therefore we will lose tourists. We can't just do something THAT extreme." calmly explained the young cop. "Yeah, okay, fine... yeah... you are right..." said the old cop. "I know how to cheer you up. How about drinking a lovely cup of coffee in Mendy's Diner?" proposed the young cop. "Hell yeah, nothing like Mendy's coffee. Her coffee is like coffee from heaven!" smiled the old cop. And then both cops got inside of their car and drove through to the Mendy's Diner.

This is a story I started on r/WritingPrompts and some readers wanted me to continue it so I'm moving it here. This is part 1 so if anyone is interested in continuing to read keep an eye on the subreddit because this is where I'll be posting it for now on. I'll post the prompt first so everyone can see where the story is coming from. &#x200B; **\[WP\] Your alarm went off this morning like always. You got up, got around and went to work. When you arrive, you see your friend Ed. He staring at you like you’re a ghost. He says, where have you been. No one has seen you in over three years.** &#x200B; “Yeah, right,” Billy said to Ed who was staring at Billy with wide eyes. Billy went to grab his turnout gear from his locker but when he picked it up, he noticed there was a different name on the back. “Smith? Isn’t that the new guy?” Smith’s name was stickered across the top of Billy’s locker too where his own used to be. “Very funny,” Billy said with a sarcastic and annoyed tone to his voice. “Where’s my gear at?” “Dude, we cleared out your locker three years ago when you disappeared. Now you just walk in here like nothing ever happened? I’m surprised that your key card still works.” Billy could tell by the look on Ed’s face that Ed was serious. His own face changed to an expression of confusion. “Where have you been?” Not knowing how to answer, Billy started to feel very sick to his stomach. This had to be a joke. There was no way that it could be anything else. He had gone to bed the night before like always. Nine o’clock. That’s what time he made sure he was laying down by on work nights. No, Ed was lying, and he knew it. It was impossible for him to have been gone for three years. Who was paying his rent? Why hadn’t his car been towed? None of this made any sense. Peter walked into the locker room and his jaw dropped. “Billy?” Coffee in hand and a blank stare on his face, Peter was both confused and happy to see his old co-worker and friend. “Is that really you?” “This is a joke, right?” Billy asked Peter. “You guys got together and decided to pull a good one on me, didn’t you?” “You’ve been gone for three years, man!” Peter said nearly shouting. “I was just here three days ago like always,” Billy argued back. “We had that car fire on the interstate and pulled that lady out before she burned...” Billy stopped talking and suddenly was lost in memory. “That lady.” Trying to get Billy’s attention, Ed held his phone in front of Billy’s face. When Billy finally came back out of his thought he focused on the screen and saw a Facebook group dedicated to finding him. Ed scrolled through the posts of people wishing him to be found and even a few possible sightings. Billy snatched the phone out of Ed’s hand when he saw a picture of a blonde lady with a red shirt and gold necklace. Sherry Berkheimer. She had posted multiple times, but Billy only recognized her as the woman they pulled out of that car that was, to him, only three days ago. “That’s her,” Billy said. There was something about her that Billy couldn’t put his finger on. Then he remembered something she did after Billy dragged her away from the burning mess that was her car on the side of the busy interstate. She had grabbed his arm and whispered something, but he couldn't make out what it was. Through his mask and the sound of his breathing, like Darth Vader, it was too loud to hear her. The traffic speeding by with no care for the first responders safety didn’t help with the noise either. She was the key to figuring this out. Still confused and not totally accepting of what was happening, Billy knew he had to find her and couldn’t explain it either. He just knew that’s what he had to do. There was just one problem. When Billy clicked on her picture and looked through her profile he realized, by the posts made on her wall, that she was now missing too. &#x200B; \ Sherry Berkheimer woke up sweating profusely in the middle of the night. Her sheets were soaked through to the mattress. The night sweats had been going on for a couple of weeks now, but they were getting worse. So were the nightmares that accompanied them. It was so bad that she had to strip down from her wet clothes and towel dry. There was no use trying to go back to bed. She knew she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again, knowing this from all the previous nights she had woken up in a swampy mess. Putting on fresh night clothes before wadding her sheets in a ball, she washed her sheets once again and put on some fresh coffee. Three fourteen A.M. Right in the middle of the witching hour. That’s what the clock said when she threw her tired self onto the couch and turned on the television. She was trying to forget the nightmares, but she couldn’t. Getting drunk before bed was the only thing that had made them stop (can’t dream when you’re passed out) but even that had stopped working. Each night they became more vivid, always starting out the same way. A blazing ball of fire that threatened to burn her up then a young man pulling her to safety. If that’s where it had ended, then everything would have been fine but that’s not how it worked out. Standing behind the young man was a shadowy figure and Sherry knew that’s what was responsible for setting the fire that was meant to kill her. As punishment for foiling its plans, the shadow took the young man instead of her, dragging him into some dark, black abyss. Like a black hole in the middle of space, it spun and swallowed the man up, the shadow going with him. That’s usually where she woke up but not tonight. This time the dream went on. She followed the man into the abyss, screaming and yelling at the shadow to let him go. She wouldn’t let the shadow take him, he had saved her and now it was her turn to save him. When eight o’clock came around Sherry was ready to head to work. Her make up was on but nothing could hide the tired bags under her eyes. She filled her silver travel mug to the brim with more coffee and she was off. In her black Toyota Camry, she exited her neighborhood, drove through town, and hit the interstate. The first half of the drive was normal enough, except for the exhaustion she felt from a lack of sleep, but that changed when she felt a loud thump on her driver’s side door. Reacting quickly to the car that had just side swiped her, Sherry jerked her wheel to the right causing her car to spin before flipping several times and coming to a stop on the median of the interstate, right past the guard rail. She had landed right side up and for this she felt lucky, but her door wouldn’t open. She felt a gash on her head from where she had hit the steering wheel and knew she was hurt bad. “My phone,” she said with panic in her voice. “Where’s my phone.” No one was stopping and somewhere during the summersaults her phone was tossed out of her reach and now she couldn’t find it. To make matters worse, a small cloud of black smoke was now rising from engine compartment right in front of her eyes. Then the flames shot up from under the hood. Frantically, Sherry jiggled the car door, but it was no use. She was stuck, feeling too weak and hurt to crawl out any other way. Slowly the flames made their way towards the cab of her car. Sirens blared from far away. “Please be coming for me. Please be coming for me. Oh, please God let them be coming for me,” Sherry pleaded out loud. Lucky for her, they were. Someone who had witnessed the accident had called nine-one-one and multiple passer-bys after that reported that the car was now one fire. But no one stopped. “Dispatch to Engine Six, we have reports that the vehicle is now on fire with possible entrapment.” “Ten-four. Vehicle on fire with possible entrapment,” the lieutenant answered back over the radio before telling the engineer to step on it. It was a redundant statement though. They were already going as fast as the engine would take them. Flames were now right on top of Sherry, and she screamed as they fought to engulf her. Then she realized, this was it! This was her dream! The sirens were now right behind her, but the smoke was closer, and she began to choke on the soot filled air, reeking of burning plastics and chemicals. It smelled like cancer. Just in time, her window shattered, and a gloved hand reached in to grab her. It hurt being dragged through the glass shards and Sherry screamed but she was grateful. The man who had grabbed her was covered from head to toe but when he stopped to make sure she was breathing, Sherry could see his eyes clearly through his face piece. They belonged to the young man in her dream and standing behind him was the shadow. “He’s right behind you,” Sherry said to the firefighter, but he couldn’t understand her. “It’s ok, ma’am. You’re safe now. The ambulance is pulling up right now,” said the firefighter. That’s when Sherry passed out from her injuries.