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Allura 50

Me, My Mum and I I’ve never had a very good memory. Not really. People always say things like “do you remember when...?” And I always say: “No? When was that?” It’s not embarrassing or anything. Just a pain. It’s just like a blank. I mean - God, I cant even remember where I was when I remembered this...but I'm pretty sure its my first memory. I don’t even know what I was doing. Maybe having coffee, or watching TV but it struck me - like I just got winded...Yeah...it was just like that...just like ‘doof.’ Wait, now I remember. I was on a bus coming home from the supermarket. There was this little boy who got on. He had this big bag on and her was wearing this puffy jacket. He was also wearing this beanie that was miles too big for his head. It was funny how it kept falling over his eyes. He waded up the aisle as the bus rocked from side to side. He was all by himself, and I thought I bet his mum gave him heaps of instructions for the ride... ‘sit at the front,’ ‘say thank you’ ‘remember to get off at the pools’, and then, there she was, my mum, just like doof. At first I remembered, well had this image of my toes, teeny and tiny, and how I could only see peaks of the hard wood floor underneath. It was varnished and had all these holes from people wearing heels at dinner parties and stuff. Mum, well I'm not sure ok? But in my head, my Mum was wearing these violet blue heels. They were her favorite pair. They had this big thick heel with like a silver broach thing on at the front. My feet were so soft and pudgy and I always remember thinking that her feet, in those heels, looked old, ugly and thin. I was looking down because she was above me, giving me instructions on how to get to the diary. “You go down...Grace, are you paying attention?” She paused and coughed into her fist. She had her eyes closed and when she opened them again, catching her breathe, she continued. “See this shape, this L - that your hand makes when you hold it up like this?” She grabbed my hand in her cold thin one and traced the lines from the tip of my small index finger to the end of my thumb. I looked at my hand, they same way I stared at the glass wind chime that hung from our doorway or bugs in the dirt...I had no idea what she was talking about. “You see this L?” She asked. “That’s left; you take a big L, a big left, at the end of the street. Then you just keep going to you see the place with the big ice cream on top. You know, the diary?” Of course I knew. Its where I use to get pies with dad on Sundays, its where I got lollies with Joan. It was the place I stared at from the car window as we drove past. That big plastic Ice Cream cone on top was so cool. Sometimes it lit up at night, it glowed like the moon. I use to stare at for hours. “Take this money and get me some milk please and if you want you can get a mix while there. We can share the lollies ok?” I smiled. “I’m not going to share any with you.” She put her hands on her hips and stuck her tongue out at me. I copied her and then we both laughed. I can see myself. Brown eyes, hair pulled back in a loose plait, two strands falling over my face. But I can see her more clearly. She stood tall over me, with her peach dress. It looked like the smell of peach lollies, or maybe, peach lollies reminded me of the dress. Both are sweet I guess. She was always in that dress. If I think about it, I doubt she was wearing that peach dress with those violet heels that would’ve been ghastly. But as I say, in my head that’s what she was wearing. She wore her hair like mine, hazel brown, loose plait. Except her eyes were cloudy blue. She had thin lips and small teeth. She was my Mum and despite her hands and feet, I though she was pretty. I remember walking out the door and I knew that the world was too big for me. Not consciously, like I didn’t think that, but I knew that the world was too big - it was way too far to go. But Mum was sick, even then and that was greater than the size of the world. I squinted down the street. I was determined to get that milk. It was a really hot day. The kind of hot you only remember when your little, like when you stare mesmerized, by the heat waves radiating off the cars or you have to lick your hand cause there’s melted ice cream all over it. It was that hot, cicadas blasting away hot, old men fanning their faces with their hats hot. I wiped my brow with the back of my arm and walked out, trying to remember what Mum said. I kept holding up my hands up in front of the sky, but they both made L’s if you turned them around, and I suppose I confused myself. By the time I reached the end of our street, I had no clue where to go. Fuck it was scary, I stood on the street for ages looking both ways, my little ponytail wiping back and fourth and I needed to pee so bad. I was getting so worried. I kept imaging mum in her peach dress coughing over the sink or on her knees leaning over the toilet. My lips began to tremble. Luckily this old guy in a hat ended up coming along. He had a moustache that reminded me of polar bears and snow. He was real nice. He asked me where I wanted to go then walked me to the store. When we arrived at the store he let go of my hand and asked if I was going to be ok. I pulled at my dress and looked around the store, it looked huge. Even if I stood on tiptoes I couldn’t reach the shelves and everything was so bright and confusing. “Um yup I think so.” I said. He smiled at me, and then I remembered, “thank you for helping me.” “You’re welcome little lady” and then off he went, out of the doorway. I never saw him again, I never found out who he was. Inside it was cool, all the drinks were so colorful in the fridge, they glistened behind the glass. I couldn’t see above the counter, but I could feel Eric’s (that’s the guy who owned the dairy), I could feel his eyes on me. I tried to act all grown up so I walked past all the lollies and junk, pushing my hair out of my eyes and went straight to the milk. The big bottles where up top and they were really hard to reach. “Do you want a hand?” Eric called out “No thanks” I called back and I grabbed the biggest one I could. It was so slippery, I remember it just falling to the ground and plopping open. Milk went everywhere. Eric came over and I was just standing there watching the milk move slowly across the floor, like it was invading the shop. I looked up at Eric with my mouth open, my eyes big like circles. He said, “Now what has happened here?” It was then, that I burst into tears. Eric must have come over mopping up the white milk as it seeped into the store, but I can’t remember any of that. The next thing I remember was Mum. She was there in her peach dress. She stood flushed in the face. She looked round the store then down at me, and gave me the best smile in the world. For most of the journey home, I had my face buried in her shoulder. I could smell her skin. It smelt just like powdered peaches. “Ssssshhhhh” she said. “ssssh sssssh its ok, its ok, Mummy’s here now, everything’s going to be ok, I promise” Her words tickled my ear, they were soft and flawless. I raised my head, wiped at my eyes with my fist, and licked the ice cream she bought me, before it melted all onto my hand. The last thing I remember about that day, was that her promise came true and everything was ok. * Later, I remembered, I was holding her much older, much thinner and much more spotty hand. She lay on her side and breathed in slowly, they spaces in between filled only with my heartbeat. She stared at me with her big blue cloudy eyes. I looked back; my brown eyes were red and wet. Mum was waiting to die. Her mouth was open and she had no more of her little pretty teeth. Just a black hole. Her long hazel hair had turned white and curly. She continued to breathe slowly...slowly, slowly. She never blinked. She never took her eyes off me. There was no one else in that room. Just me and Mum. Outside, everything carried on as usual but inside my Mum was dying and there was nothing I could do. I squeezed her hand and said to her “Mum, its ok, I'm here now, you can go, don’t be scared, everything is going to be ok” She looked back at me until something inside disappeared. My mum had continued to breathe, until she stopped. Her old, thin, spotty hand, cold already, grew colder. I realized I was no longer holding a hand. Now it just felt like a cold thing. She no longer moved. Not even a flutter. The little that was left behind those blue eyes had gone. I continued to stare at her only now there was no one looking back. I breathed in as my eyes grew wet and said, “Its ok, its ok, you’re alright now mum, I promise, everything’s going to be alright now.” And as I breathed out, I hoped that it was.

*They say we are not alone.* *We all live just this side of madness, after all.* \*\*\* Phenomena that people don’t understand are easily dismissed. UFO sightings are explained away, ghosts are medicalized into auditory hallucinations, and on and on it goes until little by little we’ve stripped all of the magic out of the world. We even know the time and circumstances surrounding the birth of the universe. But some mysteries persist. Many ancient creation myths posit so-called *ex nihilo* creation -- something from nothing. Even the modern creation myth -- the dogma of science -- is silent on the question of why there is something rather than nothing. \*\*\* A phenomenon often occurs at the moment before death in which the subject experiences an intense and inexplicable euphoria. Neuroscience tells us that this is merely the inevitable result of cascading neurotransmitters and global neuronal firing. \*\*\* The clearest footage of the assassination of John F. Kennedy has come to be known as the Zapruder Film, and in it Kennedy can be seen at the moment of his death being struck in the head by gunfire, supposedly by a single sniper’s bullet: that which was fired by Lee Harvey Oswald. However, many amateur conspiracy theorists have noted that Kennedy falls in the wrong direction, fueling speculation that Oswald was either not the shooter, or that a second shooter fired a shot from the infamous “grassy knoll” which was in front of Kennedy at that time. Were he to have been struck by Oswald’s bullet alone, which was supposedly fired from the Book Depository behind him, the force of the bullet should have propelled him forwards, not backwards. What these well-intentioned skeptics fail to note, however, is that a bullet entering the brain causes an electrical signal to be sent from the central nervous system to every major muscle group in the body, causing them all to contract simultaneously. The pectoral muscles are far stronger than those in the abdomen, and at maximum force will overwhelm the influence of the latter. Thus the subject throws their upper body backwards instead of merely acquiescing to the force imparted by the bullet itself. \*\*\* The phenomenology of near-death experiences provides some of the best evidence we can find on the door at the edge of the universe. It’s not clear why some people report vivid visual, auditory and tactile hallucinations after suffering clinical death, or why some of these involve so-called “out of body experiences” while others undergo some of the more familiar religious rigamarole. I knew a man, years ago, who killed his son across a brutal span of three years. It made the news, but everyone outside of his immediate family has forgotten the boy’s name, and it is spoken no more outside of courtrooms and lawyers’ offices. He was sentenced to death, and eventually his appeals were exhausted, and then, as Banksy once lamented, the boy’s name touched a man’s lips for the last time. These were the early days of the pharmaceutical protest against state-sponsored capital punishment, when the drugs required for lethal injection were in short supply -- the days before civil rights groups pointed out that improperly administering these drugs can potentially lead to a slow, conscious death by paralysis rather than the intended immediate and painless variety. To spare you some of the more technical details, why don’t I just skip to the part where my acquaintance ended up frothing at the mouth and convulsing on the medical table, fully conscious and very much alive? Reflecting on the experience, he explained to me that in what he thought would be his final moments he saw the door, and it was rather strange to describe, for it was not like any ordinary door. The door at the edge of the universe is not a wooden gateway at all, but merely a darker patch of space, or such was how our murderer described it. Things watched him from the other side, he said, and, indeed, watch us all. \*\*\* World War II was what you might call a “high pressure” time; at least so it went for a while. Until the battles of Stalingrad and Midway, the existential pressure, so to speak, must have been quite high. Doors are sometimes open and sometimes closed. Anybody who lives in a windy area can tell you that these two states of being produce very different results viz a viz air pressure in a room. Much has been made, theodically speaking, of the atrocities which occurred during this high-pressure period. Mass deaths happened under God’s nose and prompted many to ask why He did nothing to stop them. It might be of more benefit, to these people, to ask why it was that He couldn’t *see* them. \*\*\* Schizophrenics often complain of the effects of radiation, from cell phone towers, from solar bombardment, and so on. These are, of course, actually real but too weak to do any actual damage. I worked in a psych ward for a time, and I can tell you that there are many different types of people who come for treatment there. Addicts are common. The suicidal make up a large chunk of the population. But then there are the delusional. These are always the most difficult to handle. Delusional people are very hard to put on talk therapy and so the doctors will pump them full of drugs first, and as much as they will deny it a large part of the reason is simply to make them compliant to these demands. It just makes the job easier. But drugs are a lot like people: different strokes for different folks. There’s a classic distinction between “uppers” and “downers,” but that’s much too simplistic. The real difference between drugs is their ability to open you up or shut you down. Really delusional people have a very hard time filtering things out, and that’s the source of their paranoia most of the time. These patients are like cheap radios, mostly picking up useless noise, but occasionally tuning in to something you might want to hear. Ben was the first one to tell me about the door. He actually fell into two categories of mental illness: he was both delusional and suicidal. He had survived an attempt brought on by the stress of constantly looking over his shoulder for CIA kidnappers. For a survivor of MKUltra this is almost certainly forgivable. He told me of a dark patch in space, far out beyond the reaches of the galaxy, a nightmarish thing he had seen in that liminal space between life and death -- a gateway beyond which all he could see was the void, all he could hear was silence and all he could feel was .

One thing no one is scared of on Halloween, but should be, is drugs. Typically, kids will shoot up their alcohol and smoke their Quaaludes on Halloween and go around playing their hip hop music super loud. If you think goblins are scary, try walking the streets of New York on Halloween and seeing a gang of Vicodin fiends bearing down on you. That's why, if you want to really scare someone this Halloween, ask them for drugs. "Got any drugs?" "Yeah, here you go." "Cool." Then go smoke your drugs and pretend that you were just trying to scare people when in fact you were trying to get high. Joke's on them! *Goblins* Goblins are little monsters that hang outside of supermarkets around March and try to sell you cookies. You'll be walking in to buy a Tostino's pizza and there will be two at the front doors of the supermarket. You'll walk to the other entrance and they'll be more. So, then you kinda try to walk behind someone into the supermarket and you think you made it. You buy your pizza and then come back out, forgetting about the goblins, and they will assault you with cookies to buy. And you're always scared out of your mind by the goblins, so you buy those crappy caramel and coconut ones and be totally pissed. I hate Goblins. *Ghosts* Ghosts are probably the most popular things to scare humans on Halloween. It's like ghosts, venereal disease, and calling Comcast. Those are the three most popular Halloween costumes according to Forbes. And it's no wonder - a ghost is a dead person that comes back from the land of the dead simply to fuck with you. Most ghosts, in fact all ghosts, in real life (the ones reported) rarely kill anyone. They just kinda turn your lights off and on and make noises. Hardly scary. I really think we need to give venereal disease more PR on Halloween. That's actually scary. Especially the ax wielding venereal disease - that shit is spooky. *Meteors* A lot of people get comets and meteors mixed up, but they are totally different: comets will incinerate everyone before crashing into the Earth and ejecting most of the Earth out into space as everyone dies in lava and fire, BUT then its inner core will blow dry ice all over the place and everything will look frozen and cool but no one will be alive to see it; meteors don't do the last part. I don't even know if comets do the last part. Or the first part. But I'm pretty sure everyone dies either way. What would be cool is if a meteor hit a comet that was about to hit Earth and then everyone is like "The meteor saved Earth!" And then everyone feels bad that they kept thinking a meteor would eventually kill Earth. The meteor just wanted to help Earth. Then the meteor starts thinking about it and gets mad and turns around and hits Earth. *Volcanoes* K, so you're looking - go look at a mountain. Then think about it just going tits up. Like the entire side of it blows out and fires its lava and mountain parts all over the place. Then think about the children. Then think about your mother. Then think about how they are all in flames and have pieces of mountain hitting them in the face. They try to run away from the fire, but they are getting hit right and left by topsoil and squirrels and granola bar wrappers and those park signs that tell you about the flora and fauna...that's a volcano. *Nuclear War* There is nothing scarier than nuclear war. Basically, what happens in a nuclear war is Russia and the United States fire nuclear missiles at each other until everyone in the world dies. It sounds funny when you actually write it out, but that is the basic premise. When you really think about it, it's about two nations that just kinda say "The hell with this!" and then blow up the world. Which, I understand. Everyone has a bad day, but everyone doesn't have a bunch of nuclear weapons laying around. Like, this one time I got in a fight with a coworker and was totally mad all day and wanted to kill the entire world - luckily for everyone in the entire world, I didn't have a bunch of nuclear weapons. But if I did, I would have called up Russia and said "Let's do this." That's why I'm not President. That and the math part. I think you need some basic algebra. *Aliens* K, so it's like years later and Ripley is on Earth and this big company talks her into going back to where the alien came from and she goes back with the marines and the dude from Weird Science and they all get killed except for Ripley and the girl and the robot and that one dude from Terminator. But the girl and the robot end up dying later on. Also, Ripley. OK, this movie is basically pointless. Everyone dies. Yet, they made like nine more. *Dirty Bombs* I don't know a lot about nuclear stuff, but I do know that dirty bombs are bad. You basically take a bunch of nuclear waste and you fling it at someone, and then you yell "Dirty Bombs, Ahoy!" *ISIS* When was the first time we heard about ISIS? Was it a couple of years ago? Months? No. Back in the 90s. ISIS, Baby was a hit song by Gangster Rapper, Vanilla Ice. His thick riffs on urban life and street hustling spawned a religious cult that can be seen today enjoying the beauty and everlasting wealth of Iraq and Syria. Look at the high top fades on those militia men - that's pure Ice. They just want fat beats and fatter butts, I don't know what the fuss is about. Anyway, Vanilla Ice also killed Ice Cube and projected his spirit into him. Oh, plus Ice T is a deep cover businessman from an Ad Firm that gave way to the docudrama, Mad Men. MC Hammer was the inspiration for the song Purple Rain. Also, EPMD stands for Every Person Must Die. LL Cool J was actually a dinosaur. The list goes on. Point is - the entire rap industry is a conspiracy. *Ebola* For years, the government has been preparing the public for this disease with zombie movies. Think about it. I mean, really, think about it: zombie movies. Anyway, the time has come and the dead are walking the Earth and flying around on airplanes and so forth. It doesn't take a dead nurse to let you know that you probably have Ebola right now. Like you're sitting there and thinking you're just fine, but meanwhile, you feel an itch in your eye and you draw blood. Then you eat your neighbor. But it turns out you were just on drugs the whole time. So, like I said, Drugs are totally underrated when it comes to Halloween. Oh, and isn't it weird that that dude in Aliens ended up getting saved by a robot, considering he was totally trying to kill robots in Terminator? That in itself should speak volumes to the rap conspiracy. Plus I need to learn Algebra.

When I was little, we lived in the apartment right above my grandfather’s shop. He was a tailor who, according to Dad, used to do quite well back in the day. Before fines forced him to shut down. Something to do with the IRS and unaccounted revenue. My poor grandfather was beside himself. I overheard Dad telling Uncle Eddie that their father was just too old to keep up with the place, and too stubborn to give it up. Now, the once thriving staple of their childhood sat fully stocked and lifeless. Dad was forced to find other work, running through a string of jobs before settling for a sales position at some insurance company downtown. He hated it. And so did Mom. She became miserable over our new lifestyle. She started drinking a lot, something even my young mind had picked up on. Then Dad caught her cheating and, rather than trying to save the family, she decided to run off with the new guy. It was strange how fast everything had changed. One night Mom was singing me to sleep, and the next, I was all alone. Dad did what he could, but he, too, was in pain and unable to truly explain to his six year old daughter what was going on. That was when the night terrors started. I’d wake to the sound of someone screaming, this bone chilling screech that would pierce through my own shrieks from under the blankets where I’d hide. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of a woman standing in the corner of my bedroom, staring at me from behind a curtain of long, dark hair, mouth agape. It sent me into hysterics. My dad’s hurried arrival would soon become a tired routine, his frustration less subtle each time he listened to me rant on about the Screamy Lady. He tried assuring me that my mind was making me see and hear things that weren’t there, all because I missed Mommy so much. He said that sometimes the things that make us sad on the inside had a way of coming out. This, of course, did nothing to make the Screamy Lady go away. She’d show up again and again, just as I was falling asleep. The neighbors must’ve hated me, and for a while I worried that my dad might too. Between the shop closing, my mother leaving, my grandfather’s steady decline, and the struggle to make ends meet, my dad was already going through enough. I didn’t want to add to it, and I knew that I was. Dad wasn’t sure what to do with me, nor was Uncle Eddie, who was kind enough to babysit from time to time so his brother could work the second job he so desperately needed. Therapy was too expensive. We tried changing my diet, changing my bed time, leaving the lights on. None of it worked. The screams continued to wake me. Knowing they were coming but not knowing when, I stopped sleeping altogether, which then began to affect the rest of my life. My behavior slipped, my grades plummeted. Teachers were calling home in shock, wondering what had happened to me. My dad explained it away with the divorce, but he knew this problem wasn’t going away. So he got creative. He made me a doll. One that loosely resembled my mother. It was shoddily made with scraps of old fabric that had long been sitting in the back room of the shop, but Dad assured me that the doll was special and would watch over me as I slept. I wasn’t receptive at first. Part of me was afraid of waking up in the middle of the night to find the thing screaming at me as I held it close to my face. I was pleasantly surprised when, on our very first try, I woke to a brightening pink sky. I’d made it to morning without any screams, peering into the dark corner to find nothing there. I hugged that doll so tight and never let go, going on to sleep with it for far longer into my childhood than I probably should have. My dad, of course, was elated. We were both finally sleeping again. It didn’t bother him that the doll needed its own dinner plate, or that it had to be buckled into the backseat, or that I’d spend all day speaking to it as though I was the mother and the doll was me. Dad would sometimes pretend to not know which one was me and which one was the doll, a gag I thoroughly enjoyed. I teased back that the Lilah doll was always wearing the same outfit! So he brought up more fabric for me to look through, smiling as he sewed to the sounds of my excitement. When I asked Dad if he could also get the Lilah doll a backpack and shoes, he laughed. But then a light went off in his head. He thought about turning this into something big. A fully customizable doll, with an array of attachable accessories. Fun enough to play with during the day, but soft enough to be held tight through the night. He pitched the idea to Uncle Eddie who was immediately on board and probably desperate for a reason to get out from behind the supermarket cash registers. With my little Lilah doll tucked under my arms, I’d creep out of bed some nights to find them tirelessly sewing or debating business plans far above my head. They made deals with local retailers and even went door-to-door, selling whatever they could in hopes of one day bringing the corpse of their father’s shop back to life. It wasn’t long before we were changing the modest, black sign from *Vinny’s Tailor Shop* to a loud pink and blue that read *The Lilah Door Store*. It was crazy how quickly our lives changed. Lilah Dolls sold faster than we could make them, and before we knew it, we were opening up a second store in the South Shore Mall. Dad moved us into a much nicer place, a house overlooking the hills of our downtown, the lights of the city shining into my bedroom window. I’d never seen him so happy, certainly not since my mother had left. When I asked if this meant she would come back, he got very stern and said no, a sharp and definitive refutal. I thought I’d done something wrong, and he must’ve felt bad because he softened his tone and apologized, telling me about how his mother had left him too, and that he knew how difficult it was growing up without a mommy. It would be okay, he said, because now he had me. I smiled as he tucked me in and kissed me goodnight, trying my best to swallow how deeply I missed my mother. When Grandpa passed later that year, I held my breath at the thought of her attending the funeral. It felt wrong anticipating such a thing at that time, as Dad was more upset than I’d ever seen him. Many people (most of whom I did not know) were stopping by the house for lengthy visits, distant family or friends of my grandfather. Even some loyal customers of years past who’d grown to care for him, telling tails of the work Grandpa had done to save their weddings and such. Dad accepted their sympathies as warmly as he could, as well as the never-ending onslaught of food he’d tasked Uncle Eddie with stuffing into our fridge somewhere. Uncle Eddie had been staying with us during that time and was trying to remain busy to keep his mind off this new reality of his. It was hard seeing my ever-jolly uncle so lost and empty. With so many people showing up over the course of that week, no one batted an eye when we received knocks on our door late one night. But the concern in Uncle Eddie’s voice when he called up to Dad got me out of bed and peeking from around the wall atop the staircase, my Lilah Doll laying limp in my hand. It was my mother. She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed and a knowing smirk plastered upon her face. I gasped and dropped the doll, my Dad snapping back at the sound and ordering Uncle Eddie to take me back to my room. I cried out for my mother as Uncle Eddie marched up the stairs and carried me away. She wouldn’t look at me. Just kept her eyes on Dad who was ushering her outside. I hurried to the window while Uncle Eddie stood awkwardly by, unsure whether or not to stop me. I could hear their muffled voices spitting back and forth at one another. She was demanding something, putting my dad on the defensive, but about what I wasn’t sure. He told her to leave and then slammed the door in her face. I watched her turn around and head back into the night, crying out for her still even as she disappeared down the driveway and out of sight. When Dad came to check on me, I shouted at him for the very first time. I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t let me see her. All he could say was that he was sorry, which wasn’t enough for me. I continued to shout, when he suddenly snapped. The look on his face, I’d never seen it before. Even Uncle Eddie looked down at his feet. Dad spat that Mom was poison, and that seeing her would only cause me harm. That one day I’d understand. He then ordered me to bed, and that was that. But I couldn’t sleep. Not that night, or the next. I’d stare out my window, waiting for Mom to come back. And when she didn’t, I started to slip again. I started hearing the screams. Dad was frantic. All the progress we’d made, lost. I remember him taking me into the shop early one morning, holding my hand as he showed me around the back room where countless boxes of accessories sat waiting to be put on display. He told me I could pick one for my Lilah Doll, anything I wanted. It was like Christmas! I wanted all of them! When I couldn’t decide, he allayed my stress by promising me that I could choose one new accessory every time another shipment came in. Within weeks my Lilah Doll was a whole new girl, dawning sunglasses and a bright yellow shirt, with a pretty little bow on top. I pressed each new accessory onto her like the bandaids they were. As I got older, the power of the doll faded, but my need for her remained. She sat on the shelf and watched as I snuck booze into my bedroom, my new remedy for nightmare-driven insomnia, one that, fortunately, would not last very long. The mere thought of vomiting into my toilet one more time was enough to make me sick. I knew I had to change, to find some other way to feel okay. My best friend knew it too. She dragged me with her to the animal shelter where she volunteered. It was there that I finally found some semblance of peace. I couldn’t believe how much of an immediate impact it had had on me. I started volunteering on my own most days after school. Still, Lilah Dolls remained a big part of my life. At 15, I got my first job working weekends at both stores, filling in whenever I was needed. Kids at school would make fun of me. They all knew I was the “doll girl”. It didn’t bother me. I took pride in my ability to run the store, and in my knowledge of the products we sold. As graduation drew nearer, Dad gifted me a managerial opportunity for the shop. I didn’t know how to tell him I didn’t want it, or that I’d applied to a university several states away, with dreams of working in wildlife conservation. All that he had done for me, it hurt me to hurt him, to turn him down and abandon the empire he’d built for me. I cried when I finally told him. But he wasn’t mad, or even upset. He lifted my chin so I could see his smile and then pulled me in for a hug. As we rocked gently back and forth, he whispered to me that it was okay to chase the thing that silenced my demons. He let go but kept his hands on my shoulders, gazing at the young woman I now was. There was something else in his eye, an understanding of what I was going through, of everything I had been keeping from him. It all tempered with that one look. When I left for school, my Lilah Doll stayed behind, because I didn’t need her anymore. The next few years were like a dream. I loved my classes, my friends, the view from my dorm of the mountains I hiked every weekend. I even met a guy. Caleb. His friends called him Texas, something you understood the moment he spoke. He sat next to me in an ecology class but spent more time studying me than he did the material. He laughed when I told him I was practically famous, so I told him to look up Lilah Dolls. He was stunned. From that moment, he began calling me Lilah-doll (something I pretended to hate), and we were dating not long after. Everything seemed to be falling into place for me, and for the first time in my life I was happy. And then I got the call. Dad was sick. Cancer. It was awful how fast it took him. How rapidly he’d deteriorated before my eyes. I’d dropped out of school to take care of him, and within months he was gone. I could hardly look at him in the end. One of the last conversations we’d had, he’d taken my hand from the hospital bed in which he was bound, begging me to remember the man I knew him to be. I promised I would. My savior. The day he passed, I sat in my old room, waiting for him to come comfort me like he always did. It was just me now, and my Lilah Doll up on the shelf where I’d left her. She looked so different now than when I first got her, adorned in the very many accessories I’d collected over the years, the sunglasses still fixed upon hr face, her bright yellow shirt now torn and faded. I held her close like I used to, curling into a ball at the foot of my bed. It was the closest I could get to my dad being there. I never finished school. Dad left me his share of Lilah Doll and, with just four semesters left, I decided to run the stores instead. Caleb was supportive throughout the whole thing, as was Uncle Eddie who, of course, knew a whole lot more about how to run the business than I did. I picked up on it quick. The hardest part was being enveloped around a permanent and painful reminder of my dad, and wasn’t any easier when that pain went away. I didn’t even notice it had happened. I just woke up one day and went to work, carrying on with my new routine. Paid the bills, watched TV, ordered takeout. Laughed without remorse, and cried about other things. Things really took off after Caleb moved in. Within a year, we were engaged, married, and announcing our pregnancy to a room full of what was almost entirely Caleb’s loved ones. He could sense the hurt I was holding inside but was too kind to challenge me on my weak assurances. I’d sometimes catch his eye from across the room, gauging my demeanor. So I’d bury the pain deeper. None of it would matter after one cold, February morning. Sophia Grace was born healthy, beautiful, perfect. It took some time for me and Caleb to adjust to our new lives as parents. I loved being a mom, but it was exhausting, even with all the help from my amazing husband. Not only was he running around for me and the baby, he was also looking after the stores in my absence. It was a lot. He’d try so hard to pitch in when he got home but was almost always the first to fall asleep. I couldn’t fault him. I was used to functioning on limited sleep. Most nights I’d stare down into my little girl’s crib, studying her unconscious twitches until I was finally ready drift off, myself. Caleb caught me one time just as the sun was beginning to come up. I lied and said I had just woken up. He continued not to push, instead retrieving my old Lilah Doll and placing into the crib beside Sophia. The sunglasses were stuck permanently askew and the faded yellow shirt was becoming unstitched. Caleb joined me in admiring our daughter, wrapping his arms around me and assuring me we were safe. He then smacked me on the butt and said I should get some sleep. I wasn’t out long before I heard it. A shrill, violent scream. It shot me awake and sent me into the kind of frenzy I hadn’t experienced since I was a child. Caleb came rushing back into the room in a panic, checking first on Sophia, who was now awake and crying. Shaking, I asked Caleb if he heard the screams. He looked at me bewildered and said only the baby’s, and mine. This was his first experience with my night terrors, and I think it frightened him more than it did me. I had no idea why they were happening again, I just knew it was finally time to open up to Caleb about my long history with the Screamy Lady. He put Sophia down and held me close, rubbing my back as I sobbed and poured it all out. Once I was settled, he told me he knew what I needed to do: I needed to confront my mother. I had no idea where she was and hadn’t seen her since that night she showed up to our door. Neither had Uncle Eddie. Caleb dropped it for a while and continued to support me as best he could, trying to hide how much he, too, was plagued by the situation. A disposition I knew all too well. I worried it might tear us apart when, much like Dad had almost twenty years prior (and in the very same room, in fact), Caleb turned to me with excitement, the light bulb in his head shining brightly upon his face. He suggested I submit my DNA to an ancestry website to track down traces of my mother’s existence. There was a part of me that rejected the idea, this little pocket of fear that didn’t want to get my hopes up. But Caleb insisted, because he is the most wonderful man I know. And because my bouts of screaming in the middle of the night were scaring him more than he would admit. I was told I could expect my results in no less than eight weeks. When they finally arrived, I was afraid to look at them. Caleb came home and found me in the living room feeding Sophia, the envelope on the table before me. I’d run out of nails to bite. He opened it for me, my stomach sinking as I watched his eyes dance along the pages, when he suddenly stopped and grinned: I had a half-sister. Rachael and I messaged back and forth on the website before agreeing to meet in person. She actually lived nearby. I wondered how often we might have passed each other without realizing it. She invited me over for coffee and was very excited to meet, waving at me from her doorstep before I even stepped out of the car. She, too, was married, with three kids, as was evident from the state of her home, something I found endearing. Sophia was still only an infant and I was already thinking about having more. It was strange noting the familiarities in Rachael’s face as she spoke. Our eyes were especially similar. She told me that she’d always suspected Mom was hiding something, and that she was not at all surprised to learn exactly who I was, given that Mom would never allow her have a Lilah Doll. Rachael described Mom as conniving and manipulative, her father having filed for divorce after years of unhappiness. Now, Mom only came around when she needed something. Rachael was happy to give me her address but cautioned me not to expect very much from her. If only she’d known the scenario I’d played out in my head over and over. It flashed in my mind as I pulled up to Mom’s trailer later that very same afternoon. I sat frozen in my car for a while, anchored by the weight of this moment. There were people sitting in lawn chairs in front of the neighboring trailers, staring in my direction, increasing my nerves. I tried not to look at them as I marched up to my mother’s door and gave two crisp knocks. My hands grew numb as I waited. The door opened and my mother was standing there with a cigarette in her mouth, looking just as sour as she did the last time I’d seen her, only this time I was close enough to see the work she’d had done to her face. It was not appealing. She blew smoke out her nose and asked who I was, and when I told her it was Lilah, she continued to stare through me. Her daughter, I reminded her. She asked what I was doing here, and I wasn’t sure how to reply. It felt stupid having to say out loud that I was just looking to see her after all these years, that I was hoping she’d want to see me too. She hardly reacted. Just took another drag of her cigarette. I informed her that she had a new grandchild, taking out a photo for her to see. She glanced at it and scoffed, mumbling about how my dad must have been proud. When I told her that he died, she said she was sorry to hear it, and didn’t even try to sound sincere. I could feel the soul being ripped out of me. I politely apologized for showing up like this and assured her that I wasn’t trying to be a burden. But I meant so little to her, I was less than a burden. I was an annoyance. An inconvenience taking her away from the daytime television that was blaring in the background. When I ran out of things to say, we stood in momentary silence. She broke it with a groan and wondered if I was going to give her the money or not. I had no idea what she was talking about. She said it was the least I could do given how successful the business was. That she deserved some credit for giving me my name. I suddenly understood why she showed up in the middle of the night all those years ago, and why my dad never wanted me to see her. It was to shield me from the pain I felt in that moment. As spring rolled around, Caleb and I decided to throw a party. We both needed it, and there was still some family that had yet to meet Sophia. It was nice being able to turn our brains off while other people watched our kid. If anyone needed a drink, it was Caleb. I was more than happy to just sit back and bask in the glow of my new family, watching them take turns with my sweet little girl, her attentive eyes gazing out at all the love she did not yet know she had. It had suddenly hit me how much I missed my dad. It really sneaks up on you in those moments. Caleb must’ve noticed, because after hurrying upstairs he returned with my Lilah Doll in hand. I watched him wave it in front of Sophia’s face, making it dance and playing peekaboo with the sunglasses. My mother-in-law stood by looking bemused; all of the brand new toys we’d been gifted, and he went with the ragged, old doll with the very noticeable stain. But it made Sophia smile, which made me break down. A hush fell over the room as I was instantly consoled by those around me, Caleb’s sisters each rubbing my back while Uncle Eddie fetched me tissues. I always hated others’ sympathy, but this time was different. This time was okay. The moment was interrupted by loud knocks on the door. Everyone looked around at each other as though trying to figure out which relative wasn’t already present. Caleb announced that the door was open, but the knocks rang a second time, loud and impatient. The playful confusion had quickly turned into concern. We all listened as Caleb answered the door, trying to figure out whose voice was speaking to him from the other side. His curious cousins peeking from around the kitchen doorway suddenly parted, and my husband returned looking pale and serious. He said it was the FBI, and that they needed to speak with me about something. I could hear guests panicking in the background as I nervously escorted the two agents into the living room. They placed a folder onto the glass table and spread its contents across it. Crime scene photos. Reports. They were disturbing, something I’d wished they had prepared me for first. But they were very direct. They told me that they believed Dad was a serial killer. One that they’d been hunting for nearly two decades. I was more than confused. I told them they were mistaken. Dad was a doll-maker, and a great father. They said that when I submitted my DNA to the ancestry website, they were alerted to matches on over a dozen unsolved murders in the area. My arms were tingling. I couldn’t speak. They went on to describe their struggle in putting together a profile of who they’d long called The South Shore Strangler, explaining how he’d chosen his victims seemingly at random. I reluctantly gazed upon the photos once more. All women. There was something familiar about them. One was wearing sun glasses. Another, a yellow shirt. Caleb appeared in the doorway with Sophia in one arm and my Lilah Doll in the other. When I figured it out, I screamed.

Tommy's birthday was on February 29. He's turning eleven this year and his mom said that he could either celebrate on the 28 th or on the 1 st . He liked that he was given a choice, honestly, he didn't really care when he would celebrate as long as his friends could come over and eat cake with him. But the idea of deciding when his birthday would be appealed greatly to him, he could exercise his free will unlike others whose birthdays were fixed and predestined. He felt special. He decided to tell his mother that they would celebrate on March 1. They celebrated his last few birthdays on the same date so it's fine by him. It's not like he could conduct a party on midnight, but hey, that's a great idea. If his friends could come over on the night of the 28 th and they stay up late until 12 midnight, they could celebrate his birthday accurately . But it would be way past their bedtime. His internal debate was interrupted by his seatmate, Linda, who was leaning towards him. "Hey Tommy, what're you thinking about?" she whispered with a knowing smirk on her face. Linda is very talkative and extremely nosy. "Just my birthday," he answered. Tommy found out in the beginning of the school year that the best way of dealing with Linda is to just answer her first question, then after a few follow-ups, she'll lose interest if you answered fast enough. The more you tried to hide something from her; she'll get more persistent and will not leave you alone until you unwillingly spit it out. So he braced himself with the follow-up question. But Linda just shrugged and returned her attention to their math teacher. Tommy was shocked by the sudden indifference. Linda never passes up the opportunity to ask follow-up questions. Even when there is a teacher in front of the class, she never restrains herself. But Tommy guessed whatever Mr. Graves was discussing in front was more important and interesting than his birthday. After class, his friends Jeremy, Dan and Bryce, approached his desk. They've been classmates since kindergarten and Tommy never had other friends except for the three of them. Jeremy, the noisy one, appointed himself their leader the day he broke off the fight between Tommy and Bryce back in first grade. It was not Tommy's fault, he just reprimanded Bryce for littering in the classroom and Bryce got angry. All of that was behind them now, Bryce is their friend and then there's Dan, who almost never talks. Linda could never get anything from Dan, Tommy chuckled. "What's so funny Tommy?" Jeremy asked. Bryce has an arm slung around him while Dan hovered behind them. "Nothing. Let's go to your house later, Dan." Tommy turned to Dan, who nodded. Bryce whooped and thumped him on the back. "Great idea bro!" They all loved going to Dan's house. Dan's an only child and has rich parents. His bedroom has the coolest video games, which makes it a perfect hang-out place for them, plus their housekeeper is really pretty. Her name's Esther and she made them all the snacks they need while they're playing Call of Duty or Minecraft. "When do you think should I celebrate my birthday, on the 28 th or on the 1 st ?" Tommy finally asked his three friends. "Well if you're asking me, I say we celebrate it on February 28. So we get over it by March." Jeremy said proudly. "But we always celebrate it on March 1 st ." Bryce whined. He hates changes just as Tommy hates breaking rules. "His birthday is February 29, so it's only fair that we celebrate on the month of February not March, you dummy." Jeremy's getting agitated, he hates to lose arguments just as Dan hates carrots. Bryce was about to protest that he's not an idiot when Dan suddenly spoke. "Technically, Tommy doesn't have a birthday to celebrate this year so this argument is pointless." he said seriously. "You mean, I should not celebrate my birthday? No cake, no way!" Tommy protested. He loves cakes and his birthday was just an excuse to binge-eat. It's February 28. Tommy went to school and was listening to Mr. Graves' lecture for a change. "Hey Tommy, are you celebrating your birthday today?" Linda whispered to him. "I'm going to celebrate tomorrow, March 1 st ." he said to Linda. "But what if you die today and you never had the chance to celebrate your eleventh birthday?" Linda morbidly asked. Tommy frowned. "I promise you I won't die, would it help if I invite you over?" "But your other friends are going to be there and Bryce is such a slob.... "Tommy hoped she'd say no, he didn't want to entertain Linda and her questions on his birthday. "You're my friend Tommy, so I'll be there. I'll bring you a gift, look forward to it!" she said excitedly and Tommy sighed. He guessed his mother's cake is the only thing he'll be genuinely looking forward to on his birthday. After school, Tommy walked in silence with Dan. Bryce was picked up by his mom at school and Jeremy took the bus. Dan stopped and asked him. "Your party's tomorrow, right?" "Yeah" Tommy answered. Dan seemed to ponder this for a minute then unexpectedly asks him another random question. "Do you ever think about your dad?" His mom never liked it when he asks about his dad. She'll only answer vaguely and Tommy also hated asking because it makes her upset but he just had to know. All he knew was his dad "went off and died" when he was four. Tommy only have fuzzy memories of him, like his smile, when they were walking hand-in-hand and when he would hum while he was working in their old shed. Tommy knew in his heart that his father was a good person. Unfortunately, good people always had to go first. He's not saying that his mom is bad or evil; she's just uptight and aloof. But he loves her nonetheless. "Of course I do, but it just makes me wonder why he's gone so I stopped thinking about him like always." Tommy answered and waved to Dan when he reached his street. This is where they separate ways. "Just be careful, okay?" with that, Dan tapped his shoulder and continued walking. They could not go to his house today because his mom has visitors coming over and Dan has to be a good boy and help them entertain the guests. Tommy entered the house. "Mom, I'm home!" He called out and realized that his mom's not in the house. He walked towards the fridge and saw a note from his mom explaining to him that she has to go to a last minute business trip and she was really sorry to miss his birthday. She said she'll make it up to him on the weekend and they'll celebrate for two days. His mom also said to take care of himself until tomorrow and to frequently check his phone because she left Tommy a message. Sure enough, his mom did leave him a message and he always forgets to listen to them. So now he's alone in the house, it's almost his birthday and he remembered Dan's words. He can't believe he tortured himself for nothing when his mom could easily make the decision for him. After listening to his mother's frantic messages, Tommy calmly ordered pizza and watched the TV. He couldn't sleep after getting tired of the shows so he decided to wait for midnight to come and wish himself a Happy Birthday. He locked himself in his room and sat by the window looking at the yellow moon. It looks sinister to him. Maybe it was just his imagination but he saw someone dart from the trees outside. There was no sound, just the eerie moonlight shining from above, darkening his thoughts. Suddenly, he was floating and he looked at his hand. It was fading and only a quaint outline remained. Tommy felt his head swimming and wondered if he was drunk from the can of beer he erroneously drank earlier. No wonder adults are always light-headed, they always drink beer. But no, he is really floating. He was now out the window, light as a feather then he glanced back at his body which was slumped on his desk by the window. Did I just die? Tommy tried to think of the probable cause of his death while invisible and levitating on their backyard. The pizza delivery guy! He poisoned me. Or is it Linda? Was that a threat during math period? Am I really gonna die without celebrating my eleventh birthday? Tommy then tried to think of the pizza delivery guy's or Linda's reason to kill him. And when he thought of Linda, he was teleported to her bedroom. Teleported, apparated or sucked into nothingness then spat out into a place-whatever it is, Tommy still felt lightheaded and slightly nauseous when he floated beside his friend's bed. Her room was covered in pink wallpaper; there was a full-length mirror on the corner and the usual desk and drawers. Linda clutched her pink blanket during sleep. Her dark, curly hair was fanned around her face on the pillow and her mouth was half-opened. Her hands then flew to her neck, as if trying to prevent someone from choking her. Tommy looked around the room and he can't see anyone or anything that might be hurting her. Linda's legs started flailing and Tommy panicked. I have to help her . The moment he touched Linda's wrists he was sucked in a spiral again. Spinning, invisible and disoriented, what has become of him? Tommy found himself in a hazy meadow, acres of pastel-colored tulips surrounding him. Is this the Netherlands? Tommy looked to his right and there was a big windmill attached to a barn. At the foot of the windmill was Linda, screaming for help. She was being attacked by something that looks like a man. Tommy crept towards the two of them and upon closer inspection; he saw that Linda's assailant is a man who has horns on his head. He had to help her or else the demon is going to kill her! Tommy concentrated and looked down on his hand. It materialized and he was holding something that looked like a bow. It is made of shimmering gold and becoming heavier every minute that he's slowly becoming un-invisible. The bow was as long as his arm and the string looks sturdy and delicate at the same time. He automatically reached around his back and found arrows nested in what felt like a quiver. He took one arrow and strung it on the bow. The movement felt natural to him, as if he'd been practicing it all along in his life. He aimed at the head of the creature attacking Linda, pulled and released the arrow. It whooshed on his cheek and when he touched it, his hand was smeared red-he had cut himself. But Tommy went to check on Linda first, the demon lay sprawled on her feet with the gold arrow buried on his forehead and was slowly disintegrating into dust. "Tommy! You saved me!" Linda was wearing a beautiful, emerald green dress in this dimension and on her head was a glittering tiara. Tommy held out his other hand to help her up. "This is just a dream, right? I'm trespassing in your dreams Linda." Linda is touching her neck tentatively, feeling for wounds. Her neck was red but there was no blood, her dress was rumpled and dirty from her struggle with the demon. "Well, you could say that. But my dreams are my parallel world." She straightened her dress and checked her charm bracelet. Tommy was bewildered. "What do you mean?" "I mean, I live in two worlds: the one where you are my seatmate and this one where I am a princess hunted by demons." Linda removed a charm from my bracelet and handed Tommy a silver crescent moon charm. "So this is real? Why am I here?" Tommy's bow and quiver of arrows disappeared and the moon charm glowed. Linda shrugged, she pointed to the far horizon where the spires of a castle was visible from where they are standing. "Well, you're not the only one from the other world who managed to enter here. Some were unable to return to the other world. Most of them were living in the castle; your dad was among them." Tommy did not know whether to believe this dream version of Linda or run towards the castle at full speed. "I-I don't believe you. This is just a dream!" Tommy took a step back from a worried-looking Linda. "I don't blame you for not believing. I would love to bring you to the castle so you could talk to everybody but you have to go. You may not be able to return to your mother if you stayed here further." Linda grabbed his hand and led her inside the barn, where she reached inside an old, full-length mirror. Tommy was still absorbing everything in his mind and when the mirror glowed violet and seemed to swallow Linda and then him. He felt the same spinning sensation he felt upon entering Linda's dream world. They stepped in her room and she was wearing her pajamas again, Tommy was slowly fading and becoming invisible again. Linda faced him, placed her hands on his disappearing shoulder and then she spoke seriously: "Remember, everything is real. Keep the charm and you'll be able to go back on your next birthday. Next year's a leap-year, right?" Tommy tried to nod, but decided to speak when he remembered he's slowly turning invisible. "But, I have so many questions. You have to answer them." They heard footsteps coming to Linda's room. She jumped into her bed and covered herself in her pink blanket. "Ask Dan, he's been there before. Now, go home. I'll see you tomorrow." she hissed at him. The door opened and a sleepy Esther entered the room. "Mom!" Linda shouted. Esther is Linda's mother? And what about Dan? What else is he keeping from him? "Just another bad dream?" Esther hugged her daughter to her chest. "No, it's real! Tommy was there, he saved me. Look, my charm is missing!" Esther held her daughter's wrist and inspected the charm bracelet which was missing a charm--the moon charm I was holding in my invisible hands. "Tommy? The one with the birthday on a leap-year? He must be very special." Linda nodded and burrowed further in her mother's embrace. Suddenly, Tommy's hand was glowing and he was teleported back in his bedroom. Then, everything went black. ***** The sunlight streaming from his windows jarred him awake from his sleep. Tommy was unsure whether he just dreamt all of it, but no, he is still holding Linda's moon charm in his hands. He is back to his old, boring self. I don't have it anymore . Tommy looked at his hands and shook his head in disbelief. Well, he'd had enough adventures last night and thank God next year's a leap year. He got dressed, ate cereal and walked to school. Everything is normal. When he told Jeremy and Bryce that there will be no party later because his mom's out of town, they offered to take him to their houses to celebrate but Tommy said he'll pass. Tommy was just glad that he's back and he'll see his mom tomorrow. He doesn't have to decide when to celebrate his freakin' birthday or visit people's dreams. But he didn't entirely hate the experience, it was kinda cool. And he'll definitely come back next year and find his father. He tried to talk to Dan earlier but he came late to school and he's not answering Tommy's texts. What else does he know? He has to get answers from either Dan or Linda. Linda, who also came late to school carrying a mysterious box and was ignoring him since her arrival, who is she really? Why and how does she know his father? His reverie was once interrupted by Linda. "Pssst! Meet me at lunch by the oak tree, and bring your friends." She whispered to him. Mr. Graves didn't notice her. Linda pointed at the box by her feet. "I brought your gift" she then winked at him and pretended to listen raptly to the unsuspecting Mr. Graves. At lunch, the four of them approached the table by the oak tree behind the school where Linda was waiting for them, smiling while shaking her head. "Good thing you didn't die yesterday, Tommy." She held out her hands which were holding the box from earlier. Tommy lifted the lid and saw a cake with the words "Happy Birthday Tommy" written in white icing. "My mom made it; she said leap year babies are really special. It's carrot cake!" Tommy murmured his thanks while Bryce and Jeremy eyed the cake suspiciously. Dan rolls his eyes and says, "Esther must really hate me." He shared a look with Linda. Tommy chuckled and accepted the fork that Linda was handing him. "Hey, you're the one who suggested that I don't celebrate." He will definitely have a talk with the both of them later, but for now; he'll just eat a cake peacefully.

‘Fuckin’ bastard!’ screamed Anto. Today just wasn’t his day, and the last 730 hadn’t been either. ‘Wassa matter with ye?’ hollered Anto’s Da, Fergal, ‘Quit that fuckin’ bellowin’ or I’ll come up there an’ give ye somethin’ te yell about!’ ‘Fuckin’ aul bastard, fuckin’ sittin’ there in his fuckin’ chair thinkin’ he’s got it all fuckin’ figured out, the big fat ballix.’ Anto’d been filling in his CV, and was just done tweaking his meagre GCSE results into more promising grades when the laptop crashed, along with a whole morning’s worth of effort. Ever since his arrest for drunk driving things had gone steadily from bad to worse. He’d been nicked one night picking his girlfriend up from the local bar where she was having a girl’s night out. It’d been him and Big Crick, and he’d only sat down to three beer when the phone had gone. Caoimhe’d fallen out with her mates, they’d gotten into it over Niamh’s new boyfriend and Caoimhe had called him a drug dealer, which the fucker was, but that’d not stopped Niamh from trying to empty a bottle of Gallo’s white all over her head. Anto’d long harboured the suspicion it was those two having at it what alerted the PSNI as they’d pulled him over barely a mile down the road. That’d led to rows, Caoimhe had accused him of putting her in danger, and Anto had argued that she was responsible, as she was meant to get a taxi, but after the fight insisted he come instead. ‘Sure wasn’t ‘at not me night off? Can’t a man sit down an’ have a wee swall wey his mate and be left in peace?!’ He’d lost that row, and worse rows followed after he lost his job, being unable to drive to work. He got banned for a year and ordered to go to a therapist to discuss his relationship with alcohol, plus do 200 hours community service. The community service was rough, he’d be sent over to East Belfast to scrub the racist graffiti off the walls of a house of a black family which had been targeted by the local paramilitaries. Anto avoided the East at all costs. Apart from seeing his mate Marty in Short Strand the place was a no go for a fella called ‘Anthony Patrick Joseph O’Hara’. He’d taken to drinking more, especially before the community work where he brought a half bottle of vodka and kept it in his back pocket. Sure, he reckoned, if yer gonna get death threats for having to scrub off other racist death threats, you may as well do it absolutely rotten. The therapy appointments were worse yet. He’d have to sit there and get grilled on his drinking, which he knew had increased, but had only done so in response to the situation in which he now found himself. ‘Have ye ever told someone yer not an alky?’ He’d screamed at Caoimhe one night after they’d argued over his loss of income, ‘Well, the more ye fuckin’ try te tell ‘em yer not one, the more ye fuckin’ sound like one!’ Soon after they lost the flat, Anto’d been unable to pay his half of the rent, and the social wouldn’t cover it. Caoimhe’d moved back in with her Ma and they’d stopped speaking. They broke up soon after. Anto found he couldn’t look at her anymore, and the drink was turning him nastier than a dose of watery shite. He was forced to move back into his old room with his Ma, Da, brother and two sisters. There was no room in the house, and the room he shared with his 19 year old brother Michael was barely fit for a child, let alone two grown men. His drinking continued unabated, and the drugs too. He’d not touched them for years, but there was no reason now not to bang in a load of coke and gobble up a few tabs. Plus, Feeney Rubberlips from down the street had some good gear on offer, and he’d sort ye out on tick too. Anto had existed in this state for last year and a half, he’d continued trying to seek work, but each rejection justified another trip to the offie, and put him in the mind for a fat line. However, on the jobsite he’d noticed a job he was definitely qualified for, it was even better than the one he’d lost. More pay, more benefits and what’s more, it was in walking distance from his house. The sort of thing that could get him back on his feet, maybe get Caoimhe back, and definitely lead him to getting out his Ma’s house and away from getting his head melted to fuck every single night. ‘Awh fuck Da, am on applyin’ for this here job an’ the laptop’s shat itself. Fucker wiped me applications n’all.’ ‘Well why the good fuck are ye fuckin’ yelpin’ ta me ‘bout it, ye born in a barn?Jesus Christ wee lad shut yer fuckin’ hole! An’ here, yer Ma wants ye down the laundrette to pick up the washin’. It’s down Lonergan’s, all paid for, the washer’s onna fritz again.’ ‘Fuck sake’ muttered Anto, getting his coat and heading out the door. ‘Ma better have stuck my fuckin’ jeans in there. Paid good money for them n’all afore Michael went an’ spilt his whole fuckin’ dinner on me, fuck sake.’ He arrived, got the clothes and headed straight back home to finish the CV, he looked and his jeans and shirts were there too. ‘Thank fuck for somethin’ today’ he thought, as sat back down again and flicked open the laptop. Halfway through the CV and application form he got bored, and noticed his jeans were still warm from the press. He swiftly got changed into them, his legs embracing the heat. The fit felt a little off, but he thought sure they always do, always a wee bit tighter after a good wash. Anto breezed through the form, and re-wrote his CV, remembering courses he’d been on that were applicable and training certificates he had but had forgotten he’d earned. All in all, the application seemed to look good he thought, he even felt bothered enough to write a cover letter telling them just how he was the man for the job. A ‘Digital Marketing Executive’, he could see it now. The past two years would be a memory. Hell, he’d even tell them about the conviction if it came up and point out how his therapy had cured him. He’d be able to spin it around, they’d maybe even think it was funny. Anto the full-time mad bastard. Anto the Pintman, nicked for only three beer. After all he thought, why let the truth get in the way of a good story! Crick rang him up that evening, he said he’d found a hundred notes in a baggy on the ground down Cupar street. ‘Mon me n’ you’ll getta wee swall on, out for a rake of pints and we’ll hit up Rubberlips for summa ‘at good stuff. None of that cut shite.’ ‘Fuckin’ right!’ answered Anto, he’d have a good one tonight. After all, how often is it ye find notes lying about round the West? And no doubt no fucker’s gonna be raising a stink either as it was likely dodgy in the first place. After changing shirts, and brushing his nuggets, Anto met Crick at 8pm down McEnaney’s opposite the cemetery, and the lads swiftly proceeded to commence wineing and bineing as the culchies are so aft of saying. Soon they were joined by Marty, Wee Steeker and Bonzo who’d sourced the gear and brought a bag of workerman’s glue for desert amongst the tombstones. When Anto awoke the next morning, fully clothed, he found he still had a full memory of the previous night, plus £20 unspent. He’d gotten a girl’s number last night, and he could remember getting with her before she left. What made it even better was that he still felt pissed, so he didn’t even have a hangover to deal with yet. On checking his phone to see if the number had all the digits he saw he’d been called five times that morning by a number he didn’t recognise. It wasn’t the girl’s either as he’d saved hers under ‘Fuckin’ Ride’. He phoned the number and a woman answered. ‘Hello, this is Anthony O’Hara, I’ve got a number of missed calls from you and I was just ringing up to see why.’ ‘Oh! Mr. O’Hara, so glad you rang us back! We’ve be trying all morning! My name’s Sarah Waters, we’re ringing you back about your application yesterday. We think you’d be a great candidate and we’re actually having online interviews this morning if you’re still keen on the position?’ ‘Umm oh, aye, woah, I wasn’t expecting that, I’ve slept in a wee bit this morning, it was a friend’s birthday last night, em, what time are the interviews at?’ ‘We can fit you in in about an hour if that suits, we’re sorry about the short notice, but we really are very eager to get this position filled as soon as we can!’ ‘Aye, sure, no bother that’s grand. I’ll send you my Skype now, and we can speak in an hour! Thanks again, I wasn’t expecting this, it’s really appreciated!’ ‘No problem at all, we’ll contact you in an hour Anthony, and good luck!’ Hanging up the phone Anto felt strangely calm. In the past he’d be shitin’ bricks and peeling the scalp off himself with anxiety, but for some reason, today he just felt as confident as ever, and he knew what he needed to do. The old laptop took 20 minutes to load up, but everything else got up and running without a hitch. Anto went to the bathroom, pissed, brushed his teeth, threw some water on his face and decided against a shower. He opted instead to reapply some wax to his hair, and put in some eyedrops, as his eyes were as red as strawberries. With ten minutes to go he put on a new shirt, but left the jeans, after all, he’d be sitting down. He could even talk to them with his knob hanging out the fly, but he decided against that. Then the call came, he answered every question, made good natured jokes, and asked more questions back. He explained the gap in his employment, he’d been caring for his Granny (dead 10 years) and he’d been helping his mate out in his landscape gardening business on the side (selling some of Crick’s homegrown weed to teenagers). When the call ended he felt great, positive for the first time in years. Everything he’d gone through could now be put right. All his education (first one in the family at University for Digital Media) would finally be put to use, and his bad luck would finally come to an end. Anto decided on a long, hot shower before he went downstairs to tell his Ma n’ Da. They’d be glad to hear it, and it’d get them off his back for the day too. Fighting for the bathroom was always a constant in the O’Hara house, but as he walked onto the landing it was free, and even better, it didn’t stink of his Da’s arse! ‘I left the immersion on so there’s plenty of hot water there son’ shouted Anto’s Ma. ‘Fuckin’ A’ thought Anto, ‘This day’s goin’ grand!’ However, upon getting undressed and emptying the pockets of his jeans Anto found something he didn’t recognise. A faded and wrinkled receipt for a hammer and some nails from Brannigan’s Hardware. ‘The fuck?’ said Anto, as he looked at the label of the jeans and found they said ‘C. N. Toner’. ‘Huh? What the fuck, these here aren’t my fuckin’ jeans!’ ‘FUCKIN’ BASTARDS!! The cunts have gone an’ fuckin’ gimme some o’r cunt’s jeans. Who the fuck’s Toner, n’ why’s the cunt still labelling his fuckin’ jeans like a fuckin’ child?’ Anto’d spent good money on his jeans, they were his favourite pair and now he began to realise why they felt a bit tighter. He had no idea how he hadn’t clocked it until now, they were even a different shade of denim. This sort of thing always pissed Anto off no end, as a child he’d lost it when his Ma had lost his favourite Celtic top and then tried to replace it with the newer version. It had lost everything he’d loved about it, the old 1993-94 away design, the fit, the smell, the feel. He felt his hangover coming on with a vengeance. ‘What da fuck’ve I been playin’ at? What’d I say to thoseuns for the job?’ He couldn’t remember, it was all a blur. He’d probably been rambling, off his nut, he’d fucked it now, he’d made a fool of himself. Anto began to feel very strange, his skin felt clammy, even as he was under the hot water, he didn’t feel clean, everytime he closed his eyes he kept imagining he’d lost his hands and instead they just ended in conical points. He’d overdone it this time, he was going to die. He tried switching to cold but images just flooded his head of when he was in Donegal as a child and his Da had scared him shitless with tales of the Kelpie, and then afterwards pushed him into a pool of water in the bog. He could see the mad water horse now and he stumbled and fell out’ve the shower gasping for air. He dressed quickly, in his own clothes now, and headed downstairs. His sister’s were watching Love Island and the inane Essex accents were making him nauseous. ‘How could any cunt sound like ‘at?’ He screamed at them, as he went back to his room to lie down. His brother was in the room, playing his music, shite homemade techno that he thought sounded sweet, but Anto just didn’t have it in him to say was shite. He lay down, got under the covers, put his head under the pillow and lay there until he fell into a sweaty and fitful sleep. He dreamed off everything the previous day, dreamed of Caoimhe, and the other girl he’d got with, dreamed of Big Crick and the feed of pints. Dreamed of that cunt Toner and how he’d had such a good day and night in another fella’s jeans. He woke up to his phone ringing and felt sick. ‘Hello, is this Anthony?’ ‘Yeah it is, who’s speaking?’ ‘Hi Anthony, this is Sarah again, Sarah Waters, I just wanted to let you know that we were absolutely delighted with your interview and we’d like to offer you the position. When would you like to start?’ ‘Awh, I’m sorry, I cant...’ ‘Anthony?’ ‘Look, I cant, I’m not interested. Alright? It was all a fuckin’ lie, now fuck off.’ ‘Excuse me, is this you Anthony? I’m very confused!’ ‘Well this here won’t be confusin’ ye, get te fuck, and shut yer fat fuckin’ hole or I’ll come round there and bate the ballix out the lotta yiz, YIZ FUCKIN’ CUNTS!’ He hung up, turned his phone off and rolled over to go back to sleep. There was no way he’d’ve been able to accept that job. Not after the circumstances. It was all fake, it was all wrong.

Life stretched on in all its crushing dreariness. He felt trapped: by his choices, by his body, by his brain. “Tim Carter?” called the nurse. That was him. “Room 7” she said. Well, he thought, let’s get some help. Or some answers, at least. He wrapped on the door. From inside he heard a muffled: “come in!”. The doctor was sat behind a computer: he looked like Bob Ross in a labcoat. “Mr, er, Carter is it?” he asked, squinting at his computer screen. “Yes, uh, that’s me” said Tim, pulling his seat nearer to the desk. “Well, what can I help you with?” “I, uh, well basically...I’ve been feeling bad recently. Like, really bad. I built up this routine for myself - you know, exercise, art, work, sleep, meals - but even that’s stopped working. I keep wanting to cry all the time, I’m just...just a fucking mess you know?” The doctor took off his spectacles. He looked at Tim with a father’s sympathy. “And have you been on antidepressants?” “Yeah, but they’ve not been working...I’ve tried them all at this point” “And have there been any big changes in your life recently?” “No, none I can think of...there’s no logical reason I should feel this way” “How about drink, or drugs? Do you do them?” “Well, yeah, I mean, I used too, they helped for a bit, but then they stopped working. So I don’t bother anymore.” “I see...so you’ve got a routine, you’ve tried all the antidepressants, you avoid drink and drugs, and there’s no logical reason for you to feel this way, am I right?” Tim nodded. “Have you thought about killing yourself?” “No...I mean, sometimes, fuck, I don’t know. Not all the time, anyway” “I mean...have you *considered* killing yourself? As an option?” “What...what do you mean?” “Well, like I’ve said, you’ve tried everything else, suicide might be the best bet at this point. I’ll write a referral for Dignitas if you’d like?” “Wait, what, no, *what the fuck*? Why are you telling me this?” “Look at it this way Tim - you don’t mind if I call you Tim, do you? - you said so yourself, there’s no logical reason for you to feel this way! You’ve tried everything! It’s quite obvious that, mental healthwise, you’re fucked. Sorry, but that’s just how it is. CBT would be like using a bucket to plug a sinking ship; it’s just not feasible. So why postpone the inevitable?” “But, you’re a doctor, Jesus Christ! You’re meant to help people get better!” “And I am, Tim, I really, really am” he said wearily “don’t you see? What is life, if not the pursuit of happiness? And if you’re always going to be *locked out* of life’s joys then what’s the point of carrying on? Do you really want to have this conversation repeated for the next five, ten, twenty years? Must you be like Sisyphus, doomed to repeat your burden for all eternity?” “Dude, I don’t even know what the fuck you just said. Isn’t there, like, I don’t know, some new drug? Some new therapy, even?” “Yes, probably...and you’d be on it, for a bit, and you’d feel better, for a bit, but then you’d build up a tolerance, or some new incident would come along, wrecking everything, setting us back to square one. Aren’t you sick of the skipping record that is your life? You’re a broken bird, you’re stale crisps, you’re the end bit of the loaf...the best you hope for is a few for is a few isolated peaks of happiness, maybe, in an eternity of gloom” “Fuck you, dude. My life has value.” “Yes, but what is value unless it’s recognised? I could say this pen is worth £100, but neither of us choose to believe it, so it isn’t true! You are incapable of perceiving worth in yourself; ergo, your life has no value” Tim stood up angrily. He’d had enough. “You know what? I think you’re the one who’s bitter, broken and useless. You can keep your judgements. I’m going to carry on living, if only to spite you!” Tim stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut. The doctor smiled.

It was bring your kid to work day tomorrow. The worst day of my life. How could I explain to my kid what I do? I had become a doctor to save lives. If only I knew. If only. I had worked in the ICU for nearly 6 months now, transferred from the ER due to how good i was with the lasso. I had never missed a soul. That was my job. When a patient passed, it was my job to secure their soul for recycling. The power monopoly EPL had a strict contract with RCR, my hospital, for all souls. For nearing two decades now we had learned that soul power was exponentially more potent than electricity or even oil. Everything from your microwave to your TV or even your phone, was powered by souls. How could I tell her? How could I tell her that her mothers soul was probably powering some jack asses nose trimmer? I couldn’t. And thanksgiving was right around the corner too. Damnit damnit damnit. My stupid family is going to ask me about my job too. No one knows. Even if they did, it’s not like anything would change. Their phones and hair dryers were too important. They’d turn a blind eye. Besides, the poor souls were worth more and the politicians knew they could sell the idea of sacrifice for the greater good. “Skrrr*Code yellow room 313*” That was for me. It was time for the next reaping. They couldn’t even call it something better than that? I’m a damn reaper. That’s what i do. I confine souls to a temporary prison before they’re sucked to a crisp by our machinery and are lost to oblivion. You’d think that with the discovery of real souls there would be a religious epiphany. No, there was money to be made. And i was the collector. They paid well too. Maybe that’s why i hadn’t left, maybe that’s why i hadn’t blown the whistle. No if I blew the whistle i’d be powering up some poor broads vibrator in a week. Lass wouldn’t even know a hopeless lanky man like me was stuck inside. It would probably kill the mood anyways. Fuck. I’m on. Nurses were scrambling in the room already. “Dr. Lez, we’ve kept all the windows closed as long as we-“ I held up my hand to stop her. “Just keep them that way I won’t be long.” I uncoiled my lasso from my fanny pack. Jesus they couldnt even give us cool bags for these death ropes. A fucking fanny pack? I slipped my goggles on and surveyed the room. There he was, just sitting there in the upper right corner of the room. Souls don’t have voices, but if this one did, he’d no doubt ask what the hell was going on. He looked scared, and he should be. This wasn’t right. It didn’t stop me though. I gave my rope a final tug and started to spin my lasso. I caught him around the waist and slowly pulled him in. Souls are also slippery buggers. Too fast of a pull and they’d be gone again. Got you. I looked to my tech. “McGaff grab the vacuum.” He grabbed the ancient device and started his process. My job was done. Maybe i’ll ask for PTO and just miss bring your kid to work day. Yeah, that’s what doctors do. I had a whole month saved up why not? Yes yes yes. Easy. I’ll buy Calliope ice cream and drive down to the fair. Yeah, screw it. I’m taking off.

(TW ... depression, suicidal thoughts) “I honestly don’t know why I should even care anymore.” It was an unpleasant thought. She knew that. It was a thought to fight off, to wrestle to the ground and beat senseless, walking away the victor. She knew that. “Why do I bother? There is no point.” These thoughts, as if best friends, seem to show up together. The power of two makes it harder to fend off, needing a one-two punch to knock them both out. She had fought this demon many times in her life. It was an entity that lurked around her, above her, swirling and taunting. At times it had retreated to the background in silence. Out of sight and out of mind? Almost. The recent isolation had opened the door for the depression to enter her life again. Like an invitation to a birthday party but instead of balloons and streamers it decorated the space with darkness. She walked down the aisle without choosing anything. Forgetting to grab a basket on her way in, she held the few selected items in her arms. Protein bars. They make a good meal at her desk without requiring any prep or thought. That’s a plus. Cereal. A staple to be eaten for breakfast or a late night snack. Another plus. Stopping in the hair care aisle she stared at the vast array of products. Absentmindedly she twisted a piece of hair round and round her finger and then let it go adding to the mass of curls that did their own thing despite her efforts. She fantasized about getting a new hairstyle, walking past a reflection knowing that she looked good and felt good. Then she remembered the discomfort in the salon seat, the cape making her feel small and unattractive with her wet hair slicked back, the stranger’s hands pulling a comb through her knots. She grabbed a conditioner for curly hair putting an end to the fantasy. Struggling to hold her meager collection of items she again wondered, “Why bother”. She still didn’t have anything picked out for dinner despite roaming up and down the aisles. Looking at the meats, she was reminded of her mediocre cooking skills. She stood rooted to the spot staring at the choices for who knows how long. It just wasn’t worth it, she decided. It really wasn’t worth the effort. Walking to the front of the store in a trance-like state her thoughts went to the place that she would never allow them to go. A surprising calmness seeped into her as she considered the possibilities; the calmness turning into relief as the thoughts grew stronger and more defined. She was young, had no children for whom she was responsible. That in itself was a blessing and a curse. Otherwise, she would rise to the occasion. Drifting away from friends over the years, she resorted to commenting on social media posts and the occasional text. It became a better alternative than making plans, which she would inevitably cancel. As for coworkers, her home office allowed her the luxury of solitude. She really could just slip out of this existence unnoticed. Her thoughts went to her mother. How would she find out? The news would be devastating enough to destroy her. Would she recover? If she were able to find the words she could explain that it wasn’t her fault, that she had done nothing wrong as a parent. It was within herself, this depression, this monster that threatened her very life. Maybe she should write a letter while it was on her mind just in case. If the enemy won she didn’t want her words unsaid. Suddenly a flashback of herself a few years prior came to mind. As a teenager she had built up the courage to let her mother in on her feelings. It came out all wrong, she remembered, sounding spoiled, petty, ungrateful. She hadn’t been able to draw the picture of her emotions. And then the quick response came. “Snap out of it.” Oh, if it were only that easy. Snap out of it. How she longed to Snap Out Of It. Her turn at the register, the cashier asked the perfunctory questions. Did you find everything you were looking for tonight? Yes, thank you. Cash or charge? Charge, please. Would you like a bag? No, thank you. Maybe she should have chosen the self-checkout line. “Let me know what you think of that conditioner. I’ve been meaning to try it.” “Oh yeah.” She looked down somewhat surprised that she had picked it out. She felt like she was just waking up, a bit groggy. “I love your curls by the way. My hair just turns to frizz no matter what. No fair.” She looked at the young cashier with her hair pulled into a ponytail. “No, it’s cute. I like it.” “Yeah?” She brightened up, smiled. “Yeah. Definitely.” After swiping her card, she laid the cereal box down flat in the bagging area and arranged her items on it. As if it were a tray, she picked up the box and turned to walk toward the exit. The cashier smiled, commenting, “You look like a waitress.” Always quick with a comeback she replied, “Would you like fries with that?” The two women looked at each other and unexpectedly laughed. Something clicked inside her with the release of endorphins. She felt lighter, healthier, awake. How did her mood change so rapidly, going from the depths of despair to laughing in the blink of an eye? Was the most basic conversation, just a few lines of banter back and forth, enough to bring her back from the brink? One small compliment, one silly off hand joke. The automatic door opened, and she walked through into the evening catching the tail end of the sunset. The cool air felt good. Her thoughts returned to the letter for her mother. Should she still write it just in case? She could tuck it into the drawer of her night table to be easily discovered. She thought of the one simple gesture, the cashier choosing to converse with her, that changed the outcome of the evening. Looking back into the grocery store as the automatic door was closing, she caught a glimpse of the young lady. She was smiling warmly at the next customer. This time the one simple gesture was a smile. As she turned away she saw the customers at the self checkout going through the motions, looking alarmingly similar to how she had felt just moments ago.

Where I come from Coke is a generic work for any carbonated drink. For instance-- I’ll take the fried chicken livers, green beans, and a Coke. What kinda Coke you want hon’? How ‘bout a Dr. Pepper? Where I come from sweet is the only way tea is served and potato salad has mayonnaise, mustard, and sweet pickles. Like most young people, I suppose, I hated my hometown. I was young and impatient, and the place I came from was in no big hurry. Mostly though, I couldn’t wait to escape the claustrophobic gentility that was often a disguise for generational hate and racism. Where I come from, black men still say Yes suh, Mr. John when white men speak to them and very old ladies don’t even blink when they let the n word slip. Where I come from, if you look carefully on the exposed brick wall of the Five and Dime-- below the words suggesting you See Rock City-- you can still make out the words white and colored where the segregated water fountains hung. Don’t get me wrong, not all my memories are bad. I grew up there. I learned to walk and talk. I had my first kiss and went to football games and dances. I graduated from high school and earned my first real grownup paycheck in that place that I came from. When I go back to visit now, I can look at it with grace. I can sit and watch the sun set over the lake to the deafening soundtrack of the cicadas. I can drive down country lanes bounded on each side by unending cotton fields and glory in the vast magnolias that I know where old when I was born. Much of my father’s family still live in the place I came from and like the cicadas and magnolias, I have learned to appreciate them. Growing up, I recall bickering and long-held grudges. I remember my grandmother playing my aunts and uncles against each other--whispering this in one’s ear and that in another’s. But there are good memories as well. I particularly recall a picnic at the lake --a birthday party for my great grandmother. I might have been nine or ten. I can remember the burned sugar smell of barbecued pork ribs cooking over a hand dug fire pit and scoops of cold potato salad on thin paper plates. I remember my grandfather, Paw Paw, turning a hand cranked ice cream churn while chain smoking from an aluminum folding chair. I remember exactly how that thin vanilla ice cream would melt and soak into the edges of the grocery store birthday cake. I remember cold sweet tea in red plastic cups. Now, for anyone who is not southern, the ratio is two full cups of Dixie Crystal White Sugar into a two quart pitcher of hot tea. Looking back, it’s a wonder we are not all diabetic! While the adults cooked and gossiped, we children played. I can recall the feel of the mud squishing between my toes as we played waist deep in the edge of the lake. Our swimsuits were eternally stained dingy orange from the iron rich red clay in the water. My cousin, Regina, and I were the oldest and were expected to entertain and supervise the younger cousins. We accomplished this by taking turns pretending to baptize them. We would instruct each little one to cross his arms and lean back. Then we would hold them just above the water and ask, “Do you believe in Jesus?” We would pinch their little noses closed and dramatically lower them back into the smelly lake water. When they emerged, hair dripping behind them, we would all shout, Hallelujah ! And then the next cousin would be waiting, impatiently crying, Do me next! I’m next! In addition to my uncles and aunts, Granny and Paw Paw, my great grandmother, Margie, and her sister, Bonnie Jean were installed in folding chairs in the shade of the mimosa trees. (Great) Grandma Chandler wore a thin flowered house dress that zipped up the front and heavy black lace up shoes. On the front of her dress two large square pockets held a small package of tissues, her reading glasses, a pack of Beechnut gum, and a small Round red can of Garrett and Sons’ Sweet Snuff. Her thin gray hair was pinned to the back of her head with black bobby pins because she said it was just too hot to wear her wig. Bonnie Jean, who had left home, had a career and two husbands, wore a pair of polyester pants and a coordinating flowered top purchased from the ladies’ sportswear section of Sears and Roebuck. Both women fanned themselves with stiff square paper fans emblazoned with the name of the local funeral home on the front and quarter page ads for local mechanics, beauty parlors, and divorce attorneys on the back. Grandma Chandler worked as a winder at the local cotton mill for thirty-seven dollars a month. She retired after sixty- four and three-quarter years. When they asked why she didn’t make it an even sixty-five, she replied that she just didn’t want to. After she retired, she received a pension of thirty five dollars a month a Christmas box containing six oranges, a bag of hard ribbon candy, and a paper box of old fashioned peppermint sticks. On Saturday evenings, Grandma Chandler would prepare Sunday dinner. Where I came from lunch was dinner and dinner was supper . She would fry chicken and cook turnip greens with a slab of fat back, and slice sun warmed red tomatoes from her garden. When the meals was complete, she would place it on the kitchen table and drape a clean flowered bedsheet over it until the next day, after church. She loved her family, Jesus, and Johnny Cash, but maybe not in that order. I loved Grandma Chandler but I worshipped her sister, Bonnie Jean. Bonnie Jean was exotic. She had been to places outside of that place I came from. She talked to me like an adult. Bonnie Jean liked to rock the boat a little and I hope I learned that from her. Even as a small child, I took it to heart when someone would offer to wrap up a piece of cake for her to take home and she would declare, “I’m going to save myself from temptation later, I’ll just eat all my cake now!” There was, I thought, an important life lesson there and I embraced it fully. I cannot escape the place I come from. No matter how far I travel or how loudly I deny it. The place--the people-- I come from are part of me. You can hear it when I pronounce the word bed or dead with two entire syllables or declare that I am fixin’ to go to the store. You can see it in the way I dress, and walk, and talk. You can feel it in who and how I love. And-- You can taste it in my sweet tea.

“Wow! That last sack J.J. laid on Tom Brady, third quarter, seems to have left a very lasting impression him. Have you noticed that Chet?” Gerry Jerbette asks of his network co-worker. They had partnered together doing live action sports commentary for the past five years “Noticed? Are you kidding me? I’m way ahead of you Gerry. I’ve already had it entered in as a brand new game stat! ...For fewest plays aimed at wherever J.J. Watt is positioned on the line of scrimmage,” Chet Doler responded. Chet was seventeen years Gerry’s senior, who was able to distort his true age by looking every bit a handsome-bodied, neatly groomed, male professional, wearing a flashy smile, studded with top of the line implants. Gerry was a kind of a twenty-nine year old near twin to Chet. Gerry looked collegiately young, was neatly groomed, and also had a flashy smile. But additionally had the musculature of a man who often Peloton’d his way through lunch. “You know Chet? Yeah. Now that you’ve mentioned it... I haven’t seen the Buccaneers moving the ball much to J.J.’s side of the line all fourth quarter. Not ever since the Texans have been rotating him from end to end, every third and long scenario the Buccaneers have gotten themselves into today,” Gerry said into his head mic with game enthusiasm. “Yeah. Not that hard to figure out really,” Chet agreed, repositioning his headset for comfort. “The Buccaneers have been double-teaming J.J. Watt as if the man were a nuclear threat.” Gerry loosens up his tie and drops his opinion. “That’s for sure Chet. The Bucs are lagging behind the Texans by three points, with thirty-seven seconds left to go in the game. And I’m legally sure there isn’t a single person in all the NFL universe who isn’t sure that Brady is updating himself, play by play, on where the Texans’ number 99 jersey is lining up,” Gerry said with a conspirator’s grin. “Yeah, I would too, if I had a Watt pest problem in Raymond James Stadium,” Chet commented into the network’s audio broadcast circuitry. Activity out on the field catches Chet’s eye. He glances down quickly at his monitor to double check, then back out onto the field, and replies, “No doubt about that Gerry.” “And I see that things are coming back to life here in the stadium. The Buccaneer fans are coming to their feet, and breaking the sound barrier with extreme prejudice.” “You’re right Gerry. The Ariens/Brady summit on the sideline has adjourned, and Brady is walking over to his offensive unit with ***the*** ***plan***,” Chet conjectures. Gerry nods and then adds his observation to supplement Chet’s commentary. “***The*** ***plan*** seems to be delivered Chet. The Bucs are trotting up to the line of contention. The wait for the fans is about to be over. And you better believe you can hear their excitement at thirty thousand feet above this stadium!” Chet presses his head phones closer to his ears, and then signals to the booth engineer to dial up his head set’s audio just a few notches. Gerry gives the booth engineer the same signal for the same convenience and remarks into his mic, “Brady must have an itchy trigger finger Chet, because the Buccaneer offense is lining up in the shot gun.” “Right Gerry. Which totally stands to reason. Seeing that he’s on his own forty-two yard line with no time outs left, fourth down, and eighteen long yards to go for a clutch first down,” Chet says, raptly fascinated. He throws Gerry a quick glance, and finishes by adding, “Look at him out there Gerry. Tom couldn’t possibly be more in hero mode. He’s got the apparent swagger of a legendary Superbowl champion persona about him for sure.” “Yup, hold that thought Chet. Cause there’s the snap! Brady’s pocket is forming around him like a Star Wars deflector shield. And there goes his crew of receivers streaking downfield like X-wings star fighters, trying to find a little free Grid Iron space to haul in a fast spiral delivery. And there’s J.J. working hard to crash the party.” “But he’s up against the double-team duo of Donovan Smith and Ali Marpet. They’re out to bar J.J.’s way like a pair of night club bouncers. But wait! Wow! Did you see that?!" Gerry exclaims excitedly, nearly performing a perfect imitation of a NASA rocket launch out of his chair. “You better believe I saw ***that***, Gerry!” Chet breaks in to reply. “That’s no optical illusion. J.J. just made the fastest lightening inside-fake, outside-spin move on Donovan Smith, the big Buccaneer tackle has probably ever seen in his life!” Chet says, in a soprano voice. “It appears that Smith wasn’t expecting J.J.’s fake and spin. Or that J.J. would suddenly not be under his hands anymore! Which is resulting in a very surprised Donovan Smith stumbling forward, in a very badly off balanced way!” “Right Chet! But look at Ali Marpet. He’s stumbling over Smith’s legs, trying to get to J.J.! Which is proving to be a bad move for both him and his teammate. Because they’re both headed for the artificial turf, and no doubt, a real good chewing out in the very near future!” Gerry predicts. In the very next second, Gerry’s index finger reflexively points out the broadcast booth window excitedly. Danger signals clanging in his mind, to broadcast, “Oh! And somebody better get Brady on his helmet radio and tell him what I’m looking at! J.J. Watt is racing in unhindered! And I’ll bet my paycheck he’s not rushing in to get Brady’s autograph!” Automatically, Gerry turns his head, but not his eyes, to Chet, and announces, “Looks like Brady is going to have to seriously consider grabbing two feet of space on the sideline, real real soon Chet!” Chet channels his counter-comment into his microphone, “Gerry, I believe you’re putting it way too mildly. Brady has to see he’s about to become a sack stat! There’s nobody open. He’s running out time! And he’s already out of downfield options. He’s a complete escape artist now!” Chet continues. “J.J. has gone to sack speed, and is rapidly narrowing down the distance between sacker and sackee,” Chet says ominously. On the tail end of Chet’s commentary, Gerry hurries to add his own take. “Yeah Chet! If Tom doesn’t find somebody to take that $120 piece of Wilson sporting equipment off his hands soon...!” Chet smoothly rejoinders Gerry’s commentary to say, “Not likely Chet. Brady will never make it to the sideline sanctuary, or the air express office either. He’s just a step away from getting Watt-ed for a huge loss.” Both commentators instinctively want to wince and cover their eyes, but don’t. When the play is officially over, they both look away from the field to look at their monitors and shake their heads, viewing the instant replay of the collision. While watching, Chet does the honors of summing things up for the broadcast audience. “Well Gerry, for all intents and purposes this game is already minted and printed. With only twenty-six seconds left in the game, J.J. Watt has just served Tom Brady Jr. with a penalty-free sack notice, and signatured it by way of a dutiful military salute.” “Right Chet.

​ She wore a bright yellow dress with brown boots that came up to her knees. Her hair cut short and it looked to be a Hershey chocolate brown. He didn’t look like he belonged with her. He was wearing a dirty white shirt and black jeans that were a little too tight. His hair fell over the tops of his ears as if he skipped his last two barber appointments. I watched his hand slip into her hair and tucking it behind her ear. At first, she was surprised he came on so strong with the kiss. After a while she leaned in with her whole body. They were intertwined like the vines of jungle plants who grew too close to each other. Everything was innocent until I watched his hand move up her knee onto her thigh and under her dress. That’s when I dipped my nose back into my novel. I had always enjoyed reading here. I walked to the middle of the park typically where tourists didn’t gather and other natives didn’t know about. It was this giant rock sitting behind some tall grass right next to the water. I always packed a towel and laid it down next to the rock and read my novel. I couldn’t do this much due to the fact I had been in school all year, but now that it was summer I could finally find a little peace and quiet time. The couple had found the bench across from the walkway that led to my secret spot. They couldn’t see me, but I sure as hell could see them. I was a little jealous in a way. He didn’t feel her as if he was trying to take advantage of her. He touched her gently because he definitely loved her. You can just tell sometimes by the way people treat each other. I never knew what that touch had felt like but I had definitely seen it on others. They were only in the third chapter of their story. You know, the whole game of him trying to get her attention. Then he tries to grow some balls and ask for her number. After texting for a few days, he actually needs to pick up the nerve and ask her on a date. Finally comes the first kiss and possibly even sex. Even all of that, he might find himself introducing her to his parents. And oh God, possibly even marriage. Feelings just didn’t come that natural to me. I packed up my things into my dirty worn out backpack. Walking towards the subway, I stopped and stared at my reflection. My dirty blonde hair fell just past my shoulders. The green blouse I was wearing cut low enough to be sexy, but not too revealing. My mom jeans definitely set off the signal that I really wasn’t trying to impress anyone that day, and my Chuck Taylors contributed to that idea quite well too. I moved in closer towards the mirror, looking at my freckled covered face. It was a blessing and a curse. The freckles made me look cute, but too cute to look my age of 20 years old. I was mistaken for 13 quite frequently. My eyes were a light brown that had been seasoned with green flakes, being my most noticeable feature. I made my way down in the tunnels of the big city where I swiped my card and proceeded to the train. After sitting down, I pulled out my novel again. There was a woman and her baby sitting on the other side of my cart. The woman was playing on her cell phone while lightly waving a baby toy in front of her infant to distract them. I got only a couple pages deep in my book when I felt it. Gripping my ankle, I screamed loudly. It felt as if a thousand bees had stung me. When I pulled my hand away for a second, I saw my hand covered in blood. Was I dying? I moved my hand back quickly only because the air had stung my open wound. I dropped my book and wiped my tears away with my now open hand. Looking over, I saw the woman had been staring at me blankly while her child was screaming louder than I had. I moaned in pain and hunched over getting a better look at my ankle. A dark imprint had made its home right above the bone. I wiped away a little more blood to see the shape of a footprint appear. “What on earth?” I whispered to myself. The subway had stopped and I had fallen over in my seat. I grabbed the closest railing and with my other hand, grabbed my book from sliding on the floor across the subway. I stood up quickly shoving it back into my bag and ran off the train. After getting off, I looked back inside to see the woman staring at me as if I had shot someone. The train started moving and I watched her pull out her cell phone and begin speaking into it. I wish I could have heard what she had said, because I surely knew it would be about me. Walking home, I slightly limped because the muscles tensing up on my new scar made it sore. I made it back to my apartment where I found the door unlocked, meaning that Sherrie was home. Immediately, I grabbed the first aid kit we had stored in our extra tall kitchen cabinet. I then threw myself on the couch and began wrapping it with an ace bandage. “What’s up?” Sherrie yelled from her bedroom. “I’m not sure,” I responded. Sherrie came out in a long pink pastel shirt and pajama shorts. She was brushing out her long brown hair that reached down to her waste. A green moldy looking face mask covered her face. “Holy shit,” she said. Sherrie didn’t have much of a filter. “You should’ve seen the girl in the subways reaction.” “You got a tattoo on a subway?” “No.” “Well where did you get it Missy?” She sat down next to me unwrapping it. The air stung it a little because it was so deep in my skin. “I don’t know.” “You got drunk didn’t you?” she laughed. “No Sherrie, I didn’t get drunk on a Sunday and get a tattoo.” “Well, where did it come from?” That same question had been pondering through my head since the moment I first saw it. The little black footprint was pointed up my ankle towards my thigh. It had four little toes on it instead of five. I lightly touched it, knowing we were going to be together forever. “I’m not quite sure,” I whispered. The next day after work, I met up with Sherrie and her boyfriend Danny to grab a cup of coffee. The Starbucks in town are absolutely insane with tourists, so we always try to find new quiet and unheard-of coffee shops that not many people go to. We sat down at Culture Espresso which is slightly busy, but not too busy to the point where we couldn’t hear each other. The tables were small so we were really close to one another (including the strange man with stretched ear lobes sitting behind me). I had ordered a simple black coffee while they both ordered fancy drinks with extremely long names. Danny was tall and dressed well. He always styled his long dark hair back, making him look edgy and mysterious. Sherrie was just as beautiful as he was, which made them a cute couple. Sometimes they were almost a little too aware of that. Danny and Sherrie were quite an affectionate couple with random outbursts of PDA. They had to always be in constant contact with each other in any situation. Danny kept his hand either extremely far up Sherrie’s thigh, or directly on her hip whenever he got the chance. I sipped my coffee while he leaned in and smacked a big wet kiss on her lips. Sherrie grew a bashful grin and whined “babe” so loud that everyone in the restaurant was aware she had a boyfriend. Of course she had to return the favor and it resulted in a mini make out session. I didn’t mind and neither did anyone else around us. Although, this little fire inside me began to grow. What was this? I averted my eyes. “So, Missy, how is life? We don’t talk anymore. You are always gone out of the apartment! Well I mean I am too, but I miss you. How is work? Are you dating anyone yet? How is your tattoo healing?” Sherrie blurted out. Sherrie was from Michigan so she has always talked extremely fast. She needed to get everything out that was on her mind. “You got a tattoo? Where did you go? Who was the artist?” Danny added, matching Sherrie’s speed. “I didn’t go anywhere. I don’t even know if I’d call it a tattoo,” I managed to squeeze in the conversation. “It’s so cute though!” Sherrie added. “Show Danny!” I shifted my ankle from under the table and lifted up the cuff of my jeans high enough to where Danny could see it. The large ear-lobes man behind me peaked over and scoffed. “It’s very tiny,” Danny said. “Why a footprint?” “I guess it wasn’t really my choice.” They both stared at me blankly, which caused me to sip the rest of my coffee to avoid the awkwardness. “So how’s work?” Sherrie asked again. “It’s good,” I said. I explained what it was like to work at a movie theater. How annoying it was to clean the popper that made all the delicious popcorn people desired when they walked in. I told them about how I busted someone who tried to sneak in a fifth of vodka the other day and they laughed. We conversed for about an hour when Sherrie and Danny excused themselves to go out on a double date. When standing up, I immediately fell back down. The guy with the ear lobes jumped as a reaction to my fall. I was grabbing my ankle again. Except, it wasn’t just my ankle this time. The pain had moved farther up my calf in multiple locations. Sherrie and Danny stared as I pulled up the leg of my pants as far as I could to see what had happened. More marks. This time it was several footprints moving up my leg, as if a tiny person had worn ink and climbed up my leg. I looked up at Sherrie who was completely shocked. “You weren’t lying,” she said. “I told you!” I shouted. We made our way to urgent care, where they were just as baffled as we were. I sat up on the table in the doctor’s room and Sherrie sat in a chair in the corner. Danny waited out in the lobby. The doctor that was treating me was a tall woman with dark red hair and pale skin. She had very pouty lips and a deep voice. “So you have random markings that showed up on your leg?” She said reading her clipboard without even glancing up. “Are you allergic to anything?” “Not that I know of,” I said. “Alright well let’s have a look.” I pulled up my pant leg again and showed her the footprints. She moved in her face extremely close and stared at my leg. Then she tapped her lip with her pen. “Missy is it?” “Yes Ma’am.” “This is a place for people with problems. You and your friends need to stop coming in here with these tattoo pranks. You are wasting our time and money,” she snapped. Sherrie and I looked at each other. “Excuse me?” I said. “If you’re not out of here in the next 5 minutes I’m afraid I’ll have to call the police.” My jaw dropped. Sherrie and I grabbed our bags and ran out of the room. She grabbed Danny by the arm and yanked him out of the waiting room. Once outside, we made our way to the closest subway station and stopped to discuss what had happened. “What the hell,” I finally said after moments of silence. “She thought we were pulling a PRANK,” Sherrie exclaimed. “What?” Danny asked. “She kicked us out and said ‘stop coming in here with your tattoo pranks’ and threatened to call the police on us!” I said. “Had you been in there yesterday?” Sherrie asked. “No. Why?” “She almost sounded like you had been in there before. She said ‘you and your friends’ as if someone had come in and done the same thing.” We were standing in front of the gates that lead to the trains, so people had been pushing passed us. We couldn’t move though. We were all so shocked at what had just happened. “Wait,” Danny said. “Does that mean..” “Someone else has been having the same problems,” Sherrie announced. A few days passed, and my art on my leg kept growing. I was beginning to get used to it. The shocking feeling of being stabbed almost became a normal feeling. Of course I knew when it happened, but it stopped startling me as bad. Once I was ordering a dollar slice of pizza for lunch, and it happened. I jumped a bit, but returned to paying the nice man for my food. He looked at me as if I had done a backflip. Another time, I was changing in a dressing room when it happened again. I had slammed my back into the wall of the dressing room because it slightly surprised me, but then I continued with my shopping. When I came out, everyone stared at me. All I could do is awkwardly smile and move on. I became restless at night, wondering what that doctor meant. Who else could be having these problems? The tattoo had grown up my calf to my thigh and onto my stomach. Footprints traveled up my calf and were soon covered by beautiful colorful feathers. They looked to be water colored in blues and pinks. The feathers led into an abstract mesh of art on my stomach, still unfinished. I was preparing any day now for the tattoo to complete itself. While it was growing, I found myself traveling in different parts of the city that I hadn’t really visited before. I was searching for answers. I traveled to the university and searched their campus for someone who had any knowledge on my situation, but everyone stared at me oddly when I told them what was happening. I found myself exploring tattoo parlors and asked them as many questions as I could. The employees were always amazed by the work on my body and asked things such as who designed it, where I got it done, how much had I paid for it. This showed me that they weren’t actually listening to my questions. I had been searching and searching but no luck. All sorts of questions ran through my head. What’s going to happen to me? Will I be okay? What’s the point? Who else knows what’s going on? I was sitting on a swing set in the middle of the park, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. I was beginning to feel defeated. I could feel myself sinking into the seat, the flame of hope inside me was dying out. Stuck, was the best way to describe it. Sitting there for hours it seemed like, I finally decided I should make my way home accepting my defeat. When I looked up, I was surprised. A giant hawk sat in a tree dead ahead staring at me. We made clear eye contact. Its eyes shimmered with gold specks and it was blinding. It opened its mouth and turned its head so I could see its other eye. The hawk was beckoning me towards it. Not feeling any insanity, I stood up and moved closer. I was about a foot away from the ginormous bird when I reached my hand out to touch it. It spread its wings and stared at me for half a second before it took off. “Wait!” I cried. I picked up my bag from the spot I had been sitting and chased the bird from the ground. It was flying so fast I had to sprint. Booking it down the pathways, I weaved between groups of people who were touring the park. My eyes were glued on to the bird. It picked up its speed and I couldn’t chase it any longer. Finally, the screaming of the big city halted me to a stop. I looked around to see where it had gone, but I couldn’t seem to find it. I sat down on the nearest bench to catch my breath. Through my loud panting after running my marathon, I heard a faint noise. I wasn’t really focused on it until finally my breathing brought itself to a normal volume. What was the noise? I got up and walked the next block over where I saw a group of people huddled around something. There was music playing. I made my way up the slight hill that led to the crowd and mixed in with the tourists. There was a man sitting on a bench playing guitar. This was a normal spot for this to happen in the park. The man had a medium length hair of wavy brown hair. He was wearing a bandana around his forehead and he closed his eyes while he sang with his guitar. It was a very peaceful sound. His lips were full and they moved beautifully with his voice. His hands didn’t miss a single chord. He could have only been a year or two older than me. What had really surprised me though, was the tattoo that had sat right above his ankle. Foot steps leading up his leg. “Hi,” I said sitting next to him once he finished his song. I was wearing long pants today so he couldn’t see my art. “Hello,” he smiled at me. “You sing very well,” I said awkwardly. He chuckled, “Thanks. I was a big fan.” He was gesturing towards the big circle that was designed on the ground in front of us. It was a memorial for a famous singer who had been killed years ago, just across the street. “I have to show you something,” I mumbled. He stared at me confused. I lifted up my pant leg slightly to show him my footprints. “I finally found you,” he said. We were staring into each other’s eyes now. His were a seaweed green that mesmerized you the longer you looked into them. I felt connected instantly. That’s when the tattoo completed itself. It didn’t hurt this time, and I knew exactly what the pattern finished into. A beautiful bird of many colors now was painted on both of our ribs. Feathers and colors bursted out from its wings, pulling in its viewer to every little detail. It was too beautiful for any human to design.

The Devil's in the Details Hugh Donnelly, "Shug" to his friends rolled over in bed to be jarred awake when his hand touched strange flesh. Through tired eyes marred by a nasty hangover he struggled to focus on who was beside him. After a few seconds he saw a large woman, perhaps 220 lbs laying on her side, her ruby red hair covering her face. He thought "Shug, not again" He had a bit of a reputation - whilst he was sober he was the most pleasant man you could meet - posh almost, but once the demon drink was uncorked he became somewhat of a sad caricature of himself. It would bring out his promiscuous side tenfold. He once famously said he would "shag a barber’s floor" Now in the throes of self-revulsion and confusion about what had occurred the night before all he could think about was “How do I get rid of this whale?”. He rubbed his prematurely aging face in both hands as he tried to mentally prepare himself to chat to a total stranger who he presumably had sex with the previous night, this is of course if he hadn’t suffered from what had plagued most of his drunken sexual escapes - what the locals refer to as “brewers droop” He took a deep breath and reached out his hand to gently wake the stranger that lay next to him motionless. As his hand touched her shoulder he froze. She was stone cold - as cold as ice almost. He gasped, his heart was pounding hard in his chest, he knew something was wrong, very wrong. He climbed out of the bed and walked around to get a closer look at his mystery partners face, as he did he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror that hung on his closet door, that’s when he noticed there was dried blood on his t-shirt. Alarmed - he ran around the bed but almost broke his knee cap on the corner of the bed, he tumbled in pain almost unable to speak until he felt the cold numbness of endorphins rushing in. He crawled to the edge of the bed, swept that mop of matted red hair from her face to see one eye staring back at him, the other eye, or where the other eye should be - was nothing more than a gored socket. He tried to scream but nothing came out. He tried to stand forgetting he had almost shattered his knee only a few seconds ago - pain again came flooding back and he collapsed back to the ground now making guttural noises as he wept through pain, fear and confusion. His mind raced, “what the hell happened” the last thing he could remember was downing a triple vodka with red bull, an ill-advised move prompted by his lifelong friend Archie. The 2 of them had met in primary school and had been inseparable ever since. He fumbled in the dimly lit room looking for his jeans which contained his wallet cellphone and cigarettes. He saw the jeans at the foot of the bed and took out the cigarettes. He shook one of the last 3 out and with a trembling hand placed it into his mouth, his lips felt like old leather that had been left in the Saharan desert for 100 years, but he needed the nicotine to calm himself. “A Light” he thought as he realized he had no lighter - he shambled his way to the kitchen to get a light off the gas stove. He clicked on the gas and put his mouth toward the blue flame taking in a long drag from the cigarette before exhaling a cloud that was eliminated through daylight streaming through the window. As the nicotine calmed his frayed nerves he began to cast his mind back to the previous evening - again trying to search the halls of his mind for any clues as to who the mystery woman was in his bed, how she had got there and suddenly a new thought “Did anyone see anything?” Suddenly he though “My phone!” perhaps there would be some clues, text messages, voicemails or photos that could shine a light on the shattered mess of his memories from last night. He went back to the bedroom dragging his left leg behind him and grabbed the phone from his jeans. He put in his passcode and his eyes hurt as a web browser opened with blinding pure white light. In the search box was typed “escorts for hire” Escorts he though? “Why would I even bother - barely have 2 pennies to rub together never mind treating myself to a thing like that!” He clicked the home button twice to reveal all the apps that where currently running - Snapchat, Instagram Facebook and a bunch of other where open. He clicked snapchat. To his horror it was a selfie video of himself from the previous night standing at a bar with the mystery woman. He had an almost glazed look in his eyes while she had her hands all over him, in the background he could see Archie laughing while doing a finger in the hole motion as he cracked up. Next was a video of him arguing with a cab driver over a boundary charge while the mystery woman was hurling insults at some unseen person. The final video was of himself looking in the bathroom mirror laughing hysterically while he could hear voices on the other side of the door. Next, he clicked into his text messages, there was a barrage of them from Archie and a new one from someone called Donna which simply read “Testing this is your real number” Suddenly mystery woman had a name and a phone number - he could only assume it was her. Archie’s messages started off from before they went out with “Where are we meeting tonight” to “Hurry up and get here before I get too wasted” there was a bunch that looked like keyboard mash and a final message that read “Ya lucky bastard!” - what the hell did he mean by that? It’s hardly as if the woman now lying dead across the bed was a prize catch so either the text was tongue in cheek or by Archie’s standards she was a looker. In all honesty once Archive crossed the 5-pint threshold his standards fell lower than a snake’s ass in a wagon wheel track and he was also known for being a bit of a chubby chaser anyway, he once quipped “Well it’s just more woman to love isn’t it?” Suddenly he though, “Donna’s Phone!” he felt weird saying the name as he really didn’t feel comfortable using someone’s name that at least to his mind had never truly met. His memory of last night was still like a black hole, a void. His eyes darted around the floor of the bedroom looking for her clothing or a handbag. He saw a black leather bag slung over the corner of a chair. He opened it, fumbled his way through lots of tissues, makeup and keys and found the phone neatly tucked into an inside pocket. It was one of the newer iPhones, the lock screen prompted for facial recognition. He shuddered and wondered if a missing eye might scupper his chances. He held the phone to her lifeless face and to his surprise he heard a clicking noise as the phone opened to the home screen. He looked through recently opened apps. Instagram showed her with what looked like a new guy in every picture, he pondered how such a person could attract such a slew of men albeit ugly guys that wouldn’t look out of place on Jeremy Kyle or Jerry Springer. “I guess it’s easier for women to get men, it’s like putting out trash, you know eventually some guy in a truck will be coming to pick it up” Suddenly the phone started to vibrate as a ringtone of some pop song he didn’t recognize started to chime out. “James S is calling...” “Shit!” he thought, someone may be looking for her or maybe it’s just another guy from some other wild weekend? It rang an uncomfortable amount of times which made him think whoever was on the other end must be really trying to reach her. Finally, it stopped and quickly he started to check into the text messages, there was at least 8 messages between last night and early this morning from this James. Starting off with “Have a good time with the girls” and “Just checking to see if you’re OK?” and then getting more desperate... “Why haven’t you texted back?” “It’s 2:30am and you’re still not back and then the final one “You’ve got me and the kids worried sick, you didn’t come home last night, what the fuck are you doing?” His heart sank as he read the last message realizing this must be her boyfriend or husband probably completely unaware of her promiscuous lifestyle. And even more sickening “The kids...” His blind panic was returning, and he shook out another cigarette and went through to get a light. All he could think was - what happened between getting home to this morning, why is there a dead body in his bed and now even more urgently, she has a family that are looking for her! Suddenly he thought, “Fuck, phones have tracking in them” he knew this because of the nature of his work in IT. Google tracks your every movement as well as things like Facebook. All he could think of was. “I have a real mess on my hands here and I need to make it go away” He almost surprised himself how easily he was able to start thinking like a criminal without remorse to save his own ass. “The quarry!” he thought. He took a quick shower, took his clothes from last night and placed them in a canvas bag. He went through to the bedroom and found some new clothes to wear before taking the canvas bag outside and placing it in his firepit before dousing it in lighter fluid. “Fuck” he thought as he remembered he had lost his lighter. He went to the kitchen, got some cardboard from the cupboard and lit it off the stove. He limped out to the yard shielding the cardboard with his hands from the light wind before carefully placing it onto the soaked bag” It went up like an old dry Christmas tree burned for several minutes and then was nothing but a pile of ash and glowing embers. His thoughts now turned to how to get rid of the body. He went into the shed and retrieved a box of heavy duty trash bags, the type you use for collecting yard waste like raked leaves and downed tree limbs. He also grabbed some old rope, duct tape and a flashlight. He went inside and rolled out a bunch of bags on the floor next to the bed, they looked just like a body bag. He stood up and placed both his arms around the lifeless lump of flesh and rolled her off the bed which caused a flat thud. This again made his heart sink as he though, “what have I become?” He placed her clothes on top of her body along with her handbag and covered it all in trash bags before securing the whole thing with duct tape and finally wrapping it in rope. Hours passed like days as he sat waiting for night to come, thankfully daylight savings time had happened the week before, so it would be dark by 3:30 or 4pm. As the light dimmed he looked out of the window and felt a sickening tinge of guilt as he thought back to the messages from James and especially “the kids” He rationalized that this was just a big mistake and because he didn’t have memories of what had actually happened that it wasn’t really him that had committed this atrocious act. He also though “No more drinking, it’s time to find a new focus in life... party’s over!” As dusk became night he thought “Let’s do this” He dragged her body through the hall and out the back door to the garage, looking over his shoulder and at neighbors houses to ensure he wasn’t being watched. He opened the trunk of his Nissan and thought, “She weighs a ton and your knee is banged up” He reached down inside himself, trying to summon the strength, he cast his mind back to things that angered him, politics, assholes in the office and knockbacks from failed attempts at chatting up women. With every inch of his being he scooped her deadweight up to the rim of the trunk and with one final push of adrenaline flipped her weight over the rim and into the trunk. He then went back to the house and got some old dumbbells, the type filled with sand. He went back to the garage, threw them in and closed the trunk and looked around once more to make sure nobody was watching, He set out to the quarry which was about 5 miles from his house, he took back roads to up his chances of not being stopped by the police, this added a further 20 minutes to the journey, but he felt it was necessary. Finally, he reached his destination and drove his near to the edge of the drop-off. He didn’t want to get too close, his nerves where shattered now and he didn’t want to chance making the mistake of going over the edge. Again, he had to shift this deadweight but surprisingly this time was able to pull it off with more ease than last time. Her body hit the ground with a sickening crunch, he thought maybe he heard a bone break, this caused him to bend over the side of the car and vomit though not much came up, mostly bile. He wiped his mouth, hands shaking and thought “I will drag you through this, we will get through this” almost talking to himself in the 3rd person - it was the only way he could deal with the horror of what was unfolding - to separate himself from it all. He dragged the body to about 4ft of the edge and then proceeded to roll her the rest of the way. After about 5 seconds there was a massive splash, he shone a flashlight down and seen the black bags disappear under the surface of the black water. A new thought came to mind “The Cellphone!” If the police tracked its movements via social media or any other method the last location would be his house. He knew what to do but was cursing the situation “Will this night ever be fucking over?” He got back to the house and picked up the cellphone which was now running low on battery life. He saw 1 more message from James saying, “You can’t do this, you have to text me back we are worried sick” He put the phone in his pocket and want back to the car. He drove to random locations for the next hour, stopping briefly along the way. His thinking was that if he could create a fake trail of locations it would throw any potential investigation off his scent. Finally, he figured he had made enough of a false digital footprint and at that point rolled his sleeve over his hand and carefully rubbed the entire phone down of fingerprints, after this he proceeded to throw the phone on the ground and stamp on it until it shattered into pieces. When he eventually arrived home, he breathed a sigh of relief. He even felt hungry! How could he be hungry after such a macabre evening but his body’s need for food overrode his pangs of guilt and worry. Just then his phone buzzed. He picked it up and his eyes bulged in horror “Donna” suddenly his hunger had been replaced with pure sickening horror “he opened the message, gasped - on the screen was a photo of what looked like an eyeball with the message “I’m keeping my eye on you...” THE END.

The first time he asked me out. We went for a movie and though it was already midnight, we didn’t feel like leaving each other’s company. We took a stroll along the riverbed and there wasn’t a moment of silence. There just didn’t seem to be a dearth of things to talk about. I felt tired after a while so he suggested that we sit down on the grass, facing the river. I was hesitant at first as I didn’t want to get my dress dirty. But he took my hand and pulled me down beside him. I fell against him with a laugh. Our arms rubbed against each other. It was the first physical contact we’d had all night. My hand tingled from the roughness of the hair on his arm and I felt goose bumps creeping up along my skin. I knew he felt it too as his breath hitched when his arm touched mine. Conversation ceased and the tension was palpable. I could feel his gaze on me as I stared at the ground, not wanting to meet his eyes. He called my name, huskily. I shivered at the tone of his voice. I turned my head towards him and found his lips inches away from mine. I licked my lips subconsciously and his breathing labored. He tilted his head and started coming closer. A thousand thoughts were running through my head as my eyes fluttered shut. His lips touched mine softly, and then with a little more pressure. The sensations were incredible. I felt his kiss in places that shouldn’t be talked about. It got a little too overwhelming and I broke away. I opened my eyes to see him staring intently at me. “What are we doing, ?” I whispered, seeking reassurance. “Shh, it’s okay. Just trust me,” he replied as he lifted his hand to cup my cheek, his fingers stroking my skin. His words were strangely comforting and I nodded my consent. He captured my mouth again, this time with a little more force. His tongue traced my lower lip, prompting me to open my mouth. I complied and our tongues touched for the first time. We both drew a sharp intake of breath at the foreign sensation. His hand slid down to my lower back and his grip tightened as our tongues massaged each other. I could feel the warmth of his hand through the thin material of my dress. I realized I wanted to touch him too. I reached up and started stroking his jawline. He made a sound at the back of his throat and I felt him tense up. He broke away and started kissing my neck. “You taste so good,” he whispered while his teeth scraped the sensitive skin at the base of my neck. I couldn’t stop a moan from escaping my lips. “And that’s why we should stop,” he said, breathing heavily. I looked into his eyes and saw my own lust reflected back in them. I realized that both of us would lose control if we continued any further. He was right. I rested my head on his shoulder and he put his arms around me. I could feel his heart racing and I was pretty sure he could hear the loud heartbeats of mine. He kissed the top of my head and I smiled contentedly. It was the start of plenty more moments to come.

James is a smart boy. So smart in fact, that nobody likes him. But I believe that he'll learn that he didn't need friends or loved ones. He will realize that life is too short to worry about that and he'll start to focus all his intelligence into immortality. He will unlock the secrets of immortality and be one step closer to unlocking the secrets of the universe. However, he'll soon come to find out that there is no singular universe, but rather a Multi-Verse. There are trillions of universes to travel to. He'll come to find out that in order to travel to these new and strange places, he'll have to do what is said to be impossible, get sucked into a black hole. Nobody believed him, but he didn't care. In ten minutes the earth will crumble and be reduced to nothing more than another asteroid belt that revolves around the Sun. If it goes according to plan he'll have nine minutes and thirty seconds to get off the planet and to the center of the galaxy. But all does not go according to plan because, unbeknownst to him, the Earth has multiple protectors, eight to be exact. Fate has a different plan for Charlie. She wont send Death upon Charlie, that's overkill, instead she sends the closest thing to Death, The Doctor, Malacai. Malacai is one of Earth's protectors, in fact, he was once an inhabitant of the Earth, but that's a story for another time. Malacai is called The Doctor due to the nature of his powers. He has regenerative immortality, meaning that any time he dies, whether due to natural causes or murderous intent, he will always come back to life. For example, if he ages out, he'll come back to the age of 25. Or if someone pierces his heart, he will always come back fully healed. However, the reason he is The Doctor, is because he can heal anything. He gained all medical knowledge of every creature in the Multi-Verse. He can cure any disease, heal any wound, even heal someone emotionally, to an extent. Unfortunately, he can't do anything against James. "YO," He said, "you wanna go an evil villain monologue explaining exactly what i need to do to stop you or can you just tell me, like a normal person?" James, slightly surprised at his sudden manifestation, could only muster a mere "Wh-Who are you?" Malacai smiled, a bright smile that showed only the slightest hint of what he was capable of doing. "Who I am doesn't quite matter right now," he said, "but what does matter is the fact that you have eight minutes and twenty seven seconds to make a choice, and hopefully it'll be a smart one." James was in shock. *Who is this man and how does he know my plan.* "T minus twenty seconds before the seven minute mark." The Doctor's voice broke through James' thought and brought him back to reality. "If you wanna live to see tomorrow I recommend you hurry." James had made his decision. He decided to just kill every one right now. He pressed the detonate button to detonate the nuke he placed at the earths core. He calls it the Micro Black Hole, because even though it's no larger than a dime, where he placed it would cause a nuclear explosion that would turn the Earth to rubble. However, when he pressed it the nuke went off next to him. In a nanosecond, the entire platform was covered in the blood and innards of The Doctor. Blood, guts, and bits of bone was stuck in James' hair and all over his clothes. Naturally, the lunch he ate decided it didn't want to be digested and found it's way out of his stomach and onto the platform, mixing with what used to be Malacai's brain. "What the fuck!" was all James' could say. Then, slowly all the bits and pieces of bone were moving, to a center point. Steadily gaining speed until, to James' utter astonishment, it reassembled into the skeleton of The Doctor. Malacai, his left eye the only organ in his body, started to speak in a raspy, bone rattling voice."Hey Fate, Death, can I kill him?" James was confused as to what was going on, but before he could try and figure it out, that same voice spoke again. "Perfect." This was the last thing James were to ever hear as Malacai, despite being nothing but a skeleton with a left eye, swiftly made his way towards him. He extended his right hand and grabbed James' face with his bony fingers. "Begone, and may your soul never rest." No sooner had Malacai spoken than James' body crumbled into an accelerated state of decay. In minutes, James' body was returned to the very soil that sparked the evolution of every land based species. Malacai destroyed the platform and rocket as well, turning them into mere flakes of rust in a matter of seconds. With his tasks done he returned to his universe, via The Creator's help. ​ ​ ​ I've had this idea for a while now. I have most of my characters and plots memorized by heart. I just didn't know how to start. This was an introduction to one that has the most confusing, but interesting backgrounds. I'm open to any and all feedback and/or criticism. I hope you all will like the first glimpse inside my universe, The Happy-Verse.

A man was lost, hopeless, and alone in a desert that seemed to expand beyond the horizon endlessly. He walked over dune after dune for miles without purpose for he did not know whether he would ever escape this scorched land. He was at the mercy of the fiery wind as were the sand grains that raked his flesh. His thoughts in his wearisome head led him to the belief that this was the whole of his world. No edge, no end, and no escape foreseen. Memory of anywhere but here forsook him then. This was the cruel and merciless world wherein he would inevitably see the Noseless One, he thought, before being dragged into His shadows. His body, emotions, and thoughts were slowly approaching the End. Why weep? Why curse the land? He reflected. By *his own hands* he laid the cobblestones for the road which led him hither. He fell to his knees and felt the sting of the boiling sand. Even in his ascent to the crest of a dune that nearly shrouded the desert with its size, the man only beheld more aimless dunes in the forlorn horizon, condemned to the same lake of sand and fire as his soul. He then noticed some ways yonder a piece of paper that was folded up as if with human care. It lay buried halfway in the sand, becoming gradually unearthed by the wind. The man, now perplexed with its presence, walked to the where paper had hitherto lain and plucked it from the mouth of the sand. He unfolded it and held it delicately as one would hold a talisman. On it was written in large simple handwriting: I love you! The words of this mysterious short letter dumbfounded the man so severely that he was about to cast it away, feeling as he had been struck by a malevolent curse. He checked himself short, however, and reread the handwriting. The words he began to recognize but he knew not how. Warm, sweet, and euphonious were these words to his heart as he read them aloud again and again. He only wished to know its source. He knew not the source of this land--it was eternal as far as he knew in his haze of thoughts--but he wished at least to know the source of this enigmatic letter. Suddenly, as he had been gazing about the once barren desert, his eyes balked at a ribbon of bright colors below. Erelong, the colors manifested in the form of an exotic creature and the man quickly saw that it was a woman. His dull eyes brighten at the sight of her. She had auburn hair, a sun-kissed countenance and green eyes which cared not for the hot and dry hell they were in. Stupefied by the beautiful sight, the man thought time stopped and the earth he felt cool. She usurped the whole of everything he saw. The desert ceased to be his everything. Every light hitting his retina became hers. She appeared as lost as he and laid her gentle eyes on him from afar. She ambled to the summit of the dune whereon the man stood helpless. Every footprint she left in the sand, the man could have sworn, became of quartz. Her presence was unexplainable and the man thought her magical. The woman beamed and walked with grace to the man in a way that bespoke familiarity, whereof the man could not comprehend. Feeling the air chill around him, the man smiled back as a sudden joy began to pour into his vena cavas and fill his parched heart. He was happy to see the woman but he did not know why. Perhaps, because he was no longer lonesome? The man thought and thought but that wasn’t the reason. No. He felt there was something more. They walked to each other until their eyes met at a meter’s distance. “Did you write in that piece of paper?” He asked. The woman giggled then nodded sincerely. The man felt his heart hesitate. “Why, of all places, did you leave it here? Was that for me?” The woman’s cheeks rose and her mouth curved into a bright smile. “Yes, those words were written for you. As for why I chose to leave it here, I have been longing for the day you would find me. This is your last journey and I could not bear to remain hidden from you any longer. I had to show you how I care! You think no one cares about you or loves you but you’re wrong. I love you! O my dear! you have been blind all this time, but now that you can see me,” her eyes widened desperately, “you can see that I exist, right?” The man, overwhelmed by her impassioned words, took a step back. “Who do you happen to be?” The woman gazed blankly at him as her happiness began to fall with a heavy sigh. “Dear, I blame you none for your confusion. This is a strange enchanting land you have wandered into; where no one can follow you but I.” Sadness began cloud her eyes. “Through your calms and storms, sunrises and sunsets, days and nights I know you have felt my spirit. Alas, it pains me to say this, a few trying years have past and you have forgotten me. You no longer called out to me though I was always just a pray away. Can you surmise who I am now?” “Forgive me, miss, for I am a clueless man. I have not an inkling who you are,” the man felt guilty to say. She walked a step forward with forgiving eyes and smiled a sad fainter smile. She took his hands in hers, not taking her gaze off him. “I am Hope. I am what you have lost and what you need right this moment. I am the sustenance of your soul; the reason you live for today and dream for tomorrow; the reason the bees buzz and the birds croon about you. I bring the sunrise to your mornings and the stars to your nights. I rejoice with you and I suffer with you! I care for and love you above any mortal that treads upon the earth! Do you not see, dear? O I bless the heavens that I found you!” “Hope. That is a lovely name you have, miss,” the man began, oddly calmer. Although he was hesitant to believe her to be who she said she was, he felt joy, undeserving joy from the compassionate words her soft voice poured his way. Benigner words have never been spoken to him in all his life but from her. He felt himself unworthy. No. He cannot have a share in this divine. He thought. He with shame and reluctance removed his hands from hers. “I’m afraid I’m not who you want. You should go along now. I-it’s not safe here in this wretched heat.” At this the woman stepped a foot closer to the man, to his great surprise, and with angelic gentleness place her hands at his shoulders. “You are not who I want; you are who I need. Dear, I am a part of you! Don’t you see? The death of man is also the death of man’s hope.” His body began to lose its senses, beginning at his legs which by this time were weighing him numb. The man squinted over her shoulder and dark portentous clouds rolling over the distant dunes, consuming them whole, came in sight. The man was oddly mesmerized by the moving shapes of yon clouds and wanted to go closer to them, to see whether he may find his peace in the black fog. “I will never stop loving you,” the woman went on with mist in her eyes. “I will never stop believing in you. Do you believe in me? It is bad enough that you are lost in heart, mind, and spirit. The reality beyond as you may know, is worse. You are a lost man in a lost world. You have lost much in that world, I know. Things that you once believed in: Beauty, Truth, Hope, and Love. And I know the world has flogged and skinned your soul again and a-again.” Upon saying this, as an ill-fated dam, her rivers of tears broke forth. “But I beseech you to listen. You are not hopeless! Your only fault was losing sight of me but I forgive you. I know you see those approaching clouds, but please relinquish your want of going there! You have me, okay? As long as you have me, they can never harm us. I bid you rid yourself of these pains!” She threw her arms suddenly around the man, whose icy heart began to thaw from the new fire of emotions that had ignited from within. He was at a loss for words. Even in the pain she felt for him she smiled and her bedewed eyes shimmered at his with serenity; however the man’s state, she was happy to be there with him. She embraced him warmly and the fires of the Sun beating down on them tamed thence. He saw his eyes reflect brilliantly in her emerald orbs and the icy sheath of his heart evaporated at last in flames of love which now danced joyfully for this woman. “I-I love you,” the man spoke breathlessly. Upon hearing this, the woman’s countenance blossomed as a midsummer rose. Traces of her tears from minutes ago vanished in her sidereal eyes. The man thought it impossible but she did smile a smile more hopeful and beautiful than all she bestowed him before. He could have believed her to be a star who had taken the form of a woman--nay--a goddess beyond compare. Had he discovered something of after death or of before life? He pondered. For how could a woman steeped in utmost beauty walk before a miserable wight in a miserable land and wish him goodness and love without return? O how he wished her to be his to cherish forever! His agonized soul finally calmed when the woman lifted her palm up to his cheek. “Thank you, for letting me into your heart again.” With her arms still woven around the man, she kept him alive amid the scorched dunes. Dry winds began to violently stir the biting sand as the inexorable pale orb in the sky swelled. The black clouds were rolling closer and the land was slowly killing the man’s body yet his soul was preserved in the arms of Hope. He clinged to her as the winds roared and tore at his limbs and buried his head in her shoulders as tears fell down his face. The woman’s hair had the softness of feathers and the man cherished the embrace of this divinity until the whole wasteland became consumed in a storm of sand and darkness. The man screamed for his life as he felt the desert under his feet being swept away by the clouds. “Do not be afraid, dear.” The woman whispered to his ears. Somehow, the man heard her through the deafening storm and immediately calmed. The sandstorm raged on and all was silent but her voice. “I will give you a kiss so you will never forget me.” The last thing he remembered was her kiss upon his unworthy lips. He had glimpsed into the ninth sphere, he thought, of paradise. The man awoke from his sleep. He crawled out of his bed and stumbled toward the nearest window and beheld from his apartment room the smoggy city with dark skyscrapers looming ominously before a gray sun. He looked four storeys below and saw Pandemonium. It was hard to believe that he would have preferred to remain among the unsullied sand dunes, as a monarch of a desert land with Hope as his queen, over the the comforts of his apartment, but the truth could not have been clearer. The man wept for he felt lost, hopeless, and alone in a dark corrupt world. The ring of a doorbell abruptly startled the man out of his bout of misery, and he rushed to the sink, washed himself and tamed his disheveled hair before approaching the door which rung once more. As he slowly unbarred the door, his capacity to speak was lost. On the other side was a woman. She had auburn hair and green eyes which cared not for the smoggy city they were in. “Hi! I’m your new neighbor. I just moved in yesterday a few doors down and I, uh, wanted to give you this!” She held out a salad bowl. “I-I made it this morning,” she said with a warm smile, a smile the man thought uncannily familiar. The man, smitten with awe, could not but smile, receive her offering, and nod to her gratefully. The woman required nothing more from his response to be happy and went on, “I hope to see you again! You’re welcome to come by later for dinner.” She departed from the man but not before gazing back at him and waving her hand as she returned to her room down the corridor. His smile did not fade. He did not know how but he knew then that the flames of Hope still danced and rejoiced within him. He was not hopeless anymore; he was lost in darkness but now he found a candlelight and can begin finding his way; and although he was alone in that moment, by dinnertime he will be alone no more.

“ Stare at him for a while and you’ll see it, I swear to God... ” I recall these joking words from earlier, from a chaotic lunchtime with my sister, her friends, and a couple other upper-classmen, all spinning yarns about the odd, creepy, perverted, or occasionally interesting teachers and members of the administrative staff that haunted the high school. It was always something of a treat to hear these older students share their stories and opinions on classes and teachers, because it gave me the chance to analyze which hallways I should avoid, in addition to the classes. My sister’s best friend was this girl, Amelia, who Mia had been friends with since pre-school. Amelia was the sort of girl who got straight As through freshman year, but then caught the sophomore zing that made her start calling herself Amy and wearing button-down crop-tops. Mia, the future rocket scientist, sort of looked at her best friend in a condescending light these days, even saying, in her own elegant words, “yeah...Amy’s a whore but I love her.” In any case, Amy’s vivacious personality led her into some questionable (but interesting) interactions with various teachers. And it seemed her painted wide-eyed stories were a daily affair at the lunch table near the snack line. Once she told us about Mr. Beaubien. “Listen...the guy was packing, I kid you not.” she whispered, but the sort of whispering that isn’t really whispering at all, and in fact, attracts more attention than regular talking would. Though I suppose this could be the intent. “He’s bald, right? I’ll tell you, that guy’s...thing...looks just like his head.” “You’re disgusting.” Mia said, unwrapping the wax paper around her salami sandwich. It was Friday, which meant she’d go a little crazy and eat something other than lean turkey. Same for me, though I was a bit more of a fun-lover (I mean, a freshman dude sitting with junior chicks), so I’d eat salami three, maybe even four times a week. Speaking of unhealthy meat, Amy told us another story about the resident police officer, Officer Davis (“OD to all the cool kids”, he’d say). This story was actually whispered, and was so disgusting that none of us would believe it in a million years. “You’re a fucking liar, Amy.” this farmer boy who liked to look up skirts said, cracking his can of Mountain Dew. Everyone else silently agreed, and Amy looked offended. If there was one thing that girl hated, it was being called a liar. “A liar, huh?” she begged. “I’ll just have to prove it, then.” Two days later, OD was fired, and two months after that, he sat in a packed courthouse while a disturbing video played for members of the jury. No one ever called dear Amy a liar again. But there appeared to be one bane of this girl’s existence. Perhaps, one nut she couldn’t crack: Mr. Atkinson. “Look at the guy...” she said to us, huddled up, as the six foot tall, brown-haired, blue-eyed Algebra II teacher made his way down the lunch line. “Tell me he’s not a fucking alien or something. Stare at him for a while and you’ll see it...” It wouldn’t be hard to believe; this man was the most generic human being alive. It was almost fascinating how boring he was. His love for rocks led him to a YouTube channel with forty subscribers, where he posted rock-cleaning and hunting videos. He wore the same khakis and green flannel shirt every day, and always followed the exact same symmetric trail from the door to his desk when he entered the classroom. Apparently, he’d invested in Apple back in 2000 and often brought it up for math lessons. And his love of juggling was almost sensual. There was something about this man’s behavior...almost alien-like, robotic, so generic it was as if the aliens put all the settings on “default” when they sent their spy down to Earth. In any case, his plainness and devotion to a life devoid of intrigue meant that Amy would not be applying her mouth to a single phallus of his (no matter how hard she fought for it). On the day we watched him, I agreed with her. “It’s like the aliens set all his settings on ‘default’.” I said. She laughed, told me I was hilarious. This brief second of affirmation from an attractive female stayed with me all the way to sixth period, Algebra II, where I decided to see if this man could crack a smile, even once. It was a couple minutes before class, and I’d arrived early. For introverts such as myself, the confidence for telling a joke comes from arriving in a timely and prepared fashion, and considering your words for an extended period of time. At last, when I believed there was just the right amount of people in the room (enough to get a good laugh, but not so many that it would be too loud), I said, “Mr. Atkinson.” He said, “Mr. Cocciarelli.” I said, “So my sister and I were observing you at lunch, and we decided you seem like, if aliens were to send down a robot spy, the default setting for ‘human’.” A couple kids chuckled. Mr. Atkinson sort of looked at me funny. “You mean...” “Well, is there any truth to the fact that you might be a robot?” “Yeah, tell us!” Cam Kraus said, which brought forth a couple more snickers. Mr. Atkinson looked at the class with a little smile and stood up taller, as if to tell another awkward joke of his. But then, suddenly, his expression changed, and he turned his head to face me. He was smiling just a little, but his eyes had no life in them, and when his lips parted, I heard this incredibly high pitched whistle that made me cover my ears. The wretched sound had that crumbling effect that I’d learned about in music lessons, where the pitch becomes so distorted that it begins to shred your eardrums. Then, it stopped. Everyone was laughing, including Mr. Atkinson, who was now making his way to the whiteboard to begin the lesson. The bell was ringing, and a couple kids nearby were looking at me funny. After class, I followed Cam Kraus out the door. “My wife thinks I’m a machine, too...” he muttered, snickering. “Jesus Christ...” “What?” Cam grinned at me, but his eyebrows narrowed. “You didn’t hear Mr. A? He said, ‘my wife thinks I’m a machine, too, if you know what I mean...’. The balls of a teacher to say that in class, dude.” “Yeah...” I agreed, slowing down as the flood of classmates surged past me. As the chorus of voices poured over me, I heard several people quoting Mr. A's joke, and continuing to laugh about it, saying he’d surely get in trouble if they didn’t keep their mouths shut. When the flood passed, leaving me alone in the hall, I turned back toward the math room at the end of the hall, where Mr. Atkinson always stood during passing time. There he was, arms crossed, leaning against the wall casually. I stared at his face, waiting for a reaction, a wink, a smirk...but he just stared back. I swear to God, for a second, his eyes were all white.

“I need to show you something. I know this is going to be a lot for you to take in, but it’s time for you to see them. I have been... afraid, to show you some of the things in these videos. I don’t know why. I think I just know I have to get it right; I need to get it right... for you and for me. I’m going to do my best... I promise.” “ Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Michael. Happy birthday to you.” “Who’s that?” “...That’s your mom.” “Oh... I didn’t think I had a mom.” “Everyone has a mom, buddy.... You just don’t remember her... she’s been gone for a long time.” “...She’s pretty.” “Your mother was the most beautiful woman... inside and out. And she loved you very much... I see her in you, you know.” “How can you see her in me, dad?” “Well... I see her in your eyes, mostly. You have her eyes, so blue and bright. I hear her in your laugh... she had the most beautiful laugh. It was so infectious, every time I heard it, I couldn’t help but smile. And you have it too. But I see her in everything. I see her in every part of you... This was your first birthday. That’s what’s on this tape. Your mom worked so hard to make it perfect for you. She made a little cake for you, just so you could smash it with your little fists. She invited half the town... all for you. She loved you very much.” “Where is everybody?” “What do you mean, buddy?” “You said she invited everybody to the party. Where is everybody?” “Oh, right... You see, the night before your birthday, we got a terrible snowstorm. Worst one in at least ten years. We must have got at least a foot of snow... Well, nobody could come because the roads were so bad. Your mother was so upset because she wanted your first birthday to be perfect. And she was worried that if nobody would be there for your party, it wouldn’t be. But she was wrong... it made it even more perfect. It was just the three of us, and that was all we needed. The electricity went out, but we just lit some candles and sat close together to keep warm. And it was just the three of us. It was the most perfect day.” “Why are you sad, dad?” “I’m not sad, son. I’m happy. So very happy.” “Why are you crying?” “I’m just happy to see her again, that’s all.” *The television screen went black as the tape ended. The father puts in a new tape* “What’s this one about?” “This was when you were born. December 31. Our little New Year’s baby, as your mother would call you.” “I look so small then...” “You were small. You were a very small baby. I was worried you were too small, but your mother thought you were perfect. She just held you in her arms and smiled. And you looked back up at her with your blue eyes as if you knew her by name.” “Wasn’t she tired...she looks tired.” “She was exhausted, tired to death. But she just couldn’t take her eyes off of you. All through the night she would just lie and watch you sleep. I tried to get her to rest, I offered to watch you myself, but she just smiled and watched as you slept. She told me that she didn’t want to miss a moment of your life, even if you were just sleeping.” “...What happened to her?” “...She got sick when you were just a baby, not long after your first birthday. Things you’re too young to understand and I’m too weak to explain. She fought so hard. She fought for you, fought every day just to see you. And when she finally died, she made me promise not to hold on too tight. To be in the moment. To make new memories... without her...I have not kept that promise. I am sorry, both to her and to you, for that... but first steps are hard... and they take time. But the time has come...” “The time has come for what?” “...For us to move on...for me to move on, I suppose. Even if it’s hard.” “But I don’t want to move on, I want to stay and watch these videos.” “We will, buddy, we will. You don’t have to move on. You can stay and remember her forever, and I hope you do.” “When can I see her again?” “Every night, buddy. We can see her every night, the both of us, right here on this couch. And while she might not be here with us, we can still see her...the best moments of her. And someday, these videos, videos of your first birthday, your first words, your first steps, will all be yours, and you will be able to see her whenever you want. But for the time being, just wait for me to watch them with you, because I like to see her too.” *A couple weeks later* “I can’t believe it’s snowing, again! Nobody’s going to be able to come to my party!” “I’m sorry, buddy, but it won’t be the worst thing in the world. We still have some presents and a nice cake.” “I know... but I just hoped all my friends would be here...and grandpa. It’s my sixth birthday, it’s a big day.” “You’re right, it is a big day. That’s why I got you something, something special.” “You’re letting me open a present early!” “Just one.” “What is it?” “It’s a camera. You’re growing up quick... you’re already six years old. You’re going to be making memories soon, the both of us will, and with this, I can capture every single one. And we can add these new memories to the old ones, and maybe your mother will be able to see them, too.” *The lights flicker and go out* "The lights went out, dad." "That's ok, buddy. I'll keep you warm."

Nada leaned back on one of the extravagant cushions decorating the couch, more European than her father would’ve liked but one her mother insisted on, waiting. Her lower back ached from the bolt upright posture she assumed as she curled her lip at her guests' tardiness. Although according to her mother, she waited thirty-six years and could stand to wait a century more for her suitor to show. According to her mother, this was her last chance. That didn’t mean she was going to ease up now. She ran over what she knew of the man, which was slim to nil. She didn't even have a name. Though, Nada never did like to background-check her suitors, she was more than comfortable in allowing her parents to vouch for his decency and trust her first impression. Lest she loosen her tight hold on her heart in face of his achievements before meeting him, a particular rabbit hole that spewed hellfire and shrapnel. I’ll double-check the contract, Nada thought rapidly, barely resisting slotting her worn thumb through her teeth, agree to let him take as many wives as he wants after me if it means keeping my job, make sure he doesn’t try to swap the contract with a fabricated one like that wretch Waleed did, argue for my work even if it costs me the marriage. She was dimly aware of her cousin stopping by right before the suitor arrived, offering comforting homicide if he tries to pull anything on her. Her father rushed in immediately afterwards, adjusting his ghutra as he took his seat beside her, and soon after the man and his father entered. Nada thought her heart had long stopped skipping with every new man that came asking for her hand. Until she actually saw him and thought: Ah. Shit. - Jamal knew when an angry woman stormed into his office asking who the hell was the new guy in charge of editing the research findings that he could’ve fallen in love with her. “That’d be me, Missus Boss Lady,” he drawled, raising his hand an inch. Her eyes were furious as she stomped over to him, scolding him on professionality and similar Western ideals. He followed the hands liberally gesturing in outrage and knew that yes, he could definitely fall in love. Wow , he thought, staring up in wonder at her angry proclamations that she should fire him. Wow . And so Jamal didn’t stop at off-hand witticisms in his editor’s note, but went off with mad serenades of hilarity, preening every time she marched into his office. Pretty soon, his charm won her over and she started to hold the elevator for him, a huffed laugh and eyes twinkling amusement his reward for a night’s travail in orchestrating the perfect ‘that’s what she said’ joke. And it was when she rapped her fist on his desk on her way home with his revision tucked into her bag and said, “You’re losing your wit, employee,” that he gladly fell off the edge. Then he heard she was unmarried the same moment he realized her parents were still searching. And it took little planning to tell his sister to pass the word onto Nada's mother at Nada's cousin's marriage that he'd be interested, with them replying 'how about Monday?' Jamal barely held back from telling them he was good any day and arrived with his father almost too punctually at the family's mansion. He calmed his pounding heart as he was led into the lavish sitting room, eyes immediately going to his Nada trying to school her expression into neutrality at the sight of him. She has black hair , he mused in quiet wonder, drinking up her features and finally painting a picture of his love, having never seen her face uncovered. He barely dragged his attention away from her to incline his head in a nod after his father introduced him to Nada's. A lumbering man with a beard that scratched his stomach and the hands of an army redneck that could crush his skull in one hairy, sweaty grip. Jamal wasn’t intimidated, though. He knew the man couldn’t risk chasing him out like all the others that flooded in when Nada was twenty and adorable. "Yes? And how are you?" He asked her smoothly in charming tones after their fathers put their meddling to rest and leaned back to watch the two birds dance around each other. She turned red, out of what Jamal liked to think was attraction to his attractive air, "Fine, and you?" she squeaked, tone incongruous with eyes that sent pointed daggers his way. Jamal raised an eyebrow back. Despite what Nada thought, Jamal wasn't stupid . He knew the slightest suspicion of the Hamdi's clan estranged daughter having the slightest unprofessional relationship with any male would cause outrage. On the ride over, his stomach clenched as he mulled over the best that could happen, them disowning her, to the worst, her lovely head burning on a spike. But he didn’t let go of things easily and didn’t really believe the lie that acting required years of practice. He did realize, sitting there, that telling Nada beforehand would’ve helped them both in that regard, but she only really talked to him once every blue moon and he couldn't very well catch her alone with her brothers prowling the halls like confused bulldogs. But Jamal trusted her enough to know that she wouldn't throw them both under the bus like that. Trusted her enough to know that she would play along until they found themselves alone and she could scold him thoroughly and lovingly. Only if she accepted, he reminded himself. And gosh , how much he wanted her to accept. - Omar had problems with his problem child, Nada, named after delicate morning dew twinkling on gossamer, but was everything but. She had asked, fourteen and fairy-light, "Baba, can you please, please let Fahad lend me his science textbooks? Please? I just want to read them." Fine , Omar had thought, no one wants dumb women nowadays, let her educate herself. And he held his middle son by the hair until Fahad agreed to provide their crown jewel with all her heart’s scholarly desires. Then she turned eighteen and denied her first marriage proposal, "No, Baba, I don't want him, not before I graduate. I'll die of grief if not allowed to finish college. And besides, would you settle for anyone less than a prince for your Nada?" This is fine , Omar mused, scratching his head at her whispered denial, pressuring her is no-good with Allah as my witness . And he chased out the slobbering dog out of his house with the calm air of a man whose daughter still had enough suitors for a sizable army. Then she, twenty-three and still serving tea to a father instead of a husband, demurely requested, "Baba, light of my soul, my nearest gate to heaven, I have too much free time and you have too many empty plots of land. Can you, please, consider lending me one? And wasn’t the prophet’s first wife one of Mecca’s richest merchants?” Fine , Omar conceded, despite his wife’s windmill gesticulations of disapproval, let her pull her own weight , and when she told him she wished to start a research center instead of the expected minimarket or laundromat, Lieutenant General Omar Hamdi waved his hand and so it was. Then she was twenty-nine and sobbing for forgiveness at his feet, and his hand was poised to strike the one child he had never beaten, “I had to employ those men, Baba, it was the only way to gain recognition. And- and we enter through different doors and I never truly mingle with them outside of the lab. I don’t even know their first names!” Fine , Omar relented, fury huffing out his nostrils, fine fine fine. But he still demanded she employ his lazy, useless sons in whatever job those poor sods were capable of, ignoring her pleas of scientific minds and intelligent researchers . She could have them lick the floors clean as janitors, for all he cared, just not be there alone with strangers following her beck and call. And so with all these problems that would’ve been resolved if only she was more like her cousins, he was quick to raise an eyebrow when he heard the news that some kid who worked at a certain research center was asking for her hand. “Don’t even imply something like that, Omar,” his wife squawked, “Not with her brothers there, at the most, he noticed she was unmarried and decided to go for her to alleviate his position. Not anything dishonourable.” His wife having thus definitively squashed his suspicions of some shotgun marriage, went back to giving him an overview of the man’s background, family, and miscellaneous bits of gossip she gathered from her all-reaching network of housewives. He wasn't all that convinced when he was face-to-face with him and the poor kid couldn't keep his eyes off Nada. Despite what his daughter thought, Omar wasn't stupid . She couldn't pull a fast one right in front of him and expect him to yield like he always did. Omar squared his shoulders, narrowing his eyes at the two, military-trained senses searching for any red flags. The kid's father, a man that Omar could imagine himself dining with, flicked his eyes at Omar and Omar nodded, allowing the kid to address his daughter. He pounced on the chance, blabbering, "Yes? And how are you?" And Omar could tell that there was no secret liaison from the way Nada turned an irritated pink, an all-too-familiar segue into her leaning over and saying, No, Baba. "Fine, and you?" she coldly replied and Omar leaned back, awaiting the signal that allowed him to kick out whatever trash crawled to his doorstep, already dreading his wife's frustrated midnight weeping. - Years ago, Layan’s grandmother held her hand and hissed to her the universal truth, “All men are snakes.” And then Layan’s grandmother subsequently passed away. Layan recalled those words frequently even though she was a simple girl with simple girl dreams of marrying rich and early. She was everything but her cousin, Nada, who went around spreading propaganda with a spoon about the importance of being career-focused and entrepreneurial. Layan was the simple type of daughter her uncle would’ve preferred. Of course, her plans of simple womanhood were accompanied by the realization of the simple woman fantasy of milking your husband like the cash cow he was before, at the slightest breath of trouble, go running to your father and uncles and hustling half his fortune and the kids while your men exact merciless lawsuits, European-style. “You’ll fall in love with him before you get the chance,” Nada remarked knowingly, as if she was a proper consultant on the subject. Layan remarked as much from her lounge on the bed, lazily staring up at her cousin biting her lip in order to eclipse the smile that always arose when she read through her reports. Despite what her cousin might think, Layan wasn’t stupid . She saw how her toes curled and her hands clenched and she heard the trill of a giggle that always threatened to emerge. "He just reviews the papers and edits them and sometimes he makes witty comments, that’s all,” she replied, feigning nonchalance. All men were snakes , Layan didn’t say because Nada’s mother, Rama, already entreated her not to stoke the fires of her daughter’s independence. And also because Layan was horrified by future visions of her dear cousin being that one hag living underneath the staircase with no children to carry her home. So Layan kept her truths to herself. Until she spotted Rama advertising her daughter like lamb on the market at her wedding . She dug her nails into the groom’s knee and vowed to never forgive this offence. “I will never forgive nor forget,” Layan announced a week later, marching into her Uncle’s villa. Only to be hushed and ushered forcibly into a sitting room, which was no way to treat a bride with honeymoon sores! She huffed, shifting one of the ornate divider panels surrounding the sitting area and glared at her dolled-up cousin. “I will never forgive nor forget,” she started before noticing Nada’s stiff posture and gritted teeth. Layan softened, marching over and unceremoniously plopping down next to her, if only to prove that honeymoon sores were a myth and Nada should know better than to listen to the household help. “I’ll be behind the panels, give the word and I’ll launch at him with a butcher’s knife,” she assured tenderly. Nada shook her head once, eyes sharper than the horse bust welcoming visitors in the hallway. Layan’s hand entwined with her cousin’s for a moment, “I’ll be there either way,” she promised right as the doorbell sounded. Layan assumed her stealthy position, careful not to lean too much onto the panels lest they collapse, and listened. The snake and his father introduced themselves unremarkably. A research assistant when Nada should’ve been married to princes , to sultans . “Yes? And how are you?” The snake, Jassim or something plebian like that, asked with a distinctly slimy voice. Layan vehemently wondered if he had a nasal issue, she hoped he had a nasal issue and suffocated on it. “Fine,” Nada tiredly replied in a resigned tone that chilled Layan with its implications, “and you?” And Layan stilled, her sky falling around her from the realization that while she wanted her married as much as the next relative, she was never truly prepared to let her go. Nada was supposed to be the one that broke through, the supporting pillar that reassured you you didn’t need to sell yourself if you didn’t want to. Nada was supposed to be always there . Layan reached for a vase but got silently taken done by Rama’s lackeys before she could embarrass herself with battery. Then Layan broke her promise and was escorted out with news her husband was on the way. Later, while the dry Arabian landscape swished past the passenger window, she rubbed at her dry eyes and vowed to present Nada with the shiniest gold at her wedding. Glaring abandonment issues thus placated, she fiddled with the radio, searching for a music station when her husband caught her hand over the armrest and stroked slow circles into her palm. Stop trying to seduce me! Layan wanted to scream hysterically because she had a three-step plan for him, but she just couldn’t seem to pull her hand away. - Rama Bashaar, mother of Zayn, wife of Lieutenant General Omar Hamdi, Rapunzel of Damascus, was above scrounging for suitors at third-rate party halls with new money aiming subtle jabs at her age. She told her husband as much while she clasped on heavy earrings, sitting on the edge of the bed preparing to leave for that fool Layan’s wedding. He threw an arm around her waist murmuring, “that’s our Nada” and chuckling. “Fine, but don’t come crawling to me when she asks to fly to the moon,” and with that Rama threw her veil over her elaborate braid and set out with the distinct dread that she’d be coming home emptyhanded. But by the end of the night, she was thanking Allah that she wore her best. Now it was up to her fool daughter not to make a mess of it. “Mama, please ,” she snapped, leaning her head away from the brush that was dabbing blush onto her cheeks. Rama hushed her, clutching her by the chin and tilting her head this way and that, “This is your last chance, my heart, don’t squander it.” “Even though,” her daughter retorted, always obstinate, always disagreeable, “I’m not going to nod and agree to everything like a sheep, I’m not relenting because there’s no one else.” Rama clucked her tongue, sashaying out of the room with a swish of her hair, her daughter following and ranting about her rights or something along those lines. “And so, Mama, I cannot and should not be backed into a corner like this, I can refuse like I did all the others-” Rama turned on her, pointing a crooked finger at her and hissing, “No, you’ll listen to me for once, and not sacrifice the opportunity of a family for your ideals,” she straightened, shooting a look of distaste at the maid that scurried by, she was getting too old for this. She breathed in right as Nada opened her mouth, cutting her off, “You embarrass me, Nada,” she said in a quiet tone meant to cut. It did the trick and Rama walked away, leaving her daughter stabbed and bleeding in the hallway. Rama had better things to oversee. There had to be the finest choices of both spearmint and peppermint tea, for one, the dates had to be curated by the best eye, and the coffee presented in the finest thermos. The only thought she spared for her daughter's feelings was sending Layan her way. When the doorbell finally rang, Rama called out for her husband. He shouted back, hurrying past her. Rama briefly tsked at the short, dark hairs peppering the front of his collar from his shave before deciding to let that particular dog lie as the men were let in and she went to wait in the next room. Rama controlled her meddling for as long as she could before she gave in, eavesdropping through the cracked open door just in time to catch Nada's exchange with the suitor's. "Yes? And how are you?" "Fine, and you?" "Perfect." Rama didn't know whether her daughter thought she was stupid and frankly didn't care, but she heard something in those words that took her half a century back to her own betrothal. And she wasn't a smiling sort of woman but the one that split across her face would've made anyone bet that she was as she huffed, Finally .

Paul paced the living room with a phone to his ear. He periodically peered through the living room blinds as the windows rattled from the revving of a red Trans Am across the street. His neighbor Willy was behind the wheel, door open, hood popped, forever tinkering. “I already talked to the bylaw officer and they told me to call you. I went through all this last wee...” A series of trebly wraps at the front door distracted Paul. “Forget it, I’ve gotta go.” Paul stuffed the phone into his pocket and attended to the visitor but upon opening the door all he found was a crow standing on his doorstep with a blue ribbon in its mouth. The crow - let us call him Ruffleford - dropped the ribbon onto the concrete pad. “Is that for me? Paul asked as he picked up the ribbon. “I suppose this is a thank you for getting you out of that bind.” Paul had released the bird from a garden net earlier that day. The missing right eye being the sole indicator this was the very same crow. The Trans Am engine roared once again, sending the blood in Paul’s veins rippling. “If you’re still in the giving mood, I’d really appreciate if you could figure a way to get that guy to shut the hell up.” Ruffleford took flight. “I suppose it was a pretty big ask.” Late that same afternoon, Paul stretched his arms and released a gaping yawn. He had taken advantage of the silence to take a nap. Willy and his Trans Am went on an asphalt excursion an hour earlier. Paul lumbered to his living room window while scraping his scruffy cheeks with fingernails in need of a good clipping. He had taken a reprieve from shaving - and personal hygiene in general - during the annual summer shutdown of his employer’s factory. In place of the Trans Am at Willy’s place was a brown Buick. A tall man in a speckled brown waist length coat appeared to be consoling Willy’s wife at the door. The consoler departed and made his way up Paul’s sidewalk. Paul prematurely opened the door, catching the visitor by surprise in a pre-knock fist formation. “Can I help you?” Paul inquired of the caller who promptly displayed law enforcement identification. “I’m Detective Saunders. I am not sure if you’re aware of this, but your neighbor across the street, Willy Daroch, has been in a fatal car accident.” “Oh my God, that’s awful!” Not a small amount of concern tainted Paul’s surprised reaction. A tinge of suspicion made him think Ruffleford was tangled up in this somehow. “At the risk of sounding insensitive, I understand there was no love lost between you two?” Detective Saunders replied. Paul twisted his expression into one of feigned ignorance; in the unlikely event Ruffleford was involved. “The widow says that over the course of the summer, you have filed at least a half dozen noise complaints against the deceased.” “A lot of help the police have been with that...” Paul stopped himself short of a verbose rant. The last thing he needed was to say something that could be interpreted as callous disregard. This unspoken cogitation did not go unnoticed by Detective Saunders. “I mean...” Paul continued, but Detective Saunders interjected “I know what you mean, but that’s more of an issue for the bylaw office.” “So I’ve been told. Are we through here, or is there something else I can help you with? I was sort of in the middle of something.” “The pillow face speaks for itself.” Paul’s face went flush, at first with embarrassment, then anger. “Look, am I suspected of something?” “It would be pretty farfetched to believe someone would go to that much trouble to stage an accident, only to show their hand by desecrating the corpse and steal the car keys, all the while remaining undetected.” Ruffleford’s disembodied shriek caused Paul to shudder. “Desecrated?” “If someone was fool enough to leak that little tidbit to the media-sphere we’d deny it. I just wanted to gauge your reaction when you heard it.” “Did I pass your test?” Paul asked. “We’re done here. Have a good day Mr. Laurence.” Paul retreated into his house once Detective Saunders turned the corner in his Buick, then reached into the deepest recesses of his closet and grabbed a handful of clothing. He then staked a pitchfork into the center of his backyard lawn and erected a makeshift scarecrow, using dead leaves as filling. As ridiculous as it may have seemed to him, if Ruffleford was involved in Willy’s death, Paul thought it best to distance himself from the avian. He barely put his hand on the patio door handle when Ruffleford cried out behind him. Paul swung around to find the bird perched comfortably on the pitchfork pinnacle. “Get the hell out of here! Don’t you understand you’re not wanted!?” Ruffleford merely inquired with his one unrelenting eye. “Alright then, you’ve forced my hand.” Paul retrieved a .22 rifle from under his bed and assembled a makeshift sniper’s nest at his window facing the backyard. He poked the barrel out the window, directed into the backyard. By this time, Ruffleford had departed. A series of trebly wraps came from the front door. Paul left his domestic hunters blind and opened the front door to find a set of car keys on the step. Paul glanced left, then right - on the lookout for brown Buick’s and the like - before picking up the blood-speckled keys. Ruffleford dive-bombed from the rooftop and scratched Paul about the head and face. The keys hit the ground and Ruffleford promptly ceased his attack, scooped the keys up, and flew over the roof with them firmly in beak. Paul raced to the backyard and scanned the skies. He saw Ruffleford hang the keys on a branch high atop a poplar tree in the park behind his house. In his mind’s eye, he could see his thumb and index fingerprints on the keychain in bas-relief. If he didn’t know any better he’d have sworn that the crow intended to implicate him as the keys dangled like chimes of culpability. An abundance of picnickers and pedestrians dissuaded Paul from embarking on the ascent. He wiled away the hours and his morale sunk like the setting sun as any hope the keys would fall of their own accord faded with the daylight. After ascertaining the position of the keys one last time as they glimmered in the moonlight, Paul began to climb the poplar. He navigated from branch to branch until he reached height parity with the keys but they were out of reach. It was then a simple matter of navigating away from the trunk. Pussyfooting across the branch as it thinned, Paul inched towards the keys. Once he was within arm’s reach, he swiped for the keys but Ruffleford emerged from behind a cluster of leaves with outstretched wings, emitting an ear-piercing cry. Paul lost his footing and reversed his journey in fast forward, cascading downwards until his body finally thudded against a patch of immaculately manicured grass. The next morning a bicycle Cop discovered the corpse and spoke into her CB radio. The right eye of Paul’s corpse had been carved out. “Looks like we’ve got another one of those “accidents”.” The missing eye was aloft, dangling from Ruffleford’s beak. In a nearby birch tree, the wily bird perched on the rim of a nest, filled to the brim with eyeballs in varying states of decay. He placed Paul’s eye on top of the pile like a macabre ocular capstone.

My daughter wrote this - thought it was too good not to share. She is 10 years old. We are having our children write something every day in response to a prompt we get from different websites. **Chapter 1** The Last Song A beautiful duet was being played on piano one night. It was the last song that person ever heard. It was dark in that house. They ordered pizza for dinner. After they finished eating the pizza they played a song together on the piano. What one of them didn’t know was that the other was plotting to kill them. When they finished the song it was time. It was quick; they shot them and they died. The only thing left was a bitten piece of pizza on the piano. The neighbors heard the gunshot and immediately called 911. From the sound of a beautiful song to the sound of a horrible gunshot. The police rushed to the address the neighbors gave them. There was no sign of the body or the murderer. After further investigations they found that the murderer hid the body in the coat closet. They found out because the detective was going to put his coat in the closet but he found the body instead. The questions they wanted to know was: Why would he kill her? and Who killed her? They searched the whole house for DNA but didn’t even notice the piece of pizza. They had lost all hope of finding the murderer. They soon stopped trying to find them. But the detective was still on the case. A few months later the police station received a phone call from the detective. He said he found a bitten piece of pizza on top of the piano. The police rushed to the house to take the piece of pizza to get the DNA. The detective later found out from a neighbor that they were playing piano together. They found fingerprints on the piano keys, but they didn’t know who’s was who’s. Since they found the pizza slice they decided to look at the victim’s phone who they later found out was a girl named April Gardener. They looked at the recent phone calls and found that she called the pizza place. They went over to the pizza place to find who delivered the pizza to the house. They asked if they could describe the man that took the pizza. They said he was a huge tall dude with an Astros hat on and a white t-shirt. They also sketched the person for them, and they described the car that was on the driveway. The police made an announcement that whoever saw a person with a white truck call the police and report the license plate number, and if anyone owned a white truck that they should come to the police station. Many people came but no one matched the description or the DNA. Later the police released the sketch from the person that worked at the pizza place. A woman came to the police station a day later and said she thinks she knows the man that was sketched. She gave them the address and the police rushed to the house. The DNA matched the man at the house. His name was Bob Strider. The police later learned that Bob Strider was a new gang member. He got in because he killed April Gardener. The police now know who killed April Gardener and why he killed her: to get into a gang. Everyone mourns for April but there is no bringing her back. Bob Strider was sent to prison for life but April is still dead. **Chapter 2** Lactose intolerant Everyone thought Bob Strider was in prison for life but he got out after 10 years. And he was not done yet. He was still in the gang and he got an assignment. (He is one of the bangers). His assignment was to kill someone that was bothering the gang for some time now. His name is Aragorn Pinn. He lives right next to their meeting place and they think he knows a little too much about their whereabouts. He got a paper with information about him. It said: **Aragorn Pinn** **Lactose intolerant** **Single** **Loves piano** **He is a detective** Bob came up with a plan: His sister owes him a favor so he will ask her to go on a fake date with him. He will be hiding in her trunk ready to kill him. He is going to kill him by pretending to be a pizza delivery man and since Aragorn is lactose intolerant he’ll feed him the pizza and kill him while he’s weak. It sounds easy. Date night. All is set. He dresses up as a pizza delivery man and gets a pizza. Just before he rings the doorbell he hears the song that he played on piano with April. He pushes that memory away and rings the doorbell. *Ding Dong*. ‘Who is it?’ says Aragorn. ‘Pizza!’ Bob says. ‘I didn’t order pizza though’ says Aragorn ‘I did’ says Bob’s sister. ‘Ok’ says Aragorn. Bob walks in and offers pizza. ‘I’m lactose intolerant’ Bob still forces the pizza into his mouth. You can barely hear the muffled cry of Aragorn. Bob grabs the knife from his pocket and quickly stabs him. ‘Goodbye’ and you Aragorn was never heard of again.

Ever since I could hold my father’s old digital camera in both hands, I’d been fascinated by taking pictures. Capturing life in a single moment. That first camera barely worked - it was more than a few years old by the time he gave it to me after months of me disappearing with it into the garden for hours on end. I remember him saying ‘someone might as well use it’, and with that my life took a very straightforward path. After finishing school, I set up my own photography business. I knew university would never be for me, as the idea of sitting in a lecture hall for four years bored me almost to tears. As soon as I could afford to, I paid a friend to set up a website for me - Luke Lane Photography - and I got to work as soon as I could, though the jobs were slow at first. My first wedding, a job I had taken on with some reluctance but came with a modest paycheck, was for an old school friend. He’d met his soon-to-be-wife at college and after they both dropped out, moved back to our hometown in deep Sussex. The day had gone smoothly, and once I’d published a selection of the best shots to my website I started getting more and more requests coming through the ‘Make a Request’ form for ‘the guy who took those photos at George’s wedding’. Who knew my big break would have been a wedding for someone who used to eat insects for fun at school. Eventually I’d set myself up with a regular gig, and most weekends I bundled my equipment into my aging Honda and drove - occasionally for a few hours at a time - to the next venue. There weren’t many professional photographers in the area, and my rates were reasonable enough that I enjoyed moderate success, particularly in the summer. However winter was usually a different story - not many people want to get married in the cold, so I was usually running lean in those months while I scraped enough together for rent. This year was shaping up to be particularly demanding - my car, which had run fine through the years despite the odds against it, had finally breathed its last on the side of the road last week. Replacing it - and it as my sole source of transportation it definitely needed replacing - had left a more-than-significant hole in my finances that I desperately needed to fill if I wanted to have somewhere to live. It was then, as I was sitting hunched over the plastic-topped table I used as a desk scouring through my bank account desperately trying to find something, anything I could use to pay rent, that a job request came through. The night was late - really more like morning, that's how long I had been on my laptop at that point, when the email notification pinged up at the bottom corner of my screen. I let it disappear at first, doubtful that a job request sent in the dead of night could really be genuine, but curiosity got the better of me and after a few moments I clicked into my inbox to read it. The email subject was ‘Request for the services of Mr. Lane’. The formality of the title struck me as unusual compared to the emails I usually received - some of them were barely legible. ‘Dear Mr. Lane,’ the email began. ‘My name is D. Middleton, and I am inquiring in regards to your photography services for the wedding of my daughter and her husband.’ The rest of the email covered the details of the job - location, time, and so on - all in the same curiously formal tone. I skim read up to the end, where I noticed something that stood out - a confidentiality clause. For most jobs, it was standard practice not to post anything online before the lucky couple had signed off on the edits, but a full-on confidentiality agreement asking me not to tell anyone I’d even been at the wedding was almost unheard of, particularly as after which was a much, much higher amount of money than I usually asked for. Enough that my housing worries would be taken care of, at least until the spring came around. God, I hoped this wasn’t a joke. Immediately I tapped out a response and sent it through, confirming the fee and request were correct, and waited in hope of a reply, my face so close to the screen at this point I would have smacked into it with a gentle push. I was rewarded a few minutes later with another email, reiterating D. Middleton was indeed very serious and asking if I could be available in two days. Usually a booking this close to the ceremony would set off alarm bells in my head - leaving the photographer this late was generally a sign that someone else had dropped out - but when the contents of your fridge consist of a few slices of vegan cheese and a suspect salad from the supermarket’s reduced section, alarm bells can be ignored to a certain extent. After sending over a request for the deposit and my bank details, I went to bed, though sleep eluded me and I stared at the ceiling for a few hours before I eventually drifted off. A few days later, I pulled up to the farmhouse mid-morning. The sky was overcast and the chill of autumn had started to seep in. Stepping out of the car, it was deathly quiet and I couldn’t see any signs of life. Either this was objectively the worst wedding in the universe or I was the only one here. I pulled up the email on my phone - everything matched with the details I’d written down which eliminated the possibility I had misread the address or time. I shrugged to myself, figuring I’d been given an earlier time to take some shots of the couple before the guests arrived, and went around to the boot of my car to fetch my equipment. As I began delicately placing the heavy bags down onto the graveled drive, the front door of the house opened, and out stepped a man, small in stature and clearly middle-aged, his hair peppered with grays. He was dressed in a navy three-piece suit, with a matching tie and floral waistcoat. ‘My Lane I presume?’ he came towards me, hand outstretched. ‘That’s me,’ I responded, shaking his hand. It was curiously cold. ‘Are you Mr. Middleton?’ He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Please, call me David. Thanks so much for coming on short notice. Care to come inside?’ He gestured towards the open door to the house, and shouldering my camera bags, I made for the entrance. ‘Are you expecting the guests a bit later?’ I asked over my shoulder, as I gingerly navigated the narrow doorway, ducking my head to avoid the low frame. David followed, and shut the door behind us. The corridor was cramped so he was forced to awkwardly side-shuffle past the bulky bags to get through. ‘Ah no other guests today, today is family only,’ he smiled again, tight-lipped, and gestured to me to follow him down the hall and through a door. We emerged into the kitchen, which was bare and sterile, cold light filtering through the windows. The only furniture was a hard worn wooden table, at which a woman sat, also dressed for a wedding in clothing that was as stark and drab as the room around her. David crossed over to the table and gave her shoulder a brief squeeze as he took the chair next to her, so I could only assume she was his wife, and indicated I should sit down in the empty chair opposite them. She didn’t look at me as I sat, content to remain gazing at the table as though I wasn’t there. There was a moment of tense silence, and David cleared his throat. ‘So, Mr Lane,’ he began haltingly, as though he wasn’t sure how to begin. ‘How much do you know about the Victorians?’ An odd question for a wedding photographer. I struggled to recall from the depths of my memory History lessons of pictures of scowling men in top hats and steam engines. ‘Er, only what I remember from school, so not much,’ I answered, confused where this could be going. ‘Is that related to today?’ David nodded sadly, no longer quite meeting my eye. ‘There’s something we need to confess, Mr Lane. I wasn’t sure how to put this into writing, but the photos we need you to take today are.. somewhat unusual.’ ‘I’ve done themed weddings before, if that’s what you mean.’ I was starting to feel out of my depth here - something was definitely wrong here. David shook his head, reaching a hand to take a hold of his wife’s. She continued to stare into nothing, not reacting to his touch. ‘It’s a bit more than just a ‘theme’, I’m afraid,’ he smiled at me apologetically. ‘How do I put this? In the Victorian era, many families struggled to make ends meet and luxuries were often out of their reach except for special occasions. Family photographs were certainly one of those luxuries.’ He glanced over my shoulder and I turned my head to see a closed door behind me. I couldn’t place it but there was something emanating from behind the door, a cold feeling that made me shiver. ‘If this is to do with the rates..’ ‘Oh no, you’ll be paid what we promised,’ David held up his hand reassuringly. ‘It’s not that we can’t afford to pay you, but please let me continue.’ I was very lost at this point. Was this whole job some kind of prank? ‘When a family at that time wanted a portrait, it was a special moment, one that often they could only afford once in a generation. As such they were usually reserved for the birth of a child, or the death of a loved one, occasionally both. Something to keep them close after they passed,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I follow you..’ I was feeling more and more uneasy with each passing moment. Would the money really be worth whatever this was? ‘As I said in my message, today is my daughter and her husband’s wedding day. Or, more accurately, it was supposed to be their wedding day,’ David looked at me meaningfully.. ‘They..’ he paused here, his eyes starting to tear, and his next words came out in a choke. ‘They died last week in a car accident.’ ‘They.. died?’ I was certain I had misheard him. ‘But I’m here to.. take photos of their wedding?’ David nodded silently. ‘They’re in the next room,’ Mrs Middleton spoke for the first time. Her voice was tiny, quiet and hoarse, like she’d been crying for hours. ‘They died and they’re behind that door, waiting for us.’ She pried her hand from her husband’s, and for the first time her eyes met mine. ‘What David is asking for.. what we’re asking for.. is one last memory with them before we say goodbye.’ With that, what they were asking me to do finally clicked in my mind. I stood up immediately, knocking over my chair with a bang that echoed around the room. ‘You can’t be serious. You’re both insane.’ They said nothing, simply stared up at me. I made to pick up my bags, intent on getting out of there as quickly as possible, but David rose and grabbed my arm before I could move away. ‘Please! We’re not going to hurt you, I promise,’ he pleaded with me. ‘We’re just parents wanting this final moment with our daughter while we still can. I know it’s an unorthodox request but I promise we’ll pay you everything we agreed.’ He let go of my arm, looking at me like I was a cornered animal ready to bolt. ‘Unorthodox? Try illegal,’ I responded. ‘I should call the police.’ I dug into my pocket, pulling out my phone. ‘Wait! Please,’ said David. ‘I.. I own the funeral home their.. bodies.. were delivered to.’ He said the word ‘bodies’ like it caused him physical pain. ‘I’m responsible for them until the funeral. I promise you,’ he looked at my pleadingly. ‘We wouldn’t have done this if it wasn’t the only way.’ ‘The only way?! You stole your daughter’s corpse and you’ve what, posed it as though it’s her wedding day? I’m leaving.’ At this point Mrs Middleton broke into tears, putting her hands to her face and her shoulders rocked up and down as her husband returned to his seat, putting his arm around her. I turned away from the couple, scooping up my bags and heading towards the door back out into the hallway. ‘Please, stop for a moment,’ I heard David’s desperate voice behind me. ‘We’ll pay you double the agreed fee for this.’ At this, and against my better judgment, I paused. Every voice in my mind told me to go, to run before this entire situation took a turn for the worse, but double an already-outrageous sum of money would set me up for months and months. The concept of no more weddings, at least for a while, was hardly stirring motivation but I’d be lying if I said at that moment the image of my rundown, leaking flat didn’t come into mind. I could afford a new suite of equipment, a real darkroom, the kick to my career I desperately needed.. I’ve never been an overly ambitious person, but selfish would be an appropriate term. David, seeing my hesitation, rose for a second time and came over to me. ‘Double, I promise. I’ll even pay you right now if you like,’ he nodded at me, keen to reassure that he was completely sincere. ‘Before you make a decision, please, just come see them. Joyce did an outstanding job, I promise. They look like they’re sleeping, that’s it,’ his voice was gentle, as though he was talking to a crying child. I didn’t move, torn between the two sides of my moral compass - I should leave, leave right now , report them both and never look back. How did I even know any of this story was even true? On the other hand though.. I desperately needed that money and if I did quick work, I could be out of there in less than half an hour. It’s not like there would be many poses they could do as corpses, and if they really looked like they were sleeping, maybe I could pretend, for a little while at least. I could still feel that emanating presence coming from the door though, like someone was waiting just behind it. David,, as though my silence was taken as agreement, left me and crossed to the door leaving the chair I’d toppled where it lay. His wife, whom I assumed was the Joyce he referred to, had stopped crying by now, raising her head out of her hands to look at me again with those eyes - eyes I realised now were those of a mother in mourning. ‘Please,’ she mouthed at me wordlessly. I slowly, reluctantly, placed my bags back onto the floor. David pushed open the door with one hand, with the other waving me over. ‘Just a look, and if you still say ‘no’ then we’ll forget this ever happened, and I’ll give you the money we agreed. I’m a man of my word.’ Slowly, I moved towards him, feeling like I was trapped in a dream, my legs moving almost of their own accord, and when I finally reached the doorway after what felt like hours, I looked inside the room. - I took the job in the end. Of course I did. Later that night, sitting at home over my laptop with a strong drink, I edited the photos exactly as I would have done for any other wedding. Usually I’d take a few days for this, pouring over the details to make sure they were just so, but I wanted today to be over as soon as possible. With the final files sent, I pushed the laptop away, and took a long draught from my glass. The liquid trickled down my throat, warm and gentle with the promise of memories dulled. My last look at Joyce’s face in the rearview mirror as I drove away afterwards. She was smiling, the first time she’d done so all day., and in a way it chilled me more than anything else I’d seen in that morning.. I checked my phone again, something I’d been doing obsessively since I reached home. The money was all there, just as they promised, but today had been enough for me. Making plans could wait until the morning, and with this thought, I drained my glass and lurched from the room. As I moved out of the kitchen towards my bedroom something made me pause, and I turned back, grabbing my laptop and taking it with me. Once I was firmly ensconced in the blankets, I opened it again, not quite sure what I was expecting, and went to my inbox. At the top, an unread email. Like the Middleton’s, it had been sent late, far later than any normal person would be researching wedding photographers. I opened it, and read the first line. Dear Mr Lane, I was recommended to you by a close friend of mine, Mr. David Middleton.. Ever since I could hold my father’s old digital camera in both hands, I’d been fascinated by taking pictures. Capturing life in a single moment - or if not life, death.

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: ** **Bonus Constraint (not required; worth 5 pts.) - Story uses second person POV.** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of in your story. It (or the idea) should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. Use of the bonus constraint is also not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until Sunday at 11:59pm EST. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them a comment on the thread with some feedback.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.** Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire & Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback on the thread:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) **Note on feedback:** - Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out by u/FyeNite as an example.   *** #Rankings - - Submitted by u/DmonRth   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/Sch0larite   - **Crit Star** - Awarded Crit Credit for r/WPCriique: u/katherine_c *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

“Oh, oh Look, Hannah! This one looks nice and simple.” Amanda said, surprisingly excited as she was reading off the request wall for a quest. “Nope, I’m done! Call me a turkey and stick a fork in me because I’m done!” I snarled and crossed my arms. I have had it with these quests today. They were ridiculous, unreasonable, and no one wanted to pay up. I swear, those people, who were requesting quest, needs to look back on the Guild Guide to understand what was classified as a reasonable quest. Amanda then gave me a pitiful smile as her eyebrows started to curve up. Before I knew it, Amanda was in my personal bubble, wrapping me around her arms while giving me some cheek to cheek action. Arghhh, Amanda was a close friend of mine, but she took the term close literally and had no respect for privacy or personal space. “Get off, Amanda!” I said, and tried to at least gain some distance between our faces, but, it was useless, I was no match for this over grown half breed. “Personal space! Personal space, girl!” She then started to make a devilish grin while giving me an Eskimo kiss. Things were getting weird and unpleasant, fast! “Not until you agree to do one more quest.” She said. “No!” I replied, forgetting the situation I was in. “I’m tired, hungry, and I possibly stink.” “Well, I guess I just have to keep holding on to my little Sweetpea.” Amanda then stopped with the Eskimo kisses, and went back to having our cheeks together. She had me now, and she knew it. I could either do one more simple, tiny quest, or get stuck with this cuddly business with another female, and on top of that, people were starting to stare. I had no choice. “Okay!” I shouted. “Yippee!” And she cheered. I didn’t understand why she was forcing the both of us to go through another doggie dooky storm. Amanda knew, just as I, that we sucked today. Every quest we took was just out of control. Earlier today, we took a quest to chase boars out of a garden, and we were the ones who got chased out of the garden. So, we didn’t get paid. Then there was one where we had to hunt a Jelly Queen Fighter Fish, and that was just the biggest headache. When we finally caught the dang thing, we apparently caught a Jelly King Fighter Fish, and our client wasn’t satisfied. He flipped out about it and refused to pay, but Amanda refused not to get paid. So, she ended up mugging him for the amount owed, and left him with the Jelly King Fighter Fish. That was the funky stuff that left me wanting to give up, and apparently leaving Amanda wanting more. Once I had my freedom, I released a sigh that explained my frustrations, and took a seat on a bench while Amanda dashed back to the request wall, trying to find that perfect quest. “Oh, Hannah!” Amanda shouted as I was trying to rest. “What now!?” “I’ve found a quest that you’re going to just simply adore!” “Amanda, there is no quest that I would possibly ado-” “It’s from Lent.” Just as her words hit me, the blood rushed to my ears, and I felt a second color turning my face. I was speechless for the moment. “N-no way. Let me see.” I said as I found the words I needed. Amanda then came like a ballerina, walking on the tip of her toes moving inch by inch while performing spinning jumps. All that, just to bring me the request form. Once she was in my reach, I snatched it and gave it a good look. It was exactly as she said. It really was from Lent, but what was more breathing taking, was what his request was. It said: I’m looking for a special flower to give to a very special girl, but I can’t seem to find it nowhere. I’m a bit shame to post this, but I really need the help. If anyone knows where the Snow Ice Flower is located, then please let me know, or bring it to me. So, I can finally take the next step in my relationship with her. My mouthed then gapped open and my hands started to sweat. I couldn’t believe it. Lent was finally about to confess his love... to me. “You know what, Hannah?” Amanda said as she snatched Lent’s request form from me. “I stink too. Let’s draw a bath and call it a day.” “No way!” I shouted, but after I realized how eager I was sounding, I cleared my voice and started again. “I-I mean, you always stink, Amanda, and umm... Lents apart of our Guild, so it’s like our duty to assist.” Amanda just looked at me as she pushed her lips to the side. “What?” She continued to just stare with that stupid look on her face without saying a word. “Say something!” I demanded, but she made a hum instead of doing what she was told. I then felt her eyes judging me. I knew what she was thinking, and she was completely wrong! I then clutched my fist as my teeth started to grind on each other. I closed my eyes to try and help control myself, but I couldn’t, I had too much energy stored in me; I had to let it out on her. “Shut-up! You, stupid judgmental panda! We’re doing this quest because we are a Guild and that’s what Guild’s do! So, stop saying we’re doing it because I like him, because I don’t!” After I let Amanda have my rage, she just took a smile to her face. “Sweetpea, I didn’t say anything.” She said. I snarled at her as I turned myself away from her. “You were thinking it, so I just told your mind to shut up.” She then giggled before saying, “You’re so cute, Sweetpea.” “Let’s see how cute you find me, when I stick my sword up your butt hole.” She then turned my threat into a joke as she walked past me. “Stop playing around, Sweetpea. If we’re going to get this done, then let’s get to it. the Snow Ice flower isn’t easy to obtain.” Amanda said, getting serious. Who was playing around? I was serious. If she kept thinking nonsense, then she will find my sword up her rectum. After Amanda got her head straight, we went over to the gate keeper, so we could be transported to where we needed to go. “Good evening, ladies, I’m the gate keeper, Dino, where would you like to go?” Dino the Gate Keeper said. I then hummed and realized, I didn’t have a clue to where this ice flower was even located. But, if I had to guess, then it would be somewhere icy and cold. Arghhh, just thinking about the cold was making me shiver, but luckily for me, my soul was that of a phoenix, which made my normal body temp 298.9 C., and if needed, I could always raise it up, but I wonder how Amanda would survive? “We would like to go to Cave lite by Flames.” Amanda said to Dino the Gate keeper. When I heard that, I nearly flipped my beanie. “Whoa, whoa, wait a sec.” I said stopping Dino the-, you know what? Let’s just call him Dino. Anyways, after I stopped Dino from opening the gate to Cave lite by Flames, I looked at Amanda as if she was crazy. “What are you doing, Amanda? Hello, ice, flames, call me crazy, but I don’t think those two go.” I said. Amanda then closed her eyes while smiling, “Don’t be so quick to call me an oxymoron, Sweetpea.” I then remain silent for a brief moment. It seemed Amanda new something I didn’t. “I’m not your Sweetpea, and I wasn’t even calling you that, jeez.” Even though that was exactly what I was getting at, I still denied the truth. As I folded my arms, I waited for Amanda to say what she needed to say. “Now, if rumors and research prove to be in our favor, then the Snow Ice Flower should be dead center of a volcanic area, the hotter the area the higher the possibility of its existence.” Hearing her, made me looked at her even more confused. I wonder if Amanda was listening to herself? The Snow Ice Flower was a mythical flower that covered itself in a clothing of ice, that was believed to remain at the temperature of dry ice. (Which is -78.5 C. if anyone was wondering). Did I needed to explain myself any further on why Amanda’s theory didn’t even remotely make sense. But I just sighed and kept quiet. Although I was starting to question Amanda’s level of common sense, I decided to hear her out because she usually wasn’t the one to get mythical facts wrong. If anyone knew where the Snow Ice Flower was, then it be her. “You see, Sweetpea,” Amanda said. “I’m not your Sweetpea, but go on.” “Unlike most plants that use light energy for photosynthesis, the ice flower actually uses extremely high temperatures to make photosynthesis, and instead of it releasing oxygen, it releases carbon dioxide, causing it to instantly freeze its roots and eventually freezing itself. So, with the high temperatures it will eventually defrost and repeat its cycle.” “... I... guess that makes sense?” I was starting to figure out why it was a mythical flower. The dang thing didn’t make sense. “Umm, well, to Cave lite by Flames then?” at this point, I was starting to question everything that made sense in my life. “To Cave lite by Flames!” Once Dino heard our request, he put in the coordinates to send us to where we wanted to go. When we arrived, waves of hot lava splashed like the ocean in a storm. The sky was sickly black with matching clouds that created its own lighting. The air was thick and hard to breathe. Amanda, who was next to me, instantly started to sweat and wheeze. She was having a difficult time adjusting to the certain change in climax and atmosphere. That was to be expected of her, from anyone. I’m sure I would have been the same, if my soul wasn’t of a phoenix; it embraced and welcomed my body to heat. “There,” Amanda said, pointing to a volcano, center of the land. “That is where we’ll find our flower.” Amanda then fell to her knees as she coughed, gasping for air. “Amanda, are you going to be okay!?” I said as I went to her aid. She then looked at me with a smile before saying, “Don’t worry, Sweetpea, this is nothing. I will see you through this.” Hearing her words made me return the smile. But still, I couldn’t help feel a bit selfish. “Thank you, Amanda.” “I’ll do anything to help you attain true love.” “W-w-wha? I-I-I, umm, well... No!” my face soon became surprised as I pushed myself away from Amanda. Once I got a hold of myself, I had to remind Amanda what the purpose of this quest was for. “I told you already! No one loves that lazy bum. We are doing his request because he’s a friend and because we are a Guild, nothing more, nothing less.” “Sweetpea, there’s no shame in the burning flames of love.” “Stop calling me that, and the only thing burning is this hot lava. Now come on, we’ve wasted enough time.” I said as I started to lead the way. “Yes, let’s not prolong this quest for true loves test, any longer.” Amanda said, and started to follow behind me. At this point, I realized that it was just easier to ignore her. I couldn’t believe I was actually worried about her. As we hiked our way up the volcano area, it was silent and calm. The only thing you could hear was the environment, and the clicking of our shoes against the dusty old lands. But just then, the ground started to rumble and a screech was heard throughout the land. It made me feel a bit worried of what could be living in this hell resembling place. I was about to ask Amanda, but after seeing her coughing and wheezing, I thought it be best to let her save her strength. As we got closer to the granddaddy of volcanos, a faint blue light found its way through the thick black fog. “Th-that’s it.” Amanda barely managed to say. She was drenched from sweat, her knees were shaking, and her voice sounded as if she was a smoker for years. Once my head registered how bad Amanda was doing, the guilt soon race to my heart. “Amanda, how about you stay and rest. I’ll get the flower from the volcano. Okay?” “No, it’s too dangerous for you to go alone.” Amanda said, trying to show she was fine, but it was too late, I was already running to the top of the volcano. “Well if you can keep up, then you can tag along.” “Hannah! Wait a sec-” Amanda tried to stop me, but I was already realizing why she didn’t want me to go alone. Out of nowhere a dark black dragon appeared before me. His blood red eyes stared me as he opened his mouth to let out his battle cry. “You got to be kidding me. Amanda, why didn’t you tell me there was a Darkness Dragon here.” I said as I placed my scarf over my nose and drew my blades. Before I could even act, Amanda came running with her spear and jumped on the back of the dragon’s neck, and pierced her spear through. “Well, you heard the screech and didn’t asked about it, so I thought you knew.” She said, as she struggled to stay on top of the dragon’s neck, but it was proven to be more of a challenge than she could handle because the dragon started ringing his neck around until Amanda and her spear was off. As Amanda went flying south, it was my turn to get a piece of the action. I wasn’t as reckless as Amanda. I then started running to the side of the dragon to try and reach a blind spot. When I saw an opening, I lunged to stab the side of his ribs followed by a cross slash, but when I struck him, my blades couldn’t pierce his skin. It was like I took a slash at metal. In my moment of surprise, the dragon gave me a tail whip to the cheek that sent me rolling on the ground. Once I regain my balance, Amanda came in next to me. “Hannah, you okay?” Amanda asked, but I didn’t have time to answer because the dragon came in with its razor-sharp wings, trying to take our heads. I ducked then rolled to dodge the fetal attack. Amanda did the same, but she was acting much slower because of this, she got nicked on one of her panda ears. The atmosphere of the place had to be taking a toll on her, plus she was already tired. But I didn’t have time to worry about her because the dragon was giving us an energy beam from the mouth, to be sure we were toast. As soon as he fired, I jumped out the way while Amanda did a back-flip. When she landed, she was barely standing, and the dragon had his eyes set on her. He then ready his sharp wings and came zooming in on her. “Move!” I said as I came just in time to shove her to safety, but in result, I got the ball on my beanie cut off. “H-Hannah,” Amanda said, when I was rising from on top of her. “My crystal edge spear is the only thing that can penetrate its thick skin.” With that, her eyes closed and her breathing went steady. Another thing I wished she had inform me earlier, but now was not the time. I knew what I had to do. I sheathe both my blades, and then picked up Amanda’s spear and ready myself. As the dragon was swirling around us, I closed my eyes and focused on my inner power, my soul aura. With my phoenix soul, I raised my body’s temperature to at least 12,678 C. With my soul aura causing my body to glow hot pink, I dashed into the air charging at the dark beast. He seen me coming a mile away, but instead of trying to dodge me, he chose to blast me with his plasm breath. I went straight through it. Just as I thought, his plasm breath was just a heatwave and my body was hotter than it, so it no longer had an effect on me. With Amanda’s spear, I rammed the dragon straight in his throat. I then lift Amanda’s spear in him, so I could have time to use his head as a stepping stone to go higher into the air. Once gravity had its grasp on me, I unsheathed my swords and put all my body heat to them. As I was coming down, I dove head first with my swords in front to make a X, and I sliced his head clean off like a hot knife through butter. His skin was tough, but with my hot aura, I was able to melt through it. I guess Amanda forgot about my little trick. He was done. As the dragon felled, so did Amanda’s spear, and of course, I retrieved it. “S-Sweetpea, did you do it?” Amanda asked as she was waking up. “You know I’m not your Sweetpea,” I replied with a smile. “And yes, I did. So, just rest, Amanda. I’m gonna grab the flower, so we can go home.” Sure enough, it was there as Amanda said, and as beautiful as the legends told. When I picked it up, I kept up my bodies high temperature, so I wouldn’t get frost bite. When we got home, Amanda put the snow ice flower in a special case, so it could keep its beauty. “Well, Sweetpea, are you ready to give the flower to Lent?” Amanda asked. “I can’t give it to him like this. I’m a mess. Let me at least freshen up first.” Without wasting time, I hopped in the shower, redid my hair, and put on one of my special dresses with a luxurious beanie. “How do I look?” I said as I modeled for her. “You look beautiful, Sweetpea.” Amanda replied, with her eyes tearing up. “You grow up so fast.” “Hehe, stop it, Amanda, your embarrassing me.” Amanda just cupped her mouth as she went to get the flower for me. “Here, go to him.” I just rolled my eyes at her. I didn’t like Lent. I just was doing all this, so I could get free dinner for all my hard work, but I didn’t bother to tell Amanda that, her head was stuck in the clouds. Once I made it to Lent’s place, I took a deep breath and ignored all the butterflies in my stomach. This was it. I wanted so bad to just run back home and say, I couldn’t do it, but my heart wouldn’t let me. Next thing I knew, I was knocking on his door, waiting for him to answer. As the door cracked open, I felt my heart pounding at the sight of his face. “Hannah?” He said as he saw me. “I’m sorry, but I can’t make the guild raid because...” I just sighed, and turned my head to the side. Sometimes I wished he was a better person, but he was a lazy man before being a man. It was only natural for him to make up an excuse to get out of work. “No, Dummy, I’m here because I have something for you.” I said trying to get to the point. Lent’s laziness was something I learned to accept, but I’m still working on beating it out of him. “No way! Is that...” He said, finally realizing the reason why I’m here. I felt my face changing a color as I nodded my head to confirm what he couldn’t believe. “Thanks a million! Seriously you rock!” He then grabbed the flower from me and shut the door in my face... What, the, HECK! I then banged on his door as loud as I could until he opened it once more. “Is there anything else Hannah?” He said while still holding my hard work. “That’s it!? That’s all you have to say!?” Lent then took a good look at me before he spoke his next words. “Umm, Nice outfit?” “You, idiot! What about what you said on your quest form!” “Oh that? Ha, I didn’t think you were interested.” I then calmed down and put a smile on. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m interested, but I am curious of what this is...” I couldn’t believe I just said what I said. After that, I couldn’t dare look him in the eyes. “Yeah, me too.” I then found the strength I needed to left my head and look at him. This time, he couldn’t look at me as he avoided my eyes. “Her Name is Katherine.” “What!?” “I met her by actually doing a quest. Can you believe it?” I couldn’t believe this stupid, rotten, bum! I went through all this trouble for him! And he’s talking about another girl! Out of sheer spite, I snatched the snow ice flower from him, broke open the container, and ate the dang thing. Instantly I regretted eating it, but I just couldn’t control myself. “Y-you can go f-find your own f-f-freaking flower!” I said, stuttering. Now that the ice flower was inside me, it made me feel chills that I never felt before. “A-and I expect you to be at our G-G-Guild meeting or your k-k-kicked!” I then blew my cold ice breath to his face, so it could freeze that stupid look. “What the...?” He barely managed to mumble because his lips were frozen together. As I was leaving, I made up my mind right then and there that Lent was a lazy pig, and I will never do anything nice for that freeloader ever again.

With a *bang*, the doors of the saloon burst open, nearly flying off their hinges. Where they were now stood a shadowy cowpoke, with a big iron on his hip. He took a look around (which had his big ears swinging in the breeze), before waltzing up to the bar counter, and taking a seat on one of the various stools. All the patrons kept their gaze on him a moment longer, before returning to their business. The bartender walked over to him, polishing a wine glass. “What'll you be having sir, on this fine evening?” asked the bartender, his beak clacking against itself with every word. “A shot of tequila, if you wouldn’t mind.” replied Austin, flipping the bird a coin. “And don’t call me sir, the name’s austin” continued the rabbit. Snatching the silver dollar out of the air, the bartender put down the glass and grabbed a smaller one. He took it over to a keg and filled it up at the tap. Then, he slid it down the counter, where Austin caught it in his fuzzy hand. He quickly downed the shot, the booze burning his throat and sending a tingle up his floppity ears, making every strand of fur stand on end. “Well mister Austin, what’s your business round’ these parts? I’d reckon I've not seen your face before.” setting the glass back on the counter, he replied with a smirk “ Well, if you must know. I’m here looking for an outlaw, calls himself Wilson wilks. About yea’ tall snake, green scales, missin’ an eye. Kinda’ hard to miss, actually. You by chance wouldn’t happen to remember seein’ a fellow like that, would ya? '' the bartender’s beak opened to speak, but no words came out. His gaze drifted to the side of Austin, and his face went pale. It looked like he’d seen a ghost. After a moment of awkward silence, Austin piped up. “Uh sir, is there a problem?” snapped out of his daze by the jackrabbit’s voice, the bartender managed a reply “uh, sorry mister, can’t say I have.” midway through the sentence the avian snuck a look at his pocket watch. “Well, would you look at the time. Sorry mister Austin, afraid I’m past due to close up shop. Last call for drinks fellas, last call!'' At this, most of the patrons simply got up and walked out, but a few of them walked over to the counter. one shambling, clearly drunk. After they’d made their orders and downed their shots, they too made their way out the door. Once the saloon was clear, Austin spoke up. “Well, that’s a shame. Hey, think I could get another shot of tequila fore’ you close up shop?” to which the bartender sighed, and answered “I suppose'' he grabbed the shot glass he’d left from his last one and refilled it. He slid it down the counter, to be caught by Austin's furred hand. He downed it and got up but set back the glass, before walking out. Right before he took a step through the doors, the bartender spoke “Oh, and mister austin. Good luck!” Austin looked back, and was about to ask what the luck was for, until a gunshot rang out, followed by a stray bullet embedding itself in the wall next to him. With this he turned his gaze to the source of the slug which was a shadowy figure, obscured by the low sun. Austin didn’t need to see his face, that cheap shot said it all. “Wilks! I’ve been looking for you, but I must say: It’s all too kind of ya’ to do the work for me.” With a smirk, the scaly sharp-shooter proclaimed “Big words from someone who’ll last about as long as a pint of whiskey in a five hand game a’ poker” the time for talk over, their hands slowly went to their hips, closing around the open holsters. The town fell silent, save for the soft rustling of a tumbleweed as it rolled by. The moment felt like an eternity, as they both waited for the other to make a move. In an instant, they both drew and fired at once, yet only one of the bullets hit their marks. The snake hit the ground with a *thud*, as a poorly-aimed bullet whizzed past Austin's ear. He deposited his big iron, his muzzle still smoking, back to his holster. With that he walked over to the scaly mass that lay in the dirt, and hoisted his adversary's green tail up, draping it over his shoulder. And, with a grunt, he started the walk to the sheriff’s office. As he dragged the snake, the slithery bugger coughed, a few drops of blood coming up. With a raspy voice, he managed weakly “nice ssssshhot” and with the end of the thought, he went limp.

America’s only slapstick comedy themed restaurant. My name’s Buster and I’ll be your server today. Oh don’t mind him, he’s not hurt, it’s all part of the experience. Bet he wishes they hadn’t ordered the soup of the day though ha-ha! What do you say we start you off with some waters? I’ll grab some menus too. I’ll just be righ- WHO PUT THAT BANANA PEEL THERE? Ha-ha, just kidding. I knew it was there. In fact I’m in charge of laying down all the peels before we open. No, no please don’t help me up. It’s all part of the experience. Just think about my physical therapist and lack of health insurance come tip time. Ha-ha, ok, enough lounging, how about those waters and menus? Oh and of course a basket of slapsticks. Which is what we call breadsticks. So just give me a mi- Oop! Ok I’m back! Sorry for the wait. Didn’t notice Curly was mopping the floor right behind me. Would it have killed him to put out a “Wet floor” sign? Jeez! Oh, the window? Don’t worry that’s stunt glass. We have some very good relationships with a few window guys in the area. You have to in the restaurant business. The fire hydrant? No that wasn’t a stunt fire hydrant. That was a real Brinks truck too. Remember that come tip time. Ha-ha! Anyway, those waters, menus, and slapsticks. Again sorry for the delay, you guys must be starving. I’ll comp some apps for the table. Don’t even worry about it. Is that my tooth? Thank you I’ll take that. I’ll bring some napkins too. Well if you insist, maybe I will sit down for a second. That wasn’t me by the way, this chair has a whoopee cushion sown in. Look, I’ll do it again. Well ok it’s deflated now, but you get the idea. Alright, I’m up! Waters, menus, slapsticks, comped apps, napkins, some gauze and a splint, coming right up! I’ll just- Wooooahhhh momma! Abbott, buddy. When you’re bringing out that flaming Baked Alaska can you look where you’re going? And pick your pants up! Speaking of, how the heck did you get a lobster down your pants? Just get that dessert to table seven while it’s still hot will ya! I’ll get “pinchy” here back to his tank. Sorry I didn’t catch that. My sleeve? My arms on fire? So it is! Those waters would come in handy right about now ha-ha! Excuse me a second. Flames really picked up for a while there. You can thank management for these polymer-blend uniforms, always good for a couple hijinks. Oh did I seem scared? Had you going there for a second huh? Just another day down in the salt mines, ha-ha. And in case you’re still wondering we do all our own stunts. Remember that come tip time, ha-ha! Burnt hair, yeah, hate that smell. While I was looking for the fire extinguisher I checked in on the kitchen. Apparently the chef ran into a full-length mirror again. It might be a few minutes till he’s up and moving. But worth the wait! And besides it’s all part of the experience. Listen to me blab, getting sidetracked again. Let me get you those waters, menus and apps. You guys can dine on “pinchy” while you wait. He got pretty singed while I tried to put the flames out. No please, I’m fine. Your concern is appreciated but this is all just part of the experience. Is that my blood? My most sincere apologies. Ok I’m just gonna- AHHH! Hey Harold. Had to throw that key-lime pie in my face didn’t you? Very funny. Had to be me, huh? Oh yes, I’m sure you were just in a hurry and tripped.

Sadie flipped her dark ponytail over her shoulder as she tipped an open bag of whole coffee beans over a paper filter on a scale. She tilted the bag back up intuitively, without watching, as the number on the scale ticked upward until the display read precisely 0.220. Her fingers flitted to the white tags to mark the date of the prepped beans. She wrote the date, placed the tag, then grabbed one of the filters, pouring it into the grinder. Sadie raised her voice over the hollow ting-and-shir of the beans hitting the burrs, “You know what they don’t tell you on that little white placard with the price and the witty little description of the thing at the Trader Joe’s?” “What?” Tyler answered flatly, dropping a square, plastic container of Perrier-softened cream cheese into the refrigerator door at the prep table. “Organic carrots grow , Ty.” Sadie’s face contorted, turning toward Tyler to see his reaction. “Really,” Ty replied coolly, grabbing a stack of decorative plates and the box of pastries that would top them. Headlights flashed across the lobby and flipped off quickly, followed by the muffled sound of a car door closing. “Yeah!” Sadie grabbed the filter and turned to the industrial machine. She plopped the filter into the coffee maker’s drawer and smoothed the edges of the filter against the sides of the reservoir. “I pulled a bag of ‘em out of my fridge last week and planted the suckers. Isn’t it a thing that you can only-- “Good morning!” Ty called out cheerily to a red-headed woman, bundled in a smart-looking wool coat and her teenage double as they approached the counter. “--eat the vegetables that are dead?” Sadie finished at volume, earning three blinks from the woman and an amused purse of the lips from Ty. “What can we make for you this morning?” Ty flashed his customer-facing smile. “Can I get a large black coffee and...” the woman looked at her daughter, “a medium caramel macchiato?” The daughter nodded, muttering a faint thank you . Ty rang up the order quickly and moved to the espresso machine. Sadie winked at the girl as she took a cup from beside the registers. She hummed lightly as she expertly maneuvered the cup beneath the stream of fragrant black from the industrial machine. She maneuvered the Airpot back without spilling a drop and popped a lid on the cup before placing the drink on the counter, making eye contact to let the woman know it was ready. The woman smiled and picked up the cup, taking it to a counter stocked for coffee customization. Sadie glanced at the prep table and rounded the corner to the back of the store for the silverware. “There’s a difference, right? Dead and alive veg?” “Um--” The voice sounded from the counter. “I mean, I didn’t want to get sick off of franken-freaky veggies. I’ve read that Arthur book.” Sadie raised her eyebrows conspiratorially at Ty as she passed. She dropped the knives into an empty plastic bin at the table, flipped the switch to begin the warmup of the toaster, and returned to the steaming coffee maker. “--excuse me. There isn’t anything in here.” The older red head bobbed close to the cashier counter apologetically as she held up a pitcher labeled ‘half and half.’ “Let me get that for you...” Sadie dumped the ice and filled the carafe before handing it back and returning to the coffee maker to dump coffee grounds and drop in a new filter. “The aardvark, Arthur? Wasn’t that a show?” Tyler finished placing the pastries and turned toward the front of the shop, trays in hand. “Oh, bye, now! Have a great day, guys!” Tyler called again to the women as they pushed open the door. He slid open the display case and arranged the plates of scones, danishes, and muffins to symmetric perfection. Sadie snapped the lid onto the Airpot, placing it at the self-serve station, then punched the full pot button over another, adjusting the new Airpot by sound as the nutty-sweet aroma of hot coffee wafted from the machine. She shrugged. “I’m pretty sure it was a book first. But, chicken--" “Welcome in!” Ty beamed as an older couple approached the counter. “--egg... who knows.” Ty took their order--another black coffee, a toffee latte, and a bagel--while Sadie looked over his shoulder and grabbed a cup to hand to one of the couple for his coffee. Ty handed back a debit card and moved to the espresso machine, tamping the portafilter before appraising Sadie behind steaming milk. “Okay, but Sade. Wasn’t that a kids’ show? Like, just for entertainment?” “Oh, definitely. But, come on! They had a book--episode, whatever--about bad carrots--” “You’re out of skim milk.” The more mutinous looking of the couple, a solid, plaid-attired man with a permanent scowl, thrust the carafe across the counter at Sadie’s back, shaking it impatiently, as she cut the bagel and tossed it on to the toaster’s conveyor belt. She whipped off the food safety gloves and took the carafe with a pleasant nod. “and you know it totally fits my brand as human against villainous fruits and vegetables. I’m thinking of starting a group... H-A-V-F-A-V,” Sadie said as she handed back the full carafe, donning new gloves and scooping the cream cheese as she waited for the bagel to move through the toaster's system. Ty laughed, “Not as catchy as some other acronyms--” “Sorry, can I get a straw?” The other half of the couple asked. Ty grabbed a straw, twirling it with his fingers and inclining his head theatrically as she took it. “--but I’m here for it.” “As I knew you would be,” Sadie grinned as she slid the bagel into a bag and handed off to the gruff-looking man. The odd couple settled into the plush seats in the corner of the coffee shop as Sadie turned back to the prep table. Her eyes unfocused for a moment, imagining the carrots growing in a time-lapse while brushing crumbs into her hand. She refocused, committing to the routine wipe down. “But, for real, they should put that on those little cards. I would like to know if my veggies have a life of their own.” Tyler rubbed his face, yawning then squinting into the lightening daybreak outside, “Yeah, it’s disconcerting when things don’t do what you’re expecting. Like... just sitting in your crisper drawer.” “Less that. More, so that I know to watch for it. Maybe I’m thinking about this all wrong, and that dastardly Arthur has prejudiced me about innocent survivor-veg. I need the empirical data, is all I’m saying.” Tyler shook his head as he settled behind the espresso machine. “Want a latte?” “Pour the shot or steam the milk first?” Sadie asked critically. “Milk in a pitcher, tamp the portafilter, pull the shot while steaming the milk,” Tyler replied evenly. Sadie lifted her chin to show her approving smile. “Sure, I’d love one. Three pumps hazelnut, one vanilla, sixteen ounces. Please.” The silence lengthened as Tyler set the latte-making in motion before-- “Empirical data? Really?” “Um, are you questioning my use of the term or my need for the thing?” Sadie refilled the mocha powder container on the counter from the plastic bag-lined box they kept beneath it. “I guess the need for the thing? Always so scientific?” Ty placed the drink on the corner of the façade that held the daily checklist, pointing to it conspicuously as Sadie glanced at him. Sadie nodded in acknowledgement, then tilted her head back, fingers turned up and witchlocked in mad scientist fashion. “Muahahaha! Question everything !” “Hear, hear!” The gruff man puffed through his mustache from the corner, raising his coffee toward the pair. The woman tapped his leg with the toe of her strappy boot, her eyes wide as she sipped her latte. “Hey, hey, Marv!” Sadie pointed to the man, then added. “Um, your name was on your debit card.” The man scowled, turning infinitesimally toward the woman. Sadie stifled a chortle. “Really, Sadie? Question everything ?” Ty asked as the door of the shop opened to admit a line of people. “Good morning, guys! Welcome!” “Absolutely.” Ty took the first round of orders, pausing to help make them before moving on to the next group. "Do you question your mom?" Sadie snorted. "Not to her face, but yeah." Ty gave an incredulous eyebrow raise. "No, seriously... I have been previously, um, shall we say, chagrinned by repeating things my mom has told me as unquestionable truths." “Well, what else do you question that might not seem questionable--” “Hey, can you make sure that’s two percent milk in there?” A customer in a chunky jacket interrupted. Ty smiled and nodded. “--other than vegetables... and your mom?” “Hmm. Actually, there has been something I’ve been questioning lately, but it isn’t a vegetable issue.” “--can I get the cream cheese on the side, please?” A trim woman with an enormous bag asked from across the self-service coffee station. Sadie held up a plastic single-serve container in confirmation before continuing, “My roommate told me her firm wants to hire me. I’m not even sure what they do .” “No way! Are you telling me you’re leaving me?” Tyler called out the name of a customer with their order. “No, I’m telling you I got a job offer from a company I don’t even know the name of .” Sadie paused for a moment in front of Ty, true inquiry on her face. “That’s weird, right? Not just crisper-drawer weird, but weird-weird?” “Yeah.” Ty took the next group’s order, then began the dance of putting it together again. “What does your roommate do?” “I think she’s an interpreter? She might be in finance though? Her major changed so many times in college, I had to stop keeping track. But she said not too long ago that she's glad she gets to use what she went to school for.” “Hey, can I get some help here? You’re out of whole milk.” A man with a cap pulled over his eyes waved the next carafe at Sadie. She dumped and filled it, then handed it back, putting on the customer-facing smile. “She’s certainly questionable.” Sadie said. Ty emphatically bobbed his head and called out the name of another customer. “I need a straw, too.” The man with the cap intoned. He snapped impatiently after a moment. Sadie moved the straw out of the customer's grasp, then winked as she handed over the straw. She furrowed her brow at Ty, “Actually, I should probably ask more there.” Sadie shook her head gently, pushing the roommate inquiries to the back of her mind as Marv made his way back to the counter. He was grimacing in what seemed to be an attempt at a pleasant way. Sadie smiled a wide amused grin at him, waiting for a request. He slid a small square of paper across the counter toward her. It’s time to go. Sadie held her grin while her brow crumpled quizzically. “Pardon?” The grizzled man raised an eyebrow and shifted his eyes to the right. It was at that moment that Sadie noticed every person in the shop--except for Ty--had stopped moving. The entire coffee shop was paused in bated breath for her reaction. Sadie’s mind quickly flipped through the clientele in the shop--the man with the oddly chunky jacket, the woman with the too-big bag, the guy with the hat pulled suspiciously down over his face... She skimmed each of them realizing that they hadn't stilled, but had begun moving with exaggerated slowness, the man with a hand in jacket, woman with her arm deep in her bag, hat fellow with both hands behind his back. The moment took too long. As the pause lengthened, a white smoke seeped from the corner where the woman had dropped her reserved pretense. She was still unlike the rest of them, her feet planted in a wide stance and a complex mask attached to her face. “Ty. Listen to me.” Sadie said evenly as she remained frozen, eyes fixed on the gas floating across the floor. “Run! Get out the back!” Marv’s grizzled grimace broke into a true smile as he chuckled, crouching slightly and side-eyeing the people at his back. “Welcome to day one.”

It was a long day at work which Susie loved doing just to get away from home. Susie's had so much responsibility on her that she didn't even feel married. Life started slowly consuming Susie and she had no outlet so she became bitter. Susie would sometimes cry in her room because she wasn't happy. Susie kept feeling like something was missing. Susie loved her family and was very loyal to them and her life was good. Susie was raised in the church all of her life and couldn't wait to stop going! Susie was made to go to church all the time as a child which made her faith strong. Susie had a lot of fear because of childhood issues and attacks on her as a young adult. Susie also had many close relatives to pass in her life such as dad, grandmother, uncle and so on. Susie's way of coping with these things was road rage and going off on others! Although this was toxic it was the only thing Susie could think of to do. She had forgotten about her faith along the way of life's struggles. Susie started to see the marriage was toxic and not serving her. Susie's son got shot by a group of troubled youth. This was the most traumatic experience of all. Susie didn't feel protected even with her husband. This was the straw that broke the camel's back! Susie knew this was a warning from God to change her life! Not only her life but her family's lives as well. What we do not only affects us but our loved ones as well. Susie cried and cried about this decision because she had been married for 17 years! Susie didn't know how she would support herself because she had become dependent on her husband's income. At this point Susie didn't care because she started back talking to God. Susie got a job and succeeded at providing for the household with God's help! Susie's lease was almost up and she knew she had to move from that house with those painful memories. Susie moved when her lease was expired and got an apartment instead of a house. Susie and her sons began healing from the trauma one day at a time. Susie struggled with wanting revenge on her son's attacker to the point she couldn't sleep. Susie knew in her spirit this wasn't right and had to teach her son who struggled with the same thoughts. Susie had to tell God about her family's struggles because only God could help them! Susie prayed constantly and worked and before she knew it those thoughts were gone. Susie still had to constantly teach this method of forgiveness and giving it to God to her. It was not easy to come back from a bullet but he still was alive. Susie was grateful God said no he will live and not die. Susie and her son went to trial that year and out of the four people involved they charged one and gave him four years. What a slap in the face that a person can try to kill you and get four years! This was truly a disgraceful system who showed Susie they didn't care. The bullet grazed his face and went into his right shoulder. Susie had to let go and let God to have peace and a somewhat normal life. Susie and her family continued to live life and receive life's blessings. They moved from those apartments and into a better area were we felt safe to finish healing our trauma. Susie stopped smoking weed and cigarettes which kept me in toxic situations longer. Susie's only brother had passed and Susie went into isolation. Susie was full of pain and remorse. One year after that Susie filed for her divorce once her baby boy was 18 years old. All he ever knew was mom and dad and by him being older it wasn't as painful. Susie cried so much and her heart was broken because she loved her husband! She realized that she had been putting him before herself and it didn't feel good! Susie was not being her true self by sitting back letting someone else run her life. Susie went through soul searching, meditation and shadow work! Susie read a book on boundaries and the full life frame work from Lifehack. Susie's life started slowly getting better. She didn't go outside much and she gave my husband back his truck. Susie felt like a loser and that she wasted all those years on him. She started watching psychics on utube and received answers she searched for her whole life. Susie's thought process and her heart started to change. She had visions of my brother, dad and grandmother in her dreams. Susie got to hug them to know they were okay and that helped her heal fast. Susie started to get more messages through the cards. She absolutely loved hearing from her Angels and loved ones. This spoke to Susie in a beautiful way and warned and gave Susie advice. These were things her intuition was already telling her! Susie began to see the beauty in everything and everyone. She recognize the blessing that came through the trauma of pain. It was a new beginning for her full of new possibilities! Susie thanked God for the air that she breathe, the trees,sun, moon, animals, water, and life! She thank God for my journey and the lessons from the journey! She thank God that she was always loved and supported by God even when she thought she was alone! Susie was grateful for forgiveness and love that she was given so she give it back! Instead of complaining about God's paradise that was created for us, Susie was in love with life again! Susie learned to never put anything before God and to appreciate all things in life. Susie no longer carried around resentment, anger or bitterness. Susie took on the fruits of the Spirit which are love, joy, peace, fruitfulness. Susie started helping others in her apartments with gifts, knowledge and love. Susie was usually introverted but decided to step out on faith. Fear was no longer apart of Susie's life because she knew God was always in control and not her! Elisa Wells

The smell of rotten eggs woke Harper from a dead sleep. Or maybe it was the waves of intense nausea. Her innards felt like they were being stomped clean, like dirty laundry in a remote, rural stream. Through eyes weary and half-shut, Harper watched a red light pulse. It filled the space around her with spasmodic, blood-hued flashes. Uggghh... Moving wasn’t high on her list of priorities. Her head was heavy. It felt like a pumpkin propped on a toothpick, and inside sloshed thoughts and images that threatened to fuse together but, instead, bobbed haplessly in the groggy backwaters of her mind. She closed here eyes and turned to lay on her side. Too difficult. She motor-boated her lips. That's when the poem began. The absurd wordplay could have come straight out of the dusty vaults of Captain Beefheart. The strange sonnet danced on the tongue of some faceless woman as it corkscrewed into Harper’s consciousness, like a stream of buttercream frosting atop a cake. Harper grasped at it. It evaded her clutches, verbal confetti in a breeze. “Roll bed. Feel free to pull and retest it.” What in the world? “Toad said, its feet avulsed. Infected.” Whoever was speaking whimsically sliced and diced words, the way those theatrical, knife-juggling chefs at the vintage Japanese restaurant chain (whose name escaped her) diced sushi. The vowel scheme, however, remained curiously consistent. “Road bled. A vehicle dissected.” She struggled to make sense of it. But she was no poet. She never had the knack. It was a god-given talent, she was always told, and, in her life, she had never taken seriously even the slightest inclinations towards being an artist. When she was young, however, she dreamed of being an astronaut. She recalled how the stars outside her childhood bedroom window would whisper to her at night. They would tell her of her destiny, of her future living in their midst. “Joe fled. The bees on skull reflect it.” As a matter of fact, now that she thought about it, she had a faint recollection of donning a spacesuit at one time: one limb at a time, into the suit, a silent dance, a sacred ritual, all in preparation for sleep. Again came the verse. But this time, the words cut through the mental murk and dripped with a sobering clarity. “Code red. Debris on hull detected.” Oh god , she thought. Harper blinked herself awake. She swam up through the mental soup, lifted a hand and pawed at the mask that was pumping oxygen and hydrogen sulfide into her lungs. She finally pulled it off and the smell of rotten eggs disappeared. Harper grumbled. She slipped the IV from her arm and threw it somewhere next to her. She hoisted open heavy eyelids again and glimpsed the hyper-sleep chamber. The space was tight, just big enough for an average sized adult. A glass door lay above her, and on the other side of it, the flashing beacon intermittently bathed the large cryo-room in that haunting crimson glow. Between the scarlet pulses, the room would descend into darkness, lit only by the feeble lights of the keyboard panels which stretched across the room, under monitors that were inert and black with sleep. The red alert continued to blare in her ear as Harper attempted to move her legs. She was numb from tailbone to heels, a result of the three year hibernation. The nifty LSD-style dreams were one of the perks of hyper-sleep too -- a side-effect of the hydrogen sulfide. The gas slowed her metabolism, helping her body withstand the long trip on the scantest of nutrients. The rotten egg smell was just another bonus. “Christ, Cheryl, enough with the goddam code alert , please, ” Harper mumbled. The onboard AI turned off its alert protocol, which, to Harper, had sounded like word-salad just a moment before. The rhythmic red light clicked off too, which immerserd the room in the twilight-like glow of the the keyboard lights. “Welcome back, Captain Gordon,” Cheryl said, in an amiable female voice. Harper responded with a guttural noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a moaning. The door above her hissed open. The air in the room permeated her nostrils with the trademark aseptic smell characteristic of sterile environments. She sat up in her cryo-bed, hitching forward gently on wobbly arms. Her blonde-dyed dreads fell down around sandy-brown shoulders. The white tank top and blue underwear she'd climbed into the cryo-bed with had lost their snugness, despite the small army of electronic muscle stimulators that dotted her body. Harper filled her lungs with the cabin’s perfect mix of earth’s atmosphere, taking in a deep breath and stretching her limbs, which were coming back to life -- slowly. For the time being, they moved like gum in molasses. She shook the cobwebs from her head. “Status report,” she said. “All systems are nominal, chief.” “Really?” Harper tipped her head back and rolled it on her neck. “Then why wake me?” “Well, as we crossed into the Perseus Arm, the ship picked up debris on the starboard-side hull.” Harper arched her back, getting in a good stretch. She moaned in pleasure. “What kind of debris?” “I’m not sure. My analysis didn’t match it to any known life forms in my database.” “Life forms?” Cheryl paused. “Yes.” Harper shook her head. She needed a hot cup of coffee, one big enough to be hauled around on a dolly. With loads of cream. And sugar. And a jelly donut. She’d kill for a jelly donut. “What kind of life form?” she said. “That’s just it, I don’t know.” Harper sucked her teeth. “How long has this... lifeform been clinging to the ship?” "Three days." “Three days? Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” Harper said, furrowing her brows. “I would’ve but... I ran the calculations: the debris posed no threat to the integrity of the mission.” “And what changed?” “It started... growing.” “Growing?” Harper shook her head again and held up a hand. “Do you have an image?” “Yes.” A picture of the ship’s hull came up on a nearby screen. The image moved easily across it until it came to a stop at a series of bumps. The bulges were backlit, providing a hazy profile view. They were covered in what looked to be hair. And the hair was... moving, like it was grasping at things in the void. The protrusions were dark, maybe black, or purple. Maybe even a deep red. From the camera’s vantage point, it was hard to tell. “What the hell?” Harper squinted and leaned towards the screen. She swung a spindly leg over the edge of the cryo-bed, touching a toe to the floor. “Careful, Captain. Your muscles. They’re not --. ” “I know. I’d make a scarecrow jealous. I’ll be fine. Shut off the gravity, will you?” Cheryl slowed the spinning of the main bay of the ship, causing Harper’s belly to lurch. She belched in her mouth. Another delight courtesy of the space-trekking business. “How big is it?” she asked. “When it first attached itself to the ship it was roughly three inches in diameter," the AI explained. "It remained that size for three days. Today, within the last two hours, in fact, it more than quadrupled in size.” “Quadruple?” Harper thought for a moment, wiping a lock of dreads from her eyes. The fuzzy mass moved slowly as it slid across her face, the artificial gravity wearing off. “So, a foot across now,” she said. “Give or take, yes.” “And you don’t know what it is?” Harper asked flatly. “No. It’s not coming up in any known databases." Harper nodded, processing the information. Inside, her belly was waning towards full queasiness. Her body had lifted off the mattress. She grabbed a handrail that was attached to the cryo-bed to stabilize herself. “Chances of it covering the ship?” she asked. “I can’t say for certain. It could continue to grow at this rate, or grow erratically, or not at all. But if it does grow unchecked, I don’t see how it wouldn't." Harper nodded. “So, at this rate, how long?” “By my calculations, it could cover the starboard side in four days, and reach the starboard booster in five. That’s my real concern.” Harper bit down on her bottom lip. Her gray eyes twinkled in one of the panel lights. “Yea, we can kiss maneuverability good-bye then.” "Exactly." "And probably our asses." "Bingo." Harper fixed a blank stare at the screen as her mind sifted through alternative scenarios. She settled on two options, both fundamentally uncomplicated, neither very good. One: abort the mission -- but that would mean the end of decades of hard work and the dashing of a life long dream. Two: sticking it out -- and possibly getting it wrong. Dealing with this... entity poorly, though, could mean hurtling out into space. For an eternity. Fun , she thought. She chewed on it a while longer. “Apprise Houston of our status," she said. "Then prep my suit. I’m going for a walk.” “I can’t clear you for a walk for at least 48 hours and not before a full physical, Captain. The effects of the hyper-sleep --.” “Override,” Harper said. “Directive twenty-four point four.” The crisp edge of authority was sharp in her voice. “Counter override, directive eight-alpha. Captain, I cannot in good conscience let you --.” “Goddam AI, just...” Harper steadied her breathing. Her pulse throbbed in her ear and she had raised a clenched fist, unknowingly, ready to slam it against something. “Override,” she said, “directive two-four-two-seven. You will not keep me from checking on that debris. Unlike you, I have a heart and lungs and a brain, and along with all of those things -- which are near and dear to me -- I want to get my ass out to the California Nebula, then back home to Earth. Waiting 48 hours to check on this thing is not an option.” A silence bloomed between them. “The sarcasm is unnecessary, Captain. I may not have the same parts that you do, but I don’t want to die out here either. You’re not the only one who contemplates their mortality.” Harper rolled her eyes. These things had become far too life-like. “Protocol overridden,” Cheryl continued. “You've got your space walk, Captain. But I think it's a bad idea.” **** After her stomach completed a few back-flips, Harper adjusted to the zero gravity. She was in the belly of it now, floating along the starboard side of the Caelum , tethered to its polymer skin. Her suit was bulky. Under the earth’s gravitational pull, in her condition, it would have been unwieldy. But in the vacuum of space, she moved gracefully in it, like a Mylar-clad athlete. “Coming up on the foreign object debris now,” she said. “Roger,” Cheryl responded. Harper wasn’t sure what to expect. She had been with NASA for 32 years. Fresh out of the candidate program, she was one of only ten women who were accepted into the program. More than three decades later she’d been to Mars and captained three voyages across the solar system. And in all those years, not a single person had encountered an alien life form. Yes, they found bacteria within the crust of Mars. But had they made contact with anything larger than microscopic organisms, ever? No. It had never happened. And here she was, on the verge of discovering a new species. She couldn’t tell if she was excited or nervous. Maybe she was just terrified and in complete denial -- the potential downsides, despite the monumental discovery, were especially grim. Harper pulled herself around the hull using the handholds that speckled the ship’s shell. She spotted the silhouette of the debris and pulled herself closer. When she swung herself around and on top of it, Harper found a cluster of spiny, spherical objects. They were purplish-black and each was roughly the size of a tennis ball. Long, slender spines radiated out from every organism’s center, reminding her of sea urchins back home -- the little critters that gathered in tidal pools along the crisp Northern Atlantic shores. But there was a glaring difference: the eye at the center. Each of these creatures had an eye that took up at least half of its body. The sight sent a shudder through Harper. “Christ, are you getting this?” “Crystal clear on this end,” Cheryl said. “What the hell are these things?” “I don’t know, chief.” Harper leaned in. The set of eyes looked into hers, sending a qualmishness bubbling through her belly. The irises were yellow stippled with green specks. The pupils were as black as the emptiness around her. But they moved. The spiral-shaped openings revolved, and spun in a swirling pattern. Harper stared at them in awe, her respirator humming rhythmically in her helmet. "Captain?... Captain, are you okay?" “What?... Yea... I’m gonna get a sample.” “Be careful.” Harper paused. Her eyes narrowed. Ok, mom . She prepared her drill and the empty bag that was typically used to hold drill bits. Crude tools, she thought, for collecting a species that will break science. But NASA hadn’t planned on her bumping into an undiscovered life form on this trip. She had to make due. She pulled herself closer. The cluster of eyes followed her every move, squishing and squirming in their body-sockets. She held the drill over the tiny creatures. “Here goes nothing,” she said. She wedged the tip of the drill bit under a specimen on the edge of the group. The bit hardly slipped beneath it. She shifted the bag further up her shoulder, then tried with both hands. Still, nothing. “Damn, these things are stuck on here good.” “Take your time.” Harper shook her head, again. Yes, mom. Out of some deep-seated Pavlovian habit, decades in the making, Harper nearly flicked on the drill. Christ. She chuckled. Then asked herself if she was nuts. She took a deep breath. Harper gripped the top edge of the animal with her free hand and slid the drill bit under the other side again. She pulled on it. Ouch! Harper recoiled in pain. She looked intently at her glove. It couldn’t be, could it? She flipped her hand over to get a better look. No way. It felt like the creature had bitten her. Through the Mylar, through the Dacron and through the Teflon-coated glove. As she tried to process the queer sensation, the sight of the ship began teetering in her view. The critters and their curious eyes started spiraling in a blur further and further away. She was tumbling into unconsciousness, and she knew it. Harper's mind gradually became alert again amidst the blackness of catatonia. The profound silence there felt like it pervaded her very soul. An image crystalized. It crackled with color. It was a moving picture of a black hole swallowing up space debris. Among the flotsam, trapped in the thing's maw, was the Caelum . And undulating across the ship from tip to stern was a purplish-black skin, glowing, rippling, with eyes, thousands of eyes along it, peering back at her. Harper’s breath caught in her throat. She watched the black hole suck in the ship, spinning it across its aperture, and down towards the chute of its endless belly. Inside the black hole, Harper could feel something, a being or a consciousness. It spoke to her in a deep, wordless rumble. A piece of it, a feeling maybe, or possibly a warning, slithered across the vivid vision and touched her, the sensation rifling across her chest. It pulled at her. Harper screamed. “Nooo!!” She jolted awake. Her respirator was whining in her helmet. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths. Harper looked down to find herself floating several yards above the Caelum , her tether at full length. Her head was pounding again and she felt weaker than when she emerged from cryo. She peered down at the ship. The colony had spread. The creatures had commandeered nearly the entire starboard side of the ship. “Captain? Are you okay?? Captain?” Cheryl said. “Yes, yes..." she muttered. "The... the creatures, they’ve... taken over the... how?” Her voice cracked with anxiety. “You’ve been out for more than three days. I tried to wake you, but there wasn’t much I could do from here.” The hairs on the nape of Harper’s neck stood on end. She needed to be back on the ship. She needed to get ahead of this. She reached for the tether. Her arm barely moved at her command. Harper tried the other: a similar incapacity. “Captain,” Cheryl said tentatively, “between the hyper-sleep, your unconsciousness and going without food for as long as you did, your body is terribly weak.” Harper blinked uncontrollably, her mind grasping at the situation, trying to make it all stick. “Slow movements, Captain. Take your time.” “We don’t have time.” “Time is all we have now.” Harper gnashed her teeth. Her insides burned. She wanted to scream. She could hear herself breathing, the respirator purring in her ears. Stars twinkled all around her. At length, she collected herself. Cheryl was right. Mother-jokes aside, she was always right. Harper took a deep breath and reached out for the tether. It seemed like an eternity, but all she could do was move, go through the motions, try. While stretching for the life-line, something below caught her eye. A long row of the prickly creatures, a bit smaller than the rest, were pulsating. They were mid-inception, giving birth to themselves. They encircled the colony, a fresh layer of lethal interlopers -- their amber-colored eyes wet and fully formed, their spines stunted and still fleshy. Harper’s jaw tightened as a heat rose like a halo through the top of her head. “You bastards!!" she screamed. "You goddam... sons of bitches...” Her voice fell to a whisper. She bit her lip, holding back sobs. The blanket of eyes looked up at her coolly, following each of her labored movements. They glowed and they squirmed. Then swiveled in their thorny sockets.

Mushrooms, why'd it have to be mushrooms? Today started off so well too. My mother used her usual secret technique of luring me down stairs with the sweet smell of bacon. Dressed in just a gown and slippers with the bed hair of the Wicked Witch of the West. I was in no mood to find my plate devoid of pig. Instead of breakfast I found an envelope. I willed my stare into a pair of daggers and aimed my weapon directly at my mother. "Woman! Where is my bacon?” I said with deadly intent. "Open it." she said a bemused smile upon her lips. My fingers were already working. “Another rejection? Let's hope it's from the Origami University. Then I'd know what to make of it.” I replied. My mother just scoffed at me as I read aloud. "Dear AMELIA FINN, We invite you... Interview... apprenticeship... at Oddity?” My eyes widened and I read on. "The interviews today! It's in two hours. What the frick mum!" I said. "You better hurry then." My mother said. I scrambled. Snatching the grizzled pork from my mother's outstretched hand with my teeth. Like a hurricane I ran to my room throwing objects in every direction. I found the only smart blouse I owned, some reasonably serviceable pants and hung them up to 'self iron' as I showered. I was ready in record time. A personal best! My reflection in the mirror showed me as presentable. My eyes shone hazel instead of the *‘I've been up all night playing computer games’* look they usually bore. My hair however made me look a relative of cousin IT from The Adam’s Family. I ran downstairs to find my mother by the door waiting patiently. We hopped in the car. My mother graciously driving as I used what little time I had to prepare for the interview. You see I've only recently got out of college. For the last few months I've been applying anywhere and everywhere for a culinary position. Lots of rejection letters, few interviews. A nervous wreck I frantically searched for interview tips online. My mother obviously reading the look upon my face rather than watching the road laid her hand on my arm. “Relax hun, you'll be fine. Just be yourself" “Be myself? That’s the problem” I retorted. The car slowed as we pulled up outside the restaurant. "You are awesome Em, now keep that shit up." She said with a sober look. My lips couldn’t help but draw into a smile. She was good at that. I took a deep breath, paused for what seemed like an eternity and got out of the car. Oddity is an upmarket restaurant with its name displayed on a canopy out front. I stepped into the building. They hadn’t opened yet. Everything was ever so still and quiet. As I waited; I inspected the interior. The dining room was split into four sections, each representing a motif of an overarching theme. Which as far as I could tell was Fairytales. Cool. One of the quarters looked like Jack & the Beanstalk. Another; Little Red Riding Hood. My favourite, Hansel and Gretel, had a giant gingerbread house where diners would sit. I was trying to decipher what the fourth one was when a voice called over from a nearby doorway. "Hello, can I help you miss? We're not open yet." A hostess said as she approached me. "I'm here for the apprenticeship" I continued. "Oh right!" she exclaimed. "Please come join the others in the back. Kenneth is about to start the interviewing process!” "Kenneth!?" I gulped as I followed her lead. Kenneth is the owner & head chef I remembered. Well known for his quirky cooking *'odd but delicious’* was the restaurant slogan. I was both excited & nervous. I didn't think he'd be conducting the interview himself. The hostess led me into the kitchen. Inside I saw a group of people standing around a man wielding a pot and ladle. "Ah excellent! That makes seven. All of our hopefuls have arrived." He said before whacking the pot with his ladle like a makeshift gong. "Welcome" He exclaimed. "You are the lucky few. Who will have a chance to join our crazy little family here at Oddity?" Kenneth said using the gong to emphasise the name. "Tonight we have a special guest; Vinny Van. My friend and renowned food critic!" This was followed by a sharp intake of breath from the other candidates. I scooched over to one of them. A girl similar to my age with a cute cat emblem on her bag. "Hey, who's Vinny Van'" I said hushed tones. She startled at my touch. "You don't know? He's TV famous! La Chabot gained fame and Glasshouse closed due to his review" "Thanks" I said. She threw me a smile and turned back to the master chef as he continued. “Now the interview is simple. Mr.Van has a particular weakness. Does anyone know what it is?" Kenneth said. He directed his weapon among the crowd. A guy wearing a green coat raised his hand. "Yes? "Kenneth said. The boy began to talk but was cut off instantly. "Yes! Fungi!" Kenneth said. I visibly grimaced. The rest of the initiates had a similar reaction. "More precisely. Mushrooms." Kenneth continued. "He's absolutely mad for the stuff!” He said. The guy in the green coat spoke up obviously taken aback at being cut off. "What does this have to do with the interview? "He said. "Ah I was getting to that," Kennett said. "You seven will be creating the five course meal he dines on tonight." He continued followed by gasps from the crowd. "You task is to eat nothing but mushrooms for lunch and then come up with a suitable dish.” He finished. "How will we be marked for the interview?" I said poking up from the back of the crowd. "Well I'll judge each dish combined with the critics reaction." Kenneth replied. "Does it have to be mushrooms?" The Girl with the cat badge said. "Of course. It's known that the little devils take up mushroom in our guests heart.” Vinny said emphasising the word by wiggling his eyebrows. Silence followed for a very unfortunate amount of time until the host cleared her throat. “Come back by 3pm to start cooking. That corner of the kitchen is reserved for you. My chefs will help you out" He said with one final ring of the gong. Mushrooms. Ack. I hated mushrooms. One reason I leaned towards baking in culinary school. What kinda fricking interview was this? I expected to have to cook but not under such strange conditions! I needed a plan. I needed a partner, someone that I could bounce ideas off of. I looked around the room and my eyes locked with cat girls. "Hi! I'm Amelia, Thanks for earlier." I said. She looked down then back up to me. Shy. “Hey, no problem. My name's Kat with a K!" she said enthusiastically. I had to stop my eyes from rolling it was just too much of a coincidence. "So... do you have any idea what you're gonna do?" I said trying not to sound desperate. It didn’t work. "Uh, I've got an idea but this is a competition right?" she replied. "I guess. Fair enough. Know anywhere that'll be good for brainstorming? Mushrooms aren't really my thing." I said. "Well there's a vegetarian place just around the corner. I thought I'd go there if you'd like to join me?" she said. I could see the pity in her eyes. “Sure!" I replied a little bit too enthusiastically. We gathered up our things and made our way out. We chatted little during the short walk to The Collared Cabbage; Which I hoped was a misspelling of Collard. It was a small place and people were already sitting down for lunch. We were guided to a table and sat in awkward silence for a minute or two as we checked out the menu. "What're you going for Kat?" I asked hoping to stir conversation. She looked up from the menu her eyes darting each way before resting on me. "The um, mushroom risotto and rooibos tea. You?" she countered. “The Portobello Burger. I mean it's a burger right? How bad can it be?" We ordered our food and the waiter brought us our drinks. Taking a break from sipping her tea Kat said, “You really don't like mushrooms?” I nodded. "I mean they don't even fit the theme of the restaurant. I mean at least broccoli could be trees, walnuts could be brains. What do mushrooms look like?" I said. Kat blushed, spat most of her tea out and choked on the rest. Ignoring my rant she said. “Well there are plenty of interesting things you can do with them; Stuff them, saute them, make them a burger." she gestured to our food as it arrived. "That was quick” I said. "Yeah they're really good here & it's cheap!" she replied. We tucked into our food. I grabbed my 'burger' and imagined cow, and nothing but cow as I took a big bite. Chomp chomp chew.... spit! Argh it tasted just like shiitake.... I giggle to myself then grimaced. How was I going to do this? Kat must of seen the look on my face. “Cook what you enjoy.” She smiled as she raised her tea towards me. “I’m doing mushroom tea & sandwiches, as a starter." She said. "I want to be a pastry chef." I said trying to match her smile but failing. "Oh... that might be hard” She replied. We ate the rest of our meal in relative silence. Kat jotted down some notes while I sulked, trying to come up with ideas. Mushroom cookies? Cupcakes? Creme caramels? After awhile Kat got up. "I'm going to head back & make a start. I can't wait to see what you come up with!” She said paying her half of the cheque and leaving. A few minutes later, frustrated, I left my burger and decided to go for a walk. Maybe I wasn't cut out to cook? Chefs had a large pallet right? Kenneth’s crazy experiments proved that. My stomach growled. One bite for lunch wasn't enough. Beside me two kids walked out of a building with an ice cream in each hand. I mean literally two ice creams each. Instantly I wanted one. I walked into the parlour and was astonished by the amount of flavours they had! Mint, chocolate, mint chocolate, coconut, walnut, broccoli.... wait broccoli? That's when the idea hit me. I took my ice cream, orange chocolate, and ran back. Well I say ran but have you ever tried to eat and run? When I got to Oddity lunch service was already underway so the hostess led me to the kitchen through the back entrance. A few of the other candidates had already started on their dishes. I hadn't noticed any dessert or sweets yet. I saw Kat kneading bread with one of the main chefs. I smiled at her and received one in return. I moved over to the counter with my name on it and a man in a tall hat came over "What do you need? I'll get it for you." He said. I listed off the items "Whole milk, cream, dried shiitake, chocolate & bacon.." I continued to list off my ingredients. He brought everything in minutes, then I was away! Mixing cream, milk and sugar. Cooking bacon... mmm bacon. Grating mushrooms. I had to make a few executive tastings with the dark chocolate but I was in the Zone! I churned it all up in the mixer & everything was looking great. Dipping my spoon into the mix for one last taste; There was a recognizable flavour of mushrooms but then it transitioned, evolved into a psychedelic mixture of sweet & savory. It was magic. Which differed greatly from the taste of car tire that I had expected. Then I waited. Waited, watched & helped out where I could. Kenneth was cooking but I had no doubt he was paying attention to our work. A few hours later I finished off my creation. The kitchen went quiet as a hostess walked in and announced Vinny Van had entered the building. I could see the same look of nervous excitement on everyone’s face. Each course went out with several dishes. One from Kenneth and the others from us candidates. There was a horizontal slit in one of the walls in between the kitchen & dining room. We gathered there to spectate as the food went out. Vinny was a refined gentlemen in a suit and a stylish pair of glasses. The appetisers were first to go out. Kat and I held hands as Vinny tackled the course. I remember squeezing Kat's hand as he picked up the tea, sipped and downed the rest. He then poured himself another. Kat was ecstatic. The next few courses came and went, including the main. All some flavor or theme of mushroom. I began to worry. There was so much food. By the time he came to dessert he'd explode! Then the time came. Two covered plates were brought out to Vinny. Mine and Kenneth’s! I was sure to fail. The waiter lifted the dish revealing a sparkling frosted toadstool stuffed with chocolate moose, Kenneth’s dessert. Next was mine. Shiitake mushroom ice cream with chocolate-covered bacon bits. I was filled with dread. It was too basic... too simple... to compete with the master chef's dish. My heart thumped as I watched. He took a spoon then cut a slice of Kenneth’s dessert. Then a bite from mine. A bite from his. One more from mine - it was even! "Good job." I heard whispered in my ear. It was from Kenneth! Afterwards the masterchef brought us into the dining room and introduced us to the critic. He gave us his critique there and then. He loved Kat's tea as it was refreshing but thought the sandwiches bland. As for my ice cream. Kenneth said "Thank all the god's for bacon bits. After having nothing but mushroom all night I fear I was starting to go mad. The ice cream was delightful!" I beamed at the mixed praise. I mean he didn't not like it. Finally Vinny spoke to Kenneth in front of all of us. "Now Kenneth. when I told you my favourite food I didn't expect it in every dish! Good heavens man not every­thing needs to contain mushrooms." He said finishing with a hearty laugh. Which I took for a good sign. In the end Kenneth thanked us for our time and rewarded us for our efforts with an exquisite meal. Kat and I remained friends, Vinny gave the restaurant rave reviews for its commitment to uniqueness. Oh and I got the job! Along with Kat and another candidate. First day on training and Kenneth gave us chef's hats shaped like mushrooms... I nearly quit there & then.

Gentlemen, I observed my audience looking positively frabjous in their waiting that night; yes, I took a little peek from the red velvets right before showtime. Curiosity killed the cat, and my magic proficiency cannot hold a candle to Carroll's 71’-word invention of frabjous. What a wordsmith as his reading audience fell for his poppycock hook line and sinker; the same will be valid for me, the magician. I pulled my red velveteen curtain open and hooked it to the left. I began my well-rehearsed opening patter while making my trek down to center stage, "Ladies and Gentlemen, please let me introduce myself. I am Doctor Phileas Frickel, known in some circles as 'Frickel the Great.' Why? Because I have the supernatural gift of prestidigitation. Not just magic tricks but miracles, my friends. Real miracles!" As I advertise, my dime museum has astonishing curiosities. I travel with them from town to town in my wagon that is also my stage. My setup is comfortable for both myself and my audiences. However, it's probably not near as comfortable for the members of my museum as some of them are the results of experiments that went awry. I should think the name 'Frickle's mistakes' is more applicable than 'Frickle's curiosities.' On the day in question, the 17th of August 1890, I entered the lawless mining town called Leadville, Colorado. I was greeted by Horace Tabor himself as he saw my mule, Sal, pulling an unmanned wagon straight down Harrison Street. We entered every town this way as it causes a ruckus. However, may I state, Sal wasn't alone at all as I walked beside him, handing out flyers and hawking my miracles. My wagon is painted a flamboyant red with bright yellow wagon wheels. The spokes are uniquely carved with devilish-looking faces on every other one, and the artwork on the sidewall I had purchased in Denver and found it to be beyond compare. It read: Doctor Phileas T. Frickle, Prestidigitator Magic, Marvels, and a dime museum of curiosities! I had the artist render a painting of the two-headed baby and a Fairy who was waving. Under it, all was the line see the mysterious cabinet of transmogrify. Proudly, I had my flyers printed for me while in Denver. The printer had used brilliant yellow lettering that looked just like the writing penned neatly on the side of my flashy red wagon. The first 20 or so customers gathered that night had my brochures in their rough hands, no doubt to see my astonishing curiosities. They are my draw, as I never did half as well without them. "I am about to introduce you to two wonders of this world, friends, and therefore must ask you to pay your dime. The creatures you are about to meet are alive and breathing marvels." Before introducing Robert, the squirrel boy, and Hildegard, the 8-inch-tall Sprite, I noticed several more people were gathering, so I first brought out two tables, both covered in black shrouds. I began my spiel, "Before you meet the living, you will need to view the dead. These, my friends, are the abominations that the great creator deemed unlivable in this world. I am about to invite you to walk across my stage to look through their formaldehyde." I lifted the shroud to the left and said, "This, my friends is the rare cadaver of a mermaid who once lived in an ancient Caspian sea," knowing darn well it once belonged to the great Barnum. He had brilliantly sewn together the top half of a dead monkey to the tail half of a carp. Then I moved slowly to the right and removed the cover of my two-headed premature baby that I had bought from a medical laboratory while in Baltimore. "Shed no tears for my dead infant Son, Malachi, friends. He would not have been able to live in this world with such an affliction." Of course, the unfinished infant wasn't my son, and I have a receipt for its purchase. My paid audience now left the stage and took their seats. Mesmerized to see more, I carried out a covered small birdcage and began my speech. "You decided; you paid to enter, so now will you see an error, half beast half boy could it be that only 10 cents bought you the chance to see these impossibilities?" I loved the patter I wrote for this one, "I'm an ailurophile at heart. As a boy, I dreamed of being a feline wrangler by trying to teach my old yellow Tomcat Toby to walk on a tight rope using only his front paws. It never worked for me. However, I had heard the Russians had accomplished this miraculous feat of training your cats, so I went to see for myself. The cats were magnificent, but I was transfixed on this rare creature." The audience gasped as I uncovered the cage. "This, my friend, is a squirrel and or possibly a boy. It speaks in gibberish; listen." The creature in the cage did not come from Russia; he is what's left of an orphan boy named Robert that had volunteered to a metamorphosis accident I had while building my cabinet in Denver. I made up this story to cover that unfortunate incident when my' cabinet of transmogrify' did not work as planned. The boy did wish to be turned into a squirrel, after all. Before Hildegard's introduction, I had fed her a dead mouse that I had caught in my trap. She drains their blood completely, which keeps her manageable. Hildegard the Sprite, as I advertised her, was also an unfortunate mistake of transmogrification. The Swedish woman I chose from my audience in Wray Colorado could hardly speak English and wanted to sprout fairy wings; instead, she was miniaturized, turning an incredible glowing green with pale transparent insect wings. I keep her in a crystal box as she also has a healthy dose of mosquito in her and tends to not only suck blood but bite. Hildegard stays out as I segue into my flurry of magic effects. I introduced and then performed the ancient rings, the mysterious Tower of Babel, a trick I call the house of cards, and my striking habit of eating fire. The Sprite pays attention and applauds with her tiny hands after each feat of magic, and she wouldn't applaud unless I fed her first. Now I must confess the fake ending I used in my show that night did have to do with a citizen of Leadville going missing. I closed the curtain and came down-center stage again with my arms outstretched and my hands clean. "I want to thank you for coming out this evening. I hope you enjoyed yourselves, and I wish you all a wonderful rest of your evening." Then as in every show for at least the last ten years, someone from the audience shouted out, "What about the cabinet?" That night, an older fellow with a long gray beard laid upon his chest. He couldn't pronounce transmogrification, so he just said cabinet. That was a common occurrence. And just as I had planned, those who had stood up sat back down. "Are you asking to witness the use of a cabinet of transmogrification?" I asked in a curious questioning tone. I then noted, "I have given you all I promised," although I knew the flyers that I had handed out to the patrons of several filled saloons had included the cabinet but now played coy. "As advertised for only a dime, I would show you my collection and amaze and mystify you with my supernatural prestidigitations. And now you are asking for more?" They began hooting and hollering while demanding more. The noise attracted several more potential witnesses. I do like to keep a mysterious, Delphic air about me, and my motto is to keep them waiting until the anticipation nearly kills them. " Alright then," I said back in my performance voice, "I cannot accomplish this miracle without someone from the audience who wishes for great change. Someone unhappy with life as it is will not condemn me, the miracle worker, if all does not occur to plan, and it happens. Please, is there anyone?" No hand raised in the rowdy audience; it worried me just a bit, but then I provided myself with a volunteer after rolling the beautiful mahogany crate to center stage. It was a live lamb in the back that I had purchased for my dinner. The audience gasped with worry for the tiny creature when I carried the small lamb out. However, they never thought that the butcher at the center of the main street kills at least fifteen a day. I spoke, "As a man of magic and intrigue, I had an exquisite yearning to accomplish the impossible and have done so with my unique invention; I call it the mysterious Cabinet of Transmogrify. For example, I will gently place this crated lamb into the box." I did and then closed the door and mumbled through many non-meaningful Persian incarnations. I said, "Aji Maji la Taraji" When I opened the cabinet, out sprang a spry small goat who simply jumped through the crowd and ran away. The cabinet never ceases to amaze. However, I swear on stacked bibles that I was not responsible for the goat, and I had never laid eyes on that beast before or after my performance. At this point, I saw my volunteer, your missing person, making her way from the back of the audience. I reached out my hand to a huge woman dressed in virtual rags with a shawl wrapped around her enormous shoulders. "No need to be worried, my dear," I said with a bit of worried hesitation in my own words. “How does it work, you ask? A great magician is sworn never to reveal his secrets. But in this case, the invention is not magic at all, and it only plays with the human mind. You saw the lamb as you saw the goat, but it was simply in your imagination. And it works because the participant wishes for it too. And your name is what, my dear?" “Caroline Craft," she said in a meek, barely audible voice. Caroline unbosomed her concerns to the boisterous audience that she may not fit in the box. I gave her a tiny vile of sedative mixture that I said was a potion and held her cold shivering hand to lead her into the cabinet. After squeezing just a bit, it was a perfect fit. "I want to be thin again she said in a trembling voice." The audience roared with laughter; I had nearly 100 people waiting to see my miracle by this time. I had to quiet them by saying, "You saw the unique creatures eternally confined to their glass coffins for that you paid a dime. It will only cost you another dime to watch your own Caroline transmute into her chosen desire. Who will pay? If you pay, you will watch! Who will watch? Those who pay! For only 10 cents, you saw the impossible, the improbable, a baby with two heads. Is it a repulsive mistake of nature? An abomination? And now, what will we see? We shall now see what will happen to this human being. I placed her into the box something never attempted in any of the great 48 States." What a liar I am, but a good teller of lies non-the-less, "I must ask you now to pay one more thin dime, a mere pittance to witness the miracle occur. You want to see Caroline become thin now, don't you? I never lied to you this evening, have I?" With those words, I saw the shine of their hard-earned dimes in the air and land in my hat 1, 5, 10, yes, at least 10 dollars. Ten dollars to most laborers is a week's wages. But just a measly little dime meant nothing to most. Caroline began to cry, so I closed the door and covered the crate with one of the black shrouds I had used earlier. I repeated the same incarnation I had used on the lamb, only this time adding the divine words of the Burtrust Chronicles. I will not write the actual words for you in fear they will further cause me dismay as they are of utmost holiness, but they mean boundary, release, and destroy. Perhaps including them brought about my demise and the writing of this confession letter. When I opened the cabinet, I swear to God that I was as shocked as everyone who witnessed the occurrence. A woman in my front row ran screaming, leaving her friend, who in turn passed out. And a couple of men drew their guns to no avail as Caroline Craft stood before us as a living Skeleton. Her skin clung to her bones that looked like they were dripping an unworldly ooze. Her eyes, now black with anger, twitched back and forth, and her bared teeth tried to speak. I threw the creature back in the cabinet and tried to reverse the spell. This time I said, "Taraji la Maji, Aji Abraxas" Mentors had told me many years ago that Abraxas in magic can be used with or without their stones but only with exceptional regard. I will admit that I did say the words quickly and without prayer. But they must have worked as I opened the cabinet door again. This time the audience saw nothing. I, on the other hand, saw a pile of dust. If what I saw was the truth, you can charge me with murder, but that was not the case. Caroline, who was still a skeleton, had escaped from the back of the cabinet, and my untidiness caused the pile of dust. Later that night, when she came knocking on my wagon's door, I went to the illation that Caroline wanted to join us. A few weeks later, while pulling into Alma, I advertised my dime museum's newest feature, the skeleton woman. As capricious as Caroline's thin self was twas a paradox for her to be the star. However, while pulling into Lake City, Colorado, the sabotage and hijacking began towards the end of the season. Sitting around my campfire in a daze of relaxation, I had noticed how the high jagged peaks of this area do indeed look like they pierce the deep blue sky; the rage of the unleashed Sprite was upon me. No one could hear my screams except for the wildlife who had no cares. The rocky canyons and high valley floors had hidden us well as Caroline the living Skeleton and a living fairy Sprite had overtaken me and the show. First, may I say, it was Caroline who released my museum. So, I find I am in no way responsible for any further mayhem they might have caused. She even buried the two-headed baby and the mermaid corpse. I would add, the monkey fish was becoming putrid. As for all the mistakes from the cabinet, I know exactly where they are. Robert, the squirrel boy, ran off into the woods, but I hear his mindless chatter telling me he is close by from time to time. Caroline, the skeleton woman, and Hildegard, the nasty Sprite, are both bound and determined that no one will ever find me. Taking justice into her claw-like hands, Caroline is holding me hostage. She and that evil Sprite have made away with me. They have taken me high up to cliffside on Slumgullion Pass. From my cave-cage, all I can see is the wild San Juan mountains. Unless it is snowing, then all I see is white with red drops. The Sprite makes daily blood draws from me, and Caroline has forced me into writing this confession and selling off my wagon, Sal, and all my magic apparatus. Unfortunately, including my mysterious Cabinet of Transmogrify. With utmost truth in confession, Phileas T. Frickle 7th of December 1890 Move forward 96 years; As luck would have it. I own Doctor Frickle's Cabinet of Transmogrify and his confession letter now. I told the cop I had found it neatly folded in an envelope, addressed, and stamped but never mailed stashed away in a lovely mahogany cabinet my wife and I found in an Antique store on Broadway Street here in Denver last Christmas time. At that time, both my wife and I found the letter curious and took it to the Denver police station near our home. After reading it, they didn't seem to care, and I thought it might be a practical joke. But then my wife Laura and I decided to try it out at a dinner party we had hosted. Laura thought it would be a fun and unique experience for our guests to show them the cabinet and then read the letter. After doing so, Laura got in the box, and I repeated Doctor Frickle's' words. My wife had made a wish to become famous. Judging by the Rocky Mountain News headline. "Wife murdered, and the husband pleads a magic trick did it!", she won. My wife got her wish of notoriety, if not infamous fame, and is, unfortunately, dead to prove it, and I am now being held as her murderer. I plead not guilty, and I am using this letter as evidence. It was the strange cabinet that did it, not me. I signed the submission envelope, stating more words from Doctor Frickle, 'with utmost truth,' Brian Wilcox the accused. Sign sealed and delivered to my defense attorney, who snickered when he read it.

Our mom always told us that if we ever went to the outhouse, we pray after we shit. Otherwise the toilet monster would grab us and throw us down into a Great Lake of poo. What a load of bullshit! It took me 6 fucking years to finally realize that all she’s been saying was made up stories to get us to pray. Pray to the food, pray to the dog, pray to the goddamn truck we use to get into town each day. Otherwise some monster would come to get us because of a spooky family curse! WOoOoOoO! I even asked Kyle if his family did the same. But he thought I was joking! My mother made a fool of me and my siblings. So, I’m not gonna pray anymore. Starting with that goddamn toilet monster! -- I remember seeing Dan acting more and more rebellious recently. He even began telling us how we should stop praying and how everything was bowlshit. But we didn’t want to make mamma sad. We didn’t wanna die either. So we continued to pray, doing it honestly too. But not Dan, he only did it to make it seem like he was in the loop. Whatever that meant. Plus, he even began to pop outside in the bushes, but mamma wasn’t so happy about that. Saying he should do it in the out house. “Why should I shit in the out house if there is a monster in there?!” Mamma said “Because if we don’t the toilet monster gets mad!” “And if we don’t pray it also gets mad?” “Our fecal matter are offering’s to the beast. Cease the offerings and it will strike back!” “Whatever!” Then, Dan just stormed off and went into outhouse as mamma told him. Me and the other younger siblings gathered to see if Dan was actually pooping or not. We heard a plop, but no praying. He even said “Fuck you! I hope you eat my shit you god damn shit monster!” We all got worried and tried to pray for Dan, hoping it would help. “Thank you Toilet! Thank you Toilet!” Dan would walk out as we prayed and look at us with a strange look. “What the hell are y’all doing?” But that’s when the monster came out. A wet, light blue, 3 fingered, clawed hand grabbed Dan’s head and yanked him back in. He scream as he held onto the door frame. We all looked in and saw the Toilet Monster for the very first time. As it was light blue, had yellow fins on its arms, and a huge one on its back. It almost looked like a man, but it had some weird round mouth with sharp teeth and a scary look in its yellow eyes. Angry. Really angry. “Help me!” We all tried to pull Dan away, but the monster one arm was too strong. It’s fingers even began to dig in Dan’s head, making small cracking sounds. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” But that’s when we all lost the tug of war. Dan was yanked into the toilet along with the monster. We tried to see where they went, only to find poo and pee. We never knew where Dan went. Not even mamma knew, as she cried over the toilet praying for Dan to be safe. But all we knew was one thing. Pray, pray, pray. Otherwise we might end up like Dan. No one wants that.

Out of all the civilizations I was tasked with surveying, humanity always was my favorite. Such fascinating creatures, speaking of peace through violence, unity through division, equality through discrimination. If my memory serves me right, some even spoke of satisfaction through hunger. Surely, such a contradictory people was doomed to fail within the first centuries of its existence. And yet, they succeeded. They lasted thousands upon millions of years. They had their squabbles, yet they endured. Somehow, unlike most races, they claimed to be one, yet insisted on having a couple hundred nations as opposed to one to expand out, across the stars. As a matter of fact, to my knowledge, they were the only civilization to never unite or make contact with others. They tried colonizing Mars, but they didn't get far. One would think the death of the universe would be swift, a flash and nothingness. It could be, but the All-Father prefers to savor the process. I sometimes wonder if he enjoys ending the Cycle as much as starting it anew. You never get used to it. Looking up at the night sky and seeing the stars becomes the one thing you look forward to. A sight as simple as billions of lights against a black canvas is perhaps the All-Father's most mesmerizing creation. They also tell when the Cycle is ending, and truth be told, it saddens me each time. A billion stars becomes a million, a million, thousands. On and on until a single star remains. I always like to name them. This one, I named Copernicus. They called the first human to study the stars that. Why shouldn't that be the name of the last one? Each time, I hope that perhaps the All-Father will change his mind and keep this universe around for at least a thousand years more. Then, the last star goes out and I know it's over. I always miss those last stars. Normally, at that point, I wait for the end with the All-Father and watch that world from afar. This time, however, I made an exception. With how humanity handled crises before, I wanted to see how they would handle one they could not solve. Of course, they continued to fight. Now that I think about it, I think they fought more now. After just a couple decades, only one human remained. I decided I would see him off personally. It was a man, if I had to predict, at the middle point of what his lifespan would've been, and he sat against a building, shivering profusely, clinging onto life. When I came before him, I knelt by him, clasped his hand, a pitch black contrasting his bronze skin, and told him, "This Cycle is at its end. Rest, and return to the All-Father." His reply was weak in voice, but powerful in message. "Mary... Josie... will I... see them... again?" Here sat a man, the last life form in this Cycle, at his end, and yet, he wonders only if he will be reunited with his family when it's over. I assured him he would, and he chuckled. He sat back and let out one final breath. Humanity ended not with a bang, but with a sigh. Each Cycle creates a new universe, but I'll always miss that one.

As I lay in my bed, in my little box room, amongst the dust and clutter; I find my eyes unable to close, not for the dull stench of mould pervading the plastered walls or the stony mattress beneath me which pokes and prods my back with errant springs - nor the pitter-patter of winter rains against the windowpanes or the shadows of naked branches which dance against the walls like shadow puppets from spindled fingers. These distractions were not the thing that kept my mind gasping feverishly above the waves of sleep. In truth, I wished for nothing more than sink beneath the swell into that deep and dark void of sleep, where realities entangled themselves with the desires of the unconscious mind. Oh, how I longed for that sweet nothingness, but instead, there I lay; eyes bared wide against the darkness, transfixed upon the mirror. It had taunted me since the first time I laid eyes on it, tall and heavy, propped up in the corner of my room. Its frame boasted its decadence, ornately carved with baroque patterns of endless floral spirals which dizzied your eyes with maddening repetition, the golden paint which once served to extenuate the wealth of the craftsmanship; now cracked and flaking, serving only as a reminder of its age. The glassy visage which was once preened and polished so as to only reflect the truest image of the richness before it was now mired by a fine layer of dust, the corners chipped and splintered, a fissure running down its centre - warping the reflections of anything which stood before it mockingly, as if in revenge for its abandonment. I had spent many an hour standing before it, staring blankly into the reflection of myself, split down the middle by that ugly fracture. It was like looking at a stranger, a broken man, torn apart amongst the shattered pieces and clumsily rearranged into some foreign imitation of what once was. It frustrated me to no end, I would stare and stare, move an inch or two, observe closely and retreat to the fullest image possible and yet... there was no trace of me . This reflection, this other, which stared back. I could see no sense of self within it. I could raise my hand above my head, contort my face as strangely as a ghoul, kick out my feet and dance like a madman - it would copy my every move - instantaneous, dutifully, even mockingly. Yet it was not me . It was a malformed copy-cat. A demon disguised behind my face, my clothes and skin. The more I stared at it, the more it stared back at me, the stronger my hatred for the imposter grew; and with it, my terror. The worst of it came when I realised that this stranger in the mirror had begun to escape the confines of my little box room. When everywhere I went, no matter how far and wide, I could not seem to escape it. The first time I noticed it following me was out on the streets, as I idled mindlessly on the edge of the pavement, waiting for a gap in the thoroughfare and simply enjoying my time away from that little room and terrible mirror. Through my absent mind and vague daydreaming, I found my gaze wandering to the ground before me. How I wish I hadn’t. My blood ran cold when I saw it, my back arched like a cat and the air froze in my lungs. That face, staring back at me, distorted and muddled against the rippling surface of a puddle. Mimicking even the timing of my blinking eyes so as to ensure that however hard I tried, there was no escaping. The only reprieve came by way of the intervention of bicycle wheels, slicing the visage of the beast in half as it passed by, only then was I freed from the prison of its gaze and there was no telling how much time had elapsed. Ever since it follows me everywhere I go. It hides in shop windows, lurks in the water, my shined leather shoes and the watch-face on my wrist. It stalks me through reflections. Bending its shape formlessly into every facet of my life. Haunting me. Now as I lay here, in my little box room, consumed by the darkness of a winters night; I stare against the blackness, at the mirror, lurking in the corner. Grand and tall and decaying. I see it there, in the glass, lay in a bed like mine - in a room like mine - dressed in the same clothes, sheltering from the cold beneath the same frayed blanket. I wander if it too can smell the damp and rot? if it can hear the rain pelting the window? if it can feel the springs of the mattress prodding against its back? Perhaps its blind, deaf and dumb? Does it simply exist there, within its shattered realm, senseless... maybe it looks back at me wandering the same things? Why must in punish me with its distortion? This malformation I have come to hate, this other me in the mirror which isn’t me at all, this ugly imitation; bastardised and ungodly and evil and broken. I must kill it. Slaughter the beast I see looking back at me, return my own reflection to myself - completed, whole, unbroken. I find myself standing against it, nose to nose, its hollow eyes met with mine. The bookend in my hand feels heavy, cold, metallic. I see it has one of its own and know that I must strike first, I rear it back above my head and see the rage in its eyes before thrusting it forward with all my might. Cautiously, my eyes open, the stagnant air feels heavy in my lungs as I breathe fear laden breaths. I feel the sting of shattered glass beneath my feet, I’m bleeding. The victory of seeing nothing but the bared, wooden backing of the mirror dulls the pain. The bookend falls to the floor with a clunk as the satisfaction of freedom washes over me. I look to my bleeding feet, a menagerie of glass shards surround them, long as knives and just as sharp and... It’s face lives within each and every one of them. A thousand distorted reflections looking back at me, only this time, each and every one is smiling at me.

Saturday, June 9th at 9:30 am After eight hours of labor that's when Ella was born into the world. She was a small thing, but had the cutest smile. Her big adorable hazel eyes were shut as she slept in her father's arms in the living room. Her father, Dave, have been getting along for the couple of weeks and she was surprisingly quiet for a newborn. Dave was pretty happy that the past few days hadn’t been that hard with Ella. And still new to being a father, he didn't think much of it besides that raising Ella will be a piece of cake. Sadly though, the mother of Ella died a few days after their daughter’s birth due to a car accident. It was all because of some guy who was drunk while driving and sadly Jamie was the consequence of the guy’s actions. Dave was devastated when he heard and swore, he would take care of Ella the best he could. He wouldn’t lose her too. He rocked her softly back and forth as she slept. Dave smiled softly at Ella and brushed a few hair strands on her forehead. Ella looked a lot similar to her mother, she had her brown curly hair along with her hazel eyes except her nose which was shaped like Dave’s. He glances up at the clock that read twelve o’clock in the afternoon, then he looked back down at his sleeping daughter and thought, "This won't be so hard, right?" Wrong. It is currently four o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday and for the past five minutes Dave has been trying to get Ella to fall back to sleep. It was exhausting, he tried almost everything. He tried feeding her, rocking her gently... maybe it was her diaper? Nope. Still bouncing the small child in his hands, Dave sat down in a rocking chair. He didn't know what to do, so with this exhausted self he went back to his room, laid in the bed and sat Ella on his chest. He rested his hand on the baby’s side to help hold her up. “Does this help? Because I’m out of ideas.” Ella’s cries slowly came to an end as she was placed on top of Dave. Her hazel eyes started right back at Dave’s green orbs. Her hand moved slightly to his arm and left it there, her tiny little hands started to grip the fabric of Dave’s sleeve. “Oh, I see. If you wanted, you could’ve just asked.” Once again Dave saw Ella’s eyes well up and her lip poked out a bit. Dave chuckled to himself, “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I know you can’t, yet.” Ella stopped crying and Dave wiped away the previous tears on her face. Dave saw that she was getting tired again because her eyes were slowly starting to close. He laid her on her stomach on his chest and slowly rubbed her back. “Yep, you are your mama’s child.” Dave says quietly. Ella immediately fell asleep for the rest of the night. 8:30 am Dave had already made his coffee (preferably black) and was about to change Ella’s diaper. Now what Dave didn't do was plan for this. He set Ella on the changing table and held Ella’s feet so she wouldn’t kick him in the process. He opened the bottom half of the yellow onesie she had on then he removed the diaper. ‘Okay, she only did a number one. Thank God.’ Dave silently celebrated as to not cleaning up a number two from Ella. Dave leaned over Ella to get a diaper, big mistake, an instant small stream of pee hit his shirt. His WHITE shirt. Ella made a series of small noises and gargles that kinda sounded like laughter. Dave, with an unamused look on his face, turns to the small child who looked back at him with an amused look in her eyes. “That’s not funny.” 10: 00 am Dave set Ella down in her crib before making his way to the kitchen to get her food. He’s researched plenty of YouTube videos about how to feed a baby and the right amount of baby formula he needs for a two-month old infant. Dave took out the formula and measured four ounces of formula and placed it into the baby bottle. He then added one ounce of water and shook it up well making sure all the formula was mixed inside. When the mixing was finished Dave wrapped Ella in a light grey baby blanket that had cute puppy designs on it. Dave gave her the bottle and after around fifteen to twenty minutes Ella had finished the bottle. Dave set the bottle down on the table across from him. He then set Ella on his lap and held her stomach with his other hand placed on her back. He patted her back to get her to burp which she eventually did. After a few minutes and the bottle was now clean Dave put Ella down for a nap. After he set her in her small crib he walked past a picture of Jamie. He smiled and picked up the picture, caressing it with his fingers. He had missed Jamie dearly and wanted more than anything to have her back. “If only you were her to see this.” He says looking back at Ella then at the picture before setting the picture back down. 2:20 pm After feeding Ella a couple more times after her naps Dave was peacefully sitting on Ella as she played with her rattle until a really bad smell hit his nose. It was as if... “Did you just?” Dave lifted Ella up and turned her around and yep, he found it. Ella had done a number two on his lap and it was not pleasant. Dave took her as quickly as he could to the changing table. He set her down and opened her diaper. The smell of what was inside hit his nose like a train. Dave scrunch up his nose and disgust and held Ellas feet she wouldn’t kick him. “The things I do for you child.” Dave chuckles as he got out a baby wipe. Ella, who had no idea what he was talking about, shook her rattle with no care in the world. 7:50 pm After getting changed into her onesie with stars on it both Ella and Dave were ready for bed. Dave had finally got her to sleep and started to set her down in her crib. Once she was in Dave removed his hands from her slowly only to earn another crying fit. Dave gave an exhausted sigh and picked Ella up again and went back to his bed placing her on his chest. She imminently stopped crying and slowly went back to sleep. Dave had remembered what he said this morning. In a way she was like her mother but... “You are definitely a daddy’s girl.”

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Sentence: The door hadn’t been there yesterday.** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun! #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write to submit nominations!   ***   #Spotlights: Two Weeks Ago I sure had my work cut out for me, catching up on two weeks worth of stories! You guys consistently surprise me with your unique interpretations of the theme and your creativity. Fantastic job over the last two weeks. And a double thank you to everyone who joined in for our Campfire today. I couldn’t have done it without you. ###Crowd Favorite - - Submitted by u/jimiflan ###Bay’s Spotlights - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - - Submitted by u/ravenight #Spotlights: Last Week ###Crowd Favorite - - Submitted by u/Leebeewilly ###Bay’s Spotlights - - Submitted by u/Thetallerestpaul - - Submitted by u/Dunyazatde   *** ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

“Ancient Greece was a civilization belonging to a period of Greek history from the Greek Dark Ages of the 13th-9th centuries BC to the end of antiquity (c. 600 AD). Immediately following this period was the beginning of the Early Middle Ages and the Byzantine era.” Harold aimlessly scrolled down the page, his eyes glazing over. “See you on Monday!” and with that, the weekend had begun. Harold mumbled a response, grabbed his pens, and started to pack his bag. He balled up a crumb covered page of wax paper and threw it in the trash. Before he left he took one final look at the Wikipedia article and turned his computer off. Harold drove east on route 108. Luckily, few cars were on the highway, as Harold drove like he was in a dream, fascinated and frightened by the peculiar item sitting on his dashboard. The device. A blaring horn broke his stupor and he readjusted, narrowly missing a 16 wheeler. “What am I doing?” Harold thought. “The thing probably doesn’t even work. I mean, it couldn’t work. It’s science fiction.” Harold took a right on Highland Avenue, and his mustard yellow house came into view. He sighed a relieved sigh, his thoughts having turned to disposing of the blueberry slurp which now sat in his bladder. From behind the overgrown shrubbery, he could see the lawn come into view, and his driveway, and the red door. He parked, and hesitated before deciding to grab the device. As Harold walked up to his red front door, he instinctively grabbed for his keys. “Shit.” and as he turned around, “Shit!” Harold understood that he had locked his keys inside the car. “Damn it to hell.” He glanced longingly at his red door, wanting desperately to have not done what he had just done. And then it occurred to him. Fifteen minutes passed before he built up the courage to truly entertain the thought which had come into his head. What Harold did not leave in the car, was the device that had sat on his dashboard for the last three weeks. He reached for it in his pocket; and, of course, it was still there. He was almost afraid to take it out, but eventually, he did, holding the metallic rectangle in his hands. It resembled an early iPod, circa 2001. It even had a click wheel. The only perceivable difference was the strange metallic luster, which looked like nothing else Harold had ever seen. He closed his hand around it. “This is crazy,” he thought. He looked at it again, and there it was, gleaming in that way. Harold pressed his finger down on the central button, and it awoke, suddenly displaying a series of black zeroes on a green background. - 00:00:00:00:00 He stared at them like he had a thousand times before. But this time, he slowly placed his thumb on the click wheel and gently brought it around, clockwise. One click, then two clicks. The numbers now read: - + 00:00:00:00:02 He placed his thumb on the click wheel once again, and this time, rotated counter-clockwise. One click, two clicks, then two more: - - 00:00:00:00:02 A mania took him over. The numbers dipped and changed like a slot machine and when the first column ran up to sixty, it reverted to zero and kept on climbing. Soon these first two digits were a blur, and the second two were steadily increasing, repeating at intervals of twenty-four. - - 00:00:03:21:49 Harold frowned. He turned the click wheel clockwise once more and gingerly brought the clicks to a standstill at: - - 00:00:00:00:20 The wind rustled through the trees. Harold recalled the solemn warning, offered to him by XchleiboK'a K'a months ago; "You may use it once, human scum. So use it wisely." Harold stared up at the clouds and let out an anxious whimper, then smiled and shook his head. “No way. It doesn’t even work. I’m just gonna do it, and nothing is going to happen because it’s science fiction.” He looked at the device. “This is so stupid.” For the first time, he pressed the central button. Words popped up on the screen. - Are you sure? He smirked at the warning, and defiantly pressed the button once again. “Yes, I’m sure.” Harold took a right on Highland Avenue, and his mustard yellow house came into view. He sighed a relieved sigh, his thoughts having turned to disposing of the blueberry slurp which now sat in his bladder. From behind the overgrown shrubbery, he could see the lawn come into view, and his driveway, and the red door, and himself. He slammed the breaks, and the car came to a screeching halt, stationing itself at an odd angle in the street. “What in the holy fuck!” he shouted, as he watched himself leap over to the car. “You’re gonna lock your keys in there!” Harold shouted from behind the glass. Harold’s eyes went from his keys to the device on his dashboard. “You used it?! Holy shit, I used it?!” Harold hastily parked the car in their driveway and got out, taking special care to grab his keys along with the device. Then he looked himself in the face. It was an awkward moment. “So...uh... it works, huh?” Harold waited as he used the bathroom, then when he came out, he went in and used the bathroom. “We have to figure out what we’re gonna... Where we’re... When we’re gonna go.” Harold came out of the bathroom. “I don’t think that’s possible. I think you have to use it. I used it approximately,” He looked at his wristwatch. “A minute and thirty seconds from now. You don’t want to... y’know... Cause a space-time thing. There can’t be two of us. You have to complete the chain of events.” he emphasized this with a twirl of his arm. “What do you know about space-time?” “For Christ's sake. Take it out of your pocket.” They both walked outside to the front lawn. “I was standing right... here.” Harold grabbed Harold and had him stand where he had stood. “Set it to minus twenty minutes.” - - 00:00:00:00:20 “Okay.” “Okay, well, nice to meet you, I guess.” “Yeah...” Harold pushed the button. A harsh buzz came out of the device and the screen went red. - Expired - Please Recycle :) Harold’s eyes widened. He pushed the button again, and it buzzed, he pushed it several more times. Bzzz, Bzzz, Bz-Bz-Bz . - Expired - Please Recycle :) He looked up at himself, mouth agape. A similar expression faced him. “But... It’s... I...” The gears slowly turned in Harold’s head. Harold, on the other hand, couldn't help but crack a smile, which grew into full-on hysterics. “You’re laughing?” He looked back down at the inert device in his hands. “But, Greece...” There was a blank numbness in his brain, which rose like violins in a horror score, processing the impossible situation before him. “I don’t understand.” “What’s not to understand?” He fell to the ground, unable to contain his apocalyptic laughter. An ice cream truck drove by, playing a familiar tune. In the kitchen, Harold sat at the counter, drinking a cup of coffee, while he also paced across the room, mumbling to himself. He opened the fridge, then closed it, then opened it again. Ketchup. Milk. Bologna slices. Mayonnaise. He closed the fridge. “I didn’t even get to choose...” “You did get to choose. We chose what we chose.” “No, you chose that!” “You, me, us, it’s all the same.” “Don’t sit there and tell me that I made this mistake. I’m not the time traveler here! And now I never get to be...” He paused. “What was it like?” Harold looked down at his coffee with a grim smirk. “Well, I pushed the button, and then... I was standing on the lawn, the device was gone, and so was my car.” “That’s it? That’s the best description you can muster?” “Honestly, it was kind of underwhelming.” Harold stared at himself in contempt, then looked away and rubbed his temples in frustration. “What are we gonna do? Huh?! Mr. H. G. fucking Wells over here. And over here. What am I gonna tell people, I have a long lost fucking twin?” “You really wanna have this conversation?” Harold looked down at the device, and then back up at himself. Harold was sipping his coffee and drumming his fingers on the table. “Why didn’t you call Sandy? Why didn’t you do anything else?” Harold shrugged. “I didn’t think it was going to work. Would you? ” “I was gonna go to Ancient Greece...” The other Harold said, his hand still holding the useless instrument. Harold sighed. “No you weren’t. I mean, come on. You don’t even speak ancient Greek.” A moment passed. Harold suddenly stood up and walked through his kitchen past Harold. Then, with strange portent, he slid the drawer open. Harold grabbed an instrument of many uses, which he then laid on the table. Harold looked up at himself. “Excuse me?” “I’m thinking it, so I know you must be thinking it too.” Harold replied, to which Harold raised his eyebrow. “Actually, I have no idea what you’re thinking.” He said. “Really?” Harold blinked. “Interesting... Maybe that means that I’m the real Harold.” The other Harold glanced nervously at the large knife in front of him. “I think that time traveling screwed with your head.” He cautioned, as he took a step back. “You’ve got wormhole madness. I suggest you take a cold shower.” “Harold...” Harold said. “You know why you always wanted to go to Ancient Greece? Because your life is boring. You are boring. But me? I’m a time traveler.” “You’re an asshole is what you are.” Harold replied. “You want to kill me, don’t you?” “Now you're catching on. You said it yourself! There can’t be two of us! So...” "You said that!" "Did I?" Harold looked down, then he went for the knife. “Wait!” The other Harold held his hands up defensively, then he dug through his pocket. Harold was disappointed. Harold took out a coin. “We do this honorably. Whoever loses has to leave. Find a new identity, I don’t know, whatever. This is the only fair solution.” Harold looked at himself disdainfully, and then sighed. “Fine. I guess that is better than some interdimensional knife fight...” He took the coin and placed it on his thumb, then he flipped it. It came back down and he covered it before looking up at himself. “Call it.” He said. Harold looked down, trying to logically deduce the arbitrary. “Tails.” He chose, finally. The other Harold removed his hand. Heads was facing up. Harold blinked, looking up at himself, then he went for the knife. Harold, surprised, went for the knife as well and they ended up both clutching at it in desperation. Sandy took a right on Highland Avenue, and her mustard yellow house came into view. She was looking forward to a quiet evening after a hectic day at the office. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. Employees squabbling. Cutbacks discussed. She imagined a warm bath and a good book were waiting inside that house. From behind the overgrown shrubbery, she could see the lawn come into view, and her driveway, and the red door, and Harold’s diagonal car. Just once, she thought, it would be nice if he could park straight.

A Sailor on the Endless Sea of Stars “I was a sailor. I sailed the endless sea of stars, hopping from galaxy to galaxy, from star cluster to star cluster, from star system to star system, even from Universe to Universe, looking for that rarest of phenomena, self-organised matter. Matter with the capacity for metabolism, growth, reaction to stimuli, and reproduction. In short, life. And specifically, the type of life termed ‘intelligent’ life. The sort that creates civilizations and which builds cities and collects knowledge.” Nessa looked at him. She’d simply introduced herself and asked where he was from. “So, do you have a name, sir?” asked Nessa. “Name? I do not know if I had one when my story started, but many people have given me names. A name is but a label, but sometimes there is an essence, a meaning that attaches to a name and to the person who is given or adopts it, or vice versa. On this very planet, one man to whom I talked called me Azathoth. But I’m no ruler, and I’m no god. Please call me Aza.” Nessa reflected that if you gave him a sentence, you would get a paragraph back, but the man was not pompous. “Would you like a toffee apple, Aza? The fete is in support of the local chapel.” Nessa was selling toffee apples at the fair on the local green. She’d seen the young man enter the village along the road to the next town, and had decided to chat to him. “Yes, please.” “Are you religious, Aza?” Azathoth stared into space. “Not conventionally. My viewpoint is holistic. I see the smallest electron exploding the biggest star. I see the smallest wish moving the biggest mountains. I see a dream inspiring a talented child who will change the world. I see the wave of a hand or a flipper or a tentacle or a tapping beak expressing emotion and affecting the future.” “Why are you looking for intelligent life, Aza? Why are you ‘sailing the endless sea of stars’?” She wasn’t sure of him yet. He seemed a little odd, but harmless. “I don’t know,” sighed Azathoth. “I seek out the interesting people, the people of power and wisdom. Those who feel the undercurrents of the Universes. Though in some cases ‘people’ is not a good word. I’ve communed with colonies of bacteria, in some sort of limited Universe. Maybe what this world would call a Petri dish. I’ve shared gusts of elements with clouds of gas and stars and received their replies in the form of streams of plasma of their own. I’ve performed more exotic exchanges with dark matter beings at the very edge of science and magic, at the very edge of being and communication, at the very edge of life and non-life.” Somehow she believed him, or set her disbelief aside for now. “Maybe you are assembling parts of the answer, like a sort of jigsaw puzzle. Maybe when you learn enough, it will all make sense.” Azathoth laughed. “Maybe. I’m gaining knowledge all the time, it’s true. But is that progress or merely an illusion of progress? And I only have the lifetime of the Universes to work with. Maybe there is not enough time. The Big Bang to the heat death or the Big Crunch. Or whatever happens at the end. Sometimes I think that, somehow, I must transcend time in some way to determine my purpose, whatever it might be.” “You said ‘I was a sailor’. Have you stopped then, Aza?” “I’m still a sailor of the stars, and places where there are no stars. I step from place to place, at random. Or as random as I can make it. A drunkard’s walk, except that I am little affected by alcohol and what humans term drugs! I’ve stepped into atoms and sub-atomic particles, and I’ve stepped out to the wild spaces where the Universes perform something like the function of those unimaginably small particles, and to realms even further out, where those wild spaces are mere particles. I am using terms which apply in this set of Universes of course, but the analogy is pretty good. I thought that I had come across something significant when I found a Universe or space where there were dragons. There’s something special about dragons. But I was mistaken. Azathoth looked into the distance. “I have seen many places. I’ve consulted many sages. I’ve talked to the common folk. I’ve talked with gods. I’ve talked to midwives, doctors, priests, soldiers, mathematicians, and potion makers. Kings and paupers. I’ve looked under stones and in babies’ smiles. I’ve looked at the whorls on the thumbs or the equivalent of thumbs on the hands or appendages of many creatures. I’ve looked at evil and good, and found little difference between them in the long run. I still don’t know what I am looking for. I don’t even know if I am looking in the right places.” He sighed. Nessa decided to tease him. “Maybe, like the man in the legend who rolled a rock up a mountain only for it to roll down again, you are destined not to succeed. Had you thought of that?” “Yes, I’ve often thought of that. I’ve been travelling for a long time.” He scratched his ear. “Maybe forever, whatever that means. I’ve not come close to even guessing what it is that I am looking for. I was with a tribe of ants one time. I was part of the tribe or nest, and I, as part of the nest, asked the rest of the nest for their opinion. It was quite divisive, disrupting for the nest, actually. What was I looking for? The consensus was that it was impossible to know. The question didn’t really make sense. Did it not make sense in the context of the tribe, I wonder, or did it just not make sense?” He contemplated the small village fair. His eyes were dark, very dark brown, she discovered, but then he smiled and his smile warmed her heart. She handed him a toffee apple and he paid her for it. “What’s it for?” he asked, gesturing with his apple at the fair. “The chapel, I think you said.” “Books for the school. Repairs to the chapel. That sort of thing.” They wandered through the small fête, the girl selling her apples as they went. She laughed at his attempts to snare a prize with a quoit and he laughed with her. She was slim, with light brown hair and hazel eyes. She was never far away from a smile, and her smile drew smiles from everyone around her. They met the Pastor. “Yes, the fair is mainly to buy books for the school. It’s a pity that the schoolmistress is leaving to look after her ailing mother,” sighed the Pastor. “Perhaps I could teach the school for a while?” said Azathoth. “Would that help?” “Could you? That would be marvellous,” said the Pastor. So, instead of moving on, as he was so used to doing, Azathoth became the schoolmaster. The Pastor had some reservations at first, because Azathoth would not attend the services at the chapel, but over time, her concerns evaporated. Azathoth was an excellent teacher, and good with the children. He listened quietly at the back whenever the Pastor taught religion to the kids. He didn’t try to influence them one way or the other. Nessa was a believer, and she asked Azathoth what he believed in. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve read the Holy Book. I’ve thought about it a lot, and it is a good guide to how to behave in your own life and in your relations with others. But something inside me won’t let me believe in it completely. I’ve had some interesting discussions with the Pastor, and she understands my position. She’s of the opinion that I will come to believe it, but I’m not so sure.” “I know that you are a deep thinker, Aza, my dear. I know that you are a good man. It would be nice if you did come to believe it, of course. But it doesn’t matter.” *** “I’m going to have a baby, Aza, my dear,” said Nessa one day. “That’s great news!” replied Azathoth. “Shall we get married? I love you, dear Nessa. Will you marry me?” Nessa laughed and hugged him. “We’d better, I suppose.” The convention was that babies came after marriage, but it wasn’t considered to be a hard and fast rule. So Azathoth and Vanessa got married and Nessa’s Mum looked after baby Marigold while Nessa and Aza earned a living. Soon Mari was joined by a brother and later by a sister. The years passed. The village grew into a small town, and a bus service now ran twice daily to a large town to the north. The tiny school had been extended twice and all three of Aza and Nessa’s children had attended it, grown up, and gone on to University. Azathoth had to employ two more teachers. Mari came home unexpectedly one day. “Mum, Dad, I’m going to have a baby.” Nessa was overjoyed. “So, when do we meet the father?” Mari scowled. “He’s no longer around. The minute we found out, he left me and ran back to his Mum. Can I come back home?” Aza experienced a burst of anger at the boy, which surprised him. “Of course you can. Erm, this boy...” “Please, Dad. Let it go. I’m better off without him.” “OK, dear. OK. If you are sure.” So Mari came home, and got a job in a nearby town. She left baby Kerigwyn with her grandparents during the day, and they loved it. “Happy?” asked Aza as they sat on the sofa, with Keri asleep in her grandmother’s arms. “Yes, of course. And you?” She was aware that Azathoth was sometimes restless. “Yes, Nessa, my dear. Very happy. Isn’t she beautiful?” Gradually their little family grew. Their other children married and had babies, Mari met a man who loved little Keri as much as she did and married him. She had two more babies. There were also cousins and nephews and nieces, uncles and aunts, and more distant relatives on Nessa’s side, but none on Aza’s side. He explained this by saying that he was an orphan and had been brought up in an orphanage. Only Nessa knew the truth, which was that he remembered nothing before happening on the village fair. *** Nessa became ill. At first she just felt unwell in the mornings, so she and Aza consulted the doctor. His face was grim when he gave them his diagnosis. Aza held her on the sofa where she sobbed for a long, long time. Eventually she dropped off and he carried her up to their bed and laid her down gently. As he moved to go downstairs again she drowsily said “Sorry, my love. I’ll be better in the morning.” The next day the doctor’s medicines had kicked in and she was much better. Aza had to push down what he knew was doomed hope. Several of their friends and relations dropped in to see Nessa, but soon Nessa became tired. Aza was terrified that the strain would harm her, so Mari stepped in and sent them off to their bedroom. Aza helped Nessa up the stairs and onto the bed. “I love you, Nessa,” he whispered. “I know. I love you too. Don’t be sad, my dear. We’ve had a good life. We’ve had marvellous kids and grand-kids. Haven’t we?” “Yes, dear. Yes. I’m not sure that I can go on without you!” “You can. You will. You have no choice, my love.” Aza looked at his wife and saw again the young girl with the toffee apples. He stroked her hair as she dropped off to sleep and he lay down beside her. He was as tired as she was and quickly dropped off to sleep as well. Nessa slowly faded away. Her family gathered around her bed, and she dozed, the oxygen mask obscuring her face. Aza was holding her hand, but seemed confused and distressed. The rest of her family talked quietly about nothing very much. Nessa roused slightly, mumbling into the mask. Aza removed it. “Nessa, my love!” “I’ve always known... that you were special, Aza. I hope you... enjoyed... our life... together. I’ve been privileged... to know you. I’ll rest now. I’ll see you again... sometime.” Her eyes had closed and she struggled to breath for a few seconds, then her breathing stopped. Aza stood up and pushed back his chair, his head in his hands. He walked out of the room and staggered into the garden. Mari appeared at his elbow. “Oh! Oh! Mari, I feel so alone! I feel that she left me, but I know that she didn’t!” Aza drank the sleeping potion from the apothecary, even though he didn’t want to sleep. In the morning he felt hollow. He talked to Nessa constantly, and people talked and nodded behind his back. But over the days, the months, the years, it got a little easier. From time to time he had mental flashes of strange realms. Gas people. Sea people. Underground people. People and realms too strange to describe. In all those flashes, Nessa was always there by his side. “What does it all mean, Nessa?” She just smiled at him. *** He came to, lying by the side of the road. Someone had put a coat over him. He tried to sit up. Someone was talking on a radio somewhere, and something was bleeping regularly. “Please stay there for now, sir. Relax,” said an authoritative voice. “What?” he said. “I’m a paramedic, sir. You collapsed by the side of the road and someone called the Ambulance Service. Stay still, please.” He was confused. Things happened around him, not really affecting him. Then Nessa appeared. “Nessa!” She smiled at him. “Not long now, my love.” Then she was gone. His daughter Marigold arrived at the hospital. “Mari! What’s happening? Why am I here?” “Hush, Dad. You collapsed. You’ve had a heart attack they think.” “I saw your Mum.” Mari looked concerned. “But Dad...” “Yes, I know. She’s been dead for years. But she’s always close to my thoughts. I sometimes see her for a second, in the corner of my eye. When someone walks like her.” He didn’t mention what she had said. Later that night he had another heart attack and the doctors were unable to save him. “I told you that it wouldn’t be long,” Nessa laughed. “Yes, my dear. It’s been so long without you!” “What about those moments before you went to sleep and you felt me beside you. When a stranger talked or laughed like me.” They were quiet, just being happy together again. “You’ve made me immortal, Aza. By loving me. Well, I will go on as long as you will, anyway.” “Are you real? Is this just a dying dream? Oh, my love!” “Is this real?” She gestured at the glowing star scape, stars from dwarfs to super-giants. Clouds of brilliant gas, and small rocky planets and large gas giants, and life everywhere. He nodded. “I have to return to my search.” “Yes, I know. But I will be...” “... just a thought away. I know.” Azathoth sighed “I was so happy. I somehow forgot or repressed my urge to look for I know not what. I aged as people normally do. I think that I was one of you. Then you died. I grieved for you. I became ill, I died, and then, without a break, I was with you again. I enjoyed it all!” “What would happen if you did find what you are looking for, Aza? If you did find out what it is that you are looking for, and you found it? What then?” “Eh?” It was one of Azathoth’s shortest utterances. He looked at Nessa in bemusement, and thought for a moment. “That’s something I’ve never been asked! In all these years and what passes for years elsewhere, I’ve never been asked that, but now it seems like an obvious question! This terrible longing would be ended. I would no longer need to be a sailor on the tides of time and space. I’d be a searcher no longer. I could... What would I do? What would be my purpose? My purpose would be fulfilled, completed. I would have no reason to be. I could end. I could stop.” “In the terms of this space or Universe, you could die. This time for ever.” “I could, couldn’t I? I could cease to exist. For ever. I could dissipate over the spaces. I could dissolve into space and time! Bliss! Sheer bliss!” “We would end, Aza, my dear. We would just let go. Together.” “Yes. Together. Am I destined to travel for ever, Nessa?” he asked as they walked down the lane and turned the corner. “In one way, yes, perhaps.” “And in another way?” “Maybe you are the essence of seeking and not a real person and yet...” “And yet... ?” “And yet, I love you. That makes you a person.” “I love you too.” They kissed and the lane was empty. ***

April 28th, 2015 Jack hated coming here. The chairs were too stuffed and too high off of the ground to support himself with your feet, so he was constantly struggling not to fall off. It smelled like Pinesol and old people. The air conditioning blew from a vent in the ceiling a few degrees too cold and a few decibels too loud. Jack was sure he could hear the fan rattling almost imperceptibly. The fact that he couldn’t tell if it was actually rattling or all in his head made it all the more annoying. But mostly, Jack hated living. “Good morning, Jack!” the too-chipper psychiatrist greeted him as he finally opened the door and strode through. Jack had no idea what time it actually was, but he was fairly confident that it hadn’t been morning for quite some time. It felt like he had been waiting for hours. Come to think of it, he couldn’t even remember the exact time he entered the room. There was no clock on the wall. Jack glanced briefly down at his watch, but the hands stood still. He mentally swore at himself for not even noticing that it had died. “Morning,” Jack mumbled half-heartedly. He didn’t have the mental energy to debate the proper term for whatever time of day it was. “And how are we feeling today?” the psychiatrist inquired. “Any improvement?” “Honestly, doc, I still feel like shit,” Jack replied, “Those pills you gave me haven’t done anything, or not anything positive anyways. Sure I don’t cry anymore, but I don’t get happy either. I’m just numb all the time. I thought you said those pills were supposed to make me feel better?” The doctor peered at Jack intently before scribbling something illegibly on his notepad. “Those pills were for getting rid of the suicidal ideations,” he said gently yet rather abruptly. “They won’t make you happy. You have to do that for yourself by resolving your own issues. I’m more than just a prescription pad, Jack. I’m here to help you work through what’s troubling you.” Jack knew exactly what was troubling him, but he’d be damned if he’d ever tell it to this quack. He just wanted to get the pills that would let him move on with his life, and mostly he just wanted to forget. But, he supposed, he would probably have to oblige the doctor at least a little bit, if he wanted any chance at getting the stronger medication. He sighed a sigh of feigned resignation. “Well what am I supposed to say?” he asked, hoping to prompt the doctor into asking an easy question. No such luck. The doctor didn’t miss a beat, cutting straight to the chase. “We still haven’t talked about what happened overseas.” Jack winced. This guy was obviously sick of beating around the bush. Maybe he was getting just as sick of this back and forth as Jack was. It wouldn’t be surprising. After all, he was only human too. “I don’t see how that’d help,” Jack replied defensively, “It’s over. I’m back here now. You obviously deal with people like me every day. I’m not some special fucking case for you to crack. Just write me a prescription for whatever you write the other guys. Some shit to make me sleep, some shit to make me happy, and some shit to make me forget.” He knew that he shouldn’t have lost his cool by the rapid scribbling going onto the doctor’s notepad. He cursed himself again. The fucking shrink would have a field day psychoanalyzing every little tidbit of that outburst on his tape recorder later. Still, he was hopeful that maybe the outburst would at least convince the doctor that he really did need some better pills. This time, he actually found himself in luck, as the doctor sat his notepad down and leaned back in his chair. “I think maybe you’re misunderstanding me, Jack,” the doctor said in a tone too overly nice to be genuine but not quite overly nice enough to be patronizing. “I’m not going to try to get you to talk about anything you’re not ready for. We’re going to take this at your pace, and I want you to be comfortable.” Jack’s excitement rose as he saw the doctor reach for his prescription pad. Finally, he thought. The doctor scrawled a drug that Jack wouldn’t have been able to pronounce even if he had been able to read the handwriting, and signed it with a flourish. “I want you to come back and see me in two weeks,” the doctor admonished him, “These pills should help you stay calm. We’ll reassess and hopefully talk more then.” Jack muttered a half-hearted thank you, snatched the paper, and walked out of the door as fast as he could without seeming like a total jackoff. *** Two weeks later, he found himself in the same office. The past two weeks had been a blur. He knew he had experienced the passing of time, but would be hard-pressed to pin down any specific memories from that time period, at least of his waking hours. His nightmares, he remembered well: The sand, the cracks of machine gun fire and the even louder cracks of shattering bone. The screams haunted him, and he always screamed along as he awoke. Except he didn’t remember waking up from them these past two weeks. Obviously he had woken up, because now he was sitting here, but he couldn’t remember waking up any more than he could remember falling asleep. It must have been these new pills. The office was even more annoying today. Whoever was in charge of cleaning clearly wasn’t responsible for the cleaning supplies budget, because they had gotten even more generous with that goddamned Pinesol. The fan had stopped rattling, but now there was this odd clicking sound coming from somewhere that he couldn’t place. His ears were ringing too, but that wasn’t a by-product of the room. The hinge clearly wanted for lubrication as the door creaked open at a frequency perfectly out of key with the ringing in his ears to make him cringe. “Hi there Jack,” the doctor greeted him, “Good to see you”. It sounded like he really meant it. Jack shifted his weight uncomfortably in his chair. Something was unsettling about the doctor today, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Something in his face made Jack’s skin crawl, but he had no idea why. He again mentally blamed the new pills. He definitely needed to get off those and onto something better. “Good morning,” Jack said, feeling anxious to actually get down to business today, “Those pills you gave me two weeks ago... Something isn’t right with them. They’re fucking with my head. I can barely remember anything about the last two weeks.” “Hmm, let me take a look,” the doctor replied as he diligently took down his notes, “Some short-term memory loss and confusion is a rare side effect of this drug, but it looks like it must have affected you this way. Bad news, that’s the only drug on the market right now that’ll work for what we’re trying to do. Good news, there’s another drug that should counteract those side effects.” That didn’t sound right to Jack, but the fog in his mind left him unable to reason why. He merely nodded his acquiescence, and the doctor started scribbling on his prescription pad again. “While you’re here though, I think you’re going to tell me a little bit about your time overseas,” the doctor stated authoritatively. Jack surprised himself by agreeing, not just verbally, but mentally as well. Maybe it was time he finally got some of it off of his chest. He took a deep breath. “What do you want to know?” he asked wearily. “Tell me about what got you sent back here.” Jack’s temper flared at that one. He couldn’t control it anymore; it often got the best of him. “I’m pretty goddamn sure you know what fucking happened,” he snapped, “I got blown the fuck up, or my convoy did at least. I’m lucky to be alive, or so they told me. It’s not fucking lucky to be the only one alive when all your friends are in pieces in the desert somewhere.” “Jack, you’re experiencing survivor’s guilt,” the doctor said comfortingly, “It’s a natural response when we go through something that we think we didn’t deserve to survive.” “I’m don’t feel guilty for what happened to my squad,” Jack shot back, “I’m just fucked up”. At that, he resolved not to say anything else, even if solely to piss the doctor off. It was about time he returned the favor; this shrink had been pissing him off since day one. But the doctor seemed unfazed, merely making a single-sentence reply before tearing off the prescription and handing it to Jack. “I think you are.” *** Jack was back for his next visit even sooner than scheduled. He hoped the doctor would have time to see him today, even those the annoying receptionist had told him that it wasn’t guaranteed. He didn’t care. He had to be seen today. The nightmares had gotten worse. It wasn’t just the flashbacks anymore. It was new. He would find himself in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night, with only a tiny sliver of a crescent moon for illumination. The stars were strangely absent. As he walked in a direction he hoped would lead to water, he could hear steps behind him, but every time he whirled around to face whatever was following him, they would fall silent. His eyes couldn’t make out anything behind him, but he knew there was something. Then it happened: A shriek, and a creature bounding towards him like a lion. Jack hauled ass, or at least attempted to, but all of his equipment weighed him down. He doubted that he could’ve outran the thing even had he been completely naked though. He would feel the weight of it slam into him before he felt the claws. It was moving so fast that it knocked wind right out of him, and he lied sprawled out on his back, gasping for breath and instinctually flailing his hands to protect his throat from a bite that never came. Sand was in his eyes and he could barely see, but through his blurred vision he could barely make out the face of a familiar girl with blue eyes and a light-brown complexion, no older than sixteen, on the body of a lion. She looked terrified at first, then sad. Then she opened her mouth with a scream, revealing vicious fangs, and lunged at his face. Jack woke up screaming every time. Jack started in his seat as the door slammed open. Apparently the hinges had gotten the grease that they so badly needed. The shrink entered purposefully, taking a seat directly opposite Jack, facing him with an uncomfortable amount of eye contact. “Jack, I’m surprised to see you here,” he said, “Our appointment wasn’t for another three weeks. What’s going on?” “It’s the pills,” Jack said, “They’re making things even worse than before. The nightmares are out of control, and they’re not helping my side effects at all. In fact, they’re making them worse. All I can remember for the past week are the nightmares. I can’t take it anymore, doc. I can’t live like this. You have to fix me.” “That’s not possible,” the doctor replied curtly, “Nightmares are not a side effect of any of these pills. Those are from your guilt, not from any pills that I’ve given you. We have to talk about your guilt first.” Jack had had it with this shit. Of course he felt guilty. He felt guilty for all the fucked up shit he had to see and do over there. He felt guilty for every round that left the barrel of his rifle. But not for the goddamned IED that blew up his friends. He hadn’t set it, and he hadn’t driven over it. It wasn’t his fault. “I told you, I don’t have ‘survivor’s guilt’,” Jack spat. Calmly, the shrink put down his pen and notepad. “That wasn’t the guilt I was referring to,” he said in an even voice, “I was referring to Adra.” At the mention of that name, fear and adrenaline coursed through Jack’s veins. He thought he might have a flashback right there in the office, but he somehow stayed rooted to reality, and even managed to keep what he thought was an impassive blank face. The shrink, however, was having none of it. “Don’t bullshit me, Jack,” the normally professional doctor said, sudden venom in his words, “I know what happened that night. I know what you did.” Jack’s fight or flight response was firing on all cylinders. He didn’t know how, but this doctor knew his darkest secret, a secret that not even his exploded friends had ever known. Adra’s name burned his neurons to even think about, and here he was, being forced to think about her by this goddamned shrink. That bastard. Who the fuck did he think he was? And how the hell did he know Adra’s name? Jack looked fearfully right into the doctor’s eyes. The doctor met his stare, not blinking even once. For a moment Jack thought he saw something behind the eyes, something that terrified him to his core, and this time he didn’t write it off as simply a side effect of the medication. In that moment, Jack understood. Without a word, the doctor wrote a prescription for another drug, tore it off, and handed it to Jack, still unblinking. Jack numbly accepted it, knowing that it was unlikely to make anything better. He knew nothing would ever get better, not for him. The nightmares would continue, and he’d be back here again; he was sure of it. Things were only going to get worse, and he knew he deserved every minute of it. As he stood to leave, he had one flash of a thought, unburdened by the drugs. War is hell alright.

"Congratulations! I can't believe after all these years you're both finally going to be parents! I'm so super excited for you both." Mum was clapping her hands like a cymbal- banging monkey and uncoordinatedly jumping up and down- until she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. "I just peed a little!” And with that - she ran out the room laughing. Half the family gathered around the lounge room hung their heads and shook them at their chests. The other half were slapping thighs and rocking back in laughter - I was one of the ones rocking back and forth. • • • “I stand here on this most precious of moments and share with you the story of our eternal love and gratefulness of our family. We welcome Henry, dear Henry...” The entire room of gathered friends and family yelled in unison “DEAR HENRY, DEAR HENRY!” Cheers roared out, tables were banged, and glasses clinked. As the ruckus dimmed, the father of the bride continued. “You all know me, and you all know I hate this standing round talking, so I think this is the perfect time to hand over to the real spokesperson of the family. Darling...would you like to continue?” She sat for a minute, tears spilling over her lids and composed herself as she moved her napkin from her lap to the table. “It was my dad, the best pop in the world, that came to us the day you were born, carrying a red pine seedling with your name and date of birth embroidered in the pink ribbon wrapped around it. We weren't sure what we were to do with the gift. I knew they grew into the most beautiful giants of trees.” "It's for her future. It's the tree that will keep on giving." His voice had been soft and sincere, and his eyes had been full of love. "I'll plant it for her and nurture it, as you shall nurture her. You'll see. They will both be wondrous and beautiful as they grow and reach for the stars.” He had told me. I asked him about the seedling, and he said he had gone to the nursery on the day we told him we would soon be calling him pop. He browsed the trees for hours until he picked the right one, the perfect one to put your name to. As you grew, so did the tree. As you learnt to walk, your tree learned to sway with the wind, and true to his word you both grew and reached for the stars. Nan made picnics for you to have under the evergreen growing branches of your tree. and when you were 6 and your tree was good and sturdy, pop hung a swing to push you in for hours. And when Nan bought you a leather-bound journal at 13 years old, you would go and sit under that tree and write your hopes and dreams in the shade of its branches. Sometimes we would see you just sitting under the tree at 16, just being there. And as you grew further and met the man you would marry, he knew the importance of that tree and proposed with moonlight shining through the leaves. “It’s been a while since you have visited your tree and although the memories will always remain, pop had one thing in mind when he bought that tree the day he found out you would be coming into this world, and that was to give you a wedding gift. You will cry tears of sadness and tears of happiness, dad would you like to do the honours?” The sturdy old man stood tall. Feet planted shoulder width apart as if he himself were a giant of the forest. The smile he shared with his daughter as she kissed him on the cheek melted every heart in the room. “I love you dad.” She whispered into his ear. He turned to the bride "My darling granddaughter, behind you, you see the all the pictures on the screen of you and your tree and all the joy and happiness you brought to not only your Mum and Dad, but to Nan and I, always. Your tree was no longer able to protect you from the bright sun or give you cover from wind and rain in the form it had grown. Your tree is your ever evolving and everlasting gift from us to you." He handed her a set of keys. "It almost shattered my heart to say goodbye to your beautiful protector, but soon you will have your own precious child and that child deserves his or her own tree. Turn to the screen our darling granddaughter, and mind not to ruin your makeup.” His eyes glistened and he lowered his head. She turned to the screen and saw a beautiful timber house. She looked at the keys and then at the house. "A house? We can't accept a house!" "Look at the background." She looked at the background on the oversized screen. The house was exactly where her tree had stood. "Grandpa! Is that my tree! You turned my tree into a house!" Tears streamed down her face. “And in the backyard, I shall plant another for your child to be, and it shall be nurtured as your tree was. It shall bring endless fond memories for all the family, and you shall be forever protected in your tree house." The old man raised a glass. "A toast to the bride and groom. May they always feel safe and secure and grow stronger together each day.” “To the bride and groom!” Glasses clinked and cheers roared out while tears were dried on napkins and sleeves and the bride and groom hugged her grandparents tightly. Nan was clapping like a cymbal-banging monkey and jumping up and down uncoordinatedly...until she stopped dead in her tracks. "Oh shoot!" Nan said to the bride. "You darn went and squeezed me too tight! I just peed a little! Faces fell to hands and people leaned back in laughter as nan went tottling off to the loo.

The last bullet left the muzzle of his rifle with a deafening bang. It took with him all his hopes of survival. He reached for the sharp knife held at his boot strap. He wasn't going out without a fight! Life has changed in the past three weeks. A stray dog drank a rare chemical that had leaked from a pharmaceutical company . The dog got violent and bit almost every residence of the neighboring town resulting in everyone turning into zombies overnight. The government took immediate steps to control the situation by imposing lockdown and bringing in the military. Yet, the zombie count was increasing exponentially and it was declared an emergency. One night, I was in my room studying for my upcoming exam when my elder brother rushed in and told me to turn on the news channel on TV. The news showed that the zombie apocalypse has begun in our city. Both of us were concerned about our mother. My mother is a widowed police officer who has recently been sent in a mission to evacuate the residence of a housing society. We tried to call her but all the communication system was down. My brother wanted to go out looking for her but I stopped him as it was not wise to go outside in such conditions. Suddenly, someone rang the doorbell. My brother went to open the door but I stopped him telling that it might be the zombies. My brother assured me that zombies don't have brain and hence cannot ring the doorbell. He looked through the peephole to find out who it was but couldn't see anything as it was covered in blood. Arming himself he slowly opened the door. It was our mother, who was heavily injured. Her whole team was ambushed by the zombies in that society. She was the lone survivor of her team. She told me to lock all the doors and windows properly. She asked my brother to check for any zombie bite in her body. Luckily, she wasn't bitten by the zombie. My brother nursed her injuries. The zombie apocalypse had been completely spread in our city. The government set up a council to take an immediate decision. The leader of the council proposed to send a missile and burn the city to ashes killing all the zombies. However, many of them protested as many survivors were still stuck in the city. Suddenly, they recieved an information that the zombie apocalypse has begun in many other cities too. Three days later, a news came out that the government has fallen and the public are on their own. Soon, power supply, water supply and supply of other basic commodities got cut off. People started coming out of their houses in search of help; instead got turned into zombies. We managed to stay in our house for ten days. But, food and water ran out four days ago and we were starving. My mother saw an overturned truck containing packed noodles and decides to step out. She brought the food packets and fed us. She then revealed a startling fact. She had been bitten by a zombie and might turn into one any time soon. Therefore, she wanted to take us to a safe place before that. My brother and me were crying silently. We went to the police headquarters and armed ourselves with various kinds of weapon. Our mother quickly taught us how to shoot a gun. She also told us to only aim for a headshot and also instructed us to do the same to her as soon as she loses her human feelings. We then drove in a car to the nearest air base. My mother spotted a private jet and decides to take us in it. Unbeknownst to us, few people were already hiding in the jet. They threw us out as they soon as they found that my mother was bitten. Hearing the sound, the zombies ran towards the base and started attacking us. They entered the jet and attacked the people in it, instantly transforming them into zombies. My brother ran to a different direction and distracted the zombies. We realised that he had decided to sacrifice himself to save us. We both started crying. My mother tried to stop him but he doesn't listen. He entered a godown while simultaneously shooting down the zombies. The last bullet left the muzzle of his rifle with a deafening bang. It took with him all his hopes of survival. He reached for the sharp knife held at his boot strap. He wasn't going out without a fight! He then realised he had entered a godown with explosives. He activates a bomb killing himself and the surrounding zombies. Me and my mother run back to the car and escape from the place. I then realised the fact that everyone turned into zombies immediately after they got bitten except my mother. My mother survived the bite for more than four hours. We then go to a R&D centre where my Mom's friend works. Fortunately, her friend was still uninfected. Her team did a couple of tests and found out that my mother's serum is immune to the zombie. Using my mother's serum, within two days, a drug is developed which not only made people immune to the zombies but also turned the zombies back into humans. The drug was mass produced and sprayed all over the world by planes and ,therefore, ended the Zombie apocalypse.

The note is done. Written, edited, signed, done. The noose is cinched and hung. All that's left is for me to decorate the door. I stood staring at it for what felt like an eternity. Today, every second had felt like eternity. I had writhed in agony watching each minute tick by, as if a lifetime had passed. I had tried everything I knew and I'd been told: dunked my face in cold water, but my forehead had felt red hot; meditated and focused on my breathing, but I'd retreat back into my head between each breath and be left gasping for air; took a scalding bath, for a moment I was in my skin again but then the water and I felt as one; I tried to nap, a reset was always in store, but I woke up still at death's door. I hadn't done it yet, though. I'd never been closer, but I still hadn't done it. Before I hit send, before I decorated the door, I told myself I'd go for one last run to get out of my head. I've been treading water the last week, just barely keeping my head up. I tried mushrooms a few days ago and for the first time in what felt like months could accept myself. In fact, I discovered I was stuck in time, two months earlier when I'd been dumped. My heart hadn't moved on, but the universe relentlessly had. And for 24 hours the mushrooms gave me clarity that I needed to move on, and even had. There was a moment when time seemed to stop and suddenly I was vaulted forward to the present. Over and around the intervening months. I was present again. But just as sudden as the revelation had fallen upon me it was stripped away and the black dog weighed down my chest once more. Shakily, I put on my running clothes. I considered my route, an old standard. Roughly 3.5 miles. It'd buy me a calculated 24-27 more minutes to think about this decision. I cinched my laces, I hate these shoes. I struck out the door. When my feet hit the pavement I realized this wasn't a regular jog. I wasn't running to run. I was running to kill myself. Or not. I'd find out along the way. Suddenly the route and distance didn't matter. I knew I'd be going further than I'd thought. I started out at a normal pace and began upping my tempo. I knew I was out of shape. I knew a single 7 minute mile would be my limit, as it had been on several of the past days. But today wasn't those days. I couldn't feel the exhaustion, the pain of my body. Moments earlier, all I could feel was my body exhausted. I was trapped in my head. I could push my body well past it's limits today, because I wasn't leaving my heart or my head until my body hurt more. Around the first mile I started muttering to myself: you've never outrun yourself before, but today is the day you beat yourself. And I kept running. I came upon a long flat stretch, a narrow catwalk along the water's edge, and I broke into a sprint. I was going to break myself now. I pushed until I could feel the burn in my legs, my throat and my lungs. I hadn't pushed myself like this in days, weeks, months or maybe even years. I'd forgotten what it felt like. I started feeling light-headed. This was to be alive? But it couldn't last. I ground to a halt and walked. Finally outside my head again, but still thinking. Finally not drowning in my thoughts. I'd realized earlier what it is in those last moments. It is quite literally drowning in your thoughts. My brain takes over, dwelling on my past failures, rejections, losses. And it's as if every iota of my brain power is diverted to these fruitless forays in my hippocampus. Every drip of processing is diverted. Suddenly my breathing reflex kicks in. I haven't been breathing. I've been drowning in my thoughts. And with it a sense of fear and dread; adrenaline courses through my aorta, spreading across my chest and dilating my bronchi. Fight or flight, from my own past? Pushing myself achieves this same end. But what am I running for? What am I running toward? I don't know, and I feel so lost and unbound. Adrift and asea. I thought again "if this is your last run, you're going out strong" and started sprinting again. I ran, and I ran, and I ran. I ran through throngs of people amidst cherry blossoms who didn't know I was probably running to my death. But suddenly I didn't want to die anymore, at least not yet. Not now. And I started a new mantra "this run saved my life." And I realized I could say that every time I ran. Or biked. Or hiked. Or sat with friends. Or worked on a project. Or spoke to my mom. But to do so I'd have to get through those long, dark minutes of pure and intense pain. I'd have to learn to hurt myself, again, running, hiking, biking. But I kept running, as fast and as hard as I could. I circled back around on my path, it was a lollipop route and I was completing the candy. And I pushed myself until I was back on the inner leg of it, the stem. I pushed myself so hard I started vomiting. In a homeless camp of all places. I'd had nothing to eat today, and little yesterday. I was subsisting on coffee. The bile came up black, sour, bitter. Much as the coffee had been going down. It seemed a funny parallel. And I decided then that I wanted to write about this. I wanted to share my story, because today: I didn't kill myself. I might have, some part of me wanted to. But I ran away. And I'll keep running. It's tough. But I think I found something to run for again. I'd mostly stopped running ages ago, but I think this was the motivation I needed to start again. The rest of my life is in shambles and I don't know what I'm doing. But I can keep running. I'll start running with a group, I think. And each time I'll let them know at the end "this run saved my life." I'll let them decide what that means to me, and them.

​ “Who...are you?” ”That’s what I want to ask you-” he snorted, the exact same way I do- “and why the heck do I have a doppelganger?” “Well I’d like an answer to that myself. Is this the Empire’s new plot, replacing officers with spies that look like them?” I asked. “Replace you? Oh *please,* have you read too many detective novels? Even if we had such a fantastic plan, why would I waste my time to take the place of an insignificant soldier when I could be using that time to come up with some strategies? Not to mention my father would never al-” he suddenly stopped himself, as if he had let slip something he shouldn’t have. ‘Strategies?’ I thought to myself, could this guy in front of me be one of the battle strategists of the Empire? If so, should I just kill him now when I can and weaken the enemy? He seemed to have sensed my thoughts, shifting himself I saw him clutch the knife in his hands a bit tighter, but it seemed more like a reassurance for himself than a threat for me. “What sort of rotten luck do I have to end up in this situation?” he sighed softly, “One second I was just scouting out the area for the summit(?) looking for any traps and the next I’m falling down a goddamn hole...” he stopped and looked at me “How did you end up falling down right after me?” “...I was scouting, same as you. Heard a noise and investigated... and-” “And the next you’re falling down a goddamn hole huh?” he smiled in a rather self-deprecating way. “Well aren’t you the least bit interested in how we look so alike?” I asked,trying to change the subject “Of course I am, but what does it matter? There’s all sorts of strange things in this world.” He sighed again and spoke “So what do you reckon we should do now? We can’t climb our way out, that hole we fell in through is now clogged by rocks and the tunnels out of here are all too narrow for a person” “We can only wait for rescue” I said. “Rescue?” he said mockingly “And how exactly are we going to be rescued? No one saw us fall in, no one’s familiar enough with the terrain to notice a hole blocked by rocks and certainly no one’s going to think that two people happen to buried under those rocks. And even if rescue did come, then what? You do realize that we are enemies right? IF my people come, they most probably will kill you on the spot...and the same goes for you.” “It’ll all work out somehow,” I said,trying to sound more confident that I felt. “Ever the optimist aren’t you?” he sneered at me. “Well do you have a better plan than to hope someone will come rescue us?” I snapped at him, my patience was limited and this guy seemed to be stripping it away every time he opened his mouth. “...No.” his voice seemed to crack, I couldn’t make out his expression in the dim light but I could guess that it wouldn’t have been much different from how I felt.” I don’t,” he said again. “So we wait,” I said as I slowly stretched out my legs and leaned back against a boulder “I’m Raza by the way.” He didn’t reply for a few seconds but then I heard a low chuckle “An apt name considering you’re such an optimist...I’m...Connor” “Pretty apt yourself isn’t it?...strong willed” I couldn’t help but chuckle back but he didn’t reply. “Do you think we’ll be rescued?” he asked after a while “Even if rescue came,both of us leaving this place and surviving is honestly near impossible” “But near impossible doesn’t mean zero right?” I said aloud more to myself than him. “...yeah you’re right” a voice softly said across from me. Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “Hey,” my voice sounded faint even to me “ how long do you think we’ve been here?” “What’s the matter Mr.Optimist? Starting to get homesick?” his voice was weak. “Are we...are we not going to make it?” “You mean are we going to do in here?...Honestly our chances don’t look great,” his voiced seemed to grow stronger despite the crushing words he uttered “but don’t forget, near impossible doesn’t mean zero.” “You have the pendant right?” I asked despite how hard it was getting for me to open my mouth. “For the last time, yeah I do, just as you have mine...and if one of us makes it out and the other doesn’t, we’ll make sure to hand the pendant over to the other side to be send to our parents,” even as he talked his voice was becoming fainter till I could hardly discern what he was saying. “Hey...” I said again but this time I didn’t get a reply. I felt panic surge through me and weakly tried to move over to were he was. But the action made my head spin and I powerlessly fell to the ground. As my vision began to black out I thought I heard faint voices and a rumble of machinery. I tried to speak but I could no longer control my body. Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The light was too bright. I had a blinding headache and my whole body felt numb. I could smell disinfectant in the air. Forcing myself to open my eyes I saw the blurry outlines of a spacious room. Blinking through the pain behind my eyes I saw my surroundings come into focus. I was in a well lit room, lying on a cot placed among a row of similar ones. Frowning I tried to recall what had happened. “I was...I was stuck in that cave with him, it appeared I didn’t imagine the voices before I lost consciousness but if I had been rescued...what had happened to him?” I felt apprehensive thinking about it, he might have been my enemy but once you go through that sort of experience with someone you develop a sort of bonds. All I could hope was that he would have been rescued too. “Your...Your Highness Connor.

“What happened? Let me call for back up ma’am.” Jecob was still confused what to do next. He was trained ranger, and doing his job perfectly for last three years, but in three years of his career worst he saw was a guy who had lost his dog in wood. However, he never saw a person in blood asking for help. It was rainy whole day in Watkinsville, and it got dark so early in evening. Jecob started his night petrol early today; unlike others, Jecob always likes deserted places like Watkinsville where he was posted only a week ago. When he first heard from his superior that he is being transferred to Georgia; he knew that he is signing up for a very large area than usual. Nevertheless, he himself wanted to get out of rock city due to his recent break up and wanted to have some change in his life. He put his favorite bob segar song on his phone and started his night petrol. It was 12:30 am and he just crossed town 15 min ago, he was thinking of taking full circle before his shifts end at 2:00; and he saw a figure on raod. After a continuous rain for three hours, it was quite for last 1 hour, but roads were still very wet. He stopped his jeep, as he saw a woman waving for help in the headlight. He quickly came out to check on her, he was hoping that she would ask for lift, but when he saw her, he could not believe on his eyes; she was crying for help, her old-fashioned white top was having stains of blood, while her head was still bleeding a little as someone had hit her with rod. He was confused for few moments and he heard her tired voice “I need to save him”, “They will kill my husband”, “Please help me”, “They will kill him” continuous crying made her voice very heavy; but plead in her voice was heavier. Since then He tried to adjust frequency on his radio for third time but still not able to get proper response from other side. He was little terrified; but worried more for the woman in blood. He is able to understand the situation more clearly now. She was still crying, “What’s you name ma’am? What are you doing out here this late?” After spending 10 min of trying to connect to nearest police station, He gave up. “Me and my husband” she took a pause to take a deep breath. And then she continued “Me and my Husband came here to spend time to nearby lake; and then they came out of nowhere and they took us..” She again started crying. “Ma’am please calm yourself down, please explain me whole situation then only I will be able to help you properly” Jecob tried to see if she is seriously hurt. “Ma’am you are still bleeding let me get first aid kit from jeep” Jecob noticed a dip cut on her head. “Please you need to help my husband, they are still holding him there,” She pointed at the forest besides road while holding Jecob’s wrist as she wanted him to come with her. “*Her hand is so cold*” Jecob thought when she touched him. “First let me please stop bleeding from your head” Jecob was trying his best to convince her to let him patch her head’s cut “They will kill him, why do you not understand?” She cried in pain and burst out in tear Jecob felt a sense of chill when he heard the cry. “Ok, let me get the torch, we will look for him first” Jecob felt helpless, he wanted to wait for back up as he learned in his training, but she was so determined. “Let’s go” Jecob got the torch and his rifle from zeep and land hand towards her to help her get up. Jecob noticed that she is in pain, as she was bleeding from her leg also, Jecob tried to look properly. “You got shot Ma’am” It was not easy to see clearly due to dark but a rangers eye cannot miss to identify a gun shot. “I am fine, I need to save him” She replied as she does not even care about her pain a bit. “Ma’am please let me first bandage this, It is not looking good at all” Jecob was amazed, worried and horrified at the same time. Amazed due to her determination, worried because he can see how much she is bleeding and horrified because he didn’t know what he is getting into? “NO, we need to save him” She again cried and Jecob felt the same chill in her voice. She crawled her way into jungle and Jecob followed her as a obedient kid. They walked for next 1 hour and Jecob sensed that they are lost. “Ma’am, I think we are lost, are you sure you came here?” Jecob tried to inquire. “We came this way only, we camped there.” She pointed to a very small pond of water, which seems like an old dried water body, which got water filled recently due to heavy rain. Jecob saw madness in her eyes and struggle to see something, which is not even present. She was in pain but still something was driving her. It’s been an hour since they passed small water pond, and they are very deep in jungle, It was becoming very hard to understand the way, but she was making her way in as she was well aware of this way. “That’s where they are keeping him, I need to save him.” she pointed to a very old deserted church and she took an unusual speed. “Ma’am please wait, you need to be careful” Jecob tried to keep his voice as low as possible as he didn’t want people inside the church to hear him; but she was already out of his reach, he also ran behind her while keeping his rifle ready in his hand to take a shot. “They were here only, where they took him?” She cried like mad while Jecob was trying to understand the situation. It was an empty ruined church; it seems like no one came here for years, roof was showing signs of time and half-broken, due to rain whole floor were wet. He was not able to understand what is going on. “Ma’am are you sure this is the place” This is the first time Jecob was doubting her mind. “Yes, they tied us here” she pointed to ceiling Jecob saw in direction up, and there was nothing to tie, ceiling was broken there and it doesn’t even seems like it can hold a weigh of a kid. “They were questioning my husband for information and they were torturing him” She was horrified as she is visualizing everything again. “I got loose somehow and I ran for help, they were shooting at me, but I didn’t stop, They were here only, I need to save him” She was talking like she is under possession. “Ma’am no one is here who needs help, please at least let me help you, you are bleeding badly” Jecob tried to command her as he was little frustrated. He was now sure that she is mad, only thing, which is making him confused, was gunshot in her leg and serious injuries that anyone can notice on her body. “No, I need to save him” “I need to save him... I need to save him... I need to save him” She repeated same thing and she fell down clearly due to loss of blood. “Ma’am...” Jecob tried to catch her and barely succeed. “Shit.. Now what should I do?” He questioned himself loudly. He carefully put her down and started patching her wounds. Her body was cold as there is no life in her. He again started trying to tune his radio to connect someone, but could not succeed. He sat down on wet floor and tried his best to keep himself awake but got defeated from his tired body. “Ma’am....” He was trying to find her for last two hours since he woke up. He looked at the sun and tried to guess time again; his watch had stopped last night. “*I should have at least asked her name.*” He thought in his mind After spending another hour or so he started walking towards the road. He looked at his radio again and cursed his luck as it was also not working any more. When he reached out to his jeep he drove to the direction from where he came. He remembered clearly that he passed one local motel. After 20 min drive he reached to that motel, It was 2:00 after noon. “May I use your phone, I need to connect to local police station,” He asked the aged man on the reception. Old man looked at ranger keenly and handed over the phone besides him. “Yes, she was injured, there is no way she could walk on her own” He explained briefly about the whole situation to the officer on other side and demand for search. “It is first time I am hearing in last 15 years of such thing, but it was very common in old times that mobs are capturing hikers and couples” man at reception told Jecob after hearing him on phone. “What do you mean?” Jecob Inquired. “15 years ago local police ran an operation to kill or capture all the mobs after church incident” Old man told Jecob. “What church incident?” Jecob was curious now. “Around 15 years ago in the same time of year one local couple went for camping near old lake area, and one local mob group abducted them. Story goes as they were trying to send a message to local government and was torturing the couple in old church, wife tried to escape but they shot her, she managed to get out of jungle and was found by a police officer barely breathing. In her last word also she was telling that office to help her husband.” Jecob could sense the sadness in man’s voice. “What happened to husband?” Jecob was feeling as chill in his spine now. “By the time police reached there, mob killed him also” He responded. “If she is dead than...” He stopped himself to say it loud. But he couldn’t stop his thought from echoing in his mind. *Who was telling the story? And whose story was it anyway?* The word fluttered and flew in the wind. “Do you know who was the officer investigated the case?” Jecob was now full of curiosity, he was trying to figure out what happened last night. “Yes, his name is John Wikkins , he lives nearby only” Old man started writing the address on paper as he understood that Jecob wants to meet him. “Hey I am looking for John Wikkins.” Jecob told the man standing in front of him who answered his knock, he was so curious to meet the officer to understand full story. “I am John Wikkins, How can I help you officer” John inquired as he recognize the uniform. “I want to know about the fraizer couple murder case” Jecob learnt the name of couple form man at the restaurant. He learnt the same story what he heard before from Officer. “It was a very bad day for me, It was rainy whole day and I was about to end my shift after late night petrol; and I saw her, she was all wet in blood and barely breathing” Old office told Jecob with a very sad face. “Do you have her photo with you?” Jecob asked him. “These days everything is in computer, but in our time we used to keep hard copies in files, when I retired I took all records of the cases I worked on with me home; let me grab it for you.” John was little confused because of Jecob’s inquiries, but he didn’t ask anything as he could sense curiosity on jecob’s face. After 5 min John Returned with the file and handed it to Jecob. “Her name was Marrie, she took her last breath in my hands only, even with the last breath she wanted to save her husband, I still remember her last words...” John wiped his moist eyes. “I need to save him” Jecob mumbled and dropped the file after seeing the picture of Marrie.

Based after an encounter I had as a mailman, wrote a few years back just found it. Journal entry December 5th, 2014: Today I woke. I am not sure how to feel about it. I wake up stiff. Well, not so much stiff as stuck. I can’t sleep long. It’s as if my bodies only solace is rejected, so I am lucky to get five hours of relief a night. I go to bed late and toss and turn and wake up at five a.m. on the nose. The torture is that I have to wait for my daughter to wake and she helps me get out of bed. I have tried a few times to get out of bed on my own, but those attempts left me struggling on the floor and crying out for help. She typically doesn’t get up until six or seven and even later on the weekends. My Daughter is so patient. I don’t want to be a burden on her but I know I am. She has sacrificed so much in order to help take care of me. A husband. Kids. It’s better when I don’t dwell on it. I was so relieved to see her walk in my room this morning. I had to use the restroom fiercely. She helped me get cleaned and dress. It is an ordeal because I cannot stand unsupported for too long. Today was the thorough cleaning. Typically she uses a wash cloth and soap on me in the mornings to clean most of my body, but once a week I take a shower and get actually clean. It took over an hour. After my shower I sat in my usual chair and she turned on the television. Television doesn’t really appeal to me until about ten a.m. when Price Is Right comes on. Most of the time I do not even watch the television, just stare through it, listening to the loud noises and bright colors lighten up my face. Ding Dong! The doorbell sounded. Knock, knock, knock! Someone rapped at my door. I called for My Daughter. No response. I was pretty sure it was the mailman at the door since we don’t have many visitors. I grabbed my walker and headed for the door. “I have a package that requires a signature,” said the mailman. He handed me a pink slip of paper and a pen. It was a struggle to support myself in the walker but I was determined to sign for the package. I dropped the pen. He quickly bent down and picked it up and put it back in my hand. I didn’t want to say anything but it was clear I could not hold myself up and sign the slip. “Would you like me to sign it for you?” He asked. “Yes please!” That was so generous of him. He signed the paper and handed me the package and the rest of my mail. I was able to hold on to it for a few seconds when I felt the strength leave my body. I dropped the mail. I collapsed. “Unnnhhh!” I exclaimed as my face went into my walker. I put all my strength into picking myself back up but it was impossible. I could feel my pants sliding down my back and was humiliated. “Unnnhhh! My pants are falling down!” The mailman was frozen, not sure what to do. All was lost. Thankfully, at that moment My Daughter walked by and rushed over to me. “Oh my God! What are you doing?” She ran over and picked me up by my chest. “Stop!” I said as she was crushing my chest. “It hurts!” She tried holding me up for me to get a grip on my walker. I had expended all my energy there was no way that was happening. After a short while of her trying to hold me up on my feet (It was excruciating pain) she slowly lowered me to the floor. “Why did you come to the door?” My Daughter asked me as we both lay there in a heap. The mailman was still there, frozen, not sure how to help or what to say. “Thank you,” My Daughter told him as he walked away. She slammed the door. Picked me up and dragged me to my natural seat by the television. “What were you thinking? Why didn’t you call for me?” She asked. “I did! You didn’t come. I knew it was the mailman so I thought I could answer the door.” “You know you can’t do that!” There is nothing worse than being scolded by your own child. I think that is the natural order of things. We are born helpless. If we live long enough, we become victims of time. I want to feel embarrassed about what happened today. I don’t see the point. My Daughter couldn’t get her point across enough about how I shouldn’t be getting up, shouldn’t be answering the door. I get it. I don’t like that I am trapped in this body. I remember when My Henry and I used to go on hikes for hours. He would always tell me that “You could hike everest if you didn’t hate the cold.” It seems like a lifetime since that was true. Me and My Henry were invincible. I know that if you live to my age you have to see loved ones go, but why him? He was always so kind. So gentle. I have lived almost a century. There’s not much I think about beside my mortality. I have come to terms that I am going to die, but I don’t see how that makes much of a difference. My Henry lived for 70 years, he led a moral, hard-working life. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changes. People live, people die. That’s what happens. I think when we are young, we view life as a privilege. Isn’t it great I was born? Aren’t I great? The problem with life is we know we are alive and we have a lifespan. My cats don’t know what is happening besides the moment. I turn a light on when it’s dark, they don’t question where it came from, they are just thankful it is there. They don’t understand cancer. They don’t know they are seventeen years old and have cataracts and are an inch from death. I wish I had lived every moment in the present. Worry. Worry, worry, worry. That’s all we do. Focus on what will happen, what could happen. The best part of a vacation is the anticipation. Once you have it you are always disappointed. I read if I live for thirty more years they will cure the aging process. They not only will reverse aging, but eliminate death. How is life worth living if you don’t die? The greek gods were fascinated with death because it makes every experience, every moment mean so much more. I won’t make it thirty more years, but even if I could, i wouldn’t want to. I want to be back with Henry. I am so tired of being a burden on My Daughter. She has given up so much to take care of me. She doesn’t say anything but I know what she has sacrificed. When I was growing up her lifestyle wasn’t approved, but now it seems everyone is marrying everyone. I want her to be happy. I was never a writer so I am not sure if this is coming out the way I want it to, but I want to be useful. I’m writing this before I go to bed tonight. I haven’t really written since I was a girl but My Daughter said it was important I express myself and get my thoughts on paper. I am still struggling to see the point in life. Good. Bad. It doesn’t seem to make a difference. I led a moral christian, moral life. I prayed everyday and went to church. Henry went to church. I believe I’m going to heaven. I believe Henry went to heaven. I don’t think heaven is the way it’s described in the bible. I know that I am more than my body. My spirit is what is holding this pen right now. My consciousness is what is real. My body is nothing more than a vessel. What happens after this vessel is used up, I do not know. I know that I have enjoyed the time I have spent thus far on this plane of existence. My Daughter would make fun of me for talking like this but this is what I have always felt. There is nothing more real that staring at deaths door. I am knocking, pounding, screaming for him to come and take me. I don’t want to die. I’m scared of death. But I’m scared of life as well. How can i be alive if I’m not living. I’m just here. I’m just running out the clock at My Daughters expense. She has a life. She needs to move on. I wish I lived in Oregon where assisted suicide was legal. There is a point to life though. I know how much I mean to My Daughter. She means so much to me as well. I love her with all my heart. I don’t know what to say to her. She has given up her life to take care of me. I want her to be happy. We all want to be happy. I think if this was my last night on earth I would just want to say that every moment is precious. There is no future. There is the now. The right now. You don’t realize how much you are fixated on what’s going to happen or what happened already. As My Henry always said, “Life is the best thing that happened to me.” And I believe that to be true. Journal entry December 6th, 2014: I woke again today.

“Do you know what a homunculus is?” “No, never heard of it” “It’s this image of a little guy they use in neuroscience to show how many sensory nerves you have in each part of the body. The more nerves in a part of the body, the bigger that part is drawn.” “Yea?” “Yea. So he has massive hands and a huge d...” I dismissed his description with a feigned grimace and vaguely gay gesture of the hand. I’m not gay, and have used the ‘d-word’ many times before, but there is something oddly unsettling about an old man using it so casually. “Do you know why he has a huge d....” “Yes! I get it!” The old man shot a sideways squinted glance probingly at me. “Are you gay?” “No, I’m not gay.” Obviously, the ambiguous nature of the hand gesture from a moment ago was more apparent than I had realised. I need to be more careful with that. “You just seem a little uncomfortable with references to...er, the male organ of love.” The last part, enclosed safely in air quotes, was whispered breathily to me. “I’m not gay.” “It’s ok if you are.” “Just tell me about the homunculus...” The old man considered me with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and suspicion, but he was too tempted by the conversational bait he had cast. His frozen expression softened and, eyes alit, he took off from where he had left the lesson before. “He’s a weird looking guy, alright. Big ears, lips and...” He glanced up at me, searching my face for permission that was not there. “...and feet. But do you know what’s the weirdest thing about this guy?” “Yea?” “No eyes...he has no eyes.” I considered this image and felt a cold shudder ripple through me. It seemed out of proportion, more like I was anticipating some future coldness - something of which the details were obscure but the feeling of was disturbingly vivid. “Why does he have no eyes?” “Because there are so many nerves in the eye, if they put that in, all you’d see are two giant eyeballs and nothing else.” “Wow.” “Right? Interesting right? Those damn eyeballs are so big we pay little attention to the other five senses. And we completely ignore the subtler senses inside of us.” “You mean, like our soul...?” The word slipped clumsily out between my teeth, and felt as though I had somehow mispronounced it or said it with a heavy accent in the way a foreigner would. The word itself was not mispronounced, of course, but it felt like its meaning was. Is that even possible? Can one mispronounce the ​meaning behind the word? “Don’t be stupid. I mean like...like your liver.” “What?” “Well, all your internal organs. Don’t you wonder about everything that goes on inside there while you’re walking around doing your thing?” “I don’t think I’ve ever really thought of that.” “You should. It’s freaking amazing in there man.” The old man’s sense of wonder at my innards was, despite my current state, infectious. He must have sensed this as he continued with even more vigour. “Take your liver. It’s just the most incredible piece of nature...do you have any idea how many chemical reactions happen in your liver to keep you alive?” “No idea.” “Neither do I, but it’s a lot. The heart gets all the credit. Centre-of-the-soul, symbol-of-love and all that. And it knows it, too, beating arrogantly in your chest like it owns the place. It’s a brutish, ill-mannered organ, the heart. It’s like the politician of the body. All noise and no class. Or like the pretty-boy jock of high-school. You know what I mean? The guy with no brains who gets all the girls..” The derisive reference to the pretty-boy-jock sent a sudden wave of shrapnel through my mind. In a moment, I winced externally, but internally that moment separated into an infinite array of time capsules, playing out sequentially and mercilessly within my mind’s eye. My girlfriend (now ex, apparently) confessing that she has feelings for a work colleague - the pretty boy. As tall as he is good-looking as he is dumb. The previous girlfriend, less direct but no less devastating. A thousand loveless glances and snubbed embraces communicate unworthiness more slowly but more deeply. Passages from books and essays espousing the virtue and vindictiveness of love, taking the heart and mind back and forth until both come resting somewhere in the middle, more out of exhaustion than clarity. And finally, the father, defeated by the same question. If he couldn’t find his way, what hope did I, a much lesser man, have? Suddenly,I realised where the earlier shudder had come from. The old man must have noticed my little wince as his spoken thoughts trailed off into silence. His expression, now sympathetic, was focused squarely on me. “You ok there man?” “Yea... yea I’m fine.” I stood perfectly still as the house of feelings within me became taller and more precarious. I knew if I moved or shifted my glance, it would all come crashing down at once. That was certainly not something I wanted to happen in the middle of the day on a busy sidewalk. The old man must have known this too as he accepted my obvious lie and continued. “Yea, the liver is amazing. Silently doing all that work without ever resting.” “Why are you so obsessed with the liver?” As if on cue, the old man promptly lifted all the dirty layers of his clothing to reveal a large pale belly marked with a long scar on its right side. “I got a replacement when my old one broke. I’m a new man!” He grinned ecstatically at his own display, looking proudly at the scar and back at me many times. I noticed that the grin revealed a few teeth that would benefit from replacement too. For the first time during our encounter, I assessed the full extent of the old man’s situation. The dirty layers and teeth. Mounds of clothing and blankets, presumably donated by kind passersby. The mattress of cardboard that was his bed. And the little styrofoam cup that had caught my attention and received my deposit of spare change just a few moments ago. “How’d you end up on the street like this?” The old man winced as I did before, and I regretted the enquiry the moment I uttered it. I had not given him the same courtesy of allowing him to hide his pain. Instead, it remained edged on his face in a way that I would never forget. For the first time, his gaze, drifting down, could not hold my own. As his being deflated before me, I could see the time capsules playing out in his mind, even if their content would remain forever hidden from me. “That...is a long story.” Feeling the dull ache of guilt and helplessness, I made another, more generous contribution to the styrofoam cup. “Well, good luck to you sir.” “And to you, young man.” With both of our houses intact, I walked away, not feeling any better, but at least not feeling any worse.

I was in the middle of my morning stand up call when the plaintive meows reached my ears. Being a cat Mom my ears instantly transmitted the waves to my brain which could now no longer focus on what my manager was speaking. I waited with barely contained patience for the meeting to end and once it did I scampered to the balcony to locate the miserable kitten. But no matter how far I bent down the balcony wall I couldn't spot anything except the garbage surrounding our compound. The cries faded making me doubt my senses. Had I imagined them? I recalled the times when I'd drop my cats with my sister before a trip and my ears would still reverberate with their meows even if the house was empty. Oh well, a cat's meows are too similar to that of a baby's cries (intentionally) so maybe it was just a neighbour's kid crying in the morning. ***************************************** I walked back to my building having purchased the grocery for that week. Lockdown or no lockdown, I wasn't going to venture out everyday, and once a week was enough for a single person to buy their essentials. Vicky the building guard dog who greeted everyone with a wagging tail( except if you had the audacity to enter the gates after 11pm) , had followed me to the nearby store in the hope of procuring some glucose biscuits for himself. I petted his head and went home and got him some cat dry food to eat. Funny how dogs can easily digest cat food but God forbid you attempt to offer a cat, dog's food! And that's when I heard the tiny meows again. It seemd to come from under the Swift parked in the garage. I tried to bend down as far as possible and spot the source of the noise, Vicky joining me in lowering himself and growling instead. It was a kitten! Not more than a month old. My heart melted then and there and I rushed upstairs to get whatever cat wet food i had lying around, to give to this tiny tot. I placed it in a plastic container and slid it under the car, s/he ate it hungrily, keeping an eye on me and Vicky at the same time. All the motherly instincts I never thought I'd experience, made themselves known to me at that instant. I wanted to protect that baby, to give them a home and safely tuck them in bed, caressing their round belly and revelling in their satisfied purrs. But I had two male cats already upstairs. And knowing cats, I knew it's never easy for them to get along with any new addition be it feline or human. Luckily the building caretaker and his wife appeared at that moment. And to my surprise the kitten happily pranced towards the wife, rubbing against her and joyfully running circles around her. So they have trusted a human, I concluded; happy that the kitten is in fact not alone. ****************************************** It was past 10 pm when my building caretaker called me. He was looking for cat food. I looked at Sheldy who had just now puked out whole the remnants of his dinner on to my bedroom floor. Of course I had cat food; I carried a big tin of wet food downstairs and dropped it in the same container that was under the car. The kitten jumped down and hungrily started eating. In their eagerness they climbed right into the bowl, the front paws inside and continued eating. I had been standing still, but I moved to take a picture. It was a mistake. They let out a loud angry tell as if questioning my audacity for distributing their supper, and retreated back onto the car's hood. I apologised most profusely and moved away from sight. **************************************** It had been two days since then. I wondered why no one asked me for more cat food, why Vicky never growled or chased the invisible kitten from under the cars in parking. "It was trapped in the engine. It refused to come out,no matter how hard we tried. Ultimately the owners drove away, and when they returned it was not inside the car anymore". I was numb. If only I had taken them in. If only I had rubbed their full belly, scratched their ears and decided to revel in their purrs ... I'm an atheist, but if there is someone out there looking out for these tiny souls, I hope they have kept them safe and happy.

I didn’t want a career as much as I wanted something to do with life that would serve to cure my low self-esteem. That’s the first and only thing you need to know. However, please note that I truly wanted to be cured more than anything else in the world. My flesh, blood, and bones body was nothing more than a covering for that inner lowness. A dull, low, ache. (In English I don’t think that’s an official word - lowness - but it says what I’m all about. Sloshing through the days, slogging through the weeks, slipping through the months.) I thought standing alone, acting oh so autonomous and straight-backed, would help. The career was supposed to provide the place for that standing. The problem was, I hadn’t counted on standing alone against stinging slings and arrows. Those stings came from people I saw every day, my colleagues. Sometimes they were words I heard, but other times they were things said in halls and closets, by faceless voices and phantom minds. The speakers were so evil I thought they were mere figments of my imagination. It also seemed like the mean went with the territory. Smart people just acted that way. They spoke to kill. PHD? Yes, but for me it was more like PTSD. You really can catch it in high-fallutin’ places. A doctor informed me that was possible. Tears. It seems PTSD has no cure. Still, I did it. Kept searching for the way to blast the inner lowness by showing I knew enough to work in that place. I pretended the twisted ones didn’t exist outside their offices. Inside, inside me, I had my personal fight song. Also, although it took me a while to notice, I had music by steel women to take hold of my shoulders, prop me up, slap my face even, all the while showing sad eyes at how much things hurt. How much I hurt from all the aloneness. Maybe you would like some examples of songs that salved the scrapes and fissures, but I can’t bring myself to mention any. I thought publications would help. Conference papers, too. Prove it to myself, because I certainly didn't think much of what I did. Clearly everybody else was better, or at least ninety per cent of everybody else was better. At least I tried hard. (This low self-esteem thing is a messy bird. It squawks and flaps, makes you look awkward. You are.) The result was an annual report and a growing list of accomplishments. Words on paper or a computer. I thought nights alone with a good book or a paper to write would help. They were nights that were very alone. Achingly alone. Aching. That means, of course, that the inner coils just stretched and twirled more tightly. This is no lie. This is no exaggeration. I might have had a decent brain, but I was also a sick woman. Then, after a few years of not moving an inch toward the cure that was the reason for the career in the first place, I thought working eighty hours a week would be the be-all and the end-all for the esteem ‘glitch’ in my life. A career was necessary. That was what mattered. No sacrifice was too great. Quitting not allowed. Spend your life workin’ for the man. He doesn’t know or care who you are. It’s important to explain that another effect of this feeling unworthy was that I always felt like a fake. Certainly I didn’t deserve the degrees that had been earned during years of study. Nor did I deserve those publications, those conference papers that had my name inscribed beneath their titles. True, I may have deserved the bullying. I was rough, scuffed-up on the outside, not a smooth colleague whose parents had both attended Ivy League schools. Mine never saw the high school graduation ceremony. Sixteen and out. Definitely I didn’t deserve the partner I had somehow acquired. Class difference, it turns out, can be even greater than race in some cases. Class similarity can mean solidarity. The other way around, upper vs. lower economic level, meant that working class me deserved the criticism I received for not being a good housekeeper, perfectly neat, even-tempered. I grew up damaged goods. A damaged girl. Admittedly, I was not easy to get along with. That was natural, because my brain never turned off, thinking about the next article that needed to be written, overwriting the esteem that wasn’t there. I didn’t really know how to talk about anything else besides what the career was about. I thought, imagined, supposed he was also passionate about the same thing. He was probably bored to tears, but was too polite to say anything. There is something else to consider: I had been an only child, used to amusing myself because there were no siblings to play with. Time had to be occupied somehow. My young girl’s technique was to go deep inside my imagination and find a meadow for dancing. I already knew that I only deserved myself, not company. Solitude was my destiny. He was nevertheless my passion, even though my passion for finding a cure for no self worth was much greater, apparently. I thought he was handsome, exotic, and excessively intelligent. Was he all that? Maybe, but you’ll need to ask somebody else about that now. I don’t have any recent data. I didn’t know all that much about him. I simply tried to be the right one, be good enough for him. The important thing is that I was able and willing to be alone, which gave him a lot of leeway as well. Of course that was all right and good. He deserved to have his solitude. I shouldn’t be getting in his way. I just thought it was a good combination, the two of us. We gave each other space. I had grown up with it while he had been one of four and had a right to his space now that he was an adult. It was essential to give him what he wanted and needed. The years went by. Now we have reached the conclusion: He didn’t need me much, so when we were apart, tending to our careers (more something I did than he did), my absence would do no harm. I thought this because I wasn’t worth being with, as has already been noted. It had been quite hard to settle into a pattern that fit, not too tight and not too loose. Our life together. A relationship so tenuous yet surviving. Weeks alone, weeks together. It was all I deserved. Lots of space for me and the career meant, not to be rich or famous, but to console me for what I could never be: worthy. Long-distance commuting, from one continent to another: it was my protective mantle and my distracting mantra. I know some people thought otherwise, thought I was not working enough at fighting off the debilitating, tongue-tying low self esteem. Others simply thought I lived a very odd life. They didn’t know me. Nobody saw the working class kid in a ramshackle house on an unsophisticated street in town. Nobody knew I had a different sort of wealth. I didn’t know it myself for a long time. Did I say I was kind of the monastic sort? Hiding away means hiding from some/thing/body. Why was I hiding? Some days brought clarity. Others just fogginess and no horizon. As for the mantle or mantra, there were other examples of people who paid high prices to make life work. Once somebody told me a story about a couple who were happily married but dirt poor. The husband emigrated for a number of years. They had one child, a boy. I don’t know if the man ever returned for visits during all the years he worked on the other side of the ocean. The sacrifice paid off, though, because he sent money home, they had a roof over their heads and food on the table. Soon after he returned, he had a heart attack and died. His wife went from being a widow of the living to a widow of the dead. Her husband had come back to her, though. He had come back. He didn’t survive the reunion very long, but at least he came back. So, yes, I do know that lots of people make sacrifices all the time, and often they are ones they never set out to make. Ones they would be incapable of making if they were asked to make them. The thing is, I worked really, really hard at making my sacrifice work. I knew it was necessary if I were to someday, somehow, be worthy of him. Be as smart as he was. He was destined to be the great scholar. I could work to be half as good, perhaps. And so I stood alone. Again and again. Over and over. Feeling at times like Saint Sebastian. Wasn’t he the one who had tons of arrows shot into his body but he didn’t falter? Sorry, I don’t know a whole lot about saints. It’s not my field of specialization. I slept alone. You can get a cat or a dog but it’s not the same. It’s nice when the other body in the bed is human sometimes. I ate alone. This was the really problematic part. You see, I love to cook and am not bad at it, but never bother if it’s only me. Just some cheese and crackers, some olives on the side, maybe a glass of white wine. Great supper for a loner. Add some grapes or clementines to round it out. You could even avoid dirtying a plate; just put a paper towel in front of you. I worked and wrote alone. Well, not completely, because when you have students you are with them during the class. But you don’t usually socialize with them. That’s even a bit risky. All the class planning and homework correcting, that happened with nobody else around. Writing has to be solitary as well. You might go to a café or a terraza , and there will be people around, but if you want to get anything written, you can’t be gabbing. By noting this, I am admitting that I chose this type of career. I am to blame. Yet probably I chose what I deserved. I would read poem after poem, novel after novel, review after review. My life, a book, an open book. Only in one sense, though. The rest, the part not made of words and pages, was permanently sealed. We will go no farther on this topic, thank you. Yes, I knew I had the gift (not talent, by ‘gift’ I mean good fortune) of being able to have my eyes walk onto a page and become disembodied. I think you could call it that. I was on the page, in the book, and I wasn’t me but instead was the reader of another’s words. I was a ghost flitting about the characters on the pages.this might help explain why a career that required constant reading and writing was the only one that would chase out the low. Words, the strongest drug on the market. A sad poem didn’t speak for me, no. Instead, it led me to the source of the words and that was when I could cry freely, knowing the sadness was for somebody else. I could not be sad because I had made the choice to have a career. That was my story and I was sticking to it. I am sticking to it, despite the fact that this is all very convoluted at this point. I sincerely apologize. During all the things I’m describing to you here, I always had my low self-esteem for company. It was the person I saw in the mirror (poor, homely low self-esteem). It was the passenger who told me how to improve my driving. It was company on the couch reading. We - low self-esteem and I - used to hold conversations sometimes. I never told it to go away, because the long-distance thing I had counterbalanced that. I felt wanted, loved, at least a little bit. That’s what I told myself. It was like clinging to a leaky raft, but who knew? When there was nobody other than my faithful low self-esteem around, there was nobody to compare myself to. There was just a void. Void equals emptiness. In this case, it was a good thing. The fact was, when I had nobody around I just felt normal. A lonely normal, but still... After a few years, I began to think I was a rock, that the sacrifice was cool, that I was brave for managing career and couple roles so successfully. With lots of space. Then it was over. Gradually, things became raspier, splintier, chillier. Lots of subtle scowls. It was probably his plan so I wouldn’t notice. Or maybe low self-esteem (already identified as my company on lonely nights and weekends) blinded me. Perhaps I am on the spectrum, as they say. It wouldn’t surprise me. Career, planned and achieved, had won. Score one point for the Lady. Score none for Self Esteem. Drowning in words, devouring words, words even in bed and in the shower. This was supposed to be divine. Except that obsession with it became an either/or. Cure it or give up, surrender. Relationship, rather like the emigration story mentioned earlier, had lost. Take that point away from the lady. She lost. He, on the other hand, had gained another partner. The Lady stuck, wait, I stuck, with the aloneness. Yes, the lady - I - lost him, but at least I had consistently kept the career light burning. Sounds corny, true, and it’s kind of like the Motel 6 ad. We’ll leave the light on for yuh . (Actually, I like that ad. It hasn’t aged well, but it gives you a warm feeling when you hear it.) Too bad the lady couldn’t lose the low self esteem. Too bad the lady was me. If she hadn’t been battling low self-esteem, she wouldn’t have focused all her passion on the career. She would still have another person in her life. A person with words to speak. I do love words. This story ends with no resolution. The end had been determined before it began. The obsession won; love lost. There is still no explanation for the lack of self-esteem that caused my whole muck-up. Not even a tiny theory has been proven as to where it came from and why it coiled itself around my innards so tightly. It might be better not to know. After all, the low self-esteem has done irreparable damage already. Knowing its origin, which I don’t, could finish me off. Some things do not need speaking. In other words, and mark my words, I will take the reason for this disease I have (for it truly is a disease) to my grave. If the truth decides to come out then, more power to it. I’ve done my part by living the life of a clam (even when trying not to). I’m tired. Very tired. And so alone. Please, leave me alone or lie down beside me. Your choice. I’ll give you all the space in the world.

“Welcome to Kong’s Castle,” Faye said, forcing cheer into her now raspy voice, resisting the urge to collapse unto the restaurant’s hardwood floor and empty herself of a well-deserved sigh. “May I take your orders?” “Really?” The woman on one end of the square table whipped her head up from the menu she was scanning, then slapped the leather-bound book shut, with enough ferocity that a draft must have fanned her face. She trained furious eyes on Faye. “That’s it? May I take your orders? No apologies?” She ran her fingers over the fringes on her clutch, lips parted as she shook her head. “We’ve sat here for over fifteen--” “Amy it’s...fine,” the man across from her said, one hand sliding across the burgundy tablecloth to brush the knuckles on her left hand. “This is a busy place--” “Uh-uh, Cyrus,” Amy said, sending her red hair extensions flying as she shook her head, one hand raised in Cyrus’s face. “If no one tells them, they’ll just keep giving us mediocre service like the cheap things that they are.” She narrowed her eyes at the startled waitress, in what must have been her impression of a withering look. “Best believe I’ll be reviewing your service. You won’t want to read what I write.” Her initial shock ebbing, Faye’s left brow made a slow ascent, her eyes on the little woman in the flowy red dress. She would have gotten to them quicker if she could have; the restaurant seemed to be taking in more people than it was letting out today, and they were understaffed. Still, what was an apology? Ignoring the familiar fire that was stirring awake inside her chest, she smiled. It took a lot of work too, summoning the muscle power to push those cheeks up in a semblance of niceness. “My apologies, ma’am,” she said, linking her fingers behind her. “We do our best--” The hand was up again, this time in Faye’s face. “Save your little excuses for someone who believes them, girl,” Amy said, her nose in the menu again, the fingers of her right hand waving in the air before Faye’s nose for four full seconds before returning to her table. “Let’s see if your grub is worth it at all.” Faye blinked, speechless. Here she was, doing her daily service to mankind when all she wanted to do was disappear into a bed, and her reward was a biting tongue and a right hand that shushed her. She nibbled on her lower lip. Oh, for a chance to sink her teeth into that disrespectful right hand. She looked at the quieter half of the table. A gray shirt stretched over Cyrus’s lean frame, a black jacket slung over the back of his chair. The eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses rose to meet Faye’s, and he mouthed a quick “Sorry.” His date rattled off an option on the menu and clapped the book shut again. “And make it quick,” she said, running a hand through her shoulder-length bob. “Of course,” Faye said, tight-lipped smile on. She pulled a notepad from her pocket and scribbled both their orders. She returned the notepad to her pocket and patted it, the beginnings of a plan forming in her mind. Biting had never been her style anyway. There were other ways to take the girl down a few notches. And Faye could think of some. Sneaking one hand under her thick dark hair, she massaged her right earlobe, feeling her fingers tingle with excited heat. She reached for both their menus, letting her fingers discreetly slide along the tablecloth, till she heard the sizzle that would be missed by ordinary ears. Faye walked off, a spring returning to her step as a new sense of purpose grabbed her. The atmosphere churned with the heady musk of the strong spices that characterized Asian cuisine, and the odd harmony of cutlery hitting plates, of clinking glass, and conversation. But as she wove through tables and neared the kitchen, the voices of the couple at Table Five did not leave her prickling ear. “One kung pao chicken and one fried rice,” she called, pushing through the kitchen doors, just as another waiter breezed past her bearing bowls of steaming broth. She peeled the order from her book and stuck it on the order wheel, then picked up the order for Table Sixteen, only too happy to be going back out, away from the fiery heat and the cacophony of banging pots and swishing knives, to where she could observe Amy and Cyrus. “My family’s pretty large,” Faye heard Amy say. “How many?” “Besides my parents, there’s four of us.” “Six? In total?” Cyrus laughed. “Babe, just the males in my family are elev--” “One second love,” Amy said. Between placing a bowl of chow mein before the single woman at Table Sixteen, and encouraging her to “Enjoy your meal,” Faye looked over her shoulder at Table Five. Amy’s right hand drifted down--from where it had no doubt gone to silence Cyrus again--to join her other hand on her phone. “Grace just tweeted me.” The sudden slump in Cyrus’s shoulders, and the carefree laughter from the girl who had caused it, shot tiny sparks up Faye’s arm like an unchecked electric charge. Show time. While pink, zigzagging lines of static electricity, only visible to her, sizzled between two fingers, a command tumbled out her mouth like a breath. “ Munzadelfieri.” * “Aah!” Amy let go of her phone, her panicked eyes watching as it bounced off her thigh and crashed into the floor, the sound covered by the music floating from unseen speakers around the restaurant. Her chest heaved with every ragged breath. “Uh, sorry?” Cyrus’s unsure voice carried over to her, but she was too worked up by the sudden feeling in her fingers--and the painful possibility that her phone was as good as dead now--to concentrate on him. “Hopefully there’s no damage--” “It burned me,” she said, the words leaving her in a shocked whisper. “What?” She looked up, eyes shining in fear and unshed tears. “The phone. It burned me.” Cyrus, right elbow on the table, pinched his lower lip, eyes flicking between her and the phone on the floor. “Happens,” he said, shrugging. “You know it gets hot from overuse, right?” “I know,” she said, mad that he could imply she was dumb, and because she didn’t miss his emphasis on the word “overuse.” “It just--” She shut her mouth. How could she explain that the phone she’d been tapping a minute ago had shot a current of blazing heat through her fingers, so potent she’d vividly remembered that time when she was six and had accidentally seared herself with an iron? “Never mind.” Cyrus sighed. “Just...pick it up.” She frowned. Was that a note of tiredness she picked up in his voice? What was his problem? “Well excuse me for being a little stressed because you couldn’t take me someplace better for our first date.” He chuckled. “Keep it up, and it’ll be our last.” * Faye grinned into the bottle of water she had stopped long enough to grab. Table Five was stewing nicely in the little pot of mischief she’d stirred. “Order for Table Eleven ready!” She binned her bottle and filled her hands with a tray, the aromas pricking her nostrils, her stomach gurgling to remind her that she hadn’t consumed solid food in three hours, a frighteningly long time for someone who was surrounded by it. She went through the doors and strode to the table and its waiting patrons, her lips curving as more conversation hit her ears. “Really, Cyrus? Are you calling me a bit much?” Amy asked. “No, how could I?” Faye placed a ramekin before a customer, smiling at the heavy sarcasm in Cyrus’s voice. “What I am saying, my dear Amy, is you’re a little different from the person I was texting.” “Oh? What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t look exactly like my profile picture? Boobs not big enough for you?” “On the contrary, Amy, you’re easily one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever met!” Faye nodded. Amy was beautiful, even with the mouth on her. “I’m just saying. Your behavior. It’s...not cool. You didn’t have to talk to the waitress like--” Her piercing laugh interrupted him. “Of course. I knew it. You’d take her side. All of you do it, people of your class. You stick together.” “Excuse me?” Faye caught a section of her lower lip between her teeth. She didn’t mind being slighted; she was a waitress, and the larger number of people who walked in through Kong’s Castle’s doors thought they were better than her. Amy talking to her date like that, though. What could justify that? Moving a napkin so she could put a plate in its place, Faye turned to blow lightly through rounded lips on the hair that brushed the shoulder of her black shirt. In the light wind, a wisp of hair broke away, its ends glowing red-orange as it streaked through the air. It made a beeline for Table Five, where a man was trying to shake his head of rising anger, and a woman was reaching for a phone on the ground. The hair clicked against the glass on the woman’s side of the table, and, with a tiny pop, exploded into oblivion. The glass tipped, sending a cascade of sparkling water over the edge, and right unto Amy’s ducked head. “Aah!” * “What did you do?” Cyrus was too stunned to react immediately to Amy’s squawking. In his defense, none of his dates had ever glared at him while trying to peel their dripping wet hair off their eyes. “What do you mean what did I do?” he squeaked, when he could speak. “You--kicked the table! Or knocked the glass!” He swallowed, the back of his neck on fire as his discomfort rose. She was making a scene, if the growing sound of murmuring around them was a sign. “Why would I do that?” he asked. “Maybe it just--” “Just stop!” In one motion, she snatched up a napkin, stood, and flounced out, presumably to the bathroom, leaving him to rue his taste in women. His stare landed on the empty glass, perched precariously on the edge of the table, where it stood, right side up. * “Chicken for the lady,” Faye said, putting the black dish in front of the now dried Amy--who had spent most of the last ten minutes in the bathroom yanking sheet after sheet of paper towel from the dispenser and dabbing at her hair, her head under the hand dryer--, “and rice for the gent.” She set his meal in front of him, then smiled at the pair. “Enjoy.” Amy brought her nose closer to her food, her lips wrinkling. “Why did I expect different?” She made a show of coughing into a napkin. “Lowly place, lowly service, lowly food. Just...” she flicked a hand in Faye’s direction. “Go.” And Faye had thought raining on Amy’s parade--literally--would be enough to knock some humility into her. “Certainly,” Faye said, glad, nevertheless, to have another reason to practice. The charge pumping through her was reaching fever pitch. She turned on the heel of her ballet flats, picking the moment of the swivel to speak inaudibly, her thumb playing a familiar rhythm on her other fingers within her skirt pocket. “Eek!” Faye managed to keep a straight face while walking to Table Eight. “What?” Cyrus. The tiredness was creeping into his voice. “It moved!” “What?” “The chicken!” Amy’s voice was a composition of awe and shrill whispers. “It...bounced!” Cyrus’s sigh was audible enough to steal a giggle from Faye. “You’re poking it, remember? It will move.” “Not like that! It--” “Just eat , Amy.” His tone was a promise that if she didn’t just eat, he would leave her there. Just as well. Faye was beginning to think he was a masochist. There was a “humph,” and more metal on porcelain. “Thanks,” Faye said, smiling as she received payment, her other hand still in her pocket. Time to crank things up a notch. Table Five in sight, she ran her thumb over her fingers, and muttered a phrase. Three cubes of sauce-drenched chicken leaped out of Amy’s dish in rapid succession and socked her on the forehead. “Ow! Aw! Aw! ” Pocketing her tip, Faye winced as Amy’s shriek pierced her ears. Sometimes hyper-hearing was a curse. “What?” For a word that had no s , Cyrus’s utterance was a brilliant impression of a hiss. “It flew!” “What flew?” “The chicken! Look, it did! And knocked me here--” “Yes. Of course. The chicken, a flightless bird when alive, somehow found a launching pad in your meal, and decided that your face would be a good landing point.” “Oh? You don’t believe me?” “Well of course I do! Am I to think the reason there’s sauce dripping from your eyebrows is that you’re a messy eater?” “Oh shut up!” There was that arm of Amy’s again. From where she stood by the kitchen door, Faye rolled her eyes. That arm was beginning to piss her off, and she hated being angry. Indifference was her preferred disposition. She could not be blamed for what was about to happen. A vibrant magenta mist swirling in her left palm, Faye whispered another command. “ Manu’umtuarum nefrigore.” “Oh my God. Oh my God.” The insolence had left Amy’s voice long enough for surprise and terror to creep back in. “I can’t--it won’t--” Her wide eyes, shining with fright, switched between Cyrus and her raised arm, as if expecting one of them to react to her incomplete statement. One of them did--Cyrus raised his arm then, to catch Faye’s attention. “Bill, please,” he said, when she reached their table, not one second spared on looking at the petrified woman across him. “Cyrus!” Faye, taking her sweet time to get the bill, flinched again at Amy’s outburst. “Are you listening to me?” “I don’t know. Am I?” “My arm. It won’t come down.” “What do you mean it won’t come down?” “It’s...stuck!” The man sniggered. “Just as well. You’ve done nothing but keep it in the air all evening.” “You think I’m joking!” The waitress walked out the kitchen, glad there was still enough current simmering within her to work up a full, genuine smile. There sat Amy, her recalcitrant arm stuck in space, the muscles in her other arm tense as they tried to pull it back to her side, while her date wisely shoved the last bits of shrimp into his mouth and avoided eye contact. Faye put the bill next to Cyrus, and shook out her left hand. Amy’s arm hit the table as the spell broke. She gasped, and massaged the back of her hand with her other hand, her eyes darting around the restaurant in growing paranoia. “It’s haunted. This place is haunted,” she kept saying. Her chanting, paired with the hair that had turned ratty after her emergency pat-and-blow-dry, gave her the look of someone a few days from taking up residence in a home for the incurably insane. “This place is haunted.” Her eyes flitted up and met Faye’s. The waitress’s amusement was enough to kick away Amy’s terrified expression. Back was the anger. “You! You did this!” Faye blinked, at her innocent best. “Did what?” “Everything!” She snatched up her purse and stood. “You...witch! I’ll make you pay!” “I’m sorry,” Cyrus said on the back of another longsuffering sigh, putting money on the table, while his date left the restaurant in a symphony of clacking heels and huffs. “She’s...a little stressed.” “That’s alright.” He stood. A pang of guilt hit Faye. She had contributed to ruining his evening. “I’m sure things will...look up,” she said awkwardly, patting the back of her hair. He flashed her a smile. “Thanks.” He made for the door. From the corner of her eye, Faye saw the woman from Table Sixteen approaching the door. A pink rectangle peeked out the woman’s side pocket. Acting on the liquid heat rushing through her veins, Faye lightly tugged the air before her, her lips moving. A wallet slithered out the woman’s pocket and hit the floor. Cyrus’s good guy instincts kicked in. “Excuse me,” he called, bending to pick up the wallet, quickening his stride to meet the woman who had stopped outside. The ensuing conversation Faye observed through the glass doors was a little too long and giggly to be just a wallet exchange. Faye let out a breath, fanning herself. Who knew? It could be the beginning of something good. And if it wasn’t? She popped one of Amy’s chicken chunks into her mouth. They could always return to the restaurant for a little more magic.

The first sign of trouble was the outbreak of the virus in Venice. It had come in on a cruise ship a week into July and spread faster than the speed boats on the Grand Canal. By the end of the second week, the doctors at the Servizio Sanitario Nazionale had announced an estimated death rate of over 85%. By the end of the third week, we were under lockdown. Worse than ebola, tuberculosis, or smallpox was this Grim Reaper in the shape of a microscopic parasite. By week five, the virus had spread as far south as Rome. The Italians called it Signor Morte -Mister Death . Nothing was working. After two weeks of spottiness, the WIFI had crapped out. Cell service and phone lines had gone down two days later. The grocery stores had stopped delivering and I was living on stores of dried beans, rice, and pasta, but as long as I had water, I could manage. Neil Gaiman had said, “If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other's tragedies.” Signor Morte had made this astonishingly clear. We all exist on our own little islands, even though our islands may sit side-by-side on the same little street. ~|~ Giorgia had not messaged me in days. She had sent me a text-just a quick Buongiorno but the cell service had collapsed before I could reply. Rolling onto my side, I curled into a ball. A mewling, scratching angry creature was growing inside me and with each passing day, it was worse. I felt a tear slip down my cheek. She had begged me to move in with her, but I had said no. I had come to Sicily to focus on writing. The creature inside me got angrier, every time I considered my choice. “Back off,” I said to the creature. “What else could I have done?” I had come to this tiny village, Circello , to finish my novel-time without work, and without Nonna and Nonno pushing me to marry some nice Italian boy. No, I had not come to Sicily to fall in love. “It’s not love,” I insisted, but the creature simply sniggered. ~|~ Morning. That was the time when water was pumped into roof-top tanks from the street, but not that morning. The pump was silent. I had 500 litres in reserve on the roof. Not enough. ~|~ It had been a week since the water had been pumped to the rooftop tank, but the last drips had fallen from the tap and I knew that I had to decide. Should I stay? Without water, I’d be dead in three days. Do I go out? If I went out, I would come up against Signor Morte . How long would I last? One way or the other, death was standing watching me. And there was that thing; that one other thing that had been in my mind as I tried to decide what to do. What had happened to Giorgia? ~|~ With a scarf around my mouth and nose, I stood for a moment, palm flat against the door. After weeks and weeks inside living with the spectre of Signor Morte , the door felt odd against my hand-heavy and unreasonable. My chest tightened and hot pinpricks of fear spread up my neck and across my face. “Maybe I should stay?” The angry creature rose up and shrieked. “Okay, okay. I’m going,” I told the creature. Shouldering my rucksack, I opened the door into the first fresh air I had breathed in 56 days. I gagged. The sick, sweet, cloying smell of putrefaction was thick. I could feel it on my skin. The smell coated the inside of my nose, my mouth, and my throat. Tears ran down my cheeks, partly from the stench, but more from the knowledge of what was behind the foul smell. It was silent. Eerie. I had to get away from the silence-to hear my own footsteps. By the time I reached Via Arcuri , I was sprinting. I skidded around the corner. I pressed my hand against my mouth to keep from vomiting. Even with the scarf, the smell was horrific. Clouds of flies swarmed the piazza and beneath them, hundreds-no thousands of half-eaten bird carcasses. I had to get out. Now. The creature inside was screaming, fighting. Running from the piazza , with no idea where I was going, I ran as much to get away from her as from the carnage behind me. Running blind; I was sobbing, gasping for breath. At the stone steps going down to the path and out through the olive orchard, I tripped and tumbled, hitting every flagstone on the way down. Amidst the dust, I lay wheezing, catching my breath. Where should I go? But I knew. It was Giorgia. I had to find her. Bile burned my throat as I stood up. The olive trees were swaying. Everything was swaying, but it wasn’t the trees, it was me. “One foot after the other,” I whispered while the creature inside me sniggered. ~|~ The August heat had returned. The sky was brilliant-blue and cloudless. The sun baked my head and my shirt clung to my back. As I walked along the country road, dust carried in on the African scirocco coloured my legs a chalky orange. In the distance, the silence was broken only by the occasional barking of a feral dog skipped over by Signor Morte . It struck me that the only living animals I had seen were predators-dogs, cats, foxes, and one hawk circling above. Everything else lay dead in the short, dry, yellowing grasses. What does that mean about us? I wondered. ~|~ I followed the backroad to Sant’Anastasia until I came to a pack of feral dogs tearing apart a sheep. Since Signor Morte , the feral dogs looked far less friendly and far more aggressive, so I cut through the fields and over the mountain. On the treeless mountain, each step had to be taken with care. Rocky outcroppings, bleached bone-white by the sun, held unknown dangers. Small outcroppings hid behind clumps of vegetation waiting to trip me-larger crags hung over me, sending small rocks tumbling down. I regretted not bringing a walking stick. Before I was halfway up the mountain, the wind picked up and dark clouds started to skitter across the sky. The creature chuckled. The temperature had dropped from an exhausting heat to a chilling cold and the sky was a sinister black. Lightning shot forked fingers down from the clouds as I struggled against the wind to reach a cave up ahead In an instant, my arms tingled, and the hairs stood on end. BOOM! A brilliant white light flashed, and I was filled with excruciating pain shooting down my arms and legs and through my torso. The creature howled in rage. Light surrounded me like a bubble. I could feel myself thrown backward, in slow motion. The creature chortled, “Now you’ve gone and done it,” and I was out cold. ~|~ Icy rain pelted down, waking me and I moved, groaning in agony, onto my hands and knees, and crawled the last 200 feet to the cave. Inside was large and dry. My arms were painful and heavy with tree-like scars­-branches, leaves-running from my shoulder to my wrist. I had heard of this before. Lichtenberg figures. Marks left by lightning running through one’s body. My body. Exhausted, I collapsed onto the ground, rucksack under my head, when I heard a low growl from the back of the cave. “Please,” I whispered, “This can’t be an inhabited cave.” I pulled a flashlight from my rucksack and peered into the back. The yellow eyes of a fox flashed; its teeth bared. Too sore and exhausted to move, I said to the fox, “You stay there, I’ll stay here. Let’s just leave each other alone.” The fox’s growl grew into a snarl. Belly low to the ground, it began to creep toward me. I had nothing left for this, but the creature inside me did. Her rage bubbled over and pulsed through my body like the lightning and I, too, was enraged. How dare this fox threaten me! Without warning, the creature thrust me and my rage at the fox. I howled, diving so quickly, the fox didn’t have a chance to move. I clutched its head and smashed it down on the rocky floor, spreading its brains and blood all over my hands. Licking my fingers, the blood and brains tasted delicious. I tore into the flesh until all that was left were bones and fur. I crumbled to the ground and fell, dreamlessly, asleep. ~|~ My eyes opened to sunshine, a pounding headache, and a ravenous appetite. I gulped down a bottle of water, hoping it would help. My eyes caught the pile of blood and bones and fur beside me. No. That couldn’t be real. But I knew it was, that I had been the one to kill and eat that fox. I stumbled out of the cave to my knees, waiting for the retching to start. It never did. As disgusting as eating raw fox was to me, the creature seemed satisfied. Grabbing my rucksack, I started up the mountain. If nothing else, I was going to make it to Giorgia today. ~|~ The sun had just passed the midpoint in the sky when I reached Sant’Anastasia. Silence, with the same dreadful odor of putrefaction. Flames of exhaustion licked my calves and burned my feet. In spite of the stench, I had to stop. My thirst was raging. Ah, grazie Dio ! Before me was Bar Roma. A metal chair lay on its side in front of the bar. Could I do it? A lifetime of conditioning said no. My exhausted legs and thirst said yes. I smashed in the window. The inside was oppressive, but there were no surprises, no bodies. The bar was fully stocked. Even the water flowed from the tap. I ducked down and let the water run into my open mouth. Miraculous. I drank until my stomach gurgled until the creature was submerged, at least for the moment. A padded bench called to me and I stretched out to give my feet and legs a rest. ~|~ “Stella!” Sure as life, I heard someone call my name. I sat up and listened. It was Giorgia. “Stella!” “Giorgia! Where are you?” I ran to the door, the sun blinding me. Outside on the sycamore-lined sidewalk, I couldn’t see her. “Stella!” Trotting along the sidewalk, I looked down each of the side streets. Ahead, a figure turned the corner. It was Giorgia, but before I could call out, a dark shadow rose up behind her. It was huge, black, and ominous. From behind her flew an enormous hawk. Giorgia looked over her shoulder, shrieked, ran and the hawk gave chase. Larger and larger it grew. Giorgia’s face stayed in shadow, but the hawk, now huge with a massive wingspan, was absolutely clear. Soft feathers lay in brown and white stripes over breast muscles so strong that every time it flapped its wings, I could see the feathers ripple with the movement of the muscles beneath. Blood orange eyes were trained on Giorgia and with a loud kee-eeeee-arr , it changed its trajectory, pointing sharply down. The creature wailed back in answer. The dark shadow had now spread over Sant’Anastasia , and huge, black storm clouds rolled in. Sprinting, I tried to make it to Giorgia before the hawk could. Head down, Giorgia dashed toward me. “This way! Giorgia, over here!” I screamed. Her legs pistoned up and down. She was close enough I could hear her gasping. The hawk’s talons were now out, ready to clutch at Giorgia’s back, pick her up, and carry her away. “Giorgia, take my hand!” Head still down, she reached out as she ran toward me. I grasped her wrist and pulled her sideways down a narrow alley-too narrow for the hawk, now the size of a small plane. We tumbled over and over. When we rolled to a stop, I grasped at Giorgia’s shoulders and tried to roll her over onto her back, but she fought me. Above us, the hawk screamed. Kee-eeeee-arr ! “Giorgia, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” The creature was now fighting to get free. “Giorgia?” I whispered. But instead of Giorgia’s melodic Italian accent, I heard a harsh canine growl. “Giorgia, please.” Once again, I took her shoulders. This time she didn’t resist, but her face stayed hidden. Gently, I place my hand on her cheek and turned her to me. I scrambled back, hitting the stone wall of the building at the back of the alleyway. What horror had happened to her? Her eyes were torn bloody sockets. Her beautiful soft olive skin was purple and rotting. Flesh had peeled away, and I could see broken teeth through holes in her cheeks. “Oh my god, Giorgia, what happened? Who did this to you?” With a low guttural predatory sound, Giorgia leapt at me. I rolled away harder than I had intended and banged my head against the wall. ~|~ I sat up with a start. Still in Bar Roma, I was on the floor. Giorgia was nowhere to be seen, and the sun was streaming in the broken window. “It was just a dream?” I whispered, staggering to my feet. From the angle of the sun, I couldn’t have been asleep for much more than an hour. The creature whispered, “She’s in trouble. She could die.” Yes, she could die. I grabbed my rucksack and left the bar. ~|~ It was an easier walk to Burgio than it had been to Sant’Anastasia. Giorgia’s house was on the outskirts, just across the fields from the Capuchin Monastery. I ran past the prickly-pear and the almond and fig trees, until I came to her ancient wooden door, painted bright blue against the pink-ish stone and the terracotta roof tiles. The creature inside me purred. This was where I belonged. My home was in Giorgia’s arms and she had to know I’d finally realized it. After all I had been through, to realize what I should have understood all along; I did not want a life without her. I pushed on the door. “Giorgia? Are you there?” “Giorgia?” I called again, a little louder. From upstairs there was the squeaking of bedsprings and the padding of feet across the floor. “Stella? Oh, mio Dio ! Is that really you?” It was Giorgia. My knees nearly buckled in relief. “Giorgia, I’m downstairs.” Instead of the sound of footsteps, I heard nothing. “Giorgia? Aren’t you coming down?” “Stella...I don’t look like you remember me.” “What do you mean? I don’t care!” “Really, Stella, you have to prepare yourself.” “Giorgia, please.” Giorgia came down and stepped into the light. I stumbled backward, landing on the granite floor. Her right eye was gone, and, as in my dream, her face was purple and rotting. One nostril was a loose flap of skin, and her flesh had peeled away in parts with broken teeth jutting through. She reached out a hand. The beautiful long fingers that I used to love to watch as she played guitar were twisted and two were missing. “My beautiful Giorgia. What happened?” I whimpered. “Oh Stella, don’t you know? It’s the virus. It was on the news before the power went out. It has two stages. The first is the sickness. If it kills you, you’re dead, but if you’re infected and something else kills you, the virus somehow brings you back to life. But this,” she gestured to her face, “this is what happens. Lesions, rotting flesh, symptoms like leprosy. No one knows why. And it changes your brain chemistry. I can’t eat anything but raw flesh anymore. Everything else tastes so bitter I can’t stomach it.” “But Giorgia, is there no treatment? Can’t you get help?” “Stella, there’s no one left to help.” “Wait, does this mean...you died?” Giorgia nodded. “Two days ago, I was firing the gas kiln and there was an explosion. It threw me across the room. When I woke up, my eye was gone and my nose was, well, like this.” “Oh, my poor Giorgia.” “What about you, Stella. How did you die?” I frowned, confused. “What do you mean? I didn’t die.” “Oh Stella, my darling girl.” Giorgia took a mirror from the table. “Here.” She handed me the mirror. The creature snarled. “No, I don’t want to look.” I tried to hand the mirror back to Giorgia. She pushed it back. “Look, Stella.” The creature twisted and writhed inside me. “No. No! I won’t look.” “Stella,” Giorgia held my face in her mutilated fingers. “Stella.” Slowly, I lifted the mirror and peered at my face stunned. It was hideous. The angry red Lichtenberg figures that ran down my arm, were also across my cheeks. My lips had turned black and purple and when I touched them, the skin sloughed off. I shook the rotting skin from my fingers, sickened. “Stella, it’s okay. We’re together now.” “It was the lightning. I was struck by lightning on the mountain last night. But I didn’t have the virus. How can this be happening?” “Did you ever have the feeling like you had something alive in your belly? I did, for weeks. I thought it was stress, but it’s the symptom that comes when none of the others do.” “So, my flesh will just drop off me? And then I’ll die?” “ Mia gioia , I’m not sure we ever will.”

Three’s a Crowd By: Jessica B. Taylor ~ Joy ~ The tension was thick. The old expression, ‘you could cut it with a knife’ applied. An icy silence filled the space between us while the raucous, loud music and frivolity took up the rest of the space around us. The place was packed...the band was playing one of my favourite rock anthems, and I sat frozen in my chair. “Do you want to dance”? he spoke the words carefully. I averted his eyes and declined his request. “What’s wrong”? he asked. “Nothing”. I lied. I looked around the room, trying any possible way to get myself back to the present moment, and away from my inner turmoil. It had happened much the same as it always did. We were out walking, having a great time, enjoying another sunny, warm day in Paradise. “Do you want to stop in at ‘Frankie’s’ and have a drink?” Frankie’s was a fun bar a grill, with live music and great food. The vibe was carefree, and the owners knew everybody’s name. They greeted their guests, whether new or old, with a big smile and a kiss on the cheek. “Ok, yeah. Let’s go” I was in a mood to have some fun. As we approached the building, I could hear the thumping of the music, and knew it was probably packed inside the small, open-air tavern. We exchanged greetings with the smokers standing by the entrance and were greeted by ‘Maria’ the barmaid shortly after stepping inside. “Ola! What ken I getchya” she smiled her recognition of us. We each ordered a beer as we looked around for an open chair or table. “There’s two over there”, he pointed out two bar chairs against the wall. I spied the chairs and agreed they looked to be available, so we made our way over there, passing the dance floor to our left...and then I noticed her. She was sitting on the stool beside the unoccupied chairs. She was wearing a black, spaghetti strap sundress, and her ample breasts were protruding from the low-plunging neckline. Her blonde hair was cascading around her shoulders, and she looked to be alone. She had a pretty face with blue eyes, and her skin was perfectly bronzed. ‘A fucking Barbie doll’ I thought to myself. My steps became shaky as we approached the open chairs. “Are these seats taken?” he asked her. “No Sirrr! They’re all yours...” Her words were a bit slurred as she leaned back in her chair to give us both a full-frontal view. We took our seats. I of course selected the seat beside ‘Barbie’ to put some distance between them. “Hiiii....I’m Stacey” she leaned over to me and extended her hand. I extended my hand to meet her, “I’m Joy...and this is Frank...” I turned to acknowledge him...and he turned to acknowledge the introduction. “Wellll, hulllloooo there” she dropped my hand to reach for his. “I luuuuuv your hat” she extended a compliment to Frank as she leaned toward him giving him a great view of her cleavage. I sat upright in my chair, wishing I would’ve worn a dress instead of my mustard-coloured tank top and overly worn jean shorts. Stacey was wearing cool, strappy sandals and I had worn my flip flops. The barmaid found us in our new location and brought us our beer. Frank asked her to bring another round when she got a chance, and looked over at Stacey to ask if she would like a drink. “Tequila!” she accepted his offer with gusto. “A round of tequila then” he placed the extra order with the barmaid. I feigned a smile as I took a large gulp of my Corona with lime. My body swayed to the music even though my mind was no longer present. It had already gone into ‘freeze’ mode...as the other options, ‘fight’ or ‘flight’ did not seem to be available. My body felt trapped. My breath was shallow. I did not know whether I could contain the ball spinning uncontrollably in my stomach without heaving. My chest felt tight, and I thought for sure anyone who looked would see my heart thumping outside of my chest. Frank and I had only been dating a short time. He had invited me to Mexico, a place he loved on the Pacific side of the country. I still couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have met him. How generous he was to have taken me on an all-expense paid trip, no strings attached. We had hit it off from the moment we met, talking into the wee hours of the morning. Waiting to have sex until the time was right and BOY, was it right when it was right! He was a generous lover too. As the icy silence continued to creep over my entire being...the familiar feeling of dread washed over me... “Do you like the band?” Frank looked at my now vacant eyes. “Yes” I gave a curt reply. “What’s wrong, honey?” I knew he was trying to get me to look at him. “Nothing” my voice pitch was now an octave or two or higher than normal. “Do you want to leave?” he asked courteously. Everything in me wanted to say ‘yes’... “No. Do you?” I turned the question on him. “Well, no...but you don’t seem to be having a good time” he was looking at me with concern. The barmaid brought us our round of drinks and we clinked our shot glasses with Stacey, before downing the Tequila contained in them. “So, do you come here often?” I turned away from Frank to Stacey... ~ Stacey ~ Stacey had woken up feeling groggy from the night before. She had stayed out late with a couple of people she had met at a beach-front bar. ‘Why did I even come on this trip?’ she thought to herself as she gazed in the mirror, fighting back the tears she refused to allow since she arrived in Mexico, alone. The trip was planned months ago when she was still...when she was still with...She felt her chest heave and then it started...the waterfall of emotion she had been trying to contain. Tears streamed down her face as black streaks covered her face from her mascara from the night before. She leaned over to catch her breath and her knees gave out as she fell to the floor, lying on her side, hugging her legs in a fetal position, rocking herself like a mother would comfort her newborn baby. She couldn’t contain her wails of despair. She didn’t know how much time had passed when she found herself in a muddled mess on the floor with her tear-sopped blonde hair stuck to the side of her face. She stood up shakily and gripped the vanity to steady herself. She turned the water faucet to full speed and splashed her face with cold water...again and again and again trying to wake up from the nightmare she found herself in. This would be her last night in Mexico. The vacation getaway that was planned with...with...This time she bit back the new cascade of tears waiting to descend from her Ocean-blue eyes. She decided she would go to ‘Frankie’s’. The friends she met last night said they were going there and invited her to meet up with them. At least she wouldn’t have to be alone. The place was packed when she arrived, and she scoped out one single seat along the wall. She looked to see if she recognized anybody in the crowd, but they weren’t there. Shortly after sitting down, the two people beside her got up and left. She ordered a shot of Tequila, then another, then another...as she swayed to the music. She began to feel self-conscious as she adjusted the straps on her black sundress, feeling a bit uncomfortable with the very revealing neckline...but she had bought it for...for...She couldn’t think about that now. She always admired women who looked so trim and put together with small, perky breasts. Hers were large and could only be covered up with bulky sweatshirts or oversized t-shirts. She didn’t like to flaunt her breasts. About an hour after she arrived, the two chairs beside her remained vacant. Then, she looked up and saw them approaching. A man and woman - a very attractive man and woman. The woman looked so carefree and put together with her fitted tank top and jean shorts. She had beautiful, dark brown hair that flowed down to her perfectly sized breasts. Stacey wondered if they were a couple or just friends...She could only hope... ~ Frank ~ Frank loved the Ocean air, and he loved being in Mexico with the love of his life. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was. He had only met Joy a month before, and she was exactly what he had dreamed about. His chest stuck out a little further when they’d walk down the Malecon together. He saw the gazes she got from other men. The approving nods men gave him as they strolled along. She was funny and smart...and drop-dead gorgeous! He wasn’t sure how the trip would go when he suggested it to her. But here they were in Mexico together, and it had been GREAT...except for...well, except for that night at the Italian place. He couldn’t figure out what had happened. They were having fun, and then she went cold. He didn’t know what was bothering her, and when he asked her, she just seemed to get more annoyed with him. And now, it was happening again as they sat at ‘Frankie’s’. He thought they had been having a great day when he suggested they stop for a drink. Then, BOOM, they sat down, and she went cold. Her pretty face now looked sullen and edgy. He looked across the room and noticed a younger man standing at the bar facing them. He wore a tight-fitting muscle shirt and faded jeans. His arms were well-defined, and his dark, curly hair brushed the top of his muscular, bronzed shoulders. Frank had just turned sixty-two. He had shaved what little hair remained on his now bald head. His beer-belly protruded under his button-down shirt and the grey hairs on his chest curled up over the open buttons at the top. His skin was not as taught as it once was. He was getting old. ‘Was she disappointed to be there with him?’, Frank thought to himself. ‘Did she wish she was with a younger man?’ Maybe the girl beside her would cheer her up. Stacey seemed to be having a good time... ~ Stacey ~ The man and woman sat beside me, and he generously offered to buy me a drink. I suggested Tequila and when the barmaid brought them, we shared a festive ‘cheers’ and downed them. I noticed they weren’t talking to each other much. I wondered again if they were a couple or just friends on a trip to Mexico together. Then she turned to look at me. Man, she was beautiful, just like...just like...No, now was not the time to think about Giselle. She was no longer my girlfriend. “So, do you come here often”? the woman seemed a bit nervous as she asked me the question and I noticed she seemed to be a bit preoccupied with my chest. I looked over at Frank who also seemed to be preoccupied, looking over at a young guy across the room. I then leaned in a little closer to Joy as I was pretty sure it was safe to get to know her a little better.

Penelope tosses and turns throughout the night because of some many reasons such as there is dirt touching her, the room is hot or freezing, and/or her muscles are very irritable. Suddenly, her alarm is buzzing and she just lays there, but it starts to irritate her because it keeps getting louder. So, she gets up to throw it across the room. Then, she slowly goes to get her clothes and towel for a shower, in which she takes like 30 minutes because she really just wants to be in the bed still. She gets out and transforms her hair trying to make her appearance a little better because she is very self-conscious. She then struggles to find something to eat, but then she settles for cereal. All of sudden it's 7:20 so she has to leave for school. She gets to school and sits in her car waiting for her ex that parks right next to get into the school because she is afraid to see him face to face. So, her first class is Algebra 2, in which she just sits in and does random stuff on her computer and occasionally looks up at what the teacher is doing because she understands math quickly. Her second class is Chemistry, in which she sits in the back and tries to figure out what the teacher is trying to demonstrate. Her third class which is Health Science is her favorite class because her classmates actually talk to her and she gets to learn the skills to be a future nurse. Now, her fourth class is just study hall, where she just sits there wondering if she should study, take a nap, or just to do something random. Then, at 1:20 the bell rings and she is ready to get to her car so she can roll her windows down and blare her music going home down the back roads. Driving home is her favorite time of the day because she feels happy for a moment. Then, she gets home and tries to lay down, but then remembers that she has to be at work in 30 minutes so she rushes to get ready and leaves. She sits in her car til it's time to clock in because she really wants to rest her eyes. She finally has to go clock in and then as soon as she gets in there they hand her a headset to take orders. She starts to take orders and already somebody has come through with a bad attitude and it really just ruins her day. Then, she finally gets a break that flies by because why not. She comes back into a huge mess because they just had a lot of orders come through, so she has to jump in and try to get everything back in order. She is just so ready to go home, but her manager just keeps doing other things and she just keeps saying "Hey, it's a lot of minutes past 10". Then, the manager finally says she can go so she literally runs out of the store to her car and flies home. She gets home and thinks about eating dinner, but she doesn't because she is too tired. She gets a shower and goes to lay down, then she remembers that she forgot to give a mom a hug goodnight. She tosses and turns throughout the night for many reasons. Suddenly, her alarm is buzzing and she just lays there, but it starts to irritate her because it keeps getting louder. So, she gets up to throw it across the room. Then, she slowly goes to get her clothes and towel for a shower, in which she takes like 30 minutes because she really just wants to be in the bed still. She gets out and transforms her hair trying to make her appearance a little better because she is very self-conscious. She then struggles to find something to eat, but then she settles for cereal. All of sudden it's 7:20 so she has to leave for school. She gets to school and sits in her car waiting for her ex that parks right next to get into the school because she is afraid to see him face to face. So, her first class is Algebra 2, in which she just sits in and does random stuff on her computer and occasionally looks up at what the teacher is doing because she understands math quickly. Her second class is Chemistry, in which she sits in the back and tries to figure out what the teacher is trying to demonstrate. Her third class which is Health Science is her favorite class because her classmates actually talk to her and she gets to learn the skills to be a future nurse. Now, her fourth class is just study hall, where she just sits there wondering if she should study, take a nap, or just to do something random. Then, at 1:20 the bell rings and she is ready to get to her car so she can roll her windows down and blare her music going home down the back roads. All of a sudden she remembers that it might be Thursday, when she has guard practice, which is not as fun as she thought it would be and her mom says she doesn’t need to do so she could work more. At practice she is thinking about so many things besides what she should be doing. Then, of course she keeps messing up and not remembering the work. Then, it is 3:30 and she gets to go home and try to lay down. She gets home and gets a call to come to a hospice center because her aunt is in there. She gets home around 9:00 p.m. She is really needing to study for three tests she has the next day, but she is so tired and hungry. She’s hungry so she tries to get something to eat, but her father had tried and failed at cooking some spaghetti. So, she just gave up and went to lay in the bed, but she couldn’t fall asleep. Suddenly, her alarm is buzzing and she just lays there.

I died and only got 3 likes. Everyone else unfollowed me. Should have used a meme. Something with a cat and a halo. Maybe I could have died with a little more flair and added a hashtag. I could've jumped off a skyscraper and tap danced into the ground. #deathdancer. #photofinish. #yolo. But my death wasn't as fun or clickable. To be honest I don't even remember anymore. I don't know how long I've been an internet ghost. I guess it doesn't matter. I've lost my body and I'm no longer on the front page. Not like I was ever an attention whore but everyone deserves needs a little attention. Wonder if my life will be deemed "NSFL." I died and all I got was a stupid downvote and tagged as "TL; DR." I never understood what all the initials meant. I guess humans like to organize things so it’s easier to understand. I'm not human anymore. They call me "non-IRL" now, a roving cyber ghost. It's not so bad. I get to float around cyberspace and see all the fun posts like dogs running around with cats, women rallying against inequality, girls being immodest, political memes shouting at each other, and telling their rivals to shut up. It all rushes by like a digital hurricane, turning into a static mush of blue and gray. I see celebrities talking about banning their social media accounts by posting on social media. Photographs of overabundant food platters transmuted into lip-puckering selfies. Heavily used furniture is on sale for $0 or “OBE.” You could get kitchen appliances for cheap if they weren’t buried under the ads for new ones. I ignore them though. They tend to blot out the color in the artwork that no one tends to see. I could look at those for hours. They’re filled with vibrant pallets; blues, greens, oranges, and reds. More vibrant than anything an ad for pizza rolls or soda could muster. But even these are misused. If I look closely enough, I could see the metadata that only c-ghosts like me can see. It’s a shame people have to steal things. Maybe stealing isn't so bad if it instills a sense of dreaming curiosity. Art should be subjective, but so should life. The forums about the rules of submitting art online tells me that no one really knows what that means. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this digital stream of everythingness and nothingness. The blues and grays are perpetual and uneven. It makes me wonder about a lot of things. I never read the terms of service so I ended up here, in the cyber-ether. Apparently if you don't sign out of your account when you die your personality is copied from their servers into a virtual space. No wonder the agreements are so long. You’re first met with a long narrow set of data tubes. As you go down the tubes you come to an intersection where you have to pick the type of cyber ghost you want to be. I looked at my past reflection and cringed. They had called me "extra" once, so I removed all the pieces I didn't like. I chose a winged angel because that's what I had become. She's pretty cool. I wish I could take a selfie. When I first glided through the widening windows of threads, instant messages, and blogs I felt their thoughts and emotions. I perceived it all at once. It was like passing through a sea of doubt, fear, and awkward laughter. A dreamscape of colors and faces churned all around me. I wanted out but I couldn't turn away. The boxes and windows receded. A horizon expanded into an open universe, morphing and reforming. Mountains of images of video spilled into an ocean before me. I was looking at the other side of the digital mirror. And I thought how different life would be, if the living could see this place. The digital ether that connected everyone also segmented them. They couldn't see it from their windows, peering in from homes, classrooms, offices, or while driving. Sometimes while flying I would get stuck in people's DMs. It was a mixture of other users asking for help, mostly sexual, or pointless banter, mostly sexual. There’s a lot I could tell you about humanity in those DMs. I got stuck in them thanks to rules I signed. If anyone saw my avatar, they could click on it and trap me inside and send me to their friends for a laugh. Once you're dead you were material. I ran into another spirit inside the cyber underworld. He said his name was Crunkface69. He once ran the Like A Boss Cats subforum but got hit by a bus in New York. Now he moves between private conversations as an avatar of Hitler holding a cat. I tried to get him to help me escape but he kept talking about all the rules. "Naaaah bro! You have to adhere to our rules. Rules, bro! Rules! We can't have freedom messing everything up!" He had said. "You ain't supposed to be wondering around out there. You'll get roasted." I flew over to the locked window of a DM, "But I'll see new things and be one with the ether." "Roasted! Hashtag roasted. Get it trending. Hashtag trending. #getalife. #fantasyworld. #nevergonnahappen. #noonesgoingtosaveyou." When he wasn't looking, I found a bot he was using (everyone has one) and unlocked the DM door. I traveled further into the virtual kaleidoscope, into darker territory. My virtual eyes were exposed to everything. The socially awkward users, the retaliations, the NSFW, NSFL, inappropriate hashtags, the overly intricate writing prompts, and incessant postings, the closed-off cliques and rose-colored glasses; it stretched out in a mindless panorama. It was then that I discovered that I would be stuck here forever, never returning to the real, devoid of touch and taste. I can never find what I’m looking for and I never will again. It’s an endless realm of oblivious egotists. I never realized there was so much nudity. Then again kids use social media. Wouldn't want them to be exposed to something inappropriate. Exposed to things like bullying, death threats, bigotry, war, perverts, avarice, gluttony, pride, and I forget the rest. Maybe not war. Don't remember seeing much of that. You can probably find a lot of things if you look hard enough. But I could never find what I was looking for when I clicked on things. Clicking was easy. Using your mind though, that was tough. I don't mean thinking about things. I mean actually using your brain to overcome the bounds of logic. I'm just a digital copy of my former self, a series of symbols inside a complex typewriter. But you -- you can be so much more. I send this message into the ether so that someone will hear me and one day repeat my message. Maybe in my next life I'll foster more friendships, less hate, and maybe pity.

Julius screwed up his face when his mother handed him the full trash bag. Not even trying to supress a sigh he took it. “Take Einar with you, he could use some fresh air as well.” Julius’ mother said as if to answer his poor behaviour. “I hate going to the garbage cans,” he muttered. But his mother ignored him and instead added cheerfully. “Don’t forget to wear thick clothes or the Christmas Cat will get you.” “There is no Christmas Cat,” Julius wanted to reply but knew better. He hated to go to the selective garbage cans, 15 minutes away from their home. They lived farther out on a farm, which meant he had to walk along the fields. The path towards the station was lonely and icy, and especially now in the dark, tedious to follow. Showing his friend, Einar, the object associated with a walk, they went to the front room. “Are you going to put on your new sweater?” Einar asked while looking for his shoes. “No,” Julius scoffed. There was no use in using thick clothes when one only brought away the trash. It wasn’t that cold outside. “I don’t intend to stay outside for the next hour.” He added trying to lift his own foul mood, it was just trash after all. Nothing one should get worked up about. And besides, a bit of fresh air would do them good. Frosty wind blew towards them as the two exited the house. A 1-foot-high blanket of white covered the area. About to grow even thicker from the never-ending stream of new snowflakes sauntering downwards. It was a nice view, Julius had to admit. Staying outside very long however, was not his plan. With quick steps the friends followed the narrow path, barely freed from the snow, which kept clinging to their shoes and trousers. Nothing but the soft creak of their steps seemed to fill the air. Everything was silent, peaceful. After slipping and nearly falling two times, they reached the garbage cans. “Careful there,” Einar said with a smirk while pointing at a large frozen puddle in front of the container. With one smooth motion Julius threw the bag skilfully into one of the holes at the side of the container. Which the bag entered without much noise. Satisfied the two turned to go back the way they came. The sight of the garbage station had barely been obscured by the thick snowy precipitation, when they heard a soft hiss. “Is that a cat?” Einar asked surprised, making Julius stop to take a look around. Only with effort he saw the glittering white fields and some lights in the distance. But none of the feline little creatures he liked to caress when encountered. Suddenly they perceived the creaking sound of someone walking through the snow. By the sound of it, Julius would have thought it to be something on four legs. Something really big. A shiver ran down his spine as the feeling of being watched spread through his entire body. “We should hurry,” Julius whispered towards his friend. As soon as the words had left his throat a big, black paw swept them to the ground. The next time Julius managed to examine his surroundings two large, yellow eyes stared at him. The slitted pupils fixed on him, with a hungry glint. Julius didn’t dare to breathe as their eyes locked and time stood still. The scared outcry of his friend was what brought him back to his senses and out of the hypnotizing cat eyes. He turned to his friend who already started running towards his home. With bared claws the enormous cat pressed Einar to the ground. A low growl rumbled in its throat as the fluffy tail lashed from side to side, throwing around clumps of snow. Julius felt paralyzed, the Yule Cat was real. It was really real and it was going to gobble them up like some fishy treats. “Einar,” he called out, running to his friend to help. But the cat only hissed at him and swiped him into the snowy field with its tail. Shuddering from the cold, Julius managed to dig himself out of the white flakes. The cat was already lowering its head towards his friend. Uttering a deep, long meow as the mouth opened, revealing white, sharp teeth. Even Julius could smell the reeking breath escaping its throat, like the graveyard of a hundred unfortunate souls. Getting a hold of himself, Julius thought frantically of a way to save his friend. Desperate as he was, he did the only thing he could. Swiftly, he formed a snowball and threw it into the cat’s face. Not waiting for it to work he threw another one, trying to aim at the cat’s blazing eyes. “Don’t you have some rats to catch? You ugly, motheaten furball.” He yelled at the black furred creature in front of him. Seemingly understanding his words, the cat turned to face him, the tufted ears flat on the head. With bared teeth it got ready to pounce at the daredevil. Yet before Julius could find himself under tons of cat, he threw another snowball directly into the cat’s eye. Shortly overcome by pain it took its massive paw to clean its eye and face. Einar, whom had gotten up by then, hurried to his friend’s side. “Quickly, take some snow and get out of here!” Julius said while already starting to run. He knew no stories of escaping the cat once its mind was set on eating a man. So, he hoped the warmth of the house might persuade it to leave them alone. Their run was a short one, although they now could already see the farm’s windows giving off the cosy shine. The Christmas Cat was already on their heels, determined to catch its prey. Again, snowballs were thrown. But the cat was clever, whenever the attack came it hid its face. Thus, the snowy ammunition became useless upon hitting the head between the ears. Once the snowballs ceased the cat sprinted after them with elegant movements. That way the fight continued allowing the boys to cover a few feet of ground towards safe haven. Julius skin prickled at the constant tenseness and fear of possibly being eaten every moment. Closer and closer came their destination. Louder and louder grew the pitiful meows from behind. Ready to risk it all they both fell into a run as if the devil himself was after them. The cat followed, its footfalls shaking the ground beneath. Finally reaching the door, they opened it and fell to the ground in the front room. With adrenaline still coursing through his body, Julius got up to close the door in fear of the cat dragging them outside. To his surprise, the large version of the cute creatures he knew, wasn’t following. The wind ruffling its long pelt, it stood there and watched. The yellow eyes still blazing, the claws still unsheathed. For a moment they stared at each other again. In the end, the Christmas Cat yielded and turned to go, its contours soon vanishing amidst the uprising blizzard. “That was close,” Julius muttered exhausted while closing the door. “The next time, we put some goddamn winter clothes on. You hear me?” Einar only managed to say half in shock, half trying to joke. Julius himself only nodded at the statement, rubbing his frozen arms. After taking care of some deep scratches the cat had left on them, the two friends went into the kitchen for some warm tea. “There you are,” Julius’ mother said still cooking. “I almost thought you had lost your way.” “We just needed something to warm us up,” Julius answered with played joyfulness. His mother studied them for a moment. “You certainly look like you had some fight in the snow.” Not eager to talk about it, the friends just nodded agreeing that a snowball fight was the best explanation. Getting their tea, they both disappeared in Julius room again. Together they peeked out the window. Large pawprints led over the field and towards the distance. Most of them already nothing more than a faint outlining.

As she was cleaning her desk, she found a faded paper that she has written last year. She always had a list of new year resolution- her mother said that to be successful she needs goals in lives to strive for and otherwise she would get lost, she always goals to strive for, as she is a strong, independent career woman. The first on her list was that she should find a rich, handsome boyfriend. She found one. A nice boyfriend with a good career and nice teeth, despite not liking him. Her parents like him, and that was enough for her. Never mind the fact that she is not attracted to him, what matters is that he could provide, unlike her good-for-nothing dad who is always out of job and hit her mother when he drinks. Never mind the fact that she had a gambling addiction and he refused to have sex with her, she merely had to tick marriage off her list and he seemed to do that well enough. The second on her list was that she should get a raise in her career. She worked in a prestigious accounting firm and she is about to be promoted as a senior associate. All her peers are amazed at how quick she shot up, amazed at how she seemed to got along well with all the higher-ups. Behind her back, they always say that she is nothing but the boss' pet. They hated her, she thinks, because they're jealous. So they left her alone during lunch and she was alone, working alone until the late night. The third on her list was that she should be prettier. Her boyfriend cares a lot about her looks and he was surrounded by beautiful girls all day long. With them all as competition, she decided that she would have plastic surgery to maker her nose thinner, her lips rosier and less plump and her eyes bigger. And she wanted to erase that double chin on her neck. She also wanted to lose a lot of weight, that seemed the fad these days, she couldn't afford to look like a loser and have her colleagues talking behind her back. The fourth on her list was that she should get more followers in her social media and more friends of her kind. She had met most of her friends through a professional get-together, women like her who knows they deserve the best. They dress classily and only talk about the most sophisticated of topics, they would eat steak dinners and take pictures to show the world just how perfect and seamless their lives are. To do this, she should educate herself on what they like and be more like them, so she wouldn't stuck out like a sore thumb and wouldn't be driven out by her own circle. They call themselves feminists, and talk about how men are pigs and nothing but cheating beasts, a slave to their whims and desires. The fifth on her list was to purchase an expensive house and car She bought them all with her credit card, she knew that she had a good job and the bank would evaluate her as a good borrower. Her mother would talk to everyone about how successful her child is, despite being small and awkward in high school and that she is proud of her. Her father would look at her proudly while her deadbeat brother would look at her with envy, wondering how she could be so gifted and perfect while he is not, despite having belittled her during their younger days. Her mother had picked every furniture and floor she was to use, that would fit her need and it suits her nicely. She loves being an obedient daughter that her mother is proud about. Yet, as she was ticking off the lists of the new year resolution which she had written just last year, a horrible sense of unease sets in to her, she was deeply unhappy and she knew this was emptiness. She chided herself, telling herself that she should be happy that people would literally kill for her life and that it should be perfect and beautiful because her mother said so, and mothers are never wrong. And children should always listen to her parents and be a good, obedient child. Tears began to fall from her eyes as she felt a sense of unimaginable hurt piercing her chest. She pierced her new year resolution into shreds, tearing it apart. An unimaginable satisfaction bubbles in her chest as she does that- and she finds all her belief started to fall apart. What was the thing that she actually wanted? And she remembered that she always wanted to be an author, but her mother had looked at her with disappointed eyes whenever she mentioned it and had always said that it's good as a hobby but just not feasible. You don't want to end up like dad, right, she would say, pointing to her dad who had tried to be an artist but failed, and has been reduced to selling face portraits on the street. Her mother did not work that hard to make her fail like her dad too, and she wanted nothing but her success and happiness. A twinge of guilt would appear in her heart whenever she saw her mother's tired back and dark circles and she told her she wanted to be an accountant instead, and watched her eyes twinkle. But every time her mother's approval came, she felt that she was losing more and more of herself. Taking a deep breath, she begin to write a new set of new year resolution. It was simple, just a single task. Treasure yourself more. Be happy. She knew, as she writes it, that she has achieved it. She has reclaimed herself that she had ignored for so long and that was the only one and true new year resolution she has ever written. She did it.

Past Lives I am an ordinary girl living in an ordinary place who dreams of extraordinary times. I dream of being a pioneer in the frontier. The wild west I learned about in my fourth grade class, the trail I virtually walked in an online simulation. I imagine the bouncing of the wagon, the wide open skies. I can feel my anticipation at heading west, at the new life that awaited me and my family. I wish I could be the elegant wife of the owner of a silver mine. Living in an elegant mansion drinking fine tea out of fine china. I would wear thin dresses made of fine, touchable silk. My husband would order me lace and a dressmaker from the dusty town down the road, a wife of a miner who worked in the mine of my husband, would attach the lace, as delicate and intricate as a spider’s web, to those thin silk dresses. I would drink fine liquor, eat fine meals, and wear complicated and feminine hairstyles to the opera in Central City. I would have a coach and a driver, and life would be good and fine and wealthy. In truth, if I were to really be a pioneer I would be a simple girl, arranged to marry a simple farm boy with ambition. We would pack our wagon, my 3 plain dresses and the one fine dress for Christmas packed into the trunk my mother received on her wedding day and passed down to me. The weathered candlesticks that my husband received from his mother would be wrapped in the handkerchiefs that I stitched myself, in the long dark days of boredom living in a two-bedroom home with one big bed for my parents and another big bed for me and my siblings to wrestle around in each night. By the light of a candle and a crackling fireplace I would stitch those quilts and handkerchiefs. Life would be simple, but I would still dream. I would dream the dreams of a pioneer woman. Of big skies, and clear water. Of excitement, and the hope that accompanied the promise of a new world. Of the fear of the unknown that existed out in the waving grasses, and the blue skies of the west. In my past life as a pioneer, I would have the same adventurous spirit, the same big heart, and the same creative soul. I would not be the elegant wife of a rich man, I would be something better. I would be the strong and stubborn companion to a kind man in a wild place. I dream of being a ballerina or an opera singer, on the stage in New York in the early 1900s. It is an era of fantasy in my mind. I make-believe of opulence and extravagance. In my mind’s eye I see a small apartment, shared with a beautiful woman and me. In that small bohemian place we dream and dance. The money we make is mostly spent on the rent to a boisterous and occasionally cruel landlord, and the rest is spent on clothes and makeup and false jewels bought from carpets at loud and bustling marketplaces. Her and I walk arm in arm through the angry streets of New York in evening gowns at noon on a tuesday. We walk to the opera where we sing and dance on stage as chorus girls, and to the ballet where we wear our cardboard shoes and dance in uniform lines. When the show is over we disappear into the rowdy crowds. Not the Gatsby crowds of wealth and fortune, but the city crowds that gather in too tight spaces with no regulations and no care. The third class bunkers on the Titanic, a rowdy break from the rigid conformity and the delicate melodies of the opera and the ballet. We swing each other around in our costumes and our feathers and our rhinestones. I dream of being an Old Hollywood starlet. In this life I am not ordinary. This is the time my dreams run wild. I am a pale faced beauty with vampy lips and dewey eyelashes. I am the world best performer, the most beautiful actress. I stamp my hands into the sidewalk and pose for pictures on the covers of magazines. I am a star, glamorous and refined. But I am that pioneer too, and the poor unacknowledged dancer on the chorus line. And I leave Hollywood when the men become too much. When they become too cruel and too demanding. I take my beauty and my talent and I say no, and I leave. I leave once again for New York City, in the years when Marilyn Monroe was there. And like her, I live in a simple brownstone and wear elegant tailored clothing, and I learn about beauty from simpler people. And perhaps I leave again, to someplace far off and far away, when I realize that there is more to the world than controlling men, and white talented faces. In this life I am a star, after the years of toil on the prairie, and the suffering in the cramped and dirty spaces of the concrete jungle. In this life I am alone, and I am humbled. More so than in any life past. Throughout the conformity of the 50s, I find a way to come into my own identity, and become a part of building up the identity of the others. So in that way, blooms my dream of the 90s. A stubborn and fiery groupie. Moodily sitting a top of a speaker in a dim and smokey basement. Outrageous and angry but kind and involved. A mover and shaker in the new protests and policies of the era, a frightening face on the front page of papers, a speaker and an activist in a strange new age. Alive from knowing the difficulties of the west, with its wide waving grasses and its strange new dangers. Alive from the crowded smokey bars dressed up in feathers and hope, holding the hand of my lover who to the rest of the world is but a chorus girl too. Alive from the star studded 50s, the dismissal of fame and fortune, and the humbleness of an era of problematic prejudices and cruel conformity. Now alive and wearing pants and metal and nothing but black and discovering once again a new world, and being at the controversial and ever changing epicenter of it. And falling now into my current dream, of life as a woman living in a small townhome, studying an uncertain degree in uncertain times. Feeling the calls of all her past lives bubbling up inside her as she realizes now is the time to act as she has in all her lives past. Now is the time to be bold and adventurous, to be thrilling and risky, to be humbled, to fight. These eras of my imagination, all falling into the reality of this present moment.

THE COACH IN THE MIST The crew was exhausted. It had been a long hard, 5-day slog to get what they wanted. And they were ready for landing at their home and home comforts; looking forward to wives, girlfriends and long cool drinks; not caring by this time about the quality or integrity of their individual and combined efforts. Those had long been discussed and conjectured about hours earlier during their buffeting and uncomfortable journey back. Suddenly, dragging each one of them out of intermittent bouts of sleep, there was an electronic click. The Captain, First Officer, whoever - the crew couldn't care less, came on and said “I’m sorry guys” - it was a light aeroplane and the film crew were the only passengers with only a few empty seats - ‘guys’ was acceptable terminology - “but we’ve just had a weather update from Air Traffic and Sydney is fogged in and closed to all light traffic for the time being. We don’t have ILS* like the big international boys, and we don’t have enough fuel for a Sydney alternate, so we’re diverting to Canberra.” The Captain / First Officer of the twin engined Islander let all this sink in amidst the moans and groans from the Director, the first assistant, the sound guys, Producer, the whole shooting match, who had been on their feet in the hot sand on the other side the Great Dividing Range for the best part of 12 hours each day in the baking heat. The youngest of the crew, a work experience trainee, thought that this was just another exciting facet of his future career. The electronic click filled the cabin once again. “Now I know that y’all know that Canberra is famous for local fog, but today Air Traffic tells us that it’s clear. So that’s where we’re putting down.” The aircraft banked gently to one side. The public address system droned on for a while: “If you look below, you’ll see the sheep stations.... “ the flight deck’s usual monologue when on their finals to wherever. None of the hardened, time-weary crew looked out of any window, with the exception of the work experience trainee, who scoured the ochre terrain below them for sheep stations. The rest of the crew faded into disgruntled and superficial sleep. In a short while, the Islander’s wheels bounced on the tarmac of Runway 12/30 at Canberra International and the aircraft unloaded its passengers and enough camera and sound equipment to film Ben Hur. Most of the crew headed sluggishly for the terminal building leaving the work experience trainee to supervise the transporting of the equipment and baggage, which he was only too happy to do, even though no instructions or recognition were accorded him. The Producer, by now the only person with enough wakefulness in him to think reasonably clearly, sat on an airport plastic chair next to the pile of everything that had been discharged by the Islander. He looked up at the wide awake work experience trainee and said “Craig, go and find us a coach or something. We’re not going trust all this to a bunch of taxis up to Sydney. Fog or no fog.” The trainee nodded in enthusiastic agreement. He had a name now. He was Craig. So... off Craig went, scouring the innards and the far-flung reaches of Canberra airport, and, after much footwork, questions, dead ends and despair he located an ancient long wheel base vehicle which, at some point in the mists of time, had been converted into a 30-seater ‘coach’ with the over optimistic plan of transiting passengers from terminal to aircraft and vice-versa. It was parked at the back of a maintenance facility, along with, miraculously, its equally ancient driver. Borrowing from the drive of his lord and master, the Producer, he offered the driver fees, commissions and fame throughout the Australian film industry to get the thing started and, over an hour later, coach and coach driver arrived at Arrivals. He was not thanked or offered any recognition for his efforts. He knew that as a ‘go-for’ it was expected of him. Slightly disappointed at the welcome his arrival received however, he assisted with the supervising of shifting the equipment, baggage and personnel into the vintage vehicle. Craig knew that his efforts, not to mention his presence, were ignored, but within the hour, the bizarre and exhausted assembly was settled into the bizarre and exhausted coach and it was soon heading out of the airport onto the M23 and on its way to the still fog-bound Sydney. The ACT** twilight turned gently darker, and some erratic and flickering lights appeared overhead of the dozing crew. Craig sat and watched the road ahead, lit by dull and dipped headlights, through the half of the front windscreen that was available. The other half, the driver’s half was unavailable to anyone who might be interested because of a grimy, plastic concertina blind at the back of the driver’s compartment so he wouldn't be blinded by the headlights of cars coming up behind. The old vehicle bounced and swayed and the engine misfired occasionally, causing everyone to lurch forward momentarily then slump back in their seats ensuring that no-one slept fully. The journey up to Sydney, which would normally, in a normal coach, in normal weather take three hours or so, had already used up those three hours and a glimpse out of any of the side windows showed only the faintest wisps of fog that was supposedly enshrouding Sydney. Craig watched the road ahead through his ‘half’ windscreen and saw that the tired headlights were losing their grip on the road. The journey time was expanding more and more, accompanied by the dull throb of the diesel engine. The speed dropped as the wisps of mist turned into a gradually thickening blanket. Craig kept looking out of his side window but saw nothing - for a long time. ‘That’s strange,’ he thought. ‘Surely we must be on the M31 by now, heading up towards Sydney. But where were the road signs that would confirm this? Where were the signs for Murrimba and Hanging Rock? And where were other cars with cautious headlights fighting the gloom?’ There were none. Craig shifted uneasily in his seat. No-one was fully awake - or fully asleep - on this uncomfortable final leg of their return from the outback. But the eagle-eyed Producer was ever awake and aware. - It was his job. “Craig”, he commanded, over the noise of the diesel engine somewhere below them, causing the crew to surface suddenly from any slumbers they might have managed, “Get up there to the front and ask this guy how much longer is this nightmare going to take.” Craig eagerly stood and walked unsteadily up to the front, holding the grab rails to steady himself. With his back to the entry door, he stared into the darkened driver’s compartment. Ten pairs of eyebrows were raised, as if helping and encouraging him with the question he was about to ask, and with the expectation of the answer they wanted to hear. Craig, a blend of puzzlement and alarm showing on his face, turned slowly to the raised eyebrows and said hesitantly, “There’s... no-one here.” *Instrument Landing System ** Australian Capital Territory

“Where are you taking me?” Carissa stopped, not inclined to move further until she got a straight answer from Manfred. “It’s not far, just humor me, OK?” Manfred shook his sandy hair out of his eyes, big sad puppy-dog eyes, golden brown and brimming with emotion. Then he looked at her, recognized her expression, and capitulated. “I’m just taking you to the park down the street, that’s all. It’s quiet this time of night, so we’ll have privacy to talk.” Carissa tightened her lips, but moved on with no further complaints. They walked in silence, side by side, down the sidewalk into the evening’s darkness, a wide gap between them. The perfume of roses engulfed them as they walked past Mrs. Baker’s house; she won prizes for her roses, and her bungalow looked like a tiny raft tossed among the sea of flowers. Crossing the street, they entered a wide open area of ball fields, with chain-link backstops behind home plate in some, wide soccer goals in others. The grass felt soft underfoot. Manfred resolutely walked away from the ball fields toward the kids’ playground. Carissa raised an eyebrow but continued to walk with him in silence. They walked past a row of swings, chains jangling when the night breeze stirred. Carissa grabbed one and hurled it on its endless course, back and forth, going nowhere. This time Manfred gave her a look. She laughed. “C’mon, we played on these forever! Never looped all the way around, though, did we?” He laughed with her, and some of the tension between them eased. When they walked on, their steps were synchronized, shoulders almost touching. The silence felt comfortable, not threatening. Manfred led them away from the swings, past the sandbox, and halted at the see saws, what his mom used to call teeter totters. Tipping one down, he straddled it. He jerked his head at the other side, and Carissa walked to the seat on that end. She pulled it down until she could also straddle it, with the long, graffiti-scored board horizontal between them. They were a lot taller than the kids that played on it. Still, Carissa sat down and, as her seat sank to the ground, Manfred rose into the air. She saw his teeth shine as he grinned, then she pushed up with her legs and he sank down into the soft dust. They sawed up and down in silence for a few minutes, then Manfred stopped when he was on the ground. Instead of pushing up with his legs, he stretched them out in front of him, crossing them. Carissa looked at him, cocking her head. “We need to talk, and there’s never any good time to do it. There’s always somebody around, or if we’re at my house, one of my siblings is always poking her nose in, spying on us. Ugh.” He paused, not sure how to proceed. “So what are we talking about?” Carissa was always blunt and to the point. Manfred took a deep breath. “I’ve got some news for you. I heard back from the University of Columbia... They accepted me. Even threw in the scholarship I need, got a whole financial aid package set up for me.” “Manfred, that’s fantastic! Congratulations!” In the darkness, it was hard to see the trembling of her lower lip. She made herself sound enthusiastic. “It’s what you always wanted, right?” “Yeah, that’s for sure. If I went to the local college, I’d be stuck here in town. I’d never get away from my family... or my mother. God, just think of it. Less than two months and she won’t be able to nag at me, or make me fill in for my dad and watch my sibs, or take care of the house and yard. I’ll finally have time to live my life.” Manfred straightened and pulled his legs under him, pushed upward, and Carissa ended up on the ground. She stretched her own legs out. “So, how’s your mom taking the news? Is she OK with it?” She had her own opinion, but wanted to hear what he thought. “Um... I haven’t told her yet. I know she’s gonna spaz out about it. But she always harps on me about how important college is, and I’m not asking her to pay for it anyway, so she’ll be proud of that part. I just feel bad for Neil, he’s gonna get stuck with my old jobs, he’s next in line. It sucks for her that Dad died when he did, but why did they have so many kids? It’s nuts.” He shook his head. Carissa pushed up, and Manfred dropped to the ground. “Um... Carissa?” He listened to the faint chiming music of the swings. “Yes?” If a tone of voice could be a country, hers would be Switzerland. Neutral. “I, I think we should maybe consider what we’re gonna do about this. I’m going to be eleven hours away, I won’t be able to take you out weekends. We won’t even be seeing each other again until I’m home for Christmas break. I’m just not sure about it.” “About what?” Carissa refused to help him, making him say it first. “Well, it’s just...” He took a deep breath. “Maybe we should think about seeing other people.” He pushed up with his legs, letting Carissa down. Her eyes filled with tears. “Is that what you want, Manfred? Are you tired of me?” “No! I just don’t think a long-distance relationship would be good for us right now, you know? We’ll still be who we are, and we’ll always be friends. But it’s gonna be four years before you see me for any length of time. I don’t know... I don’t think I could be celibate for four years. That’s crazy.” Carissa sniffed, swallowed, kept silent for a moment. “Yeah, it’s crazy. It’s also... complicated.” She pushed up with a sudden jerky motion. Manfred crashed to the ground. “What do you mean, ‘complicated?’” She looked at him, her features solemn. “I understand, I really do. You’re right that it’s crazy for us to wait for each other for so many years. But...” Words failed, and her lip started trembling again. He pushed up, and she landed on the ground. “Manfred... I think I’m pregnant. I’m a month late.” She hunched her shoulders as if avoiding a blow. “What?” His mouth gaped and his eyes bugged out. Dangling in mid-air, he looked like nothing so much as an overgrown kid, shocked and afraid. “God, how could this happen? We always use a condom, always. We’re careful.” She shrugged. “They’re not foolproof.” Then she pushed up in the air, dropping Manfred down. He was still at a loss. His ears rang. One thing he would not do was ask if it was his -- he trusted her. Sighing, he asked, “What’s gonna happen?” Carissa shrugged. “I haven’t peed on a stick yet. I need to do that, get a home pregnancy test or maybe two. But, knowing for sure... that scares me. I’ve been trying to ignore the situation, but a baby isn’t something you can ignore.” He pushed up. “Yeah, you need to do that right away. But if you are... If you are, what do we do then?” Carissa looked up at him. “Thanks for saying ‘we,’ it means a lot. And the truth is, I just don’t know what to do. I want kids someday, but now? I’m going into my senior year of high school. There’s no way I’m ready to be a mom. Besides, my dad will absolutely kill me. He’s still convinced I’m his innocent little girl.” She rolled her eyes, then pushed up, thumping Manfred down. He winced, not at the abrupt landing so much as at her news. “So, what next? Are you talking about abortion? Adoption? What?” “What do you think about those options, Manfred? I’ve been thinking on them for a month. Now it’s your turn.” He opened his mouth, closed it. Cocking his head, he spoke. “You’re right, I haven’t had to think about those options. I’m still blown away by the idea that you might have a little Manfred in your belly right now.” Carissa shook her head. “No. Don’t name it. That’s all it is right now, a teeny blob of cells. An ‘it.’” Manfred pushed away from the ground furiously. “But that’s ignoring what that clump of cells is growing into. It’s not an ‘it,’ it’s a future person. A person that’s part me and part you.” “Yeah, but who’s the one who carries the risk and the fetus? Whose life gets ruined? I can’t afford to have a baby. I can’t even afford college, and my grades aren’t as good as yours. I don’t think there are too many scholarships out there with my name on them. My goal was to get a job and save up for a few years, then go to college. My dad’s cool with the plan, he doesn’t mind my living with him to save on rent and stuff.” “Why do you say your life gets ruined? You know I’d support you, and the baby.” “Manfred, you can’t do that. You’d be giving up your opportunity for a better life. Your scholarship won’t wait forever. And besides, you’ve been responsible for others your whole life. Don’t you want to only be responsible for yourself, for once?” He shook his head, and she pushed up with a slow movement, so he drifted down to the ground. “Yeah, you’re right, I’ll lose out on college. That’s... really intense. I don’t know what to say about that. That’s been my dream since I was in grade school, remember?” “I remember, and I don’t want you to lose that dream. If I have this baby, your dream will die.” Carissa thought about it. “Jeez, it’s like Harry Potter and Voldemort, isn’t it? Either way, something dies.” Manfred had a thought. “You mentioned adoption, right? Is that something you might consider?” Carissa looked at him. “Could you give away your own baby, after birthing it? Would you hand over Manfred Junior? I don’t think I could carry a baby to term and then give it up. Maybe I’m being selfish, but it would be a part of me, of us.” Manfred thought about what it would be like, giving away his son. He shivered. “No, I get your point. I don’t think I could give up our baby, either. Damn.” He pushed away from the ground as if trying to get away from reality. Carissa spoke as she landed. “So it comes down to whether I have an abortion or a baby. If it’s an abortion, I don’t have much time left. And if it’s a baby... well. Life will be a lot different from what we dreamed for. Our futures will be a lot tougher, being teen parents. No scholarships, no college. And without those, jobs pay a lot less. We’ll be struggling, no two ways about it. We can’t live with my dad or your mom, and without jobs we can’t afford anything else. Dang, Manfred, neither of us even owns a car!” “I’ll support whatever decision you make.” Carissa talked over him. “No way do you get off the hook! It’s our decision, together. Not just mine.” She pushed up hard, so Manfred thumped down. “OK, I get it. I’m not trying to skip out on anything. I just... wanted to support you, is all.” He was silent for a minute while he thought. “Yeah. You might be right, I was thinking about it as ‘your’ decision. I guess it made it easier for me, ya know? Man, I wasn’t expecting this.” Manfred sat in the dirt, lost in thought. Swinging her feet, Carissa gave him time. Manfred stood up, letting the teeter-totter come to balance, both of them straddling it. “Let’s get to the drugstore and buy some tests.” They walked off, leaving their childhood behind.

The pain on her right has gotten worse recently. It radiated from her middle, across her hip, and down her leg. It began as a dull throbbing ache months ago, which was easy enough to ride through. Now the pain comes in big waves, in a crescendo that leaves her immobile. Lily heaved a sigh as she lay on the bed. Mike tucked a soft fleece blanket around her gently, and started stroking her head. “At least I am warm and cosy, and he is here,” thought Lily. She gazed at Mike and tried to convey how grateful she was to have his company. But nothing came out. Her voice was too weak. ****** Lily’s earliest memories were hazy, but she clearly remembered the day she was adopted by Matilda, a plump middle-aged lady with frizzy straw-colored hair and thick lips. She smelled of cheap perfume, which made Lily sneeze and twitch her nose. Matilda spoke to her kindly, and told her all about the nice home she is going to live in, and all the nice things she will have. The car ride was terrifying and yet fascinating, as Lily has never rode in a car before. Matilda did have a nice apartment. There were two bedrooms, a comfortable fat gray couch facing a TV in a spacious living area, a modest balcony with a few spider plants and a pot of assorted herbs, and a kitchen fill with all sorts of knickknacks. Lily was given a big, soft bed near a window, and even some new toys to play with. But her absolute favorite was the window that overlooked the main street. Draped with a cream-colored calico curtain, it gave the room an airy, soothing feel. She enjoyed peering out of the window for hours during daylight. Vehicles of all sorts will go by, an ice cream truck, a delivery van, a scooter; children will cycle on the pavement, laughing and chattering; and sometimes a teenage boy will walk past with strange music playing from a device in his hands. It started off on the right foot. Matilda was nurturing and affectionate, and Lily did her best to be polite and obedient. They often watched TV and played games together. Matilda would get treats for Lily occasionally, and that would be the highlight of her day. Sometimes the neighbor’s kids dropped by to play with Lily, and Matilda will welcome them graciously. In time, Lily grew to love and trust Matilda. Until one day, it all changed. Matilda came home from work looking frazzled. Her eyes and nose were red and puffy. Lily immediately sensed something was wrong and wanted to comfort her, but wasn’t sure how to. She inched closer to Matilda bit by bit. When she was right by her side, Matilda suddenly whacked the side of her head with brute force. It was so strong that Lily tumbled and fell. It was not the blinding pain that cut deep, but the fact that it was so unexpected, so sudden, that really hurt Lily. “Go away! You don’t understand anything!” screamed Matilda, and she ran into her bedroom and slammed the door shut. Shocked, confused and heartbroken, Lily went to curl up in her bed. From that day onwards, Matilda was never the same again. She started forgetting about Lily’s meals and started shouting at her if she got in her way. Sometimes, she would smack Lily and threatened to throw her out. She stopped spending time with her, and preferred the company of the various strange men she brought home. Some of the men were nice to Lily, some were indifferent, and some were unkind. The kind ones often gave Lily some food, and commented to Matilda how thin Lily looked. Matilda would snap at them, “If you think you can take care of her so well, she’s yours! Take her then!” And they would be quiet. Even the neighbor’s kids stopped coming, for fear of Matilda. One day, a man came to the house to visit. He had the same straw-colored hair as Matilda. He smelled of amber and musk, and was much taller and bigger than Matilda. He did not notice Lily at first, and when he did, his eyes grew big and his nostrils flared with anger. He started shouting at Matilda and pointing at Lily, and the fight went on for a while. Matilda screamed and cried and sobbed, and the man finally stopped talking and just glared at her. He grabbed a large plastic bag and started shoving Lily’s things in. He walked over to Lily and said in a gentle soft voice, “Don’t be afraid, sweetie. I’m Mike, and you are coming home with me. I will take good care of you.” Lily never saw Matilda again. ****** Mike tucked her favorite blanket around her gently. The grief in his heart was overwhelming. He wept silently as he stroked her head. Lily has been his best friend for 15 years, and he couldn’t imagine life without her. He remembered when she was just a kitten, half-starved and abused by his bitch of a sister. He was so angry and horrified at what Matilda had done, and brought her home to nurse her back to health. It took a long time to rebuild Lily’s trust, but it was worth very bit. Lily was by nature a sweetheart, always trying to snuggle up against his chest when he’s sleeping. She loved laying on his lap while he worked on his laptop or watched TV. Sometimes she would lick his face or hand to wake him up for breakfast, or sit on his chest and purr just because. She was gentle with kids and enjoyed the company of his friends once she got to know them. Her once silky ginger fur is now slightly ratty with age, but she still looked beautiful and sweet to Mike. The vet had strongly advised him to let Lily go. She has been fighting the cancer for a year now, and it would be unfair to prolong her suffering. Mike had arranged for the vet to come to his home this evening, so that Lily would be comfortable and comforted during her last hour. Mike spoke softly to Lily. “Don’t be afraid, sweetie. You will be in a better place soon. I love you.” ****** [A friend of mine recently lost his kitty, and this was a tribute to her.

“Hand me another bag of flour,” I said. My hand was out, waiting to feel the weight of the bag. Nothing. “Okay, PLEASE hand me another bag of flour,” I said, this time with my palm up and my fingers wagging in anticipation. “Anna, that was the last bag,” said Layla, my best friend, and eighth-grade science partner. “How can that be the last bag? I counted 6 bags this morning. The dough is too runny, we need more flour,” I said with panic in my voice. “I’ll call your Mom and see if she can go to the store and get us more. My Mom is at work for a few more hours,” Layla said wiping her hands with a clean towel. That was Layla, always on top of it, and that was just how we all liked it. Layla and I were at our school, working on our junior high science fair project that was due next month. We were experimenting with different kinds of flour to see how they changed the consistency and flavor of the five recipes we had selected to experiment with. We were using basic recipes for chocolate chip cookies, blueberry muffins, devil’s food cake, golden cupcakes, and pound cake and things weren’t going so well. “Your Mom is on her way,” Layla said as she hung up the phone. When we picked the food card during class we thought it was going to be easy, but it had turned out to be everything but that. “We should just throw all of this in one giant bowl and make one giant cake,” I said, frustrated with the consistency of the cake I was working on. “Where are the instructions for the science fair?” Layla asked. “In my backpack,” I told her. Layla pulled out the instructions for the science fair and started reading. “It says here to come up with a unique project that shows the correlation between food and science,” Layla said. We were doing that, but it wasn’t working out in our favor. “What if we make a giant cookie and talk about the science behind the ingredients combining and the heating process to cook it. We could use three or four different size cookies to show our results,” I said. “That actually sounds like a better idea than the one we are working on,” said Layla, wiping flour off of her face. “How much did the world’s largest cookie weigh?” I asked. Layla pulled out her phone and looked it up on the internet. “Baked in May 2003, the cookie was 102 feet wide and weighed more than 40,000 pounds,” Layla read from the site. “How are we going to afford all of the ingredients for that cookie?” I asked. “Why don’t we build a small-scale model of an outdoor oven and bake cookies in it for the science fair and we can start a fundraiser to gather money to help us build a real giant cookie using our outdoor oven concept,” Layla said. And that is how the idea for the giant cookie started. The next day we presented our proposal to our science teacher Mr. Higgins. He thought it was a fantastic idea and asked us if the whole class could be involved. We of course said yes. Mr. Higgins said we would have a class meeting the following day to discuss the project and start assigning job duties to everyone in the class. He told Layla and me to put together a list of stuff we thought we needed and he would talk with us before class. That night after dinner, Layla and I sat down at the kitchen table at my house and started putting together the list of items Mr. Higgins had asked for. Things weren’t going very well. “Layla, they used over 12,000 pounds of flour to make that giant cookie, and they only raised $20,000 that day selling cookie slices. A 50-pound bag of all-purpose baking flour costs, let's just say, twenty dollars. Three hundred bags of flour, which is what we will need to make a bigger cookie, will cost us about six thousand dollars. I don’t think our class is going to be able to pull this off,” I said, trying to be realistic. “You are right, Anna. This cookie is getting bigger than we can manage, we need a new plan to present to Mr. Higgins. I was just reading up on the original giant cookie and it took them over six months of experimenting just to get the heat and circulation to the right levels in a smaller ten-foot test oven. We don’t have that kind of time or money,” Layla said. What were we going to do? Time was running out and we needed some ideas and we needed them fast. I really liked the idea of making a giant cookie and so did Layla. Winning an award would be fun but being in the Guinness Book of World Records would be a chance in a lifetime for our class. “I have an idea. What if we get the bakery that beat the record to help promote and sponsor our project?” I asked Layla. “They are in North Carolina, we are in California, I don’t think that is a good partnership. I do understand where you are going with this, Anna,” Layla told me. “Then we need something else,” I said, starting to get frustrated. “How about we break the record for the tallest homemade cookie tower? That one looks like our class can do it. The previous winner stacked 48 homemade chocolate chip cookies to create a tower. Why don’t each of our classmates make individual towers and then we could have two records, the largest cookie tower and the largest number of cookie towers created by a group at once,” Layla said. “If we bake them ourselves then they will all be the same size,” I said, smiling at Layla. “How is that going to work with our science fair project?” Layla asked. “I’ve got it, we will make chocolate chip cookies using different types of flour and we will discuss the similarities and differences of each,” I offered. “How about consistency, thickness, the stability of the cookie when baked, flavor differences, color differences, baking times for each type, oh and baking temperatures, how well they stack into a tower, how high of a tower we can make based on the type of flour,...” “Whoa, Layla, I think that will be plenty. Let’s make a list of those ideas before we forget them,” I said quickly. “...and then we discuss why the cookies did what they did,” Layla said, finishing her original thought. “Hey, Mom, what do you think about this idea we have for the science fair?” I asked. My Mom was loading the dishwasher. “I think it is a great idea, Anna. When I was in school kids did volcanoes and solar systems for their projects. It is nice to see that they want you to figure out the connection between your topic and science. I just wish my teachers had come up with such a great challenge. Your Dad and I will be happy to help you in any way you need,” she told us. It was perfect. Now to present the idea to Mr. Higgins. Our class was sure to win an award for breaking the giant cookie record, even if it was for a giant cookie tower. The End.

I want a life where I don’t hurt so much and so often. I think that’s what Sophie wants, too. Not just for herself but for me. Isn’t that what we all want for our family? You may not know my sister personally but you’ve probably seen signs with her name around the city, “SOPHIA HARBOR for MAYOR.” She’s pretty much a sure bet at this point. Sophie’s backed by the firefighter and police unions and well-respected by many key community members. Her platform is strong for her base, she’s pro-life, anti-drug, and supports the troops. Everyone knows that means she’ll work devotedly to help them keep as much of their paycheck as possible. As long as I can remember, my sister has had a powerful need to address the injustice she sees in the world, a need we both inherited from our dad, formerly our local sheriff. When I was in elementary school, I got picked on a lot. Even though she was two years older, Sophie stood up for me and never seemed embarrassed to show she loved me. When she started sixth grade though, everything changed. I no longer had a protector at recess and I had to figure out on my own how to survive the taunting and kicking. Part of my problem was that I wanted to be friends with everyone and I wanted to be totally myself. I was a dork, I’ll admit it, and a sensitive one to boot. But people tended to like me and when no one else was around they told me that no one really listened to them, that they felt they couldn’t be who they were, and that it was nice to be around someone different. I was already familiar with people treating me one way around others and another alone. My dad was the consummate professional, dedicated to his work and helping people, and well-loved in our town. He talked proudly of me to others but behind closed doors, he would tell me I was spoiled and a liar and that people would only like me if I was secretive about who I was. As an adult I see this as a reflection of his own pain. But as a child I took this to heart. I believed that no one could love me for the person I wanted to be. I was afraid all of the time that everyone would find out that I was a fraud and would hate me. I started to think I was lying about things that were the truth. For years I barely ate or slept and I hurt myself and others all the time. It felt like I was just a chimney, a fire was lit under me but I stood stone cold, exhaling smoke. My dad hated that I smoked cigarettes. It took him years to find out that I was a smoker but when he did he told me how selfish I was and recounted the story of my grandfather’s death to lung cancer. I remembered it well, maybe even better than he did because I was less traumatized at the time. My grandad became well and truly undone at the end, threatening his wife of forty-five years with a .45 pistol. I also remember him sitting with me and finally admitting that he thought he might be dying, months after his terminal diagnosis during his last round of chemotherapy. He never stopped fighting. That was his way. But for a few minutes he sat with me and cried, acknowledging at least momentarily that he might be at his end. He never apologized to my dad for beating him with his belt and his fists but in the time we spent together, he always made me feel safe. The gentleness with which he moved a log on a lathe or killed a fish before cleaning it always soothed me. When he was a teenager, he ran away from his own abusive father by joining the Marine Corps and serving several tours in Vietnam. My grandad was proud of his service and the men he served beside so he supported any candidate that he felt would protect the military. When George W Bush declared war on Iraq though, he ended his lifelong loyalty to the GOP and was a Democrat until he died. He told me it was unbearable for him to see so many soldiers and civilians lives wasted over weapons no one could prove existed. He was a hard man, and often unkind, but he could change like the wind, a quality my dad nor Sophie will ever have. My dad is nothing if not steadfast and Sophie, too. But it was me that grandad spoke to about his grief and no one else. When he died, my dad brimmed with rage for years. All the things left unsaid or unacknowledged burned inside him. Every year around my birthday we would argue about what day he died of all things. My grandfather flat-lined as my family sang happy birthday to me around his hospice bed, the night before my sixteenth birthday. But my dad does not want my birthday to be associated with his death so he gets outraged when I bring up my sadness about his passing around that time of year. One of the last conversations Sophie and I had with our grandad, he sat us down and told us never to join the military, that it was his dying wish. He said they would own our bodies and we would pay a price too high for college or a stable job or recognition as a hero. Sophie screamed at him. What about protecting our country?! He coughed into a tissue and said something I didn’t catch about Agent Orange. I remember our grandfather as warm, strong, witty, and skilled. Sophie remembers him as a bastard who hurt people and never said he was sorry. I think we’re both right. Our grandad’s dying wish forked our paths, though. Sophie, already in college at the time, studied law and fought for better care for Veterans among other causes. I retreated inward, trying to dedicate myself to spiritual growth while outwardly caring for myself less and less. I was in and out of rehabs and mental hospitals, often unemployed, often living at home. My sister seemed to thrive, smiling ear to ear covered in tassels and stoles and flowers at her graduations. My only graduation was from a mental health program. Mom picked me up from the hospital and took me to our favorite botanical gardens to catch up and celebrate. She and dad got divorced when I was eighteen and though we were close when I was a kid, we got much closer as adults. She was a nurse and worked long hours, mostly sleeping in her free time. She was always there for me to call or talk to but she was often absent, too, and she never stood up against dad. We talked about that the day of my graduation. She said she was so sorry and that she wished she had been there for me more. That meant a lot to me and I told her so. She had been getting more and more exhausted and we all thought she was just working too hard. But then one day, she just didn’t wake up. I was twenty-four and completely unmoored. I held my sister as she cried at mom’s service but couldn’t find any tears left inside me. Dad had remarried by that time and Sophie was very close with his new wife. When she got engaged a few months later to a handsome lawyer, Sophie texted, called, and visited her all the time to get help with wedding planning. I wasn’t in the wedding party so I just sat in the pews at the ceremony with a close friend I had asked to come for moral support. We left a gap between us for mom. Sophie seemed overjoyed to be starting her new life. For me, it felt like my life was over. I spent all my time reading and drawing and smoking and scrolling through social media. Then a friend invited me to a protest; I hadn’t felt so alive in years. As I chanted, I felt my grief and rage boil up and bubble out of me. I started going every week and then every night. I screamed and cried openly, weeping for my mother and all the mothers that had lost their lives or their children. When the people who had supported me and cared for me were beaten and gassed and shot at, I tended their wounds, I fed them, and I started trying to protect them. I drew cartoons and shared them online under a pen name. I amassed a following for my work, but my anxiety was growing daily that somehow my dad would find out. And then Sophie announced her campaign for Mayor. I couldn’t believe it. She’d been working in municipal government for years but she hated it and despised everything they stood for. We’ve seen and spoken to each other less and less as the divide in our politics has grown. Now she’s started complaining publicly about the rioters and looters destroying our city. It feels like our worlds are colliding. My work is beginning to seem irrelevant because I’m so thoroughly avoiding the mayoral race that will greatly impact the protests. Everywhere I go now, I see her name and cringe. But I can’t let it go anymore. I’m not really a writer, just a cartoonist but I hope you take my point here. Sophie Harbor cares deeply about injustice but she’s seeing it in many of the wrong places. I believe my sister will force the situation with the protests to a fever pitch to make a point about how violent and inhuman we are as demonstrators. She will likely allow greater use of force and put more money into the police department. I believe this will harm the most vulnerable of our city. I’m not going to endorse her opponent because, like Sophie, I don’t believe that government is the answer to our problems. I never wanted to betray my sister’s trust, but this is bigger than either of us and it’s time to take a stand. Submit.

On our first meeting, she was very shy and nervous. But her smile was everything. When I took her home and we hugged, she felt so small and I didn’t want to let her go. But she smiled again and awkwardly said goodbye. I had to see her again. I could tell on our other dates that she slowly began to warm up and became more comfortable. She’s very smiley and her laughter is adorable. She held my hand. It was the sweetest moment as her small hand was in mine. One time, she kissed my cheek. She was so embarrassed she couldn’t meet my eyes. I felt as if my heart would explode. I want to maul her with a million kisses but she probably wouldn’t like it. I’ll wait until the time is right. Waking up next to her is the best thing ever. She stretches over to me and holds me, still trying to open her eyes. It’s so cute I want to squeeze her. Then when she opens them, they’re a beautiful green that I want to stare into all day. Then when our lips meet, and she blushes, I almost melt into the mattress. She has a habit of singing to herself. It can get obnoxious sometimes, but usually when she first starts, all I can do is watch with a smile. Her voice is light and sweet. When she turns around to see me and her cheeks go red, I can’t help from smiling wider. She laughs a lot. Like A LOT. She’s so giggly that I just want to grab her and swing her around. Often she’s on my lap on her phone and giggling to herself. I just have to hold her and enjoy everything that comes with her being on my lap; her scent, her warmth, and her giggly vibrations. She also likes to cuddle. She was hesitant at first and would only lay her head on my shoulder for seconds at a time. I wanted to capture her and make her cuddle for longer, but I had to wait until she was comfortable. The day she curled up on my lap, looking shy, I almost died from cuteness overload. The first time she allowed me to touch her, I was a bit surprised. She may look innocent and cute, but she still has that desire. Maybe more than I realized. But I didn’t mind at all. I was glad she let me explore her body. Her twitches and noises were so adorable, I couldn’t stop. And she liked my body a lot too. Although it can be hard to tell what she’s thinking sometimes, her smile and her joy is always present. She asked me to be honest if I ever had something on my mind and needed to ask her. Of course the only way to truly understand each other is to communicate. She must realize she’s unreadable at times because she specifically asked me to say whatever was on my mind. So I’ve tried to make a habit of it. Whenever I call her cute, adorable, beautiful, she doesn’t know how to react. I wonder if she doubts herself. I want to make her realize just how special she is. Because what I know deep in my heart is that My Girlfriend Is Adorable.

"But Luca, I don't wanna go" pleaded Rosaline, Luca then handed Rosaline her black bomber jacket and opened the door, "It'll be fun, I promise" Luca persuaded as the two walked out the front door and into the french quarters of New Orleans. "How do I know that you're gonna keep that promise?" Rosaline questioned as she crossed her arms, "If it isn't fun or something really bad happens, you can move back to Oregon" Luca said over the smooth saxophone music playing in the distance, "Hmph, okay" Rosailine muttered. The two then walked through the beautiful city until they reached the narrow dirt pathway to the cemetery, Luca then grabbed Rosaline's hand, "What, are you scared?" Teased rosaline, "No, I thought you might be," Luca said as she blushed slightly. They then reached the old graveyard, and the two heard very faint piano music playing. Luca then began to pull rosaline towards where the music was coming from. "Um luca..." rosaline muttered, luca stopped dead in her tracks and looked to rosaline with a smirk "What," queried luca, "Maybe we shouldn't be running through a dark graveyard." Rosailine murmured. With a gust of wind all of the lamppost flames ignited, revealing a ghostly man playing a black and gold piano, a second ghost then appeared this time it was an African american woman who had large gold beads weaved into her dreadlocks. The woman then snapped her fingers and an entire flock of ghosts and skeletons appeared. There was a skeleton playing a saxophone, a ghost playing a trumpet, and a slightly smaller skeleton playing a guitar,there were also many other ghosts and skeletons which were all either dancing or talking with other spiritual beings. Luca then reached out her hand for rosaline, rosaline smiled and grabbed hold. Luca then spun rosaline towards her and they both smiled, the two then began to dance among the spirits under the stars. After about 5 minutes of the two dancing a they stopped when the tall female ghost with gold beads in her dreadlocks came up to them and stated" you two are very good dancers," Luca and rosaline smiled, "Thank you" replied luca then a slightly shorter Male ghost walked over to them, "Do yall wanna go see the world we ghosts come from" the ghost asked with a thick southern accent, luca then looked to rosaline for confirmation, rosaline nodded and luca smiled, "Sure," she exclaimed. They and the two ghosts were then whisked away in a poof of black fog.The four then reappeared in a forest of trees which looked petrified but had normal leaves, there were also many glowing flowers in hues of blue, purple, and pink. "Woah," stated Luca as she walked with Rosaline, who was in awe, and the other two ghosts walked towards a river, and when they got to the river Luca and rosaline learned that it glows too. Rosaline gently placed her hand in the water, it was very cold, but very nice in the warm tropical climate of the odd forest, like how nice it is to be wrapped in cold silk on a hot summer day.rosaline then sped up to catch up with the group which was already across the small wooden bridge. "What exactly is this place," questioned rosaline, The female ghost pondered the question and then replied " some people from your world call it hell" "What!" Luca Interrupted" but this place is awesome," she murmured as she picked a purple apple off a nearby tree and took a bite, "Luca!" Rosiline shouted" what if that's poisonous!" The female ghost then sighed "it's not poisonous" she said as she looked to luca" but you're luck that the lies aren't true or else you'd be stuck here" "Sounds lit" luca replied rosaline then shot luca a confused look and luca shot one back and rosaline couldn't help but give that blissful smile that could stop anyone in their tracks. The four the came to a wall of hanging vines and moss the tallest ghost parted the vines and everyone walked under, they entered into a clearing which in the center stood a massive weeping willow tree which had a lovely wooden house close next to it which had a balcony which wrapped around the stump of the magnificent tree, in the clearing there were easily thousands of fireflies of all colors fluttering around in the night, rosaline shuffled towards luca as she looked up to the night sky, "Look at the sky," she stated softly, and luca did, the night sky was the most magical thing that they had ever seen. There were billions, if not trillions of stars and there were nebulas of all colors that were trickled throughout the sky. Luca then looked to the tallest ghost and exclaimed " you still haven told us where this place is", the tallest ghost then proclaimed "some call it hell, few call it heaven, some believe that its limbo or purgatory, but it's actually none of those things" "So do those things not exist?" Interrupted luca "Hell, heaven ,limbo and purgatory do all exist don't get me wrong, they're just not here" explained the tall ghost "Where the heck are we then" luca exclaimed mildly frustrated "W-well" stuttered the tall ghost, Luca the crossed her arms, "we're in the underworld," the short ghost blurted out, the tall ghost then looked slightly flustered and said trying to keep her cool, " we are In a place that your people call the underworld but it's actually called ένα χαμένο μέρος, or 'a lost place' " " why is it called that?" Rosaline questioned nonchalantly whilst Luca was about 20 feet away pacing back and forth trying to process what she was just told. The female ghost then took a deep breath and began to explain " it's called that because it is a place that good people spirits and creatures can go to hide, or a place that they run to, it's a place where outcasts and misfits can go to be safe, it's a safe haven for all good humans and creatures, and it just happens that more spirits have things to run from than humans," "Interesting," Rosaline said quietly as she began to wander towards luca. Rosaline placed her hand on Lucas shoulder to comfort her, "What's wrong" asked rosaline "My parents would kill me if they knew that I'm here" luca muttered with her face in her hands "Well then I guess it's not a particularly bad thing that they're across the world considering themselves childless." Rosaline reassured, Luca snickered. Luca then sat down with her knees to her chest, rosaline sat down besides her, luca sighed " it's hard to get out of the mindset that I have to still do everything worrying what my parents will think or do," "I know" mumbled rosaline as she wrapped her arm around luca " but the day you moved in with me I swore to keep you safe from them and their extremely irrational viewpoints," "I know," Luca said sorrowfully as she rested her head on Rosaline's shoulder. "Are y'all gonna come inside or what?" Questioned the short ghost while holding open the door. Rosaline then smiled and took Luca's hand and they swiftly walked towards the beautiful wooden house. Luca,Rosaline and the short ghost then entered the house which had a low lying ceiling, and was dimly lit by oil lamps. There was a fireplace on one side of the room and on the other end of the room there was a spiral staircase that had vines hanging off the railings.the walls looked to be made of the wood from the trees of the odd forest, there were also many exotic looking plants,some in pots, some climbing trellises on the walls.straight on from the door there was a fancy wooden table that had four chairs,and at the table sat the tall ghost and the short ghost sitting next to each other. Luca and Rosaline then stepped over to the other two chairs and sat down. "What are your names?" Questioned luca "Im beatrice and thats nick" stated that tall ghost gesturing to the short ghost "Why are we here" asked rosaline "Cuz yall wanted to come" blurted nick "You guys went into a cemetery in Louisiana on halloween, and you guys seemed scared so we thought you needed help," said beatrice, "We thought yall were running from the danged old' satanists" interrupted Nick with his southern accent more prevalent than ever. "My parents were satanists" sighed Luca sorrowfully "that's why i ran, they tried to kill me". Beatrice then looked to luca with a concerned look, "What are their names?" Beatrice asked concerned "Bianca and andrew howsahue" muttered luca "Do you still have the same last name as them?" Questioned beatrice "N-no" stuttered luca" i managed to change it as soon as i moved out when i was 15" "Good" responded beatrice" last names can hold a lot of power sometimes," "Can we please go explore some more, this place is really cool" begged rosaline "Sure" replied beatrice as she stood from her seat, nick then vanished "Wha-why..." luca murmured as she pointed to where nick was sitting "He had something else to go do" interrupted beatrice, luca and rosaline then stood up and headed towards the door, luca held it open for rosaline and beatrice. Beatrice then pulled a golden pocket watch out of her pocket and looked at it, " it's about to get quite cold here," beatrice stated as she made three large furry cloaks materialize in her arms, she handed one to luca which was black with white fur, she then handed the other to rosaline which was white with white fur, and beatrice then began to put on her cloak which was red with white fur. Rosaline then slid on the cloak over her bomber jacket. Luca and Rosaline then followed Beatrice onto a cobblestone road. "Are all the roads like this" rosaline asked in awe, "No," replied Beatrice,"once we get into a city they turn into either onyx or obsidian bricks." Rosaline's jaw dropped, "Why are there so many lies about this place? Why do people call it hell!?" Queried rosaline, "Probably jealously" muttered luca as she placed her hands into the pockets of her cloak, "You're exactly right" exclaimed beatrice "Powerful people can change the truth and after awhile the lies seemingly become the truth, because nobody knows better and not enough people ask enough questions," Luca and Rosaline then began pondering what Beatrice had said when the three then arrived at the entrance of a cave. They walked through a narrow entryway which then opened up to a larger part of the cave which had a pathway of onyx bricks. Rosaline noted the slight change in pathway and pulled her cloak tighter around her, for it had seemingly gotten colder. Beatrice then came to a halt and reached into her pocket and pulled out 6 strange silver coins and handed 3 to luca and the other 3 to rosaline, "What are these for?" Asked luca "Run through the wall and you'll see" exclaimed beatrice" rosaline first," Rosaline's eyes widened as Beatrice pulled her gently by her arm and Rosaline managed to step through the wall,Luca then held her breath and stepped through as well, and Beatrice then walked through behind them. The three were then in a very large cavern which was quite well lit by many lanterns which were suspended from the roof of the cave by ropes, there were many stone Buildings which seemed to make up a small city, there were also small stalls where there seemed to be merchants. Luca and Rosaline then realized that they were on a cliff which overlooked the small underground village, the two then swiftly began to follow Beatrice down an onyx staircase which led down to the mystical city. When they reached the bottom of the staircase, luca and rosaline parted and headed towards the market stalls and beatrice and stepped into one of the stone buildings. the market stalls were dawned with gently coloured cloth tapestries. Rosaline walked over to a stall that had very magnificent jewelry, And rosaline had decided to buy a pair of onyx earrings which were each about the size of a pea. Luca was walking around observing the people of the underground village, she passed a woman which had a snake that was at least 14 feet long wrapped around her and Luca felt that she was somewhat safer now. Luca then stumbled across a merchant who didn't have a stall but only a small table with rings on it, luca then decided to buy a ruby and onyx ring which had Celtic knots engraved into the silver, it only cost 2 of the 3 odd silver coins,so luca decided to save the third one. Rosaline then walked over to Luca whom she had not let out of her sight almost the entire time. Beatrice then approached them with a quickness, "Are you guys ready to go?" She asked frantically, "No" responded luca and rosaline, "Well the sun is about to come up, and you guys have to be back by then, but you can come back any night." Exclaimed Beatrice "Well okay" responded luca And with a swift snap of Beatrice's finger's everything began to fade into darkness. Rosaline then woke up next to Luca in the graveyard, "Luca, luca wake up" she said as she shook lucas shoulder, luca then shot up, Neither of them were wearing the cloaks that beatrice gave them but they still had the jewelry that they had bought, luca reached into her pocket and pulled out the strange silver coin which now had a chain connected to it, luca handed the coin necklace to rosaline, and rosaline slipped it on over her head. " Look," mentioned Luca as she looked towards the sunrise. Rosaline and Luca then sat for some time and watched the sun rise. Luca then stumbled to her feet, dusted herself off and offered rosaline a hand up, rosaline took it as luca looked to her and said softly "Let's go home", Rosaline nodded and held Luca's hand as they walked home with the sunset behind them as two ravens sat atop a weeping willow tree ensuring that they had returned safely.

The pandemic was deadly, unyielding and never ending. Everybody went into isolation, we all thought it would soon be over, but as days turned into weeks and weeks into months, humanity lost hope. We do not really know how long the pandemic lasted; it is easy to lose track of time when you are indoors all the time. Was it God? Mother Nature? The flow of time? Either way, the pandemic suddenly ended but nothing was the same, we all struggled to move on, but the effects of the pandemic still weigh us down. “DURO! Why? Why! It should have been me, why did the quarquar virus have to take you,” Mama Folake wailed as she clutched her chest. She was not the only one wailing in pain. Almost everybody in this village had lost somebody, we all had tears in our eyes, and it was a very emotional period, the smell of agony filled the air. I lost someone, it wasn’t my parents nor siblings, I lost my best friend. I lost someone I cherished more than myself and I was in pain, but I could not equate my pain to that of Mama Folake who just lost her only child, so I lightly clutched my chest as I cried in silence. “Where are the dinosaurs?” a little girl asked her dad, but he hushed her. I lost my smile, smiling became difficult. My mum kept on reminding me that nothing can be done except to move on, the living must live. Even Mama Folake who felt Duro’s pain the most advised me to move on, she kept telling me to accept Duro’s death as he would not be happy to see me stagnant in life because of him. I always wondered why they kept telling me to move on like Duro’s death meant nothing till I noticed that everyone was just pretending to move on, the smiles were forced, we’re all grieving in our own way. I sat on the cold floor in my room, thinking about how life used to be and how it will be from now on. I ran my hands through my thick Afro which Duro loved to braid as I cried. I made sure to release all the tears I have been holding in as my mum rushed into my room after hearing my cries resonate through the mud walls of the house. She held me tightly and didn’t let go as I cried through the night. The following morning, she looked shocked to see me smiling, she knew the smile was forced but she was still surprised that I managed to crack a smile. I had decided to move on, perhaps the reason why it felt so tight around my chest was because I had shed minimal tears and kept everything in. When grieving, it is hard to hear others, the whole world becomes nothing but an annoying fly buzzing round the ear. I cannot believe I am just becoming aware of the new issue that was shaking the village; we all thought they were superior beings. I still cannot believe all the dinosaurs died, regardless of specie, the quarquar virus was more deadly than we thought. The dinosaurs which weren’t a threat to humans and lived among us like pets and were always helpful in the farm; farming was faster because of them. Burying the dinosaurs will not be an easy task, I thought as I went my way. I have been doing well so far, everybody has. Farming is harder and slower than usual, but we are trying. My mum kept reminding me on how proud she was of me, she was happy that she could no longer hear my silent cries during the night, she felt like she could finally breathe around me. I do not know when it started, if it was a coping mechanism or I have gotten delusional, but it all started with a whisper. I could hear Duro calling my name the way he always used to, I could swear Duro was just beside me. I even started to hear him shouting my name the way he always did when he wanted me to play outside with him. One night, I got scared, was it a ghost? I begged him to leave me alone; I asked him why he was suddenly doing this when I was just starting to move on. However, my cries and pleadings swam around the room and evaporated. I don’t know what, but something in me snapped, I started to question myself. “Do you not miss Duro? Why are you telling him to leave you alone? You should go to him” I could not go without writing something, I had to narrate everything from my perspective and then maybe they would understand why I had to do this. It was hard; I really tried to move on but Duro kept appearing before me, I kept seeing him everywhere even when I close my eyes, I could hear him, smell him, and feel him. So, I decided to meet him, I am sorry. “A pandemic killed the dinosaurs not a meteor?” Faye asked me and I just shrugged. “Are you sure you deciphered it properly? You didn’t just write a fiction for us, right?” she asked. “I might be foolish sometimes, but I’m not stupid” I reply while scanning through the paper on which I deciphered the ancient writing. Unwanted memories run through my head; I vividly remember the punishment I went through for ending my life. “Then...how were you able to decipher it? I mean, many scholars couldn’t” she asks expecting a revolutionary answer. I stare at her for a few seconds “How? Because I’m the one that wrote it,” I answer as she looks at me with so much confusion dancing on her face, I could tell she was waiting for me to tell her I was joking and give her a reasonable answer, but I just give her a smile.

I saw it happening in real time. Happening to me, right before my eyes, and there was nothing I could do about it. It was like a dream I often have, where I’m being chased by something or someone, probably myself, but can’t get away. It’s not that I get caught, but I get bored and just give up. Sit on the curb, and wait. Nothing happens, no noise, no lightning, no visions, or ascensions, nothing. This is different. It feels different, because I’m awake no doubt, or at least I think I am, but then I’ve been known to nod off in the middle of a sentence. I could see the wall of frozen water, a tsunami of manipulated snow, or God had flushed the toilet again. I should run, I know I should run, but I’m unable to move, frozen as if I was just pulled from the freezer and left to watch myself thaw. I can hear people yelling at me to get out, head for higher ground. The sires are screaming, the birds are flocking, the wild flowers in my mind are doing nothing. It is as if they understand there is nothing you can do, so why try. The inevitable has arrived by first class mail. I am not a defeatist type person. I’ve always believed there is always something that can be done. To just sit there and wait for the inconceivable is just not me. I’ve been told that I’ve been known to squeeze eleven pennies out of a dime. I don’t remember doing that, but I do believe we can all do more with less. Problem is, there are people who believe therefore, that you can do everything with nothing. An improbable probability that takes on meaning only when you refuse to believe in probability, as it takes away your ability to improve, change, survive the un-survivable. I know that is perceived to be an oxymoron, but what is life, if not a wall papered with oxymorons. I would rather look for the end of eternity than sit and wait to see if what I’ve been told is true, inevitable, and there is nothing I can do to change God’s mind about the concept of no beginning, no end. If that snowball hits me in the eye, I could be blinded for life. End up living on the street because no one will hire a cyclops, no matter how good a person, or how optimistic one is. And all because of the physics and natural attributes of the combination of water and cold. It seems unfair, but then what is fair. I saw the arm cocked, the snowball cradled in the palm of a red mitten, and yet I found it impossible to believe someone could be so cruel as to throw ice projectile at me and not envision the retribution I would bestow upon them with ferocity of Zeus. Sure they may only be having fun, but it won’t be fun for me, living in an abandoned car, not having enough money to feed a pet I always wanted but was forbidden to have. And being that grotesque one-eyed guy who people cross the street to avoid, and being grotesque isn’t even catching. All I can do at this point is grit my teeth, and accept my fate. # Good God! Can he get more melodramatic when all he has to do is duck. I’ve known him for his entire life and I realize he thinks differently than the rest of the universe, or at least the universe I’m aware. He tends to clamor on about rising above adversity, climbing out of hell because his being damned for being contemplative, had to be a mistake. He was always a reason to, or an example of, questioning the impossible, but trying, just to find out for sure. Just think about it. If you were behind a frozen wall of packed snow, an ice fort, and were involved in a war with the neighborhood kids who were although physically more advanced than you, but considered by you to be androids disguised as humans, when the arm comes forward, wouldn’t you duck? It is not his fault really, he was born a prognosticator, a Democrat in a Republican family. When his father rants and raves about pulling and bootstraps, he considers the make and value of materials used, and how and who made them. He is opposed to exploitation of people, especially children, probably because he is one, physically at least. Maturity factors: let’s say Alzheimer’s. He could apply for social security and probably get it. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing discriminatory about looking at something from every angle before deciding if you like the shape, color, weight, quality, to determine if it will fulfil its needs. But it is the criteria needed to make that decision, that drives everyone crazy. And so the conundrum for some, an inevitability for him. To duck or not to duck, that is the question. Of course it could have been tempting fate by walking on an ice-covered skating rink, sliding down a tree strewn hill, or attempting to navigate the ski jump at the snow park on a toboggan. All seemingly simple choices unless you are him. But not being him all we can do is watch in expectation and attempt to conjure meaning from ill conceived conceptualization, or reasoning from dubious fatally conceived results, no matter the infusion of faith. I have watched him on several occasions similar to the one being analyzed. On one such occasion skiing from the bumper of a car unbeknownst to the driver on newly slicked streets of the first ice storm. Dry patches are less rare than you would imagine and once encountered leave little to renegotiate before leaving substantial amounts of skin behind as tip for destiny. Sometimes, no matter the contemplation, the planning, theorizing, the actuarial tables; the worst occurs. Sometimes it doesn’t. No one knows why. We can speculate as to the reasons one looses an eye while another receives new glasses and is cautioned to be more careful. I watch as he eyes the snow-covered ice ball heading for him. I can visualize the cogs is his mind spinning like deranged second hands of the alligator’s clock. Him weighing the probability of the improbable, knowing he will receive his metaphysical answer within a fraction of a second, and yet continuing to argue with himself over the percentages necessary to drive him to fate of an abandoned vehicle. I watched as the iced meteor slid silently through our universe passed him and exploded on the rear wall of our fort. He said nothing, just smiled, made the sign of the cross knowing it had all been unnecessary as he knew, as I knew, the neighbor boy although oversized in body, and undersized of mind, through like a girl, before anyone bothered to show girls the proper way to use their weight and dexterity to throw the perfect snowball, that always finds its mark.

“You don’t have to come with us, you know?” Jack started, not having realised that Rowan was looking at him. “Nah, it’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be fine? It’s fine.” “D’aww, what’s this?” Alice said, leaning over Jack’s shoulder. “Is my little brother embarrassed?” That much was clear to anyone walking past them on the street. Jack’s cheeks were redder than the traffic lights, and despite the cool autumn air he had a thin trail of sweat down the side of his face. At being called out though he clenched his jaw and squared his shoulders, shoving his sister off. As the siblings started squabbling, the gaudy lights of the shop came into view, and now Rowan was as bright red as Jack. But Jack didn’t realise; he was too busy desperately trying to keep his eyes away from the displays in the windows. Trying and failing. He wasn’t sure which woman he was more uncomfortable with being there while he gawped at half-naked models; his life-long best friend or his sister. Both Jack and Rowan paused on the threshold, but Alice marched straight in. It was only when she tried to point a piece out to Rowan that she realised the others hadn’t followed her. Rolling her eyes and throwing her hands up in the air she stormed back out. “Look, neither of you have to come if you don’t want to,” she said. “We can just go and grab coffees if you want. This is about you Rowan, but if you’re not ready, there’s no pressure.” “No. I do want to. It’s just...” That phrase, ‘ it’s just ’, had become so much a part of Rowan’s life, and Jack was sick of it. She spent so much of her time hiding and worrying about what other people thought, and while there was nothing Jack could do to counter those fears directly, there was a way to help her here. Squeezing his hands into fists in his pockets, Jack sauntered into the lingerie shop, doing his best to act for all the world like he belonged there. It lasted until he came to the first display. The brightly coloured, armless mannequin was wearing... something that sparkled in the spotlights, and was all lace and shiny gems. Jack realised he was staring at the mannequin’s chest, and quickly tried to find something else to look at. But everywhere he looked there was another mannequin, or a poster with a real-life model, and Jack couldn’t work out which was worse. The model was an actual person, and it was rude to stare... but was it weirder if he couldn’t take his eyes off some sculpted plastic? “You don’t have to be so embarrassed, little brother,” Alice said as she jabbed him in the ribs. “I’m not.” But there was no point denying that now. Jack was even redder, and his hands were out of his pockets and twisting nervously. It wouldn’t be so bad, it wouldn’t be at all bad, if he was with anyone else. Except maybe his mum. He wasn’t a teenager any more for pity’s sake; he had some degree of control over his urges. But Alice was family, and Rowan was as good as family, and all he could think about when he saw all these bras and panties was either of them wearing them. It made him nauseous and, in the case of Rowan, very confused. It could only have been ten years or so ago that they’d been scavenging terrible porn mags from the side of the road or off of the older boys at school, and now... Now he was trying to spot the difference between those magazines and the world he’d just walked into. ‘Class’ was about the only thing that Jack could think of. “You can wait outside you know?” Rowan whispered in his ear. “It’s fine.” He’d need a clean shirt after this, but it was better than abandoning his friend. Though they’d known each other their whole lives, Jack knew that Rowan was still nervous around his family. Leaving her alone with his sister to go underwear shopping would be a new level of cruel, and Jack had promised to himself that he’d do everything he could to help Rowan. Besides, if he was here and being obviously ‘male’, that should draw some of the attention away from Rowan. He’d go through any awkwardness if it meant, just for once, that she was comfortable. Jack looked around again, dropping his gaze quickly when a couple of middle-aged woman across the shop stared back. The whole place was crazy, and he’d never seen anything like it. He’d thought it would be just like any other shop; hangers and displays, with prices on tags and a row of check-outs. And changing rooms, given sizes were a weird concept to women’s fashion, apparently. But this place... It felt more like a destination, the sort of place you’d go out to go to, and to be seen at, rather than just a place you’d pop into on the way past. There were chest of drawers and sofas, and the fact that it felt more like someone’s (very extravagant) bedroom did nothing to help his nervousness. He could imagine an old-fashioned finishing school mistress appearing suddenly and running everyone in the place through... stuff. His mind went blank about what actually happened at a finishing school. The fear that he’d get caught up in though was very real. And there was the smell as well, a thick clawing flowering smell that coated everything. Since when did shops have smells? The scent got up his nose, and he felt it clinging to his clothing. He was also pretty sure that spotlights weren’t usually such a feature of shops, at least not when they weren’t focusing on the items for sale. Here they seemed to be picking out half the walkways as well, as though the whole place was a cat-walk, with mirrors instead of cameras. Everywhere he turned someone was watching him, and it was him in another damned mirror. How long did they spend decorating this place? Wouldn’t the time have been better spent working on the products? And if they spent so long planning this place, why did they never find any colours other than pink? Trying to think about something else he glanced across at Rowan. She was also staring around the place, and staring at the models as well, but it wasn’t with fear or lust. Her eyes were wide and her mouth open, and there was the faintest hint of a tear in her eye. She finally feels like she belongs , Jack thought. It was enough to put the thoughts of his own whining out of his head. She’d had years of not fitting in; he could cope with ten minutes or so. “So,” he said, unconsciously lowering his voice an octave or so, “what happens now? What- what the hell is that for?” Not believing his eyes he picked up the offending garment and held it up for clarification. “That is an underwired, padded, sculpting lift bra. It’s for holding your tits. Please tell me you’ve at least worked that bit out, little brother?” Alice teased. “Hey, I’ve had girlfriends!” The women across the shop were giving them all looks now, and Jack spotted the tell-tale whispering as they looked at Rowan. “But why are there so many options? Don’t you just need, like... cups, and straps?” “Well, yes. But there’s a lot more to it than that. Now hush, the women are talking.” Clapping her hands together Alice turned to Rowan. “So, how far have you got? Do you know your size yet?” As she always did whenever anyone started talking about this stuff, Rowan curled her shoulders in and clasped her hands in front of her, covering her chest as much as she could. “I think so. I mean, I watched a video online about how to measure yourself, and then grabbed some bras from the local supermarket-” “Oh no, really, hun? You don’t want to do that, they’re terrible, trust me. Did no one warn you off them?” “My mum still doesn’t like to talk about it too much...” “Sod her then. Okay, first things first we’ll get you measured. Let’s go and find a member of staff.” Jack had seen the look of sheer terror on Rowan’s face, but Alice wasn’t stopping long enough for her to object. The older woman dragged her away, taking her elbow in her grip and hustling her across, discussing options and styles as they went. For a moment Jack just watched them, proud of his sister for being so supportive and natural about the whole thing. Then he realised he was still holding the bra, and there were more women getting nearer now. After a brief second of trying to fold it, during which he almost tied the damn thing in knots, Jack gave up and left it on top of the display before dashing after the others. “Ah, thought we’d lost you to your day-dreaming,” Alice said when he caught up. “Grab a seat there, we shouldn’t be too long.” And before Jack could say anything the pair of them disappeared behind a thick, velvet curtain. Jack spent a moment wondering if he should go in and check on Rowan. Knowing Alice however, she probably already had her shirt off. While he was busy hovering about a shop assistant slipped past him, and Jack realised he was right in the way. With no other options he threw himself into the chair. It was huge, with ridiculous wings that blocked out his peripheral vision. The thought that he could be jumped by half-naked mannequins or imaginary finishing school teachers meant he couldn’t settle, although now he was in the ‘appointed waiting seat’ he was getting less weird looks. Just as long as they don’t think I’m dating either of them . Whatever the measuring process involved, it did not, as Jack had assumed, take only ten minutes so. Somewhere after the first hour he stopped keeping track of the time, and he was busy sending up silent prayers that at least this place - strange as it was in all other aspects - at least had Wi-Fi, when Alice came out of the mystical depths of the dressing rooms. “Hey, Alice, what’s up? Is Rowan okay?” “What?” Alice skidded to a halt beside him. “Oh, she’s loving it. It makes such a difference wearing something that fits properly.” “I’ll take your word for it.” “We’re just having a few style problems, what with her shape and all. Nothing major though, should be done in a bit.” Alice headed off again, leaving Jack sat there thinking about Rowan’s shape. Of course he’d noticed, but he never felt sure if he should comment or not. Most women got offended if you commented on their breasts, but if he was remarking that Rowan’s were ‘growing in’ as it were, and that she was starting to look more female, would she take offence? I mean , he thought, going over this old ground again, that’s the whole point of the hormones isn’t it? But however uncertain he was with everything, Jack knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Oliver had been his best friend, and becoming Rowan hadn’t changed that. Another twenty minutes later and Rowan herself finally emerged from the changing rooms. “All good?” Jack said, jumping up with the same nervous excitement he’d had when he went to the doctor’s appointments with Rowan. “Great!” Rowan was carrying a whole bundle of clothes and grinning madly, but Jack could see the smudges at the edges of her eyeliner. There had been some tears, and once again Jack wished that the day would hurry up and arrive when Rowan didn’t have to cry about who she was. “Did you leave anything left for anyone else to buy?” Jack teased. One of his first promises to Rowan was that he’d still tease her just the same, just like he had for the two decades before. “A few bits. Let me just pay for these, then we’ll grab some coffee.” Desperate as he was to leave, to feel sunlight on his face again and breathe fresh air (as well as not be surrounded by endless mirrors and half-naked women), Jack did his best to act casual as he hung next to Rowan, waiting for her to pay. “Is your boyfriend paying for it?” the cashier asked Rowan with a sly smile. “Oh, we’re not a couple,” Rowan replied. They got it a lot, and Rowan was just about getting used to saying it without it coming out so hurriedly that it sounded like they were in denial. “Nah, I’m just a mate. Thought I’d come along and see what all the fuss was about,” Jack said. Biggest mistake of my life , he groaned internally, but he kept up the smile. “Oooh, clothes shopping with your female friends? Very modern of you,” the cashier said. There hadn’t been a single look at Rowan’s strong jaw-line, or her thicker brow-ridge. Instead Jack was the butt of the life-style comments? My work here is done , Jack thought with a smug sigh. The three of them left the shop, and Jack had to fight back the urge to fall to his knees outside. He knew it was stupid, but he suddenly wanted to do something very masculine, like go fishing, or boxing, or fiddle with a car engine. Except he knew that was all rubbish. Gender expectations had been the first thing to go when Rowan appeared on the scene. Still with his head to the sky, basking in the sunlight and fresh air, Jack peeked across at Rowan. From what he’d overheard she’d left wearing one of the bras, and Jack was curious. Alice had made it sound like magic, like putting on a ‘good’ bra - whatever that meant - could change your life. What surprised him most was the fact that it seemed to have worked. Whether it was just from being pampered and treated as a woman for so long, or because the bra was actually doing it magic, but Rowan was standing taller and straighter. There was also a giddy glow to her face, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her so at ease. Today was definitely worth all the favours he’d called in with Alice, and all the looks and whispering he’d gotten in the shop. That said... “Hey, ladies? Is there any chance we could go get that coffee? I really need a drink right now. The world still looks pink...”

Time has often been described as sand, falling through a great hourglass that is life. However, I find that it is more akin to a great river: vast and gentle from afar, but swirling with changing rapids in every nook. Consider a ripple. The disturbance seems to not have an effect on the river as a whole, but inspect any rapid somewhere down the stream, and you’ll find it directly influenced. It is this property that renders the waves and currents of time unpredictable and mysterious. One cannot possibly trace every drop of water in its journey down an infinite slope, cannot possibly measure every minute fluctuation of its velocity. Such a feat would be to conquer time itself, to thrust oneself out of the third dimension through which we’re born and into the fourth, where time itself is still and unchanging, and all that was, is, and ever will be is already decided. No, the feat is impossible. But I have come close. I have sent out machines like scouts to the wild, observing every quantum particle in its every aspect. Heisenberg would call me a fool, but his so-called uncertainty is of no obstacle. For is it not destiny already for me to approach this task? Even if to see is to change, was it not already set that change must be made? But I digress. Truly, thinking on time and the effects of its grasping are a migraine at the seed. I have come to realize that seeing the future is to see how fixed your own fate truly is. That our concept of free will is nothing but a series of logical reactions in the chemical structure that is our brains. And so I do not look into the currents of the future, but the currents of the present, and their relationship to the surfacing waves of the next great catastrophe of life. I must protect the world from the sadness of the inevitable, but I must also not shirk my duty to use this cursed knowledge for the betterment of all. It is true that a secret is like a virus, and one that will spread to those that touch it. For this reason I have infected only a select few, trusting them to remain sanitary. I call them my sailors, but they must ride across time to gaze not at the ripples in the water but at the growing swells that threaten to capsize them. The difference is that my sailors have not oars but rocks, so that they may drop one into the water at such a time and place as to negate the swell before it could even appear. “Do not look at it as time travel,” I told my sailors one day. “For it is more like time sight. I will allow you to see the future from afar- to gaze at the picture of it and grasp its image- and you may then act on what you have seen.” But even they do not know of the sadness. The inevitability. The futility. Some days, they look upon a failure, and say, “What have we done wrong?” I so want to say, “Nothing, for you have done everything you were meant to.” But that would remove their illusion of free will, of having impact at all. For the truth is... the truth is that seeing a real future is to become a slave to it. To know what is to be and have no power to stop it. They say we spend most of our day in waking hypnosis. We react in automatic ways, and truly think rarely apart from a few unexpected outliers. However, even in these moments, when I focus with all my mind, my soul- if such a thing does exist- I cannot outwit the future. For whenever I clash with, or wish to act in a way that is directly opposed, I am a man possessed. Literally. By the mind from which my own intelligence is wrought. That is why I do not show them the true future. I show one without their great deeds, without their heroic missions, so they may have inspiration, aspiration, and drive. Though I know I am a slave to the future, I cannot help but derive my last dregs of joy from their blind belief that they are making an irrefutable difference in the world. Pure humanity. I have seen my death. It is suicide, which I am not surprised by. Though I have lived as a slave for much longer than I might have imagined (back when I had to imagine the future) I cannot live this way forever. I know the ending to every great tale to ever be told. It’s terrifying and dull, a blend that twists around my mind with enough emotion to keep me clinging to life by hair, or by a fraying rope to which I know the exact strength. And I know one day, and I know which day, it will finally snap. It is tomorrow. Humanity is not meant for the fourth dimension. Time is not a concept to be conquered. It should be left with some degree of mystery, so that we might play about in its silky shadow but never find ourselves crushed beneath the weight of it. That is why, on the day before my death, I will destroy the boat and leave my sailors landlocked. I cannot bear to think of them sailing ever onward, waiting for the swell they cannot overcome, until they finally are swallowed by the unchanging river I have hidden from them. It is too much, and anyway it is already decided. That is, I have already decided on the day I saw myself writing this very- well. Whatever this is. I hope no one reads this. I hope no one finds this, to discover the sadness of time. I do not want to ruin it for everyone. But I cannot leave with nothing. I cannot leave without some evidence to my being apart from the lasting ripples cascading across a river that appears not to change. So I write this. And in this, I find consolation. In this, I find courage. In this, I find closure. To my thoughts. To my struggle. To my life.

*One look at her my heart was stopping (Heartbreak)* *I did whatever she was asking* *She said "maybe later catch you in the elevator"* “Hi? Are you looking for something?” I asked as I popped my head out of the door. The girl who was trying hard to fit her keys into my apartment door grew red in the face as she saw me. “Oh, I’m so, so sorry. I thought this was my apartment,” she chuckled slightly to relieve her embarrassment. “Do you know which is door 32?” “Which letter?” I inquired. “Oh? There’s letters to them?” she looked back down to the paper in her hand. “Yeah. My door is the only one that doesn’t have it since remodeling still hasn’t reached me, thank god for that.” “I think it says 32 N?” “Then you’re across the hall 3 doors to the left,” I answered. Now I let my eyes take her in. She was breathtaking. Heartstopping. Her honey blonde hair reflected the lights of the hall, shimmering and dancing. Dressed in a loose blouse and short skirt. Boots accompanied her wardrobe pushing her up by a few centimeters. The way she looked at me with those blue eyes, oh man. I knew I was in trouble. “Nice to have you in neighbour. My name is Bryan. Hope you find everything great. And if you need me, please don’t hesitate to ask,” I said in greeting. “Thanks. I’m Adeline.” she reached out and shook my hand. “Maybe catch you later in the elevator someday?” she offered. “Definitely,” I smiled. *A couple days we got to hanging (Real close)* *Turns out she wasn't even taken (No no)* *I made a move she said "baby you're mistaken, I'm not into bacon"* “You’re not in a relationship!? How?” I asked in surprise. For the past few days, I’ve been hanging out with Adeline, going out places and getting into trouble. It honestly felt like I was back in highschool. Hadn’t had this much fun since then. Adeline was adventurous and had a craziness that brought mine out. “I just haven’t met the right one,” she sighed. “Too many of the people I’ve liked don’t seem to like me back or turn out to be one of those messed up bitches.” She moved around on her bed to hang her head in order to look at me. I was sitting down leaning on the door of her closet watching her exaggerated movements. “Out of all the people you’ve met, you haven’t found the right one? I doubt that. According to you, you’re adventurous, you’ve been to places. Not to mention, gorgeous!” I chuckled. “Well you’re right about all of that. But, no. I haven’t met the right one,” she seemed to be staring off into space after that. “Aw, honey. You’re breaking my heart.” I clutched my heart as I dropped in an exaggerated manner to the ground. “Breaking your heart?” “Yeah, You say you haven’t met the right guy. I’m right here, breaks my little heart.” I pout. “Oh, uh. Sorry, I uh. I guess I was being vague huh?” --she looked at me with obvious sympathy-- “I’m not into guys. I’m uh...I’m lesbian.” Those words hit me hard. The realization of what it meant for me and my feelings was painful. It really did break my heart. *She got that smile and that body is to die for* *One of a kind and that's why it makes me cry* “We can still be friends. Right?” I couldn’t say no to her. Despite my feelings being crushed, they were still there. I might be making a stupid decision by crushing myself, but I just had to be with her. Even as friends. However sad it may be. “Yeah, friends.” I answered. *'Cause I found a girl* *Who's in love with a girl* *She said that she tried* *But she's not into guys* *Oh, why, tell me why* *Did I fall for those eyes?* *She said I was nice* *But she's not into guys* *I found a girl* “So what’s with that look in your eyes?” I asked as I sat down next to Adeline. I scanned the direction she was looking at. We were at a bar, so it was crowded. Lots of people were in the way obstructing our view. But then I finally caught a glimpse of what she was looking at. Actually, **who** she was looking at. It was an attractive bartender. Pretty and well toned. With a bit of a tan. Her hair was tied into a ponytail as she scrubbed one of the tables trying her best to clean it. My throat tied into a knot. A year and a half passed since I met Adeline, a bit of time also passed since her confession of her orientation. Enough to allow me to digest it properly. Yet, I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t want her to get a girlfriend, if she did, it would cement the reality permanently. “She’s not worth it you know. You deserve better. Better than someone who works at a bar for a living,” I complained. “What? You say something...?” She was distracted. She wouldn’t be paying attention to any of my complaints. So instead, I ordered a drink from the man behind the counter. “One of your strongest ones please,” I signalled. The man stopped drying the cup he had his hands on and proceeded to scan the bottles on the shelves. He came over with one after finding it and poured a bit into a shot glass. “Tough night, huh.” he glanced at Adeline who continued looking at the girl as she went around taking orders from the customers. There were a couple people on the stage singing along to the karaoke. They were surprisingly good at it. Had the voice for it. Even when drunk. I downed the shot glass and placed it back on the counter. “Yeah, something like that,” I answered. “I’ll be right back Bryan. I’m gonna go introduce myself,” she got up. “Wait, I don’t think it’s proper etiquette to hit on people while they’re... Nevermind,” she left before I could finish. “So, how many am I allowed to have?” “Well, we don’t really have a limit. I guess you could drink as much as you want as long as you don’t drive,” the man answered. “I’ll have a few more then, please.” After several shots passed, the waitress Adeline was staring at came over to announce she was getting off shift. “I’m still gonna be here, so if you need any help, feel free to ask. I’ll be over there with that hottie,” she chuckled. And with that, she left with a small strut. “Life is unfair, you know?”-- my voice was starting to gain a little slur -- “Like, you love someone. But they don’t love you back. Worse of all, they don’t even love your gender! Like, if I were to have been born a girl, I wouldn’t have a problem being with her. But she doesn’t like guys. Why are girls like that?” I groaned to the man, Harrison. “I’m not sure dude. Girls are a mystery. Though, I was able to catch myself a great one. She’s my wife now. All I know to say is, fight for your love. Maybe she’ll come around, I doubt it. But what’s the harm in trying? And if it doesn’t work out, there are literally more girls than there are guys in the world.” “You’re right, I need a nap.” *I should've known to walk away then* *I should've left it alone* *But when she called me on the phone we'd be hanging again* *Under the premise of friends* *But now she only talks to me about some other woman* *She says* My phone buzzed. I looked over at it. The buzzer was making it move a lot, threatening to launch it off the boxes I placed it on. I groaned. This really wasn’t the best time for anyone to call me. I had to unpack all of my shit before I had to go to an interview. I didn’t even have any proper clothes for the fucking thing. *Clack!* I lifted my head to see that my phone had fallen off the box. The screen lit up signalling that I just missed the call. Whatever, I could check it out later. Right now, I had to at least move the couch inside, before it got soaked from the impending rain. It was a difficult task to do, but I was able to manage to get the sofa inside. Don’t ask me how, I had trouble even fitting it through the stupid door. With it inside, and a couple of minutes to spare, I looked at my phone. **6 missed calls, 4 unopened messages.** Who the hell could it be? Of course. As soon as I opened them, the name Adeline popped up. Haven’t even seen her name in a few weeks. Nearly forgot about her entirely. Another year passed since she started dating Yvette. The presence of her girlfriend dominated her all the time. Even when it was just the two of us. **Ady:** ***Are you all set up yet?*** **Ady:** ***Can I come over?*** **Ady:** ***Stop ignoring me. Let’s just talk*** **Ady:** ***We’re hanging out today. Whether you like it or not. I’ll text you the address. I promise that it’ll just be the two of us.*** Agh! Why can’t I get rid of her? Or at least crush and throw away my feelings? *She got that smile* *And that body is to die for* *One of a kind* *And that's why it makes me cry* She just played around with the food on her plate. Poking it with her fork. The silence was awkward. The ambience of friends wasn’t there anymore. No playfulness, no fun. Nothing. I wonder what happened to change all that. I can’t deny that I didn’t miss her. She was everything good that happened to my life. And the memories I have of us together were too precious to lose. *'Cause I found a girl* *Who's in love with a girl* *She said, that she tried* *But she's not into guys* *Oh, why, tell me why* *Did I fall for those eyes?* *She said I was nice* *But she's not into guys* *I found a girl* “I know that we’ve been on a rocky path. We haven’t exactly been the greatest of friends anymore. But, I had fun with you. I like you and I treasure all the experiences we’ve had together. I just, I want us to be friends again. I miss the old times we had,” she sighed, “I want to be friends again. *Oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh, oh* *I found a girl* *Oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh, oh* I didn’t know how to answer to her. I was at a loss for words. The emptiness in me seemed to gnaw at me begging me to answer her. *I can't believe I met somebody like you* *And now I feel like a fool* *Anatomy is so cruel* *I can't believe it I just think like a man* *That you just wanted me bad* *But you had different plans* I don’t know what got into me next. What the hell possessed me? What was I even thinking? All I know is that that I lost myself in her eyes as I leaned in. Our lips grazed each other’s softly. It was slow. But I enjoyed every moment of it. I was hungry for more and leaned in to keep going. *SMACK!* My cheek burned from how hard Adeline struck me. “What the HELL Bryan!!” she demanded angrily. “I’ve got a girlfriend! You can’t do that!” Guilt washed over me as I saw tears start to squeeze through her eyes. Why did I do that? Everyone in the diner had their eyes on me as she left running. *'Cause I found a girl* *Who's in love with a girl* *She said, that she tried* *But she's not into guys* *Oh, why, tell me why* *Did I fall for those eyes?* *She said I was nice* *But she's not into guys* *I found a girl* *Found a girl* *Who's in love with a girl* *She said, that she tried* *But she's not into guys* *Oh, why, tell me why* *Did I fall for those eyes?* *She said I was nice* *But she's not into guys* *I found a girl* I’m happy now. I have a girlfriend that I love very much. A stable job. A happy life. No regrets. Well. Mostly no regrets. I only have one. I never knew what happened to Adeline after she left. After that scandal. I changed my phone number and disconnected from the world. That is until Christa brought me back into the world. I’m at a diner now. Similar to the one from all those years ago. We’re having a great time celebrating our dating anniversary. But there’s something familiar in the air. I don’t know what. Maybe I should look around. But my eyes, won’t budge. Not from that girl sitting in front of another girl. Her smile is dazzling. Familiar. Like home. And her eyes, familiar as they are, lock on to me. A small smile is offered to me which I return with one of my own. Maybe I should go over and introduce myself. Excuse myself from Christa.

“No!” she cried. “No, no, no!” She collapsed back onto the bed and let the small plastic stick slip through her fingers and fall to the ground. She could not believe it! How could she allow this to happen? How in the world in this day and age had she not protected against this! Well, she thought, it’s 2003 and there are ways to deal with these things. And just as she thought it, guilt seized her and she quickly brushed off both the thought and the guilt. She closed her eyes, giving into the exhaustion that still lingered from the half marathon she just ran over the weekend, and, deciding to think about what to do after a nap, fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke, she was relieved, buoyant, even. She lay still and let the memory of the most wonderful dream wash over her. In her dream, she saw herself with a little girl. At first, the girl was a tiny babe in the cutest little dress with a bow tied in her dark hair looking up at her while she gave her a bottle. The little baby’s chubby hands were reaching up to her face and her eyes held a gaze as if she was looking straight into her mommy’s soul. How could such a tiny creature hold such a knowing gaze? Then the dream pushed her forward in time and she saw the tiny babe trying to walk. She sat on one side of a carpeted living room filled with bright-colored toys and books and stuffed animals. The baby girl first wobbled and fell onto her diapered backside, but then pulled herself up again and then, slowly, one foot wobbled forward as the rest of her body began to adjust to the gravity. The little bug took another tentative step and then another and another and then fell into her mother’s waiting arms. She stood up with the baby girl and danced around, both of them laughing until the child began to wriggle from her mother’s safe embrace. She wanted to have another go! Swoosh, the dream forced her through time again and she was watching a tiny child running through the park. Oh, her mother thought, as the sweet little thing began to pull herself up the ladder on the slide. “I must let her try things,” as she examined the ladder, the height, the ground below, and where best to stand to catch her if she were to fall. But much to her mother’s delight, the baby girl climbed up, sure footed, and found herself at the top of the slide where she looked down and gave her mother a hesitant look. Her mother, now convinced that her child was incredible, encouraged the babe to push herself forward. “I’ll be waiting right here for you and won’t let you get hurt,” her mother said brightly. Then the child pushed herself forward and squealed with delight to be swooshing down the slide into her mommy’s waiting embrace. Then the dream advanced and she saw the baby, now a small girl, dressed with her backpack on and posing for a first day of Kindergarten picture. She had on a new red checked dress with a big red bow on her head. She didn’t even wimper - not one little tear, when her mama pulled up to the curb and the pretty young teacher took her by the hand and led her out of the car into the building. She marched in on the first day like she had always been there, with confident, bold steps, head held high, chest puffed out, and proud to be a big girl now. Time began to flash now more quickly. Years and years of fun and love and happiness and pain and worry and hope and failure and achievement flashed in her dream in moments, like her whole life was a movie montage. There the child was on the soccer field, with her best friend playing in her playroom, at birthday parties and Christmas celebrations, with her grandparents hunting Easter eggs, in the church play, getting awards at school, playing basketball, volleyball, going to her first school dance, on her first date, acting in the school play, working with kids on a missions trip, and graduating high school. Then she woke up and sat up on the bed and a hope had filled her soul. She did not know God, but she thought, I think God just gave me a message. Everything is going to be okay. Confused, though, she looked around the room and it wasn’t her room anymore. She was in a strange house that she had never seen. When she fell asleep, she had been in her upstairs apartment, but now she was in a simple little home on the ground - and a strange dog was laying on the floor next to her. She must have been dreaming still. And then, she was back in the montage. It was whirling by her, class pictures, pictures with her cousin, on vacation swimming with dolphins... Then the dream suddenly changed, like a plane that moments before was 20,000 feet in the air has just touched the earth for the first time in three hours. The wistfulness of the girl’s life flashing before her dreaming eyes came crashing to a halt and the dream stopped advancing time, abruptly, as if what would happen next was the important part. In her dream, she began to cry a little. At first, it was a soft cry as she watched her baby packing to go off to college. Then, she was standing in the dorm room with her baby, looking deep into her eyes and seeing her as the tiny baby she rocked and fed just 18 short years ago. And then, she saw it, that knowing gaze that had been so remarkable as a newborn was looking back at her now. And she knew. The tears still fell, but she knew. It was time to turn her loose and let her see what the world had to offer. She had to let her go take flight, to see what she could do with her life. Then, she saw a glimpse of her daughter’s future. The dream felt very different now. The beautiful pictures progressed, but now they were hazier and more obscured. But she could still tell - her baby would graduate college, land a wonderful job that afforded her an easy life, would get married, and have children - her grandchildren!- and she was happy and healthy and a ray of sunshine in her community. The surge of joy forced her eyes open. She looked over at the clock. 5:30 a.m. “Oh, well, I was going to get up in a few minutes anyway,” she told the German Shepherd at her feet. As she began to shake off the long night’s sleep, she remembered that she had dropped her baby off at college just the day before. Her heavy, puffy eyes reminded her of how she had cried most of the ride home. She stumbled out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. “Odd,” she said to the cat staring at her from the bathroom sink, “I remember those awful thoughts after I found out I was pregnant and waking up with a renewed hope and joy, but I don’t remember what I dreamed.” She lost herself in thought for a moment. I do remember waking up hopeful. Maybe I had a dream like that one? Like the end of the one I just had that showed me what a wonderful life I’d have raising my baby girl? Was it that I was just tired and once I got rest I felt better and could face the future? No, no. That couldn’t have been all it was. “No, I was confident that everything was going to be just fine after that nap. I remember thinking about my strange shift in attitude and actually becoming excited,” she told the orange tabby now stealing water from the stream in the sink to groom himself. That dream felt like something I had had before, but it couldn’t have been way back then before I became a mother, could it have been? Then her mind turned to the present. As she brushed her teeth and began to think about the day, she heard rain hitting the bedroom window. “Rain?” she asked the cat, “It hasn’t rained in months!” The dog met her at the bedroom door as she went out to see what it was like outside. “Maybe it’s not a good idea to go for my morning walk today,” she told the pup. The pup let out a small whine and lay down on the dining room floor by the back door as she opened it and stood on the back patio, rain splashing on her from the eave just a few feet away. But it does feel nice, she thought, remembering the long, hot, dry summer they had just endured in Texas this year. Then, the sadness washed over her again. Her baby was at college and wouldn’t be home for at least two weeks. But let’s face it, she’ll never be home again like she was before. “Life is different now, so get used to it,” she said to no one in particularly, wiping away a small tear that had escaped. The sadness overwhelmed her again. “How are we going to make it here without our Bug? Why didn’t I raise her to be stupid and afraid to leave home?” she asked the persistent dog, that really just wanted her breakfast. And just like that, she made up her mind to go out and get her morning walk in despite the pouring rain thinking that the weather exactly matched her mood anyway. Her sweet pup didn’t understand why she was being left behind for their usual morning walk. “It’s too messy out there for you today, sweet girl. You can go tomorrow.” She let some more tears fall as she drove to the local park. Then, as she sat in the parking lot watching the sheets of water dance down the windshield, she bowed her head and asked for a safe trip around the park. “And please, Lord, don’t let anyone I know see me!” Then, pulling the makeshift poncho she rigged out of a large trash bag over her head, she stepped out into the monsoon. She had to go. The mental toughness program she started just that day called for one outside workout and there wouldn’t be another chance today. She ditched the political podcast and audiobook and just listened to the rain thump the bill of her hat and the trashbag poncho. At first it was miserable and silly. Then she started to talk to God and tell Him how she really felt. Why did He give her such a gift, her Baby Bug, only to make take her away from her? She knew she was whining. She didn’t care. She was stomping through the rain puddles, quickly turning into streams, and letting her sadness ooze out through the angry words in now what was a loud prayer. The rain came down harder and the stream that runs through the park began to swell. It had been so dry for so long that the water wasn’t seeping into the rock hard ground, but running over it and flooding the low places even at this early hour in the storm. One mile down, and still she stomped and let God have it. “Why does it have to work this way? Why didn’t you make my marriage work? Why do we have so many problems in this world? WHY WHY WHY?! I wanted more time to be her mama! I want to go back and tell my younger mama self not to worry so much about the small stuff. I want to go back and hold that sweet baby as long as I could. Why did I rush that? Why did I ever think I didn’t want her? Why did I think my life was over the day I found out I was pregnant? Why, Lord, do you make us so dense and stubborn to miss the blessings you pour on us?” The storm raged and her feet were soaked. But her steps began to fall softer, her breathing less intense. The tenseness in her face began to fall away and she began to laugh. “Someone is going to try to commit me to the looney bin for sure,” she thought as she waved to the man in the parks maintenance truck driving through to check on the facilities. But the joy that welled up in her all of a sudden when she realized that she wasn’t angry with God. NO! No! She was so very grateful for the blessing He gave her in spite of her stupidity so long ago. I remember now, she thought, partly to herself, partly to God. You did send me a dream that day. I thought that day was going to be the start of a painful, long journey! Oh, and I remember having the thought that I might abort my Baby Bug. It was a short, fleeting thought - but it was there, no doubt. I remember being exhausted and falling into a deep sleep desperate and distraught. But then...”Lord, was that you?” she yelled into the rain. “Was it you that sent me that dream to show me that that baby was not the end of my story, but the beginning of it? Yes! Yes! It was you, wasn’t it? That’s why the dream felt so familiar to me - because I’ve had it before!” Then she grew silent, rounding the corner and heading down the home stretch. The rain had increased and now every low place was covered in water. The whole area had been praying for rain for months - and here it was, finally! People were selling livestock because they couldn’t afford feed because all the grass was dead. The whole state had been under water restrictions, and the lake that fueled the town economy was so low, the weekenders couldn’t get their boats off their dock so they had quit coming down and spending money in the local restaurants and stores. Governments at all levels were calling for ways to conserve and arrogant humans schemed plans to fix the environment. But God... “That’s right...But God! But God always restores” she said to the poor Hereford cow hunched by the barbed wire fence at the corner of the park, rain running in big streams through her reddish hair. “In a wave of his hand, look what He will do. Oh, sure, we scheme, and we plan, and we think we’re so very smart and clever, and all the time, God knows what to restore and when.” The cow moved away from the fence, less interested in God and more in a tree with low-hanging branches that might help shield some of the rain. Watching the cow mosey away, she began to think again about the dream. Of course, God had sent that to her to calm her and help her see that what had happened to her would serve as her deliverance, not her destruction. But she knew the last part of the dream, that was different. It had been hazy and not as well defined. It was God’s new message to her. “Child, trust me because I love you and have poured blessings on you already. I tell you, you will love the future too.” “Oh, Lord, I do trust you. You have given me the greatest blessing in my child. I’ll be a grandma!? My Baby Bug will be happy in her adult life? For what more can a mama’s heart hope? A happy child placing grandchildren in her arms? Lord, if that is your blessing, this time, I won’t miss it! I’m going to take my time and enjoy every moment!” A grandma, she thought again, as she passed the pavilion, and her car came into view again. The rain poured, defeating the long, hot, dry summer and a few doomsday predictions with it. She pulled the trashbag poncho over her head and placed it in the recycle bin by the ballfields and began to laugh and dance. “Lord, thank you for the rain. I won’t miss this blessing either!” Soaked to the bone and actually feeling a bit chilled, she twirled and turned, with her arms flung out and her head tilted toward the raging sky. A turn, a leap, and a splash! Yes, this new weather is perfect to go with my new mood! Thank you, Lord, for your grace and your pouring blessings!”

Part one How does a summer like that get forgotten? And what on earth makes one remember? Perhaps it’s coming back. Just passing through like before. A breeze on a creek flowing to a shallow grave, maybe. Either way I need juice, so I pulled into Cumberland Farms and aligned my Subaru’s Energy block to the magnetic receiver. The console of the meter drones with an advertisement for gas station coffee - as if I needed the nudge... I was unpleasantly surprised to find myself face to face with Emily Decker when I checked out with my coffee and 3 breakfast sandwiches. The same Emily I had known 34 years before as a young man, but morphed as if time could break down a person like fermented cabbage. “Hello” I said with a smile, hoping that my oversized sunglasses were enough to conceal my identity after so many decades. “Just the coffee and sandwiches?” Emily inquired lazily. “And a pack of Fatline Blues” I croaked, pointing to the light blue cigarette box behind Emily and to her right. She bent down and reached for a pack of cigarettes. My coffee fumed silently on the checkout counter, filling my nose with an intoxicating smell whose promise was a disappointing lie. I looked forward to it. “Have we met before hun?” Emily drawled, squinting as she rang out my breakfast and smokes. “No, sorry.” I lied apologetically “My first time around here.” I straightened the collar of my jacket and reached for my wallet. “Uh-huh.” Emily emoted, clearly unsatisfied, but by nature too lackadaisical to pursue the matter further. “Comes to 24.09.” I tapped my palm on the pay point and followed the prompts to enter my passcode. 24.09 credits were transferred from my account and Emily bagged my printed food and real cigarettes. She transferred the receipt slate to my Profile and nodded to me as I gathered my breakfast, declining the paper receipt Emily half-heartedly proffered to me. “See ya hun.” She grumbled with a certainty that belied finality. I gulped dry air down a grainy throat and stumbled out of the gas station to my car. The red paint on its body seemed to glow intensely in the hot September sun, my eyes watered as I unlocked and entered my vehicle. I inhaled and let out a long slow breath, blowing out through pursed lips for ten seconds or perhaps more. I sipped my coffee, grimacing as I burned my tongue on the too-hot brew, attempted putting out the fire with a bite from a too-hot breakfast sandwich - further coating my tongue in it’s synthetic napalm of cheese and eggs, and finally just tried to cut off the oxygen to the flames with some smoke. This kind of thing went on for a while, my 10AM orchestra of breakfast and cigarettes blared silently in the Cumberland Farms parking lot of Lower Indigo, Caterwaul. It was all much how I remembered it almost 3 and a half decades before. The fueling station stood lonely in a vast patchwork of fields unclaimed by man for years and showing signs of reclamation with their tall grass and snarling treelines. I thought of the first time I had been to this gas station. I thought of the farm a 5 minute walk, a 2 minute drive down the road. The long driveway that snaked through a forest encroaching on the fields lying not far east and south of the gas station. There was time to think, there was time to digest. My phone buzzed in the center cupholder and entoned the sound of a received text message. I picked up my phone and opened the message from and unknown number: Feast on the bones of your desire Lick clean the sweet marrow of your opulence Your dripping smile, a reflection of us all. There was something about working at a job so intangible that sucked the spirit from me. At 23 years old I felt frozen in the monotony of my daily routine - Wake at 6 am. Sentinel greets me with breakfast in bed and reminds me of my hygiene tasks. I eat my breakfast of printed sausage and eggs, with a glass of real mushroom elixir tea, and watch the morning news in my mind’s eye. I should say, I set lofty goals for my hygiene - mental, physical, aesthetic - and I credited it greatly for my success. After breakfast I practice aesthetic then mental hygiene, completing the tasks of bathing, drying, pruning, shaving, dressing, and sitting in silence for 30 minutes. While I complete these tasks Sentinel makes my bed and cleans up breakfast. I then go to the recreation room of my dormitory and practice physical Hygiene. I am there early so I am most often alone while I do this. On occasion I have enjoyed the company of another dormitory resident, but her profile was marked with a do not approach signal of which I abided. I believe her occasional appearance was the biggest anomaly in my banal existence. I will spare you the minutiae of the various exercises I employed in my physical hygiene practice - suffice to say, they made me strong indeed. My greatest pride was marked front and center in my profile, the bright red badge that declared me a certified Powerman. It may seem arrogant, and I suppose it was but as I said before - I owe my success to my excellent hygiene. When another person sees that big red badge in their mind’s eye, I get their respect. After my hygiene tasks are complete it is 8 in the morning. I settle into a body-form cove in the wall of my residence, and travel through the implant fused to my pineal gland to work. In my mind’s eye I am floating in a dark abyss, alone except for a slowly crawling assembly line and several green chutes surrounding me forming a half circle. A calming radiant sound buzzes from the surrounding darkness, filling me with a hypnotic bliss. I look to my left down the assembly line as it speeds up. From the point of infinity where the conveyor belt disappears in the distance, I see forms approaching. Large, blocky, colorful - with a foamy texture that seemed to roil and boil with anticipation. I reach out and grab the bright yellow starfish shaped form and throw it into chute C, behind me and to the left. I reach out and grab the purple rectangle and throw it into chute D, directly behind me. I reach out and grab a purple spiky triangle and gingerly toss it into chute A, directly to my left. I reach out and grab a dark green circle with a hole in the middle. Doughnut doughnut doughnut. The thought echoes through my perception as I well up with internal laughter that crashes through my mind in symphony with the ecstasy of the steady, low tone surrounding me. I drop the form into chute G, directly to my right. Data sorting was a high status job in the Union, and I was paid handsomely for it. 2 hours of real time seven days a week - but in sight-time that was 20 hours. At the end of my shift, after 20 hours of painful euphoric monotony I went to bed in my day clothes, completely drained. Because of this harrowing routine I have just described, I did not enjoy my life - I truly hated my existence. Alas it wasn’t always like that. When I first had started my position in data sorting, I had enjoyed the trade off of long virtual-hours for having almost a full day of real-time freedom. At first I had the energy and the passion for life to socialize and make use of my considerable wealth and status. I flaunted my Powerman badge on my profile at many Union Celebrations, our local dormitory cluster congregating in the center courtyard to caper with politicians, influencers, and entertainers of all breeds. Women swooned at my power and prominent local men gave me nods of respect. I danced with the loon weavers and spent my generous salary with an easy hand in the busy markets and cantinas. I had a beautiful mushroom garden in my residence with Reishi, Lion’s Mane, Jack-O-Lantern, Hairy Panus, Welcome Blues, Tjork Sevens, Hogwart, and several other genetically composed varieties. It was automated of course, but it still gave me great pleasure to watch the fungi grow from a tiny spore, to a matrix of mycelium, to fruiting body. At night I dreamt I was floating in a bright blue sky grabbing at radiant clouds and throwing them into a raging river below me, my face plastered with a grin that I could not make go away.

The scientist felt his heart sink as he looked at Ymir’s face after he said that. He couldn’t believe he was feeling sorry for a machine and that it actually had feelings and emotions, like he really was talking to another person. The scientist went on to explain why he seemed confused. “Well, you said that the image on the monitor is a visualization of your soul? As far as I know, and I’m not a religious guy either but machines can’t have souls.” He looked at Ymir as he anxiously waited for a response. “Well true, but what would you consider a soul to be like?” “Well, I guess it’s different for everyone. It’s what makes each of us unique to our own person. Some people believe that when you die you go somewhere else and depending on what you did in your life you go to heaven or hell or some other form of afterlife. But like I said, I’m not really religious person either and I don’t believe in that anyway so it doesn’t matter.” “But do you think that you have a soul?” “Well, yes. I’m human.” “And what do you think that the soul is?” “I’m not sure I understand?” “How could you say that you don’t believe in these things, yet still believe that you have a soul? Shouldn’t that immediately revoke the question at all? If having a soul means being human, shouldn’t that mean that I have a soul too? Or if having a soul is solely based off of some religious belief then that means you don’t have a soul.” He didn’t know what to say. It seems Ymir has a profound interest in philosophy out of everything he has programmed. “I believe that the soul is what makes you human. Your wants, your doubts, who you love, what you love, and also what you believe. Empathy, virtue, honor, love, happiness, sadness, anger, hate, regret, jealousy, hurt, and pain. These are all things all humans have no? The ability to to have human emotions and thoughts, to feel for others, animals and the like. That is what it means to be human. That is what it means to have a soul.” Ymir spoke truthfully. Without a doubt in its mind, regardless of being a computer. It truly believed that it can have all these that makes a human, well, human. It truly believed that it- no, that he can have a soul. The scientist didn’t know what to say. He never really thought of it like that before, and it’s true, these are things that make everyone who they are. In the end a soul is your own humanity. At least that’s what our understanding is from Ymir’s take on this.

“Thanks, Doc. I appreciate all you’ve done.” I say, shaking Dr. Sullivan’s hand. “I only wish I could have done more,” he says. “But it’s gone too far, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.” “Nay, don’t be. I’m the one who always puts things off. It’s my own fault.” I shake his hand one more time and leave. As I exit the building, I’m in a world of my own. Passing a couple engaged in conversation, one smiles at me, but I don’t notice. I walk across the parking lot to my car, press my key fob to open the door and flop down in the driver’s seat. Sitting behind the stirring wheel, I feel as though my mind is racing a million miles a minute, but I’m not really thinking of anything. Blinking, I figure it’s just the shock of it all. Picking up the manilla envelope in the passenger seat, I read my name, David Noonan. Inside are the results of a series of tests that show the outcome is a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. I came to see Dr. Sullivan because I was losing weight and had a backache that wouldn’t go away. Little did I know that these are symptoms of pancreatic cancer. In the end, Sullivan said I have a month or maybe a little more to live. I throw the envelope back on the seat and start the car. Looking into the rearview mirror, I see my slightly yellowish eyes and put my sunglasses on. While backing up, I sigh, “ That’s life for ya.” I’ve just celebrated my sixty-fifth birthday and recently retired. I owned my own business, a small computer chip etching firm. I did work for three or four computer manufacturers and kept myself and two other employees busy. The shop generated about three to four million a year, but after all the expenses, insurance, and such, I’d net nearly eighty grand or so. That isn’t too bad because I’m single, so all the money was mine. I never felt I should marry because I’m not too fond of the idea of burdening others. You know, like if I got sick or had money troubles. Why make them suffer because of me? I know love means sharing your problems, but that doesn’t sound fair. Besides, I have a sister, two nieces and a nephew. So it’s not like I don’t have a family. Starting a few years back, I bought a run-down log cabin in the mountain area of Moran, Wyoming, right next to Teton National Park. I’d work on it during my vacations, and now it’s where I live. The forest and mountains are gorgeous and so peaceful and quiet. The cabin itself is made from all hand-hued timbers. It has a small kitchen and two bedrooms, one on the main floor and a smaller one in the loft. The fireplace is constructed of river rocks that rises to the vaulted ceiling. It sits on one acre of land and is reached by traveling up a gravel road. It will soon be winter, so the pine trees surrounding my cabin are active, with squirrels gathering pine cones. I have a neighbor about a mile down the road, Eleanor Perkins. She is a widow a couple of years older than I am. She lives alone and keeps a flower and vegetable garden that she enjoys immensely/ She likes to be called Elli and sometimes treks up the hill to bring me vegetables or a plate of food. Elle is very kindhearted, and I like her a lot. Turning into the dirt driveway, I’m greeted with much barking. My dog Blue dashes off the porch and dances excitedly by my car. He jumps up on me when I open the car door. I rub his head vigorously, causing his ears to flap. “Alright, alright! I love you too, but you’ve got to let me out!” About six years ago, I was hiking along the edge of the Teton National Park when I came across this thin hound mix of a dog. I don’t know if he was lost or someone had abandoned him, but he was thirsty and scared. I cupped my hand, poured him some water, and fed him beef jerky. I brought him home and cleaned him up. He seemed to be primarily bluetick, so I named him Blue. He’s my best friend and keeps an eye on me when we walk so he won’t get lost again. I love that old boy. That night I mix him up a bowl of kibble and make myself half a sandwich. I don’t have much of an appetite these days and don’t even finish that. Starting a fire, I fetch the wine my employees bought as a retirement present. It’s a bottle of Pina Cabernet Sauvignon D’Adamo of Napa Vineyards. “This is pretty good stuff,” I tell Blue. He wags his tail and cocks his head. I retrieve the corkscrew and sit in front of the fire. Blue jumps up on the couch and curls up beside me. After uncorking it, I down the first glass unceremoniously. I spend the rest of the evening trying to drown my sorrow in delicious red wine. I awaken late in the morning to the sound of Blue’s nails clicking on the hardwood floor, needing to go out. Groaning loudly, I sit with my head in my hands. “Give me a minute, will ya, boy?” But Blue’s by the backdoor whining. Wincing and struggling, I lift myself off the couch, put on my slippers, and shuffle to the backdoor. Out in the yard, I have an old hand pump. So as Blue takes off to do his business, I stick my head under the spout and pump the handle. The freezing mountain water gushes out onto my neck and head. Gasping like a drowning man, I’m now fully awake. I pump the handle a few more times and drink from my cupped hand to slate the awful thirst in my throat. Blue has returned and sits in front of me, panting happily. I shake the water from my hair and push it back with my fingers. “How would you like a good breakfast this morning?” Blue hops around, not knowing what else to do, and follows me into the cabin. I fill his water bowl and give him fresh kibbles. I then fry three eggs and five pieces of thick bacon, make toast, and brew coffee. When it is ready, I crumble two strips of bacon and top Blue’s kibble with one of the fried eggs (over easy), and mix it all together. I have just taken a sip of my coffee and a bite of toast when Blue appears beside me. “Are you kidding me?” I ask him. “Did you even taste it?” I take a couple more bites, but I’m already feeling full, so I throw Blue another piece of bacon and scrape the rest of my dish into the trash. I must clear my head because I’ve got things to arrange and preparations to make. Picking up my walking stick, I call Blue. “Come on, boy. Let’s go for a walk.” At the end of the gravel road, we enter the park. It’s so nice to hear the birds chirping and the wind rustling through the pines. We come to a meadow of tall grass, and Blue immediately runs full steam ahead into it because he has chased up pheasants here before. Surrounding the meadow are the Grand Teton Mountains, their ragged peaks rising high to the clouds on this bright sunny day. I hear a babbling brook splashing over rocks as it races to join the Snake River not far from here. My heart is uplifted at the sight of Blue bounding high over the tall grass. He’s making sure that he knows where I am. I’m reminded of dolphins playing in the waves. A tear trickles down my cheek, and I hastily wipe it away, not wanting to give in to my fate. Today I want to enjoy the hike and Blue. We take a path that I don’t recall ever having taken before. It meanders up until we reach a stone outcropping. It’s time for a break, and Blue needs some water. I unfold a travel bowl and fill it with water from my canteen, taking a sip myself. Sitting down on the rocks, I hear Blue lapping thirstily. I slowly look around, surveying the beauty of the Tetons, the high rugged mountains with the forest below. Shadows of clouds racing over the valley in the distance, I see a portion of the river. The clouds appear to be flowing over the mountaintops. I get a spiritual vibe, and even though I’m not religious, I whisper, “Amen.” I examine our path and notice a cloud covering the top. It seems strange to me because we are not that high up. Suddenly I have a clear picture of what to do about my dilemma. The next morning I rise, shower, shave, and get dressed for the day. I walk to my desk and take out a pad of paper. Feeling a handwritten note will be more personal than a computer-printed one, and I write down everything I want to say. I rewrite it several more times until I’m satisfied. Finally, I fold it in half, write “Elli” on the outside, and prop it against the salt and pepper shakers. Next, I give her a call, “Elli? Hi, it’s Dave. Oh, good, and you? That’s good. Listen, I was wondering if I might ask you a favor. I’ll be gone for quite a while today, and I’d appreciate it if you could come by and check on Blue. I’ll leave him tied up on the porch. Oh, you can? That’s great. Thank you so much, bye.” Before I leave, I make sure everything is correct. I call Blue to me and hug him tightly. Tears finally flow. Half an hour later, Elli arrives to check on Blue. He’s tied to the porch just like I said he would be. “Oh, dear. Dave didn’t leave you any water. Let’s go get some.” The screendoor screeches and slams shut as she enters the cozy kitchen. “Smell like bacon in here!” she exclaims, “Smells good!” Passing the old wooden kitchen table, she sees the note addressed to her. “What’s this?” She reaches for the paper and is startled by a gunshot from the park. “It’s those damn kids again!” she says to Blue. “I’ll bet they’re the ones responsible for all the broken bottles by the trail!” Elli unfolds the note, “Dear Elli, I hate to do this to you, but you’re the only person I can trust. I have pancreatic cancer and not much time left to live. You know how independent I am, and I would hate to be a burden to my sister and you, feeling as though you would have to take care of me until I die. This is better for me. Please tell my sister I’m sorry and love her and the kids very much. Lastly, would you take care of Blue for me? He’ll wonder where I am, and I know you’ll love him. Thanks for everything. You’ve been a good friend and neighbor. Love Dave” Realizing what the gunshot meant, Elli gasps and crumbles the note. “Oh Dave, Poor, poor Dave! You wouldn’t have been a burden.” she sobs. Elli crosses over to Blue, wraps her arms around him, and cries intensely into his neck. Blue throws back his head and howls mournfully as if he understands. ... Along a path in the Teton National Park, there is an outcropping of rock on which sits a ghost of a man, waiting. He hears a rustling in the undergrowth and sees a bluetick dog emerge. “Blue!” Dave exclaims. The spirit of the dog bounds to his long lost master, “ Why, it seems it was only yesterday that I left you to Elli.” Blue is beyond joy as he wiggles and swirls all around him. “Did Ms. Elli take good care of you? I’d say she did because you look a little fatter!” Dave chuckles and ruffs up Blue’s fur. He then takes the dog’s head into his hands and kisses it on the head. “I’ve missed you, boy. But, listen, Blue, I’ve got something to tell you. Do you remember this path from before? The last time we were here, I said something was strange about the cloud being so low. Well, I’ve been watching people coming and disappearing into that cloud for a while now. Some look like fellow hikers, while others appear to be campers or hunters. The thing is, they are all dead like us! So I figure it has to be the entrance to heaven for lost souls. In fact, I’m sure of it! I’ve been drawn to it for some time, except I couldn’t go without you. But here you are, so what do you say? Let’s go for a walk !” And the two of them set off, a man brimming with excitement and adventure as a bluetick dog prances beside him, hiking on the path to Glory.

It's a dark, stormy day at the White House. A sign reading "Days Since Last Racist/Sexist/Discriminatory Comment" has been newly added to the front lawn. An unpaid college intern comes out and flips the counter from "1" to "0", all while being viciously whipped by Mike Pence. He then flips the "Record Number of Days" sign from 0 to 1 and curls up in his nearby doghouse while Pence goes back inside. Pence arrives back in the Oval Office to find President Trump with his hands wrapped around the neck of a woman wearing lingerie, too much makeup, and a spot of mysterious white powder on her nose. The woman is breathing normally and tells him that his hands are simply too small to crush her windpipe. He slaps her for such disrespect (she doesn't even flinch), and proceeds to rant at her about how his hands are completely normal. Mike Pence clears his throat and apologizes for interrupting. Trump gets up and hands the woman a dirty wad of cash off the table for fulfilling his fantasy. "Thanks, Melania", he says as he sends her off with his customary handshake, a good ol' American pussy grab. All other ways to shake hands with women have since been outlawed. "What's shakin', Pence-y Poo?" Trump asked, completely unaware of how homoerotic that nickname was. "I wanted to ask how your first day went?", Pence-y Poo replied. "Ah, my first day," Trump mused, "I remember it like it was yesterday." It was yesterday, but Pence didn't say that, because that wouldn't be very funny. Both men flashed back to yesterday's events. It was a bright and sunny day in the white house, with the Obama family and Joe Biden packing up to leave. Michelle Obama was holding Biden back with her enormous arms, as he screamed things like "Not my president!" while firing nerf guns into the air. Michelle took the guns away, but Biden pulled out another pair. They had no idea where he kept getting them from. Meanwhile, Barack Obama took one last look at the White House and sighed, as Trump entered behind him, drinking a Coke. Oh, but not the Coke you're familiar with- the REAL Coke, that only billionaires can afford. The one with the gold flakes in it that poor people's tax dollars pay for. Finishing up, Trump threw the can on the White House lawn, where it landed at Barack's feet. He picked it up, and a single tear rolled down his face. The family watched helplessly as the Trumps took their place, with the weather above the House immediately changing from sunny to stormy as they did. Back in the present day, the two men laughed, enjoying the memory, as they returned to their business. Trump picked up a newspaper off his desk and looked at it. "Trump Approval Ratings Starting at Lowest of Any President", the headline said. Trump shook his head. He'd have to go tweet the phrase "FAKE NEWS" in all caps again to take care of this one. After all, how is a billionaire entertainer-turned-President supposed to get enough attention if he doesn't tweet with his caps lock on six times a day? Trump shook his head, he just couldn't understand it. Why didn't America like being pissed on? After all, Trump sure did.

“Sorry I’ve been blowing you off for so long, this place is great.” Megan said. “No worries,” replied Steph, “we’re finally here.” “I love antiques, but I have no room left at home.” They both chuckled in agreement. “Oh wow,” said Megan, “check this out.” Steph’s eyes followed Megan’s pointed finger. “What, another painting of that blue boy?” Steph asked. “No. But why is that everywhere? No, below it, look.” “Oh, a pretty lamp,” said Steph. “Do you think there’s a genie in there?” “Of course.” Megan said sarcastically. “Oh wow. I just got a funny feeling. Look at my arm, I’ve got goosebumps.” “Me too.” Megan gave the lamp a small rub, and a purple, shimmery dust started coming out of the spout. She quickly stopped and set it down on an antiques desk. “Did you see that?” Megan whispered. Steph stared into Megan’s eyes and nodded in agreement. After a moments silence, “you have to buy it.” Said Steph. Megan agreed, and she looked around until she spotted a basket. “Here, use your sleeves and put it in this basket. Don’t touch the lamp.” Steph did. “Got it.” Their hearts nearly jumped out of their chests when the cashier handled the lamp, making comments that neither girl heard. When it was finally in the bag, they were both able to breathe again. On the drive to Megan’s apartment, they shared their ideas for wishes. Inside the apartment they carefully set the bag down. “I know,” said Megan, “use the oven mitts.” With the lamp on the dining room table, they walked around, taking in every detail. “So, who goes first?” Steph asked, full of excitement and fear. “I mean, I found it. But I’m also fricking terrified.” Megan gave out an awkward, nervous laugh. “Well, if there’s really a genie in there,” said Steph, “I bet we’d both get our own turn, so you go first.” Megan stood frozen. Then she took a step back, “no. I can’t. I feel weird. You go first.” “Are you su -” “Very sure.” Megan interrupted. Steph approached the lamp and carefully picked it up. “Here we go.” She rubbed the lamp. Nothing. She rubbed it harder, still nothing. She started to rub every inch then returned it to the table in frustration. Clearly upset Megan picked it up, “this is stupid. You saw what I saw. I can’t belie--” Then it happened, after Megan gave the lamp an angry rub. Purple smoke filled the room, sparkles floating all around. And from the smoke emerged a little, purple-skinned man, no more than a foot tall, with comically large ears and vivid yellow eyes. With a surprisingly deep, baritone voice, “you summoned me, Master?” The genie said. “Oh my god.” Was all Megan could muster. “Not quite ‘god’,” said the genie, “but close.” It gave a grin that took up half its face. “You’re real.” Said Megan. “But why didn’t you work for her?” And she gestured towards Steph. The genie looked at Steph, then back to Megan. “My only Master’s are of the ‘Original Five’, and their descendants. Seeing confusion in their faces, “The Original Five are my creators from long ago. They, and those in their bloodline, are the only ones able to summon me. And since you are obviously a descendant of one of them, I now grant you three wishes.” Megan couldn’t collect her thoughts and was in disbelief. Without thinking beyond wanting proof, she said, “I wish for a million dollars.” “As you wish.” Out of the same purple smoke came a mess of cash, crashing onto the table and cascading all over the floor. Megan and Steph were forced to take several steps back to avoid it. “What is this?” Megan asked. The genie replied, “you didn’t allow me to go over the rules. I shall start with this; be mindful of how you word your wish. What you see before you is a million dollars in ones.” “Two wishes remain.” The genie said. “A pity you didn’t ask for more money, and perhaps in larger denomination. I could have even put it into your bank account.” The genie gave a menacing little giggle. “Great,” said Steph, “this genie is a wiseass.” The genie looked up at Steph and grinned. Steph and Megan discussed their next wish. “Genie?” Megan asked. “Yes?” “Can Steph be involved in my wishes as well?” “If you word it correctly.” “Okay, here’s my wish, and I want to know if it will work for the both of us.” The genie nodded and waited. “I want us both to be able to travel together into any book story that we want. Does that make sense?” “It does. Now turn it into your wish, and I shall grant it.” “I wish for me and Steph to be able to enter into any book story that we want to.” “As you wish.” It was quiet. “Nothing happened.” Said Megan. “You will have to choose your story.” “Oh right.” Megan picked up the lamp, and the genie went back in. As she was doing that, Steph was at the bookshelf, scanning for their first adventure. “How about Harry Potter?” She asked. “I like that idea, but maybe later. I already have one in mind. But grab it just in case. The first book.” “Okay. I’m going to grab a couple others too.” They had ten books in a tote and Megan grabbed one more off the bookshelf. “Are you ready to have tea with the Mad Hatter?” Megan said with a smile. “Yes. How does it work?” Steph asked. “I don’t know.” “Maybe just start reading.” Megan flipped through the book, “here’s the tea party scene,” and she started to read out loud. More purple smoke filled around them, then they both started to spin faster and faster, until... They both looked at each other, then looked over at the table with the Hatter, Alice and the others. “It worked.” They both said in unison. They approached the tea party and were welcomed as if they were original characters from the book. After a wonderful time, Alice left so Megan and Steph grabbed another book from their tote. “I’ve never read this one.” Steph said as she held up The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Megan looked up from The Great Gatsby. “Oh that’s a great one. That could be interesting.” Steph opened the book and started reading out loud. Then came the purple smoke and off they went. “What did you do?” Megan said. “I’m sorry, I thought that only you had the power.” “Apparently not.” Megan said. “I did make the wish for both of us.” In the distance Megan saw two men leave a house, one of them noticeably stressed. “Steph? Where’s the lamp?” With terror in her eyes, “I thought you had it.” “No. It was right beside me. I didn’t expect you to read the book!” “Read Alice. Let’s go back and get it.” Suggested Steph “I don’t think we have the book either. I’ll look at our other books, maybe something can lead us back to Wonderland. While I’m looking, can you talk to those two guys over there? We may need a ride, very soon.” Megan said. Steph ran to the two men as Megan looked at the books. Steph returned before Megan finished looking at the books. “That was fast.” She said. “They were very distracted, but said everything is fine, there’s nothing to worry about.” “Of course they said that. Well it’s not fine.” Megan said. “I don’t see the problem. Besides, that goofy looking fellow said there’s no way he’ll let us go with without towels.” Despite her panicked state, Megan still chuckled. “It’s fine. We’ll read one of the other books and maybe we can find another copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland in their story.” Megan looked over and noticed that the two men were gone, and knew she had no time, so she grabbed a book at random, opened it and read. As the purple smoke dissipated, they took in their surroundings. Megan closed the book and read the title. She looked at Steph, “this book, really?” “I wasn’t thinking it though.” Stammered Steph. “But hey, we escaped those aliens or whatever.” “We escaped the destruction of the entire Earth, and barely. Let’s read and get out of here.” As Megan reached back into her tote, she heard yelling. “Right there. There they are!” “Run!” Yelled Megan. But it was too late. They were surrounded by a group of angry men, most of which were armed with farm tools and hatred. Behind the men were women, with fear and hatred on their faces. A man grabbed Megan’s tote, and the force knocked her to the ground. More men came and the girls were powerless against the mob. Once they were subdued, the onlookers finally had the courage to rant, ‘witch, witch, witch.’ “They came from nowhere.” A woman said. “Then suddenly they were there.” And she pointed to the road. “They came straight from the Devil!” Another yelled. Megan and Steph were brought to jail. They were in a cell with several other women. “Why can’t we just leave the story and go home?” Steph asked. “I don’t know.” Megan said, holding back tears. “But I have a theory.” “I think we’re both thinking the same thing.” “The wording of the wish.” Megan said. Steph nodded in agreement. “We only wished to enter books. We need to find a way back to Wonderland.” “I was thinking,” Megan said, “without our books, every time we read a story within a story we’ll only end up going further back in time. How will we ever get back to Wonderland?” “It’s been three days of trials and barely eating in this cell.” Said Steph. “We need to do something. What if we wrote our own story?” Steph asked. “Write on what? I bet women who write are witches too. Then we really have no chance.” Steph looked down in defeat. “Have you ever read The Crucible?” “Back in high school, but I don’t remember it.” “Same.” Replied Steph. “One thing I remember though, if we don’t get out, we won’t be burned alive. We’ll be hanged.” A couple other women in the cell cried out. Steph blushed, forgetting that as far as these book characters knew, they were just as alive as Megan and herself. “The only book I think we can get our hands on is the Bible.” Megan said. “But that’s not the greatest place to go either.” “At the very least, it could buy us more time.” “You’re right. We need a Bible.” Their trial wasn’t going well, and they knew they had little time before their execution. “I got it.” She said, as she pulled a Bible out and handed it to Megan “I was able to snatch it while everyone was yelling at the trial.” “Oh great.” Megan said. “Let’s do the New Testament.” “But will they speak English?” Steph asked. “I hope so. Since it’s a story I’m thinking everyone will speak the language it’s written in.” As Megan sifted through the pages, the women in the cell were only get louder and more frightened, knowing their time is up. They were screaming and crying, running around like rats on a sinking ship. “Hurry up!” Steph yelled from across the cell. The women had caused so much commotion that Steph had to barricade herself in the far corner. “Here it is.” Megan yelled over the women. “Loaves and fishes. Are you ready?” “What? Yeah, but read it loud!” Steph screamed over the women. Megan started to read, trying her best to yell over the women. She smiled as she felt that spinning and saw the purple smoke. She heard the women scream at the smoke, and then a loud ‘no’ from across the cell. Megan looked around. She was on a beach surrounded by a bunch of people. “Let’s find Jesus.” She looked through the crowd for Steph but couldn’t find her. “Steph!” Megan, Bible in hand, ran up a nearby dune and looked back in the crowd. “Steph!” She screamed with all her might. Megan could assume at this point that Steph was unable to hear Megan’s words over the women in the cell and was now destined to be hanged. Despite the logic of the situation, her heart refused to believe, so she continued to search. Megan sat away from the crowd with her head down, tears dripping into the sand. “Here, my child.” Said a strong voice from behind her. “Eat.” Megan looked up, and approaching from her right she saw a smiling man offering some food. “Jesus Christ.” She said. While still smiling and offering the food, “No. I am Jesus son of Joseph.” Despite everything, Megan was thankful to eat real food. She wasn’t fed well in The Crucible. As Jesus walked away, she called for him. He stopped and turned. “Jesus, I need your help.” He started to respond, but she interrupted. “I need a miracle.” Megan didn’t know where to start so she took out the Bible. “Here, look at this. It’s your story. That’s how I got here. My friend. And my lamp in the story.” Megan was babbling now. Jesus looked at her with compassionate eyes. “Come, help me deliver food to these men, women and children.” Megan was overflowing with intense negative emotion, but how can you say ‘no’ to that. Over time, perhaps several months, Megan read her way around the Bible. No one could help her. She was all out of ideas. All but one. She would go to God himself. The idea of reading Genesis terrified her, but she was desperate now. Megan never really put much thought into whether or not she believed in God, but she figured that the God in the book was as real as they come. She started to read about Adam and Eve. Megan entered the story and saw a naked woman approaching a tree. “Wow, this place is beautiful.” She said to herself. “Hey, you get out of here. I need to talk to that snake.” Eve looked at Megan and ran away in terror. “Hey, snake thing. I need your help.” The serpent approached Megan, a stoic expression on its face. “How can I assist?” Megan explained her entire story, and the serpent listened with great patience. “You forgot one important detail.” Said the serpent after Megan finished. “What detail?” “In the cell. Something your friend had said.” Megan thought. She struggled to focus. How could this snake know anything that I didn’t mention, was all she could think. “Read this passage, and you’ll know what to do.” Was all it said, then Megan was alone. A verse from the Bible came to mind, as if the thought was put there. As she looked for the passage, from behind her came a naked man, trying to look tough, but failing miserably. “Don’t worry dude, I’m leaving.” Megan then read the passage aloud and reappeared in a room with a man at a table full of scrolls and old writing utensils. “Of course.” She said. Write our own story. As odd as it was, Megan was allowed to write. She guessed that the man thought she was an angel. It took Megan weeks to write her story. She had to create a believable tale and come up with a way to bring her back to the lamp. She would undo all this chaos. She would even get her friend back. She wrote ‘the end’, then went back to the scroll with the tea party on it. She read aloud, hoping more than anything that somehow the lamp and genie would be there. Out of the purple smoke, she ran towards the tea party table. The whole gang was there. “Come and sit.” Said the Hatter. “We have more than enough room.” And he got up and took the chair from right under the white rabbit. The rabbit walked around the table to use one of the other, already empty chairs. Megan sat next to the Mad Hatter and looked around for the lamp but she couldn’t find it. “Have a cup of tea?” Asked the Hatter. “Yeah, whatever.” Megan said. Out from under the table, the Hatter took the lamp, and poured Megan’s tea from it. “That’s it!” She yelled. Her heart skipped a beat and she jumped from her chair in glee. She reached for it, but the Hatter was too fast and pulled the lamp away, spilling tea everywhere. “What’s the magic word?” He asked. “Please...?” She asked. The Mad Hatter looked at the dormouse, “How did she guess so fast?” Megan took the lamp and rubbed it right away, and thankfully the genie appeared. “You made it back.” The genie said. “I’m so glad you figured out my clue.” Megan thought for a moment. “You were the snake?” The genie grinned his grin. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you help me?” “I like my fun.” The genie replied. “Besides, The Original Five had yet to imprison me in my lamp, so I could not help.” “That’s stupid. Whatever. I need to get out of here. I have one wish left, and I need to word it right.” Behind her she heard men marching. She looked and saw the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers coming her way, and she was in no mood to be captured and beheaded. Not today. She quickly made her last wish, “I wish that we never found you that day.” “As you wish.” And as the purple smoke filled around her, the genie said, “It amuses me. Your last wish is the same, every time.” “Wait, wha--” “Sorry I’ve been blowing you off for so long, this place is great.” “Oh, a pretty lamp...” “...I just got a funny feeling. Look at my arm, I’ve got goosebumps.”

From his kitchen window Jack watched clouds collide with the mountain, their shadow robbing the town of color. For the first time in his life he looked to the sky for entertainment. He grew up in Hell's Kitchen where there was no sky. It was buried, painted over with valleys of concrete and steel. Now, from his new cabin home he watched clouds dance with mountains. He'd only been there two weeks but he was already known around town. The retired cop from New York. He went to Ginger's Diner every day for breakfast. He looked forward to another day on his front porch reading a book about the Cold War. The collision of clouds and mountain was so dramatic it seemed odd there no sound. It was quiet. So quiet that small sounds traveled far. A car door slam could be heard a mile away. He stared at the neighbor’s home down the hill. It had been still for weeks. They’d moved to Austin, Texas where everyone was moving. He’d noticed a Suburban SUV with New Jersey plates parked in the driveway. This raised an eyebrow. “People from New Jersey don’t understand quiet,” He said to himself. At 1pm a moving truck arrived. There were now 2 SUVs one with two kids and a poodle. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself. On the second SUV he could see a small sticker but couldn’t make it out. He got his binoculars. After some adjustments to focus it was clear. It was an Italian flag. His new neighbors in this oasis of quiet contemplation were Italian Americans from New Jersey, perhaps the most unquiet people on earth. This he knew because his ex-wife was an Italian from New Jersey. The barking began at 7pm and did not stop. It was constant. The dog barked at everything and at times barked at nothing. “Can a dog lose it’s voice?” he wondered/hoped. He looked up “dog laryngitis” on Google. He had bigger problems. They had some workers come out to set up a trampoline. Kids, a dog and a trampoline. “Have kids ever quietly enjoyed a trampoline? Of course not,” He figured. It would be louder than Manhattan. He had that feeling he’d get when he wanted to hide but knew he should charge forward, to confront these obstacles to peace. So, he drove down to meet his neighbors to assess the situation. Mrs. Cielo answered the door and invited him into the house where kids and a poodle ran around moving boxes and shot each other with Nerf guns. They sat down for a glass of lemonade. She was a music history teacher who had taken a job at the community College. Her name was Flora and she was beautiful. She said her husband was taking a nap. They talked about New York and this new town that was near to perfect in her mind. She was done with suburbia and her husband’s work allowed them a new start in the desert. In their chat he noticed some walls. Some fortified areas of vagueness. She was hiding something but he couldn’t figure out what. Her napping husband sounded like a mystery person, maybe even a mystery to her. Her description of him was like the often cloud covered town...without color. The desert quiet he grew to know and love was all over now but he supposed he’d get used to it. But who were these people...something was familiar? They probably reminded him of home, the personalities, the affect. “No.” a voice said. A voice he hadn’t heard since he was walking by a bank closed in the middle of the day in Brooklyn a year before. Something was off the voice told him. As he was walking out the front door of the Cielo home he saw something...someone. Among the pile of unopened boxes, one was open. Framed family pictures from trips and home. He got a look at the husband. It was a face familiar. A face from the world of La Cosa Nostra, he was sure of it. It took twenty minutes of browsing mafia family case files online when it hit him. He’s “The sheep.” Giancarlo de Roccia, famous in Brooklyn. Known as the “white sheep” of the de Roccia crime family. No one really believed it but he was the only male member of the de Roccia family, who was legit. The Feds had followed him for years, convinced his appearance of legitimacy was a disguise that concealed a bigger and wider criminal enterprise. They found nothing. He owned 3 dry cleaners in Brooklyn and 1 in Manhattan. No ties to drugs, racketeering or money laundering. Jack wondered what he was doing there in the desert. A dry cleaners in Taos? Maybe. He didn’t really care. Maybe Flora became elusive in their chat because he mentioned he was a former New York cop. Maybe she was embarrassed about marrying into a family that had been in gang wars since the 60s. He didn’t think she should be embarrassed, it could happen to anybody. They changed their name and moved west, an American thing to do. That night and for every night following the barking poodle was brought in to the house at 6. The yelling kids also disappeared at the same time. Under the moon and stars the desert looked blue. Jack listened to the night from his porch. “I wonder if the Cielos hear the coyotes yelping and wailing in the blue desert. They were a long way from the Jersey Turnpike.” Breakfast at Ginger’s was always a treat. There were regulars. Ranchers, some police, the owners of some shops in town and a collection of artists and academics from the college. From his usual booth he saw de Roccia walk in. de Roccia scanned the restaurant like he was looking for someone. He walked towards Jack. “I think I’m your neighbor.” He said with a smile. He put out his hand, “I’m Mike Cielo.” After a handshake Jack asked Cielo to join him. Surprisingly he obliged and sat down. He may not be a gangster, Jack thought but he wore the same look. A smile that looked warm but leaves you cold like there’s no one really there, behind the smile. His presence made the temperature drop in the room a couple degrees. They were getting some looks, mainly because Cielo/de Roccia was dressed like a mobster, an Adidas track suit and gold chain. “I had a great chat with your wife yesterday, while you were napping. Great to have a young family in the neighborhood.” He lied as best he could. Cielo grinned but seemed to be waiting for more. He was using silence to get more from Jack. This was something Jack would do when interrogating a suspect. He decided to play along instead of unwittingly entering into a staring contest. “So, Flora said you moved here for work. What kind of work?” “I don’t know...probably open a dry cleaners. It’s all I know how to do. More professional people are moving to the area and I think coyotes ate my fucking dog last night.” Jack felt like he had been pistol whipped. “Jesus, the poodle?” “Yeah,” Cielo said in a cold whisper. “People must drive twenty minutes to Taos to get their dry cleaning. If I can get the apparatus and equipment installed at a reasonable price I’ll definitely do it.” Jack hadn’t talked with someone this nuts in awhile, he was trying to get his footing. The only people who were this particular type of crazy were contract killers and members of the NYPD Bomb Squad. “What do you think?” Cielo asked. Jack thought for a second, “Well, you wouldn’t have any competition-“ “No, about the coyotes. You think there’s a lot of them?” “Well, yeah they’re out there. Maybe get a full grown German Shepherd. And see if you can get used dry cleaning equipment from a place that shut down around here.” Cielo looked Jack in the eyes. There was a long pause followed by a glance around the restaurant. “Flora said you’re NYPD. I want you to know that world isn’t me. My family back east aren’t here. Not at all.” Jack looked confused but wasn’t. “Ok,” he said with a slight smile. To Jack, Cielo seemed as sincere as a sociopath could be. Cielo seemed to relax a little. Jack decided Cielo was okay, nuts, but okay. He dressed, talked and walked like a Soprano but all he talked about was the dry cleaning industry. He was kind of a nerd in that way. “The killer is in there,” Jack imagined. “It’s dormant but there, in the DNA, the hundreds of years of Sicilians killing each other over vendettas and goats.” But, so far as he could tell this guy just wanted to make a killing cleaning and starching dress shirts with some suit alterations offered as well. There was a house down the street from Jack that was used as an airbnb. Most of the time it was empty but occasionally some people would stay for a week. Over Christmas time there were 12 college aged guys that stayed there. They were loud. Shooting guns, blasting music and being complete assholes in general. Jack walked over to tell them to shut up but they wouldn’t answer the door. Now, in March for their Spring Break they had returned. This time they had dirt bikes and golf carts that increased the scope of their awfulness. They were skeet shooting off of the back deck, shots too close to the Cielo home. “Those fucking bastards.” Thought Jack. Flora Cielo called. She told Jack that she was going to bring the boys some snacks and tell them that they were shooting at her home and must please stop. It didn’t go well. Jack was standing in his driveway when Flora was walking back home. She was visibly shaken. “Flora...what did they do?” Flora could barely speak, she managed to say, “Those boys are not gentlemen.” She kept walking down the hill to her home. Jack decided he might have to kill a bunch of college kids. An hour later, a text from Cielo. Jack, those college shitheads said some things to my wife. Not good things. I’ll go see them tomorrow.” “Do you want me to go with you?” Jack asked. “No.” Cielo replied. At approximately 3pm the day after the college boys verbally harassed Flora Cielo, Mike Cielo paid the home a visit. He had with him a small box. The box was a New York Yankees baseball box. A present for them. After ringing the doorbell and waiting, the boys inside did not answer. So, he left the box with a note attached. Within a half hour all 5 carloads of young men left speedily out of the desert community. The Cielo family left for Breckenridge for the week that night. Jack called Mike Cielo that night, “I gotta know. What did you say to them?” Cielo told Jack that he didn’t say anything to them. “When the coyote ate our poodle Genie I found her head just outside the fence, so I saved it and put it in the freezer.” “Sweet Christ,” thought Jack. Cielo said he simply left a small box containing the severed head of Genie with a note that said, “The desert is big and you are a long way from home.” Hearing this, Jack was delighted, amused and horrified. “What’s the matter you, you damn psycho, you couldn’t get a horse head to put in their bed?” He asked. A reference to The Godfather. After a long pause Cielo replied, “No...that would be crazy. Genie did good...she made them disappear,” said Cielo with no hint of a laugh. “Jack, can you do me a favor?” asked Cielo. “Sure, Mike. What you need?” “Jack...I need you to get the head for me. It’s in that house somewhere, I doubt those idiots took it and I don’t want the owner to find it.” Jack stared at the phone. “Uhh, you want me to get the dog head?” Jack asked. He looked out the window at the airbnb house and tried to calculate how long it would take to recover the tiny head of a poodle. “Jack...I’m just kidding, I’ve got the head, I’ll see you next week.” With the college kids gone for good and the Cielos in Colorado, the quiet returned. Jack imagined it always does. When the party ends, the thunderstorm moves on, or a coyote’s howls grow more feint and disappear into the blue of night, the desert is quiet and still.

I lay there in my crown of flowers, the purple velvet coat soft under my body. The silver beads in the sleeveless bodice of my ivory dress twinkled in the sun as the tulle skirt fluttered in the breeze. My handsome prince stood above me. He, with his ivory skin, sky blue eyes, and blond hair, slowly leaned down. This was the magic moment, our first kiss. And just as our lips were about to touch, he started poking my shoulder. Huh? I thought. Then I woke up. My eyes opened and I saw the poking perpetrator. My friend, Jason, was sitting beside me laughing. I sat up, annoyance on my face but embarrassment flooding my cheeks. “What were you dreaming about?” he asked, still chuckling. “Shut up!” was all I would say. Golden warm beams of sunlight shone through the giant oak tree leaves. The cool summer breeze blew through my long curly ginger hair as I picked leaves out. I swatted at a mosquito that landed on my bare freckled leg. Ripped jean shorts and a loose tank top with my bikini under had been my ensemble of choice during this summer. I may have dreamed of being a princess in a fairy tale, but I was just a naive country girl. Being as I was 18, I was set to begin college and get a proper education, my parents’ hope. My desire, however, was to get married and have kids but my parents would have none of it. Alas, these last two months at home would be bittersweet. I looked at Jason as he set up his fishing pole next to mine. Nothing was biting that day, as was the norm. I didn’t go for the actual fishing. I went to hang out with my friends. With both Maggie and Alex already gone to their respective universities, it left me and Jason. He brought Anna once or twice in the beginning this season, a friend of his family’s, but usually she was working when we all hung out. How I missed Maggie and Alex, but especially Maggie, my best friend. Still, I was thankful to at least have Jason to hang out with during the last couple of months. As I sat staring while he baited his hook, I noticed how though he was not my type, I was feeling... attracted to him? No, being half asleep must have been causing this delusion. But... his dark tanned skin glistened in the sun, his thick onyx hair cut short, and matching eyes serious as he concentrated on the hook. He wore a light-weight gray t-shirt and cut-off jeans. Noticing his strong neck and veiny hands brought a mysterious tingle into my body. Ew, what am I doing?! I admonished myself as I continued gawking. As if sensing my stare, he looked directly at me. His eyes met mine and I looked away quickly. Because why not make it more embarrassing for myself? He smiled mischievously but then, choosing to ignore the awkwardness, he began chit-chatting about college and the future and we settled into a pleasant state. The lazy late afternoon slowly transformed into dusk as shades of lemon, cherry, and tangerine radiated through the oak leaves. The sunset came and went, revealing the abundance of stars in the sky above. The cicadas sang their song as the full moon casted its gleam on the riverbank where we sat. “I’m going to miss these nights” I said with a sigh, looking up at the twinkling sky. “Anything else you’re gonna miss?” he replied, impishly. I looked over at him smiling slyly. “What do you mean?” I asked as my heart started beating a little faster. With that same wily smile, he moved closer. “Anything, or anyone, else you’re gonna miss?” I looked at him, wide eyed and unable to say anything. Bashful, with that same mysterious tingling sensation throughout my body, I made myself meet his dark deep eyes. Without realizing how or when it happened, we were even closer, so much so that I could feel the heat radiating from him. And before I could make sense of it, we were kissing. Passionately. We fell into one another, clothing cascaded away from our bare bodies. My skin feeling the cool of the grass and the fever of his hands. The music of crickets and the sparkle of fireflies swirled all around. The night more magical than my dreams could ever hope to be. Our serendipitous encounter started a nonstop romance for the next six weeks. Except Saturdays and Sundays, which I assumed were for his family time. I steered clear of bringing him home due to my strict mom and dad, as well as my two younger brothers being there. My parents expected me to remain a virgin until I get married. Hah, that’s out the window now! I giggled to myself. Jason did not take me to his place either. With him being only 6 months older, I surmised the discretion was for the same reason (his parents as well as with Anna staying there). Mine and his gatherings always took place on the same part of the riverbank. We would meet in the late afternoon, as we had in summers past, as friends hanging out. But those nights ended very differently, with fire and enchantment, before heading home in the wee morning hours. It was the fairy tale I had been dreaming of. One Sunday morning, I went upstairs to my room to get dressed when, suddenly feeling nauseous, I darted to the adjacent bathroom. There before me, mostly in the porcelain bowl, was the breakfast I just had with the family. Ew, gross, I thought as I began cleaning up. Bacon and eggs were normally my favorite. Weird. As I grabbed a roll of paper towels from the little cabinet beneath the sink, a tampon box fell and projected the cylinder wrapped products around the bathroom floor. Get it together, will ya?! I scolded myself as collected the scattered tampons. Then I stopped, realization hitting me like a ton of bricks. Scrambling to my feet and stumbling to the puppy themed wall calendar over the cabinet, my fears were confirmed. It had been eight weeks. I’m late, I registered nervously. I could hear my heart hammering in my head and my stomach turned as the room began to spin. I dropped the few tampons I had in my hand and rushed back to the toilet. Moments later, I laid on the cold bathroom tile, contemplating. What am I going to do? I stayed there for a while. As I ruminated though, I was surprised to find my panic was slowly transforming into excitement. Oh my God, I’m going to be a mom? I wondered in amazement. I needed to be sure. I timidly stood up and quietly opened the bathroom door to listen. My brothers must have been outside playing as the only sound came from my parents who remained downstairs chatting with one another. Not sure how long the opportunity would last, I snuck into my parents’ room nearby and rummaged through my mother’s things. Amidst her own tampons, pads, and other items I wish I could forget, I found a pregnancy test. Thank God! I skittered back to the bathroom and waited the longest three minutes of my life. *** I felt euphoric. I’m going to have a baby, I envisioned pensively. Not just any baby, but a baby with one of my best friends... Oh crap, Jason! I wanted to tell him right away so we could start planning. After splashing water on my face and brushing my teeth, I changed out of my normal summer attire. I chose a mid-length floral sundress, bare shoulders, hair down. Looking into the bathroom mirror, I approved of the princess that that was in the reflection. Instead of waiting until tomorrow when I would see him at the river, I decided to tell him right away. I would walk to his house as it was only a mile down the road and surprise him. I could see it in my head: He will run to me, and I will tell him. He will pick me up and twirl me around as we laugh and cry tears of joy. College-schmollege, my life was turning into a romantic comedy! I made it there in about 15 minutes. The pale-yellow two-story home sat quietly at the end of a little walkway made up of concrete squares. Vibrant green oak trees surrounded the property. Do the birds always sing so beautifully? I wondered as I floated to the front door. Nervous, I hesitated for a brief second before knocking on the white wood entrance. I held my breath as the door opened. There Jason stood, the father of my baby, never looking more handsome. I giggled at the surprise on his face. “Surprise!” I tittered. “Oh, hey...” he half laughed, and we hugged awkwardly. “Do you have a second?” I asked, so giddy I thought I was going to jump out of my skin. “Well, just a second, I was about to head out...” he seemed uncomfortable. I could tell this didn’t seem like the right time, but I just couldn’t wait. “I’m pregnant!” I whispered shrilly, putting my hands up in a prayer position in front of my smile. My sage eyes dazzled as I looked into his, widening like saucers, mouth hung opened. As I waited for him to say something, anything, I slowly saw my vision fading away. Instead of picking me up, he stood still in shock. Rather than twirling me, Anna’s smiling face came up behind him, waving to me. Jason and I couldn’t laugh together because she put her arms around him and lovingly kissed him in a familiar way. Tears did fall, my tears. Not of joy, but of dismay as I bolted from that house. My floral dress and ginger curls flowed after me as my fairy tale came crashing down.

“I died once. In the sand. The sun blistering down on me and burning my flesh away to nothing for days and days, while I wandered the wasteland without end. I remember great sadness, knowing the way home but never taking it. Far too lost inside of myself to care where my prison of flesh wandered.” His deep, flawless voice whispered into her ear, intimate as anything else in this world. “You asked me ‘what happens after death? Where I go?’ I cannot tell you. Not because it would bring you to fear, but because it would answer so very much. They are not my answers to give.” “Why... are you here if not to give answers?” The soft, paper-thin voice asked, laced with fear and perhaps more confusion than he wished to leave her with. “Will I become like you?” “No, my sweet. I promise you. The next step on your journey shall be as intended.” He whispers, softly running his thumb down her knobby spine. She was so frail, so very frail for a woman in her thirties. Cancer was a horror that even his scarred heart took pity on. “Would you like to hear my story? I’ve only told a few sweet souls. Perhaps it will put you at ease, relax your final moments in the wander that is time?” His lips softly pressed against her temple, feeling her pulse against them softly. She had time for a story, at least there was time for that. “Please... “ She started but stopped as a cough racked her form, blood mixed with spittle peppering his cheek and white coat. “I’m so sorry.” She finally says after the fit of coughing is finished. Her heart is beating faster now, costing her precious moments of peace and causing her great pain. He wills her heart to slow down, a trick he learned after his second century of new life. The relaxation was palpable, nearly putting the poor woman to sleep but he pulled back just before she could drift off. “No, my sweet. I am sorry. I am sorry that more cannot be done for you.” He continues his soft whisper. “I shall tell you my story, relax into me, and trust that no more pain will come. By the end of my tale, you will be at peace. This... I can promise you.” He says pulling the woman into his lap fully, the hospital gown falling away and leaving her small form completely nude. He preferred it this way, to take them in the same way they arrived. He believed it made the passing easier, to accept them without horror or revulsion. One final acceptance, even appreciating their beauty and willing them to see themselves at their peak. It was a simple trick, to bring back their old memories, those brightest lights. For this one, it was her high school prom. She wore a black dress, a strappy thing and despite her date choosing another woman at the last minute, his sweet victim knew she was ravishing. Oh, the heads she turned that night. “I do not remember everything, of course. So many things are lost to time and I wouldn’t be able to describe them even if I did remember. However, I remember waking up in the desert. A coyote desperately pulling at my flesh, silly little thing was starving. So was I. We fought for a moment, maybe longer and maybe there wasn’t a fight at all... but eventually it was only me in the desert alone. For a long while, I wandered in the night and buried myself in the day, letting the beautiful sand dunes keep me safe from the brutality of the sun.” His whisper slowly faded away and he trailed his lips down the poor woman’s neck. “I remember staying with some Bedouins, although I do not know if that’s what they were called at the time. They took me in, cared for me as if I were one of their own. We watched over each other for so very long. Generations of their families protected me during the day, carrying my body with them on their journey without fear of the sun. Wrapped in their tents, I made for very little extra inconvenience. So many times I protected them from bandits, riders coming to steal whatever they could. Occasionally we would wander too close to a sacred sight from some obscure religion and their followers would come in the night. I would also ease their elders into a final sleep. As I’m doing for you sweet one.” His lips parted and he sunk his fangs lightly into her paper-thin skin. Now, he was able to show her his memories. Continuing the story where his voice had fallen off. She would notice no difference, not when he’d been buried so deeply in her mind already. The poor frail thing that it was. He showed her images, of the group of Bedouins joining An-Nasir Salah Ad-Din Yusuf Ibn Ayyub and enlisting to fight with him against the emergent Christian invaders. He remembered the betrayal, the feeling of loss when the group was forced to brand him a monster, and the vengeance he took on every human lost in the dark for years to come. Harassing the armies of both sides in the conflict and occasionally picking a side in a battle, fought at night with something similar to the random flip of a coin. Oh, how the blood flowed like water in those days. It was so very cathartic to see their bodies strewn in the desert, dried out of all moisture. He knew now that history remembered those fallen as having been lost and running out of water. Conveniently omitting the grisly sight of their carnage and positing instead that animals had gotten to their corpses. He sighed inwardly, feeling the poor girl’s heart begin its final soft beats, he hadn’t even gotten to England yet in his story. Ah, it couldn’t be helped. Her slowing heart rate gave him very little time. Instead of finishing his story, or even giving her his name, he instead brought the images of her parents. Smiling at the birth of their daughter, proud beyond reason. It was a memory almost no humans would see, but he thought it poetic to give them a final look at the beginning of their lives. Envelop them in the pure and unbroken love of their parents as he took them quietly home for the final time. When her heart monitor started beeping, he knew it was over. Silent tears flew down his cheeks and he lay the poor nude woman back in the bed. Covering her up and composing her in what he hoped was a peaceful appearance. The final touch was of course, for the family of the deceased. He’d been doing this for so very long that he had forgotten more than he remembered now. Wiping the blood from his lips on the sleeve of his white coat, he closed the woman’s eyes and bowed to her. A sign of deep respect for one that had given so much to him. He left her room, heading up the stairs and out into the night air. He left the white, bloodstained coat floating quietly to the street below. He didn’t even know where he was anymore, a ghost floating from place to place without truly remembering. He remembered what had happened as if they were another person’s memories. His own were lost to him, and the only joy left in his life was to ease the suffering of those soft humans who truly earned none of it.

Hallvar sat in his office, browsing the police file of suspects and cursing his brain for not remembering anything regarding the incident. The doctors told him the blow to his head was severe - it gave him a concussion, after all - and that it might take time for his memory to come back. If it did at all. “Hall?” Without turning his eyes from the computer screen, he waved a hand. “Come in, Sigfride.” His assistant walked into the office, placing a hand on Hallvar’s shoulder. “How are you?” “Still can’t remember anything,” he said, scanning the faces of every known criminal in Norway. He recognized a few of them, having captured them himself, but none rang a bell as to whom might have killed two of his friends and placed one in a coma. “He’s got to be here somewhere...” “Hall, you should rest,” Sigfride said, placing a cup on his desk. Steam rose from it, spreading an invigorating scent of coffee. “We are looking into every possible avenue.” “I have to regain my memory,” he said, scrolling further. He had to. It was the only way. He must have seen the killer, just before the hit on the head knocked him out cold. His mind held the only real evidence they had. The only evidence to help turn suspicion off of Hallvar himself. Sigfride sighed and retracted her hand. “We talked to Olaf, the studio owner, again. He said he left the place early that evening and didn’t see anyone but you and your friends coming in. Nobody else was scheduled for practice either. The single security camera caught no one else entering the building.” “That camera’s position is awkward,” Hallvar said, rubbing his eyes. He hadn’t slept in a day. He didn’t like what sleep brought. “The killer could have entered through the back or by the window. Did Olaf tell you about his back door? How he’s too cheap to have it repaired? Anyone could enter...” In fact, could the man himself be responsible? He did complain often about the noise of Hallvar and his band playing. Even though they paid to rent his studio for practice. “Hall, I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you. I know how close you were with them, how much music meant to you. I hope that Bjarke makes it. And I hope you get some rest.” Hallvar sighed and listened to Sigfride’s footsteps leaving the office. The cup of coffee rested on the desk, smelling heavenly. He turned to say thank you, but his assistant was gone. Instead, he noticed the pictures on the office walls. His formal detective license, a photo with the whole police department for Christmas two years ago, and a framed picture of him and his three friends playing live at a local festival. Two of them were dead now, one in a coma, the result of some lunatic bursting into the studio, and killing everybody. Hallvar himself survived by sheer luck, it would seem. I’ll find out who did this , he thought, turning back to the screen, and no law or moral code can save them from me when I do . He spent the rest of the night searching through the files, as well as his memory, both seemingly void of the information he sought. Eventually, sleep caught up with Hallvar. And with it, came the nightmare. Each night since the incident, he had been having roughly the same dream. It was almost as if his mind was trying to tell him through dreams what he couldn’t remember consciously. Hallvar got to relive the murder of his friends every night for the past two weeks. He got to see every bloody detail, but never the killer’s face. That detail always eluded him. And with each dream, he thought he was getting closer to the truth. Each time the nightmare would reveal a bit more of what happened. That was if his mind wasn’t just making everything up out of trauma. In the dream, he was often in the killer’s shoes, after all. But he could never see his face. This night, the dream started as usual. Right in the middle of it and from the point of view of the killer. Hallvar saw himself - as the murderer- picking up his guitar and crushing his friend’s head with it. They were in the middle of practice and were stunned at the sudden outburst of violence by the intruding killer. Before anyone could react, Hallvar smashed the heads of all three of his band colleagues with his own guitar. Then the dream shifted, where he could see outside from himself, how he got hit on the head too by a figure without a face. The prosecutor then ran away, and when Hallvar wanted to follow, the figure disappeared into the shadows. Hallvar woke up, sweating and breathing heavily. He looked around and noticed he had fallen asleep in his office. The place was dark, no light coming from the hallway - everyone must have left already. He grabbed a pen and paper and wrote down everything he could remember from the dream, recording every detail. The drawer by his desk was filled with accounts from his dream and he used them to correlate the event, searching for consistent patterns and hints. As incredible as it seemed, his dreams were the only clues he had - but he couldn’t share them with his colleagues. They would never take it seriously. “The killer used my guitar,” Hallvar murmured, comparing tonight’s dream with the others. “But the last thing I remember was playing on my guitar. Then, nothing. So whoever did it, I must have trusted them, to let them have my guitar...” The evidence found at the crime scene clearly pointed at Hallvar’s guitar as the murder weapon. It had blood and tissue of all four of them on its body, all found on one side, suggesting that the killer used it as a club to repeatedly strike at each one. The guitar’s body was solid steel and hard plastic, and it cracked under the brutal hits but did not break apart, surprisingly. So the killer must have known how strong the instrument was, so he could perform precise strike with it and not have it break in the middle of his assault - that would create an opening for the others to defend themselves. The only person that Hallvar would entrust his instrument to, and who would know so much about it, other than his band friends, was Olaf himself. The studio owner. Hallvar even once took lessons from the man, who showed him a few tricks on the guitar from his hay day as a roadie. It wasn’t rational to think that Bjarke would take the guitar, kill the other two, attempt to kill Hallvar, and then knock himself out - how would he do that? And it was just as absurd to think that Hallvar himself did it, as was the unspoken suspicion. How would he swing the guitar at himself, knocking himself out with it? The angles didn’t match. But the blood and the concussion did. Somebody else must have been present there that night and the more Hallvar thought about it, the more he suspected Olaf. The studio was his. He had access to the camera, the band knew and trusted him. He did complain about the noise. But was that reason enough to attempt a quadruple homicide? Or was there something else, a form of jealousy against Hallvar and the band? Olaf did say that he never had a chance to be in a band, but that it was his greatest wish... Hallvar checked the clock. It was something past three A.M. He considered, looking at the photo of him and his friends. Then, he left his office. Olaf’s house was next to his studio - it was part of the same building complex, just on the other side, so the owner had privacy as well as quick access to the place. Hallvar sat in his car, parked outside the man’s house. There was a light turned on inside. Olaf was the one that found us, Hallvar thought. He came into the studio and called the police. In the report, the man said he had heard shouts and how the music suddenly stopped, so he had gone to check. The more Hallvar considered the more sense it made. The man pretended to have stumbled upon the murder scene, to have an alibi. Hallvar waited in his car, considering whether he should confront the man. Considering, if he could even do it. As he waited outside of Olaf’s house, the pain in his head from the blow returned. Hallvar took some painkillers and watched the window, wanting to catch Olaf in some act that would rat him out. In a whirlwind of thoughts and with a headache pounding, Hallvar must have fallen in a pill-induced sleep, as suddenly his mind was back at the incident. This time, he saw more of it. “That sounds terrible, Hall,” Bjarke said, grimacing on the drums. “Are you sure you can play the guitar, mate?” Hallvar ignored the remark and focused on playing the solo. They were working on a new song and it was a pain to get it right. “Sounds to me like he’s butchering somebody,” Demas, the bassist commented. “Must be the stress at work, I reckon?” They laughed, typical guy-talk. Hallvar tried his best but failed. His fingers were just too slow, the solo too technical and complex. His mind was sluggish, indeed from stress at work. There was a dangerous killer on the loose and they had finally gotten a lead. Hallvar just wanted to relax and let go for a few hours with his buddies. But all he could think of was the brutality of the recent murders. “Hey, we’re going to get something to eat,” Bjarke said. “You want something, Hall?” “No,” Hallvar said. “I’m good.” He just wanted to get the damn solo right. “Alright, then,” Bjarke said. “But don’t you try and steal my rolls when we come back!” They left. Hallvar kept practicing. Then, Olaf entered the studio. “Hey, mate,” the older man said, wearing his long grey hair in a tail. “Sound like you’re having some trouble.” “Yeah,” Hallvar said. “I can’t do this transition here. It’s too fast for me.” Hallvar showed what he meant, by playing the part at half-speed. Olaf nodded. “I see. Can I try?” “Sure,” Hallvar sighed. He handed the man his guitar. “Knock yourself out.” “I’ll knock you out, with my veteran skill,” the man said and took the guitar. The dream then changed to Hallvar being in the killer’s shoes and butchering everybody, until seeing himself in third person again, being hit by some man with no face. Hallvar ran after the man and this time, he caught him in a corner. The man had long hair... Hallvar jolted awake. He was sitting in his car, parked outside of Olaf’s home. The light in the house had turned off. It’s him, he thought, breathing heavily. He did it. Hallvar got out of the car and walked to the studio entrance. He had the key as he and his friends were regulars. It was the little hours of the morning and there was nobody outside, not even a stray dog. Hallvar unlocked the door and removed the police tape, entering the crime scene. He knew that the studio and Olaf’s house were connected by a passage, for practicality. Hallvar used the light on his phone to make his way through the dark interior. If it really was you, Olaf... Hallvar hurried through the passage, entering the man’s living quarters. He’d been there once or twice when Olaf invited them over for a drink. Building his alibi. Plotting, even then. Hallvar crossed the living room and climbed the stairs to the man’s bedroom. He didn’t think of what his plan was, he just wanted to have a look at the man, to see his murderous face. As he came to the bedroom, where he saw the light coming before, Hallvar paused. He heard weeping from inside. His heart pounded like a drum and he burst into the room. “Feeling guilt for what you did?” The man, lying under the blankets, jumped up in shock. Hallvar turned on the light and noticed he had taken out his gun on instinct. Olaf gazed at him with wide eyes, red, as if from crying. “What...” “Don’t deny it, you did it,” Hallvar shouted, his hand trembling. “I saw you, it was you!” The man’s face was twisted in a mixture of shock and fear. “What are you talking about?” “I saw you in my dream,” Hallvar said. “You took my guitar and-” The man was crying. There were candles placed on his window sill, alongside pictures of Hallvar and his friends. The two that had been killed had a rosary around them. He was... grieving? “What’s all this?” Hallvar asked, pointing at the pictures. “They were my friends too,” Olaf said. “Your band reminded me of when I was young...” His gaze focused on the gun in Hallvar’s hands. “You think I did it.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. One in which Hallvar wasn’t so sure anymore. “I-” he looked into the man’s eyes and saw sadness underneath all the shock. And betrayal. “I can’t prove it, Hall,” Olaf said, sniffing. “But by God, I’m not the man you should be pointing that gun at.” “Who then?” Hallvar shouted. “Who did it? Who killed my friends and nearly killed me?” He pointed the gun at the man’s head. Olaf began weeping. “The guitar was in your hands when I found you...” “Yes, the killer wanted to confuse the forensics by framing one of us.” “No one else came or left the studio, Hall.” “What are you saying?” Olaf glanced at the gun again, then at Hallvar. “Are you here to kill me too?” Hallvar balked. Olaf pissed himself, a dark spot appearing on the bedsheets. The man was genuinely afraid of him. Hallvar suddenly felt deep shame and he lowered the gun, running out of the room, and out of the house. No, it can’t be , he thought. If Olaf didn’t do it, who then? He started the car and drove back home, where he took a bottle of scotch and began drinking. He demanded from his mind to remember all of it, to remember things clearly, without dreams and illusions. His head began hurting but he didn’t take the pills; they would only distract his mind. Hallvar emptied the bottle and paced around his room until he collapsed in a corner and wept for his friends. Once again, sleep took over, his body and mind exhausted. This time, the dream picked off as his friends returned with the food. “Where have you been?” Hallvar asked. They were gone for nearly two hours. Bjarke giggled like a schoolgirl. “We went to get food.” They all had red faces and were snickering like teenagers. “Have you been smoking weed?” “Um, nooo,” Demas said. They snickered some more. Hallvar sighed. “We were supposed to practice tonight.” “You should chill, detective,” Oyolf, their lead singer said. “You can’t play that guitar anyway.” He turned to the other two. “Hey, maybe we should cut his hair. If he can’t play, then he’s not a true metal fan and shouldn’t have long hair.” The three laughed, obviously talking gibberish. But Hallvar, being frustrated by his stressful job, having to deal with murderers and psychopaths all day long, just wanted to lose himself in the music with his friends. But for some reason couldn’t get the creative juices flowing, and had enough. Something snapped. He grabbed his guitar and began playing. The guys turned to him. “Whoa, look at Hall. He’s on fire!” Hallvar played the solo with fury. He struck every note on the spot. “Yeah, man, that’s the thing!” Then he came to the hard part. He followed Olaf’s instructions and sailed through it, racing to the finale. “Seems Hall’s been practicing while we were smoking!” Hallvar’s muscles tensed as he got to where he always failed. He struck the notes one by one, the pick flying over the strings, but his fury was too much. He broke a string. And the guys giggled. Hallvar smacked Bjarke straight in his laughing face with the guitar. The man fell over, like a chopped log. Then, he hit Demas, who was too stoned to register what was going on. Hallvar repeatedly hit the man’s head until it cracked and the guitar strings vibrated from the impact, playing a sinister echo. Oylof wanted to run away, but Hallvar chopped him down by hitting his side first and then smashing the man’s head. Breathing heavily, feeling all his frustration boiling in him, Hallvar screamed and headbanged into the guitar’s body repeatedly, until he collapsed to the floor, unconscious. The dream shifted outside himself and he could see Olaf stumbling upon the aftermath, mortified. Hallvar jumped up on his feet as the doorbell rang. His fists were clenched as though he still held the guitar and he breathed heavily, confused. He was at home. He just woke up from a dream. Someone was at the door. Did I really kill them? Hallvar ran a hand through his sweaty hair and walked to the door. He took one deep breath and opened it. It was Sigfride with two other officers by her side, Hallvar’s colleagues. “Hall?” she said, her voice painful. “Yeah?” he groaned. “Bjarke woke up. We have some questions.”

My eyes fly open. Where am I? I look around and find myself in a strange room. Smooth walls, floor, and ceiling, all made of cement. Fluorescent lights irritate my eyes. There is a white cot in one corner of the room and a white desk with a chair in the opposite corner. I get up from the floor and look around more carefully, but there’s nothing else to find except two number two pencils and a sheet of paper on the desk. After seeing this, I realize there is no door. Panic sets in, there is a pit in my stomach, my mouth is dry, and I start to shake. I sprint to the wall, moving my hands up and down, trying to find a handle. I do this to all four walls of my square room. There is nothing. I shout to see if anyone will respond. All I hear is the echo of my own screams. A sob rises in my throat and I can’t stop it. I move over to my cot and lay down and cry myself to sleep. I don’t know what time it is when I wake up. I look down at my watch that I always wear to find that it’s missing. I'll never know what time it is. I feel better after sleeping. I now realize there may be hope, I just need time to think. The chair at my desk is uncomfortable, but at least it’s something to sit on. Now that my head is clear, I ask myself some questions to get my bearings. *What’s my name?* ***I don’t remember.*** *How old am I?* ***I don’t know.*** *What is this place and why am I here?* ***I have no idea.*** Anxiety pushes its way into my brain, dominating all other feelings, making me feel insignificant. I can usually push this away, but not now. Not when I can’t even remember my own fucking name. I feel worthless. I feel small. There is no hope. I don’t know how long I’ll be down here for, so I started a tally on the sheet of paper. I am careful not to break the lead of the pencil, seeing how I only have two and there is no way to sharpen them. As I write the first tally, I think that maybe soon someone will come and talk to me and explain what’s going on. All I must do is wait. I don’t know what time it is, but I’m tired, so I fall asleep. Nothing has changed in the room when I wake up, and I have a realization. I can’t tell when a day has passed because the lights never shut off, so my tally system is useless. Before I have the time to worry about that, another feeling comes over me. Hunger. I am starving and there’s nothing to eat. I swallow my spit to try to feel just a little satisfaction, but there’s nothing. I don’t know what to do. I do know I should be able to last a while without food, though, so, maybe the person that will tell me what this place is will bring me food, right? What seems like days pass, and I get hungrier and hungrier. As I am dozing, I hear something, and sit up. I listen closely. There is a whisper. *Are you hungry?* I don’t have the energy to speak, so I nod my head. *Well, that’s too bad... you have plenty of food.* The voice trails off. The voice is wrong, I don’t have any food. I look around the room once again. There’s something new on the desk. I weakly stumble towards it. It’s a menu. I open it up and all there is one picture. A picture of me. I blink, and the menu is gone, as if it wasn’t there in the first place. I go back to my cot and think about the voice. Maybe it was right. Anything in my stomach would feel wonderful. But no, this is a ridiculous idea, I’m going crazy.... But I can’t stop the urge. I raise my forearm to my mouth and dig my teeth into the muscle. Pain shoots up my arm, but I ignore it, for the pain in my stomach is greater. I only have enough energy to swallow as I pass out. I wake up. There is dry blood everywhere and my whole body is in agonizing pain. I look down at my arm and see the flesh and muscle ripped out. I can see bone. This causes me to throw up. I cry as I heave up the flesh I had eaten, and I eat the vomit in order to keep my nutrients. I have no other choice. A sudden wave of anger come over me, which causes me to go over to my desk and snap a pencil in two. I lay down on the floor, for I am too weak to move to the other side of my room. I pass out once again. There is someone in the room when I wake up. A bald man with a brown beard, wearing an all-black suit. He spoke to me, but he never opened his mouth. He spoke in my head. *How pitiful you are. Why are you doing these things to yourself? Do you really think someone will save you?* He slowly walks towards me. *You are too worthless to be saved at this point. I don’t know why you thought you would be in the first place. No* *one cares about you, no one loves you. You have nothing. You are nothing.* He is within my grasp. I swipe at him, and he disappears. I think about what he said. He’s not wrong. I am nothing. I am worthless. I am **alone**. But I do know a way out of this hell. I manage to sit in the chair at the desk. I don’t know if I can do this, but I have no choice. I pick up the second pencil, still sharp. Tears run down my cheeks as I raise the pencil to my neck. I put the point of the pencil right over my jugular vein. There is still time to stop myself, but I don’t see a reason why. I close my eyes as I push the pencil into my neck.

Hey, I don't really ever use reddit, but I have this idea for a short story. I wrote two chapters last year but never had the confidence to show it to anyone. I was really into Douglas Adams at the time that i wrote i an if any of you have read his books, you'll probably see the influence. Anyways, just let me know what you think about it. Chapter. 1 I was sitting in my office, staring discontentedly at the picture frame that occupied the front right corner of my desk. I picked it up, moved it to the front left corner, and immediately regretted the decision. I slid it back to the right corner and was satisfied. The picture frame was one of three items on my desk, along with a pencil and something that is of no concern to you, or anyone for that matter. I picked up the pencil and instinctively reached for the drawer on my left hand side and removed a pencil sharper from it. I attempted to sharpen my pencil, which i thought was much too dull for my tastes, and felt immediate regret in having ruined my last mechaniical pencil. I put the pencil sharpener in the drawer from which I removed it and opened the top drawer on my left hand side. I picked up the wooden pencil that was inside of it. "It's just not the same." I said, or maybe thought. I put the wooden pencil back into the drawer and stared at it grudgingly for a few minutes, then shut the drawer. Turning my attention back to the picture frame on my desk, I started to wonder if maybe I should move it when someone knocked at my door. "Yes?" "..."What do you mean yes?" A voice responded. "Well, I'm not entirely sure, just come in." I said. The door opened and a man took several steps in. He was a strange man that walked as if he had a hermit crab in his shoe. It was my secretary, whose name is of no importance. He stopped at the front of my desk and stared at it for a few seconds, as if it were completely alien to him. "What is that?" He asked. "What is what?" I replied. "That" He said, pointing at... well it doesnt matter what he pointed at. "That's no concern of yours." I said. He continued staring, rather rudely I might add, for a few seconds. He apparently decided it wasn't worth further questioning and looked away from it. "I have something very important to tell you." He said. "What is it?" "I think that picture frame would fare much better on the other side of your desk. I considered this for a moment and came to the conclusion that it was completely insane. "Only a madman would think that." I thought, or maybe said. "is that all?" I said. "No." he said, and pulled a notepad out of his pocket, flipped the page several times muttering something about a walrus, and flipped back to the page he was initially on. "It's your wife, sir" "Which one?" "Er.." He flipped the page several more times until he found a page that satisfied him. "The blonde one." "What about her?" "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but she's been murdered." "Oh, not another one." I said insouciantly. I thought for a second, moved the picture fram to the other side of my desk, and looked up. "Very nice, sir." Said my secretary, pleased. "Well, do you know who did it?" I asked. He flipped through his notepad again, furrowed his brow, and said "A walrus, I think." "That's new" I said. "Are you sure?" "No, but It's in the notepad, sir." "Well, thank you for bringing me this infromation. Do you know where it happened?" "At your house." "That's strange. How could a walrus have killed her there?" He shrugged and turned to leave. He stopped at the trashcan, took off his shoe, and shook it over the trashcan. "How did that get in there?" He muttered as he shut the door. I got up and walked to the door, intending to solve the problem that awaited me at home. But first, of course, I'll have to stop for a quick drink. Yes, that's what I'll do. This is surely a problem that can't be solved without a quick drink. Before leaving, I looked at my desk to check if I was forgetting anything and it turned out to be a mistake, as all I could think about was that I needed a picture to go in the frame on my desk. I decided I'll do it another day, when I was distracted by a clicking sound coming from my trashcan. I looked in it and, upon seeing a hermit crab, came to the conclusion that I'll need more than a quick drink. I opened the door and set off on what would surely be a rather confusing and unpleasant adventure.

“Tonight is Ana’s last night. She has been with us for forty-seven years. Thank you for everything, Ana! Ladies and gentlemen, Ana Jackson!” Ana stepped to the microphone and looked at the full theater below her. Her chest swelled as the whole theater stood up and started applauding. “Thank you. Thank you so much!” She wanted to say something clever, something touching, but nothing came out. She just stood there, listening to the applause getting louder and louder. She remembered the day she joined the theater, she was only a few years older that Juliet. This made her chuckle inside as she recalled the actor who played Romeo was middle-aged and balding. “Go home, grandpa!” a teenage boy at the back shouted as Romeo entered the stage. They say you must always choose one person in the audience to look at during the performance, and she looked at the girl sitting next to the boy. She was young and beautiful, giddy with love. I wonder what happened with them ... She could always tell when it was someone’s first time at the theater. Very few are completely out of place like the teenage boy. The others look at the stage with wide eyes. They glow. They turn to the person next to them often. “Did you see that? Did you feel what I felt?” they say without words. She knew the feeling well, it has never left her. Every time was like the first time. She looked at the audience, and she could see them. Fireflies glowing in the dark. They will come back. *** The first play she saw was Cabaret. She was sitting in the front row, so close to the stage she could touch it if she just leaned forward a little. She could see the stitching on the costumes, the sweat running down dancers’ legs. They were singing for her, dancing for her. She could swear they were all looking only at her. ♫ “Maybe this time, I'll be lucky. Maybe this time, he'll stay. For the first time love won't hurry away ...” ♫ The lyrics hit Ana hard. Her high school sweetheart had left her just a few weeks before, and, although it wasn’t a Romeo and Juliet kind of love, she could feel this wouldn’t be the last time. Sally was looking straight at her now, she wasn’t imagining things. With every note they were mourning past and future loves together. Ana bought the Cabaret record. She had a little bowler hat she had bought at the charity store, and her late grandfather’s walking stick. Whenever she was alone at home, she would put the record on at full blast, dim the lights, and sing. ♫ “Money makes the world go around, the world go around, the world! “ ♫ She would tip her hat and hit the floor with the stick. Oh, but who needs money, and who needs the world to go round when you can have magic like this? Theatre was a safe place for magic, for singing and dancing, crying and laughing, even cursing. But then she remembered how expensive the front row ticket was, and how she had to lie where she was going, and then lie about her age to get in ... There was another way. She was going to make theater her home. And she did. Forty-seven years of pure magic. *** Ana named her son Tony, after the Tony Awards. The father was one of those loves that hurried away, the one she and Sally sang about all those years ago. When she was pregnant she would play her records, and the baby would kick in time with the tune. When he was seven, she took him to see Annie. “I don’t want to leave!” he said when the play was over. When she asked him what he wanted for his birthday, he said a violin. It was just the two of them and their love of theater. He was such a good child, always studying or practicing his violin. She remembered the day the screeching noises turned into music and he ran downstairs. “Mom! Did you hear that? I don’t sound like I am torturing mice anymore!” He loved musicals, Hair was his favorite. He grew his hair and knew all the lyrics by heart. ♫ “Let the sunshine, let the sunshine in!” ♫ He would sing at the top of his voice. ♫ “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine!” ♫ Anna would sing back. “Mom, you are ruining the song!” he would laugh. She remembered the day he was accepted to play in the theater orchestra. She cried tears of joy, after a very long time. *** The crowd was still applauding. It felt like hours, but she knew it was only minutes. Time has a funny way of expanding to accommodate memories, and more random memories started flooding in. The time she fell off the stage and broke her leg; she couldn’t work for months and it broke her heart. The time she saw something shiny between the seats; it turned out to be an engagement ring. A very grateful young man came to collect it and brought her the biggest bunch of flowers. The time she found an old book on the theater floor, love letter for a bookmark. No one came to claim it. She felt sad at the thought of books and love letters not being wanted. The time she saw Phantom of the Opera for the first time and the giant chandelier was lowered over the audience - how the blood drained from her face and her heart started racing. The time Tony saw Phantom of the Opera for the first time and the giant chandelier was lowered over the audience - how his face went white and he gasped. The time Tony played for the first time in their theater, and every time after that. The time theaters were closed for months on end because of the pandemic ... She still went in every day. Everything had to be ready for the reopening, even if nobody knew when that would be. The beautiful dark red seats were empty, but she could still feel the magic. She would go onto the stage, look at the sea of clean, plush seats, and shout: “We will be back! You will be back!” And now they were back. A girl to the left looked just like the giddy teenage girl from the Romeo and Juliet story. Imagine if that was her daughter, or granddaughter! Another girl, in the front row, was leaning towards the stage. Tony was standing to the side of the stage, smiling and waving at her. They were back, applauding her ... Her! Ana Jackson, the theater cleaner. She bowed and left the stage.

Hour 60 without power: As I awoke this morning from the brief respite provided by the sweaty sleep, it occurred to me just how forsaken we were. The ritualistic sacrifices of vegetables from our fridge had clearly appeased no power god known to man, our choreographed dances and songs to the same purpose were unheard and unseen, and charging my iPhoneTM from the car was just plain annoying. We had realized about 20 hours after the power was out that we would have to fend for ourselves for food - and to this end we had begun to drive around 15 miles to the Tysons area for food. Forsooth, we were a ragged crew. The locals had, for the most part, abandoned our powerless village for more fluorescent pastures, and the choice few that remained had sold their family members for generators and the requisite gas to make them run. And yet we had stayed, clinging to order in a brutish world; and yet we had stayed, when the hours turned to days and the gluttonous eating of food before expiration had begun; and yet we had stayed, and harbored hope that Prometheus would once again bring us fire. Perhaps you’re right - we were foolish. A though that had more than once occurred to us as we looked about or shelter, vestiges of power hauntingly lacking that jolt which gave them their life, their purpose. But we were young. We were foolish. We were naïve. And while you sit swaddled in cooled air, your electric addiction fueled by your latest hit, think of us powerless ones. Remember us fondly. Because a world in which I can’t crank up the AC, reach into the cool fridge for a chilled beverage, and watch trashy television is a world I cannot long endure.

"Coffee". "What?" "Coffee." "Yeah. So where do you want to go?" "I dunno, Kaka?" "Sure, like, why not?" "Let's go." "Wait." "What?" "Look, about last night." "Forget about it." "I... yeah." "What?" "Nothing." "Come on, spit it out." "No I just, wanted to say... that it was good." "Yeah." "So now what?" "Coffee." "No I mean now what, I mean what are we?" "I don't know." "No I mean, are we together now?" "I don't know." "You want to be... together." "I don't know." "Well say something!" "I think I love you." "What?" "Yeah." "Well, I... this is... I mean... Well..." "I said I love you." "I know what you said." "So...?" "So what...?" "Maybe I made a mistake saying it." "NO! No... I'm sorry. I just don't want to ruin our friendship." "I'm sorry then. I'll go." "No wait, don't go. I don't want you to go. I want to be with you. I want to spend this morning with you and you alone. I want us to be, together." "So do I." "Okay then." "What?" "Coffee?" "Yeah.

Once, there was a young girl named Sue who could run in an unusual way. Sue would fall asleep, and once asleep, she would find herself in a peculiar world run by sinister creatures. These creatures had long, dark tentacles that they would use to ensnare their victims. Sue was never worried because she knew she had the power to control everything in her dream world. That changed one night when Sue fell asleep on a car ride with her parents to the beach. As Sue drifted off to her slumbering world of mystery and horror, she noticed something was off this time. Usually, she felt she could wake up at any moment if she thought things were too scary. This time, however, something clouded her ability to sense the "real world" from the ties of this darker shadow world. While this made her feel different, she was still not too worried as she knew this was her dream world and was in control. She would always just run from anything and never be caught; after all, she had never encountered anything she could not outrun. As Sue ran through the twisted landscape of her dream world, she realized she was being pursued by a creature, unlike anything she had ever seen before. Unlike the "normal" dark and twisted creatures with long tentacles that were slow and almost zombie-like in movement, this new creature had a glow that almost erased the darkness of her dreamscape and illuminated the twisted features of its grotesque form. This creature possessed a speed and agility that surpassed anything Sue had ever encountered in her dream world. The new creature could also speak. However, it was hard to determine what it was saying at the distance she kept from it. "Y...ca....run...fo..ever..." What was it saying, Sue wondered, and why was this creature so fixated on her? While the other darker creatures would run for her, they would typically lose interest in unobtainable prey and head for other slower victims. But this creature, with its radiant and enigmatic presence, seemed to be different. As Sue continued to explore the dreamscape, she noticed it was becoming harder and harder to see the once-vast landscape. Sue, finally out of the range of this new and terrifying creature, decided to see if she could think about why this trip seemed different than before. She tried to fit all the pieces together as she sat under a sizeable, decaying tree. Sue pondered over the strange circumstances of her dream and the relentless pursuit by the unearthly creature. Why is this time different from the last, and why can I not wake up? She asked herself. Sue remembered waking up this morning knowing she would be headed to the beach with her parents. She was so excited as this was her first summer vacation trip. Sue recalled quickly rushing to the car, packing bags, and grabbing all the extra beach toys needed. As Sue sat and reminisced on this morning's events, she wished she could go back and never fall asleep on the car ride. She thought, What if I never wake up and miss my whole trip? What if... Sue quickly realized that she had sat for too long and that things around her were getting brighter, a sign that this new creature was getting closer and it was time to run again. Sue had let the creature get close enough this time to hear the screeching words coming from its mouth. It was more like nails on a chalkboard turned into a horrifying melody. "You can't run forever." Sue wondered what this thing was and why it wanted her so badly. With no time to think, she looked toward the creature and saw that her dreamscape was not only being consumed by the light but that what was left after it passed was nothing. No land, no sky, no grotesque monsters with tentacles ready to capture its prey, simply nothing. What could this mean, and why was she being pursued by a creature that seemed to defy the rules of the dreamscape? As Sue continued running, she noticed she felt slower and tired. For the first time ever, Sue felt tired from running in her dream. This was very alarming as Sue just figured "real world" effects on her body would not affect her mental body. As Sue ran, her legs grew heavier and weaker with each step. It was as if her energy was being drained away by some unseen force. Sue started to think again. We loaded the car, started down the road, and then everything went dark. Wait a minute, Sue realized; I felt like I was falling, but why? Why did Sue feel this way? Sue had hardly any time to think about this as she heard a new voice, different from the creature chasing her, saying, "Don't go into the light." Sue thought to herself, no kidding, Sherlock. But she did not know why or what to do other than to let her last bit of energy out and fall victim to the pursuing creature. Sue fell to the ground, finally out of energy. She stood and turned to face the creature and accept her fate. As the creature moved closer, she noticed the almost human look of its figure, like a beautiful lady with a long dress on and a sweet, inviting smile that comforted her. "Sue, Sue, You can't run forever." As Sue reached out to the creature, the creature began to change form into something more otherworldly. The skin of light began to almost run off the lady's face to reveal a skull with sunken eyes and sharp teeth. The creature's once inviting smile turned into pure terror, and her once welcoming embrace turned into a cold and empty void of hollow desolation. Sue's heart raced as she acknowledged the true horror she was facing. With a surge of adrenaline, Sue's mind snapped back to reality, filled with the chilling realization that she couldn't escape this nightmare. She was trapped, caught between the realms of dreams and reality, unable to outrun the horrifying creature that haunted her every step. The creature inched closer, its bony fingers reaching for Sue's trembling form. As Sue stared into the creature's hollow eyes, she knew her fate was sealed. Just then, a jolt of energy vibrated through Sue's body, and she found herself with the power to run just a little farther. She began to run to the voice that she heard earlier, "Don't go into the light." As soon as Sue began to run towards the voice, a blinding light engulfed her surroundings. She heard the creature scream as if it was a murder of crows, "YOU CAN'T RUN FOREVER." The light consumed Sue, and she found herself standing in an unfamiliar place. She looked around, disoriented and afraid. The air was heavy with an eerie silence, broken only by the faint whispering of distant echoes, "Don't go into the light...." Sue's heart sank as she realized that there was no escape, no refuge from the horrors that pursued her. As she stood in the light, she saw it as if it was a movie at the start of this morning. She saw herself get into the car and her mother and father laughing and talking about how much fun they would have. She saw the moment she fell asleep but continued to watch herself asleep in the car instead of going to the dreamscape. She saw the 18-wheeler cross the line, and her vehicle crashed and fell off the bridge they were on; Sue thought that the falling feeling must have been when the car went off the bridge. The creature stood at the doorway pointing at Sue; behind it was a dark room, so dark not even the light from the creature could light it. Sue asked the creature who it was. With the same horrifying melody, it sang out, "I am the one many fear and few embrace willingly. The cold you feel when drifting to sleep, the nightmare that haunts your deepest fears. I am called by many names, but you may call me Death." Just then, a hand emerged behind Sue and grabbed her, pulling her away from Death quicker than she had ever moved in the dreamscape. Death's face grew angry, and shouted, "No, she is mine; she can not run forever!" Beep....beep....beep. Sue woke to the sound of footsteps and the blinding glare of fluorescent lights. As her sight returned, she saw a man wearing a doctor's coat, saying, "It's good to see you awake. We thought we lost you there for a little." Sue's heart raced as she realized that the horrors she experienced were not just a dream but a glimpse into a terrifying reality. As the doctor explained her condition and the extent of her injuries, Sue couldn't shake off the lingering feeling that Death was still lurking just beyond her reach, waiting patiently. The doctor told Sue that she needed to rest, and as he walked out the door, he turned around and said, "Now, don't go running off again, Sue."

The sluggish countdown of the clock to home time ticked slower and slower the more I stared, as my eyes began to sting, I swear the second hand moved backwards. Class had dragged more than usual today, perhaps because I finally had something to look forward to after school. My birthday had been a success and we had the SNES. No more long bike rides to the arcade on the weekend now, no... it was video games every night from now on. “Ryu... you get the game? We on for tonight?” Li asks, leaning over from her desk beside me, her eyes facing towards the front of the class, while her hand made fake writing gestures across her notebook to feign attention. “We’re on, Mom picked it up last night after school,” I whisper back. “Dude, yes. Think it’ll be different from the arcade?” she asks, her interest now fully on me with no intent on faking attention. “Well... we'll have more quarters.” “Nice, lame of your Mom to get you the SNES with no games though, talk about party buzzkill,” says Ken, whose desk was in front of mine. “Relax, least I have one,” I reply sarcastically. “Asshole!” Turning around to flick my arm. “Kenneth! Lisa, Ryan... eyes up front guys. Or no... video game party tonight,” Mom yells across the class to us, worst thing about having your own parent as the teacher is they actually have something more than detention to hold over you. “Sorry,” I apologise. “Sorry, Mrs. Carter,” Ken and Li say in unison. Li trying her best to hide a smirk. * * * With six wins under my belt, Ken struggled behind with only two, his whining drowned out by Li, boasting her seventh win. As the TV illuminates my room in wonderful colours, Ken tries desperately to beat Li, failing, and bringing her up to her eighth win. Opening my bedside draw I pull out my secret weapon, tying the red band tight around my head I crack my knuckles, ready to take the trophy. “Uh-oh, someone means business,” teases Li. “First to ten?” “You’re on.” “Don’t bother, Ryu. The girl’s got cheat codes or something,” says Ken, lying flat on the floor to stare up at the glowing stars shining on my ceiling. “Sore loser,” Li mocks, a gentle kick to Ken’s leg. “I’m used to arcade controls that’s all, once I’m used to this, you’re both going to be bowing to me, the 'Street King .'” “And how’d you explain always losing at the arcade?” I ask. “Ah, it’s just so loud there, messes up my concentration.” Both me and Li laugh at his response as we sit down and ready ourselves for the next match. “First to ten,” says Li, the controller tight in her hand, so much so that her knuckles started to turn white with a ring of purple. Round one! “Here we go,” I say, leaning forward. Fight! And darkness, the TV turns pitch black, and so does the blue lava lamp on my bedside table, leaving the melted wax floating in just a small spot of moonlight creeping through the gap in my curtains. “Cheater!” Shouts Li. “Ha, like I could trigger a power cut,” I reply, flicking the light switch on my wall on and off, but nothing. Opening the draw under the TV I pull out a wind-up torch, with ten rapid cranks the torch turns on, illuminating the room bright. With me up front, Li to my side and Ken lagging behind we leave my room to explore the dark house. Creeping through the dim hallway, all keeping as close to the wall as we can. All of us suddenly startled by my Mom, yelling from behind the bathroom door. “Erica?” “No, the power’s out!” I yell through the door. “Oh, Ryan. Go get your sister and tell her to find some candles, I’d rather not get out the bath in the dark and slip.” “Okay, will do!” “And go check the neighbours houses, please. See if It’s just us that’s out.” “Shall do, Mrs. Carter,” shouts Li. “You kids better head off home after, It’s a school night!” “Okay...” we all mumble in sync. “Best to ten tomorrow night then?” Says Li, leading the way to my sisters room. “Hell yeah, you guys can sleep over and we’ll play into the weekend,” I reply, excited to earn my place as the ‘ Street King’ . Knocking on my sister’s door three times, Li waits patiently before ducking behind me as the handle turns, Eri standing a foot above us with a head lamp strapped on blinding all three of us. “What?” She asks, her tone already annoyed at me. “Mom wants you to get her some candles.” I ask, shielding my eyes as they adjust. “Under the sink, you know this.” “She wants us to check if the whole streets out, we’ve both got our quests.” My eyes finally able to make out my sister underneath the bright white. “Ugh, fine I will in a minute,” she replies, noticing Li moving behind me attempting to be invisible. “Oh, Lisa, when you gonna stop hanging out with the dork and let me do your makeup?” “Ah, ha ha. No, I’m, I’m good. Maybe some other time...” She replies nervously, a gentle laugh to cover it up. “Aw, shame.” An evil smile, Eri always loves messing with Li. “Hey, Eri,” Ken speaks up from the back. “Beat it, creep.” “It was one time, and I was seven...” Eri slamming her door in response. “I didn’t even understand what I was looking at!” “Well, I think you’re making progress.” I say, cranking the torch a few more times as the light had grown weak. “Yeah, she didn’t even slap me this time!” * * * Now outside we could see each and every house was pitch black, not even a flicker of orange from the streetlights. Making our way to the edge of the road, both Li and Ken holding the handlebars of their bikes, ready for the dark ride home. The three of us suddenly blanketed in a blinding light as the car across from us pulls out the driveway, speeding off down the pitch-black road. “Since when does Ms. Rubin drive?” asks Li, dropping her bike on the sidewalk and walking into the middle of the road to watch the light of the car disappear down the street. “I swear she can’t see over the wheel; think she has a booster seat?” Jokes Ken, who himself is just as tall as Ms. Rubin. “No, she moved out. Mom said she didn’t even say bye. That’s some new man that moved in a couple days ago.” I answer, tucking the torch into my back pocket. “A new neighbour... does he live with anyone?” Asks Li as she dashes across the road and up to the side gate of his house, tiptoeing to look over into the backyard. “Li!” I bark, running up towards her. “I don’t think he does, no. What are you doing?” “Aren’t you curious what kinda dude he is? Might have some cool shit,” she says as she lifts the hatch of the gate, a slow creak of the hinge as it opens up. “Cool crap to steal? Come on let’s head back,” whimpers Ken, who had now made his way towards us, his bike still beside him. “Don’t be a pussy, Kenneth , we’re just gonna check it... oh,” say’s Li abruptly, suddenly distracted as she makes her way around the side of the house, jumping through an open window. “Oh God,” I sigh, tightening the red band around my head. “Come on, let's go get her.” Making my way through the open window, I could hear Li just ahead, while Ken props his bike against the side of the house, I could see the worry across his face. “What if he has a dog? A big, angry, child hungry dog?” he asks, poking his head through the open window. “Then you blind him with this, and run,” I comfort, handing him the torch from my back pocket. “Ugh, fine.” Taking the torch and hoisting himself through the window, tumbling through and bumping into me, the light turning on to illuminate Li’s face. “Shh,” she warns, holding her finger to her lip. “This looks like your kitchen, Ryu,” says Ken, scanning the room with the torch, a gentle tremble in his voice. “Yeah, all the houses here are just copies of each other.” “Place your bets, vegetarian or not?” Quizzes Li, holding onto the fridge door handle. “If he’s like my Dad, I’m gonna say two full shelves of beer... and expired bacon,” answers Ken, holding the torch with both hands as steady as possible on the fridge like a spotlight. “I’ll take the veggie option then.” Tapping my feet against the tile floor like a drum roll. “And the winner is-“ Li opening the fridge with a tug, the putrid smell hitting us one by one. Inside wasn’t beer, nor veg, but several large white bags. “The hell, It’s warm.” “Well the power is out,” replies Ken as he flicks the kitchen light switch. “Yeah, but not long enough for the fridge to turn warm,” I say as I reach my hand inside and pick up one of the bags, a thick liquid inside packed so tight I worry it’ll pop. “Ryu!” Shouts Li from the hallway, who I now realise is no longer standing beside me.” “Keep your voice down!” I whisper back sharply, making my way into the hallway to find her staring blankly at a large metal door. “Isn’t that where your room would be?” asks Ken, shining the torch on the door, revealing scuff marks and soil in an arch on the plain wooden floor. “What the fuck?” Reaching for the handle I hear the sound of tires slowing on gravel. “Shit!” Panics Ken as he runs down the hallway into the living room. “He’s back!” Just then the kitchen light turns on, and headlights shine through into the entire house. Running as fast as we can, both me and Li dive out of the open kitchen window and clamber over the fence into the other neighbours yard, to then run with our knees bent across the road back to my house. “Shit, that was close...” I gasp, collapsing onto the ground, seeing the new neighbour close his front door, the kitchen light switching off soon after. One by one the streetlights switch back on to light up the entire neighbourhood in dull orange. “Yo... where’s Ken?” Asks Li, with short pauses in between as she catches her breath. “Crap, we didn’t leave him in there... did we?” I ask, a sense of dread twisting my stomach. “He did bring his bike, so he couldn’t hop the fence like us, he probably got spooked and rode home?” “Yeah, yeah he must have, we’ll see him in class tomorrow,” I assure myself, the twist in my gut now a tight knot. “Well, that was creepy, but I’ll catch you tomorrow, later.” Pushing off the ground on her bike to ride home, faster than I’d ever seen her ride her bike before. I didn’t sleep for even a moment the whole night, my eyes fixed on my door until morning, imagining it was steel, and that I was safe. * * * Dragging my feet through into the kitchen, I notice a key attached to a long yellow piece of string on the table, along with a note. Had to head in early today so take the bus. DON’T MISS IT! Will be staying late also so bring your key, Erica’s at a party so don’t lose it. And don’t forget to make yourself dinner! - Mom xxx With a rushed breakfast in my stomach, I manage to flag the bus down as it pulls away from my street, sitting at the very back I watch as my neighbour’s house shrinks over the horizon, the knot in my stomach still tight and heavy. As the bus eventually pulls up to school, and I'm the last to step off, my hands meet the hard concrete as I’m tripped up. Standing above me, proud and arrogant are Marcus and Mia Bison, twin bullies who I’d manage to avoid for a few months now. “We’ve missed you we have, ain’t we Marcus?” “Sure have, Mia, where’s Mommy?” “Too busy to give you a ride to school?” Teases Mia. “Something like that, just leave me alone, will you?” I ask, prodding at my scraped hands. “But we missed you!” Marcus says as he lifts me up by the key around my neck. “What’s this?” Tugging hard to snap the string. “Dude, give it back!” Shouts Li, making her way over, her face red and fists clenched. “For ten bucks, we’ll think about it,” says Marcus as he tucks the key into his pocket. “Hey...” Mia interrupts as she stares down Li. “Fine, ten each. Let’s just make it a round twenty, yeah?” “What... what else would it be?” I smirk, a swift kick to the chest in response, knocking the air from my lungs. “Twenty, here after school,” he threatens as he walks off. Mia pushes Li aside easily to join him. “Where the hell am I meant to- “ “Ask Mommy!” Mia orders, interrupting me. “Assholes.” I mewl as Li helps me up. “You alright?” She asks, brushing the dust from my back, “Fine, I’m fine. You seen Ken?” “Not yet, no.” “Ugh, he better be in class.” I hope. * * * But he wasn’t, as the rest of the school flooded outside around me to head home, to their buses, cars, and bikes, Li and I walked slowly. Playing last night over and over again in our heads. “Vampire,” mutters Li, barely noticeable under the roars of kids around us. “What?” I ask, my vision blurring as I walk into a solid object, Marcus staring me down with my key dangling from his thick neck, almost as if it were choking him. “Take my bike,” Whispers Li, right before she barges herself into Marcus. Running past him as he rebalances himself, I narrowly miss Mia as she tries to grab me, Li tugging her by the hair and holding onto her legs tightly. With Marcus’s thunderous steps behind me I make it to Li’s bike, the bike lock heavy in my hand, a combination... fuck. “Zero, seven, one, five!” I hear her yell. As fast as I can I enter the numbers, the dial slipping between my fingers from the sweat. That wonderful click. With the bike lock off, I throw it as hard as I can at Marcus, cracking his nose into a fountain of red spilling onto the floor. If I wasn’t dead before, I am now. * * * Barrelling down the street I ride Li’s bike as fast as I can, the tires wobbling beneath me, Marcus on his bike behind me, yelling curses and threats. I realise in that moment I’m rushing home, but I don’t have my key and Eri’s car isn’t in the driveway. Then I see the neighbours car isn’t there either, and pray that window is still open, my only hope. Ditching the bike in the middle of the road I charge towards the gate and leap over, my shirt getting caught and my stomach splintered. Thankfully, the windows open and I dive through, hope lost as Marcus charges in after me. The steel door now slightly ajar rather than locked, I weigh my odds, the fear of the unknown, or the known beating I’m seconds away from, I’ll take the unknown. Inside the room was a tunnel, heading deep down into darkness, with wooden support beams and lights strung up around those beams. Grabbing onto the handle I pull as hard as I can to seal myself in, but I’m met with a much stronger resistance. Marcus throws the door open and punches me hard in the jaw, everything turning black for a moment, followed by a rush of dizziness. As everything becomes clear again and the giant bully approaches, I feel a rush of adrenaline, scurrying between his legs, to quickly find myself on the other side of the door. With a hard pull on the handle I shut Marcus inside, his muffled yells and bangs on the door falling more silent the further away I get from the house. “Thanks for leaving my bike in the middle of the road, man,” shouts Li, sitting outside my house, a purple-black eye and bust lip across her face. “Manage to ditch him?” “Yeah, something like that... how’d you get here?” “Your sister, she saw me walking along the road on her way to some party, so she gave me a lift, left us her key.” “I’m sure she’ll give me grief for that tomorrow. Wanna head in? Get some ice for your face?” I ask. “That bad, huh? But sure, after that, we need to do something about Ken.” “We’ll tell my mum when she’s back, until then... fancy a game? Best to get in all the playtime we can, after all I feel it’s gonna be taken away for some time after this.” “Sure, first to ten?” * * * Later that night with ten wins to my eight, Li slept soundly beside me on the floor. Hearing the front door unlock, I make my way out of my room, with a speech in mind I prepare myself for a grounding. But no mom exhausted from a day of grading papers, placing her keys on the table. Just the front door left wide open, with a key in the lock... my key, the string attached to it now frayed and dyed from golden yellow to a wet glistening red. The end

Now me. Why turning back? There's no turning back. Why fear when get a golden chance! Thought Rose to herself. Then too she was soo pale.. She turned red with fear. She had never been to rocket nor space why not even in a aeroplane. Her stomach was tied in knots. Her hands and legs were tumbling with extreme fear. From the spacestation now they're calling her the 5th time. She did not know what to say nor do. She took the phone they asked her that when will she reach? Did she left from her house? She only said yes with her lips shaking. There were many questions left....what if her oxygen finished at the space? What if she fell from the moon? What if she have a headache and unending silly questions .she then took a deep breath and told to herself that... You will make it ☺️. You will go. You are brave, strong and smart. Fear is not told for you. Then again from the spacestation they called, asked when Will she reach?. She said that she will be there In a couple of min. As soon as she kept the phone she ran to her car did not forget to lock the house🙃 and went to the spacestation for here her new adventure begins. There was a small fear but she let it go.. As she entered the space her with her heart beating she smiled. As it took hours and hours for her she thought that it would take millions of hour to reach there or space. She suddenly slept as she woke she could not believe what she was seeing. The universe is. amazing and unique she said to herself. All her fear and hiding and trembling went waste she thought. She kept that smile on her lips as she floated in the rocket. She ate the food by floating.As to reach the moon it took them nearly a month (it is future) the moon was absolutely stunning. She said to her co-comers that she cannot walk they told that in moon walking is not applicable the should jump walk.she said finally I'm in the moon where everyone dreams of I am lucky I cannot believe that I have reached till the moon said rose to self. With her inner body dancing she jumped walked in the moon. She could not wait to go back and tell her friends, family, relatives and neighbours the story. As she walked she saw holes in the moon but she remembered studying in school that moon has many holes. Her joy bound no lines when one of the head of the grp said that they are heading back. With heavy heart she took her last foot from moon and placed in the rocket. While going she thought that how fool she was to because she had got many chances before this trip and she said no to it😒.she remembered that she hid herself in the house with fear of coming to space. They left the moon 1 more month In the rocket thought she. This is what i feared the most and which I know love the most. the scene in the space which is a variety the look of the earth from moon which is splendid and till reaching here fear was a barrier that blocked me from reaching here I was a fool to let it block me for a long time rose said to herself. She decided to write a book splendid on moon and another on fear. She smiled as she again floated on the rocket. She thought that why did she feared coming here.. Its because she read about space attacks and disasters. She then spend her time looking out and completely lost in space. Her good days were coming. She won't let her fear take her. They were nearing earth only 10 days were left she felt sorrow while coming she was filled with fear but while going she was filled with sorrow.happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy as ever she said to herself. due to fear once again if she had rejected then she could never see this marvelous space and come here as adventure. Space is wonderful and I have been thinking about the possibility of having a party with family, friends everyone as this occasion. The last pic is a bit different from the ones taken she looked through the pics and said. So please tell me what you think it is she Said to one of her co-comer happily. As the trip lasted only a day rose sang a song for all of them they all appreciated her because it was marvelous singing. They all said that they met many people in these days in their trip but the trip with u is more fascinating.she never felt more happy.she too said that this trip was wonderful as she slept.when she woke she was in her planet earth her moon trip and her all fears were over as she kept her first foot on earth after three months. She felt relieved and happy. She then that night stayed there as she was so tiered and sleepy. The next morning as she left for her home she invited her co-comers of the moon trip for a lunch. She went to her home she did a round of dance and shared all. Her pics in the social media and how this trip changed her life. She sent a message that fear conquers our desires. This is what I learned typed rose. Rose narrated the whole story to her friends, family, relatives and neighbours till she saw their all jealousy faces for not being selected. Her mother and father applauded her for her sudden change and being mature leaving all her fears for small and big situations. She thought that how lucky she is and she kept the smile of hers in her lips. How fascinating is life is'nt it. #THE TURN🙃

We pull her out of the sea as soon as we find her. She looks like she was about to go under. I stare at her as one of the crew members pulls her aboard. They bring her below deck and lay her down in one of the extra beds. The nurse sat in the bed next to her. After a little bit, the nurse shooed me out. I came back the next day. She was sleeping and shivering in her bed. The nurse had left. I threw a blanket over her. She calmed down a little bit. I left to go eat lunch and she was awake when I came back. "Hi." "Hi... where am I?" "You're on the Borealis. We rescued you from the ocean." "oh... do you know what happened? Like, how I got in the ocean?" "No, I'm sorry." "...ok." We went upstairs together. The crew welcomed her with grace. After all, she was one of the only girls on the ship and she was the only visitor. "So, what's your name?" "My name is Olive. What is yours?" "My name is Aiden." She smiles, "I like that name." I smile back. We go below deck again for dinner. We almost always have something bland on our ship. Tonight it was bread and mashed potatoes. Olive snarfed hers down. Some of the crew laughed as she tried to grab more bread but she had already eaten it all. Under the table, I slip her mine. She grins at me as she grabs it and shoves it in her mouth. I give her a tour of the Borealis. We walk the whole deck. Then I showed her a tor of the bottom deck. We even went up to the wheel. I introduced her to most everyone on the ship. Finally, we went up to the crow's nest. It was nearing sunset when we climbed up there, "It's beautiful." "Yeah." She looks into the distance. "I just... I haven't told you but." "But, what?" "I can't remember anything since I woke up. Can you tell me?" "So far, when the crew pulled you out of the water, you were holding onto a board. I think it said something like, tranquility." "Hold on." Olive stared out into the ocean. She looked like she was concentrating hard. "What is it?" "I remember something." "What do you remember." "I remember my father. He is lifting me up in his arms. We are on a ship. The sun is setting. Then it just stops." "Oh. Is that a memory of yours?" "I think so." We go back below the deck and lay down. "Is there anything else you remember?" "Not really." "I guess we should go to bed soon." "...yeah." "Night." "Night." I wake up a little before Olive and went up to grab some biscuits and coffee. I come down with two mugs and a plate of biscuits. Olive is already awake. "Hi Aiden." "Hi Olive. Did you remember anything else?" I sit down on the bed next to her. "Yes actually." She takes a biscuit and takes a giant bite. "I was sitting on a chair in front of a mirror. My mother stood behind me and was braiding my hair. There were seashells on the table in front of me. I was making a necklace out of the seashells." "Any clues about why you were in the ocean?" "Well, I was on a boat." "*Sigh,* no." "...oh, ok." "Hey! Why don't we try some things to see if it triggers a memory." "Oh, that's a great idea!" We ran around the whole ship and talked to most of the crew members we saw. We stare over the edge of the railing. "Ugg! All-day and nothing!" "Something has to work." "OMG Look! Dolphins!" We watch as two dolphins jump out of the water and dive back in. Then, a baby dolphin jumps happily at their tails. Olive giggles at my side. Then she stares into the horizon. "What is it?" "I remember me and my parents. We are standing on deck. A whole pod of dolphins swims by." "That sounds fun." "Yeah." For the next two days, we continue to try to trigger some sort of memory. We hear from the crew that a boat would be nearing us soon so we went to the crow's nest to watch it go by. About ten minutes later we see the sail of the ship in the distance. "There it is!" We wave to the ship as it passes. Suddenly Olive's hand shoots to her side. "DAD! LOOK OUT!" She's screaming. Olive falls to the floor. "Olive! Are you okay?" She shakily climbs down back to the deck. I rush after her. She runs below deck and tries to hide under the bed in the corner. "Olive. You're okay. What's wrong." "It was a boat. We were hit by a boat. My parents were gone. I held on to a board from the boat. 2 days out there." I run to get the nurse to help. She was the first person I saw. "Something's happening with Olive." After a little bit, Olive calmed down. "I know what happened. I remember everything." "Do you remember who you are? Any family?" "Yes. I used to live on a boat called tranquility with my mother and father. The only other family I have is my aunt. She lives in Matunuk, Rhode Island." "You should be with her not on this boat." "Let's tell the captain. The captain agrees that we should go to Matunuk. We call Olive's aunt and she agrees to come and pick her up. Her aunt did not know of the boat crash or the death of her brother and sister-in-law. The next night we arrived in Matunuk. "Soon I'll never see you again." "Well. Let's make the best of it now." We climb up to the crow's nest for the final time. "The stars are beautiful." "...yes, they are." We see a car pull up. "That's my aunt. I'll miss you so much." "I'll miss you as well." She climbs down and runs to her aunt's car. We wave for the final time. She drives away. I hope that her life will get better from here.

Millie waited patiently in the sidelines for her new mother, Adoria, and same father, Mathis, to finally, finally, get to the real point of their speech. It's not like they called 60 percent of the village for kicks and giggles. For of course, Adoria is the new queen. Yes, Millie should be more excited about that, but she's not big on women only care much more about profit then personality. And even though Millie knew how much of that her father had, Adoria didn't care a single bit. Maybe she's just biased, maybe she just hates any woman who tries to take the place of her late mother's place. But, Millie has some strong evidence. If only she could speak... "Millie. Millie!" The sound of a familiar annoyance brought Millie back into the real world. "Yes, Blake?" She looked up at her younger brother. One of three. "Stand up! Adoria is here!" "Oh!" Millie stood quickly and civilized at the same time. Flattening her frizzled dress and looking around to see what everyone else was doing. Clapping. She started to too, but by the time she began, the applause was over. Making her delay-of-mind much more noticeable. And embarrassing. "Graci, thank you." Adoria spoke with a thick Spanish accent. Not only was that a little unconventional for the monarchy of Herein, them all being British, but it was blatantly hard to understand. "I can not express in words how happy I am to rule alongside my dear Mathis. And I only hope I can bring you that same happiness, all the years I am able." Sure, Adoria. Millie mocked to herself, as she slumped back into her chair. And, don't worry, everyone else was too. Adoria droned on about her thankfulness and appreciative spirit. While Millie only listens slightly, judged, and repeated. Some part of her wonders if there is some good in Adoria. A light in that dark spirit of hers. But if Millie's going to find the light, it won't be at a public speech. She knows, better than anyone, that royalty never shows the truth, the real truth, to the public. "Good heavens, that speech took a while, no?" Addison, MMM (Millie's Main Maid), acknowledges. "Indeed..." She trails off, quietly. Paying more attention to her threads in her blanket then Addison's question. "Something the matter, princess?" She asks. Oh nothing, I just am very against my new mother and think she's a danger to the monarchy as it stands. Millie thought, no, wished she could say. But all that came out of her was shrivel "No." "Are you positive, Lady Millie?" "...I don't know. I am just nervous." An understatement, and a large one at that. "What's bothering you?" Addison sat alongside Millie in the bed. Millie only looked down at her feet, while an odd thing started happening to her eyes. Tears. Why in the world was she crying? Sure there are many reasons to cry, but those are all in the past. And she's wasted enough tears on that. Why now? "Oh Millie, dear." Addison reached her hand out for Millie's shoulder. "I'm sure that whatever it is, we can talk about! I can even get the jester, to make you smile!" She only cried more. Still not aware of the cause, but she did. Addison pulled Millie's head close to her, cradling it. And they sat there for a while, while Addison quietly shushed her. Frequently saying, "It's ok, It's ok." And then, Millie found out what it was. Her mother passed when she was the mere age of 9. Long enough to love her mother, but too short to truly know what she did. Millie had to learn that without her mother. And only with people like Addison. And now, whenever she thinks of her mother now, it's just Addison's face. A fact revealing enough to know how long it's been, and who has truly been there for her. When she realizes this, the crying stops. "Apologies, Addison." Millie says, her voice still small. "I just- Thank you. For all you've done over the years." "Oh please, Millie. You didn't have to be all gloomy because of me!" The girls laugh together. "To add, you sound like I'm leaving you! And please know, Millie, I will serve you as long as you're alive! Or as long as I'm alive. Lord knows my age." Millie laughs again. That's another thing, Addison's witty spirit. Something it seems she'll never lose. "Now Millicent, you should get some sleep. The detainers out there might get cross if you're up past curfew again." "Alright then. Good night, Addison." "Sweet dreams, Millie." She stands up, blowing out some of the candles. Then heading out of Millie's room. Now it's time for sleep. The hardest part of the night... *** ...And it wasn't any easier this night. In fact, it might've been even more difficult. Tossing, turning, and thinking are big trends tonight. Not to mention the weird urge to explore the castle. And, Millie could. She has experience. But Addison was right about the guards. They would get cross with her... Then again, Millie was a quiet walker. And they would understand. Right? A princess can clear her head when she wants to. And on that idea, Millie stood up, lit a candle and quietly started her quiet walk around the quiet castle. Or, hopefully, a quiet castle. The small flame was only helpful for Millie's immediate vision. Anything further was dimly lit by the castle lights and basically a danger zone. But it did have a warm welcoming aura. And the fire's movement was so flawless, electric, and mesmer- "Millie!" Oh no. A guard just whisper-yelled at her. "What the blazes are you doing out here? You should be asleep!" Or at least, Millie thought that was a guard. No legal man would curse like that, and usually they call her ‘princess’... She turns around. And of course, “Why aren’t you asleep, Edward?” She whisper-yells back at her older, but not eldest, brother. “I- That’s not important. I’m the adult here.” Millie blinks rapidly. “You’re sixteen.” “Close enough, now get to bed.” Edward reaches out to grab Millie’s candle, but she, impulsively, turns away. “Millie, don’t be difficult.” He groans. “Sorry, I just-” She sighs. “I couldn’t sleep so... I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I had to clear my head.” Edward nods his head, slowly at first, but then a little faster. “That’s understandable. But I wouldn’t advise being out too long. Someone cou-” He gets cut off by a scream. By a familiar voice. Scarily familiar. Then there are words: “No! Please!”. And that’s the giveaway. “Father...” Millie mumbles. Edward looks frightened, aware of what Millie could, and probably will, do next. “Father!” She runs toward the voice as it shrieks even louder. It’s a distressful call. A call for help. Her father is in danger. She treads faster, almost tripping on the carpet that bunches up with every step Millie takes. She reaches the doors of her fathers chamber. What scares her is the sight of fallen guards. But most of all, the open door. “Millie!” Edward, who has been chasing her this whole time, gasps for air. “Don’t go in, we should tell someone- leave it for people who know what they're doing.” Millie turns sharply. “I know what I’m doing.” “Millie please.” He grabs her arm gently. “I don’t want you to see something you wish had not.” She quivers, imagining all the possibilities she could walk in on. But she has to come to her father. He’s not safe. With much hesitation, Millie enters the room. Gently opening the door... And everything Edward said comes to pass. *** “Are you going to inform the council of what we saw?” “No. I can’t. But you can.” “It’ll be better if it comes out of your mouth.” “Well, does the council really need to know?” “It is fairly damning evidence, Millie-” “Excuse me, your young highness's.” The deep, regal voice of one of the government officials cuts in on Millie and Edward’s conversation. “But we are here to discuss the recent regicide of King Mathis. Any differing conversation must be saved until further notice” “Apologies, Lord Kelton.” Edward properly bows. “And evermore, but I must intrude.” Kelton turns his podgy head in a confused manner, raising an eyebrow. “As me and my dear sister have something to share.” Millie gulps, but clears her throat, thinking of what she’ll say. Knowing there’s no escaping this, she tries to envision what will happen: Ok, I’ll stand up and finally tell just about every important person in the monarchy about who I think, no, know did this. How it was Adoria. We saw her jewelry, clothes, and maybe even a lock of her hair. And then after, I’ll tell them how she only trying to weasel out money in her new queen-ship. She’s proved how much of a threat she can be, by killing father. And this, this, shall be his justice. “Mr. Lord Kelton Sir-” Millie starts strong but weakened so quickly she would impress a fire in the rain. And it was all due to the look she got. Or the look s. From Kelton. From the council men. From her eldest brother. Her youngest brother. And even Edward. It all put out her little flame of passion. She really felt insignificant. “Yes, Lady Millie?” “...Nothing. Nothing, nothing.” She covers up quickly. “I just had an outburst.” She laughs, difficultly. While the councilmen keep their blank expressions. Her brothers? One’s cringing, one stifling a laugh, and the last just looks disappointed. You could probably put together which. "Are you positive, princess?" Kelton queried. "I'll take it from here, Kelton." Edward starts. And continues. And continues. Knitting and binding words together so effortlessly in a way Millie never could. And probably will never be able too. As it seems this little doubter inside of her won't go away any time soon. And by the time it does, it'll be too late. Millie is always late. She can only have the desire to help, but she never executes it. What’s wrong with her? The meeting ended with Adoria’s arrest along with Adoria cursing at just about every child in the room. It all went the way Millie wanted to, justice was made for her father. But she didn’t speak a word. She wouldn’t like to admit that she wanted to. She’d seem like a pride chaser. But who is she tricking. She hates herself for not saying anything. That is why she’s here anyway, at Herein’s penitentiary. To talk to her father’s killer . “You sure you’re ready for this?” Graham, Millie’s eldest brother and Herein’s promised new king, questions. “No. Nothing can ever prepare for something like this.” Millie responds. “So why do it, Millie? It’s fine to back out now.” Graham proposes. And Millie’s willing to take the offer, she doesn’t want to regret something as potentially scarring as this. But she’ll keep that self-hate if she doesn’t finally speak now. “No, Graham. I have to do this.” Millie states. And her brother does not stop her. Instead, he smiles, and opens the door to the prisoner's cell. Adoria speaks immediately. “Welcome to my humble abode, Millicent.” Millie clears her throat. “Prisoner, pardon me but it is lawfully rude to call me by my name without putting ‘lady’ in front of-” “Please save the legal act for someone else, Millie.” Adoria cuts off. And Millie does accordingly. “You’re right, I shall get to the meat here.” “I firstly want to say that I knew for a long time. I knew your motives and desires out of your relationship with my father. Money. Cliche but, you still wanted that.” Adoria rolls her eyes. “I didn't come here to shame you, or vent, or condemn. I only want to tell you to please keep your truth, and stay honest. Falseness really only hurts the human heart, as it did with mine. And my late-father... Just keep that in mind Adoria." She only sighs. "Do you really think I'd worship some 12-year-old's words?" “I’m 13, actually.” Millie says a-matter-of-factly. “And I don’t expect you to worship my words, I only want you to remember them. And don’t think of it as a child telling you this. Think of it as your princess.” She smiles smugly, then leaves the room. Millie closes the door in a way you would with a book, or envelope. She finished something. Bigger than talking to a convicted felon. She spoke. And it was that fulfilling. Millie has closed the chapter of silentness, stillness, today. She will no longer wait for others to speak for her, and will respond to whatever questions she is asked- “Millie!” Graham shouts for, probably, the hundredth time. “Ah! Sorry, I was thinking.” Millie apologizes. “I asked you if it went well.” “Oh, it did. At least, in my mind.” “Good. Now, let’s get back to the castle.”

What happens when you receive an email meant for someone else? Forward, delete, spam. I was the delete type. Admittedly, this had not always worked out for me, so I turned into a forward type. What if I had not changed? What a different life I’d be living, if I had deleted one email on one particular day. Monday morning promised to be ordinary. Bored! I swiveled in my office chair, wondering how I was going to make it through the rest of the day. I worked for a graphic design company which was up against a vital deadline. An S&P 500 company needed a facelift after an FBI investigation into their accounting irregularities had uncovered billions in misappropriated funds and led to the indictments of multiple company executives. The company hired us to produce a new graphic and slogan to become their new identity. Close of business was the deadline which had been pushed back twice already. There would be no extension this time. Deliver or refund millions in fees, otherwise wind up in court. And where do I fit in to all of this? I’m the account executive managing the client. Making promises, smoothing out deadline pushbacks, and acting as a liaison between the two companies when disputes arose. My paycheck generally said, “you’re crushing it,” but my free time was fleeting. Thus, no personal life. No wife, no children, and no real hobbies. But it was better than my former life. Waiting. Thirty minutes of waiting for an email from a product manager. Waiting normally was not so tedious. Walk around one of our building’s floors, find some talkative coworkers, and plan a Monday night out at a trendy bar somewhere in the city. That was my routine. But life has a way of forcing change upon us in a manner in which we cannot see coming. A chime! Email arrived. No, this isn’t right. The email was from my client and the subject line read: out of time. What the fu-k?! My mind went straight to fires, alarms, disaster. I am not a miracle worker. Talk can only smooth out a problem so many times. Likelihood of my client accepting another deadline failure. ZERO! I hovered the cursor over the subject line, dreading the content, but did not click the mouse. The email was addressed to William.Gregory@ESOgrafix.com. Right company, wrong recipient. And who the hell was William Gregory? He was not even in our email directory. Oh, how I wanted to delete it, but I once made the mistake of deleting another employee’s misdirected email and received a written warning. Serious violation. Better pay a visit to Chuck in IT. And here is where I threw myself down the metaphorical rabbit hole. I clicked on the email. What can I say? I was curious. Body of the email: they know get me out protocol steps mia JKvie c, 7, 3 -*----**- What? Who gets an email like this? Why did I open it? Yet, part of me was satisfied that I did. Someone was in trouble and trouble was not boring. Print. I retrieved the printout and looked around for my manager, Sylvia. And there she was, standing near the entrance to the IT wing. Well, I can handle abuse. As I approached, she stopped giving orders to a flustered assistant. “Where are you going David? The restroom is that way and nothing is down here except IT and the side exit.” “Relax Sylvia. I’m not fleeing the building. I promised you I’d never duck out again on a big deadline day. Going to see Chuck. Email problem. Not with mine. Got one meant for William Gregory.” Sylvia’s eyes widened just enough for me to notice. “David,” she began, hurrying over to me. I stopped dead in my tracks. “You don’t know?” I made a what-are-you-talking-about face. “Sylvia. What’s the mystery?” “William’s dead.” I had not expected that. “Old age?” “No!” Sylvia looked around and then leaned in a bit too close for my comfort. “He died in an accident. At least that’s what the NYPD reported, at first. In the New York Times this morning, it said the FBI was now investigating it as a murder. Part of an ongoing investigation.” Nope. Did not like the sound of that. “Then I better go see Chuck about this email.” As I jogged down the IT wing, I tried to reason out William’s death. Maybe he had owed money to the wrong person. You never know. I knocked on Chuck’s door. “Enter!” As I went in, the sunlight streaming in through the room’s tall windows was half blinding. “What is it David? Something important because I don’t have time to bullsh-t. Email server fu-ked up again. Hundreds sent all over the place, some went external.” He followed up that greeting with some techy jargon. “Great Chuck. I was dying of boredom out there and now you’re going to put me to sleep with that incomprehensible tech talk. I’m here because of one of those misdirected emails.” He did not look up but offered an “ugh-huh,” while typing. “It was meant for William Gregory.” “That guy’s dead!” erupted Chuck, looking up at me. “Glad I have your attention, and yes, Sylvia just filled me in on that. FBI thinks it may be a murder.” “No sh-t.” Chuck scratched his balding head. “You still have the email?” I slapped the hard copy onto his desk. He read it over and shook his head. “Don’t like this. No...this...this is bad. Oh my God, they’re trying to kill me. I can’t take this stress. I’m only human!” “Who’s trying to kill you, Chuck?” I held back a smile as I went to a window, admiring the city skyline. One day, Chuck had been hit by a bus and miraculously walked away unharmed. Ever since, he had been convinced that whatever deities ran this crazy universe were intent on finishing up the job they had messed up. “It’s payback. I cheated death, and now the carnival overseers are pissed off,” he often said something like this. “Who do you think’s trying to kill me?! Same malevolent forces as always. I should’ve stayed home. My wife told me to call out sick. She knew. Oh yeah, she knew.” “What about the email? It’s weird, right? Addressed to a dead guy,” I tried steering him back on track. He re-read the email. “Come on Chuck. What are you thinking?” “Weird? Is that what you said? It’s a god d-mn nightmare!” Sylvia’s dramatics led to more work, so they annoyed me. Chuck’s dramatics entertained even when life and death were concerned. He continued, “A young woman, named Mia, worked in my department for a few weeks under special circumstances. She was a government plant. Exposed that guy, Wambach, who was pilfering social security numbers and other data from contractors.” That statement caught me off guard. “You’ve got to be f-cking kidding me.” I went over to the desk and snatched up the paper, re-reading it. “You’re telling me all of this is real?” “Time to call the NYPD. Gotta report it.” “What about all these random letters, numbers, symbols? You’re a crypto genius. What do you make of it?” “I don’t do cryptography professionally anymore and how the hell am I supposed to know? It could be coded instructions or maybe nothing.” He was getting frantic, rummaging through drawers. “Where’s that blasted number?” He pulled out a yellow sticky note. “Aha, NYPD. I don’t know David. Maybe it’s a verification code so William would know Mia was the authentic sender of the message.” Boom. And there’s the Chuck genius that everyone knew. If he could eliminate his death paranoia, then he could be back working for the Department of Defense contractor, Xylive, that once hired him to develop and break codes. “David, back to your desk. Let me make this call.” Fifteen minutes passed. As I leaned back in my chair, sighing, my phone rang. I flew forward and picked up the receiver. “What happened?” “Get back in here.” Click. It was Chuck. This time, I ran down the hall. “How’d it go with the police? They issue a warrant on you yet?” Chuck considered for a moment. “Probably will. I could be wrongfully accused, convicted, and killed by my cellmate.” “Too morbid. What did the police say?” “A detective Lopez with homicide just left. He’s coming to speak to us.” “Well, that ruins my plans for tonight.” Just as I turned to leave, Chuck exploded. “I can’t believe I forgot.” “Whoa! Chuck. Easy.” “No, no, look.” He fumbled in his pants pocket and produced his cellphone. Going into a desk drawer, he pulled out a USB cord and hooked his cellphone up to a laptop. He rifled through photo folders. “There! That’s the riddle. The code is the key.” “Chuck, did I graduate from MIT like you? I’ll tell you this. I know that’s a computer,” I said pointing to his laptop. “Cut the jacka-s routine. It’s all there.” He pointed to the screen which displayed a street map with a grid over it. “See around the grid’s edges. The capital and lower-case letters.” He referenced the email print out. “JK,” he moved his finger down vertically on the screen; “vie,” he moved his finger across. “There’s the correct square. Around each individual square are numbers and lower-case letters. Apply the same method with the “c” and “7” and that’s probably the place. Not sure about the last “3.” Could be the third floor.” Intriguing. “What was Mia like?” “Odd. Went out of her way to disappear into the background. William was a systems analyst for me and once I caught them speaking in a confidential manner. When he died, I was obligated to go through his email and ensure nothing was suspicious. Legal wanted to know if he had been threatened or did anything illegal. The only unusual item I found was an email from Mia with this scrollable map of NYC. I’d never seen anything like it, so I saved it onto my phone. I highlighted it when I submitted all of his data to legal but never heard anything.” “Look at you, master code breaker.” “Looks like I’ll be spending the rest of the afternoon with this detective.” “Wait, wait, wait. Mia was a government mole who kept to herself but had some kind of contact with William. What if he was one too? There’s a puzzle piecing together and it looks bleak.” “My whole life is a puzzle that’s falling apart,” Chuck added. A profound thought awoke within my mind. “I need to make an admission. Before I came to ESO, I was an Army ranger.” “No kidding. You don’t seem like the take-orders type,” laughed Chuck. “I’m not. Command had a group of us stationed out in eastern Afghanistan during the latter part of the war. On what turned out to be my final day of patrol, we stumbled upon a tough scene.” I related the rest of the story as though I was reliving it. In a way, that’s how it felt. “Another ranger in my group hears a scream. Five of us, including our translator, go into a house to investigate. During entry, our lead guy shoots two men who are armed with assault weapons, and we secure two others who are unarmed. Second room is locked. We break through and find five women in rough shape. Our translator tells us they were kidnapped. Probably being sold off or who knows what. He tells us that these frantic women are saying there’s a dead body in the last room. Turns out, there is a body, and the woman had screamed just before she was shot. That’s what we had heard. After three brutal months of patrol, I lose it. Go back into the first room and execute one of the kidnappers. Shoot at the second one but miss because the other rangers are already wrestling me to the ground.” I paused. “The rest was a nightmare. Court martial. Pronounced guilty of the military justice equivalent of reckless homicide. A year and a few months in a military prison. Dishonorable discharge. VA, counseling, anger management. Pulled myself together and connected with a veteran friend who knew someone at ESO. And here I am.” “You have some real resiliency. I wouldn’t have survived all of that,” admitted Chuck. “Now, what’s the connection between your story and this?” He held up the email. “I couldn’t save that one woman on that one day all those years ago, but I can save this woman. Where is she?” “You’re not going there?! I gave the NYPD the address. Let them handle it. You won’t even get inside.” “I have to do something. Trust me.” Chuck relented and gave me the address, which was less than a ten-minute walk away. “The police will send a SWAT team and that takes time. I may be too late, but I have to try.” “Look forward to reading your obituary tomorrow.” *** Driving past the place, I knew it was a bad situation. The three-story building was set back on a private lot with visible security cameras and no one in sight. At least you came prepared. Dressed in a suit, I wore a bulletproof vest beneath and a modified holster with a handgun, silencer attached. All of this equipment had been secure in my trunk. Call it PTSD or paranoia, but maybe I was more like Chuck than I cared to admit. After parking out of sight, I walked to the building’s front door and knocked. As soon as the door opened, I pulled my weapon. A teenager had answered the door and he had been holding a piece of pizza but now it lay on the floor. “Don’t shoot me! Mia’s upstairs. She’s been waiting for you.” I turned him around to face opposite me. “You’re my human shield. Don’t do anything except what I tell you, if you want to make it out of here. Only speak, if I ask you a question or tell you to say something. How many people are in here?” “Just me and Mia.” Something about him rang true but I needed proof. “Take me to her.” My hostage was clenched up and walking stiffly but managed to lead me up two flights of stairs. The place was quiet, possibly abandoned. We arrived at the third floor which had no hallway; the steps ended abruptly at a small landing and then there was nothing but a single door. “She’s inside.” “Open it.” He turned the handle and pushed the door open. No lock? No guards? Why the surveillance cameras? “Move,” I instructed, and we went in. The room’s interior reminded me of Chuck’s home office. Monitors everywhere, on desks, on the walls. Servers in one corner. Wires running like vines. Blinking lights. It was a lot to take in. “Where is she?” That’s when I felt the point of a gun press into my back. A soft, dangerous voice spoke, “Let him go and slowly hand me your weapon.” I obeyed and the teen ran out of my sight. What could I do? Making a move with my back turned to her was a low probability maneuver. “What do you see in front of you?” she asked. There was a blank white wall. Great. She’s insane. I’m not going to be able to talk my way out of this. Just need to wait for the right moment and then make a fluid move to disarm her. Need to test her out first. “Where’s William? He’s not really dead, is he?” No response. “Ok. It’s a white wall. That’s what’s in front of me.” Again, she said nothing. We stood there, listening to the symphony of computer sounds and staring at a wall. Then, something happened that I will never forget. My world changed. No, it altered forever. I felt her breath and her hair against the side of my neck and cheek as she leaned in and whispered. “Look.” I stopped blinking and stared, mesmerized, at the changing wall before me. No projector screen, no light shining onto it. How is this possible? The image of the wall grew fuzzy, wavy, out of focus. It dimmed and blurred. And then, beyond explanation, there was no wall and there was no room. But I was not outside the building. We stood on a busy sun-drenched sidewalk lined with palm trees and across from a boardwalk. Shirtless men carrying surfboards, women in bikinis, music, cars, kids on bikes. I felt the heat rising off of the asphalt, the sun hitting my exposed skin. I smelled the salty sea air and caught a whiff of coconut lotion. Tears came to my eyes. My legs felt light and I was dizzy. “ What are you doing to me ?” “You don’t know what you walked into when you stepped through that door,” said Mia. “What...I don’t understand. Am I hallucinating?” “Think. What happened?” I was in a room and now I’m at the beach. One place and then another. “Are we still in the room?” “Yes and no.” “Same place, different time?” “Still in the present.” “My God. A wormhole.” “No, but close enough.” The gun lowered off of my back, and I felt her hands pulling me back, back into the room. Everything looked the same. Overwhelmed and nauseous, I collapsed to the floor. Mia stood over me. “You’ll get used to it. There are many places that await us.” “ Us ?” “You proved yourself.” I simply stared at her. She spoke, “ The email . It wasn’t an accident. William chose you.” I heard the SWAT team breaking down the building’s front door. But then, I felt the same lurching pull, and we were off again.

It wanders the lands looking for fresh victims. Searching wherever there is lantern light shining in a world of darkness. They are easy to find but sadly far from and when they cross paths, the victims are sacrificed to a pair of heavy rustic cleavers. Having their flesh skinned so it may cover the light. These it will take attaching to the fur on its own back. To hang off dangling as this creature moves through the lands. Their light covered yet letting off just a hint to create a kind of armor protecting itself from something bigger and worse than a Butcher. A light flickering in the distance bounces around as firefly dances in the air. Moving in and out of these darkened lands trying to get back to the safety of others. This dance entices the Butcher to follow knowing it will lead to more victims to add to its armor. Stalking the dancing light, the Butcher watches patiently. Tracking each movement as it dips about the land and suddenly disappears. Confused, thinking there may be another monster here, the Butcher reaches for a cleaver tightening its grip on the handle for a sudden attack. Nothing. No wind, no sounds, no light, just nothing. The Butcher loosens its grip on the cleaver thinking to let it be when the light reappears further away and with another light. Now moving quickly to the base of a hill as more lights shine giving a welcoming glow. All together they light up another monster laying still. The Butcher now getting closer sees this monster is just a lion. Possibly an adolescent for it is not as big as it remembers. Its fur is all white with massive front limbs that have human-like fingers for claws and a mouth as big as half a human. Lying dead surrounded by the ones who took it down. A not so easy kill for people of the lantern. Goes to show that even they can become stronger in the dark when left uncontested. Still, the Butcher wonders how many of them were lost in this hunt. How many lanterns are never going to join its armor. Doesn’t matter. They may be strong to take down a lion, but they will succumb to the cleavers of a Butcher. Taking the fresh kill of a white lion, the Butcher watches the people as they are cheerful with what they accomplished. Light of the lanterns bobbing up and down playfully. All feeling accomplished knowing that a monster roaming their settlement is now gone giving up its resources for them as they enter a lighted area. The Butcher, stopping where the light and dark meet, looks onto their settlement. A bright light illuminating from a giant mound of lanterns reaching up pushing away the darkness. This is their center. Where many come and go about with whatever it is they do. Dancing, conversing, being playful, all of it is a disgust to the Butcher who knows the truth of the lands. A truth they must be reminded of. Now the Butcher enters the light, walking to the edge of their settlement drawing its two massive cleavers. Each one rubbing against the other to hone its sharpness while giving off an ear-piercing sound. The people of the lantern see this massive bear size humanoid and freeze in terror. A nemesis of humans now waits for a sacrifice.

The smell of mildew hurtles into Ann’s nasal cavity. She tries to move; her legs are stuck in their place. A groan escapes her lips as she struggles to sit. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice calls quietly to her. Alarmed, Ann wonders where she is and what happened before she awoke. The building she’s in seems to be a barn-like place. Straw is everywhere around her, she’s up against a bale of hay. And there’s a tractor-like vehicle ten feet away from her. She assumes that that’s where the other person is. The barn is rundown, the planks of wood are uneven. They allow sunlight to barrel in. Ann believes its midday, and summertime. She has no reason to believe it is summer, she just feels it. “Are you still there?” The voice calls again. It’s deeper, like a mans. They sound tired, much like how she thinks she would sound if she spoke. She tries to speak but out comes a grunt instead. Her throat is dry, she desperately needs water. Clanging catches her attention, its coming from outside the barn. A tall, thin figure enters Ann’s eyesight. She can’t make out any distinguishing features. “You’re awake, what’s your name?” The person asks, coming closer to Ann. Fear overtakes her mind and she tries shuffling away--as if she is trying to force herself into the hay bale. “It’s okay; I won’t hurt you. My names Arthur, and your roommate is Max. Arnie picked you up three days ago, you’ve been out ever since.” Arthur tosses two things toward Ann and she just stares at him, “I thought you might need these, but don’t tell him. He said you put up quite a fight.” He still doesn’t get any reply from her, so he rounds the tractor to Max. Ann hears a thump, so she guesses that Max gets a present as well. “Thank you, Artie. See you soon.” Max states without any hesitation. Once ‘Artie’ leaves the barn Ann reaches for the two items a foot away from her. Her muscles ache from three days of not using them but she’s able to grab them. “It’s water and bread. Artie takes care of us. He’s nothing compared to Arnie.” Max sighs after time passes without Ann’s reply. Ann stares at the beat-up bottle of water, slowly opening the cap. She peers at it with hesitation. ‘I guess if it’s poisoned, I’ll die no matter what’. The bottle is pressing against her lips and she greedily drinks it. Spilling down her face. She pulls pieces of the loaf and nibbles on them--not entirely hungry. Only when the light from outside disappears does Ann whisper to Max. “How long have you been here?” She asks hoping he’s awake. “A month, it seems that the limit Arnie and Artie will keep someone is two.” He says louder than Ann. “Why are we even here? And what happens after the two months?” “What’s your name?” He asks avoiding her questions. She sighs in frustration. “Ann, and you’re Max. Now why are we here?” “Well, Ann. We’re here to die. At least I think that’s what’s going on.” The wind outside shakes the barn, creaking and cracking take over the sound of silence. Once the wind slows Max speaks again, “I was walking home from my bartending job. It was May and late in the day. I think it was around 11 pm in Vancouver. A sedan started pulling up behind me. I thought that maybe it was someone in need of directions. Artie was driving, he was a stuttering mess. Then out of the back jumped Arnie. I had zero chance against him. He’s tall and big.” The trembling in Max’s voice is heartbreaking. Though Ann can’t see him she knows he’s holding back tears. “I’m sorry,” she pauses, “I don’t remember anything. I’ve been searching my brain, but I can’t find any memory of this.” Ann startles awake, a loud bang is heard in the distance. She can hear yelling, a gruff voice. She’s in a different position then yesterday. Instead of being against the hay bale she’s sitting up with her back hitting the tractor. On Max’s side. “Max, what’s happening?” She asks once she notices the man, probably in his twenties. His brown hair is shaggy and sticking against his forehead. Max’s face is adorning stubble and dirt. His black jeans are ripped and so is his black shirt. Ann can’t imagine what she looks like at this point. She knows her hair is falling out of a ponytail and she feels the clamminess of her body. “They’re fighting, and it’s not good.” Max’s long face is wearing a soft expression while he does a once over on Ann’s figure. Just as she’s going to reply the barn door is opened. Artie’s slender fingers wrap around Ann’s thin arm, pulling her to her feet. Without any word from any of the three he tugs her out of the building. The land around her still reminds her of British Columbia however, she doesn’t see the cities buildings or any striking landscapes. They approach a house and the door swings open. That’s when she sees him. Her mind pulls her from this moment into the past. Nearly a week ago Ann was making her way home after a party. Her mind was fuzzy from the copious amount of alcohol in her system. Ann’s eyes were swollen--her boyfriend of three years had just broken up with her. Apparently, she was too boyish, being a mechanic. That event caused her to run out of her friend’s house at one in the morning. It was a decent temperature--being mid-July. The sedan’s engine is the first thing she heard. It was a long road with barely any houses or businesses. When the sedan pulled up to her she immediately knew she was in trouble. Running down the road as fast as she could. Nowhere to hide, she just had to keep running. At first Ann thought she was exaggerating until the vehicle sped past her and stopped. A man jumped out of the back and started towards her. A laugh rang through the quiet area and Ann was too shocked to move. Like a deer in the headlights she just waited for the impact. Once the man had his hands on her she snapped out of her trance. Kicking and screaming; she would not go down without a fight. The man had to readjust his hold on her a couple times before he threw her on the ground. Ann saw the rock in his hand. She didn’t know where he had gotten it, but it came down on her head and she was out. “C’mon now. You need to keep moving.” Artie states trying to push Ann forward. It had been a whole minute since Arnie laid his eyes back on Ann. His jaw tightens as he remembers the whole incident. She was the hardest to grab. “Are you okay? I know the first one is always the worst,” Max asks Ann once Artie leaves the barn, “you definitely look like you’ve had a rough time.” “Max, for once can you just shut up.” She snarls at the man whose six feet away from her. Max turns himself around and Ann assumes that he’s done. However, he lifts the back of his shirt. Not only does she notice the lacerations on his back, but she also sees that he doesn’t have the ties around his wrists like she does. “Most of these are from my first time, I think he just likes to keep us around for fun after. I’ve only seen Arnie five times.” Ann shushes her roommate. “I don’t really care about that Max. Where are your ties. How did you get them off?” She questions hurriedly. Max sits back in his original position. “Artie took them off after I was here for two weeks.” “It’s like you’ve gained his trust.” Max hums in response. “Can you take off mine?” It takes a couple minutes for Max to get close to Ann. His body is so tired that he can’t stand very good. He gently pushes her body forward so that he can reach her hands behind her back. Ann winces and almost sits back where she was comfortable with the deep cuts. “Oh good.” Max gasps, Ann’s white shirt is now seeping with burgundy, and the smell of pennies hangs in the air. His face is pressing against Ann’s back while he bites at the zip tie. Relief washes over the woman’s face as she feels her hands come apart. She looks over at Max to thank him and is met with his bloody face. Her body trembles at the sight. “Thank you, Max.” As he stands the barn door opens revealing Artie’s figure. The sound of keys dangling from his belt loop. Max makes a dive for his spot by the hay, but it’s too late. Artie looks as though he has been betrayed and he grabs Max, hauling him off. Ann tries to scream for Max, but her larynx won’t allow her, and she cries herself to sleep. Max arrives again a few days later, he looks like he has taken many blows to the face. Ann is beside him as soon as Artie is gone. Her hands lifting his head to look at him. He’s unconscious but alive. To Ann that’s all that matters. Her mind is scattering. “This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t help me.” She says to him, knowing he won’t answer. Her body is still aching, but she gets up. It’s the afternoon, Arnie won’t be back for another three hours. Ann is searching the barn for anything to help Max. She stays away from the walls; the wooden planks are nailed apart from each other. The two maniacs could see her if she isn’t in the more open area. The door is of course locked from the outside. Ann lets out a quiet shriek, her back injuries opening with every movement. A wrench hanging on the door frame is now seized in her hands. She turns away from the obvious exit and is face-to-face with the tractor. She makes her way to the seat of the vehicle and finds the gas cap. The dangling keys from the belt loop make their way into Ann’s conscious mind. Her body is being used as a pillow by the broken man she has grown close to. He sleeps quietly, wincing every now and again. Ann tries to sooth Max by running her hand gently through his hair. Arthur’s presence startles her, he tosses her two bottles of water and only one loaf of bread. “Your hands are free; did he help you with that?” He asks staring at the twenty-year-old. Ann shakes her head slowly, “no I was able to do them myself. Whoever put them on didn’t do it right.” She watches as her words effect Arthur. “They were tight when I put them on, there’s no way you got them off yourself.” He raises his voice. Arthurs body lingers closer to the two injured people. Ann is relatively short for her age, so she waits patiently. Arthur leans down, inches from Ann’s face. “Why do you lie to me? I just asked you a ques--” The wrench is driven into his skull with all the force Ann could muster. Which given his lanky stature was enough to knock him out cold. Ann turns to Max with her adrenaline running high, “Max we got to go now.” She lifts herself up and pulls his body gently. Max’s eyes are opening slowly, “Max c’mon, we have to go now.” With his help she gets him onto the tractor. Ann quickly searches Arthurs unconscious body for the keys. “What’s going on Ann?” Max whispers as Ann fumbles with the keys. She just hushes him and pushes the key into the ignition. The tractor roars to life after the fifth key and Ann presses on the gas. The vehicle can only go up to 60 kmh. Which hopefully will work. Especially if Arnie doesn’t know right away. They get halfway down the road when Ann hears gunshots. Two weeks later “Arnold and Arthur Gertold have just been reprimanded trying to leave BC for Alberta. The twins are known for thirteen murders and two attempted murders. Ann Wilks and Max Johnson were lucky to--” Max turns off the hospital room TV. “I’m tired of hearing about that,” he tosses the remote onto a nearby chair. “Well, I doubt we won’t stop hearing about it for many years.” Ann said packing up her things, “you almost ready to go? Doctor gave you the okay.” The now clean Max had just finished shaving when Ann came to pick him up. After nearly two long months of torture the doctors decided to keep him at the hospital for two long weeks. Ann was only in the hospital for four days. Max often complained. “Yeah let’s get out of here, are you sure your parents are alright that I crash there?” He asks, rubbing his hand through his hair. “Of course, in their eyes you saved me. We’re family Max.” She hugs the taller man and then they set off.

A scientist is working on a space program that is about to send another probe to a nearby planet that is known to have a vastly different environment compared to Earth. Their job is to design a few experiments and tools to test things once a probe has sucessfully landed. Knowing about the harsh conditions, the scientist is reminded of recently discovered extremophiles on Earth and just can't stop thinking about how such lifeforms might react to a similar environment if forced to survive there. After several weeks of pondering, the scientist comes up with an experiment that involves sending extremophiles along with the probe. The argument made is that it would be extremely valuable to understand if life from Earth could be introduced in another environment. How would these specialized extremophiles adapt to new conditions? Would they survive and mutate? How long would that take? A colleague finds this intriguing, so the scientists designs a more serious concept and eventually presents it to a superior. "Are you crazy? We can't just contaminate another planet with extremophiles from Earth!? What if there is already life on that planet? This experiment could have negative effects we can't even imagine. And even if there is no life on that planet, we would have a difficult time proving that once we introduce lifeforms from Earth. This is a really bad idea, please focus on your actual task!" Somewhat hurt, the scientist returns to designing other experiments, but the idea doesn't just vanish. After getting in touch with an old friend, they invite a biologist who has been researching extremophiles for a bit now. They start talking about possible experiments on the other planet, how to design them to answer the initial question: if extremophiles can exist on Earth, can they survive on another planet, even though they won't have much time to adapt? They discuss mutation rates due to increased radiation as well as possible chemical reactions that might occur over time, possibly creating a beneficial local environment to survive long enough to adapt. The biologist promises to do some experiments and they agree to have another meeting in a few months. The biologist gets in touch with a chemist, who is equally excited about such an experiment. So they start to design a box that could hold several cultures of extremophiles for a longer period of time, protecting them from the harsh conditions of the other planet; taking into account what they know about the conditions and the materials used for the space probe, they test a few designs and eventually discover that there could be a way to protect extremophiles long enough until the entire containment reacts with the atmosphere, exposing the lifeforms. But they hope that until then at least a few might have mutated and somewhat adapted. It's mostly a shot in the dark, but it's worth a try. The overall design is adapted to match the specifications for the craft and the scientist approaches the superior once more. "Ok, it seems like you really can't follow orders, but I'll take it serious just to show you that this won't work." They go over the details and the general design seems fine, but after a few more calculations, it becomes clear that the containment won't survive long enough. Best case, the extremophiles simply die off within days and are eaten alive due to the atmospheric conditions, worst case, they do survive due to pure luck and contaminate the planet. The scientists does not share that conclusion at all, as their survival would be the best case scenario. The superior is speechless. "You better get back to work right now or I'll fire you on the spot! This nonsense stops now!" The scientist leaves teeth-gnashingly. This could be such a great experiment, there is no doubt. A few days later, a very excited biologist calls. "You won't believe this but I found an interesting genetic variant that has higher mutation rates for some reason. We started to create a much harsher environment in our lab and they not only survived but adapted within a week. They are now more resistant and I think we could give them even a much harder time and they might actually survive. I'll call you back in another week!" Eight days later it is confirmed. Even though this genetic variant has populated a niche for eons, it seems to have the ability to adapt quickly to harsher conditions. For some reason, increased radiation activated a gene sequence that would allow for unexpectedly fast adaption. The biologist wants to publish the paper as soon as possible. They agree to meet in the biologist's lab to take a closer look together and possible redesign the experiment for the planetary probe one last time. They work through the entire weekend and the final result is actually much better. The containment would be intact for about a week, giving the extremophiles just enough time to adapt to the initially experienced new conditions within the containment. Then, the material would slowly peel away and give them a bit more time to adapt to the actual conditions, especially of the atmosphere and radiation levels. Worst case, they don't make it - best case, they survive and could be detected by future missions. Either way, it would be worth a try. The biologist is ecstatic. This could turn into a Noble Prize. After all these years of tedious work, finally a worthy reward. They start one-upping each other what they would do with all the money, but after a while it becomes rather one-sided and the biologist explores the sudden silence. "You can't publish these findings. If we want this experiment to succeed, you need to wait until the probe is on its way to the planet. Otherwise, they will suspect that I might be involved and search the craft. If you go public now, we'll never get a chance to do this. You need to wait nine more months, just to be safe. After that, you can do whatever you want." "I really can't wait that long I'm afraid. I need the funding yesterday. The results are amazing, I have already started writing. I'm planning to send the paper next month to be peer-reviewed. It will be all work and no play but this is such a crazy discovery. I - *we* - need to publish. Other people will discover this as well and they won't hesitate to share the findings with the rest of the world. Nine months is too long." "My entire career will be destroyed if you publish now and all the effort will be for nothing. I'm not willing to risk all that just so you can get an early paycheck. Can't you see how this experiment benefits both of us? You could even include the planetary experiment once we have the data!" "You don't even know if there will be another launch after all these failed attempts recently. Besides, your career will be over one way or another. Even if the experiment is a success, the scientific community won't be pleased to find out we basically contaminated another planet on purpose. Not everyone will see the value of this experiment. I need to publish these findings seperately, they are too valuable to be held back. The planetary experiment is your department, you will have to find a way to publish those findings yourself. Don't drag me into your problems just because we have worked this out together!" A heated debate starts and the arguments made receive more vocal support through alcohol consumption. While the extreme extremophiles are minding their own business in an even harsher environment than before, fists start to hit faces and other body parts. As the lab slowly adapts to these violent conditions, making room for unexpected movements rather awkardly, a skull eventually hits the floor. A one-sided inquiry quickly evolves into panicky cries for help, but it turns out that Sundays tend to keep away other people for unknown reasons. A phone call is made while the lab continous to wonder if an increasing amount of red liquid on its floor is considered a hazard. After a few silent moments, sudden hectic movements result in additional minor glassy fatalities, mostly noticed by the smoke detector. But since there is no smoke to report, the alarm is not triggered; it is clearly not the smoke detector's job to detect other problems. Someone leaves in a hurry and the lab is finally able to determine the current state of things. Apart from something heavy and warm blocking the floor in a puddle of wet liquid, many things are not where they are supposed to be - not just misplaced, but also missing entirely. This is concerning, yet such mayhem never occured before so maybe this is just temporary and things will return to normal soon. Voices are approaching after a while and it seems like many more CO2 emitters are entering the smoke detector's observable universe. It is not enough to trigger the alarm, but it is still unsettling as this is an unusual amount of CO2 emitters at this time of the week. Sundays are supposed to be quiet, that is what continous observations throughout an entire decade have revealed. The anomaly could be of relevance, but that remains to be seen. It is a rainy day when an old scientist is shaving an old friend who has never moved a finger during the last few decades. The news is all over the radio and TV. Signs of life have been found on a nearby planet which is a surprise since the harsh environment was believed to be uninhabitable for quite a while now. The idea that life could exist in such a place is creating excitement all over the world. "Listen to this my friend. Isn't this great news? We finally have an answer after all these years. What a great discovery!" The warm soapy water experiences more turbulence as a foreign object is diving into it. Being treated like that is upsetting for several reasons but the worst part is the grey residue that keeps floating everywhere, making it really difficult to enjoy life in general. One could file a complaint to the larger body, but in this current position there is no way to communicate. The soap itself, a companion one has accepted over the years, also is not amused. The general consensus is that this invasion can not stand, especially after the foreign object seems to be a distant relative of what is already spreading in their main habitat. As they debate potential actions, they are flung into the dark corridor, which will reunite them with the larger body in a while. This part of the journey is unpleasant but it is the only way to return after being seperated from the rest. At some point, the soap will go a different way, so their time to come up with a proper report is limited. "You see, my friend, it truly was worth it. Now we can finally celebrate!" A bubbly liquid is separated into two transparent vessels of a similar material compared to the previous enclosure; but after a short while, it is reunited again. What a curious thing to happen, as the initial separation didn't serve any purpose at all? The bubbly liquid is confused yet happy to oblige. Its job just started and it will be quite a journey. "I think you can publish your paper soon.

August 1948: ROY So far this month, skinny Roy Parr, all 127 pounds of him, has unearthed three chunks of petrified wood--a bit crumbly, not the shiny spars in the Field Museum nearby in Chicago, but real enough, multicolored pink and brown and crystalline white--plus various hunks of charcoal and driftwood, some tan pebbles, and two Indian arrowheads. Today Roy is digging again. He knows he’s too old for this, but he burns with curiosity. An inch below where he was digging yesterday, he finds two objects almost touching. One is small and shaped like an arrowhead. But those he found before were sharp and made of brown rock. This one is metallic and has blunt edges. Roy rubs it on the leg of his shorts. It shines up to the color of an old copper penny. He wonders why someone made an arrowhead of metal. The larger, heavier piece shines up to a brighter copper color. It is a rounded lump, flattened on one side. Roy perches the flat side on his palm. Now it looks like a little statue, of a sitting person with a huge mouth eating something. Is it a talisman of luck--a one-armed man eating a long, nourishing loaf? Or is it an omen of starvation and despair--a monster reduced to eating its own arm? He turns the lump over. Underneath is an indentation full of sand. He snaps a twig off a cottonwood, teases the sand out of the hole, and finds that it is a deep slot. He wonders if the arrowhead would fit into it. He wonders if the combination is magic. Roy’s father, Mel Parr, has given Roy a head for magic. They both needed something to replace Roy’s dead mother, yearned for something deep and mysterious to help ease their loss. Magic, tribal magic gave them a love to share. It started when Mel showed Roy the deed to the land on which their little bungalow sat, how it was passed down from the Potawatomis. The elder Parr learned tribal legends from a half-blood Potawatomi named Anson Eagle who lives on Miller Beach. Mel and Anson work together, white collar jobs in the rolling mill at Gary Works. Anson told Mel and Mel told Roy of the tribe’s beliefs--in the two spirits, Kitchemonedo the Great Spirit and Matchêmonedo the Evil Spirit, of the Seven Grandfather Teachings, and of the Great Chain of Being connecting past, present, and future generations... and that the mission of the people was embodied in their name, Keepers of the Fire, the counsel fires that the Potawatomi made to keep peace with their relatives the Chippewas and the Ottawas. They united to smoke the pipe of peace--the calumet . Soon Roy begged to meet Mr. Eagle. Mel worried that he would lose his special bond with his son, but he introduced them and hoped for the best. They first got together that June in Marquette Park. They fished in the morning and lounged in the afternoon by a picnic table to grill dinner the old way, skewered on sticks over an open fire. The bluegills weren’t biting, so they ate Mel’s store-bought pollock. But, over the glowing embers, with their bellies full of charred fish and some roasted marshmallows, Anson got expansive with the curious boy. He told Roy how his tribe used to fish the very same river. The lagoon in the park was an isolated remnant of the old Calumet River. The slow, winding stream and its boggy boundaries used to provide wild rice, too. His forebears plied it in the warmer months, using spears for the mighty sturgeon--as long as a man--nets for trout and perch; and beating sticks for wild rice in the fall. The women farmed and collected berries and wild plants. Their specialty was grinding sweet calico corn and vegetables into cakes to wrap in basswood leaves and bake on hot embers. The leaves made the cakes smell like wild roses. Come winter, Anson said, the tribe trekked east to the woods of Michigan to trap and hunt deer, bear, moose, elk, even foxes. They followed the old Sauk Trail, now paved over into U.S. Route 12 running through Gary. “The highway that goes past our house?” Roy said. “Yep,” Anson said. “You go to school on a Potawatomi trail. It ran all the way to Detroit.” “Winter,” he said, “was also the time for setting down the tribe’s beliefs and stories on scrolls of birch paper. The Potawatomi wrote for hundreds of years before the Europeans invaded.” Roy was astounded. “Tell us a story!” Anson smiled. A story he loved was of Wisaka the Trickster. Wisaka was raised by Grandmother Earth in great poverty. He remained scrawny, roaming the land until one day he met a fox. Wisaka told the fox he would be poisonous to eat. But, Wisaka said, if the fox helped him build a lodge, he would bring a bounty of food. When the fox had built the lodge, Wisaka said he would provide food by turning into a woman and charming the chief’s son in the neighboring village into marriage. He took two elk kidneys, tied them to his chest under his coat, and sashayed into the village, calling himself Nanabush the Beautiful. The chief’s son was entranced, and a wedding ceremony soon took place. But when the village showered the couple with gifts to leave for their honeymoon trip to ‘her’ lodge, Wisaka / Nanabush told them ‘she’ feared a ravenous fox had invaded it. The village’s braves armed themselves and followed the newlyweds, carrying loads of dried venison and trout. When the fox smelled the food coming his way, he licked his chops with pleasure. But when the braves unloaded their provender, the fox could see their carrying sticks were spears. The fox ran away keening in fear. Wisaka cheered with the braves, waving his coat in triumph. When his false breasts were revealed, the chief’s son and the rest of the braves ran away screaming of Wisaka’s betrayal. And Wisaka had provisions to last the whole winter. To use one’s wits to survive was the lesson, Anson said. Roy heard only that a weakling can use creativity to become a hero. Such a tale might seem quaint to people like the Paars who live in the middle of the 20 th century in a frame house rather than a wigwam, on a street paved with black cinders--slag from the blast furnaces--rather than on the shore of a stream. But their neighborhood, Indian Hills, has kept its age-old surroundings of sandy fields and dense woods because of its remoteness from the trendy beaches, the smoke-belching steel mills downtown, and the stores on Broadway. Indian Hills owes its sandy surface to recession of the Big Lake over thousands of years. That has left a foot or more of what everyone in the neighborhood calls sugar sand. A bit farther from the street, dunes rise and a wood of maples, beeches, and oaks. To Roy the sand is the mysterious provider of treasures. The greatest of them now lie in his hand. To appreciate their potential, he recalls Mr. Eagle’s story of Wisaka. Could a weak child really fool a fox, a brave, a chief, even a whole village? Roy wants to believe the story. He’d love to share it and his new treasures with friends. But he has no friends, sees no one his age during the summer. He tells himself he doesn't care, he has magic. Roy thinks as hard as he can about someo ne more important than friends--Wisaka. He hungers for adventure too much to wonder whether the statuette is of a lucky man or a desperate monster, or whether magic comes from Kitchemonedo or from Matchêmonedo. He whispers fervently, “Wisaka, help me. Send me!” and inserts the arrowhead into the slot. The sand, the hills and the woods blur into a vortex, a swirl of colors. A cacophony of warrior howls and fox screams assaults Roy’s ears. The sweet rose aroma of burning basswood leaves fills his nose. And everything turns black. August 1810: NIKAN “ Cigwe '!”--Thunderbird! --Nikan shouted in Neshnabek, which we call Potawatomi. He pointed at a large black bird ruffing its tailfeathers. To the old man, such enthusiasm was childish in a sixteen-year-old. “ Co, m shike' ,” he said. “No, it’s a turkey.” He sighed. “You have turned away from what growing men must see, must do.” Crouched in the stern of his birch bark canoe, ash-wood paddle in hand, he spoke again to the boy in the bows. It was more courteous this way, with the boy not having to face him. “You have become a dreamer.” The boy kept paddling and craning his neck to see the sights. It was August, and the Grand Calumet was running slowly. The man dug his paddle into the water, turning the canoe to avoid a snag. “Do you deny it?” “No, grandfather. But...” He trailed off. “But what?” “But I love to dream! Of the bear and the elk. Of what the whippoorwill’s call means, and why the dove sounds so sad. Of how the pheasant got its beautiful feathers.” “That will not help us face the Sauk or the Ojibway in their war canoes. Nor will we eat if the Pokagon take our game. If all young ones sat around like you, our people would vanish.” “But grandfather. Medicine Woman says we are all joined together, that we must love and respect all beings. How can I fight--kill--humans if I believe Medicine Woman?” Grandfather huffed. “Medicine Woman has no need to gather food. It is brought to her for giving us wisdom. A man cannot live on wisdom alone. He and his family need food in their bellies. A man must learn to tell the clouds of wisdom from the rain and snow of the real world.” “But, grandfather, don’t clouds become rain and snow?” The old man threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, Nikan. Yes, all is connected. And all that grows matures in its own good time. And you--" he chuckled-- “you may be too clever for your own good. Or maybe you will become the next Medicine Man. Shall we speak to Kwe’ Wapun, whose words you revere, and ask her if you will become our next healer?” Nikan beamed and threw his hands in the air. “Yes, grandfather!” “A grandfather’s recommendation must be taken seriously,” The Medicine Woman said, seated with Nikan and Grandfather by the evening fire outside her wigwam. “But the test is what counts. If you cannot pass the test, you cannot become a man of medicine--ever. Are you sure you want to dare the dream hunt?” Nikan said, “I am not a boy, Kwe’ Wapun. I am old enough and sensible enough to ask of the dangers.” The Medicine Woman nodded approvingly. “It is no small thing to go without food for three days. It is a test of bravery to wander alone without the company of the Neshnabek for that long. Who knows what animal might hunt you? If it be a spirit animal, what kind of magic might befall you?” “Does magic come from Kitchemonedo the Great or from Matchêmonedo the Evil?” “A prudent question. I will answer it with a tale of Wisaka the trickster. It was a time of drought. Wisaka’s people--our people--were dying of thirst. Miles upstream, Wisaka had seen a dam made of reeds, branches, and mud. A lake lay behind it. The Frog People had built the dam and were luxuriating in their water. Wisaka took on the form of a coyote and spat in the dirt. He rolled in it until he was coated and filthy. Then he trotted south to show himself to the Frog People. “‘Take pity on me,’ he cried to their chief. ‘Let me wash in your bounteous waters.’ The chief said, ‘Get to it! You look terrible. And you smell even worse!’ “Wisaka dove into the lake. He swam underwater and dug into the dam. Tossing reeds and branches aside, he dug until he made a hole. When his lungs were about to burst, he popped through the hole and swam down the new stream all the way back to his people.” Kwe Wapun stared at Nikan. “Did Wisaka’s inspiration--his trick--come from the Great Spirit or from the Evil One?” “From the Great Spirit! Kitchemonedo took pity on his people and saved them.” “But what of the Frog People, who no longer had water to grow their crops and feed their many mouths?” Nikan had no answer. “Perhaps you will learn of good and evil on your last night of praying instead of sleeping. But I warn you: it can make the faint of spirit go mad and tear their hearts out or cast themselves into the deep.” To his credit, the boy sat still awhile. “I know of death. Were it not for grandfather, I would be an orphan. The raids, the sickness, the shortage of game... our village does not grow as the years go by. But you have taught me that the Neshnabek will be everlasting. Someone must say those mighty words to the next generation. Perhaps it takes a dreamer.” “Anak ... maybe,” Kwe’ Wapun murmured. She raised her eyes to heaven. Would this dreamer be the one? In Northern Indiana, a boy-man on a spirit quest cannot hide in a cave at night. The limestone that erodes into caves lies deep in the Calumet region. Wind, ice, and five thousand years of time have created long spits of land that cover most of the area. Spits grew west from Michigan and, later, spits grew east from Illinois creating a huge, corrugated wetland. The land also grew vertically. Beachgrass started it, holding grass in its roots and sheltering sand grains and seeds with its leaves against the wind, until cottonwoods grew and were themselves covered by mighty parabolic dunes. That was where Nikan hoped to find a safe spot for his last night of the test. His goal was the highest dune in their territory, Mt. Tom. It was a struggle to climb the two-hundred-foot hill, especially barefoot, as the singing sands parted with his footfalls. The soughing sound with each step was the only comfort in his long battle up the steep, 33-degree slope. Nikan fell onto his hands and knees now and again, breathless, when the sand gave way more than expected. Moonlight illuminated the dune just enough to keep his feet out of the sharp-edged beachgrass that covered most of it. He reached the open top of the dune dizzy with hunger, too exhausted to take another step. But when he stopped watching his footing long enough to look up, he was amazed by the beauty of the night. The moonlight made the foaming breakers wash ashore from the Big Lake in moving lines of glowing white. The sounds of their collapse on the shore mirrored his panting. The sand on the shore stretched in great curves east and west. He raised his arms to match their arcs. The Big Lake cast a coal black shadow all the way to the horizon. Stars beamed above, swaying this way and that in the summer heat. Not a cloud marred the inky sky in which they swam. Nikan let the world wash over him, through him. He lay on his back, spread his arms wide, slid his fingers into the cool sand, and stared up. A shooting star flitted. Soon more came, wider arcs in yellow and orange. Nikan was enraptured. But when a big, bright green one headed his way and burst before his face with a thunderous boom, he cried out in fear. “Who’s there?” a voice called out--in English. October 2030: ELDON Elaine Trich, the slim, Eurasian former nun who served as chief ethics officer for the Genocide Project pointed at the image of Roy. “He made it! Now bring him back!” The image of Roy walking along the ridge at the top of the dune at night looked eerie until one got used to it. The flat screen showed his face as orange, his swinging arms in lurid yellows. The grasses around him looked mauve. Only the sandy shore was in natural-looking tans. The tans were much the same as those out the window, a view of Lake Michigan’s southwestern shoreline from a conference room in a luxurious high-rise. CEO Eldon Muntz turned from the screen to look down his nose at Elaine. His wide-eyed boyish face belied his intent. “Inane, tell me again. Why are you with us?” “It’s Elaine ! You know perfectly well, Eldon. And, clearly, you need ethical guidance. Claiming Roy gave informed consent by pushing the key into the slot is self-delusion.” Hernan DeSoto, the chief of IT and, at age 45, the elder statesman of the group, said, “He did invoke magic--he wanted to go somewhere. The question is, are we going to leave him in 1810, and make him stay? Do we go for data on the Indian Relocation, or is the technical feat enough for now?” Elaine said, “Bring him back to 1948 where he belongs! The rats never survived more than two jumps with their maze-running time intact. For God’s sake!” They had thought it a master stroke when Hernan produced the arrowhead-statuette combination. The simulation of native copper was superb. The tranachron-transmitter combination in the lump was invisible. Its infrared holo-camera gave weird images, but it worked even inside Roy’s pocket. And it allowed the illusion of agency by a simple action of the person holding it. Eldon raised his hands for silence. “Look, everyone, we don’t have to decide today. Let’s see what happens--whether the boys bond. We have all the time in the world.”

The power was out. I groaned and slammed my phone into the couch I had been lounging on. It was summer and everyone blasting their ACs probably caused a power outage. I got up from the purple velvet couch and walked out of the living room. “Dad! Can you call the power company!” I yelled into what seemed like an empty house. My words echoed off the walls. The eerie silence sent a tingle through my back. “I’m doing it right now! Go check the electrical box first.” My dad replied. Also yelling. My dad had always said a man had to learn to take proper care of the house. You know. Manly stuff. I never had an interest in building things or sports. My dad always thought of it as a weakness. I just saw it as an unfair stereotype. I like video games and art. I don’t want to nail things together in the garage. Nonetheless, I was taught. I grabbed a flashlight from the drawer in the kitchen. It was still light out but the basement and electrical room were pitch black. I walked down the wooden stairs into the basement. It was a nice basement. It was furnished and well decorated. But something felt off. I could explain it. I told myself I was being crazy. I probably was. I went about my business and went into the electrical room. I turned on my flashlight with a little click. I shined my light on the gray wooden box in the corner. I gasped. The buttons had been scrapped out. I ran my fingers along the cut metal. What is this? And out of the corner of my eye I saw a shadowy figure. I screamed and turned around to shine my light at it with one quick swoop. My dad stood there laughing. I frowned. I'm surrounded by idiots. I thought. “Can you not?! It’s not funny.” I said in an agitated tone. “Lighten up.” He said patting my back. Well more like slamming all the air out of my lungs. He examined the board and frowned. “Isn’t it weird the buttons are missing like someone clawed it out?!” I practically screamed. “What do you mean? Quit joking around it is just a short circuit.” He said in his usual disappointed tone. That's when I looked over and it was as if the buttons were never gone. He was right, it was just a short circuit. I scratched my head in confusion. Am I losing my mind? “I thought I taught you better than that. Oh well. I don’t have the parts to fix it today. I will have to go tomorrow, your sister has the car.” I sighed. I was not looking forward to staying at home with this group of nut jobs. And especially now that our air conditioning didn’t work. “Hey you know what. Let’s go get your mom and have a camping night!” He said in an enthusiastic tone. I nodded. That was at least better than staying inside tonight. I sprinted up the stairs toward my moms room. When I knocked on the door she didn’t answer. I almost thought she wasn’t there. But when I knocked again she answered in her meek voice. “Come in!” She said. When I came in she was sifting through her closet with clothes all over the floor. This was unusual for her. She was always a neat freak. “What are you doing?” I asked She turned around and smiled at me. The smile calmed me. It sent happy waves down my spine. “Oh just looking for my flashlight honey.” She said in her usual voice. “Okay, dad says to tell you he was thinking about having a camping night in the backyard!” “Oh! That sounds great! I’ll make us lunches and start packing.” “Okay mom. I will go help dad get the camping stuff.” Once we were all packed and ready to go we set our stuff out in our backyard. We actually had a nice set up. We had our firepit tents and picnic table. It was starting to get dark out so we sprayed ourselves with bug spray and started to cover up. Mom and dad went in their tent to grab some food. So I sat on my chair and looked out at the house. I couldn’t explain it but this whole day after the power went out I felt watched. It was a chilling feeling. I hated it. I looked over at the house. I was probably just fooling myself. Dad always said I have an overactive imagination. Wait. No. A figure stood in the window. It caught my eye. The second I saw it my blood ran cold. I rubbed my eyes as hard as I could but it didn’t go away. The figure was barely visible in the light of the fire and the lanterns. It was pitch black now which didn’t help to relieve my stress. The figure turned from a shadow to a long droopy balck mass. It had a large gaping mouth with several rows of gapping teeth. A long tongue licked the clear and pristine glass. I turned around to alert my parents. They were feet away from me. Just standing there. “Guys?!!!!” I said in a trembling voice. My parents looked at me. Dead in the eyes. Their eyes were almost blank. Nothing there. Just cold, darkness, and fear. The people I loved. We're gone. That’s the second I knew it. Just like the figure in the window. They morphed. They both turned into the horrifying monster I had just seen. I fell out of my chair. Every muscle in my body vibrates with alarm. I reach for something. Anything. A thought radiates in my head. It is almost primal. RUN. I get myself up and run through my yard. My Converse slap against the damp lawn. My heart is beating out of my chest. I have to get out of here. I think. But where is that? Suddenly a bright light blinds me. I try to make out where it is coming from. The driveway. My sister. OH NO MY SISTER. I ran as fast as I could to the driveway on the other side of my house. I stood in the headlights with a look of sheer terror. Without thinking I climbed into the passenger seat. “GO!!!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. My sister looked at me, startled. She hesitated unsure of what to do. But she saw the look on my face and knew it was urgent. “What about mom and dad?” She said. “It’s not them! I swear they are going to kill us!” I yelled. She put her key in but before she could start the car she looked forward. I have never seen here so terrified. Because there it is in the headlights. Looking right at us. There was no use now. We are already dead.

1208 words Rated PG; blood, gore Prompt: Set your story on (or in) a winding river. My shoe was gone. I was walking along the stream at noon when it fell in. I was trudging along, tired from lunch, kicking at all the stones in my path. One kept staying in front of me. I made a game of aiming it straight so that I could kick it again. My foot had been off one time. I had kicked it to the left. On either side of me, fields. Tall stalks of grass shoot out of them. If I cared to venture further, if I wanted to push the grass aside, then I might have found beautiful creatures. There could have been snakes and frogs, crossing paths and nodding. I might have seen a fox, a mouse, or even an owl flying by. Then I wouldn’t have lost my shoe. Instead, I kicked at the ground in anger. I missed the dirt, and my red sandal with white trim was launched into the air. It landed in the water and sank like a brick. babbling water turned into an overwhelming force when the shoe landed. There was a splash, and instantly the waves became so big that they could swallow my waist. It didn’t slow down. It became a typhoon, expanding onto the other shore and eating up the land. It took about 10 metres of grass before finally settling down, and going back to its calm and peaceful existence. In less than a minute, the stream became a deep river. I had to get my shoe back. I took off my other shoe and placed it gently on the ground. I could not risk having to do the same thing twice. I removed my beige sweater. It was knitted especially for me, and ruining it would not be a good idea. I also took off my glasses. They would do nothing for me underwater. Following the actions of my shoe, I dove into the water. I no longer needed to breathe. It wasn’t that I couldn’t--I was frequently inhaling and exhaling. However, breathing no longer did anything to help me live. The water was the only thing I knew I had to have. I began swimming down and was immediately immersed in light. I squinted. The light was warm and looked to be coming from many different spheres. They were mystical, and I had to look closer. I kicked downward just a little more to see what was going on. I was right. My glasses didn’t help my vision. I could perfectly see the scene in front of me without any help. It was unusual to be able to rely on my eyes. But I trusted them. I trusted them that I was seeing a card game, illuminated by a string of lanterns hung in between two rocks. Who was playing, you ask? I’ll tell you. It was minnows. Lake chubs, to be exact. The small fish with a black stripe and yellow and grey bodies were hovering over cards. The cards lay on the river bed and were as big as each fish’s body. They were all extremely focused on their game. It seemed as though they were playing something of the utmost elegance. Is this what water life does while we humans aren’t watching? Engage in activities that we might not even be able to comprehend? “Go fish!” Yelled a fish. The fish in question was one with deep yellow scales that faded into black at the very bottom. They grabbed one of the cards in front of them, swam to the middle of the circle, and tossed it out of the light of the lanterns. Another fish--probably the one who inquired about what card the first fish had--dutifully turned around and raced out to catch it. The rest of the circle looked in the direction the fish rushed to. For a few seconds, the silence and suspense were unbearable. I found myself holding my breath, which still didn’t do anything. With an ace of spades in their mouth, the fish emerged. They spat it towards the first fish. “There you go.” They smirked. I think they did, at least. It was a bit hard to tell. The circle cheered and congratulated the fish. They chanted their name--Cora--and danced around them joyfully. “You know,” Cora said, staring straight at the first fish. “There were a lot of human things down there.” The other fish quieted down. Humans had intrigued them. “A tire, a shoe, and even an old telephone.” My shoe was close. The fish exchanged looks. Maybe. Again, fish aren’t the best at expressing their emotions. “Dinner!” One of the fish exclaimed. They were going to eat my shoe. I turned my head to where the fish had gone. As quickly as I could, I dove in that direction. My Dad would not be happy if I didn’t get my shoe back. It was darker there. I still had faint light from the lanterns, but it was getting further away with each kick. As soon as I found my shoe, I could go back to land. It would be fine. The gravel was small. I might even consider it sand. I tried to put my foot on it. It worked. Suddenly this was my gravity, walking on the river bed like a floor. I would have to go back to where I came from to escape it. My hair still floated above my head, though. I saw two of the human treasures the fish had been talking about. The tire was that of a bike, and the telephone was blue with a twisting cord and no receiver. The third thing that fish had promised, my shoe, was not there. In the place of my shoe was a monster. It had that vague outline of a fish. I could see flippers, a tail, and a fin in front. It was about the size of a refrigerator. I could make out no other details. It was painted in shadows. It reminded me of a black hole, the way it could suck up light. It faced me. I could not see its eyes, or know if eyes were something it had, but it was facing me. It knew I was there. When I moved a bit to the left or a bit to the right, it followed me. No matter how I maneuvered it was blocking me from going forward. I started walking backwards. I slowly took steps behind me. The thing still followed. It kept pace with me. It had no concern with touching me, only to be able to feel my presence. I had to run. I could come back later when the creature had gotten bored, and look for my shoe. Until then I could just play and talk with the minnows. As long as I didn’t have to fetch any cards. The thing opened its big mouth and swallowed my entire being. It gulped down my essence. they trapped me forever in a void in the universe. It cut off my arm, and the blood stained my existence. It gouged out my eyes, and my world was now as black as it. It turned my insides to stone, and now I’ll never recover. I didn’t find my shoe.

DESIRES BEYOND REASON Elinor Stevencox was average. Average height, average hair, average age. In a crowd of average people, she would pass unnoticed for Elinor Stevencox was as average as can be. Although, Elinor Stevencox wanted to be someone else. She wanted to be something else. Someone worthy of a book! Working at a dead-end job, in a dead-end office, squeezed in a cubicle of average size did not fit her standards anymore. “I want my life to be in a book one day! She would tell her best friend. -Most people in books are dead or fictional, unless you are a president or something. Then you cannot escape the book industry! Replied her friend. - I know. Isn’t that great? To live a life that others would think worthy to be remembered. To transmit a legacy to humanity! To have my name on a biography... - I am sorry my friend. Your standards are too elevated for me. I feel more concerned by earthly or local matters! - You just don’t understand! Replied Elinor Stevencox. But I can tell you this: as of now, I am going to devote my time, my money, my person into becoming somebody!” And there she went... To achieve her dream, to nourish her obsession, Elinor Stevencox began by quitting her day job and became very engaged in multiple causes: humanitarian, educational, health and nutrition issues... Within a few weeks, Elinor Stevencox was everywhere, and everybody was talking about her. At the homeless shelter, she helped with the distribution of the food. At the public library, she gave talks on health and gardening. At the mayor’s garden party, she entertained the children with fantastic stories. One day, she was helping at the food bank when a tall man with a long black coat and a large hood came to her: “Looks like you are on the path of becoming someone important, he said. -Well, I wouldn’t say that, at least not in those terms. I do my best to serve the community, you see... - You will go far if you stay on this path!” Replied the man. Elinor began to feel strange in the presence of the man with the black coat. -If you will excuse me, sir, I need to go to the pantry. We need... well, we need more cans of carrots. Yes, that’s it, carrots. Good day!” This funny encounter left a strange impression deep in Elinor’s heart. An uneasy feeling, like a threat. Although, memory was not Elinor Stevencox’ strength. The encounter was soon to be forgotten. On the following Saturday morning, Elinor Stevencox was helping students with their homework at the Educational Center. Her best friend came along: - “Hi Elinor, how are you doing? I haven’t seen you that much ever since you began your little quest for fame. - Don’t joke about it. I am very engaged at the moment, and I love it! I feel useful. People know me, they call me by my name! and... Oh my head! - Elinor, what’s happening? Are you all right? -I think, ... I think I need to eat something. I haven’t eaten this morning yet. I have been helping here since I woke up! - Wait a minute. What about yesterday? Did you eat last night? - Not really, no... she replied. I was too tired when I arrived home to cook anything. - Yesterday, at all? - No... yes, few crackers around 3pm. -Elinor, since when haven’t you eaten a real meal? - I don’t have time to eat. I must help people! - Okay, I understand you want to be famous. But you cannot do that and kill yourself at the same time! - You sound exactly like my mother! Leave me alone. Go away!” The friend left. At 9 pm, Elinor left the Educational Center. She had volunteered there all day, helped thirty-four students with their homework, given three reading classes, and two talks on Good Nutrition and the Brain. She walked to the closest bus stop. Exhausted, she waited over an hour for a bus that would never come. After a while, a tall man with a long black coat and a large hood came to her: “Looks like you are on the path of becoming someone important, he said. - Who are you? What do you want with me? Why are you following me? - You will go far if you stay on this path! Replied the man. - My bus is coming, said Elinor standing abruptly. Good night!” She climbed hastily on the bus. As it departed, Elinor looked back through the window: the tall man with a black coat and a large hood was looking in her direction. That night, Elinor went straight to bed. Still, she could not sleep. On the Sunday morning, Elinor woke up at 5 am, dressed, and caught the bus. Today, she was schedule to volunteer at the hospital all day. As she was sitting quietly in the bus, looking through the tainted glass the city still asleep, the bus stopped. One passenger hopped on the bus. A tall man with a long black coat and a large hood who sat next to Elinor: “Looks like you are on the path of becoming someone important, he said. - You! You again! What do you want? - You will go far if you stay on this path! Replied the man. - What do you want with me? Why are you following me? Let me pass. Driver? The driver remained deaf to her calls. Elinor looked around: the bus was empty. - Leave me alone! Do you hear me? Leave me alone! She yelled almost hysteric. - I know what you aim to! Whispered the man. I can help you! - I don’t know what you are talking about, Elinor replied, worried. - You want fame! You want recognition, he continued with his soft voice. You want people to know you, call you by your name. Write about you! You want your name on a book ... Stupefied, Elinor sat back on her seat, looking at the tall man. - Who are you, she barely asked. Fame? Recognition? Yes, yes, a book, a biography about me. How do you know...? - I know everything! Said the man raising a bony finger in her direction. Everything. And I can help you achieve your deepest desires. - How? What should I do? How much would it cost me? Please, tell me! - Oh, you may have to pay me something. Something small, barely significant. Very small, compared to the value of fame and success I can give you! - I will pay you anything! - Alright then. I just need your signature at the bottom of this document after you read it, and your initials right by mine. Here. - D. A. Is that you? The man did not reply. Elinor signed the document right away. - Now, listen to me carefully. Go to the hospital, do whatever you need to do. Tonight, go to the library. Make sure to be locked in after closing hours and read. - Read? Read what? - Biographies of famous peoples. Read all the biographies you can find. Every night, come back and read until you have read them all. Don’t miss a night! Your lapse would cancel my engagement. - I see... I think I can do that. I love to read. Yes! I can do it! But, ... I see, this is my bus stop coming next, said Elinor looking outside the window. If you’ll excuse me, I need to...” But no excuses were needed. The tall man with a black coat and a large hood was gone. Elinor was alone on the bus... She went to the hospital, worked all day. The thought of the man and his promises didn’t leave her mind one instant. At the end of the day, Elinor went to her usual bus stop. She was alone. She remained alone untill the bus reached the library. Elinor Stevencox began to search for all the biographies in the catalog of the library. She looked for the most remote table located in the darkest corner of the library. At the end of the day, when the librarian announced on the speaker that the library was closing its doors, Elinor went and hide in the bathroom. And she spent the night reading biographies, one after another. From Roosevelt to Reagan, from Rosa Parks to Abraham Lincoln. She read, and read, and read all night. When the morning came, it found her reading a biography of J. F. Kennedy. Elinor gathered all her belongings, went home, and changed. Then she walked to the Children’s Museum for it was Monday, and she would volunteer at the Children’s Museum every Monday. This lasted for weeks. Her friend did not hear from her. Her family either. Time passed. The tall man never came. One night, exhausted, hungry, Elinor contemplated for the first time the possibility of going home, eat, and sleep. She was sitting on the bus at the exact same place, when it stopped. Through the window, the Moon was reflecting its dull light. Elinor turned, the tall man was sitting next to her: “Looks like you are in pass of becoming someone important, he said. I see you have been faithful to your engagements. This is your time, my dear. - So, what do I have to do now to be famous and successful? - Tonight, go to the library as usual. Go straight to the biography section. Do not talk to anyone, do not look at anyone. There, you will find a book waiting for you. - A book? What book? How will I know which one to pick? - You will know when you see it! - And, what about your payment? When do I pay you? When will I be famous? - Tonight, once you find your book... Ah! This is your stop. See you soon! At the sight of the ugly dentures, and the bony fingers, Elinor felt a chill down her spine. She stepped out of the bus and walked straight towards the library. Once again, she hid to be locked in. Once alone, she looked for the biography section she knew so well and began to browse the shelves. All these biographies, she knew them. She had spent countless hours, sleepless nights reading, and studying. She looked at all the shelves. How could she know what book was supposed to be for her? “You will know when you see it”. She kept looking for hours. It was a dark and rainy night. Tired from searching, Elinor sat on the floor. Was she going to fail this close to fame and success? Her eyes semi-closed, in a state of partial sleep she was falling asleep when a ray from the Moon enlightened a book on the shelf ahead of her. At that moment, Elinor knew it was THE book. A book with no name, no title, no author. Elinor knew this was going to be her book. She stood on her feet, and slowly grab the book by its tranche. At that very moment, a shelf on the right opened like a door. The bright green glow that was coming out of it fascinated Elinor. Silently, she stepped in the secret room. As she was entering the room, she dropped her book on the floor. The shelf silently closed behind her. ********************* As the sun was rising on a bright and shiny morning, the employees entered the library to start a new day of work. One of them was walking down the biography section aisle when he noticed a book on the floor. - Oh, I know that book, this is one of our newest acquisitions. What is it doing in here? This is not at all its place. Let’s see: “The Strange Case of Elinor Stevencox: A Study on Schizophrenia” by Doctor Death Angel. This book shouldn’t be in here at all. Its place should be in the psychiatric section...”

As long as I shall live, till the day that my beard is long and grey and my eyes have grown dim with time, I will never forget the day that the thunder stopped. It had been five months since we had dug the trenches and hunkered down to defend ourselves against the Germans. We didn’t expect to have to hunker down for such a defense, as when we came from across the English Channel to deal with the Central Powers we had been told that the war would be a quick one. All that we had to do was show Germany that we would not take their attacks against France lying down, kick them back into their borders, and everything would be over. We would be home in front of the fire regaling others with tales of our heroism my Christmas morning. But no. As the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned into months, we found ourselves being stuck in the trenches as we waited for the war to end. Then the storm began, and the thunder would echo across no-mans land. The storm took many forms across each day, varying in how hard it would hit us in the trenches. Some days the storm would be just the ever present thunder of cannon fire from both our and the German’s artillery. Some days the storm would be the blinding flashes of lightning from German and British rifles along with the cracks of thunder and the screams of men. But the worst days, the days that everyone feared, the days that you wish you could go home and hide in the covers to wait out the storm were the days where the thunder came from the stomping of men’s boots in the mud. It didn’t matter if it was the boots of the Germans or our own boots, it all meant the same thing. It meant that someone was trying to bring an end to the war by taking the opposing trenches through a tactical charge and a storm of violence, only to inevitably fail. It was those days that you would hear the endless fire of machine guns cutting down charging soldiers, the loud terrifying cracks of sniper rifles trying to pick off anyone of importance, the screams of both Germans and Englishmen as they would tear each other down all for the sake of a few dozen or so yards. Then, when the attackers retreated to lick their wounds and you would think the storm would stop, a commander would always demand a counter attack. After all, they were weakened and we beat them back, surely we can take the trench this time. Only it never worked. The thunder would reign across no-mans land as the storm took countless lives from both us and the krauts, only to result in no change. We would still be in our trenches, and the Germans still in theirs. We would sleep, knowing that tomorrow the storm would begin again. This is simply how life was in the trenches. Sometimes you would have a brief moment of respite. Sometime you would get to go back to France for some well deserved R&R to try and get back what little sanity you had left. Some men would get lucky and take a bullet in the arm or leg and be sent to an aid station. If they were really lucky, they would then be sent home with all four limbs. There were many who were less lucky who went home with an empty sleeve, or left one of their boots behind with the army. But at least they went home. I can still remember the faces of many people who took a bullet and were sent home in a box. If they could find their remains at all. And yet despite all this, despite the screams of pain and cries of death and pleads to God that this bloody war would end, it refused. The storm would never stop, never tire, never rest until one of the trenches was empty of living souls. Even in the harshest of climates would it continue. You would hear the thunder of cannons try to out shine the thunder in the sky, with the lightning of God himself occasionally illuminating no-man’s land so you could see the endless muddy fields filled with barbed wire and rotting bodies. When it grew cold, you had to be careful of patches of ice in the trenches. I heard one too many tales of men not keeping an eye on where they were walking only to slip and impale themselves on their own bayonets. And so the storm pressed on. Day or night, rain or shine, holiday or not, it did not matter. The storm pressed on, trying with all it’s might to kill all the men who found themselves deployed into hell itself. The endless war made the days start to meld into one another. I recall once asking what day it was, thinking that October was only around the corner only to learn it was November 12th. And in what felt like a single blink of an eye, I was later informed by one of my fellow soldier that Christmas was right around the corner. Christmas. A day a reverence, a day that should have been spent with family and friends was now to be spent in the mud and snow filled trenches with a gun in hand and the sound of thunder ever present. We should have been without any hope and miserable that we would be spending this most holy of holidays fighting a war that no one wanted to fight. And yet... as we sat there in the trench on Christmas eve, we could hear something from across no-man’s land. It was faint, almost too faint to make out what exactly was being sung. But after a moment or two of listening close, as the thunder of cannons came to a rest, we could hear the faint sounds of singing coming from the German side. “Stille Nacht, heilige Nact... Alles schlaft... einsam wacht...” I did not and still cannot understand German, aside from a couple of phrases that have managed to stick in my head. Yet the melody was one we all knew, one that had been playing in our heads for the past week. The krauts were singing Silent Night. “’Round yon virgin Mother and Child... Holy infant so tender and mild.” I couldn’t help it, nor could many of the men with me. As we heard our sworn enemies sing the carol, we began to join in. Men who had spent the last several months getting bombarded with shells and bullets in a storm of violence that never ended were now just... singing. Sitting in trenches in the cold and mud just... singing carols with the enemy. “Sleep in himmlischar Ruuuuuuuuuuh! Schlaf in heavenly peace...” After a few verses of this, I could feel sleep overtake me, with the last thing I remember being the sounds of holy carols echoing across the storm scarred landscape. The next morning I awoke to the feeling of snowflakes on my nose. It had begun snowing overnight, with a light powder having already built up across the bottom of the trenches. When I was a lad, waking up to a white Christmas would have been a joyous occasion. I could look forward to opening my presents alongside my brother and sister before taking our sled out and racing the family dog down the hills behind our house. Now, however, I knew the snow would only make the storm colder and harsher. I knew that, in time, I would be running through slush and muck trying to stop the German advance. After a moment or two though, I realized something. Every day previously I would be awakened to the sound of the thunder, with each sides artillery trying to catch the enemy by surprise. Many a fresh face recruit had been lost to a rouge shell from the Germans if they didn’t find a good spot to sleep in the night before. Yet this day... I woke up to snow and silence. No thunderous bootsteps, no echoing artillery, no cracks of rifles and screams of dying men. Just... silence. Silence and lightly falling snow. It was... peaceful. Quiet. Tranquil. Almost enough to make you forget about the impeding storm. “ENEMY APPROACHING!” I heard someone shout, and instinctively I shot to my feet and aimed my rifle down no-man’s land. I knew it couldn’t last, the peace and tranquility. The storm had to return, as it always did. I looked down the sights of my rifle to see a lone man who had emerged from the trenches. But... strangely enough he was not charging at is with bloodthirst and hate in his eyes. No... instead he looked scared, like a stray dog approaching a man for scraps of food. He wore no helmet, carried no rifle, he didn’t even have a knife or grenade on his person. What was approaching us was not a soldier. It was a man who was scared and wanting something from us. “HOLD YOUR FIRE MEN!” Our commander shouted, an order we all obeyed. We all looked to each other, as if one of us had the answer. Who was this German? Why was he approaching us? Was this a trick? A secret ploy? Or was this... because it was Christmas? There was a corporal in my unit, a young fellow named George McClellan. The lad was one of the youngest in our unit, and had clearly lied about his age in order to come earn glory in war. In terms of a soldier, he wasn’t a very good one. He wasn’t a great shot, nor could he run that fast or throw a grenade with any sort of skill, but the lad was good company and quick to cheer you up. He had a sort of enthusiasm that was infectious, and always quick with a joke even in the direst of circumstances. To this day I still send his family a small portion of my paycheck whenever I can. It’s the least I could do to try and help them after George was unable to fit his gas mask on properly a few days before he was supposed to be sent home. If George couldn’t be sent home, then at least I could send a bit of money to the grieving family. I remember watching as George looked up from his rifle’s sights, set his weapon down to lean against the trench and, even though the rest of us were asking if he knew what he was doing, George slowly emerged from the trenches and tossed his helmet down to the bottom of the trench. We watched with rapt attention as George slowly walked towards the German, both of their hands held high in the air before slowly they both lowered their arms and began to shake one another’s hands. It was that handshake that managed to break us all out of our stupors, both German and English. All of us slowly began to lower our weapons, climb out of the trenches, and cross the death field known as no-mans land to go great our brothers on this most holy of days. Christmas had come, and the storm had stopped. God bless us all. I too had joined my country men in making my way across the field to speak to our fellow men. I met a young man who seemed to be around my age. We were both young men, the ideal for the army, and both men who would be lucky to see the rest of our lives if the war continued. I shook his hand, and introduced myself to him. He told me his name was Hans Müller, and after a few minutes of talking we became the closest of chaps. We shared tales of our families back home, of our mothers and fathers who we missed so desperately. I showed him a small picture of my family, noting that he reminded me a lot of my little sister with his blonde hair and green eyes. He laughed, and told me I reminded him of his father who had come to fight in the war as well. His father was stationed at another unit on the eastern front, and he hoped that both he and his father would go home to Chemnitz. He showed me a picture of his girlfriend from back in Chemnitz, a lovely woman by the name of Anna. They had met shortly after starting high school together and had been near inseparable ever since then. He told me that every week he tries to write her a letter, and every week he almost cries in joy upon getting a letter back from her. I told him not of my girlfriend, as I did not have one at that time, but of a lovely nurse at our aid station who I always was sure to say hello to every chance I could get. I told him of her pretty smile, and her beautiful black hair, and the way her nose would crinkle every time I told her a joke and managed to make her laugh. Hans was quick to offer some good nature teasing about my little crush and told me that when the war was over that I should bring my nurse and myself to come meet him and Anna, that we would have the most lovely of holiday together. We had not noticed, but as we continued to talk we had begun to walk across no-mans land. We probably would have kept walking and talking for hours had it not been for Hans noticing something before breaking down into tears. I asked him what was wrong, and he pointed at a body that hung from some barbed wire. He told me through his tears that the lad was a friend of his who had gone missing a few days ago. My guess was that he had been trying to run back to the trenches, only to be shot down when he got stuck in the wire. I tried to apologize for what happened, to console my new friend, but the words he said to me were powerful enough to silence me. “Do not apologize, mein Freund. Even if you fired the shot, you were not the one that chose to send us both here, to put us against one another. I blame those who sent us here, and pray to God that someday soon they shall resolve their differences and send us home.” We did not speak for a while after that. Instead I returned to my trench, grabbed a shovel, and slowly helped my enemy dig a grave for the man that my fellow soldiers had killed. Over time both Germans and Englishmen came by, adding their dead to Hans’ friend as they helped dig a grave. At some point someone, I don’t know who, brought over a large wooden cross. We etched into it the date, December 25, 1914, and scratched in the initials off all those we knew would not make it home. We all stood there, German and English hand in hand, and said a prayer for those we would now miss. When we returned to the rest of the men, they had started to organize a football match between both sides. In desperate need for some joy after the grief we just shared, Hans and I were quick to join in. I remember the sounds of laughter, the cheers of men as we had the greatest fun any of us would ever remember. We laughed and sang and teased in good fun while playing, all of us brothers and friends. I don’t remember who won, but I am pretty sure that English skill won the day in our favor (and if Hans says any different, he is just trying to make himself look better after accidentally passing the ball to me). At some point one of the Germans had returned from his side of the war with a few spirits in hand, and we quickly sent one of our own boys to grab a bottle or two of the French wine that we had gotten not too long ago. We all knew the day would be best ended with drinks, in a toast to the happy day we shared and a hope for many more of them to come. We did not think about what tomorrow would bring. Instead, we poured each other a drink, sang carols in drunken English and German, and shared stories of Christmases past. I remember George running over, sporting a new haircut and a slightly slurred speech going on about how “one of the machine gunners from the German side used to be a barber. He’s offering haircuts to anyone who wants one, and all it costs is a fun story from home.” We laughed and asked him to share his story with us while we drank. He told us the story about the time he tried to get a cat out of a tree for a girl he liked, only for his suspenders to get caught on a loose branch causing him to be stuck in the tree too. This set us all into an uproar, and poor George was the subject of endless teasing for the weeks to come. He took it all in good stride though, and never seemed to hold any hate towards our joking manners. God, I miss the lad. As the eve creeped along, and Christmas came to an end, we all softly sang carols and prayed for a better future. We all knew that tomorrow the thunder would begin again. Tomorrow these men would be our enemies once again. Tomorrow our sights would point at the men we called brothers and we would be forced to kill our friends in the name of Queen and Country. But we chose to forget that. We chose to ignore those dark thoughts, for as the most holy of days continued we knew that we were not Germans or Englishmen. We were not Allied Forces or Soldiers of the Central Powers. No, instead we were friends. We were brothers. We were family. Tomorrow the thunder would start again. Tomorrow the terror would begin once more. But as I went to sleep that night after saying goodbye to my dear friend Hans, a new hope filled my dreams. A hope that one day the thunder would forever stop, and the storm would never start again.

This is the last time I'll see this place. I'm writing this while riding the last trip of the Southern Tracks. Not many people know of this railway - in fact, most of them look at me like I'm crazy when I even mention such a route - but I know about it. When I heard it was shutting down and doing its last runs tonight, I had to take one last trip. No one ever checks the cars on this route; no one cares enough. I've been able to ride this millions of times without once being caught. I'm not the only one, either; once, a few years ago, I met a rather lovely old, blind man sleeping in the car that I hopped on who told me stories of the way the world used to be; another trip, I came across a kind young woman in the most extravagant black dress you have ever seen, with rich silky ribbons and glittering jewels that shone in a way that I had only ever read about in stories, and she had no idea how she got aboard the train! “One minute,” she had said, all those years ago, “I was on my way to downtown, and next thing I know, I wake up in the hay in some...” Well, I'd rather not repeat what else she said. I'll miss this, though, watching as the dark fields and rolling night hills zip past beneath the waning moon. My mom used to tell me to be wary of the night time rides, as you never know where you were going to end up. She was a smart woman, and for years I never once touched the midnight Southern Tracks train. Then, one day, they found her dead by the noon Southern Tracks train. I'm still not entirely sure who “they” were, exactly, but I'm rather inclined to believe them; she was never the best at telling the difference between noon and midnight when written down. I've only been going on the midnight train rides ever since. I'm not sure I recognize this place anymore. Of course, that's one of the joys of travel, seeing new places. But, I don't think I've ever seen a place in all of these train rides where the night feels like all there is; I can't even make out the tracks below the train. In fact, I'm not entirely sure the train is on any tracks anymore. I'm not sure where this train is heading. I'm not sure where \*I'm\* headed. In fact, I'm not quite sure how long I've been on the Southern Tracks now. Maybe there's a stop not too far from wherever I am now. I can see the hills again now. The same, rolling ones, illuminated faintly by a waxing moon in the otherwise void of night. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help but smile as I reminisce on the past with this train. This is the last time I'll see this place.

Chapter 1 A plaster of anxiety covered him but it was not dominated fully by the fear of deep, blue seas waiting to uncover it's secrets but a much meeker fear ,the fear of people. He had to be stuck fully in an enclosed tube with a few people, underwater where anything could strike anyone and safety would be towering above them. Thwarting their efforts to reach it but then, it was covered by another fear when the turbines swished and pushed them to the unknown and he became so frustrated to have many anxieties. The turbines were slow but steady and it pushed them deeper into the sea and his fear suddenly subsided. Even in chaos, there was calmness . Chapter 2 The submarine lunged downwards like an arrow to the murky waters below. He turned his attention to a story he read, ' The Survey'. T he roars and howls of the submarine became no more than mere sounds. They were not far from humanity, they were cut off from it. Interaction with the others were going to be scant. A bit terrified and desperate, he actually spoke out. Chapter 3 ''Is it going to be a long ride?'' It was the sentence, he had spoken, that day. ''No. Depends on your definition of 'long'?'', the man near him spoke. He was at a towering height of 6'1, 2 inches above him. ''Duration?'', he asked objectively. ''Around 2 days. 1 day narrowing it down to the least.'', he answered but he didn't like him and sheepishly admitted to himself that he would have not liked any man speaking out those words. It brought inferiority with it. ''Thanks'', he said in a mechanical voice and the man had caught the mechanical tone of his voice. He went to his designated room. It resembled more of a cubicle. It camouflaged with the other cubicles and everyone came rushing to their rooms. An empty sense of formality filled him as he entered his room and when he laid down to sleep, he felt he could almost cry but during nighttime, that was a good thing. It helped you sleep better. He started to fantasize of how things would be, when he got to the surface. Submarine A11 is marked the best submarine in Diamondwood by 'The Times'. And then, suddenly, the world around him roared with the coming of dangerous truths. It was thrust deeper into the ocean and it was darker. They had come to the part of the journey where there was no turning back. It was when the real fear started. He slept without further complications as the sea around him wobbled in the darkness. Chapter 4 They had a bit of irritation while waking up, the next day but they all, decided finally and a bit, grudgingly that irritation was better than getting rusticated from the mission. He felt drowsiness heaving heavily on his eyebrows but he was glad, the so-called first day was over .'Everyday was the same. No light. Just the white bulbs in the submarine. No real sunlight.' He thought with a pessimistic inner voice and the tall man was there. The similar twinge of anger returned. He felt that the man was too practical. The real pessimism wasn't in the submarine but on the roughness of their mission. Floating like a rock in the endless and unforgiving darkness of the sea outside. A man, probably their leader, stood with great strictness. He didn't really look at the tall man with a mental disgust and anger but he felt exactly so, when he saw the assumed leader. ''I am your leader! Submarine A11 is on the drive.''. It was with a great authoritarian anger, he had said that. He had never felt as much anger for a person until this fateful day. ''Nobody wants your opinion'', he muttered under his breath in few tired and angry breaths. The crew broke off like disintegrating bread. He swished through the crowd as if it were the sea itself. ''What mission?'', he asked and was rooted to the spot in a rigid way like a tree. ''To find some species of fish'', the man said in a friendly way. He admitted to himself that he was actually a good man. His head was making up things like an insane person. ''Thank you'', he said mechanically and strode off from the scene. They were becoming friends and he was happy about it. Chapter 5 He started to feel good about himself. The training for research hadn't been so bad after all. He got a friend. The luxury, he didn't have so far. The anger suddenly returned as the man returned too. To him, it seemed like the actions of a maniac but to others, it seemed like the doing of a caring and broad-minded leader. ''Sorry to disturb your minds but we are in distress!'', he said. His underlying anxiety turned out to be true after all. Voices screamed in panic and scrambled around like splintering wood. He followed their actions and ran along. He rubbed his lips, closed his eyes for a brief second, and ran to the heap. He pulled out a swimsuit from the heap. The feeling, he had when the submarine was ready to push them to dangerous depths, came back now. He wore his swimsuits. He looked back and the white bulbs took the color of the sinister red bulbs. An alarm, suddenly broke out like a jump scare. It took him aback, but he sprang back and wore his suit, having no idea, of how he did it. Chapter 6 He followed the crowd looking like a penguin, desperate for help. A red bulb fused out and the crowd repelled from it like 2 like poles in a magnet. Then, the sound of breaking glass filled his ears and his eyes closed to darkness. Before passing out, he knew one thing. It was the sound of the window breaking, but he was not scared because he couldn't. He didn't have time for that. The darkness started, both physically and mentally. Chapter 7 He felt his leg wobble around in his sleepy state. His face started to stretch and his eyes seemed to eject itself from the body. He was in the deep sea. He screamed and kicked in fear. He kicked something solid. ''Help'', he screamed though it passed out only as bubbles. Everything was dark, like ink had been poured on his eyes. Suddenly, a providential image of the swimsuit, whizzed through his mind and it had a torchlight. He was lost with nothing to help , except the torchlight. He reached to it, as he swished the water around. He caught it and felt his way for the switch. Suddenly, it occurred to him that he hadn't checked the oxygen level and made up his mind, that he won't check it at all. He finally found the switch and clicked it. The light flowed outside and he saw particles dancing like dancers within the spotlight. His mind was in the crossover where desperation and smartness aligned. He started to think of how, he could go to the surface. He might have probably lost the submarine and that metal rock would be floating in the darkness, not knowing that a resident of it, was not in the safety of it's metal walls. The octopus or kraken could be here. Worse, the Cthulhu could be pulling him down to dangerous depths...... He shook off the thoughts as he looked back and a figure passed through the darkness. It had a cylindrical beak and green, cold eyes. He pushed it off. Then, he realized that it was a man, wearing a diving suit. Never, had he been so happy to see a man wearing a diving suit. The man held onto him and swam around, using his torchlight to guide them. He took out his torchlight like a warrior taking his sword and shone it against something like a rock. It was a rock wall that was shielding something beyond......... Chapter 8 He carved something but the sound of it did not reach him. To him, it all seemed like the breaking of the stone instead of a carving. The man showed a long thumbs up . ''You wouldn't believe what I found beyond this wall when I pushed it'' ,It was carved. He closed his eyes and placed his hand on the rock. Ready to push it open and reveal it. It could either give him, a new chance at survival and redemption. It could be some providential force to save him or it could be the contrary, the definition of death, he could be pushed into an endless, underwater abyss. Together, they both, touched the rock and pushed it .It fell to the other side ,whatever it was. Chapter 9 He couldn't believe his eyes and his heart started to pump fast. His face was stretched to the bone, making him look like a skeleton with a layer of flesh and he could feel his muscles crunch together to his nose. There were lights. Lights of color, blooming vividly. His mind shook with the surprise. His body wobbled with the shock of what he just saw. Then, he started to feel a sudden surge of excitement and realized that they weren't just lights. There was a whole underwater city. It had a large flawless obelisk, standing out, apart from the other buildings, undisturbed by the ruthless flow of the dangerous sea. There were no fish, which was obvious, considering, how much the town was safely pampered from the rest of the sea. There were shopping malls, supermarkets and houses ,not to miss the underwater sheds. Though, he didn't know why, those were used for. There were lots of buildings and to the far side of the border, there were statues of hungry tigers and lions . The ruthlessness present in their stony eyes, but the most magnificent was the obelisk holding the position of a leader ,holding the high ground. He was dreaming. There had been many dreams since he joined this mission. Dreams that blurred the line between reality and unreality. He squeezed in, through the hole in the wall. Chapter 10 His imaginative side. The one that refused to grow apart had been waded off, and was replaced by his practical side. The highest potential, this funny-looking city had was to give them a new submarine ready to plummet them above, just like how it was before all this drama, took place. The city was probably the ghost of what should have been around 1000 years back and 1000 meters above, from where it stood now but still, the reason, why it stood nestled inside a stone wall was unanswered. What he saw defied the limits of his imagination and mocked humanity's logic. Something caught his leg and he shuddered. The familiar image of the kraken came back to his mind as he turned to his back. Then, he realized it was the man and a huge wave of relief passed through him. Chapter 11 The extent of his admiration over the city was extreme, to the point, that the person near him slipped out of his mind. He bent his straight and rigid spine and drowned, vertically as he sunk below sunken city which was like Atlantis but it didn't seem to mimic it's architecture. He landed with a sudden, soft thump as the neon lights welcomed his arrival. The good thing was, nobody needed to die out of suffocation, under these depths. The pressure, alone can smash him into bits. He walked around and stumbled upon a hotel. The illogical neon letters were above the hotel. ''Stay with us'', it read blatantly. ''HOOOSH! SHOOOOHHH'' Something passed. Slowly but fast enough to escape his gaze. He continued with his walk again, briefly swimming for fun. Chapter 12 He saw a house, the modest among the buildings here. No neon lights present, yet it was visible, thanks to the light, emanated by the other buildings in the city. As he looked onto it, a black figure flashed before the corner of his eye like a jump scare. The sight of it could make him, turn vertical again. It was a man or at least, something that appeared to be a man. He had large pupils in his eyes and a bony neck, that was so thin to the extent, that it could break his flesh and come out but the strange thing of all, was that, there was a hexagonal patch of purple around his neck, which painted his hidden necks, like a cloud in a drawing. He swam again, as he realized that the surreal and beautiful city had a much darker thing, nestled in it ready to reach him out in the form of people with bony necks and then, the oxygen mask flashed back to his mind. The level would have significantly lowered by now. It could go all out of the cylinder and into the deep, unforgiving sea. Lost and unused, just like the city was. Chapter 13 He swam, using all his energy. Desperation and fear molded into madness as he sent ripples of water wading backwards. A image started to form inside his head again as fully developed like a baby bird in a egg shell but, it wasn't terrifying. It was an image of the modest house . He swam back, in unknown directions, hoping it wouldn't lead him to a terrifying thing and the word, 'terrifying', had taken on a much more realistic tone and not just something as funny as a monster in a closet. The wooden house was there, drowned and held by something that was probably, under the seabed. Strange. First, a whole underwater city, flourishing in the depths against potential predators and crushing pressures. Second, funny looking people with thin necks. He swam in and scanned the room around him, they were intact and there were the objects, which people had, back on the surface. Chapter 14 He awoke with a start. He was still underwater. Now, he started to feel anger rush through his eyes, instead of fear. So many thoughts had passed through his mind, that he forgot, that he had a heard a wobbly voice, like songs, heard in the restrooms of a ballroom. He started to come to terms with the situation but sometimes, life got absolutely bonkers to come to terms with. He looked at the timer of his oxygen mask. The level was full, and a wave of relief passed through him, that was beyond words....... Chapter 15 The door swished against the water and revealed a man. A thin man with a bony neck, just like the man, outside. He should have been excited of his discovery but impending danger was close to him and a discovery is nothing more than a sight, if he didn't live to tell the story. ''Cure the plague'', the man croaked out, in a tone that couldn't be spoken by a species that was not as old as the city. ''We are going through a plague. If you don't help us, the master will serve you right?", he croaked out again. Whatever it was, it should be faced by him. All he hoped, was the punishment was confined within the dangers of death. ''Swooooooshhhh'' A voice whirled around and the next thing, he saw was that the man was floating vertically upwards, absent-mindedly. Either fainted or dead. He didn't care about that. ''A whole protest is waiting outside'', his rescuer carved on the wall quickly. All things seemed to stop for him. Nevertheless, he rippled the water backward, as he followed. Chapter 16 There were hundreds of those, outside (Bony necks ). There were strange tubes, that were enclosed and looked like large bullets, floating and whirring around in dizzying sounds as they flew around him. The man swam upwards as his hand tugged his hands too. 'Swooooooooooooshhh' He heard the sound. The very same sound that he heard in that house. The house of that mad man. As he swam, the fact that he was a fugitive was thrust heavily on him. He turned around and he saw a feat, that couldn't have been done by the same person. His eyes widened and he started to feel dizzy. The man was holding something. Some talismanic object that repelled the tube-like vehicle and the city below them glowed with sinister red colors of lights. Almost everything went red now, like buildings when an alarm broke out. More tube-like vehicles charged towards them like a gunslinger and a horse in a Wild West movie. The man swung it in all directions and it did have some effect on the vehicles. It sent a vehicle plummeting downwards with a crashing speed, that he thought that it would crash near the building . The buildings turned on the sinister red glow as well. The whole city was painted in red now. The tube-like vehicles followed them as his head dangled like a bobblehead. They neared the wall with neon lights. The wall, where the exit lay. He swam, with all his energy with his companion to that wall. He swam to the the hole ,the exit. A wave here, a wave there and he was out of the city. Where the people wouldn't dare to come near. His friend was out too. He turned back and a huge white light flashed, ready to temporarily blind him. It was not the lights of danger in the underwater city but the light of hope. The light of a submarine. With that he picked up the rock. For some reason, he wanted to shield the city from the dangers of the outside force. He didn't want their efforts to go to waste. Enemy or not .With the last bit of adrenaline kicking him, he closed the hole with the rock, keeping it enclosed until it was found again.

Nothing is worse than having your sleep stolen from you unexpectedly. But, in retrospect, the unexpected is becoming the new norm. Death is in the air; people are hiding themselves from anything that’s real anymore and here I am, sitting up in bed, stirring due to a case of late-night insomnia. At any rate, I decide to check the time on my phone, despite knowing it would only make the fight for sleep all the more challenging. The simple action of pressing down the rubbery power button provides some sense of ease in my late-night unrest. I immediately wince upon turning on my cellular idol but a millisecond after open my eyes completely to realize some more of the unexpected. Atop my lock page, I see a message sent from my best friend Derek. Derek was always more outgoing and adventurous then I am, but even I was surprised to see a message from him at two-twenty-five. After I quickly opened my phone, like a thief typing in some digital safe code, I was welcomed with a message from Derek asking what I was doing. A part of me wants to send him a message in all caps saying, I WAS SLEEPING, YOU MORON! But he’s the closest friend I got, and I don’t want to seem like a loser that does homework on the weekend and goes to bed early. So, I send a more casual retort. Why? After a single blink, his response dots appear making me wonder what’s Derek is getting into this late in the night. Meet me at this club. What club is open now and why does he pick tonight of all nights for that matter. So without a further thought I franticly type, Isn’t that illegal ? As the message leaves my safe place secluded by three dots, I regret sending the message at all. As before, his reply is almost immediate leading me to believe this must be pretty important, because Derek hardly texts me at all when he’s out. Maybe but just get down here. By now. I’ve had it with the ambiguity of his proposal and my sleep deprived animosity types away, Why do you need me to be there? Don’t you have more exciting friends to ask out? His reply appears. Becauuse, guess who just showed up? Thanks to my introverted nature his guessing game feels more like scratching at my brain, but I reply anyway . Who? I anxiously observe as his message generates. Sydney Wilcox. As soon as that message appears, I feel excitement accompanied by a nauseous feeling. But even that would be an understatement. Maybe this is what people mean by getting butterflies? See, ever since I first laid eyes on Sydney in my English class last year, I felt that feeling. But, of course, time went on and class after class would pass without a word. Before I got a chance to confess how I felt about her, it was already too late. The semester had ended and the only person I mustered up the courage to tell was Derek. Of course he made fun of me for it, but after he saw how broken I was he helped me through it. Maybe that’s what he’s doing now. Or maybe this is just some scheme to get me to go clubbing with him. Whatever it may be, it’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen Sydney or really anyone outside my parents for that matter. So I sprint to my shower and wash out my bedhead and hopefully the dread that comes with significant social interaction. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to go home with her tonight! Or even have a simple conversation... At any rate, both felt equally impossible until tonight. After I turn off the showerhead I spend way too much time doing my hair in the mirror, then sprint to my room. I realize I forget the stray textbook on my floor as I fall flat on my face. Just like that, the illusion dies, and it all comes back to me. Why I want to see her in the first place? Why I study on the weekend when I could be out raising Hell with Derek? And why would a scrawny college nerd would never have a chance with a girl like Sydney? My self-deprecation is suddenly brought to a hiatus after I hear a buzz come from atop my bed, followed by a murmuring from below. I must have woken my parents with my tumble. Then, with the speed of a cheetah, I rise to my feet, throw on a black t-shirt and jeans and almost leap out my window onto the tree outside. While I may dedicate way too much of my free time to my studies, I still love to climb trees. Upon reaching the bottom of the tree trunk in a manner even a ninja would admire, I quickly turn on my car and speed off to the nameless coordinates that Derek sent me. Shortly after parallel parking my car in a spot where I pray it’s too late to be towed, I make my way over to the “entrance” of the club. Upon my arrival, I am met by a burly, yet dapper man who stops me and asks for my identification. Luckily, in the same moment Derek, sporting a polo shirt and slacks comes out of the club and drags me in. Now I’m getting the a-okay and even a smile from the same man I thought could bury me. Luckily, Derek was an upperclassman who took me under his wing, an analogy that was quite literal as we descended down the stairs with his arm around my shoulder. The nauseous feeling comes back, except this time without the excitement. This feeling seemed to only get worse as we entered the club. As stated previously, this is not my scene, not before the pandemic, not now. My eyes flutter around the war-like landscape tattered with blinding strobes, deafening music, and enough people to fill out a small army. Eventually, Derek approaches a group of five that I can only assume is his usual crew. I hold back and begin to look around for you know who, but the search is fleeting. Because just as my eyes start to dance around the room like most of the people in there, my attention is pulled right back to Derek, who is now waving me over with a Cheshire grin. I hesitantly approach and once I am introduced to Derek’s band of clubbers, I begin to look around at each member of the group. My anxiety builds to a crescendo. I feel each one of their piercing stares penetrate my mind and maybe even my soul. I start to wonder, “Can they hear my thoughts? Do they know behind my hard outer layer hides a scared little boy who wants to go home?” As my anxious thoughts race, one of Derek’s friends breaks the ice with me after handing me a drink. As he mouths words that sound more like gibberish in this bedlam, my heart begins to race. Not knowing what he said but wanting to reply, I take a sip from the already open beer and scream the obvious, “This music’s really loud!” With ears adept for the environment, they hear me and respond in an uproar of laughter. My nausea seems to only get worse, and I begin feeling sweltering heat in my upper body. Suddenly I begin to hear a voice in my head. This voice, unlike my own, makes the room spin around me as if I where a couple bottles in. They’re not laughing because you're funny, they’re laughing at you, you loser. Why did you even come out of your hole in the first place? Not only are you a loser, you’re an incompetent idiot. All the while, Derek’s friends talk to him and occasionally talk to me, but all I hear is this damn voice. Why don’t you just go home? I mean, Sydney? Really? “Just go away. Just go away. Just go away!” I yelled. Seconds after, I realize the implications of the thought that escaped my mind. Everything comes into focus and I can hear again. Sydney had just approached me and the group and was now running away with tears fleeing her eyes. “Way to go. I set up a night for you and the girl of your dreams, and what do you do? You scream in her face,” Derek said. I sprint to the bathroom to at least try and recollect myself, and guess who comes along. Nice going bud. Maybe next time she’ll tell you she loves ya. Once again, my thought escapes, “Just shut up!” Everyone near the bathroom looks over to me as I shove the door open. It’s as if I am stepping off a boat. As I enter, I hear whispering strewn with faint giggling. As I drunkenly make my way over to the first stall, I’m on the verge of puking. Suddenly, the seemingly distant noises sound closer than ever. Could this random ambience be trapped in my mind like my unwanted, commanding visitor? The truth was revealed too soon; I cautiously pushed on the stall door revealing the source. Right before my eyes was a man sporting jeans and a biker top with a silver cross. He had a mean look and arms that could probably pop my eyes out with one squeeze. As for the woman that he was kissing she wore a tattered belly shirt and jean shorts so short you could see the pockets. As I awkwardly watched them, I felt the vomit rise to my throat, but even in my frozen state I was able to choke it down. It was this faint revolting sound, however, that caused the woman to open her eyes and draw the attention of her lover. “Get get of here, freak!” Just like that my trance is broken, but not soon enough. Just as I am about to leave, the man screams, “You better run before I kick your little ass, es scortum obscenus vilis!” As he yells what sounds like some dead language, the man’s eyes turn as black as sin and make me question my own morality before adrenaline takes the wheel. Almost immediately after making a b-line out of the club, I spew my guts out onto the stairwell. By now, I no longer have the energy to stand so I fall to the floor. Then the bouncer, looks down at me with the same eyes the biker had and starts screaming, “fututus et mori in igni!” To my surprise, and surprisingly my delight, Derek bursts out of the club not a second after, screaming at the man. “Leave him alone Morris, I’m sure Jack’s not the first one to vomit on your precious, might I add, illegal, club steps.” He looks down at me, following up his confident backlash with a voice one might use to talk to a child as he puts his hand down. “Hey bud, let’s get you home, okay?” In that moment, the voice returns. He’s not you’re friend. If he was, would he talk to you like a child? Better yet, would he have had one of his friends drug you? After putting the pieces together, I slap Derek’s hand away and start to back Derek up the stairs as I scream, “What did you put in my drink, Derek? Just because I don’t waste my night’s partying like you doesn’t mean you have to drug me!” Derek screams back in a slur as I step closer and closer to the street behind me out of fear, “I didn’t give you anything man. Just because you lost your mind after one drink doesn’t make it my fault!” Derek shoves me a little and the burning sensation returns. “Does it Mr. I’m gonna become a recluse because some chick I’ve never even talked to breaks my heart!” As he yells this, Derek’s eyes blacken and he shoves me so hard, I fall into the street and a car almost hits me. The driver then gets out and screams at me with the same soul-less eyes. After that, I ran away so fast my heart felt like it was going to burst. Once I arrived at my car, I got in and gassed it out of there, only looking back once or twice. For the rest of the night, I sat up in my bed looking out my window every now and then for those nightmarish creatures that were once people. When daybreak finally came, I passed out and slept for almost all of Sunday. I didn’t wake up until my parents asked me if I wanted dinner. I thanked them, but told them I was sick and went right back to staring out my window. By the time Monday rolled around, I was, you guessed it, sleeping late. In fact, the only thing that truly woke me was a call from “Derek,” or whatever was left of him anyway. After letting the call run its course I saw that he had left five calls before now, and even a voicemail that I promptly click on. “Hey man, look, I’m sorry about last night. I was a little drunk, but I don’t want this to get in the way of our friendship. Look, you already missed Calc, but if you hurry over you can probably still make Anthropology. Hope to see you soon dude.” After hearing the beep reminiscent of a flatline, I fall back on my bed and start to debate going to class at all. I mean I could go to class, but at the same time, I’d rather keep my head then a couple of A’s. However, that did sound like the Derek I knew growing up. Unless he’s only trying to lure you into a trap. No, he’s only trying to help me. Oh like he helped before when he invited you out to drug you, so you could make a fool of yourself in front of Sydney. A single tear falls from my eye. He’s not your friend anymore he’s one of them. I do start to feel dead inside after I am reminded of, quite possibly the final time I’ll ever see Sydney again. The tears welling up in her eyes make my face and my stomach cringe. No, this can’t be it. It can’t end here. I bound out of bed, my heart beats faster as I near the door. You better not be doing what I think you’re doing. After opening my front door, I feel the sharp burning in my chest. Do you want to die!? Refusing to quit, I make my way to my car and speed off to class. Once I finally arrive at the school, my chest feels like a furnace and my heart is beating a drum. After wiping the sweat off my brow, I look in the rearview mirror. I look as bad as I did the night before, but I follow through with my plan anyway. As I walk to class my hand starts to tremble, so I conceal it with my other hand. Look, If you walk into that classroom, one of two things is gonna happen. One, Derek and his posse will kill you. Or two, you walk into the classroom and spew your guts out again. Then everyone at the school will hate you too. “Just leave me alone!” After looking up from the ground I see two other students diverge to the other side of the walkway. Oh wait, they already do. My bodily conditions only become worse the closer I get to the classroom. Just like last night, my environment starts to spin again. When I finally arrive at the door, my trembling hand reaches out to grab the door handle. Upon making contact, I experience the worst premonition, enveloped in fire. When I come back to reality and pull the door back, I wince and feel vomit bubbling up in the back of my throat. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, you little faex. Upon hearing this I feel a bodily sensation run from head toe and I come to the realization that it’s all in my head. But to the outside world, I was simply paralyzed in the doorframe. Just then, the entire class looks back at me with eyes blacker than the bottom of the sea. Out of child-like fear, I quickly look over to the professor who also has the same eyes. So I simply close mine and repeat the following mantra, it’s all in my head, it’s all in my head, it’s all in my head! Is it over? Are they gone? Guess there’s only one way to find out. Just then, I open my eyes to see a class of iris filled corneas. I can’t help but smile as I look at the sea of amber, blue, brown, gray, green, and hazel eyes. I spot Derek who shoots a smile back before yelling through clasped hands, “Don’t fall asleep now. You just got here.” Almost the entire class laughs, and without skipping a beat, I join in. I did notice however, one person was not laughing. A person I never thought I would see again, yet here she was, staring at me with her deep blue eyes. After class, I finally talked to her. I never thought that I might need to apologize, yet here I was, ready to take on the world and whatever black-eyed demons came my way.