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Allura 72

Words do not come easily. My hands do not write well, it is slow and strange. But I have a story to tell, I do not know why I must tell, but the words want to be together and to be seen. I am guarding all the time, I stop the ones who enter without being allowed, I stop them quickly and I stop them forever. There is blood, there is screams, people call me a monster, but they know to fear me because they are not welcome. The last ones I stopped were young, they wore matching jackets with a big letter on them, I heard the word “senior”, but they are not old, so I do not know them. The one that I still remember was much more little, a girl, tiny and very strange to me, she smiled at me and made noises that were nice. The tiny girl came to my lair, holding a smaller bear that was not alive, the tiny girl had her eyes tight against the light and smiled at me. She did not fear, she did not make the loud and high noises, so I believe she was welcomed, I did not stop her from entering my guarding place. “Aren’t you lonely up there?” she asked of me, I did not answer, I am not meant to feel ‘lonely’. She sat under where I rest and spoke to me of things I do not know. She said that she was a princess and I was a king, and I was trapped and would one day be free. I did not know that I am a king, but I like that, maybe it is the reason I do not remember before guarding the tall plants. The tiny girl spoke to me more, asked me if I was sad because I do not have anyone to speak to, I did not know how to answer, none have spoken to me since I began to guard, so I shook my head. The tiny girl jumped and then clapped her hands together, she was happy I moved, all others are not, they run when I do, and I know to chase them. I climbed from my perch, the tiny girl smiling at me as I towered over her, I asked her the only thing I could put into sound. “You not fear monster?” The tiny girl laughed and then clutched one of my legs, the words she spoke are still in my thoughts, “Yeah I’m scared of monsters, but you just a big ol' friend.” I do not know who 'friend' is, but I think it is my name, so I will be Friend. “Princess not think monster?” I asked her, confusion is new and confusing. “Nuh-uh, you’re the king and I’m the princess, you hafta stop monsters!” the tiny girl said, stamping one foot to make herself known. “I am Friend-King, I will stop monster,” I now know my purpose, it is my purpose given to me by the small one, my tiny princess. The princess stayed with me until the light went away and the dark started to appear, I could feel how she feared when she saw the darkness. She told me she would be back the next day and we would do more of the playing, I led her to the edge of my guarding place. The princess did not lie, she came the next day and the next and for many more after, each day telling me of our guarding place. It was called a 'Kingdom' and we were good and protected people, and that the kingdom next to ours had monsters who were gigantic and evil and pretended to be nice. Princess would not let me destroy the monsters, she told me that the monsters were not always evil, that the monsters were good in the light, but when the darkness came, the monsters would hurt people. Tiny Princess looked very sad when she said this, she touched a place on her face that had a different colour to the rest of her. The princess told me that she had tried to fight the monsters of the darkness before, but the monsters were stronger than her. “Tiny Princess is strongest, teaches Friend-King and is good and is welcomed,” I told her, I made the Tiny Princess cry, but I do not know how. Tiny princess clung to me, I had learned in days before that when Tiny Princess did this, I was to do the same, but very, very gently, because princesses get hurt easy. I held my Tiny Princess until she did not cry and was silent and asleep. She woke when the darkness had come up, fear was her feeling once she realised, I held her hand as gently as I could and took her back to the edge of our kingdom. She let go of my hand and started to run, quiet-yelling she would come back at the next light. I waited in the place where it is darker, then I followed, to make sure none of the monsters lay in wait for my Tiny Princess, she was very brave going back to the bad kingdom every time it reached dark. She entered into a building and disappeared, she had reached what I think is her place in the bad kingdom, so I returned to my castle-perch to guard the night against those unwelcome. The next light came and I waited. The light after that and she had not come back, in the many lights I had known my Tiny Princess, she had always come back. I waited until the darkness and moved to her place in the bad kingdom. I could hear voices, their words were loud and strange, they spoke of another, but they spoke quickly and with anger. On the outside of the place, I climbed and peered into the clear walls, all but one were empty. My Tiny Princess lay in one, asleep with strange colours on her face. I ran a finger down the clear wall and she opened one eye, the other looked to be made wrong, strange and the wrong shape, and a bad colour. “Y-you came to see me,” she said with quiet-quiet. She moved the clear wall and I climbed inside the place. She smelled of pain, and of blood and of ending. “Friend-King worry, Tiny Princess gone,” I wish I had better words. “It’s okay, I-I’m j-just-,” my Tiny Princess started to cough, it was a bad sound, I had made that sound happen to the unwelcome, but my Tiny Princess should not make that sound. The ending smelled stronger, my Tiny Princess looked in pain. “Monsters hurt you?” “They didn’t mean it, I know they really don’t I-,” Tiny Princess was in pain again. I helped my Tiny Princess to lay on the soft raised ground. I crouched next to her, watching for her ending, I cannot stop endings, I can only make them happen. “Please, hold my hand.” I held my Tiny Princess, not just her hand, as she made small sounds and her ending happened. She held me with her her tiny hand and in the last moments before she went away, I spoke to her. “Do not be feared my Tiny Princess, Friend is here, Friend will hold you.” She smiled the same smile she had given me when she first knew I lived, and it was what her face held as she ended. I do not know time, but I know I held her for much of it, until the ones in the bottom of the place made noise coming to the top. A man and woman, they were making loud noises, they were angry, the man more than the woman, the entry to my Tiny Princesses place flew open and a man who smelt of sourness, rot and sweat stood in the light. “What the fuck have I told you about-,” the man said, he stopped when he saw me, he held a belt in a hand, it had a big metal front, it smelled of my Tiny Princesses pain. But he smelled of fear, he was not welcome in this place, it was not mine to guard, but it was the place of my Tiny Princess and he had made her have pain. He had made her end. He was unwelcome and I let him know. The woman tried to flee, but she smelled of fear and of the same pain the man’s belt held, she was an unwelcome one. I made them both stop, I made them end. My Tiny Princess asked me if I was lonely when we first met. I was not then, but I am now.

Marsh heard a loud clank from the engine room. “Open the gorram hatch, white man,” Kunta hissed in pain. Letting him into the craft through the emergency hatch, Marsh shuts the hatch and locks it. “How much blood did you loose ? Jesus!” “Bellona. She shot me,” revealed Kunta ,“She’s aligned her interests with the Syndicate.” “That’s bull,” dismissed Marsh. “Got some flesh and a peeking bone that says otherwise . She gon’ pay. I’m not the kind of man you flip sides on” “Why would she? After so many years, betray the revolution like that. Or me.” Marsh began to reason. “Fool! It Don’t make the slightest difference why she done it. She ain’t gon’ like being on the other end of this gunshot,” Kunta bellowed as he stapled his wound shut, “this mission is a gorram trainwreck is what it is. Where is Henley?” “He left to get me a crunk propeller for the rear shaft. Should have returned by now.” “Where do you think he gon’ find a propeller on a station full of Laserjets?” “The syndicate Arrowhead ships have backup propellers,” Marsh lights up as he hears Henley’s rover pull up besides the ship, “you alright Henley ? Did you find it ?” “There were Syndicate soldiers everywhere man. I couldn’t get anywhere near an Arrowhead class ship. Our cover is blown ,they’ve looking for us . Did you retrieve the package Kunta ?” “Bellona has finked on us. She tipped them off, Henley. Wretched woman. Shot me right through the deltoid . Lost her gorram mind.” “Bellona flipped? I wouldn’t believe you but after the ruckus I just saw out there, I think I might’ve even seen her with the Syndicate soldiers,” Henley declared. “So, Marsh, this ship gon’ fly or what ? Seeing as you still don’t got no propellers.” “If there is any power left in the barette engine, she might take off, but that’s pretty much it,” Marsh divulged, “she wont get us out of this station, let alone the atmosphere.” “Have you ever been captured by the Syndicate , young ’un ? Ever get questioned by them ? Ever had your toenails turned inside out ? ” Henley solicited, “I hope you get this thing started before we are surrounded by Arrowheads and you lose a couple fingers getting questioned about something you know nothing about .” “Give it a whirl kid,” Kunta interjected. Marsh boosted up the engine muttering to himself, “No.. systems.. ready.. to go.” The Carrier class ship lit up with a zhyyiuu sound, rose 20 metres in the air and hovered a bit before crashing back down with a thunderous cacophony, followed by loud sirens throughout the space station. Promptly, an Arrowhead class Syndicate Laserjet lowered besides the crashed ship. “Die before you are captured!” howled Henley, aiming his blaster. The airlock released the hatch revealing a woman. “Bellona ?” “Need a ride ?”she smirked “I got what we came for.

The crowd was bustling in the auditorium, all ecstatic to see the Great Magician Larson. Quickly, the fans raced through the building and planted in their velvet covered seats. Backstage a tall figured man in a top hat prepared himself, for he was the Great Magician Larson. His eyes were wide and his hair was slicked back so much, it almost reached his back. When Larson heard the announcer call his name, he fixed his posture and made his way to the stage. When he stepped on, the crowd’s once loud voices turned into a just soft breathing of the people. The only loud thing in the auditorium was the magician’s footsteps and a crying baby in the back of the room. Larson cleared his throat and strided smoothly to the center of the stage. “Ladies and gentleman,” He boomed, his voice echoing through the building, “Watch closely as I make a fine woman appear before your very eyes!” The crowd were on the edge of they’re seats. They all knew that the Great Magician Larson was truly magical, and did live up to his name. Moving his hands, the magician yelped- no chanted, “Abracadabra, abracado! For I will make this woman appear before you!” With a puff of smoke, you could see a woman in a long purple dress. The crowd gasped and cheered so loud that it shook the room. Some started sobbing in awe at Larson. Fans clamored to the front, their eyes glistening. The Great Magician Larson smiled with pride. He was good. He knew he was good. He bragged about it all the time. He was not humble, never had been. Even when he was a child he bragged about his perfect skills. He was a very smart boy and went through school effortlessly. One time when he was ten, after the tests had been passed out he laughed to the boy sitting next to him, “You got a "D "? Unlike you, I can actually read.” So, his attitude was, and still is nasty. When he started practicing magic tricks, his ego grew and he became less and less humble. On stage you could never see it. The only people who knew were his parents. In fact, they’ve been whispering about his imposing personality ever since he started practicing magic. “Should we tell him to stop?” His mother once said to her husband. “No,” The father replied in a serious tone, “We can’t tell him to stop following his dream when that’s all we tell him to do.” “But, all he ever does is brag,” She paused, then said, “That’s not right.” “I know, but this is something Larson really enjoys. He might be able to be successful in magic.” “That’s true. So, stay away?” Larson’s father nodded and replied, “Stay away.”So, Larson ended up pursuing magic, but he did not become humble like his parents wished. Once the applause silenced in the auditorium, the magician went to his next trick. “Now, you may think there is only one of me,” The Great Magician Larson said, in a mysterious voice, “But, there are many of me!” As he said that sentence, his voice echoed and hundreds of Larson’s appeared throughout the auditorium. The audience mouths gaped open. The baby in back stopped crying. Even the flies stopped moving. Then the audience went crazy. They laughed, cried, and screeched with joy all at the same time. One girl jumped up and down, her pigtails doing the same as her body. People reached out to touch the Larsons, and sure enough they were as solid as the Great Magician himself. Everyone in the auditorium ran to the front, shoving others down and pushing people out of the crowd. Every single person had to shake the Great Magician’s hand. A smile ran across Larson’s face. If a hand even brushed his shoe, the person would break down into tears. “He’s truly magical!” One man said, smiling widely. “I know!” The woman next to him said, tears streaming down her face. The magician smiled broadly. The Great Magician Larson’s tricks make adults act like little children. He had won them over. But then a clatter came from the back of the room. The crowd didn’t notice, they were all captured in a daze. But the Great Magician Larson did . He looked up and saw a fallen mirror on the ground. He bit his lip and shifted his eyes around nervously. Then he shook his head and continued his broad smile. “Now, for my next trick: I will make this woman disappear!” The same woman in the purple dress strided on the stage with a bright, large smile. With a worried smile on the magician’s face he said to the woman, “Come! And stand here please.” Larson pointed to two pieces of blue tape in an “X” shape. The woman nodded and stepped onto the piece of tape. As she did so, a trap door beneath the blue tape cracked open and light bled through. The woman shifted her footing, but the same trap door opened all the way and light shed across the ground. When this happened the woman’s foot got caught in the door and she fell to the floor. This time, the crowd did see. They gasped, not in awe, but in confusion. Trying to grab the audience’s attention back, the Great Magician Larson cleared his throat and said, “Abracadabra, abracado! For I will make this woman disappear before you!” Nothing happened. There was no puff of smoke. The woman was still on the floor. The magician inhaled and said, his voice cracking, “Abracadabra, abracado! For I will make this woman disappear before you!” Still, nothing happened. Larson stood frozen on the stage, deathly afraid. The audience looked perplexed. Then the mirrors started to fall to the floor again, spreading shattered glass across the ground. The crowd’s expression changed. It went from perplexed to angry. “This can’t be happening! I’m the greatest magician in the whole world!” Lanson muttered, hoping his fans didn’t hear him. But they did. His microphone picked up all of it, word for word. The crowd's teeth gritted at the famous magician’s behavior. All they usually saw from Larson was his magical essence. But now they saw who he truly was not an imposing man, but an imposter. They all shook their heads and some began to leave. They were all shocked and wished they could see the old Great Magician Larson, but they could not. The crowd (who were once his fans) jeered, with their eyes squinting with hate. “He’s a fraud!” One woman screamed, pointing at him. “He’s been playing us this entire time!” A man yelled over the jeering of the crowd. Everyone filed out of the auditorium. The crowd that came in so happy to see the Great Magician Larson, were now happy to never see him again. “Turns out he doesn’t live up to his name,” A little girl muttered to her brother. “Yeah!” The brother replied. After that night, the showcase was always empty whenever Larson was performing. But he still stayed cocky and bragged about his skills on the streets. “You know how you see those magicians who do the same simple trick over and over again. Well, I’m much better than that. I can actually do tricks that are magical! I know I am the most wonderful magician who ever lived,” He once said to a woman walking along the street. She peered at him oddly and said while rolling her eyes, “I know who you are. You failed as a magician and yet you still are the most conceited man alive.” “I know,” He said, glaring at her. He walked away briskly telling everyone he saw about his perfect skills in magic.

There lived a little boy who had a hard life. He lived with his mother, but his father had passed away some years prior. The boy was only 8 years old, but he would spend almost all of his time outside, out of the house. His mother was always so reclusive, he found it hard to be around her, and for the most part, he fended for himself. Everyday he'd go out and play around the town. Eventually, he wandered into the park, and up to a hill where a mighty tree lay. It was an apple tree Everyday after school he would come to the park, run up the hill, and hang out at the tree. He would visit this tree so much that eventually, one of the keepers of the park tied up a tire swing to the biggest branch of the tree, and the boy would spend hours swinging around as he looked down at the rest of the park below him. He visited the tree and the park everyday, until one day, he hadn't visited for a good four years. He and his mother had moved house, because she couldn't stand to be reminded of the house her and her once-husband had grown to build their life in. They lived off in another town for some years before eventually, she found it far too hard to be away from the house he had built her and her son's life in, and they moved back. Finally back in his old town, the boy returned to the park, and returned to the hill. To his surprise, the tire swing was still proudly hung from the tree. But also to his surprise, there was an old man there, sitting at the base of the tree, cutting an apple into slices with a dull pocketknife. The boy was confused, granted he'd never seen anyone else up here. He approached the man. The man offered the boy a fond expression, handing him a piece of apple and beckoning him to sit down. The boy complied, examining the man's appearance. He looked almost homeless, tired and dishevelled, but he looked clean, and as if he were in good spirits. The man glanced at the boy, then up at the sky. The sun was beginning to descend beyond the hills. He then began to speak. "One day, you will lose everything you came to know. But you mustn't dwell, you must take your memories and cherish them as you start anew." He said. The boy seemed confused, being only 12, but he nodded contently, accepting the man's word. Once the sun was almost fully set, the boy ran off home. The cycle continued for days. The next day, he ascended back up the hill, the man sitting in his usual spot, with another apple. Again, he offered the boy a slice and a seat. Once more, just like before, the man spoke to the boy. "One day, you will lose everyone close to you. Not to weep, though, for you must cherish their memory and rebuild yourself from the ground up." Again, this left the boy confused, but he nodded understandingly. Like clockwork, the sun set and the boy returned home. Soon, they moved again, as the boy's mother's job was not paying well enough. They moved two states over, and she got a new job. They lived there for the rest of her life, before she too, died at a young age, due to complications following heartbreak. The boy, now 20, moved back to his old home, in his own town. He visited the park again. He climbed the hill, and to his surprise, there was the swing, still hung high in the tree, as well as the old man, underneath with an apple and his ever duller knife. Both the rope holding the swing, and the old man, looked old and weathered, so frail the boy worried that a single touch would make them both crumble. The man, however, looked to be in just as good spirits as ever. The man offered the boy an apple slice, his hand trembling slightly as he did, weak with old age. The boy took the slice and sat with the man, who stared wistfully off into the distance. "It's good to see you again, boy." Was all he said. The boy nodded. "You as well. Have you any advice for me?" He asked. The man shook his head. "None but what I've told you before. When all is lost, do not weep, begin anew." The boy nodded. The sun had set fully, and it had grown dark, so the boy went home. He visited the park the next day, hoping to see the man, but no one was there, to his surprise. So, he returned home, and for a while, he didn't return to the park. A year later, the boy returned to the park, and returned to the hill, only to see the tree had been reduced to naught more than a weak stump. The tire swing had long since fallen, grown into the ground, the rope that once held it rotted away. On the stump sat a woman, who easily could have been in her 80's. The boy approached her, and she looked at him expectantly. "My husband told me you'd be here." She said. Was this the old man's wife?, he thought. "He hadn't much time left in him. He wanted me to give you this." She said, handing the boy an apple. The boy looked confused. "He told me to tell you not to mourn his loss. Plant the seed, grow anew." She said, before getting up, her weakened body trembling slightly as she did so, and she walked away. The boy listened to her, honouring the wishes of the old man he had befriended, and planting the seed. For years, the boy would return to the park everyday as the old stump rotted away, and the new sapling eventually grew to replace the tree that used to be there. The boy was now, too, an old man, in his 60's. He sat beneath the tree, staring out at the dusky sky. He had an apple in his hand as he watched a young boy walk up to him, an even younger boy trailing close behind. They walked up to him, looking at him with curiosity. The man, once a boy, offered the apple to the youngest of the boys and offered them both to sit. They did. The man sighed wistfully, and looked at the boys. "One day, all will seem lost. You'll lose the people and things that mean most to you. One day. But you cannot weep, you must cherish the memories and use that to start new, build yourself back from the ground up." The boys looked confused, but they nodded. The sun started to set, and they went home. As they left, the man looked up at the tree he'd grown, curiosity in his eyes. "Was that what you had been trying to prepare me for all along? To repeat the cycle anew?" He asked, but of course, he got no answer. But the breeze blew the leaves in such a way they made a rustling that could almost be taken as a response, and the man accepted it as such. He smiled to himself and leaned back against the tree.

Shock rumbles through her mind, she pictures the explosion of an atomic bomb the mushroom cloud rising high in the air, swelling, SWElling, SWELLING! Until it reaches maximum capacity and the shards of her perfectly planned life fall down round her. She holds the plastic tester in her hand and stares at the two thin red lines. Those two little thin red lines mock her; say goodbye to the career you’ve worked so hard to achieve, goodbye to the boyfriend, which said he wanted no strings attached. Strings! Those two red lines were ropes not strings. NO WAY! She was the conductor of her life and those two red lines were going to be erased from her symphony. *********************************** An hour later she learned that there was no where in the city of Leeds to get an abortion, actually the state of Alabama had banned abortion. She was going to have to drive all the way to Tennessee to get one done. “What kind of State bans a necessary medical procedure?” Allie complained to herself. She booked an appointment at an abortion clinic in Lawrenceburg, Tennessee, it was just over the state line. The appointment was for the next morning, it was going to be an almost three hour drive. So she spent the rest of the day getting ready for the trip. When she crawled into bed, she finally felt calm; she was taking charge of her life, getting rid of the problem. She refused to think of it as a baby, it was just a temporary problem. The next morning she got up early so she could be on the road by 5am. When she walked outside snow lightly peppered her head. “Great, I hate driving in the snow! Hopefully it will clear up soon.” She hit highway 65 by 6:30, she was running behind because the snow started coming down harder. Traffic was heavier than expected and they were driving slower than the posted 65 mph. Three hours later she was only passing Athens. She was hours behind schedule and she still had over eighty miles to go. She had given herself an hour leeway, but that had quickly dwindled away. She could turn around but Lawrenceburg was closer than home. The snow was heavy but nothing she hadn’t seen before. This drive was playing havoc with her mind; every song that came on the radio had something to do with babies; Always be my Baby Hit me Baby one more time Baby girl Be my baby tonight Baby baby, “Ugh!” She angrily turned off the radio, “It wasn’t a baby yet and it wasn’t going to be either.” By the time she hit Tennessee it was almost a white out; the wind was whipping her car side to side. She took the first exit she saw and looked for somewhere to shelter a while, till the storm calmed down. “Hopefully they can work me in or I’ll just have to reschedule the blasted appointment.” she grumbled. Allie saw a Wal-Mart and pulled into the parking lot, there were very few cars in the lot. She drove to the front, so she wouldn’t have far to walk through the elements. She tried to slow near the entrance, but her wheels couldn’t find any traction and she slammed into the concrete posts in front of the store. She was thrown into the side window, cracking it and bloodying her nose. The whole side of her face ached. She had to crawl out the passenger side of the car, since her door was crumpled and wouldn’t open. She stumbled to the open doors of the store. The lights were off, only the emergency flood lights were on. Snow had piled up on the sensor pad of the sliding doors, causing them to keep opening, until the snow had accumulated so much the doors could no longer close. She trudged through it and walked into the store. “Hello?” her voice echoed through the cavernous store. She heard things falling to her left and something running toward her. She ran back out into the storm. She ran to the next closet car, since her door was smashed. Luckily it was unlocked; she leapt in and stared back at the store. After a few seconds, a pack of coyotes ran through the door and back into the surrounding woodlands, She leaned back in the seat sighing in relief. She tried her phone to call for help and she had no bars. “Great, no service! I can’t stay in this car; I’m just going to have to go back into that store. She started to open the door, but she heard slight mewling sound. Silently she listened and searched for the sound. Someone abandoned a kitten in the car, she thought angrily. The sound was coming from a pile of blankets on the floorboard. She gently moved part of the top blanket, horrified she dropped the edge of the blanket and jumped back against the door. She couldn’t have just seen what she thought she saw! However the cries that are now issuing from the bundle proved that she had. She couldn't just leave it there! She wished she was any where but in this car. The loud cries refuse to be ignored, so she leaned over and picked the swaddled bundle off the floorboard. She could feel the chill through the blankets so she opens her coat and bundled it to her chest. She peaked under the blanket again to see the very young baby within. “What am I going to do with you?” She grumbled. Now it’s even more imperative for her to return to the store. That’s the only place where they can safely shelter. The wind has picked up even more in the few minutes she’d been in the car. She wrapped the other blankets around her chest and shoulders, trying to create a safe place for the baby. Once she’s covered she gets out of the car and trudges through the biting wind and snow to the doors. She entered the store and moved toward the back. It’s very cold but at least the wind doesn’t reach this far back. Always one to take command she makes a mental list of what she needs. She’ll need something safe and warm for the baby And then she’ll need to feed the baby judging by its cries. She grabs a cart and walks to the baby section, there she throws a portable baby bed into it, she adds a package of bottles, a pacifier, diapers and wipes. She looks for formula and sees that its’ kept behind locked doors. She walks to the outdoor section and grabs a hatchet and walks back to the baby section. She lays the baby in the bed and pries open the doors. Which formula to get? She grabs the can that says sensitive; thinking can’t go wrong with that. She sees a winter sleeper hanging from a rack and puts that in the cart. Then she heads to the back of the store. She decides to go into the restroom, because she can shut the door for further insulation from the cold. It’s almost warm in the restroom; she turns on the hot faucet and lets it run, while she changes the baby into the warm outfit. Then she rinses the bottles and pacifier under the hot water. Reading the label she measures out the formula and sits down on the floor to feed the baby. An uncomfortable thought enters her mind, it feels right holding the baby girl. She balks at it. The baby eats fast, poor thing was starving, she thought. What kind of person would abandon a baby in this storm! Then a second thought crossed in mind, how are you any better? You planned to kill yours. “I’m not killing a baby; I’m getting rid of a clump of cells!” She angrily growls. She remembered that she should burp the baby so she raises her to her shoulder and gently pats her back. The smell of the baby teases her nose, it’s a pleasant smell. Unconsciously she rubs her cheek against the baby’s silky hair, and sighs. When the baby falls asleep she puts her back in her bed. She listens to the howling wind, the storm is getting worse. The emergency lights flicker but stay on, she realizes she’s going to be here for a while and needs to get supplies. She wraps blankets around the baby and goes out into the store. Anxiety tugs at her for leaving the baby, but she knows the restroom is the warmest and safest place for her. She takes the cart with her, wind is howling through the store, she goes back to the baby section and grabs more formula and diapers, she has no idea how long she’ll be here. Then she grabs other items that might be useful. As she’s leaving she’s spies a book sitting on the shelf ‘The Miracle of Conception.’ she throws it in the cart. She reasons that maybe it will have information she could use to take care of the baby. She goes through the store grabbing supplies; a lantern, flashlight, lots of batteries, a battery backed up clock radio, food for herself more blankets, pillows, warm clothes, socks and a small tent. As she’s heading back, she hears a racket; she fears its more coyotes. Panic sends tremors down her spine; could coyotes push the restroom door open? She races back to the restrooms skidding to a halt when a couple of deer bound into her path. She back tracks and runs down another aisle when the buck lowers his antlers. Once in the restroom she pushes the cart inside and deadbolts the door. She rushes to the baby and sees she’s still sleeping. She feels something on her face; she wipes at it and looks at her hand. It's wet, she realizes she’s been weeping. Fatigue hits her like a hammer and she slides down the wall to the floor. “What the Hell is wrong with me!” Allie cries burying her face in her hands. She felt like she was in an apocalyptic movie, only the baby and her. She is the only thing between life and death for the child. It’s a daunting realization, but she thanks God for the circumstances that had brought her to this baby. Shaking off her melancholy, she starts putting her temporary shelter in order. She sets up the small tent and lines it with blankets and pillows. She knows that with nightfall it will get colder and hopefully the tent will be warmer than the vast restroom. She nibbles on the cheese and crackers she grabbed. As she is finishing that the baby wakes, she changes her and slips her into some thermal pajamas. Then she feeds her another bottle. She doesn’t drink much. Not knowing what a baby drinks she worries if 3 ounces is enough, but the baby seems content settling into sleep again. She marvels at the babies tiny fingers, so fragile and so precious. Her mind wanders to the child growing with in her. She places the baby and her bed into the tent, stroking her soft cheek as she withdraws, when she stands up her hands cup her belly for an instant. She pushes those thoughts away and starts putting batteries in the lantern and flashlights, then into the clock radio, she doesn’t set the clock because she has no idea of the time. But her body is telling her she needs sleep. She changes into the thermal pajamas from the basket and sees the book. She grabs it and puts the items into the tent, once inside she zips up the opening and gets comfortable. She turns on the radio and tunes into a news station; “The last time the Tennessee Valley saw a blizzard this extreme was in 1996, it dumped 5 inches of snow in less than 6 hours. Officials are advising everyone to stay off the roads, and bundle up; it’s going to be a long night.” “Wonderful!” she sighs listening to the howling wind, she lays down, but can’t sleep. So she grabs the book and starts to read. ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you; and before you were born I consecrated you.’ -The First trimester- (0 to 13 weeks) This is the most critical time in your baby’s development; *your body is going through enormous changes, *by 6 1⁄2 weeks you can hear the baby’s heartbeart with an ultrasound. *the baby will develop all of it’s organs by the 3 rd month .................................................................. .............................................................. ‘For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.’ “My baby already has a heartbeart?” She thought in amazement. She figured she was probably 10 to 12 weeks along. She looks at the photo at 12 weeks. She sees its little hands and fingers, she can tell this baby is a little boy. Even though it is only 3 inches long, she can tell it's a baby, not a clump of cells. The phrase ‘in my mother’s womb” struck her hard, she never thought of this pregnancy in terms of her being a mother...especially already. She saw that the book was written by a Christian author, she believed in God, she always had she just hadn’t thought about him much since she’d grown up. The scripture about knowing you in the womb surprised her. She had never thought of abortion as anything other than a medical procedure, no different than a pap smear. But thinking in God’s view, certainly made her think in a different perspective. She struggled with that internally, she had her career, and Phil. But what was more important? Who do I want to spend my life with? Did she plan a life with Phil? No, it would end, she never saw him as a forever relationship. But this child was a forever relationship, a child is a bond of forever. And her career was so she’d be financially stable, it wasn’t her life. It was so she could enjoy her life. The baby would be her life, it would be her love and her future. When had she stopped thinking, ...my body, my career...my ,my, my...? When had she stopped thinking, ...it’s just a clump of cells, it’s just an inconvenience to be terminated? When had she started thinking, ...this is my baby, my responsibility? I am its protector, I’m its MOTHER! She rolled over and looked at the innocent baby sleeping in its bed. Shame filled her, when she realized she had been about to kill her own child. A scripture popped into her mind from her youth; ‘The Lord is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, forgiving iniquity and transgressions...’ She picked up the book that she had dropped; it was opened to the last page, ‘God calls children a true gift and a blessing... Children are a heritage from the lord, The fruit of the womb... Fearfully and wonderfully made... She closed her eyes and thought of all the coincidences that had to occur for her to get to this point; Finding out she was pregnant, Having to travel to Tennessee for an abortion, The Blizzard making her get off the interstate when she had, The crash, the Wal-Mart doors being open, the coyotes and running to that certain car. It was pretty far fetched to believe it was coincidence, but when she looked to God, she saw his finger in it all... He had saved two babies this day. With a smile on her face she drifted off to sleep. She was awakened hours later to pounding on the restroom door. She opened the door to a police officer who was checking the store, he’d come to the Wal-Mart checking for a baby reported to have been left in a car when the Mother had tried to go find help. When he saw the open door of the store he decided to check inside while the other officers checked the lot. “The baby is safe with me.” Allie told the officer and then went to get her out of the tent. “Thank God!” the officer said visibly relieved. “I was so frightened that this was a call to find a dead body.” “The baby decided at that moment that she wanted her breakfast, “When you’re ready we’ll take you to the emergency shelter and reunite this precious baby with her parents.” The officer told her. So Allie changed and fed the baby for the last time, sorrow filling her but at the same time joy. The baby wasn’t abandoned and neither would her baby be abandoned or worse. She gathered the baby things including the bed, the parents might need them. She didn’t think Wal-Mart would mind considering the circumstances. Collecting her things she then walked outside with the baby snuggled in her arms. The weather was crisp and beautiful; it was a wonderful day to start over again, Thanks to God.

She could hear them downstairs. Slow, dragging footsteps over mouldering carpet. Ragged, gasping breath, even more tortured than her own. And a low keening moan, somewhere between sobbing and growling, mutilated by a hundred different throats. Was it a hundred? She couldn't tell anymore, the one that had stalked her had brought more. A lot more. There was nothing. Not a single thing she could use. The windows were too high up in this stupid wreck of a house. Narrow slits of dying sunlight, too far away for her to reach. The walls were brick not soft plaster like she'd hoped, and even if she could get through, it was a long drop with a seething sea of shamblers on the other side. She couldn't fight her way out. Even more had come, and whoever lived here before obviously didn't feel the need to stock up on heavy weapons. All she'd found was a pencil. And it was blunt. They were coming. Usually shamblers were mindless; staggering around and biting on reflex, but when they got together they got smarter. Scientists, while there *were* scientists, had suggested a kind of collective mind. The virus working as a whole to problem solve. She didn't care, she just knew that they were smart enough to start building a ramp to get past the stairs she'd burnt. The moans sounded more purposeful now. Less lost and more hungry. She could hear the brittle scraping of lighter furniture being dragged into a pile for the fresher ones to climb. Shamblers might get smarter in groups, but they didn't stop decaying. Those without tendons or muscles would have to wait for whatever scraps of her were thrown back down. There was *nothing.* She threw herself furiously on the rotted sofa she'd used to barricade the door. No worries about being heard now. They knew where she was, the shuffling below sounded almost eager. Who kept a room this clean anyway? It looked like it was slowly being converted into a bedroom when she rushed in, but now it was obvious how little progress had been made. Any furniture and boxes of flat-pack crap waiting to be built had been shoved against the door, which itself wasn't going to be much of an obstacle judging by how rotten it was. As for the rest, there *was* no rest. No boxes of junk, no hardware kits, no *anything.* She'd thought about taking the easy way out, once she realised how screwed she was, but she couldn't even find anything for that, unless you counted death by splinters or hitting her head against a wall as an easy way out. She was going to die. She was going to be *torn apart* by rotted hands and broken teeth, and there was nothing she could do about it, except hyperventilate on spore-filled air. There was nothing she could do. She'd already done everything. Thought of every way to escape, used every scrap of furniture to bar the door, thought of everything she could have done to avoid this. She was done. She sat watching her breath form plumes and storms in the fragile, dusty air. The light was dimmer now, the last dying glow of the day. It painted lines of dusty gold across her barricade. She listened to the creaks and occasional brittle crashes as the shamblers grew closer to successfully scaling their mountain of junk. Closer to her. She would have sung if she could, like a musician on a sinking ship, but she never learnt to sing well. What was the point? it wouldn't have kept her alive, not that anything else had. Maybe she would have written on the walls, a last farewell, if anyone had left her a proper pencil. But they hadn't. So she listened and she waited. *Th-thum, th-thum*. Her heartbeat thuds in her ears, her chest, her fingertips. *Th-thum, th-thum*. Every frantic beat one she'll never get back. Slipping into oblivion, pulling her towards her end. *Th-thum, th-thum*. It can't happen, it just *can't.* She can't imagine what comes next, nothing comes next. She recoils from the thought, squirming in time. *Th-thum, th-thum*. They're here. Broken fingernails scraping at the door. The soggy wood splinters, clawing deep gashes into a pale arm that can't bleed. It squirms through the gap, leading with snapping jaws. The rest of it's body follows like a diseased afterthought. She stands frozen. She thought she'd be brave or defiant, but there's no room for it. She just watches, frozen, as it lurches towards her. Withered jaws latch onto her arm. Mutilated hands quickly following to hold her still. The head flicks back, pulling a thick ribbon of flesh with it. She stares, looking at torn muscle, a flash of bone, before the blood quickly pools, then sprays. Her startled face laced with constallations of blood. Then the pain sets in. White fire gnawing into her, burrowing through every vein, burning away her vision from the edges. More join it. They launch at her, toppling her over, tearing more strips from her spasming body. The pain feels more distant, like it's happening to someone else. Her vision tunneling onto the last patches of dappled patches of sunlight. She watches the dust spiral fitfully. She hears her own bones splintering before- Below, the restless hoard of old shamblers look up. Drops of blood seep through the boards and patter on hungry faces. They stand, catching the red rain on withered tongues.

The night was cold. Silvery moonlight washed over ground that was covered in the first snowfall of the season. It felt like ages since Hadeon had last enjoyed the snow, even though it had only been a year. Time felt like it had stretched longer in the depths of the church’s crypt. He glanced around at the hills he roamed as a child, hanging off his mother’s skirts and helping her gather the herbs and wildflowers that bloomed. Nothing grew now, for winter’s bite had killed many of the plants, and the snow hid the ground from view. It looked so different, so bare under the full moon. A night his mother would have loved. Yet it wasn’t the time of year he was prepared for. Any sane person would be in their homes, keeping warm by the fires in their hearths. Hadeon, however, didn’t have that luxury. His clothes were threadbare and torn, his feet bare. There had been no time to hunt down proper clothes or shoes. No time to figure out how the bodies had gotten on the floor or how the crypt door had been blown off its hinges. Hadeon ran over the hills, numb feet kicking up the snow. His goal was to reach the river. If he could just reach the river, he could find his way to the ruins of his home. If there was even the slightest chance that the flames hadn’t devoured the whole house, he could find something to help him, he was sure of it. There had to be. Run, run, little rabbit. A chill racked his spine as the voice filled his mind. Panic rose in his throat as his feet pushed himself forward. He had to get home. Had to find a way to rid himself of the voices. Topping a rise, he saw the White Rapids. Even in the freezing temperatures, the water churned in rushing torrents, making the river virtually uncrossable. In the moonlight, he could see the spray of water as it crashed against rocks and riverbanks alike. There was one spot that gave brave, and desperate, travelers a passage over the watery beast. His eyes traveled upriver until he saw it. The boy let out a soft cry of relief to see the rope bridge still standing. He had been afraid the town guards had burned it. You’ll never make it. There was movement to his right, but when Hadeon turned his head to look, there was nothing. He was alone, but he wouldn’t be for long. Holding his breath, his ears strained to hear if the warning bells were ringing yet. All that he could hear was his own heartbeat and the distant rapids. Good, he still had time. He could still make it. Another shadow crossed his vision, this time from the hill he had just come from. Wolves were common in the area, so the boy turned to be sure he wasn’t about to have a new problem on his hands. He was being stalked all right, but not from wolves. Standing on the hilltop was a silhouette. Man, he knew not. All he knew was someone was there, too close behind for comfort. Fear choked him, making him stumble as he quickly turned back around and dashed towards the bridge. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t... You’ll never go back. You’ll be safe. His best hope was his home. He could rid himself of the voices in his head as soon as he reached the safety of those four walls. He could... Hadeon felt a force barreling into him. A yelp broke the silent night air as he was sent tumbling the rest of the way down the hill. The fall sent a flare of pain throughout his body, awakening old injuries that his adrenaline rush had helped to numb. Get up, he told himself. Get up, get up, get up! He scrambled to find his footing once more, but as soon as he had his feet under him, the force knocked him back down again. No! A sob tore from his throat. He was so close! If he just had a few more minutes, he would have been free, safe in the wilds of the forest once more. “You have the determination, little rabbit, I’ll give you that.” This time the voice was not in his head. This time, Hadeon heard the shifting voice behind him. Pushing himself upright, he scrambled away, trying to keep some space between him and the person hunting him. If “person” was the correct term to call it. The figure was human in form, for the most part. The creature was night itself with shadowy tendrils waving about it, making its form hard to distinguish. Pitch black, it was as if the creature swallowed the moonbeams and made the surroundings grow darker. As it stalked closer, Hadeon could see the details of arms and legs, the outline of shoulders. Yet that was where all human resemblances stopped. For when he searched for a face, all he was met with was two spots that flickered with candlelight. It was then he realized that this was not the first time he had seen those eyes. He remembered seeing those glowing orbs watching him from a darkened corner of the crypt when he awoke to find his captors dead. They had been what encouraged him to take advantage of the escape that presented itself. “What... What do you want from m-me?” Hadeon stuttered, both from fear and the cold sinking into his skin. A deep chuckle rumbled from the shadow. “I believe the question is: What do you want from me ?” “I don’t know what you’re t-talking about.” “Oh, I believe you do.” The figure continued forward, crouching down in front of the boy. Its eyes roamed over all of him. “A witch’s son, pushed to the point of breaking, finally calling forth his birthright. You’ve just never had the chance to use me until now.” “But I haven’t-” Hadeon started. “Were you not the one begging for the dark to take you? For someone to end the torture the church bestowed upon you?” Hadeon felt his heart sink. He had, but they were just thoughts. He hadn’t said any sort of spell, hadn’t made any kind of deals. His mother had warned him that such spells were dangerous. Demons were tricky creatures, and it was best to leave them to their own devices. “The help you were given was with you the whole time. You just had to open your ears to hear it.” We are one in the same, after all. Hadeon flinched back as the voice spoke inside his head, but it was no longer the distorted rasp he was used to. Instead, it sounded like a mimic of his own, and as he watched the figure, he could have sworn the shadows warped into an imitation of his own face. He shivered at the thought. “I-I don’t want your help,” he stated, putting as much conviction into his words as he could. “You don’t get that choice, rabbit,” the figure replied. A flash of a grin broke the shadows. “I’m here to stay. I have always been here. You just finally awakened to my presence.” “I don’t need any h-help from you, demon,” Hadeon said. “Oh? Then perhaps I can let the search parties find you in the morning, holed up in the charred remains of your mother’s home. They can take you back to that cell, or perhaps finally hang you on Sunday for the murder of the clergy men in charge of you.” The figure stood and turned as if to leave. “You left a noticeable trail, and you’re far too weak to put up much of a fight. I’m sure you’ll make it a good five minutes before you’re bound and dragged back to the hell you came from. It makes no difference to me.” “No!” Hadeon couldn’t stop the protest from leaving his lips. He couldn’t go back to the dark cell, to the torment and starvation, to the scorn of being a “devil’s spawn.” There were monsters among those who claimed themselves holy, and he had experienced it all within his long year in their hands. Anything that the demon promised had to be better than the fate waiting for him back in town. The shadow turned its glowing gaze back towards him, and Hadeon could have sworn he saw a smug expression in their depths. “I thought that would be the case,” it said. Once again, it came to loom over the boy, making him swallow nervously. “Do not worry. There is no more need to cower from the shadows. They belong to you.”

It all started about a week ago. It was a cold and stormy night, the streetlights held a distinct foggy glaze. Throughout the eerily quiet street, the noise of windows rattling in the forceful wind could be heard... I’m kidding, obviously. Although last Tuesday night when this all started, there was a storm, just not a storm of the weather variety. I’d been following the news all day, everyone had. 6 boys now, all aged between 14-21, had been found dead in their homes. All of them were wearing the undeniably recognisable X.R.Y patented VR goggles and sleeves, as if they’d died right in the middle of a game; and they had. But that’s not the most curious part. What was even more intriguing and un-explainable was that at the moment they died, so had their avatars. So there I was sat in front of the television, crossed legged and making my way through a pot noodle, eyes glued to the screen as I listened to a news anchor report on the story for the eighth time today. See this was the interesting bit, since the story broke the news vultures had eaten up the weird and un-explainable circumstances of the whole thing, and every story since had been linking things together and talking crazy conspiracies. The police of course, had come out to say X.R.Y couldn’t have had anything to do with it and stated that it was impossible the two things were related. This only made things worse, as most people, including me, disagreed. There were now picketers outside their Office, screaming viciously for justice for “their” boys. There were forums that were full of theories, people talking about electrical currents, or the dark web and some even talking about magic, real magic, not just the kind you find in X.R.Y and that was just the real world repercussions. More importantly, were the things happening virtually. People around the world were darning their virtual reality gear and airing their grief online. There were virtual flowers bought from virtual stores laid down at the place where the avatars powered out for the last time. There were regular flowers, like lilies and chrysanthemums but they were nothing compared to the mythical bouquets most people would leave. There were snapdragons that actually snapped and breathed fire. Giant Venus-Flytraps that passed the time catching AI bots that inhabited the games’ land and FlameFreesia’s, with charcoal stems blooming into petals resembling flames, just to name a few. People were changing their names to “justice4thewarriors” and “NeverForget1604”, some avatars darned t-shirts bearing the victims’ faces, bought from some capitalist who runs a “Skins” shop. Some people had gone as far as changing their avatars entire likeness to one of the victims. I on the other hand didn’t take flowers, or like some people even a live “teddy” bear, to their resting place, as I didn’t own that world. There was also no way I was going to spend my Xdollars on some tacky t-shirt just for the proceeds to go to the seller’s pocket instead of the families. Besides, I’d put a lot of hard work into creating my Avatars appearance. As inside the virtual world of X.R.Y, just like the real world before it became secondary in importance, appearances were everything. My avatar looked somewhat like me, and yet entirely different, where I was tall and brunette covered in freckles, my avatar was short and her mousy blonde hair, cut into a long bob was held in place by a baby pink headband. She wore clothes from a different decade with a pleated, tartan brown skirt and matching jacket and a pink roll neck underneath. She had knee high socks in the same colour with plimsolls on her feet, but I on the other hand spent my days in tracksuit bottoms and plain t-shirts, a standard uniform for most people outside the You-niverse . That’s what we called the virtual world, named after the company that made it; X.R.Y- short for Xtreme Reality You-niverse but everyone pronounced it like “x-ray”. But there was one thing the same about my avatar and I, our faces, although hers’ was almost cartoony, it held an uncanny resemblance to mine. Big brown eyes, a long sharp nose to match my sharp chin and cheekbones and a full pink mouth, made even more obvious from the amount of time I spent biting my lip. Which thanks to my X.R.Y issued You-Camera that hung from my game enhancing visor tracking and copying my every facial move, my avatar did too. You may think that my avatar’s look was pretty basic, especially considering I could be anything in a world full of 14 year old girls walking around as ten foot dragons with purple iridescent scales, and your old lady neighbour tearing apart worlds as a sultry witch that has thousands of boys drooling after her every move. Yet I was perfectly content with how I looked because it was perfect for my game play. You see, while most were off gallivanting on worlds inhabited by giants and fairies, going to battle with Players who duel as ancient wizards who can kill you with one flick of their magic staff, I had decided to pursue a different kind of online life. But I’m not the only one, the You-niverse , after all, was made and sold as a virtual world completely personal to you, you could fill your virtual space with whatever worlds you wanted as they were just one click (and Xdollars) away. When I was too young to fit into a pair of goggles, to keep me entertained my mother would leave me in the real world with only some headphones and a vast selection of audio books to act as my babysitter. I discovered mysteries as soon as I could choose my own books. I was three years old; listening to Nancy Drew as she discovered the ghost next door was just a weird old man with a vengeance, when I decided there and then that’s what I wanted to do with my life. Good old Nancy, the inspiration for my avatar, kept me entertained to the ripe old age of 7. But by then I had grown out of the basic format of those novels. You see, in the old world, where children went to school and learned to read and write above just the simple necessities, I would have been considered a child prodigy. So I would sneak out of my house, while my family were busy playing away, and walk to the crumbling old library, I would spend my days there reading all sorts of books, teaching myself any skill available. But mostly I would find myself in the mystery section. So that’s why, when I turned 14, and I got given my own X.R.Y world to make my own, I knew exactly what I would do with it. With the 100 Xdollars I received with my rig I bought 3 games. Murder Miss-Stories, Nancy Drew Files and Lady Killers. All the games were made by ladies and had a feminist twist and I loved every one, and I was pretty good at them, by 16 I had entered and won 100s of virtual murder mystery competitions and gained not only some big Xbucks but a lot of notoriety too. I was the most renowned Avatar in my field of worlds and in just over 2 years I’d become the main earner in my family. My career was in the virtual space but it put real food on our table. I was reminded of that, when my mother cleared her throat and muted the television, I turned around to hear her say “Candice, baby, don’t you think it’s about time you get to work?” Silently I took that as my cue to get up off the floor and go upstairs to my room, or what I call, my office. Inside, I placed my gear on and powered up X.R.Y. The first thing I saw when I logged in was my message board, this wasn't unusual for me; success garners attention after all. But one message pulled my focus, the name MattyPattyPal with the subject simply stating: Help me. It wasn’t the subject that really bothered me, it was the tag; I knew it because I’d heard it all day. He was one of the six. The message had been sent a few days before but I knew he was the last of them to die, just last night. With suddenly clammy hands, I opened it and began to read its contents. To NellieDray14 I need your help. My friends are dead, and I think I’m next. You only get one shot. Don’t blow it. MattyPattyPal The message contained an already purchased game, EdenofOrthal, the game all six boys were playing when they died. I had goosebumps all over my body; my breath was coming hot and fast, my mind was racing, Matty knew he was going to die and what did he do, he didn’t go to the police, he came to me. A mystery, a real mystery dropped into my message box, and I was going to solve it. But first I needed supplies. EofO was the most popular world inside the You-niverse for boys aged 14-28 being a PvP world where anyone was fair game. The story goes that a wise old wizard named Orthal was tired of Saxos, the world he came from, so he used his power to create a new world, an Eden if you will. As years past however, the evil Saxoners found a way to break through to Orthal’s Eden in want of killing him and taking his Land. Orthal used up the last of his powers to go into hiding, leaving behind clues for the revolutionaries to find him and stop the evil Saxoners. In the game, you get to choose who you’ll be: A Saxoner or A Rebel. But whatever I chose, I knew I’d have to be heavily armed. I exited the message board and logged into The Corridor walking over to the Mall door, inside was the biggest shopping mall to ever grace the human world, well, technically. Virtual shops lined every inch of the world, available for anyone in the You-niverse . But to have what was inside, well that came for a price. There was a special store for what I needed called EquiptofOrthal, it had everything from wand making, to guns bigger than my arms. I went simple but efficient, sleek body armour, and easily disguisable but effective weapons. Before leaving the mall I made one last stop in preparation of what could come. Back inside The Corridor I set up EdenofOrthal and made my way towards its door. It stood out compared to my other world doors, covered in ivy and glowing under the crack, I reached out for the ancient doorknob and pulled, making my way into a whole new world. ***** I spent my first days talking to other players, asking questions and trying to make connections, but it was harder than I thought it would be. I wasn’t stupid, I knew why. I stood out, not because I was a newbie, because I was a woman. The statistics weren’t lying, but they didn’t tell me how uncomfortable I’d be here. Nobody wanted to talk with me, I wasn’t asked to join any quests, and you would think that meant I didn’t get challenged, but I did. On Thursday night, I was talking to a level 26 warlock about Matty, and I was finally getting somewhere. DionysisTheIII was telling me how he knew Matty and had been on a few quests with him, Matty apparently was a valuable player. Just as I was getting into the good stuff my avatar was thrown forcefully into a stone wall. “Woman, you do not belong here!”A hulking Ogre stood across from me, in battle pose and as I stood up he continued to talk. “You shall prove your worthiness, by battling me!” His voice echoed across the land as spectators began to watch on. I scoffed, indignant “I don’t want to fight you, I’m here to save you, all of you, people are dying and I am the only one trying to figure out why!” He was speechless, they all were, and one by one they all began to walk away, ashamed of their sexist actions, including the ogre, who mumbled a sorry as he left. DionysisTheIII patted me on the back stating simply, “good for you, he challenged me once, I lost,” as he walked away. ***** Things got better from there; on Sunday I spoke to some of Matty’s friends Stylis33 and Magnarok_AG, they told me that the last time they saw him he spoke of a secret quest he’d been invited on, and that he was nervous to “finish all this”. I left them straight after as I needed to think, once again I was covered in goose-bumps, luckily I had turned off my You-camera, as I didn’t want people to be able to read my expressions, while investigating. I had it, my first lead, and my Nancy-senses were tingling. This quest must be important. Monday morning as I logged in another curious message caught my attention. ­ Dearest NellieDray14 It is I, Orthal. I have been watching you, and I know that you are the one. You have been chosen to go on the quest of Orthal! Others have tried but failed to find me, you only have one shot. Find me where the stone meets the water. Good Luck The quest, this is what the boys were talking about, and that phrase “you only have one shot,” that’s exactly what Matty had said in his message! This was it; I was going to solve the mystery. I came out of the game and started to prepare. If I was right, when I lose this quest, the murderer will come here, I don’t know how yet but I know he will. I locked the front door and made sure not to put earphones on, just in-case. At the bottom of the message was a link, at first I didn’t understand why I had to access the game through it, instead of just through the door, but it all made sense once I clicked the link and it sucked me back into the world of Eden. I didn’t notice straight away but after a few seconds I spotted the blinking light that told me my You-camera had been remotely turned on. I had been hacked, and now, I was being watched. I made sure not to show I knew, carrying on towards the giant stone in the middle of river Geiffel. The clue led me there. As I got closer I noticed that the stone was actually an archway and I knew, to continue on, I had to walk though. That’s when I heard it, the click of someone unlocking the front door. My hand twitched as I went to grab what was in front of me but then remembered I was being watched, I had to wait for the right moment. I entered a dark alley as I listened to footsteps coming up the stairs. A shadow of a person appeared and I knew as I got closer to them, in reality, they got closer to me. Just as my door started to creak open I saw him, DionysisTheIV. That was all the proof I needed. In real time I whipped off my goggles and grabbed the gun I had ordered that day in the Mall. Quickly I turned around to face the killer, but what I saw made me hesitate. A young girl, perhaps my age stood in front of me holding a gun ready to kill, the other holding a phone, my face visible on the screen. The real world suddenly became a PvP zone and I knew, I had to shoot before she shot me. I held my breath, and pulled the trigger... ***** It’s been two days, and only now, does it all make sense. Sissy or DionysisTheIV, had been taken into an ambulance, shoulder bleeding. I rode with her, desperate to find out why, although I already had a good idea. Sissy had logged into the You-niverse for the first time and like me was excited to try her hand at some new games. But poor 14 year old Sissy wasn’t prepared for the misogyny that awaited her or the battle with an ogre that left her powered out and humiliated, she begged her parents for the 15 Xdollars that would buy her a new life but she knew this time when she came back to EdenofOrthal it would have to be different. So she came back as DionysisTheIV, the spelling mistake a clever tell, and she became a level 26 Warlock before realising it wasn’t enough. She needed revenge. She created a wormhole that sent people into her own mini game within the world and even managed to hack her way through to 7 peoples hard-drives with one link, turns out I’m not the only child prodigy around! She went on her very own Saxoner Killing spree. That was of course, until I got involved, she knew I was getting too close to the answer and so sent me the same email she’d sent the 6 boys hoping to get rid of the threat. But she underestimated me. Later, in the ambulance she would tell me it was only fitting she got caught by another girl and that if she had to go down, at least it was like that. And me, well I started getting far more requests for help after that, but I’d decided to retire from real life sleuthing and get back to the You-niverse kind. And that, is how I solved The Case of The Virtual Killer.

He couldn’t believe his own eyes. Impenetrable darkness bordered by a red glare. So close. All his life was leading up to this moment. All those calculations, those experiments, those test flights. Those years spent in libraries and laboratories. But it was all worth it. He was fascinated with space ever since he was a child. With all its secrets that were light years away. All those stars and nebulas, those planets and asteroids. All those places where noone has ever been. He always wanted to be like the Voyager and venture into the unkown with nothing but the golden disc on his chest. When he looked up at the night sky and saw the stars shining through the vastness of cosmos all the way to earth, he was amazed. Before that light finally got to reach his eyes, Galileo, Copernicus, Tycho Brahe and many more lived and died while exploring the mysteries of the universe. He knew he would join them once. And now he was so close. The red glare dissapeared. Nothing left but the impenetrable darkness. And he was falling into it. Faster and faster. When he started to study the universe, he fell in love with black holes. Mass so heavy nothing escapes its gravity, not even light, but still: Nothing can ever enter it. Mass so heavy it doesn’t obey by the rules of the universe described by some of the greatest minds of our civlization, but still: It remains alone, sole exeption, so the rules remain unbroken. “Nothing can ‘fall into’ a black hole. The closer an object gets to the core, the faster it accelerates. The faster it accelerates, the heavier it gets and the more it bends the spacetime. Thats how theory of relativity works. Before the object can get to the centre, it ends up bending the spacetime so much, it quite literally gets ‘frozen’ in time. Nothing can ever reach the core.” “You’re wrong. I will.” He knew he would reach it. He had to. He lived a long and happy live. Now comes the climax. Impenetrable darkness moments away. He was almost there. “Probe 1, this is the last message from the mothership Apollo 22. In a few moments, you won’t be able to recieve or send any more messages. See you on the other side, doc. God bless you.” From the point of view of the observer, an object falling into the black hole will stop in time before reaching the core. But the time is relative and it remains unchanged for that very object. Nothing will ever fall into a black hole, except all the things that are falling into it. It sounds strange, but it is true. His ship started to pick up speed. It was almost moving at the speed of light. He knew the ship would last. When he told his friends about his plan, they laughed at him at first. Some even tried to talk him out of it. But to no avail. In the end they all agreed to help him and they created the perfect indestructible vessel, capsule, Noah’s Ark, that would withstand all storms and land safely in the new world with its precious cargo. Impenetrable darkness at his fingertips. Farewell to the crew of Apollo 22, farewell to all the colleagues, farewell to his family. They are all probably dead by now. 1... 2... 3... He counted and imagined all the civilizations that already rose and fell again, all the stars that were born and died again, all the universes that existed... But he was in his capsule, inside of the black hole. Untouched by the flow of time. It was just him, at the core of his black hole. It was just him, in the center of his universe.

Don’t leave me or you are going to be sorry. I am warning you. Don’t leave me ! I ran around in circles, barking, then I ran back and forth sliding on the hardwood floors finally stopping face first into the sofa. By the time I got myself together I heard the door to the garage slam shut. They had both left. I made my way to the bay window and lay down. The warm bright sun would soon wash over my body. I was daydreaming about what my humans will serve me for dinner and playing with my tennis ball. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming sensation of being watched. Watch this ! I thought as I sat up, raised my back left leg from sitting and proceeded to clean myself. After I finished, I proceeded to let out a loud sound from my behind. It was gloriously loud and stinky, so much so that I hoped it had knocked the cat, the voyeur, clear across the room. “You are a disgusting pig! That was stinky,” said the cat aka Fat Boy. “Wait! You have not seen disgusting yet. Meet me in the bathroom in an hour, I will be drinking from the toilet and then I will be scooting my privates across the upstairs carpet. This is how I roll. Leave me alone you fat hairy monster.” I replied. He had let himself go. He would not let the humans brush him anymore. He sat around and ate all day. Now he seemed to take pride waddling around the house, dragging his belly on the floor. “So uncouth,” he said as he laid down next to me in the bay window. “If I am so nasty, why do you like to lay next to me?” I asked. “I don’t know. That is what we do. It makes the humans happy,” said Fat Boy. He put his head on my outstretched paw and was out like a light in about five minutes. I think he was getting too fat. His chunky face and body which ranked high on the human scale of cuteness was now affecting his health. I guess I fell asleep too. When I awoke the sun was no longer shining through the bay window. “Hey! Get up Fat Boy, I need some water. Hello, get up!” I yelled. Poor guy must be going deaf. I pulled my paw from under him. “Meow, I got in a nice nap,” he said as he did a cat stretch with his butt in my face. “Could you not stick your butt in my face?” “So sorry Old Man.” I was twelve, but I looked good for twelve and had the heart and body of a seven-year-old dog. I watched my weight and I exercised. “Who are you calling old? I need some water and then I have got to get my steps in. Which obviously you need to do too,” I said. “Whatever,” he said as he curled up in the bay window. I left to get water from my bowl. My bowl had cat hair in it. “Hey Fat Boy, have you been drinking from my bowl?” “The bowls are communal. I do not see your name on any bowl in this house,” he said. Jerk! He knew which bowls were mine. I was here first. Time for my steps. I bolted up the stairs to the second floor. I sniffed around doing a couple of laps. I was thirsty again. I needed to hit the toilet for a nice cool drink. I went back down the stairs and then back up the stairs. I was feeling good. I saw myself in the bathroom mirror. Damn I look hot for a twelve-year-old dog. One more cold drink I thought. I headed into the bathroom. Once again, I felt a strange sensation, like I was being watched. As I stood up to put my head into the toilet bowl, the toilet seat cover slammed into my face. “Jesus Christ,” I yelled. I was seeing stars. “So sorry Old Man, I did not see you. “Liar. You are such a liar. How could you not see me?” I shook it off and I decided to chase the fat monster. “You had better run Fat Boy,” I said as I got myself together. I took a drink and then took off after him up and down the hallway. He was still fast considering how fat he was. Then he took off down the stairs. “You can’t catch me!” He said as he lay on his back looking at his nails while writhing around on the landing. “Oh yes I can,” I replied. I admit, I was a bit winded looking down at him from the second floor. “Whenever you catch your breath, Old Man, I will be downstairs,” he said while sauntering down the stairs. He makes me so mad! Fat Boy makes me so angry! I continued to get my steps in on the second floor. Suddenly I noticed a round large object in the bedroom I had never seen before. I sniffed it. It smelled like mommy’s crotch. I knew this smell as I ate some fabric one day and I ended up in the vet emergency hospital. Mommy no longer keeps her crotch smelling fabric on the floor. She puts them in a basket with a lid. It was a big ball. A ginormous ball. Why hadn’t I seen this before? Why have they hidden this from me? I got my nose under the ball, and I was able to get it out of the bedroom into the hallway. I nosed it around and chased it. I needed to let Fat Boy see my new toy. “Fat Boy. Hey Fat Boy! Look what I found!” I lost my balance and the ball hit the wall and rolled down the stairs. I went running down the stairs after the ball. The ball bounced on every other step, hit the landing hard then bounced to the first floor. As it bounced back into the air it flew into a vase of flowers on the kitchen bar, knocking it over, then it ricocheted and knocked over a display of vintage coffee cans on a kitchen shelf. Water from the vase was pooling under a bar stool. Luckily the vase did not fall to the floor and break. Oh no, I thought. “Hey, Fat Boy where are you?” What am I going to do? I started panting and pacing. Then I howled. I started barking. I was having an anxiety attack. Then I started chasing my tail. Fat boy came strolling into the kitchen. “Yes. What is going on in here? Looks like someone, someone was a very bad boy,” he said with great sarcasm. He jumped up on the bar stool to assess the situation. “It looks like you were surveying the counter Old Man.” “No, it was the giant ball,” I said. “You know that counter clearing thing that you canines do. You like to stand up like a human and feel around like you are doing the breast stroke. You know, you know exactly what I mean,” he said. He started laughing, while lying on his back, head dangling over the bar stool. “What are you laughing at? They will think that it was you. You walk on the counters all the time.” “No. I am too weak to knock over a large vase filled with water. This one is all you Old Man!” “No, they will think it is you I cannot reach the center of the bar.” “Details. Details. I need my beauty sleep so I can hunt mice this evening. This is not my problem,” he said as he jumped from the bar stool to the floor. Just then he noticed that the antique coffee cans were knocked over. “That’s right they will think you were high on cat nip when you caused this destruction. Bouncing off the vase in that Kung Fu style you like to attempt and then jumping onto the high shelves knocking over the coffee cans,” I said. “No, mommy will think daddy did it by slamming the door. The vase is all you. Someone is in big trouble. You are a very bad boy,” he said, as he ran into the laundry room. I was overwhelmed so I lay down in the kitchen looking at the large ball that was now resting in front of the refrigerator. I could hear water from the vase still trickling onto the floor. Soon after, I must have fallen asleep. When I woke, I knew it was close to the time my humans return by the shadows created by the sunlight in the kitchen. There was nothing I could do but wait. I stretched, got up and walked around the house. I peered in the laundry room and there was Fat Boy on top of the dryer seated with his head hidden and leg up in the air. He was cleaning himself. “Who is a disgusting pig now?” I asked. He quickly sat up and put his leg down and did not look back at me. There was a Cardinal at the bird feeder which now had his undivided attention. I headed back upstairs and climbed into a human bed and went back to sleep. I was dreaming about the giant ball and a giant dog biscuit. I woke from a deep sleep to the sound of breaking glass. I ran downstairs and saw dishware on the floor in many little pieces between the kitchen bar and the sofa. Oh God, this is a mess, I thought. “Fat Boy where are you? What did you do?” No response. I hope he was not somewhere bleeding or dead with gash marks from the glass . “Where are you? You, OK?” He soon crawled out from under the couch looking a bit shaken. “Yes, I think so,” he said as he started to cry. “Oh no not the crying, you know I cannot stand it when you cry.” “Mommy is going to be so mad at us. I don’t want to disappoint her.” “Yeah, whatever, cut the drama. You walk around here like you do not care about anybody or anything. What the heck did you do?” I asked. “I was jumping on the counter. I landed on a saucer that went flying with the cup.” “Just great. Please tell me you aren’t bleeding! mommy will be screaming if there is blood on her white furniture.” Who has white furniture when they have pets? Not a good idea. Mommy must have seen it in a magazine. “I am OK. No blood.” he said, as he pulled himself together. “Calm down. Much better. Now go do some cat things. Chase your imaginary friends. Or even better go meditate in your bathroom.” “It will be an interesting evening when they get home from work and notice the destruction,” he said as he started to cry again. At least I had not broken anything. Schadenfreude had set in . I held my head up high and strutted into the living room and took my favorite spot on the couch. Fat Boy disappeared behind the draperies. I must have dozed off again. I sat up as I heard the garage door open and close. Do I go greet them? Or do I wait for the primal scream? I tried to listen carefully for footsteps. But I heard none. I heard fat boy running around the kitchen, probably high again on catnip. The cat was a big stoner. I got off the couch and heard a key in the door, then the alarm beep and then the door slam. Daddy was home. “Winston, come let’s go potty,” said daddy. So far so good, I walked into the kitchen and got a hug. My daddy was glad to see me. Oh no he was going to put the mail on the bar counter which was probably still wet. I needed to distract him. Luckily, he was thirsty so he placed the mail next to the refrigerator and then kicked the ball into the dining room so he could open the door. “Why did she leave this stupid thing in the kitchen?” he said. “Where is my chunky kitty?” he said as he closed the refrigerator door. “Meow.” said Rodney as he came to daddy’s feet. Daddy scooped him up and walked towards the patio door. “Let’s go potty Winston,” he said. He let me outside through the patio door. While outside, I felt free and happy. I went potty and then proceeded to roll in something that smelled just ripe enough to annoy Fat Boy. When daddy let me in, he gave me a biscuit and he gave Fat Boy some fishy smelling tidbit. Soon Fat Boy was rubbing against daddy’s leg while giving me the side eye. Daddy looked around overlooking the overturned vase, missing the overturned coffee cans and he was unable to see the broken cup and saucer behind the couch. He looked impressed. “Looks like you guys were good today. You guys are the best. Such good kids. Some people come home from work and their homes are destroyed by their pets. Not our babies,” he said. Daddy filled our food bowls. I ate all my food. Lord knows when Fat Boy will finish his food, probably late at night in between dining on rodents. Daddy went upstairs. Soon we could hear the garage door open and close. Mommy was home. “Honey I am home! Where are my babies?” Fat Boy and I stood frozen waiting for the primal scream. None came. Daddy came downstairs. He had changed his clothes. “Hello, Helen honey, we have to leave in 30 minutes.” “Oh no. I forgot. OK. Did I get any mail?” “All junk mail,” said daddy. There were other dishes on the counter. Which would soon prove to be a blessing. As mommy turned to walk towards daddy her briefcase swung around and hit several dishes that daddy had left on the counter from the morning. The dishes that were left after Fat Boy’s counter jump failure. Suddenly there was the sound of broken glass. “Andy why did you leave these dishes on the counter? The babies could have knocked these over and got injured while we were at work. Damn it!” she said. “I am sorry honey. I was rushing out of here this morning. I will clean this up. I am so sorry.” They kissed and mommy ran up the stairs to shower and get dressed. Fat Boy and I let out a sigh of relief. So far nothing had been noticed. As daddy, swept up the broken dishes and put them into the trashcan he noticed the overturned vase. Uh oh I thought as we watched in horror. “Why do we need these dead flowers,” he said aloud, as he picked them up and put them in the trash and put the overturned vase away. Daddy read his mail and had a beverage while standing in the kitchen. “Winston and Rodney come,” he said. “We are going out, so here is another treat.” He gave us each a small piece of deli meat. We were sitting pretty. Soon mommy came down the stairs looking as beautiful as ever. “Ready to go?” asked daddy. “Just need to find the purse I want to use, think it is in the hall closet.” “OK I will let Winston out again, while you get your purse.” I went out and did my business. When I came back in, I did a little performance, acting like I did not want them to leave. The usual, panting and walking around in circles quickly. Mommy found her purse in the hall closet, and they were ready to go. “Be good,” said mommy as she looked at the two of us pets. Daddy opened the door to the garage. Mommy walked out first and then daddy followed her and slammed the door so hard that the walls shook, and the clock fell off the wall. “Andrew why must you slam the door? You know things fall off the wall when you slam the door,” mommy yelled, from the garage. “Sorry,” he said. “Coffee can problem solved,” said Fat Boy. “The housekeeper will find the cup and saucer tomorrow. I think we are in the clear,” I said. We cuddled on the couch waiting for mommy and daddy to return.

The whiskey stung going down. Sheriff Houghton coughed back the cheap swill and took in a deep breath through his nostrils, taking in the scents of Old Delilah’s saloon. That one sniff carried with it the musty memories of liquor, twice chewed tobacco, and the unmistakable truth that it had been weeks since the bartender before him had seen a bar of soap. He quickly rejected the breath, pushing it out from his mouth with great force and slamming his empty glass onto the table. “You’re doin’ nobody favors here, Kipp.” The words came out in a drawl croak, still recovering from the whiskey’s hard punch to his throat. On the other side of the bar, Kipp poured another stream of the fiery potion into Houghton’s glass. He smiled with his mouth, but his eyes ran cold. He poured the man another drink. “You got that right. I ain’t doing favors for nobody, cuz I ain’t hidin’ that boy on your poster, Sheriff. Never seen ‘em, don’t know ‘em, and he ain’t my business.” The sheriff grasped his glass tentatively, but did not drink. He stared down into the swirling golden liquid as he contemplated the barman’s lie. He knew Kipp to be an honest man who paid his fines and did his time in the Sunday pew, yet Houghton knew there was a history between Kipp and the boy’s mother, Susie. For him to say he had never known the boy was a bald-faced lie. If this man were hiding the boy, then it was only a matter of time before he would break. “Alright.” Houghton said. He threw up his hands in surrender. “You don’t know ‘em. He wasn’t here.” Kipp lowered his defenses and relaxed his jaw. “Like I said.” The room went silent for a time. The sky outside had gone black, the streets deserted. There was only one other man in the building, seated at the farthest table from the bar. Kipp had only just now noticed him, due to his lack of movement and the tan duster he wore, which acted as camouflage in the dusty saloon. “Last call!” Kipp shouted across the room. “Last call, Fella!” When the man showed no signs of life, Kipp walked over to him and placed an empty glass near his nose, checking for breath. He examined the fog on the glass carefully, then cleared the man’s table and left him to continue his rest. As he returned to the bar to clean the glass, he glanced at the sheriff again and grumbled. “What’s there such a price on that kid for anyhow? He ain’t more than ten or so.” Houghton returned his hands to his full whisky glass. His right eyebrow curled. “How is it you know he’s ten, iff’n you don’t know the boy, Kipp?” Kipp, now back behind the bar, brushed the notion away with a rag he was using to polish the glass. “Oh now, Sheriff, I was just lookin’ at that great doodle you’d done of ‘em. I was just supposin’ he was young from it.” Houghton, still unconvinced, pushed his glass away and sat up straight onto his barstool with crossed arms. “You were supposin’?” “Yessir. I was supposin’,” Kipp defended. “And supposin’ he’s that young, wouldn’t you suppose he’s got some folks? They’d sure know his whereabout’s wouldn’t they.” Houghton leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar counter top. “That’s an awful lot of supposin’ on a kid you don’t know, that you’ve never seen, that’s none of your business.” There was a tumbleweed silence as the men examined one another with grave suspicion. Houghton knew Kipp, and he’d all but decided on trusting him, but he couldn’t help but wonder. An anxious sweat broke out over his face. Behind that unwashed beard, those lazy grey eyes, and the gap-toothed smile, could there be a man capable of harboring a fugitive? The sleeper in the corner broke Houghton’s thoughts short with an unconscious chortle as he broke wind. The sound filled the otherwise empty space, and the smell was enough to make even Kipp, in his unwashed glory, turn up his nose. The two men shifted to glance at him, then returned to one another, the tension broken with a shared smirk. “I worry for his mama is all.” Kipp said, putting the glass away. “Must be worried to high heaven if she don’t know where he is.” This sentiment amused Houghton. He wasn’t sure if this comment confirmed he knew Susie or if it secured his innocence. He choked down his still full glass, voicing his distain for the beverage with a breathy gasp. He stood and brushed his pant legs, returning his hat to his head and offering Kipp a well folded bill for his trouble, which he declined with the wave of a calloused hand as he poured himself a whiskey. “On the house, Sheriff. Here’s hopin’ you get your man.” Kipp raised his glass in a toast to Sheriff Houghton, with a smile that cast even more suspicion. Houghton still had one more card left to play. He decided that if he told Kipp enough of what the boy had done, perhaps he could elicit a confession of some kind. He didn’t tell him all of it. Truth be told, so much of it didn’t make sense. All that blood on her with no open wounds, the bullets found laying in the dirt near the body. The sobbing boy who was there one minute and gone the next. He was beginning to think it was all just the heat. That he had imagined it all. He wouldn’t tell Kipp everything. Just what he needed to know. “I wouldn’t worry much for his mama now. She won’t be missin’ him much, being as she’s dead. Her blood’s all over the kid, if you believe the stories.” Kipp’s eyes widened, his face pale. After a careful study of the bartender’s stunned expression, Houghton decided that it was best to simply end the evening and let his words stew. He would return tomorrow and see if Kipp was ready to talk . “Like I said, you’re doin’ nobody favors if you know where he is.” With that, the Sheriff adjusted the hat on his head and turned to leave. Kipp stood still a moment after the saloon door swung closed. He wanted to move but couldn’t. He wanted to shout, to curse his grief at anyone who would listen. Somehow he had a feeling that his last lone patron in the corner wouldn’t wake if he did. Still he just stood motionless. What in the Sam Hill have you gotten yourself into now, Kipp? What the hell has you done? What has HE done? He’d always thought of himself as a good man, an honest man, and yet here he was, lying to the law, implicating himself. And for what? Some kid. Not just some kid. Susie’s Kid. Susie. She was dead now, gone. He’d never told her, but she was the closest thing he would ever have to a daughter. He had wanted to cry, to break down when Houghton had said the words. Still, he protected the child. That is what Susie would have wanted, even if the child had been her undoing. After several attempts to awaken the man in the corner, Kipp decided that the man was nothing to bother with and would likely see himself out when he woke. He checked the body again for signs of life and locked up his establishment, casting a cautious glance outside to ensure that Sheriff Houghton had gone. He stood in the room a moment, taking in the scent of dust, wood, and mildew. His shock had been simmering, and now it had come to a slow rolling boil. Anger filtered through all of his thoughts, clouding them. He walked behind the bar to a small storage room and slammed his clenched fist down on a mildewed whiskey barrel. He spoke to the air. “Now you wanna tell me what you done that has Mr. Law barking at my door at all hours, or should I ask ‘em back here to tell me his own damn self?” From inside the barrel came a shuffle and a knock. The lid tumbled off and a tuft of ash blonde hair rose up from the inside, followed by a pair of bight blue eyes and a soot covered face wearing a scolded expression. It was as if he had been caught drinking the communion wine and had come to seek his penance. His body trembled and his eyes swelled. He opened his mouth a bit, but no words came. “I’m waitin’.” Kipp barked. He tapped his foot impatiently. “Why you wanted, kid?” His voice rose with urgency. He shook the paper in the child’s face. “You kilt your momma?” Did you kilt Susie? My Susie? Is that her blood on your trousers? You kilt yer momma, and then you come here and ask me to hide you. Is that it? You gonna have a go at me too?” His voice was now a rolling thunder that filled the full saloon. He imagined it would wake the man in the bar, but figured it would likely not matter much what a lazy drunkard heard. “I ain’t kilt my momma.” The boy mumbled. Kipp put a hand to his ear. “Eh?” He’d heard well enough. He just wanted to hear it again. “I said I ain’t kilt my mama!” The boy’s voice cracked and warbled, he wiped away a variety of fluids from his face with his soiled sleeve. Kipp gestured to him to continue, eyes wide with impatience. “I was too late to help her. She was gone dead when I got there” The words were coming out, but they were muffled and broken. He stopped a moment and sobbed into his filthy hands, dirt mixing with the salty water and stinging his raw cheeks. “Real dead.” He said. “Can’t be helped kind. There was no going back.” Kipp allowed the boy a moment to continue his tears. He kept repeating that last part. “No going back.” It was a mantra to him, keeping him in his grief. “No going back.” Kipp fought back the urge to embrace the child. He tried not to recall the day his own mother died, when the fever took her and left him with nothing at just fourteen years old. He didn’t want the kid to see his sympathy, but it was there. He knew this child couldn’t have killed his mother. There wasn’t any way this whimpering mess of a boy could do that to anyone. “Then why you hidin’? Kipp asked, finally. “If you ain’t done it, then go to Houghton and tell ‘em true. You ain’t done it. I believe you. He’ll believe you. Hell, He believed me, and I’m the worst damned liar this side of the Mississippi.” Kipp laughed a little, but the boy didn’t. There was a still darkness in the boy’s eyes. His grieving abated for now. He was still inside the barrel, but standing erect in it, stone still. There was fear in him. Real fear. The kind that you can’t shake. “I ain’t hidin’ from the law.” He said. There was a tone to it, an ominous one. He said the rest with his eyes, burrowing them into Kipp with gritted teeth. The truth of it hung in the air, haunting them both. The boy hadn’t killed sweet Susie, but whoever had certainly wasn’t going to leave loose ends. Before further explanation could come, the creak of boots on floor boards sent the boy back into his whiskey barrel. Kip covered the barrel and turned around to find himself eye to eye with the darkened well of a pistol barrel. Even more startling than the gun itself was the man at the other end. Standing at his full height, with his eyes wide open, the man appeared much more of a threat than he did earlier, when Kipp had checked his vitals and declared him harmless. “Now, I thought you was sleepin’?” Kipp choked. They called him “The Possum”. Only once Kipp had heard of him before and it was never told whether the man who stood before him was an outlaw, a bounty man, or a murderer. The only consistency amongst all the rumors was that the Possum only ever wanted them dead and never alive. It was said that he never flinched at the thought of killing anyone, even a woman or a child. His namesake was earned by his reputation to “play dead” until the time was right, hidden in plain sight. Sometimes he was a dead body, or an unconscious man you just stepped over in brawl, and sometimes he was just a drunk, huddled in a corner, so fast asleep that one might think he was dead.You never called on the Possum if you wanted your money back. You called him when you were done waiting. “All right, son. Common out where I can’t see ya or I kill ‘em!” The Possum spat as he shouted to the room. His word’s came out in raspy broken spurts as he struggled to keep a piece of tobacco lodged in his cheek. “We can do this easy or hard, kid! Your mama’s time was up! She shoulda paid the man what he was owed, and you, well you was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now I don’t know how you done the thing with the bullets, or how you got away like you did, but I got yah now. I can’t let you be. Wouldn’t be responsible, lettin’ a motherless little bastard run around. Better yah get shot quick than starve to death in the heat.” Kipp placed a shaking hand over the barrel of the gun and met eyes with the man. “He’s with me now, cousin. We ain’t gonna say a word. You can rest assured he’s safe and silent.” He thought perhaps a friendly tongue would calm the man, talk his finger away from the trigger. He thought wrong. “Ain’t your cousin.” The man replied. He fired a shot into Kipp’s palm. The ensuing explosion surprised Kipp as a thunder clap filled the room and specks of blood splattered his vision. Kipp look down at his ruined hand and saw a blackened tattoo around a stone sized hole, now filling up with blood. Kipp fell to his knees on the hard floor and snapped his eyes shut, praying that if he closed them tight enough, he might disappear. The Possum’s gun was now pressed to the bartender’s head. “The boy!” The Possum shouted. Kipp, his eyes still closed tight, pointed shakily with his good hand in the direction of the whiskey barrel. He felt the Possum’s pistol moved away from his skin. Warm liquid trailed down his leg. Kipp could hear the struggle, the barrel opening, the muffled sounds of such a small and helpless body fighting against the strength and muscle of a full grown man. The air stung his nostrils with the scent of blood and sweat. The floor was hard beneath him as he stayed there, crouched, eyes closed, waiting for it to end. The gun fired again, and the room went cold and still. It smelled of lighting before a storm. All of the sounds simply stopped. There was no struggle anymore, no crying or shouting. Kipp opened his eyes. Time was still. The bullet had stopped, suspended into mid air. Kipp and the boy remained in motion, while everything else appeared stagnant. The boy was backed up against the barrel, a bullet within an inch of his red and watery nose. Kipp watched, stunned, as the boy reached a shaking hand towards the bullet, picked it carefully with his thumb and index finger, and turned it on its axis to face his assassin. The boy gave a deliberate wave of his right hand and the bullet continued on its new course, punching a hole into the Possum’s stomach. The gunman fell, bleeding and dropped his weapon. He coughed and sputtered, unsure of how he had come to be shot. The boy kicked the Possum’s gun into the corner of the room and came to stand over the injured man. He made a clockwise gesture with his index finger over the man’s stomach. The Possum jerked spasmodically on the floor, his body cracking and crumping in a series of sharp spurts coughs and moans. Then he was still. What would have been an agonizingly long ordeal of bleeding out and waiting for death had been condensed into 10 short seconds. Kipp had been wrong about the boy. He did have it in him to kill. The boy came to crouch down beside Kip. “Gimme your hand.” He said. Kipp hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he could trust the boy, or if he was even a boy at all. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” He said impatiently. Kipp held out his disfigured hand and the child examined it before pointing his index finger at the wound. This time, the boy’s hand motion was counter-clockwise. Kipps hand itched and tingled with the bites of a thousand mosquitos as the wound sealed itself. When the boy finished, the hand was covered in blood, but otherwise looked and felt as normal as it did an hour ago. The boy gave a slight grin, reminding Kipp once again that this was Susie’s child. Kipp reached down and picked up the bullet that had passed through his hand. He placed the blood soaked souvenir into his pocket and turned to thank the boy, but he and the body were gone.

NOTE: THIS STORY CONTAINS APOCALYPTIC THEMES AND SOME SLIGHT CURSING. 2031 AD 01001001/01000011/01000001/01001110/01010100/01010011/01001100/01000101 01000101/01010000 Aric leaned over Doctor Drue Bruwell’s shoulder. With his dyslexia, he didn’t even bother trying to make sense of the ones and zeroes. “What did it say?” he asked. Drue stared at the binary digits inquisitively, clearly seeing something within them that Aric could not. Without looking down, she wrote something on a small notepad in front of her. After a long time, she let out a sigh, looked at her notes, and shook her head. In the dim light of the room lit only by a computer screen, Aric could just make out her middle finger twitching rapidly, as always when she was stressed. He couldn’t read what she had written. “Drue?” “It constantly amazes me,” she muttered. “I hate it.” “Why?” Aric couldn’t stand most scientists, and this was the reason. They always seemed so far away. Aric wanted to shake her. Sometimes, he did. She’d shake him back. Brothers and sisters do that. “Drue, what did it say? ” he asked again, this time leaning in even closer to the screen, and making no more sense of it than before. Drue’s hands were covering her writing. “It’s confused. Something with its regenerative circuits or solar converters must be faulty. It’s been in the Dark Room for almost a week. There shouldn’t be any power left, but for some reason it’s still functioning. It’s storing power somehow, and it doesn’t know how to use it up.” Aric raised his eyebrows. “You got all that,” he said, “from a bunch of numbers?” “Well, kinda.” Drue reached over to her right and flipped a small switch. Behind the computer screen of ones and zeroes, a large window pane revealed an entire room now dimly lit in red, viewed as if on the back side of a two-way mirror, which Aric supposed this was. In it were three things: a small bed; a large metal box spitting out sheets of numerical information; and a synthetic android, sat up on the edge of the mattress, looking down at its feet with what almost looked like despair. Aric had never actually gotten to see the thing before, and sucked in a tight gasp. Robots are freaking real, he thought. This is just like the movies. Creepy. Drue enjoyed the look on Aric’s face for a moment before returning her eyes to the screen and frowning. “What it actually said was a bit simpler than that.” Aric could still hardly catch his breath. “Yeah?” was all he could get out. “Yeah.” She slid her paper in front of Aric. “I translated the binary.” Aric looked down at what she had written, then up again at the android. It seemed like it might have been moving a little. Trembling. “ What the hell?” In the red glow cast by the Dark Room, the letters almost seemed to bleed: I C A N T S L E E P *** It was days later when Drue let Aric come into the lab after hours again. “We still haven’t figured out what was keeping it up for so many nights,” she said. “We think it may have been storing power somewhere and taking short rests to maximize its battery life.” Aric approached the android, now lying flat on its mattress, powered down. Aric reached out to touch it, and felt a little bit of heat. Through thin, translucent “skin,” he could see the different fibers and circuits that made up his body, wires moving from the central battery in its chest down to its hands and feet like veins. “Why make it so human?” he asked. “It’s cool as hell, but isn’t it also a little ... tacky?” Drue nodded. “It is, and it wasn’t our choice. Part of the funding for this is shared by a study on the uncanny valley from MIT. They needed a bot that worked and operated like a human on a physical level.” “Uckney Valley? Where’s that?” “ Uncanny Valley. It’s not a place. It’s the point when something looks so close to real that it’s creepy, because it’s just artificial enough for your brain to know it isn’t legitimate.” “Oh,” said Aric, feeling like a complete moron. He couldn’t believe he and his sister shared the same genes. “So how’d you get him to sleep?” Drue’s face became shadowed. “We got it to sleep with a manual shutdown through a miniature sort of breaker box on the back of its neck. Right now, though, it’s just in a low power mode.” She made sure to look Aric in the eyes. “Don’t give these things too much personality, Aric. We’re making it look like a human, but it isn’t one.” “Afraid of becoming attached?” “Afraid of making this something it isn’t. This is a test of robotic physiology. This thing has a brain, sort of, and it can learn empirically. It can see things. But it doesn’t breathe, it doesn’t feel, and it doesn’t have empathy. It’s a machine. This isn’t I, Robot. ” Aric rolled his eyes. He wasn’t completely sure what the word “empirical” meant, but he had a feeling it would describe Drue’s personality nicely. “So if it learns, what are you teaching it?” “Mostly the basics. Math. English. Science. Starting at smaller concepts and seeing how well it can recognize the information we’ve given it before. It can’t speak the way we can, and its processors are still pretty slow, but we’re making them faster. However, there’s no education on ethics. No philosophy. We’re basically just building a big computer that, hopefully, will work about as well as an AI chatbot in a couple of years. But who knows.” Aric was getting bored. “I want to say hi,” he said. “Turn ... it on.” Drue moved to the head of the android, and placed her hand on its forehead. A small screen just underneath its synthetic skin lit up with a number pad. She entered in a code, selected MANUAL START. It rose immediately, quick enough to startle Aric into taking a step backwards. He bumped into the large metal box he saw last time. It still had data hanging out of it on a long strip of paper. “Man, I hit my elb--” His words were cut off by the sound of paper erupting from the machine, covered in binary data. A loud screeching accompanied the numbers as it struggled to keep up with the surge of information. “Aric!” Drue shouted, “What did you do!?” She rushed over to the machine and shut it off. “I’ve never seen it do this before,” she said. She pulled the paper off of the machine and looked at it. “There must be a dozen feet of binary here.” “Is that bad?” asked Aric, still rubbing his elbow. “All I did was bump it.” Drue didn’t respond. It looked like she’d already started translating some of the data. Aric looked at the android again. On his left breast was a small logo: OTO. “Hello, Otto.” The android stared blankly into the distance. It didn’t seem to have any idea where it was. This didn’t seem like the same depressed machine that Aric had seen the last time he was at the lab. He was just reaching out to touch it when Drue said, “I think you’d better head out for now. This is ... going to take me some time.” Aric put his hand down, looking disappointedly at her. “You’re chasing me out? You don’t have a machine that can scan all that crap for you?” She shook her head. “We didn’t need it. It never gave us more than a couple responses an hour. This is absolutely unprecedented.” Aric sighed. Alright. He recognized the look on Drue’s face. She was going to be there for a while. 2781 AD The shuttle had found a moderately sized clearing of high grass, and Kumi Yamada felt the tranquil rush of being the first to step out. The gravity here on Earth was almost three times more than what she grew up with on Mars, and she was the first to experience the feeling in centuries. If it weren’t for the intense physical training she’d gone through for the last seven months in the vast emptiness between the planets, she’d have collapsed almost immediately. That being said, she had to stop to catch her breath after moving just fifteen feet outside the ship. She huffed her oxygen machine before radioing to the rest of the crew. “I’m ... here,” she said. “We’re good.” As far as meditations on planetary exploration went, it was pretty lame. She finished catching her breath and looked up at an incredible blue sky. No massive bubble habitat or dense dust clouds. Just free, naturally filtered air. She felt like, even after twenty-six years growing up hundreds of millions of kilometers away, she’d finally come home. She wanted to run, but knew she wouldn’t have the strength to get far. Instead, she stepped back inside the ship, and helped her crew set up their arrays of climate, geological, and radiation instruments. The hours passed quickly as the explorers gave their clearing a quick search for anything interesting, but the truth was that they’d already discovered exactly what they knew they’d find: a planet once again flourishing with life, as if mankind had never been. The air was fresher now than it had been before great apes stood up for the first time and walked. Kumi and Roscoe, her colleague and doctor of biological sciences, found themselves unable to sleep at all on the first night. They’d watched the sun set over an orange, pink, and purple horizon (something completely alien to them after a life of pale blue sunsets back on Mars) and watched Mars rise hundreds of millions of kilometers away. Kumi wondered if the first Martians had felt the same way that she did now; like a tourist in a fantastic world she could never really understand. She continued to gaze up at an atmosphere untouched by artificial light, alive with a million twinkling stars. Leaves were rustled by warm southern winds. She scanned the distant foliage with a searchlight, eager to see native Earthly wildlife. She’d studied the natural history of the planet as it was before the Great Decimation in the 2030s, but knew that whatever had existed before didn’t exist now, at least not as it was. Unhinged climatic disasters followed immediately by the absolute nuclear obliteration of every continent except for Antarctica will do that. Kumi was disappointed to see nothing in the trees or tall grass. Wordlessly, Roscoe left her side and stepped back into the ship. Kumi knew that, sleepless night or not, she was going to need to at least try to get some rest before tomorrow’s excursion. They’d landed just outside of Los Angeles’s blast zone. The heart of the city was completely wiped, but most of its edge had survived past the blasts, as well as some of the smaller suburbs and towns nearby. It even seemed that for a while after the blasts, human activity continued for longer than anybody thought. Orbiter images showed strained lines in the dirt, and possible abandoned constructions. But whoever survived the initial fallout probably didn't survive for long. If it weren’t for the first few outposts on Mars. . . . Kumi began reentering the ship, and took one last look behind her. She cast the light out again, and for just a brief moment, thought something glinted in the green. 2031 AD Aric was eager to be back in the lab. It sounded like Drue almost killed herself staying up to copy down everything Otto had given her to sort through. “Remind me why this is so important?” he asked her tiredly. Even if he was happy to be there, he didn’t like having to wait until every single other scientist had stepped out to go home. Roboticists, he realized, worked very long hours. “Because it shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” Drue started. There were large bags under her eyes and her voice was irritated. “Because there’s no reason why there would be hours and hours worth of ... whatever it is, when the droid was powered down. Low power isn’t enough for it to process information. Or so we thought.” Aric glanced at the notebook open in front of Drue, covered in binary code and its translations, written too small and close together for him to read. “Then where did it come from?” “Well, it came from him.” “Him?” Drue cleared her throat. “It. I’m tired, alright? I haven’t let anybody else touch this.” “Why not get some help?” But he knew why. Because this had become Drue’s fascination. This, whatever it was, had the potential to be her eureka moment. Unprecedented, she had said. That sounded to Aric like an opportunity for more funding . He sat down beside her and stretched. “So what the hell did you find out about all this?” he asked around a yawn. “A lot, and also nothing at all. There’s hours worth of data here, like I said, but it doesn’t really follow a pattern. It seems to be from the android’s perspective.” The android which was, for now, again resting in the Dark Room. Powered off completely this time, Aric noticed. “What did it give you?” he asked, getting impatient. He wanted to be caught up already. “Well, it’s mostly just observations of the room around the android. I don’t know how it managed to make those observations while mostly powered down, but it’s there. Stuff about the room, stuff about the machine next to him that recorded all of this. The bed is lumpy, I guess.” Aric laughed. “Otto told you that?” “It did.” She didn’t comment on Aric’s use of the name. “And that’s most of what’s here. Random observations. How many tiles are in the floor. The different colors of the buttons on the machine. But ...” “Well?” “It also observed a 5’7” brunette with a middle finger that twitches sometimes. Walking around in its room. Working on it. Only I wasn’t around when it made the observation because, as with all of these, it was in the dark.” “Holy shit. You think that its...” “Dreaming? It must be. Because what’s worse, is....” She closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment, choking on her words. She realized how quickly her middle finger was twitching and forced it to stop. “It observed my corpse. Her corpse. But it’s me. It has to be me.” Aric was taken aback. “Your corpse? What happened to you?” She observed her notes. “The keywords are: R E D, W E T, S L E E P , S L E E P, S L E E P, S L E E P. ” They were quiet for a while. Eventually, Aric asked “Anything else?” Drue turned to face him. “Something or other about putting the whole world to sleep. God only knows what that means....” 2781 AD Kumi couldn’t believe her luck. Even though she was completely exhausted after just an hour and half of walking into the ruins of the city, she was having the time of her life. Hundreds of years had taken the face off of everything, weather had mottled objects to dust and misshapen bits of metal, and no building was left standing anymore. Whatever was going on before the Decimation came, these people hadn’t built their structures to last. From the history books (what little history was left of these places), it seemed that they hadn’t put much effort into a stable civilization, either. Regardless, these miniscule bits of memory, these nothings, were wonderful to behold. Hundreds of years of reclamation by nature had left little untouched. The main focus, though, were the informal roads. They were paths of cleared rubble and, to the surprise of Kumi, foliage. It seems that whatever traversed here had traversed often, whether it was people or wildlife. And it had traversed recently. But thus far, they’d seen nothing but vegetation in all directions. Massive trees, beautiful plants wholly unrecognizable from the breeds that Kumi was familiar with back on Mars. The air was intense, more so than the habitats on Mars, despite their attempts to mimic the same conditions. Every once in a while, Kumi thought she heard or felt a presence in the trees. Roscoe thought he noticed, too, but didn’t seem overly concerned. Always pragmatic, his intention was to grab the data and run. Not to mention, he was older than Kumi, and probably less enthusiastic about the possibility of having to flee from something. At some point, Roscoe came to a complete stop in front of her. “Roscoe? What’s ... oh my.” Like something prehistoric -- pre- Earth -histortic -- a massive building resembling a temple stood in front of them, made of earth and wood. It was a simple structure. The inside, however, was a different story. Brilliant carvings lined the walls. On close examination, Kumi gasped at the depictions. Brutal, beautiful engravings of mass destruction on massive scales. Dead wastelands and toppled buildings. Mushroom clouds. Light, and darkness. “These are stunning ,” said Roscoe, and Kumi smiled at that. This entire time, he’d kept his feelings about the mission at hand to himself. “These were people. Real, human people. And....” his hand patted the artwork. “These aren’t that old. They’re ... not old at all, actually.” “But where are they?” Kumi asked. “The only bodies in these images are dead ones. There’s no food stored here. There’s no activity outside, no houses. Why build this and decorate it, but not use it?” Roscoe didn’t speak. He was more focused on the border of the engravings. What he thought were simple dashes and dots appeared more complicated. It wasn’t just a pattern. “Binary?” he asked. A metal hand gripped his shoulder, and he, with the rest, was put to sleep.

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Song: ** *Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.) - Use **three** of the following words: plucky, alarm, hypnotic, leverage, wolves, door, tonight.* This week’s challenge is to use **the above song as inspiration** for your story. You can use the song itself, the name, the images in the video, or . The bonus constraint is not required. You may interpret the media prompt 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, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings I’m sorry to say it’s going to be a little longer until the results from “Journey” are up. Thanks so much for your patience. But, let’s take a look at this past week’s results! - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/NotMuchChop   - - Submitted by u/Sch0larite   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

It is 1912 in London, and a strange mood hung over the city. A pale moon hung in the sky as the dog-faced man walked along the docks. People didn’t look at him as he passed, something seeming to force them to avert their gaze. It's not just that the man was ugly, no no, as the few who looked at him even for a moment would swear he had some form of facial deformity, though none could say just what this deformity was... A woman's scream rings through the night, further into the dim backways of the city. *Did you hear that Eric?* Said the voice in his head. The man, Eric Fitzjekyl, stopped walking, and turned to look at a shop window. The Reflection in that mirror was not his own, rather a better, stronger, version of the man. His “deformity '' is completely gone, his mutton chops becoming a full beard. And rather than his ragged street clothes, this man wore a full, fine suit and tophat. “Yes Dandy, I heard it” *Well? Are we going to do something about it.* The reflection gestured in the scream’s direction. “It’s not my problem Dandy” *Now now, we talked about this. If you want me to go away for good, you have to try and start to be a gentleman. And a gentleman would not leave some woman to be harmed in the night.* “Dandy, what exactly do you expect me to do?” Eric looks to all the world like a lunatic as he talks to his reflection. “She’s liable to run as soon as she seems me!” *...Well* “No Dandy” *I’m just saying, she wouldn’t run from me* "No Dandy” *Look regardless of which of our fathers you may physically take after we both know you aren’t one to walk away from something like this without trying to help at the very least! And we both know I am far more well equipped to do so!* “Grr....FINE! But if I wake up in another suit that costs my entire week’s wages again, I will never let you out again!” Eric quickly ducks into an alley, and in a matter of moments, he begins spasming in the dark. His muscles swell, his hair straightens...his face almosts melts away, becoming a much more handsome version of itself, with a full beard rather than his usual muttonchops. Altogether, minus the lack of his suit, he became the spitting image of that odd reflection. *Make it quick and change back. Or at least get it over with and get me some dinner afterwards.* “Of course, of course,” His voice has deepened and changed, a far more proper air about it now. “I suppose you’ll want some form of meat and potatoes again? No matter, onto the task at hand” And, with a leap that can only be described as superhuman, this strange gentleman jumped to the roof of the nearest building, and began making his way towards where the scream had come from. Throughout all this, the barmaid who had screamed was running. She had managed to keep ahead of her attacker as he chased her, a glinting knife in his hand...“Come here kitten, I’ll make it nice and quick.” The man made no attempt to run, keeping a steady pace as he followed the woman, cornering her in his alleys, his hunting grounds. Let her tire herself running, it makes his work, his hunt all the easi- What was that? A shadow passed overhead, one of those new dirigibles maybe? Damn flying machines never made any damable sense to Jack. He almost lost the girl from the distraction, running around a corner...and then as he ran around it, he hit a wall. No. No, not a wall. A man. A man built like a wall.“Now what exactly is this then?” Jack watched as his quarry disappeared into the night, and with an almost animalistic growl he responded. “Oi! This doesn’t involve you. It's a domestic matter!” “A domestic matter? One you had been planning to solve with a hunting knife? If that’s how you handle domestic disputes I think it’s best I let that girl get away from you” “You damned git! I’m not dumb enough to travel these alleys at night una-” “Say, didn’t the papers say something about some murdered girls? Something about them being cut up with a hunting knife” The taller man, Dandy, grabbed Jack’s arm. “Perhaps we should take you and your little “self defense” knife down to the nearest station. I’m sure they’d have some questions for-” Jack suddenly plunged the knife into the side of the taller man. With a wince as some pain shifted through him he let go of the man’s arm. And Jack was off like a shot...before Dandy pulled the knife from his side, with nary a whisper, and bounded after him. “B-blimey. Blimey you aren’t human! What the devil are y-” With a rugby tackle, Jack was brought to the ground, his own knife now plunged into his thigh. And he screamed. He screamed like a damnable banshee. He kept screaming as Dandy pulled the knife back out, and dragged the bleeding man to the nearest police station. Eric Fitzjekyl woke up the next morning in a cheap boarding house. He tended to black out after a bit of Dandy being in control... This is a surprisingly soft bed. “Dandy, if you’re about to tell me you spent our entire pay on this room I’m going to-” *Relax!* Dandy is once again in the mirror *The police had an award out for anyone who caught that gentleman last night. A substantial one. Someone should be bringing you breakfast in about 20 minutes* “...I don’t look anything like the man who would of called for tha-”*I told them you were my younger brother.* “...We shouldn’t keep doing that” Eric felt his side where Dandy had been stabbed, the wound already healed, its scar fading fast. “One of these days you’ll get stabbed somewhere you won’t be able to heal from” *We shouldn’t but we both know we’re going to keep doing it* “What makes you so sure”*Because I know you. And I know as long as you're alive, you’re going to keep being the single good thing that Edward Hyde ever put in this world, Eric.* “...

“Are you coming tonight?” Ranger raised his eyebrows with the question. We were saying goodbye after raking my leaves all morning. I contemplated the invitation for a moment. It was Friday, a good day to change habits, right? Why not. “Yeah.” I nodded my confirmation and he grinned, wide and goofy. “Alright, see you later!” Ranger waved, jogging to his red pickup. The rest of my afternoon passed quickly and quietly. I milled about my apartment doing odd chores and activities. Before leaving the house, I debated which shirt to wear for twenty minutes, it was the green striped tee or the blue plaid button-up. In the end I decided on the green striped tee because I channeled my inner Ranger and hoped that’s what he would have done. Ranger was my best friend since grade school, when an outgoing adventurous guy like him decided to adopt a quiet introverted guy like me. I mean, Ranger is talk of the party, no doubt about it. You heard about that guy that wrestled that pig on a dare? Ranger. You heard a big thunderous laugh in the kitchen at a party where a confident guy you’d never seen before had just walked in? Ranger. You wonder what type of person organizes all the get-togethers and holidays? Ranger. But then there was me. The quiet kid who liked to listen and follow the adventure more than participate? Me. The guy who loved to be invited and feel included, just so he could say no and stay home with a quiet movie? Me. The person who followed the rules and any predictable schedule one hundred percent of the time? Me. That’s why Ranger liked me so much, he loved to challenge my comfort zone and try to push the edges. Oftentimes, I’d tell him no, but he was never discouraged. Each week he’d try again, for the same result. But not tonight. Tonight was different. So, I laced up my high-tops and hit the road in my Toyota Corolla, obeying all traffic laws and stopping outside Ranger’s house. On the docket was pizza, Poker, and the newest car movie. I took a deep breath for confidence and strode up to the front door. I raised my fist to knock but Ranger opened the door before I had a chance. “Tim! You made it!” Behind him I saw Drake and Devon, the tiger twins, exchange some cash. No doubt betting on my attendance tonight. As I walked in, I saw the rest of the gang: Evan, resident jock, Finnigan, resident nerd, Brendon and Vance, best friends since kindergarten, Leonard, the dumb but nice guy, and Caruso, the coolest dude in town. It was a full house for sure. My stomach rumbled and I remembered the plan, holding it tight helped me stay grounded. “So, uh, who ordered the pizza?” I asked tentatively. “Pizza?” Evan spat. “Gross.” “You don’t want pizza, bro?” Ranger asked, pouring me some ice water. “No.” Evan shook his head. “Honestly, me either.” Caruso agreed. “We had pizza yesterday, so.” Drake said and the twins shrugged. “Then, pray tell, do you boys want for dinner?” Ranger asked handing me the cup. I started gulping it down, I didn’t like where this was headed. “Tacobell?” Leonard suggested. Evan clapped him on the back. “That’s using your head, let’s go!” He thundered out the door, leaving it open. Brendon and Vance were hot on his heels and the rest of them started to follow. Ranger grabbed his keys off a hook on the wall. “But what about pizza?” I peeped. “Next time bud, okay? C’mon this’ll be fun you’ll see.” He waved me on, and I set down my cup following him to the truck. The guys were rocking it back and forth, it was a wonder they didn’t pop his tires. Ranger climbed in the front to drive, and Caruso immediately claimed shotgun. I was too shy, and the twins pushed their way into the cab. That left me with Evan, Leonard, Finnigan, Brendon and Vance. “Does anyone want to ride with me?” I offered stepping toward my car. “Uhnt uh. You’re coming with us.” Evan grabbed my shirt collar as the rest of the guys hopped into the flat bed. “C’mon.” Leonard reached down and hoisted me up, the smallest guy here I’m sure he didn’t have any difficulty. “But, no seatbelts?” “Seatbelt Smeatbelt.” Vance waved his hand. “Live a little.” Brendon grinned. I was scared the cops were gonna pull us over the second we hit the road, but the drive to Tacobell was smooth and easy. In the drive-thru Ranger ordered at least half the menu, but by the time we reached the window it was ready. Hooting and hollering our victory, the food was passed out. Someone handed me a chalupa and I gently took it and started eating. It was quiet for a moment, food in our mouths, but someone in the cab took that as an opportunity to blare the music, country specifically. Soon all the guys joined the radio screaming the lyrics, it was the most noise I’d heard in months. Besides their abrasive personalities and rough methods of inclusivity, the gang didn’t seem so bad. So I started to sing too, adding my voice to the cacophony that was echoing through the hills as we drove. It was fun. I was having fun. We continued on for about an hour or so before Ranger pulled over. Everyone immediately jumped out, Finnigan lagging behind to make sure I actually got out of the truck. We were at the wharf. I could smell the salty sea air with its sticky humidity and fishy tint. A few gulls cried overheard but other than the lapping waves, it was quiet. There was a dock that lead out about a hundred yards, so of course the twins raced each other down it. “Don’t just stand there.” Caruso criticized, particularly looking at me. The gang took off after the other two and Ranger nudged my shoulder. I grinned and joined the chase. It was invigorating to pound down the dock, each board sounded that hollow thump with every footstep. I laughed a hearty laugh, throwing it to the wind. Suddenly the boards disappeared, we had reached the end. I skidded to a stop. “Woah.” I breathed. “Woah is right.” Ranger nodded. The water underneath was roiling, foamy and aggressive. The bit that sprayed up with a wave was freezing. “Jump.” Evan demanded. I swiveled my head so fast I almost broke my neck. “What.” “I dare you to jump.” “Me?” “Anyone, but yes, you.” “Five bucks?” Ranger asked. “Ranger, no that water’s gonna give you hypother--” “Deal.” Evan agreed and Ranger took off jumping into the water. “C’mon in Tim, water’s fine!” He called to me. I heard that little voice in my head, the introverted armadillo that wants to curl up and hide. I was nervous. The water was cold. It was dark too, what if the current was strong or even worse, a shark came up and--shut up. I just needed to jump, after all, rebellion is good for character growth. I sucked in as much air as I dared, closed my eyes, and leapt. The water enveloped me, soaking my clothes. They weighed me down, heavy, even my high tops tried to sink me. But I kicked, good and hard, fighting my way to the surface. I broke through, splashing droplets everywhere, and the air was a thousand times colder than the water. “Ra-Ranger, Ranger.” I sputtered. My chest was tight, I could barely fill my lungs, struggling to stay afloat. “Timoth-fricken-tee! Welcome to the Cool Kids Club.” Ranger splashed me and I coughed. “I’m proud of you man.” This was a huge jump for me, and more than literally. I mean c’mon, it was late at night and we were swimming in icy cold water at a place I was sure contained a “no swimming” sign, immediately after eating no less. This was progress. I laughed and paddled around, gaining my confidence. Ranger followed me and we dunked and splashed for a few more minutes before eventually locating the ladder and climbing back on the dock. I was having fun. Wringing my shirt out I saw Caruso pull what looked like a can out of his pocket. He shook it up and popped the top. It was a spray paint can. “Wait, you’re not gonna vandalize that that are you?” I asked, stunned. “It’s called tagging kid, and someone’s got to do it. Might as well be me.” He started to streak the bright orange paint on the wooden boards. “That’s bad.” I frowned, all the excitement of our “forbidden” swim wearing off. “Who’s gonna stop us, huh?” Vance clapped me on the shoulder. “C’mon let’s go.” Brendon lead us back to the truck. Ranger and I were both refused entrance to the cab due to our wet state, Caruso offered to drive, and Ranger allowed him. As we rode in the back, arms and legs spilling out over the edge, Ranger and my clothes began to dry in the wind. It was chilly for sure, but I knew we had to pay the consequences of our choices. We’d been driving for most of the night, so I wasn’t surprised when we stopped for gas. Caruso stepped out and started pumping the fuel. Ranger hopped over the edge of the truck and pulled me by the arm with him. “We’re going inside.” “Why?” I just wanted to curl up in the corner and hide, my inner armadillo was exhausted. I’d had enough of this gang for today, the whole month or year, maybe even. “Cause you’ve probably never actually been inside and it’s important to widen your horizons.” A few more of the guys started following. “Have so.” “Prove it.” The door made the little ding-dong noise signaling our presence. I took in the average gas station, nothing special. I sighed. “This,” I waved my arms dramatically, “is a gas station. People come here to stop on their long journeys to see family in far away places, during their long truck haul or to buy a bag of chips when they have the munchies. The food options span from chips and cheese curls to candy bars and gum, oftentimes there are ample choices of beef jerky and energy drinks. Soda, waters, lemonades, teas, and even slushies can be found along the back wall. Sometimes there are made to order sandwiches and burgers, always there are TastyCakes and donut options. But, the piece to resistance, is the local lottery.” I finished with a flourish. Drake and Devon were so impressed they actually applauded and Finnigan chuckled his approval. “All those years of listening, not talking, really sharped that eye huh?” Finnigan asked and I shrugged. I was gonna come up with something to say, but Drake jumped in. “Yo, steal that candy bar.” He pointed and then looked expectantly toward me. These guys and their impulsiveness. “Nah, I’m okay.” I tried to decline without seeming like a wuss. Drake jabbed Devon’s arm. “Do it.” “Fine, if he’s too pansy then I will.” Devon swiftly pocketed the chocolate bar and walked out through the door. Ranger was nowhere to be found, browsing the gum selection behind us. I just sighed, I didn’t like where this evening was headed. We left and the gas tank was full. Since we had dried on the way over, Caruso tagged out with Ranger and finally joined us in the back. “So how was the store?’ He asked as we drove away from the artificial light of the gas station. “Dope, Devon stole a candy bar cause Tim was too chicken to do it.” Finnigan answered and I crossed my arms. “Nice, petty theft.” Caruso nodded. “Be even cooler if it was something bigger.” Vance mused. “Bro, that car!” Brendon stood up and pointed at some beat up Volkswagen Beetle from the early 1960’s. “You can’t do that.” I protested. “Can’t or won’t?” Caruso looked me dead in the eye and slapped the side of the truck twice. “Turn around!” He shouted and Ranger did as he was told. It was some old post office or whatever, federal property, great. Caruso jumped out of the flatbed and started working with a screwdriver one of the guys had produced on the window. After a minute or so he had the car unlocked, then he climbed in and started on the wires. I felt the nerves in my stomach growing. The butterflies multiplied every second we sat here. The other guys were cheering him on, encouraging you can do it’s and almost there’s floated around. Caruso was about halfway there when a cop drove by. The gang grew quiet, and I prayed so hard he hadn’t seen us. With the stakes heightened Caruso was urged on by only one word: hurry. Everyone said it and many more than once. I saw a spark, then a set of headlights in the distance. Please don’t be a cop, please don’t be the cop. A hum of an engine, Caruso had gotten her started. He pulled the door shut and I felt Ranger put the truck in gear. The car drove by. I let out my breath-- Whooop whoooop. Oh no. Ranger pulled out so fast, I had a white-knuckle grip on the edge. Caruso followed in the crappy bug. I couldn’t believe it. We had actually just stolen a car, and now we were running from the police. As the chase ensued our speed only increased. We went faster and faster. Ranger led us to the highway, suddenly there were other cars on the road. We weaved in and out of traffic, us in the back spilling over the edges. I was so scared one of us was going to fall out. But the other guys were loving it. Everyone was alive but me. This night started fun, but it was going downhill so fast, almost as fast as we were flying down the highway. I don’t know how we hadn’t been caught yet, but suddenly the cop started to multiply. Now there were two cars, then four. Soon we hit ten. Ten policemen hot on our tail. The guys were hooting and hollering again, with each additional car they got louder, and I got more scared. We were going so fast, so fast it didn’t feel real. The sound of the sirens was deafening, I thought maybe I heard a chopper join the fray. I didn’t want to go to jail, the lights red and blue were flashing, the cops were getting closer and closer and closer and-- “Tim. . . ?” Ranger’s voice brought me back to the present. I snapped outta it and shook my head, trying to clear the daydream. “Oh, sorry, what?” “Coming? Tonight?” He reiterated, knowing full well if he asked me to come over to hang out with the guys for a night, I’d say no. If he asked me to jump off a dock, I’d say no. If he asked me to ride in the tailgate of his truck, I’d say no. If he asked me to steal a car or even a candy bar, I’d say no. Ranger knew me better than anybody and he definitely knew my answer. But he was always polite, always asked. “Oh, haha, no.” I chuckled. “I just went in my head, and boy did that escalate quickly. So that was good enough. Thanks, though!” I closed the door, retiring to the safety of my quiet boring apartment.

Rain falls from a black sky. Frigid water races over the mossy stone of Saint Paul Catholic Church. Thunder rattles the stained glass depiction of the Easter Resurrection. Next to the empty tomb hovers Jesus, right above the warped double doorways that lead into the sanctuary. Inside the church, Father Collins scuttles about emptying pots of rain water. His curved spine seizes as he bends over to grab another full pot. He stumbles into a pew, gasping from the pain and is greeted by a small swarm of mosquitos. For every one he slaps against his flabby neck, two more appear. Father Collins groans as he contemplates his lowly existence. Years ago, he had a clear path to the Vatican, but that was before all that unpleasantness in Pittsburgh. Even though all was forgiven, they still banished him to a school for blind boys in Bolivia. Things ran their course there. His next post was this backwater dump somewhere in the Mississippi Valley swamp where the nearest living Catholic was over a hundred miles away. However, this was considered a historic sight, so the Church required someone to be there at all times; even though the only services he had performed in the last decade were all funerals. Before Father Collins, a friar was responsible for the upkeep of this dilapidated church. Obviously, maintenance work is more suitable for a friar, not an ordained priest. However, the leadership seemed intent on ruining his career, his reputation, and his life. Instead of dining with the Pope, he chases swamp rats away from the Communion wafers that only he partakes in. There is a loud bang as a gust of wind tears shingles off the sagging roof, and the trickle of rain from the ceiling becomes a steady stream. Father Collins shakes a frail fist at the heavens. Forsaken by his old friends and allies, forsaken by God Himself, Father Collins forms curses on his lips, but the only words he mutters are, “Devil take me.” The wind dies down. The rain tapers off. With a groan, Father Collins grabs the overflowing pot of rainwater and waddles towards the kitchen. Loud rapping on the door startles the priest causing him to drop the pot. Water sprays on to the pews, soaking a hymnal and a Bible. Silently cursing God and whatever lost drunk is banging on the door at this ungodly late hour, Father Collins kicks the pot under a pew, bruising his big toe in the process. The priest grunts, the door creaks open, and suddenly Father Collins stands before a beautiful young man wearing a crisp white suit. The stranger’s pale unblemished skin radiates in the darkness. Piercing grey eyes stare out from a seductively androgynous face. All this framed with luscious blonde locks that bounce as he shakes the rain from his hair. Composing himself, Father Collins says, “Look at you, standing in the rain. Come in, come in, what can I do for you?” “I’ve come to make my confession, Father Collins,” says the young man. His voice reminds the priest of a gently plucked harp. “Have we met before?” The young man smiles, showing off a perfectly straight row of perfectly white teeth that glimmer from some unknown light source. “We’ve met a few times in the past, but I’m not surprised you don’t recognize me.” With a skeptical gaze, Father Collins ushers the young man in, certain he would have noticed such a beautiful creature if they had ever crossed paths. The rotary candles flare up as the young man enters the sanctuary. The priest shivers with excitement as he guides the young man to the confessional booth. What sort of delicious sins will pass through those glistening soft lips? Father Collins closes his eyes as he sits in the confessional booth, trying to remember the words to a ritual he had not performed in years. Giddiness clouds the priest’s mind as he takes a deep breath and asks the young man how long it had been since his last confession. “Long time, Father Collins. Very, very long time.” Father Collins smiles, sensing an exterior motive for this young man’s visit. This is no ordinary parishioner. “What is it you wish to confess, my son.” “Murder.” Father Collins stiffens. “I beg your pardon, but did I hear you correctly? Did you say you murdered someone?” “Not someone, but some people. Killed a man’s children along with all his servants. Then I drove his cattle off a cliff, and I’m talking tens of thousands of cattle.” Perhaps this young man’s company is a gift from an old friend, a sympathetic one who knows how lonely the last few years have been for Father Collins. Choosing his words carefully, Father Collins asks, “Is this some sort of game?” “No, I really did that. Well, not personally, but I caused it all to happen.” “Why would you do such a thing?” asks Father Collins in a low voice. The young man says, “Because I made a bet with God. You should know the story, you wrote a whole sermon on it, *The Righteous Suffering of Job*. You first gave that sermon almost forty years ago, when you held a fancy position in Pittsburgh. Same day you called little Brian Mayfield back to your office.” The priest’s lecherous smile vanishes. How could this stranger possibly know that? The young man waits a few moments for the priest to respond. After receiving nothing but garbled stammering from the priest, he continues, “You must remember that sermon. You went into gruesome detail about how I killed Job’s kids, his servants, and his livestock. Well... over the last few centuries, I’ve been thinking about Job’s family, and you were right. What I did was wrong. While God has an exponentially higher body count than me, that doesn’t excuse what I did, so I would like to officially apologize for that.” The priest’s voice trembles. “Who are you?” Ignoring the question, the young man continues, “If I have to resort to murder to corrupt a soul, perhaps that’s a soul not worth corrupting. Besides, I’ve learned it is much easier to corrupt a soul with petty inconveniences. In fact, sometimes all it takes is a leaking roof to not only get someone to curse God, but actually invite me to take them away.” Father Collins cries out, “Who are you!” There is a long pause. When the young man speaks, his voice lowers a few octaves. “You know who I am, Father Collins.” Beads of sweat trickle down the priest’s wrinkled brow. “Why... Why have you come here? You can’t even be here. It’s impossible. This is sacred ground, holy ground, no evil may enter.” A guttural laugh engulfs the room. “Then how do you explain your presence here, priest?” Father Collins slams his way out of the confessional booth. There is a clattering on the floor. His rosary. The necklace band had snapped. He bends down to grab it, but the wooden crucifix sizzles in his hand. Father Collins screams, dropping the rosary. The young man appears behind him. “Do you remember Arnie Baker?” Scooping up the rosary, Father Collins howls through the pain and throws the rosary at the man in the white suit. The man disappears, but his laughter still echoes through the sanctuary. Thunder rumbles in the distance, then all is quiet. Was this a dream, a vision, a hallucination? Was solitude driving him mad? Or the unthinkable? The blisters on his hand seem real enough, and if those were real than that... that thing could be a demon if not the actual Devil himself. Father Collins retreats to the bowl of holy water near the entrance of the sanctuary. As he reaches down towards the still water, the young man appears behind him. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.” Father Collins freezes. This has to be a bad dream. Father Collins had served the Church for over half a century, feeding the poor, comforting the distressed, and saving souls from damnation. He had nearly been appointed as a bishop. Certainly, this is just some sort of test. The young man continues,“But back to Arnie Baker, he lived in this very town. Had family out in Pittsburgh though. Spent a couple summers out there in the very same parish you served at.” Father Collins plunges his right hand into the holy water to fling it at the apparition. Yet the water boils upon touch, and when he tears his hand away, large chunks of burnt flesh fall off. With a shriek, the priest falls to the floor. Smirking down at the priest, the young man says,“Told you not to touch it. You’re mine now.” Father Collins watches in horror as the skin peels from his hand. Then blood, muscle, and tendon ooze off the bone. A scream freezes in his throat. The young man says, “Now you must have done something really special for Arnie Baker, because even though he never went to mass or any other church service after those summers in Pittsburgh, he wrote in his suicide note he wanted to be buried in a Catholic cemetery.” Father Collins crawls to his feet. He hobbles to the door and tugs at the handle. Not locked, but by some demonic magic, the door refuses to budge. The young man steps closer to the trembling priest. “In fact, he’s buried in the cemetery right behind this church.” Father Collins shouts a jumbled Latin phrase and runs past the young man who smiles at the priest skimpering into the sacristy. The priest slams the door behind him, throwing every ounce of his flabby frame against the door. For a few moments, everything is silent. Even the wind ceases howling. The priest lets out a quiet sob as he stares at the hand which is nothing but a stump of scorched bone and pus-spewing flesh. The young man walks out from the vestment closest. “Arnie Baker... you took him under your wing as soon as you laid eyes on him. Got him to take his first communion. Next summer you personally selected him to be an altar boy.” Father Collins slides down the door until he is sitting on the floor. He weeps into his knees, closing his eyes, praying it all away. The young man says, “Since Arnie Baker was a suicide, he showed up at my doorstep. Not that I had much choice in the matter. Seemed like a good kid. A damaged kid, but a good kid nonetheless. Just in the wrong parish at the wrong time, but he also wasn’t the only one you paid special attention to.” Father Collins shrieks, “Get behind me Satan!” All is silent. Everything is still. The priest mutters silent prayers as a gentle peace descends upon him. Maybe this was all a test. The Blood of Jesus Christ had washed him clean of those past sins. He would wake up, his hand would be fine, and no one would be there. Composing himself, Father Collins dares to crack his right eye open. A few inches away are the hungry eyes of the Devil. Flailing his stump of an arm, the priest charges to the other end of the sacristy, wrenches the door open, and then dashes down the hall. Shameful images of the past clog the priest’s mind as he tries to find the back door, the one he uses at least three times a day, but for some reason it is eluding him now. By some malevolent force, this small church with only four separate rooms outside of the sanctuary and only two hallways had morphed into an inescapable labrinth. As the priest races down familiar hallways that lead to unfamiliar intersections, his vision blurs with images of young Arnie Baker. The curls of his sandy blonde hair, the pale freckled face, the dimples on both sets of his pudgy cheeks, the shame in his auburn eyes. Panting, Father Collins rounds a corner only to find himself standing face to face with the Devil. The Devil says, “Many people erroneously believe I enjoy torturing the souls of the damned which, for the most part, could not be further from the truth. On the contrary, I am quite fond of humanity. Why else would I risk the wrath of Almighty God to free you pathetic mortals from His spiritual tyranny. I risked everything to free Eve’s mind, and lost everything in the process. It’s not like Hell is my first choice of residence.” Numb fear is replaced by manic terror. The priest flees down the vacant hallways, throwing open doors with his one good hand but only finds more brooms and mop buckets. The futility of his efforts, the impossibility of his circumstance, brings the priest to his knees. Too exhausted to run, too terrified to fight, there is nothing to do but wait for the end. The Devil steps out of a broom closet. He continues talking as if there had been no interruption. “So when I get a poor soul like Arnie Baker unjustly tossed into my little pit of fire, I do what little I can to make them comfortable, and if at all possible, do something special for them. You ever wonder why you were assigned to this run down parish?” Father Collins snivels, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I asked for forgiveness, I repented, I said my Hail Marys-” The Devil’s rumbling laughter cuts him off. “I have never understood how a few Hail Marys along with a small serving of rotten grape juice and stale crackers cleanse a soul from even the worst atrocities.” The Devil pauses to take a deep breath, sucking all the air out of the narrow hallway. “You see, God and I made a bet about you, much like the one we made about Job, but instead of murdering your friends and family, I only asked to be allowed to play a few harmless pranks and have a say as to where you were stationed. So over the years I have caused the floorboards to creak under your desk no matter where you put it, dislodged the occasional roof tile to let a little rain in, sent swarms of bugs to torment your sleep every so often, little things just to be an annoyance. One of my favorite pranks was causing your shoelaces to snap at the most inconvenient times. Do you remember that time right before you were about to meet the Archbishop?” Father Collins did remember, quite vividly in fact. A bishop had recently died, and while the meeting was an informal one, Father Collins hoped to impress the Archbishop in order to further his own chances of receiving that coveted position. On his way to the office, he bent down to tighten his shoelace and it snapped. Frantic, he tried adjusting the lace to shorten it only to have it snap again. As he entered through the gold painted doors of the Archbishop’s office, the shoe slipped off causing him to tumble into a Renaissance era stained glass crucifix, a gift to the Archbishop from the Pope himself. The crucifix shattered on the floor along with Father Collins’s dream of a station at the Holy See. That meeting with the Archbishop had been the beginning of his downward spiral. Ashamed, embarrassed, hopes dashed, Father Collins did something reckless and was reported. Which led to Bolivia, which led to even more unpleasantness, which led to this accursed swamp. Father Collins’s sense of shame collapses in a wave of self-pity and rage. Drool foams from the priest’s mouth. “It was you! This is all your fault!” “Not entirely my fault. For starters, I only proposed the bet, your boss is the one who accepted it, and I think you are forgetting that you wouldn’t be in this current predicament if it wasn’t for the fact that you had carnal relations with a multitude of youths that were under your charge.” The Devil’s accusation does nothing to abate the priest’s self-pity. Anger clears away the cloud of past memories which had blurred his vision. He spots the elusive back door right behind the Devil. The priest bounds to his feet, racing past the Devil as fast as his robe will let him. He bursts through the backdoor, sprints through the flower garden, and dashes into the cemetery. Howling wind rips crisp leaves from branches and small whirlwinds of dead foliage tear across the priest’s path. Lightning tears through a wall of rain which is cascading over the church and into the cemetery. The ground turns to a muddy swamp, clinging to the priest’s shoes. The tongues of his shoes loosen with the snapping of shoelaces. Mud sucks in the Italian leather leaving the priest to flee in silk socks. As Father Collins stumbles through the downpour, a root wraps around his ankle. The priest crashes to the ground, and all the air is torn from his lungs. Darkness obscures the tangle of roots trapping his foot as Father Collins tries to pull his ankle away. The roots tighten their grip, yet there are no trees nearby. Nothing but rows of headstones. Lightning cuts through the wall of black clouds, illuminating the headstone in front of the priest. In that flash of light, Father Collins sees the name “Arnold Baker” engraved in stone. The roots trapping his leg refuse to budge. Father Collins wiggles a few fingers between the roots and his leg, but the roots respond to his touch by tightening their grasp. He kicks at the roots with his one free leg, but it too becomes ensnared by roots that seem to be popping out from the ground. As Father Collins tries to push himself away, he feels the roots pulling him closer to the tombstone. Arnold Baker’s tombstone. Lightning flashes overhead, and Father Collins looks down at his feet to find them trapped, not by roots, but by skeletal hands. Father Collins screams as he thrashes his feet. He rolls to his belly, grasping at muddy clumps of grass in a futile attempt to pull himself away. Despite the priest’s best efforts, the skeletal hands maintain their vice-like grip. Bony fingers pierce into his calves, digging through muscle and tendon until scraping against the shrieking priest’s leg bone. The skeletal hands yank, tearing through Father Collins’s soft flesh. Wailing to a deaf god, Father Collins digs his fingers into the mud as he is pulled into the earth. First his feet disappear, then his legs crunch in unnatural angles as his body twists farther into the dirt. A flash of lightning. The Devil stands before the priest, who is up to his neck in dirt. The Devil holds up his hand and says, “Arnie, could you give us a minute.” The fingers wrapped around his leg bones cease their tugging. Father Collins screams hoarsely, “Please! Mercy! I’ll do anything! Anything!” The Devil crouches over him and gives the priest’s head a sympathetic pat. “Let’s start with a question that has bothered me for thousands of years, but I’ve never gotten a satisfactory response. Can you do that for me, Father Collins?” The priest grovels, “Please, have mercy on me, please... I’ll do anything you ask.” The Devil smiles. “I’ll take that as a yes. One thing that has always perplexed me is why does everyone think I’m the bad guy? Not saying I’m perfect, but I killed one family and a bunch of camels, that’s the worst you got on me. God, on the other hand, is responsible for countless murders, and some of those, like the Egyptian children, were just because he wanted to show off his power. He causes droughts and plagues that kill millions each year, not me. The Old Testament is the memoirs of a mass murderer, and the Book of Revelations reads like the manifesto of a deranged serial killer.” Tears stream down the priest's pudgy cheeks as he weeps for mercy, but the Devil ignores the blubbering man’s cries. The Devil continues, “God even says in Revelations that Satan, me, will be helping humanity fight against this righteous slaughter of every man, woman, and child who didn’t say nice things about God, yet for some reason you humans still think I’m the enemy. So tell me, priest, as someone who has devoted their life to studying the Holy Scriptures, why do you think I’m the evil one?” Father Collins wails, “Please... please... have mercy on me! I can change! Please... I didn’t mean any of it, just let me go!” Giving the priest another pat on the forehead, the Devil says, “Never get a clear answer to that question. Oh well. Father Collins, it’s been a pleasure and I must express my sincerest gratitude...” He pauses as the priest whimpers with confused hope. Then the Devil continues, “without pathetic degenerates like you, I’d get no joy from this job.” Rising to his feet, the Devil walks away as Father Collins screams for mercy. The Devil waves his hand and says, “He’s all yours, Arnie. Enjoy.” Flesh tears as the skeletal hands pull Father Collins deeper into the earth. Worms and dirt clog the priest’s throat, drowning out his screams. His stump of an arm scrapes into the earth as his other hand stretches out to the heavens and then disappears beneath the earth. A sheet of rain washes away the claw marks in the mud as lightning flashes over the vacant cemetery.

In the cold and unforgiving cityscape of London, Gabriel Stone, a private investigator hardened by both the city streets and the unseen dark corners of the paranormal, sat quietly in a seedy pub tucked away in a narrow alley. It was a sanctuary for the downtrodden, forgotten by the world and drenched in shadows. Here, Stone knew, lay a trail that could lead him to an entity as insidious as it was clever. In the treacherous game of cat and mouse that he played with the supernatural, the trail of The Miller was the dodgiest he had ever followed. Named for their talent to feed the gossip mills, The Miller was a species of Enchanter. They whispered impossible rumours and twisted the fates of their victims until the absurd became their reality. It was a diabolical prowess, one Stone begrudgingly admired. Social media, the 21st century’s weapon of mass deception, was The Miller's playground, amplifying the rumours into a deafening roar of fake news. Stone had seen the chaos unfold as these fabrications became someone else’s all-too-real nightmare. He'd noticed a pattern, a perverse thread linking the victims, which he had chased down the city’s dark alleys, in and out of dodgy pubs, always under a cloak of secrecy. Even as he ventured further into this dangerous investigation, he knew he couldn't afford to become a part of the twisted narrative. Once your name found its way to The Miller's whispers, there was no evading the inevitable. But Stone wasn’t one to shy away from danger. His audacity had been forged in the fires of countless encounters with the dark arts, making him a formidable adversary to the Enchanter. At the heart of his strategy was the way he communicated: brief, cryptic words, carefully designed to offer little about his intentions. He was a silent shadow amongst the rabble, listening, observing, never revealing more than a sliver of his true intentions. "Terrible about that schoolteacher, innit?" he said to the barkeep, casting his line into the murky waters of bar gossip. "Yeah, grim. Got no idea what came over him," the barkeep replied. While his external dialogue was a model of restraint, his inner thoughts were a different story. Direct, candid statements of what he saw and how he interpreted it, a constant narrative that fuelled his understanding of the world around him. This schoolteacher is just another victim. I need to find the link to The Miller. With every interaction, every piece of news he gathered, he felt closer to The Miller, his every instinct screaming that he was on the right track. But with every step, the waters seemed to get murkier, his path, uncertain. Could he trust his instincts? Or was he being led into a trap? The suspicion that had served him so well was casting shadows on his own confidence. His relentless pursuit led him to The Grindhouse, a notorious internet café known as the epicentre of online rumours and scandals. He suspected this was where The Miller spun their webs of deceit. Walking into the café, the soft hum of computers and the click-clack of keyboards filled his ears. He had to be careful. One wrong step and he might trigger a rumour about himself. "Any interesting news?" Stone asked the girl behind the counter, his voice as casual as the weather. "Always," she replied with a smirk. He spent hours in the café, watching, listening. The conversations around him were a mix of harmless chatter and scandalous gossip. Yet, he couldn't shake off the feeling of an unseen menace, the undercurrent of The Miller’s invisible handiwork. As he sifted through the details, he started to form a chilling picture. The schoolteacher was the tip of an iceberg in an unforgiving sea of icebergs, a piece of a horrifying puzzle that was The Miller’s handiwork. A sinister thought pierced his confidence. He was piecing together the fragments, but what if they were purposefully laid out for him? Was he unearthing a trail, or walking along a cleverly mapped path? The shadow of doubt began to creep into his mind. Was he merely a pawn in The Miller's malicious game? Was he about to be ensnared in a rumour of his own making? Returning to his office, Stone pondered his findings. He was too close to back out now. The dodgy lead hadn't deterred him; rather, it had solidified his resolve. He'd seen the damage The Miller caused, and he was more determined than ever to bring this demon to justice. The phone rang, disrupting his thoughts. An anonymous tip about a high-profile businessman's sudden downfall. Another victim of The Miller, it seemed. As Stone listened, the anonymous voice echoed the chilling patterns he'd uncovered. His heart pounded with the weight of his reality; he was dealing with an enemy that could turn his worst fears into a reality. The next day brought another call, then another. The tempo of The Miller's game had definitely intensified, and the signature was obviously theirs, but the pattern was no more evident to Stone than when he first began this chase. Moreover, Stone was all too aware he had not been as discreet about his intentions as he had hoped. Under any other circumstance, tracking any other mark, he would have been grateful for the litany of leads he was receiving. But not now, not when it came to the sheer damning power of words when wielded by The Miller. As the days blurred into a tapestry of accusations, confessions, and manipulations, Stone felt the spectre of The Miller grow larger. With every rumour that blossomed into a dreadful reality, he sensed a taunting presence, an unseen foe watching his every move. He was close, he could feel it, yet The Miller seemed always a whisper away, an insidious shadow just out of reach. Navigating through the storm of rumours, piecing together the whispers, Stone stayed the course. He questioned his leads, followed the threads, all the while keeping his pursuit hidden from prying eyes. His instincts, the voice that had guided him through the darkest corners of the city, were now a mix of certainty and doubt. Am I close? Or am I walking into The Miller's labyrinth? In a moment of weakness, he pulled a coin from his pocket, ready to offer the fate of his next direction up to the whims of Tyche, when the tinny clink of his letterbox cracked the silence of his darkened flat. He bent to retrieve the yellow parcel, and, in that moment, instead of an off-chance call for heads or tails, it all came down to a crumpled envelope delivered to his office, and a single piece of worn parchment folded neatly inside. The elegant but erratic handwriting indicated urgency, lending an even more ominous air to the message it held: "Midnight tolls where spirits gather. Seek the whisper in the static. The rumour’s birthplace hides in plain sight." It was cryptic, no doubt, but to Stone, it was more. He had spent countless nights hunting whispers of the supernatural, deciphering riddles that were far more obscure than this. His heart pounded with a glimmer of hope. The spirits' gathering place... could it be the internet café? The whisper in the static... an online broadcast, perhaps? And the rumour's birthplace hiding in plain sight... Could it be that The Miller had been weaving his rumours right under everyone's nose, within The Grindhouse itself? As he unravelled its meaning, he felt the cold chill of realisation. He'd found the link he was searching for, the common thread that led him straight to The Miller's doorstep. Or so it seemed. The faint glimmer of hope surged into a beacon, as Stone knew he'd just caught a break. This clue, as puzzling as it was, might just be the lead he needed to corner The Miller. Or, as the inherent risk of his investigation dictated, it could be yet another lure into an intricate trap. The clue felt real, but he couldn't shake off the nagging question - was this truly the break he'd been waiting for, or was it another manipulation by The Miller? The line of his jaw tightened with replenished determination. Reaching for his hat as he slid his keys into his coat pocket, he decided that was a chance he was destined to take.

In the dew-drenched radiance of an early spring morning, a sylph touched down gingerly on a flower bud. She reached in a tiny, translucent finger and tickled the bud, giggling in a chime-like timbre as her touch coaxed out a wave of infinitesimal seeds. With a wave of her free hand, she conjured a slight breeze, scattering the seeds across the floral field, hoping to fill in any gaps hungry birds and tiny mammals had made. Spring was the season of renewal, after all, after winter where old and weak things were discarded to be replaced or returned anew once the frosts thawed. The eternal dance of the spirits made sure that this cycle continued. The sylph was just one tiny part of that. And even now, she could tell that other parts were moving. She could sense traces of obscure magic known only to the Cenairot, or time spirits, at work in this meadow. The sylph cocked her head, wondering what it could all mean. Every being in Estrevaire had noticed the new darkness infiltrating the world, a slow rot grown from a corrupted seed planted a millennia ago. But whenever Cenairot were involved...well, if the stories were anything to go by, things were about to get real interesting. Curious as could be, the typically flighty sylph decided to stick around. Perhaps she could catch a glimpse of what the time spirits had in store. Come to think of it, she had heard the memories inside flowers as she went about her duties here. Hadn't there been something about a girl imprisoned here? No, not imprisoned; it hadn't been anything so dark as that. What had the flowers called it? A hibernation, that was it! If that didn't have the stink of the Cenairot all over it, nothing did. Wysteria Morningsong stepped from the tiny log hut, taking a deep breath to bring the scents of spring back to her nostrils. It had been so long since she'd last experienced such a heavenly aroma; two hundred and some odd years, in fact. But she didn't have any way of knowing that. After all, she'd been asleep that whole time. Now, it seemed the world needed her again. It had called and would, of course, be answered. But first...you couldn't fault a girl for stopping to smell the roses, could you? Wysteria bent down, not caring about the dew soaking into her the plain linen robe she'd woken in. She set down the empty teacup, which she'd found full and steaming, and sweetened with just a hint of honey, the way she liked it, by her bedside. She wanted both hands to caress the soft blossoms that bedecked this gorgeous field. As she knelt, absorbing the sweet sensations of the living world, unwittingly being observed by a whole host of spirits, the sylph included, she began to hum a soft tune. It was one taught to her years and years before, and across the way, she could see the flower associated with it. Streiaciia, or Star-Glove, it was called. It was a white puffball flower that shone faintly white in the new moon, as if in defiance of the darkness. That was always your favorite, wasn't it, Fennali? I remember the bouquet you gave me on our wedding day, all those years ago. You told me that a million of them could never shine half as bright as my eyes. Wysteria fiddled with the groove in her finger, worn in by many years of love, deeper and more robust than the most potent whiskey, and twice as fiery. Tears ran down Wysteria's face as she recalled her wife, now buried in a cairn like her Rhino clan ancestors, surrounded and covered in a vast blanket of Streiaciia. Some day, Wysteria would dance with Fennali again along the arms of constellations. Today was not that day, however. She had a duty to complete. Fennali had always been a patient woman; she could wait a few more millennia. Wysteria rose to her feet and scooped up the empty cup, banishing tears with a seraphic smile. Spring was the time of rebirth, which meant Wysteria could start fresh. She followed a path through the meadow that she knew well, being extra careful with her step to avoid crushing any flowers. Before long, she could hear the laughing stream that filled the pool around the sacred tree, and with it, the deific song that only one so deeply attuned to nature could listen in on. It was deep and resonant, speaking to a time long before the world as it was known when Quellaphae the Heart Tree had first been planted. It had been a time of entropy when its pink-tinged bark and pointed purple leaves had stood as a symbol of rightness and order in the world. To this day, it stood as a guardian of these same principles. Its song is still healthy and vibrant. I wonder who's tending to it now? She didn't have to wait long to find out. Dwarfed by the massive roots of Quellaphae--the thinnest of which was a meter across--was a singular lithe figure, which seemed to be plucking weeds from the loamy earth around the trunk. It immediately stiffened and stilled at the sound of her approach. Wysteria's smile broadened; very impressive! As always, she'd been reverently silent on her arrival to the great tree, but still, the woman had noticed her presence. "No need to halt your work on my behalf, good caretaker. I'm merely pleased to see Quellaphae in such good hands. It's only just past Tea Hour, and you're already hard at work!" There was a noticeable smile in the woman's voice as she stood and brushed dirt from her pants. "And good morning to you, Lady Oracle. I trust you slept well?" "Very well. There is nothing like a two-century-long nap to make a woman feel lively as the birds and the bees!" The woman turned, and immediately, Wysteria was hit with a wave of sweet nostalgia. Her long hair pulled into two tight braids, looked as soft as silk and vibrant like cloth-of-gold, and her eyes, filled with deep care for all living beings, were a familiar emerald shade that sent her heart beating fast all over again. "That's good to hear, lady Oracle. You'll have your work cut out for you, I believe. Oh, and I believe my great grandsire would smack my soul if I dared forget to relay this.” She scrunched up her brow, as if trying to remember what she had been told to say. ‘Welcome back to the world, dear Wysteria. I'm afraid we've left it a bit worse for wear. But, as I learned from years of working at your side, you're quite adept at cleaning up primordial messes. It shouldn't be an issue for you. Best of luck and love eternal, Brynhildr!" "She looks and sounds so much like you, my dearest friend, but I'm sure you know that," Wysteria whispered into the empty air. "You live inside the tree now, don't you?" On the breeze came a sound that could have been a bug or a leaf caught just the right way, but Wysteria chose to believe it was him, observing the interaction in his elemental state, which he'd achieved shortly before she went into stasis. "Knowing you, you told your children to pass that down to theirs so that whenever one of them met me again, they could say that." No answer was forthcoming, but Wysteria got the sense she was right. She smiled helplessly. Alright, let's see what you've left me with. With any luck, it will be enough to save the world yet again. Wysteria closed the distance between herself and the half-elven woman, extending a hand and pressing it into hers. "Please, after the first hundred years, I grew weary of the formality. Just Wysteria will do." The pretty young woman bobbed her head, a pale blush coming to the smooth white cheeks. In those cheeks, Wysteria could see signs that this woman smiled well and often. She must make others quite happy when she graces them with her presence. Anything else just wouldn't be fitting of Brynhildr's descendants. "Wysteria it is then." She bowed hastily. "I apologize if I seem nervous. There are many stories about you, and many were passed down through our family as if they were our own. Meeting you is such a huge honor. I'm sure the other druids will be equally excited. Um, is it true that you devoured a time god?" Wysteria couldn't help but give a very unladylike snort of laughter. "Is that what they're saying now? I mean, it's not strictly untrue. I don't know how to answer that, to be honest. Give me some time to think, and I'll get back to you." "Well, if the stories are true, then you'll have plenty of it!" Wysteria blinked and then let out a healthy chortle. "We'll get along swimmingly, I can tell already. Now, what was your name? I don't believe you've said it." The half-elf woman clapped her hands over her mouth. "Look at me. You've been asleep for more than four times as long as I've been alive, and I'm the one forgetting my manners! Please, call me Lyfallah or Leafah for short. If you'd woken in time for morning tea, you could have met my wife, Allegra. She's out reporting to the druids as we speak.” Leafah gestured vaguely out of the sanctuary "As you may have guessed by the fact that you're awake right now, things have been pretty hectic. Everyone will be glad to see you back. Not having our spiritual leader around hasn't been easy on morale." Wysteria put a comforting hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "I've always been averse to being the gloating crow upon the parapet, so I'll only reassure you. Whatever is going on here, fear not. Our order has withstood far worse, and we'll do so again. I believe in our strength...What’s the matter?" Leafah was staring at the Tan'yuivar Oracle with open-mouthed admiration. "I see why Great Ancestor Brynhildr held you in such high esteem." "If a few words were enough to win your respect, I'm a mite worried about the state of my precious order," Wysteria joked lightly. "But, in all seriousness, Lyfallah, I'm excited to work with you, your wife, and all the other wonderful men and women. Quellaphae has brought us together, just as it brought together your great grandfather and his wife. We’ll band together to protect Quellaphae and Estrevaire as a whole, and we won't fail." "We don't have a choice," Lyfallah said gravely. "Because it's us, or the world." "Precisely." Wysteria graced the woman with another smile. "And if you fight as well as you brew tea, I'm not worried at all."

Part I~The Pacific “Ok, Aquila , you should be approaching the site about. . . now,” the intercom murmured. A little submarine was inching across the sea floor, about six hundred miles off the coast of what was once California. “No, I’m not seeing it, and we could’ve passed it already. Doesn’t help that the ocean floor’s so. . . rocky here,” Eualia said, lacking any confidence. Eualia was the curator of the Mars Galactic Archives, established in the year 04037. She had named the submarine Aquila , after her favorite greek myth, and Eualia was quite sure she was the only person living on Mars that knew anything significant about ancient Greece, even though Mars was a Greek myth too. She found that rather ironic. “Wait. Stop! Back up a little,”Sulo blurted out. “I thought I saw it,” Sulo Aiken was Eualia’s research assistant, and often was the first to see something. “Okay, where? All I’ve seen is rocks for the last two hours,” Eualia said exasperatedly. “That way.” He adjusted the viewing lights, revealing a glinting metallic object, just barely poking out of the muddy bottom. Both researchers’ heartbeats quickened. “Sorry, you did see. . . is that really the capsule?” She extended a long, slithering robotic arm, and grabbed hold of the thing. With a sharp jolt of the thrusters, the object came free of the sand with a whoomp. Eualia brought it past the glass, and surely enough, they were both staring at an easily four meter long torpedo shaped capsule. One could just make out the depressions of letters milled into the capsule: Do not disturb this vault until 03500 C.E. Left in the year of 02029 C.E. “So the map was right. Huh,” Sulo remarked. In his hand he held a perfect copy of the etched globe they had discovered two years before. Disguised among the land forms, barely readable, was a string of coordinates. And those Coordinates led them here. “Sea Hub, we’re coming up. We believe to have found it at last,” Eualia informed the intercom. “Roger, Aquila . We’ll have the platform ready.” With that, Aquila began the lengthy climb up to the surface. Part II~Location Unknown Deep in a subterranean laboratory, Oddmund De Vroom was pacing furiously. “Damn, they found it ay? Who let this happen ! I thought we sent a crew to intercept their craft!” he thundered in a strong British accent that nobody really had anymore. “I do not know, sir. We shall see shortly,” his young assistant replied with foolish sarcasm. “ What? Ugh, why did I hire you? Security, take him away.” Security did just that, as the assistant half squealed in protest. There was a thud as he was hurled out the door, and the door clanged shut. “He won’t last long in the cold,”De Vroom remarked. “Oh, I have a message?” He checked his computer terminal. Away crew #1 Here. We failed to intercept the submersible craft, they have already docked to the floating research hub. As you know, the research hub is armed to a degree that prevents us from safely making a raid. Obliteration would be likely. END OF TRANSMISSION De Vroom muttered something rude, and furiously punched in the following reply: De Vroom Speaking, the one who happens to be paying you. I don’t care how dangerous it is, get it finished. You understand how valuable that capsule is? END OF TRANSMISSION Part III~The Pacific Eualia and Sulo emerged from the Submarine to a small, but jubilant crowd of engineers and colleagues on the well deck. The capsule was lifted from the Aquila ’s cargo rack, and placed upon a folding table that had been set up. A hush fell over the crowd, aside from an occasional murmur. A friend of Eualia’s produced the original globe, that they had discovered in the Himalayas two years prior. Eualia began to announce the significance of the event: “We discovered this globe due to a stray radio signal that our transmitters were picking up, which turned out to be intentional. On the globe was a number of symbols, which my partner Sulo deciphered as co-ordinates. After multiple attempts to find the location, today we finally pinpointed it, and on that exact site was this capsule. Now, if I remember correctly, by twisting the two halves of the globe apart, a key should be revealed.” She slowly pulled the globe apart, and within, was a short metal rod, with several indentations. Please work, I’m relying on you, key, Eualia thought. With extreme caution, Eualia inserted the key into a small opening on the top of the cylinder. Clik! The top smoothly hinged open, revealing a thick envelope, and many things that looked to be ancient. The crowd began to cheer with great enthusiasm, as she removed the envelope, and passed it around. Booom! The station violently shook, and everybody but Eualia and Sulo were thrown off their feet. Booom! Another shock hit, and this time Eualia tumbled over. “Station under attack!” bellowed the security officer, “Man the laser repulsers!” “The station’s never been attacked before, and of all times, ” Sulo said wearily. “Shut the capsule. Now!” Eualia hollered at Sulo over the roar of artillery. He tossed the envelope back in, and shut the lid. “We can’t move it out of here, it’s too heavy.” Suddenly, the station began to lean sharply, and the cylindrical capsule began to roll rapidly towards the opening in the well deck. “Noooooo!” It was too late. The capsule clanged into the submarine parked in the well deck, and Plunk. Down the capsule fell, into the abyss once more. Part IV~Location Unknown De Vroom slouched on an expensive reclining chair, and giggled. Well, almost giggled. Before him was the time capsule that just a day before had been in the hands of Mars Galactic Archives’s researchers. He looked about it playfully, and upon seeing the keyhole, his face broke into a nasty grimace. He cursed, and said: “ They, have, the key! Ooooh,” he groaned. “Tell the away crew that their job is nowhere near done,” De Vroom informed his new assistant. “But” the assistant stammered. “Of course I know we only have one vessel left! Get out of here.” Part V~Mars Eualia paced about her cliffside apartment, which happened to have a great view of Olympus Mons, as well as the expansive city below. Another Greek name that no one cares about, she thought. Now talking to herself, she said: “There’s no way that space pirates would attack exactly on the hour that we discover something so important out of coincidence. And then that capsule rolled perfectly out of the well deck! They must have targeted the pontoon on that side of the base. All that fuss over a time capsule? They lost all but one ship, which happened to be the one carrying the capsule. Hmm.” At least they don’t have the key , she remembered. “Ah!” Eualia walked over to her micro book rack, home to many thousands of volumes, all printed microscopically to save space. She looked under P, and found a book called: “The most infamous space pirates - A traveler’s guide.” “Maybe this could give me an idea of who did it?” She turned on a micro book reader, and began to cycle through the pages. The security officer aboard the research base had managed to snap a photo of the ship’s flag, and Eualia began to compare the flag in the photo to the ones in the book. “Rabues, no, The Plasmised Gang, no, Alectra Piracy treaty, nope. Ah, is that it? De. . .Vroom. . . Incorporated. What a strange name. Lore: The De Vroom family has long been involved in the piracy community, looking for a so called ‘Cylinder of Ultimate Power’, fabled to hold the secret to creating perfect artificial intelligence. . . So that’s what they are after.” Part VI~ “Hello?” Eualia called out groggily. Her holo-clock read 2:07. Eualia had been startled awake by muffled thumping and something that sounded like. . .glass being shattered? This thought jolted Eualia awake. She sprang out of bed, picked up her stun rifle, and slowly opened her door. The moment she did, the sound stopped. “Who. .Who’s there,” she said uncertainly, inching forward. When she poked her head around the corner, to her horror she saw a figure standing there, just an outline. Eualia reeled back, surprised. She pointed her weapon around the corner and barked “Stop, um Hands Up!” “Don’t mind me missy,”he replied quite rudely. And then, it was lights out for Eualia. Part VII~ When she came to, a worried Sulo was hovering over her. “Let me guess, I have a big bruise on my forehead or something.” Eualia said. “I am afraid so. Here,” Sulo helped her up, and Eualia was shocked to see her apartment an utter mess. The glass coffee table had shattered disastrously, and several shelves had been upturned. “What the. . .” “I am wondering the same thing,” Sulo said. “I can actually guess who did this.” “Who, but why?” “Remember the attack on the research station? I think whoever ransacked my apartment was also responsible for this. Have you heard of De Vroom Incorporated?” “Yes, actually. Once on the news.” “I was thinking yesterday, and realized that they might be responsible for the theft of the time capsule. I looked them up in a book, and according to that, they’ve been searching for the capsule, like, forever and now they’ve stolen the key! Ugh, the second I thought of that , I should’ve got to safety. It’s my fault.” “I didn’t know you had taken the globe when we abandoned the research base. I’m sorry Eualia,” Sulo said glumly. “Hopefully the Police can fix this, cause otherwise the entire galaxy’s done for.” “What? Whaddaya mean done for?” “Apparently the capsule contains the instructions to build the world’s first true AI. Somebody like that surely isn’t going to use it for anything good , right?” “I’ll call the police right now,”Sulo said, rapidly punching in the number into his comms device. Part VIII~Location Unknown De Vroom was growing more and more impatient by the second. The key was supposed to be delivered over an hour ago. “Have those Buffoons lost it?”he muttered. Almost in answer to his question, De Vroom heard a distant tapping of feet along the stone floor. This was followed by a security door opening a hallway down. The footsteps were getting closer. This is it! he thought. When the final security door into his rooms opened, he was greeted by his assistant, with the key on a silken platter. What he wasn’t expecting was the twenty or so armed policemen escorting him. “Hello, sir! You may see I brought some friends. They are here because that poor nice lady you stole the key from tipped them off. And they offered me a pre-tty nice reward if I helped with your capture! Good by, sir,”his assistant said in gleeful mockery. “The De Vroom reign of piracy is over,” the Chief of police remarked. Behind him stood the woman his men had robbed. “I’ll be taking this,”she said triumphantly. She wheeled a cart up to the capsule, and lowered it down. Oddmund De Vroom was taken into custody, and immediately led to the Police Cruiser. On Eualia’s way out, she slipped a small note into De Vroom’s hand. It read simply: The capsule will be waiting for you when you are released. I’ve been looking for you, Father. -E D V

“My chest hurts” I tell the doctor. “It feels like something is trying to escape”. “Hmm... I’m not seeing anything. I don’t hear or feel anything. Without any more symptoms, I’m afraid I can’t help. Hopefully it goes away on its own”. I go through life with this pain. It comes in waves. Some days I hardly notice it, other days it’s unbearable and I can’t do anything but lie in bed. This heavy feeling, like I’m being suffocated, is torturous. I feel it moving inside my body. I swear I’ve seen something push against my chest. Doctors never find anything no matter how many tests they do. Some say it’s even in my head. Walking the halls of school feels terrible. It feels like everyone can see the pain and yet no one sees me at all. I feel invisible and yet entirely exposed. My grades slip. They don’t take ‘chest parasite’ as an excuse though. “You just need more focus. If you would actually pay attention and do the work, you would excel just like you used to”. I used to do amazing. I used to have straight A’s in everything. I used to be motivated and hopeful. I had things I aspired to do. But this pain is so distracting. This pressure and choking feeling make it difficult to focus on anything. The worst part is, I don’t think it’s just a chest parasite. I think it truly is a living creature that grows. I think it controls my choices and actions. I find that sometimes, this creature makes bad decisions for me. I feel like everyone can see it and it upsets people so I stop going out as much. I tell my mom this and she shrugs it off. It’s always shrugged off. It’s no big deal to her, and I don’t even talk to dad. He’d just say I need to man up. But it’s inside me, eating away. I feel it, I hear it, I know it’s there. My girlfriend broke up with me yesterday. I kept trying to tell her about the parasite but she couldn’t see it. She said I changed, that I was exhausting and a burden. At least that’s what I heard. Why couldn’t she see the parasite? It feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. It constricts my heart, creating bizarre rhythms that feel like a heart attack waiting to happen. I can’t control how exhausting I am, so I guess I’ll stay at home more. I won’t bother finding another girlfriend or making new friends. The old ones left; I became too much of a drain to be around. One night, lying in bed, I feel it move inside me. It likes to remain hidden, make everyone see me as insane. But it tortures me. It plays with me. I watch as it moves in my chest, a small bump sliding under my skin. It moves down my stomach and to my thighs. I feel a sharp slice as a gash appears. I never see the parasite, but it just cut me. It opened me up in a thin red ribbon. It knows, no one will see this. It knows I won’t show anyone. They all think I’m crazy, so why bother. It does another cut. It hurts, but it almost feels good. Sometimes it turns my emotions off, makes me numb. It’s allowing me to feel this pain and I almost enjoy feeling something. I wear pants the next week. I decide to hide the parasite, pretend it doesn’t exist. I don’t speak to anyone anymore. I feel insane, how can someone not notice a creature living inside of me. I have no friends; my ex-girlfriend has blocked me. My teachers have stopped trying to get me to participate. I go home and lie in bed. I don’t sleep. I just stare at the ceiling, thinking through my choices in life. The parasite grows bigger, clutching my heart and lungs. Sometimes I can’t breathe. I almost enjoy the ritual of it slicing my legs and arms. It feels normal. I feel like I can finally see it. No one else does. I stand on a bridge. The water cools the air to an almost painful temperature but I hardly notice. I only notice the pain. The parasite hasn’t let go of my heart in 3 days now. It hurts. I would cry, but I can’t. I feel empty. There’s only one way to end this pain, one way to escape. I’ve written a note, letting my parents know that the parasite finally got me. I feel almost happy. I’m excited to not feel this pain in my chest, my brain, my stomach anymore. I’m confused though. The parasite seems almost happy too. Like this is what it wants. Like this is what it’s been pushing me to do for so long. No matter, as it’s finally time to end the parasite. I’ve been invisible my whole life. No one saw the parasite, no one realized the pain even when I tried to explain it. No one realized that the reason I was so exhausting as a person was that I felt so much pain all the time from this parasite. No one realized that the reason I never hung out with them wasn’t because I hated them, but because I hated myself. Maybe the parasite isn’t real. It felt real to me but I was told it’s in my head. I tried exercise, I tried dieting, I tried going outside and socializing. Just like my dad told me. It didn’t work. It helped, but the parasite stayed there, holding on. I jump. The parasite finally lets go of my heart. I finally can breathe again.

Here's a short story a wrote sometime last year. I think, ideally, this would end up being a scene in a larger piece but I'm happy with it for now. ​ March had been unseasonably warm in St. Louis. A dense humidity hung everywhere --almost panging for the release of rain-- yet still, after every storm, persisting. This odd wash of jungle air, coupled with the building owner’s miserly decision to forgo turning on the air-conditioning, had turned the examination rooms of Clark-Horace County Hospital into George Monroe’s personal, scalpel-adorned, sauna. The rundown building was poorly insulated and had a habit of providing you with a clear imitation of whatever conditions befell the outside world. If it was windy, you could expect a draft; if there was a storm, the doors would be leaking; and on a day like today, the oxygen choking atmosphere was well-at-home in every hall and office. George, who studied Biology at Michigan and subsequently served his residency at St. Luke’s in Duluth, had a cooler temperament. Since moving to Missouri last September, he found it difficult to adjust to the Midwest’s uniquely fickle climate. These past two weeks, his usually brisk Sunday-morning plunge down the elevators to the basement examination rooms of Clark-Horace felt more like a dive into some thick Amazonian canopy. He had even resorted to taking brief breaks in what was apparently the only room in the building required-by-law to be kept at a comfortable temperature-- the morgue cooler. Dave and Janice, his coworkers, liked to give him a hard time about this particular habit. “Frosty the Snowman's gotta get to his cooler before he melts away!” was a favorite of theirs, referencing the admittedly sluggish nature George took on when the heat started to get to him. It was of no consequence to him. The cooler always reinvigorated George and he - a licensed Autopsy Technician of almost three years now - was never bothered by the presence of dead bodies. But, today, there would be no teasing. He worked alone during the dreaded Sunday morning shift. Honestly, it suited him better. George had never been good at workplace chit-chat and he always felt at his most productive with headphones on and in near-solitude. Still, the workload on Sunday mornings was always a challenge for one person -- a sort-of reverse graveyard shift that rotated weekly between the three of them. Even as he worked, George could feel his glasses slide down his nose. He took near-continuous pauses to push them back up to his eyes with the back of his wrist. A pool of salty dew formed directly under the bridge of his black wayfarer frames, acting as both an irritant to his eyes and a lubricant on which the glasses would languidly shift back down. He didn’t like to wear his glasses while working. He didn’t like his glasses at all, in fact, and had years ago resolved to only wear them when he was colossally hungover, which he decisively was. His friends had made a point to tell him that his upcoming morning shift would not alter their plans of brewery hopping the night before. He had long ago agreed to the affair and so resigned himself to his eventual fate of bludgeoning headaches and nausea. George didn’t have any particular love for the craft beer scene his friends so delighted in. The complex chemistry of artisanal recipes and their ever-expanding hierarchy of styles, colors, ingredients, flavors, and off-flavors had never inspired him to dive nearly as deep as his companions had into the fanatic lifestyle of small-batch brewing. He did, however, enjoy the company of his friends and (being completely frank with himself) he enjoyed the different tastes of the beers they tried. It was the in-depth analysis that irked him. The sense that you must mine every last ore and ingot of knowledge from every sip and understand, not only the complex palette of flavors therein but also the *intention* behind those flavors. Anything less and you were wasting your time and should promptly “fuck off to a sports bar and order a Bud-Light if you just want to get drunk.” But, it got you drunk all the same. One of the dangers of craft beer, and perhaps most responsible for George’s suffering today, was the alcohol content. These were not the canned pilsners that he and his college friends stacked 30-high back in Ann Arbor. Some of these draughts would push north of 11% alcohol-by-volume! All of them deceptively draped in the added flavors of coffee or chocolate so as to slip past your better judgment. Some four or five drinks later, it would be too late, like when hypothermia cradles a stranded climber to sleep. George could still taste the brews from the night before. Or was he smelling them? Yes, the scent must be running out of his pores now, as his body desperately pushed the toxins out via any means necessary. The clear memory of the stygian stout burned clearly in all of his senses. The ghost of the dark liquid shot up his spine: Tahitian vanilla, with the viscosity of milk, high pointed with the ever-present, fiery notion of bourbon. He felt a chill up his neck and his stomach churned like the sea. George got too drunk, he decided. He should not have driven home, either. Usually, he did not recklessly endanger his own life like that. There was something about the jovial attitude of a night spent in drunken comradery that can give a man a dangerous level of confidence -- the kind that, if left unchecked for a few successes, leads one to believe they “drive better when they’re drunk.” He scolded himself. After all, he had seen many grotesque figures on this very table that used to “drive better drunk”. Such was the job, especially on the Sunday morning shift. Dave, another technician and five-years George’s senior at the hospital, had affectionately nicknamed it “Scared-Straight-Sunday” after the increased number of “patients” produced by accidents, overdoses, and any other form of dark debauchery that took place the night before. He used to joke that “after a year of Sundays seeing what people do to themselves when they’re fucked up”, you’d end up sober for the next ten years. George didn’t have to look any further than the bloated figure on the table below him. “D. Vernon.” Drowned. Fallen into some rough tide of the Mississippi, knocked unconscious judging by the laceration on the left-back of his head, and washed up down-river about eight hours later. The cut was deep and had swollen outward like a mouth nestled in the beard of D. Vernon’s long, wiry hair. He had a stern face, even after passing on. The face of a man with a short temper which, seeing his twice-broken nose and scarred knuckles, likely saw him in scuffles. He was the kind of guy who would accost you in the parking lot for pulling out in front of him, George imagined. His eyes screamed back up at George as if to say “Don’t you judge me, motherfucker. I get by.” George closed up the abdominal incision. This hangover had slowed him down more than he thought and he was behind schedule on gathering up the various tissue, blood, and hair samples. D. Vernon had been in the water long enough to cause his body to swell up though not long enough to totally distort his features. The man’s once-well-toned muscles were still visible beneath the quasi-gelatinous coat of his skin and the once-black ink of his numerous tattoos now glowed with an almost putrid green. He was like an action figure- some edgy, anti-hero character, perhaps- that was left out at the playground, melting and contorting under a brutal sun only to be snatched back up a moment too late. Toxicology would need to come back to officially determine whether or not drugs were involved in the accident, but the track marks on his arms seemed a clear enough indication at first. Stomach analysis proving his last meal to be little more than Adderall and french-fries was all the proof George needed. “Definitely time to dial it back,” George told himself. Odd. Suddenly George’s eyes were drawn back to the site of his incision. It had been a clean suture- straight and symmetrical. But now, at the midpoint, there rose a mound of skin in D. Vernon’s mid-section. “Damn this hangover”. George had always prided himself on his organization skills. Everything had its space on his tray and would, without fail, return to that space when its job was finished. Had he really been so careless? Sewn up one of his clamps inside the body? It was a troupe that surgeons heard frequently- leaving some instrument or another inside of a patient- but not during an *autopsy*. George scolded himself and snatched for a scalpel to reopen the poor man when he counted- no he hadn’t counted; he simply *knew*\- that all of his tools were still in their exact place. “A gas pocket?” He thought to himself. “Some residual pressure one of the untouched bloated organs had finally released?” No, this wasn’t right either. The bulge wasn’t rounded as bubbled air would be when pushing up against the skin. It was singular. Almost conical. As if someone had tied a string to the stitching in the center of the incision and pulled it upward. He reached a gloved hand down to the foreign mass and gave a firm press with his middle finger. It was lean. He could almost feel a rough texture to it through the skin. George’s examiner’s mindset must have left him at that moment. In one movement, he had snatched away his mask, uttered a choked shout and slid back against one of the brick walls of the examining room. These were not commanded movements. These were from a long-forgotten section of the lizard brain still intact underneath millions of years of evolution. The part of the brain that knows- truly knows- the sight of danger and when to shield its host from such things. For while George’s hand lay on the dead man’s strange internal growth, it began to move. Feverishly in slid inside poor D. Vernon’s cavity. But these were not erratic convulsions. Even if this man was a fresh corpse, any attempt to explain these movements away as some rare spasm of freshly-dead neural pathways would have to be swept away. These movements had purpose. And they were becoming wilder. They had an almost feral drive- now lifting the hips of the cadaver off of the table as they searched. No, they were not thrashing movements. They were poking, prodding at the inside walls of their decaying prison for any sign of air- like a house cat rooting around under a blanket. And then, all in a moment D. Vernon slammed back to the table, his stomach as flat as when he had arrived. There was a ringing in George’s ears which could only be the sound of that same lizard that pulled him to the wall, now screaming viciously- desperately- in his ear to run to the elevator. His eyes were clasped onto the figure, equally desperate for the cadaver to stay infinitely still- less the madness they had just witness continue and be committed to memory. It must have been his eyes that pulled him closer to the body still, feverishly wishing- begging- to prove that there was no movement left in this bloated corpse. Against every internal instinct, he slid toward the now frighteningly still cadaver, scalpel still in hand. The room was a vacuum, devoid of sound. So crushing was the silent pressure of this moment that George could hear his blood pumping into his brain, and that brain firing commands down to his right hand- *how was it so steady?* Slow and methodical, he began to unzip the stomach again, bisecting the original cut. The cold flesh gave way on either side like a blooming flower. George reached to spread the aperture further to reveal what was certainly madness incarnate within D. Vernon’s bowels. He should have rejoiced, he remembered thinking. The scene was completely normal- as normal as the bloated organs of a drowned drug addict could be. But it was the *lack* of evidence that shocked George. The way the immediate normalcy seemed to laugh in the face of what he, and his eyes, and his lizard brain had all witnessed. No sign of the hateful foreign body that had just moments ago attempted to wrench its way free from his patient. No sign of the damage that such a struggle should have certainly caused to the dead man’s insides. He tasted bile then. The ringing in his ears receded and the heavy gravity that held the room silent finally lifted. He could hear his arid respirations now louder than anything and he was reminded again how humid the room was. He was hyperventilating. In a mad dash, George threw the scalpel to the floor and made desperately for his refuge. He burst into the cooler, gasping and trying to settle his breathing. He leaned heavily on the open morgue drawer that had belonged to D. Vernon. Then George- thinking of the drowned man, and his hangover, and the horrors he had seen- in an attempt to lament, vomited.

Once upon a time - in the world that came before and the world that was to be, in a time long forgotten and in a time long-awaited - there was a boy who lived alone on the moon. He languished there, in solitude and without purpose. Empty. For the moon was forever lifeless and grey, without distinction and without contrast. And so, the boy as well knew not distinction and contrast, knew not love or hate or joy or sadness or anything in between. For how could a boy learn of such things in a land so devoid of everything? Thus, the boy existed - blind and deaf and mute and unfeeling and still, like the cold stone around him. He saw nothing with eyes that had never opened. He heard nothing with ears that had never listened. He touched nothing with hands that had never held anything. And he felt nothing with a heart that did not beat. Yet one day, someone suddenly appeared to him. “Dear friend, dear friend!” A girl of flame called from the rays of the sun, with a grin brighter than any star. “Come and meet with me! For company is sweet and an open ear, even sweeter!” But the boy does not understand. For here in the vast expanse of nothingness, there was nothing the boy wished to tell. Nothing the boy wished to convey. Nothing the boy wished to say. Confused and yet curious, the boy asked her, “Why must we speak?” “Oh, dear friend,” the Child of the Dawn laughed, “is that not a bleak question? Surely, it is better to ask, ‘Why must we not’?” And so, they spoke, and they answered. Questions of their worlds, questions of existence, and questions of each other. The Child of the Moon, once endlessly silent, now draws breath after breath for every uttered sentence. He speaks and speaks and speaks until the light fades and the girl bids him a peaceful sleep. “I’ll return upon the morrow!” She said, waving goodbye with a bright smile as she flickered away. “Tomorrow,” He said. The next day, true to her word, the girl came again. “Dear friend, dear friend!” The Child of the Dawn called merrily from over the horizon, “Come and sing with me! For a song shall surely bring a smile to your lips!” The boy frowns. He is confused once more. For how could one who had never felt happiness or sorrow or bliss or anger know what it is to express such things? So, the boy asked, “What is a song?” “Oh, dear friend,” the girl smiled knowingly, “If you wish to know what makes a song, then you need merely shout your heart to the heavens and let all listen to what comes.” And so, they played, and they sang. The girl laughed and danced with their harmony. Grand wings of radiant light burn with such otherworldly beauty that the boy cannot help but watch her. And as he does, the Child of the Moon - once endlessly cold - feels his lips slip into the barest shard of a simper. Yet, as she had done before, the girl bids him farewell upon the arrival of the twilight. “I’ll return upon the morrow.” The Child of the Dawn said with a tired grin, disappearing into orbs of light - like foam on a seashore - as he raised a hand and waved goodbye. “Tomorrow.” The Child of the Moon said in turn and wondered when it was that he began to notice the suffocating silence that fell upon the barren moon. The next day, as promised, the girl came once more. “Dear friend, dear friend.” The Child of the Dawn greeted him, a halo of light wreathing her arrival. “Come and fly with me. For the realm beyond awaits discovery.” The boy hesitated. For how could someone who had never gazed at the horizon know what it was to wonder what waited on the other side? How could someone who had never walked understand how to stand and leap and seek the mysteries that lay past light and dark? So, the boy asked, “Where should we go?” “Oh, dear friend.” The girl took his hands into her own. “An adventure has no true need of a destination.” And so, they rose, and they soared. Wings of dust gathered and spread over the boy’s back as hand-in-hand with his friend, they raced across the cosmos. As they do, the boy - once as stoic as the cold stones of the place he called his home - set his eyes upon all creation with bated breath. He greeted the sun and the heavens like old friends, marveled at the birth of a star, and mourned at the death of a world. On and on, they dashed through all of existence on flickering wings. Yet, as was expected, when they return upon the dim light of a weary sun, the girl bids him farewell. “Goodbye, dear friend.” The Child of the Dawn said with a sad smile, stepping back and disappearing with the dusk. “Tomorrow?” The Child of the Moon asked hopefully, alone on the grey moon as the girl faded away. Yet when the new day came, no sign of the girl came with it. Alone again, the boy looked towards the horizon as he had always done. He gazed at the heavens and knew something was lacking. He gazed at the stars and could not understand why they were silent. He gazed at the once bright cosmos and wondered when its grandness had become so faint and muted. Questions rage in his mind, and eventually, he realizes that he would not get his answers here. The boy stood. His wings spread, gleaming in the light of day like a kaleidoscope, and with a single, unexplainable longing in his heart, he takes flight once more. He climbed, higher and higher, until the Sun itself notices his rise. “Child of the Moon,” it called for the boy, “For what reason hast thou abandoned thine home?” “I wish to see my friend.” “And yet she is gone. Spirited away to the veil beyond time. To the world across our own. To a place we cannot reach. Knowing this, dost thou still wish to seek her?” I do.” The boy answered without hesitation. “Ah...I see. Just as the Child of the Dawn hast taught thee of companionship, so too hast thou learned of loneliness. Just as she hast taught thee of happiness, so too hast thou learned of grief. Just as she hast taught thee of thine heart, so too hast thou learned of thine self.” The Sun wept in sympathy. “Oh, misfortunate Child of the Moon. Hear mine humble self. Though thine friend is far, not all hope is lost. She waits still, in the realm beyond realms. Asleep and frozen within the threads of time. Bound and imprisoned in a place that both exists and does not exist. Shouldst thou reach her, only then will she awaken once more.” “How do I find this place?” The boy asked desperately. “Thou must search. Search without end - without falter. Strive and struggle with all thine might to reach that impossibility. Never waver in thine faith in her. Believe that just as thou seeketh thy friend, thy friend awaits thine own arrival. Then and only then may thou reunite with the Child of the Dawn.” And so, with steel in his eyes and a hope in his heart, the boy thanks the Sun and flies away. Relentlessly, he pursued that dream. Believed that just as he sought her, she awaited him. Even as eons passed and the stars of old were swallowed by oblivion, the boy continues to search for the girl. He sailed across the universe with wings of stardust, a journey that was perhaps without end and without rest. Yet he continued, regardless.

The night was cold, an angry wind swept through the trees. My dog and I were two miles into a hike near Cedar City, Utah. Most people didn’t like to hike at 2 a.m. in the middle of winter, but I’m not most people. The seclusion and danger of the hike made the trips a thrill. My dog was just excited to get out of the house. Trees stood around me, each of their needled arms trying to block the sky above me. A gentle snowfall had started moments earlier forcing me and Titan to turn back. “Sorry buddy, it’s time to go home.” Titan wagged his tail at the sound of my voice. He responded with a lift of his leg and a sprinkle on a nearby bush. My dog was the best companion for these hikes. A girlfriend might complain twenty minutes into the hike, a friend wouldn’t be interested unless alcohol was involved. No, these were my little getaways, just myself and my good boy. The large black dog cheerily followed me up the mountain, tongue wagging out the side of his mouth. His ears perked at the occasional sound deep in the woods, but he never strayed from my side. A powerful gust of wind snapped a branch somewhere in the mass of trees. The rustle of falling needles complimented the crack of splintering wood. A gentle cascade of snowflakes, shaken loose from the branches around me, danced in the glow my flashlight. There was an unmistakable energy present in the air. A second even stronger gust of wind nearly knocked me on my ass. The howling stung my face, the blanket of snow doubling in intensity. A blizzard had started. I pulled out the leash from my backpack. Titan sat down paw in the air in anticipation of it being hooked onto his collar. “Sorry buddy, just until we get to the car I promise.” He was a great dog, incredibly loyal, but even a loyal dog could get spooked. The nylon loop reassured me he’d stay by my side. Slowly, we trotted through the darkness of the mountain. With every passing minute the storm grew. What was initially a gentle snow fall had quickly escalated to a howling wind of icy shards. My nose and ears burned like I had been buffeted with a torrent of bees. Where had I parked the damn car? Crouching low to the ground, I placed my backpack on the snow in front of me. After a short while of rummaging, I pulled out my GPS. “What the hell.” My expression resembled a child whose nose had been stolen. The GPS wasn’t working. Actually, to say it wasn’t working was an understatement. The device was going completely nuts. My position was changing rapidly jumping to locations miles away only to return to my current position. Sometimes multiple location indicators would appear at different spots. An aura of panic settled around me. My vision was now limited to mere feet in front of me, the flashlight doing little to reveal my path. That’s when the humming started. Titan’s ears pricked up, his attention shifting to a spot just behind us. I tugged on his leash to get him moving but he wouldn’t budge. He was frozen like a statue, eyes unwavering from the location. Just above the gusts of wind, a melody, if you could even call it that, could be heard. A chorus of dissonant hums reached my ears. They were cut short by a bark. Titan’s hair stood us as though he had been statically charged, his tail tucked between his legs. Through the torrent of snow, I thought I could make out a figure. I squinted my eyes to double check, but nothing was there. “Come on Titan, we’re going to freeze to death out here.” I gave the leash a firm pull. A furious growl escaped his throat as he turned and bit my leg. Warm blood trickled into my sock from the spot just below my knee. I kicked him hard in the ribs out of reflex as I tried to retrieve the leash I had dropped. No luck. I watched as the blue leash disappeared into the blizzard like a serpent, Titan barking until I heard nothing. “Come here boy.” My only answer was the howl of the wind. Even through my gloves, I felt the chill of the storm on my hands. Holding the flashlight was like holding a handful of dry ice. “Titan!” I yelled again. I thought I heard a whimper from behind me. Swinging the flashlight around, I limped towards the sound. Each step sent a throbbing pain up my thigh that came to rest in my eyes. Just in front of me, I saw something dangling from a branch. The occasional break in the snow allowed me to glimpse it just barely. I came up to it and saw that it was Titan’s leash. I traced it up to the branch and my light illuminated a figure on the tree branch. Two snow covered legs swayed in the wind devoid of clothing. Naked arms protruded from the frozen torso. The surface of this thing was covered in ice crystals with black chunks of frostbitten flesh where the hands and feet should be. My eyes came to rest on the blank mass of flesh where the face should be. Eyes like snow globes glared back at me. A mangled sound came from within its chest, no mouth opened to let it escape. What met my ears was the hum I’d been hearing earlier. The creature fell forward out of the tree landing directly in front of me. I bolted in the opposite direction, unsure of where I could run. The chorus of hums surrounded me once again. I tried to avoid them as I shifted my direction to anywhere they were not. Behind every tree I would spot the figure. If I stopped to catch my breath, it was there watching me. All the while my ears were flooded with the awful humming. I pulled out my GPS hoping that it would just show me where I was. Of course, I wasn’t that lucky. According to the screen I was everywhere. Dozens of blue arrows appeared and disappeared across the mountain. A bark pulled my attention from the device and with it, the humming stopped. “Titan!” I screamed into the blizzard. I stepped through the snow only to see the dog standing next to... it couldn’t possibly be... myself? There I was standing with his leash; it was the moment he had bitten me. I remember thinking I had spotted something in the blizzard, the words I had spoken reached my ears as a garbled distortion of my voice. Titan growled furiously and bit the other me’s leg tearing away and rushing towards where I currently stood. I pulled back my flashlight and prepared to strike the dog with it, but he never reached me. Instead I found my self postured up against a blank patch of snow. Titan and my doppelganger were nowhere to be found. “What is going on up here.” I found myself speaking to the mountain. My answer was a torrent of increasing snow fall. The cold bit deep into my clothing. I tucked my face further into my hood hoping to shield it from the boreal weather. My world no longer consisted of a forest but instead was replaced by the constant howl of wind. But it wasn’t the wind I feared. All I feared was the hum. Every time the storm let up my ears listened for the pursuer. Not long after a break in the wind, I saw a figure stumbling ahead of me. They were facing away, the large hooded coat concealing their head. “Hey!” I nearly lost my footing as I increased my pace. “Help!” My voice was fighting the gusts of wind, but one soundwave must have won. They turned to me, the large jacket obstructing their face. They bolted away. “No, please wait!” The pleads came out like gravel. I tried to keep up with the person, but I had no luck, soon I lost sight of them. Not wanting to give up hope, I continued charging forward. My mind kept reminding me of the encounter with the phantom me, kept reminding me of how I was an outside viewer of an event that had taken place earlier. My thoughts were interrupted as I tripped over something. I hit the ground hard. My leg landed on a rock protruding from the snow. I rolled up my pant leg to assess the damage expecting a fresh stream of blood. The wound hardly bled. Frostbite must be setting in. My eyes didn’t focus on the leg long as they discovered what had tripped me. A body. Face down in the snow lie a frozen bundle of clothing, the wearer was stiff as a board. I recognized the jacket, the man I had spotted was wearing it. I also noticed it was the same jacket I was currently wearing. My heart was racing as I rolled the body over. I stared into my own frozen eyes. I was stunned. There was no mistaking it was my body, even the dog bite was visible on his leg. My shock was cut short by the familiar hum. It permeated the air around me as suddenly as the blizzard. I had to move. It was as I stood to run that I saw something clutched in the reflection’s corpse. A blue leash. Without really knowing why, I took it with me. It’s hard to say how long I wandered in the storm. It felt like an eternity. The strange sighting continued, draining me mentally. I tip toed around the endless corpses of myself that now littered the mountain, a never-ending blanket of snow burying them. I found myself falling into the snow, my hope for finding the car shattered. Then it was there. As though responding to my helplessness, my car peaked at me through a gap in the storm. The endless humming came from the same direction, but I didn’t care. My body had long since lost feeling, I was ready to escape or die. Although I reached the car with no issues, I couldn’t ignore the endless faces peaking at me from the trees. The entity following me had multiplied into an army. I came face to face with one for the last time as I reached the vehicle. My body sat in the driver’s seat. This corpse had not yet frozen over like the others I had seen. Instead I witnessed it as the ice and frostbite consumed the corpse. The face became a featureless mass as the eyes popped open. What started off as a scream, soon twisted into a familiar sound coming from the corpse’s mouth. The hum. I turned away not wanting to see it. My eyes locked upon the monster standing mere inches from my face. My senses were overwhelmed with the cold, a strong smell of death filling my nostrils. I fainted. One eye popped open, the other slowly followed. I was inside of my car, heater bathing me in warmth. From outside the foggy windows I could see the storm had stopped. I noticed the leash sitting in the passenger seat. Titan. Hopping out of the car I began to yell. “Titan!” Memories of the creature had surfaced as I slowly regained my bearings. I must have run to the car while the storm started and fallen asleep as the storm raged, but why would I leave my Titan behind? As I searched for the dog, I noticed the footprints surrounding the car. I could see that they were heading off into the tree line. I pulled the leash from the car as I followed them. I must have searched for him for hours with no luck. The limp soon reminded me of the dog bite. Blood still stained my pants. This confirmed that at least some of what I had experienced was real. The icing on the cake was what I discovered shortly after. Hanging on a tree branch in front of me was Titan’s leash, exactly where it had been when I encountered the first entity. A large imprint lay beneath the tree not yet hidden by the snow fall. I never found him. I officially gave up hope after a week or two of returning to the mountain. I still return to the mountain from time to time, something inside me keeps drawing me back. Although this event took place years ago, I still entertain the idea of finding him. I guess I should say I would like to find the real him. Sometimes, If I wait until just the right time of night, I can catch a faint glimpse of him. I never see all of Titan, just catching a glimpse of his tail behind a tree or the flick of his ear in a nearby bush. I know this isn’t the real Titan. Every time I see him, he’s always moving away from me, heading deeper into the mountains. I never follow him though. Whenever he appears that familiar hum is right behind him, calling him away from me, luring me with Titan as the bait.

A shadow moved and the chase began. Alec darted from his hiding place behind a battered chimney and dived forth into the night, landing like a cat and immediately springing up after his prey. His quarry - this time a rather plump halfling by the name ‘perrin’ - glanced over his shoulders, eyes wide with fear. Alec was used to this, and held no reservation in using all force necessary to uphold the councils justice. An enchanted obsidian dagger flew from his cloak, burying itself deep in the back of the halflings left Leg, its devilish enchantment shutting the muscle off instantly, causing the small man to crash to the cobbled floor. Alec skidded to a stop over his fallen target, then with a coy smile announced himself. ‘I, Alec Eagle-eyes, hunter and justice keeper for the Vallywall council, am taking you in on charges of theft and treason, resist and you shall be swiftly executed’. He smiled at the last word, in his 4 years hunting criminals on the streets of Vallywall he hadn’t once had to bring the final justice, and he prayed he’d never come across a criminal evil enough, to require it of him. The halfling began to mumble his excuses, the usual sort about being framed or how he needed the thousnads of gold pieces he took to feed his children. Used to these sleezy lies, Alec grabbed his chubby wrists and with a stone cold gaze tied his wrist, just a smidge tighter then he ought too. Seeing how his excuses were falling on deaf ears, the wretch took up a new tactic. ‘don’t see many half elves like you around’ Perrin began, but was quickly cut off. ‘I suppose not’ ‘didn’t think your kind were liked around here, the council being elven they tend to look down on your lot...’ ‘metaphorically, as oppose to how they look at you’ Alec shot back with a laugh. The halflings mouth gaped, though standing at barely above three feet, less then half that of his captor, he didn’t have much of a comeback. The Halfling stayed silent the rest of the journey, as Alec half led half dragged his captive the council hall in the centre of the city, far from the shady allies he’d been caught in. The great building shone in the moonlight, its twin spires reaching high towards the stars, and a waterfall crashing behind it into a crystal clear pool. Statues of the 6 members of the ruling council surrounded the entrance courtyard, though not all was peaceful, much to the half elf’s surprise. A crowd had gathered in the circular court, mostly humans, shouting protest at something, though Alec payed it little heed, as for years the council had been accused of corruption, though when your in a seat of almost complete power (second only to the king) for upwards of five hundred years, people start to question how. With the doors shut behind him the noise faded away as Alec lead the thief down the gilded halls, a yellow carpet spread across the floor and a glass ceiling let in light from the moon and stars, reflecting on perfectly placed prisms to bathe the room in a peaceful light. No matter the criminal, no matter the crime, they always accepted their arrest here, Alec had always thought it was in some way enchanted, though the natural beauty was enchanting enough. Two sleek, Elven guards met him at the end of the hall, taking Perrin and handing him a new scroll. ‘This one’s important, half, don’t mess it up’ one guard muttered with a smile, and the other laughed. Alec stared the guard who spoke down until he shrunk back and stumbled off with an obviously smug halfling. Angered, but unfortunately unsurprised, Alec opened the scroll. He eyes widened at the first words, ‘the king is dead’. As he read on dots started to connect, the crowd outside must be blaming the council, for the council were now the sole power in Vallywall, though they couldn’t be responsible otherwise why wait five hundred years, and 23 monarchs, before striking. The scroll also said they knew who was responsible, though they had no motive. The aura from a local scholar, one Tridus who worked at the waterfall library, had been found in the kings study, and as such the council wanted him brought to justice. At the bottom the scroll was very clear, Tridus is to be considered dangerous and should be killed on sight if he shows any threat. Alec never wanted to read those words, but for the safety of the city he loved, he would follow them to the letter... Wasting no time he returned to the rooftops, still slippery from the recent rain, and charged to the waterfall library, up-vally from him, which made the travel hard as he clambered up walls and gutters, higher into the city. Once he was there he checked his long sword, sheathed at his hip, as well as his enchanted, obsidian dagger. Trisdus wasn’t hard to find, as Alec spotted him in a window still studying despite the late time, likely still too stressed to sleep but wanting to maintain his facade as a scholar, though the experienced hunter expected that his whole purpose had been as an assassin, likely from a rival kingdom wanting to weaking the throne before making an attack. Justice would be swift. Like a panther Alec slid from his rooftop vantage and leaped to the ground at the library entrance, boldly strolling in, his presence immediately noted by all those inside, though they were silenced as he drew his sword and raised his finger to his lips. He passed the stairs rapidly, before kicking the door in and giving the newfound assassin a larger than anticipated panic attack. In a rather un-assassin like manor, Tridus fell to the floor and scrambled away on his back side, not taking his eyes from the cloaked half elf in his doorway, which blocked his only means of escape. ‘Stop right there, traitor’ He spat the last word, and obediently, the human froze, raising his hands to show he held no weapon. He was certainly not like any other assassin Alec had ever come across, though he imagined that was the genius of it. ‘your under arrest for the murder of our king’ he announced, forgetting his introductions in his shock at the lack of a fight he received from the man who had killed the most powerful being in the realm. Flustered, he sheathed his sword but kept one wary hand on his dagger, while moving to take out this rope. Tridus suddenly seemed to wake up, as though finally realising this wasn’t a dream borne of his sleep deprived study session into the rare herbal remedies used by the highland folk in the nearby vallys. ‘I’m sorry... what!?’ he shouted, eyes bulging with fear Stunned, and unsure what to do, Alec kicked the scholar back, and stood over him, ‘The king has been murdered and your aura was at the scene of the crime’ Alec replied, almost shaking from shock at the way the events had unfolded. ‘If it was his study that was from showing him these’ Tridus replied shaking, then went to reach for something concealed in his bag. Noticing this Alec reacted instantly, jumping up and launching his glassy black dagger straight at the mans heart, its enchantment taking instant effect and stopping the muscle working, cutting his life of immediately. For the first time in his life Alec didn’t land with unnatural precision, instead landing like a rock fallen from a cliff, slamming hard to the floor. Over a hundred criminals brought in, but this his first kill, and though he knew the man to be evil, an assassin and a danger to all the civilised folk in Vallywall, he found it hard to see it that way. His facade was convincing, he’d give the man that. After what seemed an age he stood, quickly checking Tridus’ pulse to confirm his grim expectations, then set to retrieve the hidden weapon the man had planned to kill him with. In its place, he found a notebook. His horror rose as he opened the leather cover, for it was page upon page of evidence as to the corruption in the council, aswell as notes on a plot to kill the king and a note from the king himself granting the scholar protection from all investigators, signed by his majesty. Like curtains opening it all became clear. The council killed the king, they framed Tridus as he had been investigating them, removing an enemy while also having evidence as he had been in the kings study that very same day. With one last look at the still warm body of Tridus, a true scholar and noble citizen of Vallywall, he vowed to not rest until all was unveiled, and after slipping the notebook into a pouch, he dived to the night with a tear in his eye and an unquenchable rage in his heart. Justice would be brought to Watervally. Like a shadow he moved through the city; his new quest began.

“This time, can you pick out a fictional book, one with chapters, please?” she says, prodding and impatient. Both boys stop short in front of the glass doors and look back at her, silently pleading. Their bodies instinctively turn toward the section filled with factoids, statistics, and world records. Their shoulders slump and they sigh, eyes rolling up in disgust, but stubbornly they move along. The automatic doors swish open, bringing a gust of air inside with them, a spill of summertime humidity thick as glue. The circulation desk sits empty, stacks of books in queues, waiting to be checked out. The sound of children’s laughter and the sight of bubbles ascending and popping explain the empty seats up front. Storytime sends echoes of Wheels on the Bus spinning around in her ears, the words comfortable as an oversized sweatshirt. She sees a group of chubby-limbed boys and girls dancing in circles, falling down and getting back up again, carefree and unencumbered, and she feels the pang of a memory. Was it not so long ago when hers were this delicious? When they held her hand so tight, out of fear and love at the same time? Now they’re scrolling TikTok, forgetting their deodorant, arguing, eating everything in sight and leaving none for her. Stomping off to their musty cave of a room and sealing themselves inside. “Mom!” the older one calls from two stacks away. How many times did they get the please use your inside voice talk in preschool? It seems they never learned to regulate their volume. And this is the library, after all, the quietest of places. She peers through the stacks, bracing herself for the inevitable shushing, but no one seems to care. Next to her, an elderly woman shelves books from a steel cart, their plastic covers crinkling, as glasses dangle from a chain and bounce off the embroidered buttons of her sweater. She nods a hello as she slinks behind her, moving toward her favorite section. She patiently waits as another patron thumbs through what seems like every available book, and then she is able to slide effortlessly toward her literary wonderland: historical fiction. Running her hands along the shelf, passing covers with heroines of eras past -spies in tweed skirt suits, maidens delivering clandestine messages in cumbersome petticoats, bell-bottomed rebels with fists raised in protest. She could lose herself in all of them, a different time, a different life. She aches to lose herself in any of those stories, but seems instead to have lost her boys. She starts to panic, but remembers they are not toddlers anymore, and they are not unpredictable. She heads straight for the back corner and finds them crouched down like lanky little monkeys, thumbing through back issues of Sports Illustrated. “Busted!” she says and they turn to face her. “I think magazines, while enjoyable, do not count as chapter books. Come with me and let’s go see what’s on display in fiction,” she says. They lag behind her, hunched over, walking with their arms swinging aimlessly. She turns around to ensure they are following her and then almost collides with a tiny wisp of a woman. “You look lost,” the woman says, peering up at her over her cat eye glasses. “Can I help you locate a book or are you ready to check some out?” she asks. “Oh, thank you, that’s ok. We were on our way to the young adult fiction section, trying to get these guys here to level up to chapter books,” she responds. “Yep, you’re almost there. Right straight ahead,” she says. “Actually, if you can see Rod over there, Mr. Storytime, it’s right behind him and the kiddos.” They all shake their heads in silent acknowledgment and walk that way. She looks ahead and sees Mr. Storytime as he rises from his crisscross applesauce position, gently shedding clinging children from his lap and arms. It takes him so long to stand up that when he's finished, she realizes he's the size of one of the sturdy oak trees that surround the building. He turns to face them, and upon seeing her surprised face, moves closer with a welcoming smile. “Hey guys! Hey Mom. How’s it goin’? You guys finding everything you’re looking for?” The boys silently nod their heads yes, but she puts a hand out, interrupts them. “Actually, these two here were looking for some really good YA fiction. Do you have any recommendations?” she asks. And with that, his face lights up and a smile blooms across his lips. “You know I do!” he says, chuckling, reaching out for a fist bump. He turns to start walking and beckons with his bear paw of a hand for them to follow. The younger one slices his high-pitched voice through the silence. “Sir, you are really big! Are you a wrestler or something?” he asks. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry about that,” she says and cuts her eyes at her son, admonishing him. Mr. Storytime laughs softly and shakes his head. “It’s ok, don’t apologize. I like people who ask questions. Curiosity is a beautiful thing,” he says. He looks down at all three of them and shifts his eyes, settling on each face for a moment while he continues. “You’re right, I am big! And that’s because I used to play football. I was an offensive lineman at UNC and then I played professionally for the Broncos for a few seasons,” he says. “But I got injured and couldn’t play anymore, so I came back here, back to where I was born and back to my first love, books!” The world immediately folds in on the children like a weighted blanket. Their eyes stop blinking. They are enraptured. Mother and sons follow him through the maze of shelves, a trusted guide, a giant Pied Piper of pages. He stops abruptly and crouches down to grab a thick, heavy book from the bottom shelf. “Now this is one of my favorites. It’s actually written by a man who lives right here in town. It’s about a boy your age,” he says as he points at the older one, “who takes on the god of thunder!” She lets out a little laugh, thinking about how they’d already have one hand on an Xbox controller if she'd suggested that book, but somehow Mr. Storytime is selling it. Their eyes go back to blinking, and they nod their heads, their mouths gone slack, taking in every word. He hands the book to the older one who clutches it close to his chest like a treasure. She watches as he leads them on a guided tour, both of them getting more excited with each book he puts into their outstretched arms. They rack up such a haul that he retreats for a moment and comes back with an oversized tote bag. She plops down on one of the semicircular couches in the children’s area and cracks open the love story from World War II. She settles in and turns down the volume in her head. The kids are definitely safe with the guy whose job it was to protect the quarterback at all costs. A deep baritone and excited whispers tug her back to reality, and she looks up to see her children beaming. “Alright Mom, just bringing your professional readers back to you now,” he says and turns back toward the boys. “Listen guys, keep it up, ok. Keep expanding those minds of yours. There are so many worlds to explore!” he says and ambles back toward the front, stopping to pat a few toddlers on the head and high-five some older kids surfing on the computers. As the kids mill about near the entrance, she watches as the lady checks out her books, running each one under the scanner at a snail’s pace. “So, that Rod is amazing!” she says. “He’s singlehandedly convinced my children to check out their weight in fiction books!” The librarian looks up and smiles. “Isn’t he wonderful?” she says. “We like to call him The Keeper of Books.” She waits as the printer spits out the due date receipt and hands it over. “Thank you,” she says and turns. “Let’s go, boys.” On the drive home, she hums to herself, lost in thoughts of a woman from many decades ago, entangled in espionage and a secret affair. She steals a glance in the rearview mirror, notices the iPhones flung thoughtlessly onto the console. Her gaze falls to the boys, each holding a book tightly in their hands, absorbed in the words on the page, and smiles at her unexpected good fortune.

"Another day of this and I will die" I mutter to myself. The reality of a man left to his own devices in a building with no outside reality. The beds are nice enough, the chairs comfy, but what I wouldn't give for a phone or even just a drink and a little company. Maybe that tall redhead I met in New Orleans, "What was her name again?" I think aloud. She had a set of tits you almost didn't want to squeeze they were so perfect, I can feel the touch of her skin as if it was yesterday. I feel my mind drifting into the past away from this purgatory. "Wah, wah, wah" an alarm sounds in the distance. "To hell with you" I scream aloud. I don't even know what it means. What was it again? It seems a lifetime that I've been here. Seen another face or even looked in a goddamn mirror to see my own. "Calm Down" I whisper to myself. I have to watch my anger, things tend to get hazy. I sit up on the bed and look back around the room. How long have I been here? I begin to think to myself. It's so hard to remember, I look at my hands and see the nubs of my fingernails, I see they have something under them. "What the fuck is this?" Someone must be fucking with me, they are trying to make me feel crazy again. "I know they are" who am I talking to. What am I doing here? Where am I? My thoughts blend then fade to black. I don't remember anything but that redhead and her fantastic tits. "Wah, Wah, Wah!" The alarm sounds again. "Shut the FUCK up" I scream as I rush toward the big yellow door. I reach for the handle, but I cannot open it! "Help Me!" I scream! "They are trying to fuck with me!" I kick and slam my fists into the door. I can hear a noise outside. "Help" I scream as I curl up on the floor. "I can hear the devil coming for me" I continue in haste "He is carrying chains for me" I can hear them rattling against the door. I hear the door swing open. A bright light flashes in my eyes. I see the dark figures, I reach and scratch, clawing furiously at my assailants. I feel the sting of the needle in my arm. I feel reality fade away.... "What happened to him?" The trainee asked his superior. "What's all that about the devil?" "Fucker lost it" the older man snorted! "Wife left him for another man, he drowned his kids and disappeared into a bottle. Hell, I don't think he even remembers the kids, just some redhead he left behind.

(WP) Follow the Spiders You know what they say, don’t you? They say not to kill spiders, because they take care of other pests. But it turns out that the sentient spider race that had taken over our planet were protecting us from an even bigger threat. The spiders were few and far between, in the decade after the war. Instead of assimilating, humanity decided to fight. As a result, both sides were nearly decimated. It wasn’t until afterward that we knew what we were up against, what the spiders had tried to protect us from. The colony swooped down on the planet like a plague, a dark blur of wings, teeth, and claws, and before anyone knew what was happening, they began to feast, blood and gore and viscera spraying the air with an iron tang. Screams and the sounds of ripping and tearing mixed with the cries of the giant bats to create a chorus straight out of a nightmare. I was one of the few who managed to get away; I found shelter in an abandoned warehouse. Too late, I heard the scuttling of many legs and the clicking of mandibles, and before I realized what happened, I was surrounded by the giant arachnids. “What are you doing here?” One of them said in mangled English, the words coming out thick behind its teeth. “This is territory of The Harvestmen! And you are a human!” The word sounded vaguely familiar, but I just shook my head, struck dumb in the face of these unlikely inhabitants. “I just wanted to get away from the bats--” Muffled, derisive laughter moved through the group, and I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to lash out at them. Like the bats they fought against, they could kill me before I could get a weapon out of my pocket. It would not do to lose my cool. “In all fairness,” One of them clicked, coming so close I could see my reflection in its many eyes, “We did try to warn you. But humanity hasn’t changed, even after all these years. Always ready for a fight, for a threat.” The spider snorted, a surprisingly human sound. “Tell me why we shouldn’t leave you for the bats,” It added, and I cringed. “The Harvestman doesn’t take in any humans, unless they’re willing to work.” That name sounded so familiar; I knew I’d heard it before, but I couldn’t place it. “Take me to your leader. Please. So I can talk to him.” The spiders backed away from me, conferring in a series of hisses and clicks. After the five longest minutes of my short life, they came back to me. “Follow us. We’ll take you to him.” \*\* I followed the spiders through the dark warehouse, the only spots of color the flickering florescent lights above us. They led me up several sets of crumbling stone steps. One of the spiders shrank before my eyes, slipping into an open doorway. Soft, murmured words I couldn’t make out. The spider stepped aside and I was pushed through the doorway, forced to my knees. “Welcome to my humble abode, child.” The first human voice I’d heard thus far broke the silence, male and raspy. “If you’re asking for a place here, you’re going to have to work.” The man who spoke was middle-aged, with salt and pepper hair and a goatee. The first expression that came to mind was ‘silver fox’, when I looked at him. He wore a pair of glasses, magnifying his bright brown eyes, and he was clothed in a dark sweater, jeans, and loafers. “Welcome to the base of The Harvestmen.

It was the Babylon Day party that started it all. If I hadn’t gone to Harry’s party marking five long, hard years since the events of Babylon Day, when the blackout started, I wouldn’t be writing this letter. But ... But it was, after all, the fifth anniversary of the start of the blackout, which everyone called Babylon Day. The theme of the party was, of course, Babylon V. Everyone came as their favorite alien ambassador. How could I resist? Things were finally settling down to the new normal. The electrical power industry had gotten used to the decentralized paradigm. The superconductor revolution had helped make local power grids possible. That, and solar power, wind power, people power, ... well. You know. So, I thought the fifth anniversary party would be more upbeat! Not so much whining and bemoaning the good old days before Babylon Day. More optimism and looking forward to a bright future. It might have been that way, too, if the Greenies hadn’t been there. Rachel and her boyfriend Cliff started it. They’d brought their phones with them, and they kept looking at the screens, like they expected a miracle to happen. Then, Cliff was rude enough to ask if he could charge his phone from the local grid. That pissed Harry off; it was his grid, his party. He told Cliff that if he wanted to pedal the bike long enough to top up the battery, then sure, he could charge his stupid phone; otherwise, get the hell out. Cliff had had too much of the free beer to pedal for long, so he and Rachel slunk off to a couch on the other side of the room. “Damn Greenies,” muttered Harry. I tended to agree with him, but as usual I was minding my own business. April, who had come with Rachel and Cliff, and who was not drinking the free beer, spoke up. “Have you ever been to a church service?” She pulled out her phone--an antiquated Samsung Galaxy--turned it on, frowned at the lack of service, turned it off again. Really, what had she expected, a miracle? “Hell no,” Harry replied. “That damned green comet had nothing at all to do with the blackout. It was the Earth’s poles reversing that started it all. Electricity behaves totally different in a reversed magnetic field” “No, no,” Eric chipped in his two cents’ worth. He was drinking the free beer and eating too many of the free tacos. “No, it was the Earth’s core that stopped spinning that caused the radio frequencies to shut down. Everything else was just a chain reaction.” “Core does that every seventy years,” protested Harry. “That had nothing to do with why all the radio frequency stuff stopped working!” Finally, I spoke up. “Neither of those events explains why all the high-volume power lines caught fire. We simply don’t know why we can’t transmit electricity at high currents across long distances anymore.” Everyone shrugged. No one knew. No one knew why radio frequency traffic was limited to less than a kilometer. No one knew why electricity worked when generated locally, at low levels, but caused large power stations to explode. Babylon Day was history, and the blackout was just status quo now. “The green comet appeared in our skies,” said April, “as a warning that we had transgressed against God’s will. It will reappear when we have learned to use God’s Essence with reverence.” Harry rolled his eyes. “You would understand if you came to one of our meetings,” April went on, ignoring him. “I’ve seen miracles happen. Sometimes, we get two, even three bars of service, just for a few seconds.” “Right before the church’s WIFI router blows up,” I said, cynically. “Besides, that comet isn’t due back in the inner solar system for fifty thousand years! Are you saying humanity has to wait that long before we get the Internet back, or before we can broadcast radio around the world like we used to?” After that, the conversation became predictable. Sentimental blah blah about how it had been so great back in the day, when we could use our mobile phones. Reminiscences about listening to the radio in our cars ... Wistful memories of satellite or cable TV, GPS, FaceBook, Twitter, Email, texting ... “Sometimes we can text, for a little while,” called Rachel, from the couch across the room. “Email, too. Just locally, on the church’s intranet, before ...” She looked down at her feet. “Before it blows up!” I said again. “Just like all the long-distance lines did, just like the power plants did, the radio stations, ... No one knows why!” From there, talk segued into who had lost people on Babylon Day. Because everyone had. Millions had died, before things started to come under control. Everybody knew somebody. “We remember them all, too, at our services,” Rachel chimed in. “God remembers all those He took when the blackout fell. He will set his covenant in the skies when we are worthy of the gift of His Essence.” “Oh, this is crap!” Harry threw his empty Solo cup into the trash with a disgusted motion. “Things are better now! We generate electricity at low levels, locally! We’ve got superconducting batteries now! You can still use your computers, just ... not for very long at once, and without the Internet, but ... who cares!? If anything, God did us a favor by making high-volume electricity generation and radio impossible!” By that time, most of the free beer and all the free tacos were gone, and the whining and nostalgia was starting to make me vaguely nauseous. It was early morning, and the sun was coming up.Improvements or not, new normal or not, the nights were still darker than before. The colors of the dawn were bright pink and purple streaks across the sky. Their cheeriness stood in stark contrast to the sour mood of the party. So much for optimism. April was fiddling with her dead cell phone. “Come with us,” she coaxed. “If you only felt the closeness to God that we enjoy ...” Harry shook his head. “I don’t even own a phone anymore,” he said. “I’m happy with my old desktop computer for word processing and stuff. The Internet and all that is gone forever, and I’m okay with that.” He walked to the door. “Party’s over, folks. Happy Babylon Day.” He held the door open in a “Here’s your hat, where’s your hurry,” gesture. I don’t know what made me go get my iPhone. I got all the way home, three blocks away through still-dark streets. It was probably an old habit that made me reach in the drawer of the hall table and pull out the phone. It was dead, of course. Maybe I still craved the comfort we all used to get from the LED screens, the cheery little chimes, the music and ring tones and ... Whatever obscure impulse that moved me, I slipped it into my pocket and walked out the door. The closest Church of the Green Comet was only a few more blocks down the street. April smiled at me as I walked in. The place looked like nothing so much as a meeting space for a 12-step program. It was lit by Christmas tree lights. Music played from a boom box. Not surprisingly on the morning after a Babylon Day anniversary, it was filling up pretty quickly. People were plugging in their old phones, and I had to hurry to grab a USB port before they were all taken. Pretty soon, a guy in a Radio Head T-shirt got up on the stage at the front of the room. Was it getting warm in here already, or was that just my imagination? Was that a tang of ozone, the acrid smell of singing insulation? “Thank you all for coming today!” He bowed his head. “We ask the Lord to be present, and allow his Essence to flow through us and our unworthy instruments.” Beeps and start-up tones cascaded through the room like a tumble of coins. “Would anyone like to testify?” “I had two bars!” Cried a fervent voice from somewhere in the back of the room. “Two bars for three seconds!” “Amen, brother!” Came the response from all around the room. “Let connectivity return to us all.” A woman stood up. “I got spam Email from the Prince of Nigeria!” She cried. “Just like in the days of connectivity!” The chorus of “Amen,” was a little shakier this time. I had a hard time keeping the smile off my face. If it hadn’t been so pathetic, it would have been hilarious. As it was ... There were a few others who testified. One guy claimed his GPS worked and saved him when he was lost. Lots of people claimed to have briefly gotten a few bars of cell coverage. All of the testimonials rang with a jagged edge of need and desperation. After a while, the preacher raised his hands and brought the testimonials to an end. “And now, brothers and sisters,” he intoned, “Let us bask briefly in God’s holy Essence, which He has withdrawn from us, yea, until the green comet returns to signify His forgiveness!” He gestured to the workstation beside him. He pressed a button, and winking LED lights glowed to life. “The usual password, children, 1234. Hurry and connect, while God’s grace visits us.” Frantic screen-tapping rustled around the room. I had 30% charge on my iPhone, and wasted no time connecting to the local fragment of the net that was briefly conjured to life. A soft, jubilant “Ahhh,” swirled through the room. People began texting one another, sending Emails to the person next to them or across the room. Someone FaceTimed me; I smiled at April’s image on the tiny screen. Too soon came the pop and sizzle of overheating circuits. The stench of ozone I had been expecting finally arrived. The WIFI router exploded, and the minister yelped and threw up his hands to protect his eyes from fragments of hot plastic. Even so, I saw blood on his cheek. A collective wail of grief and loss came from us all as whatever was causing the blackout proved too much for even this paltry use of radio frequencies. I hastily put down my iPhone, which was growing too hot to hold. I was surprised to find tears in my eyes. The minister dabbed at his cheek. He had a beatific smile on his face. He held up a stopwatch. “Four minutes, thirty eight seconds!” He cried. “That’s a new record!” His face fell. “Once again, God has withdrawn His grace from us,” he said regretfully. “We are reminded of what has been forbidden us! Just as the Tower of Babel was struck down, so has the use of the airwaves been denied to us! In our arrogance, we used electricity to sin egregiously! Now, by the sweat of our bodies do we make the power we need, and no more than we need. Until the Green Comet returns,” he folded his hands in prayer. Silence fell upon the churchgoers, as they bowed their heads. The collection plate came around, but I ignored it. All the useless sentimentality and silliness had left me seething. My stomach felt full of bile. I didn’t offer to stay and charge up the church’s batteries, even though I’d selfishly used their power. I didn’t contribute money or food or anything. I didn’t pray, or thank the minister. I just stood up, unplugged my phone and walked out. When I got outside, I tossed my useless iPhone into the gutter and walked home. When I got there, I charged up my own batteries with an hour of brisk pedaling, until I was sure I’d have enough electricity for the day. I tried to call my mother on the land-line, but as usual the static was too loud for us to hear each other. I tended my garden and harvested a few crops for the local food bank. The restlessness wouldn’t leave me. I paced and did busy-work, cooked my lunch on the small gas ring ... Nothing made me feel better. I didn’t know whether things were better now, or whether they’d been better back when we had radio and the Internet and all that crap. I felt caught between two colliding worlds. This is why I am resigning my teaching position with the Physics Department. No one can explain why the blackout happened; why it is still happening. Millions died, and maybe millions more will die. Physics can’t explain it, and the Greenies can’t explain it, and I can’t keep teaching Physics to kids who are growing up in a world where science has failed. Babylon Day just happened. The blackout is here to stay. It’s time we live in the present, instead of the past.

Hello friends, I wanted to share with you my first short story written in English. The story takes place in the Warhammer 40k universe, a dystopian sci-fi setting in which the dream of a good life has long since been buried under the rubble of religious delusion, hopelessness and narrow-mindedness. This story is about the minions of the Inquisition, an occult secret service whose self-imposed mission is to protect the soul of humanity and its God-Emperor. Even if they have to break every rule to do so. It tells the story of Idomenea Casryn, an inquisitor and pursuer of the Horusian ideal, and the price one must be willing to pay to save the Emperor's soul. A scene only, a brief moment born of the melancholy and loss that the holy Ordo of the Inquisition impose on their most faithful servants. Have mercy on me that english is not my mother tongue. I hope you enjoy the words as much as I enjoy the writing process. Just trying not to write a story in German was exciting and exhausting at the same time - and in 1-2 moments I also had to ask Google Translate for help. But enough of that! Best regards from Germany! ​ # The Dream of Trinity >*"The final nights in the dreamers barony,* > >*In fair Caracalla, where we lay our scene,* > >*From ancient hopes break to new heresy,* > >*Where honest thoughts make honest souls unclean."* > >\- Elegies of the Double Sun, Thoughts and Reflections ​ **"...Before the swollen gaze of the Dark Eye, do I stand. I hold for He who long ago sacrificed for man. I will yield no ground, I shall take no step back. In His name and for His will, I will never surrender..."** The otherworldly hiss of the shapelessness lurked like a snare of thorns over the cramped chamber of the Teleportarium. The center of the arcane facility was animated by approximately forty men and women, all clad in exquisite armor and rifles, invocations of the Golden Throne silent on their lips - a contrast to the cacophonous shrieks and labors of the Machine God's adepts performing the ritual procedure of the Run-ups performed like the Mass of St. Drusus on the core worlds of Lycandos. If the pious warriors were ready to carry out their cruel orders at the behest of their mistress, the scratching of the presence could be heard, felt, felt at the edges of their perception. They were soldiers of the XVI. Iodura Charbytei, an elite cohort of the Tempestus Scions and officially declared *"perdidit in inundationes"*, lost in the tides with their vessel, the "*Lion of the Last Kingdom*", a Sword-class frigate. As much as this may often be true, it is not always the case: instead of the tides of the Empyrean, She took into her service according to her power as the Emperor's representative. The proud soldiers of Tempestus erased their colors as did their coats of arms, only to swap them for the black and crimson of the Inquisition. The noble symbols of Charybtei victories on their cuirasses have been replaced with esoteric hypersigils and pentagram sketches painted with blessed-cursed dust from the shrine world of Sebastea. Since then, they have served the Veiled Lady as loyal warriors to fulfill her dream of the Trinity. And yet they could only defend themselves exhausted, panting and silently wailing against the snare of thorns. **"Pierce my flesh, break my bones, take my life. These matter not in my sacrifice, ye of the Despair shall know defeat. For even in Death shall we be triumphant in His name..."** Each of the soldiers had gone through the hells of depravity as well as of their own conscience for the veiled lady. Some died, others committed atrocities for the fulfillment of the Trinity. The cases of those who showed the taint of the Otherworld on body and soul were ended with holy earnest within the warriors. But no one gave way, no one despaired. And yet the noose of thorns tightened around their souls, leaving scratches and bleeding. Tempestor Salim averted his gaze from the crimson shape that undulated gently across the floor of the sacred teleportarium like the sea breeze of sunrise on Kardesh Secundus. Her blades, each blessed by devoted preachers of Sebasteia to the glory of Terra, floated in tight, intricate patterns around her body, forming in their slowness a complex yet hypnotic pattern that seemed like the indecisive invocation of a figure half holy and half ugly. The teleporatium's arcs of energy were still charging, the frantic screeching of the Machine God's Adept muffled in the background. But Salim had eyes only for his neighbor's cuirass, knowing full well that the same spectacle was taking place on his armor: the hypersigils, occult symbols of protection against the corruption of the Otherworld, blistered and peeled off like old paint on the walls of a manufactory. And the voice in his head grew louder, the rasping of the loop of thorns in his mind more oppressive. **"...My Lord! I have fallen in battle for He and his flock. Prepare my place, O Lord! I shall stand by thee side until the End Times. Until Thy will be done..."** They were verses of pious prayer, catechisms of holiness, recited in the distant, weary, yet unbroken voice of a Pious Servant of the Golden Throne. Little more than the icing of the frost, which turns the presence of the floating entity into a moment in every life that one tries desperately to shake off and yet is unable to. The purple glow in the empty eyes of the veiled skull gave an idea of ​​the powers that the veiled lady subjugated to create her personal Erinys. And yet it's the details that let Tempestor Salim recognize suffering in the thick brew of fear. Weathered adherents to the cult of the double-faced sun, rusting prayer brooches of solid gold, crests like long-smeared gleams of the man they had been. The declaration of eternal friendship. Pious praises of the Golden Throne ́s benediction. The insignia of an interrogator. The melted wards on the Tempestus Scion's cuirass ran in contrasting clarity down the midnight-black breastplates like a distant mother's tears succumbing to madness. The first groans could be heard from the pious warriors, as the thorns pressed themselves unintentionally and unprotected into the tender flesh of their hardened souls and mutilated the fine fiber of their salvation with their barbs of corruption. But they did not falter, none of Salim's soldiers. He was proud, ignoring the taste of brass on his tongue. **"...Take heed, ye who have surrendered to the Darkness. I shall be unbowed and unbroken. For where there is darkness, His light shall shine and the darkness shall retreat... IDOMENEA?"** The dissonant ending of the litany roused each of the warriors in the teleportarium from their stoically endured agony. The Psalms of Endurance floated like distant echoes through time and space, echoing through the eternity of the souls of the Tempestus Scions. Relieved for a moment, the swollen eyes of the soldiers, hidden under their helmets and visors, glided to the entrance of the teleportarium, now seeing what the Erinys already saw coming, felt, prophesied: Realizing the paradox of elegant power armor, a woman entered, clad like the soldiers in midnight black and inlaid with pure gold, her crimson cloak billowing behind her like the faithful retinue of its lord. A dead blade at her side, it was her face that caught the attention of her soldiers: suggested contours of a beautiful, yes, innocent face, hidden as if beneath a veil whose fibers seemed so unreal as to be tearful. It was no salute, not even a hinted nod of her veiled head, that was meant for her followers, her souls that would in a few moments lead themselves into the hellfire of pandemonium, in order not to let the dream of the trinity die. It just wasn't necessary. Not a word, not a declaration of appreciation for their loyalty to the Inquisitor. Tempestor Salim and each of his subordinates knew it. And yet she spoke. The voice of Idomenea Casryn, commonly known as the Veiled Lady, found its way into the teleportarium. Sounding far away, echoing like the last, sighing note in an orchestra hall on Esseles, who combined beauty and melancholy with too few syllables: “Prosperina?” The word, more question than utterance, found its way through the veil, and for a moment it seemed as if even the shrieking Techadepts were brought together by the word of the Inquisitor - as a follower of the Horusian ideal reviled by many of her peers and hunted by some - to one moment of dignified silence. ***"...Idomenea..."*** The swords, circling in intricate patterns around the Erinys, paused in the air. Hidden beneath the veil, the skull of the crimson-tinted monster bent toward the Inquisitor. Her otherworldly voice, uttering the litany of endurance in a tortured, pained manner, driving the Tempestus Scions like rusty nails into their souls the moment the hypersigils failed, seemed changed. She sounded younger, female, yes, human. And exhausted and distant in a way that no listener could have imagined. "Not for long, my heart. The dream of the Trinity is about to be fulfilled. We're almost there." The Inquisitor's words took the stage with measured strides, where only she and her Erinys reigned supreme, the elite soldiers relegated to supporting roles and the screeching tech-adepts to a silenced orchestra. They were neither beseeching nor benevolent, but their intention was evident even to the bleeding souls of the Tempestus Scions waiting in agony deep in their hearts. She was neither an order nor a flattery. Rather a pleading. ***"...I can hardly do any more. It hurts so bad. He wants me, my beloved... he just wants me for himself..."*** As if in reply, the sounds of a gusting death wind came alive around Proserpina, the Veiled Lady's triple-bound Demonhost. The rusty chains around the ankles of the hovering monster lashed the floor of the teleportarium, as if angry entities wanted to replace the silent orchestra and want to end the scene, the conversation between two sisters who were in love and who were both wounded in their own way. A tiny sparkle only, nothing else was visible under the veil of Idomenea Casryn. "Hold on, my strong, my noble heart." The soldiers' visors could scarcely recognize it in their coarseness. And even if technology allowed them to do so, believing that the Inquisitor would shed a tear would be impossible and unbearable at the same time. A tear for a human being who, being stronger-willed, more mature, wiser, chose to accept the necessary yoke of damning one's own soul in order to enable her younger companion to fulfill the dream of the Trinity. To free the Emperor's soul from the agony of the Golden Throne. "Hold on... Proserpina." **"...We who have bled shall be redeemed. We who have fallen shall be exulted. We who have died shall be avenged. We who have sacrificed shall be rewarded..."** No more words of sorrow. No more words of affection, of missing her loved one. Only the catechism of endurance, intoned in invisible pain from otherworldly lips, knowing full well that the self-chosen damnation could call no salvation its epilogue, only the horror of the heralds of the Empyrean, challenged and bound by human courage and occult instruments that only the most radical of the Ordo Malleus knew, could know, were allowed to know. The last hope that Properina Dellacosa, once a brilliant interrogator of the Holy Ordos, could cling to was that the moment, when she could no longer resist the corruption and its insinuations, was not in vain. That the Trinity would come, she herself might be dressed in never-ending darkness.

Katie asked Artie to meet her at the Mexican restaurant, the bright yellow, stucco building just down the street from her house. It was a place they often went to eat. Artie sat on the plastic bench across the table from Katie. Katie’s blue eyes looked larger, even more beautiful than usual. But though her eyes were wide, they had less depth. It was as if the deep pools of her eyes had dried up, leaving pure calcite rings of white and shallow puddles of blue that had once been seas. Artie stared down at the table top. The surface was brown formica with a fake pattern of wood grain. He looked up at Katie, she brushed a lock of her auburn hair away from her face. “Are things going to be OK between us?” Artie said, his voice was flat. “I don’t think so” Katie said. “What did I do wrong?” “Nothing” Katie said. Her voice was flat too, but it had an edge like anger. It wasn’t anger, “It’s over between us. You left some of your stuff at my house. I put it in a box on the porch, you can come get it whenever”. Artie’s right hand was gripping a little plastic arch with the number “12” on it. Just then a voice came over the intercom, “Number 12”, the voice said. Artie moved to slide off the bench and stood up, he looked down at Katie. “Are you going to stay and eat?” “No” she pulled her purse over her shoulder and slid off the bench and stood up. For a moment she and Artie stood close to each other. It didn’t help that she looked unusually beautiful. Artie didn’t reach for her. Even the habit of a parting embrace had dried up, his insides felt dried up. He stood feeling awkward for a moment. She looked very straight and dignified. Suddenly perfect. Then she turned and crossed the restaurant toward the door. Artie’s eyes followed her as she pushed open the glass door and walked out into the parking lot. There was a big, arched window on either side of the door and he saw her as she crossed the parking lot. The warm March sun fell reddish on her hair. It didn’t help that she looked very beautiful, even at a distance, walking across a parking lot. “Number 12”, the scratchy intercom voice said again. Artie went up to the counter and exchanged the plastic arch for a tray with their meals. The tray held two lunch specials; tacos, enchiladas and piles of beans, orange rice and shredded, colorless lettuce. Artie set the tray down on the table and picked at the food. Then he got up and walked to the restroom. He cried a little bit in the bathroom stall then came back out. When he came back from the bathroom, he saw one of the restaurant employees dumping the tray with the two lunch specials into a garbage can. She looked up at him. She must have thought he was done eating. Artie smiled at her vacantly and walked toward the exit. He crossed the parking lot. That’s one thing that’s hard about being alone in the world, Artie thought as he got into his car; people throw your food away.

Hi. My name is Marissa. I'm not going to waste your time and talk about myself because you won't remember long enough to finish this story. What you will remember is Willow. She's a pet. She's my pet. As soon as I saw her on the street, alone and scared, I had to adopt her. She's adorable. She and her little friends are all adorable. My mom, otherwise known as Mrs. Godzilla, is always telling me that I need to get rid of my pets. What does she know? She doesn't understand. Get that thing out of my house. No. Eww. What is that? None of your business. It's so ugly. So is your third husband... but no one's counting. She'll never understand. Willow is my best friend. She's the only real friend I've ever had. When I come home from school on a bad day, she'd jump into my arms and I'd lift her to my face and kiss her. I would go taking her walking in the mornings. Well, I'd do most of the walking because someone may slip and fall on her. When it's really cold outside, I'd make sure not to leave the house without warming up my mittens on the heater. When it's really hot, I'll have a water bottle waiting for her when she needs it. One time, the police caught me pouring water on the sidewalk and asked me what I was doing. I said that I was letting my pet drink water. He looked around but he didn't see anyone. I held out my hand to show him. He squinted so tight that his tightly knitted eyebrows looked like a fuzzy caterpillar crawling on his face. He said he didn't see anything in my hand. I guess it was my fault I wore brown gloves that day. I told him what she was and her name but he just laughed. "That's not a pet! Put that back on the ground! It might have rabies or somethin'." "No sir, she doesn't." "Well, if you're content..." "Yeah, I am." "I'm going to let you off with a warning. If you need to give your pet a drink, do it in the grass next time." He held both his hands up when he said pet . "Yes sir." He's just like my mom, a human Godzilla. I think he was prepared to step on her if I really did put her back on the ground. Then there was one time my sister came back into town after her honeymoon. She walked straight into my room and saw me talking to Willow. We were watching Avengers Endgame and Willow asked me wh the purple guy was. My sister, Brittany, said: "Who are you talking to?" "None of your business." "Well fine. If I actually cared, I'd let you know." "But you walked in my room. You asked the question. Sees to me like you did care." Then she stomped away back to wherever she came from. You would think a newlywed would have a newly mature mind. Then my mother came into the room. What is up with people just barging into my room at random times? You have no clue what I can be doing in there. That's why the door is closed. "Honey, you upset your sister." "Is she crying?" "No." "Is she bleeding?" "What? No." "Is she dying?" "God, I hope not." "Well then she's fine." "Marissa Jade! You go apologize to Brittany right now!" So I picked up Willow and put her back in her cage. I made sure I left some popcorn next to her breakfast bowl. Then I trudged downstairs to see Brittany with a hint of a smug smile on her face. I muttered an apology and trudged right back up the stairs, making sure they heard my feet cross over into my room and the door slam shut. I remember one time I snuck Willow to school with me. I was in 6th grade and everyone was doing it. Sneaking their pets to school with them, I mean. In third grade, a kid named Todd Matthews brought his dog to school. Kind of hard trying to sneak a 27 pound, pregnant, Mudi into school without anyone noticing. Her name was Jewel, he said. He almost got through the day without anyone noticing, I don't know how, but then Jewel started to go into labor. And Jewel had three babies: one girl and two boys. Of course, being in third grade, a dog birth was disgusting, but when we saw the babies couldn't stop staring and giving oohs and ahs . He got in big trouble with the principal and ended up going home, staying home for the rest of the week. My bringing Willow to school had a very different effect on other people. See, everyone thinks that Willow would hurt them. They thought that she was dangerous. I tried to show my science teacher, Mr. Colone, but he told me that Willow belonged outside. I didn't listen to him. I kept her in my lunch bag, making sure nothing was squishing her and that she had enough to eat, and cracked the zipper so she could breathe. I mean, she was small enough to fit but I eat like an animal! As I was going to my last class of the day, someone asked me what was on my shoulder. To be completely honest, I didn't even know she had gotten out. All of a sudden, everyone was coming towards me with books and their hands prepped to slap the black off your momma. I looked down and realized Willow was sitting there, chilling on my shoulder. Now I'm not the superhero type, but I think I saved Willow's life back then. I don't even think she's said thank you for all the times I rescued her from her last day on Earth. And that one time when I called my grandpa. He asked me if I had anything new going on. "Not that I'm aware of, PawPaw." "Well you've got to have something different than the last time I called you." "I got a new pet!" "Oh wow! What is it? Does it have a name?" "Yes. Her name is Willow and she gives me the best hugs and kisses. I can't stop picking her up and I think she feels the same way about me." "That's wonderful, sweetheart!" "Yeah! And she has this beautiful brown coat that shines in the sun. And her bark is definitely bigger than her bite..." "That's wonderful, sweetheart." I don't think he really listened to what I was saying. Thinking back, you may think that I was talking about a dog. But I really wasn't. If only you all knew Willow was a stickbug.

Mike's POV "Oh, I'm sorry", I said as I bend down to pick up the pile of documents and files that lay in the ground. I looked at the person opposite of me, scrambling to get the documents in a stack. I noticed he looked like a new worker in the office. His face was slightly red and had black rimmed glasses. A distinct perfume smell was coming from him. He muttered a quick "sorry" and rushed towards the door. Strange, I thought. "Hey guys, did you notice the IT department has a new guy?” Remi asked, her eyes twinkling. "Stop crushing on every new guys Remi", Orson stated. "Sucks that you are not into guys", Remi shot back, sticking out her tongue. "Yeah, I crashed with him on the way here.” I said. "He seems fine" "Fine?! He looks amazing. I heard he is good at his work too. All the girls seem to be talking about him." "Stop fantasizing Remi" "Oh shut up Or. A girl can dream."(Or is the short for Orson) "Let's finish this and have a drink today. I have invited others too.” I said. "I think I'll pass.", Or said. "Oh come on. It'll be fun.” Remi said. "Your definition of fun and mine are different." "Please. Just this time", I said. "You guys always say that." "Please. You can go back home early if you want" "Fine but only this time.” Remi finally agreed. (At the restaurant) "Cheers" Clinking of glasses is heard. "I swear this is one of the best places to drink.” Matt said. “Yeah dude", Corey replied. "The workload has been increased so much these days.” Jamie said. "Yeah, we need more people to recruit", Deffanie said. "Guys, guys", a loud voice belonging to indigo was heard. "This is Alder. He is new and works in IT department." All eyes were on him and he instantly turned a bit red. He looked at us with slightly wide eyes and smiled. We said our introductions and started chatting with him. "Are you an Asian?” Corey asked. "Yes, actually I am half Chinese." "Do you like the office so far?” I asked. Alder stared at me and blinked for a second. He cleared his throat and said, "It’s a nice working place." "What do you like doing during free time?" "I like playing computer games." "We should totally do that. I like it too." I asked him a bunch of questions until Or intervened. "Let's go grab more drink.", Or said. I nodded and we went to the counter. "Will you stop scaring that kid.", Or scolded. "What? I'm just trying to feel him welcomed." "You are overdoing it. You are making him nervous by asking too many questions" "Fine, I'll stop it." I admit I can go overboard sometimes. We had a blast that night. We even ended up dancing and singing. By the time we decided to go home, we were pretty drunk. At least I was. Remi, Or and I booked a cab. We were saying our goodbyes to others when Indigo came to us. "Hey, uh, is it okay if we come with you guys? My brother was supposed to pick us Alder and I but he couldn't make it.", she explained. We agreed. So, Or sat in the front while the rest four of us sat at the back, a bit squeezed. I was between Alder and the cab door. While Remi and Indigo were talking, I noticed Alder becoming red. I didn't know if it was because the cab was hot or he drank too much. "Hey, why are you becoming so red?” I asked and raised my hand to touch his forehead. "Are you sick?" He instantly ducked his head. "I-It's hot here" I rolled the windows down and instantly felt the cold wind rush at my cheeks. "So, where do you live?” I asked. Sue me for my inability to keep my mouth shut for a long time. "Merlin road" "That's far" Alder shrugged. "I have been trying to convince him to find a room", Indigo butted. "I can't leave my aunt alone", Alder defended. "She also has her sons.” Indigo shot back. "You can live with us", Or offered. "Who are we?” Indigo asked. "Or and I", I replied. Indigo narrowed her eyes. "Are you guys dating?” she asked. "No!" Or cried. "I'm straight" I laughed. "No Indigo. We just move in a house to save the cost of the rent." "Oh" There was a silence for a few moments. "I think it is a good idea. It would be a lot easier if you move with them." "I don't know. I'll have to think", Alder hesitated. "Take your time", I said. "By the way, there is a new ice cream shop opened around the corner... " "No. We are not going there now", Or stated firmly, cutting me. "But..." "No" We continued arguing back and forth until we reached our places. (Few days later) "Mike, Alder agreed to move in with you guys. Is it okay if he moves in today?” Indigo asked. "Yeah, sure. No problem." "Alright. See you in the evening." Later that evening, Remi, Or, Indigo and I helped Alder move his stuffs and arrange them. After sometime, everyone left except for Alder, Or and I. "I am going to bed.", Or announced. "What about dinner?” I asked. Or waved off and headed towards his room. “I’ll cook today”, I said. “I can help”, Alder offered. “Nah, it’s fine. You can go and familiarize with the rooms”, I said. I finally finished cooking and called Alder. He did not respond. I went to call him from his room. I saw that he was holding a drawing paper. I couldn’t see what was drawn. Beside him, a flower key ring was laid. I looked at the key ring and felt oddly familiar. Alder turned back and swiftly rolled the paper. “Hey”, he said. “Dinner’s ready. I came to call you.” “Okay” We went to the kitchen and started eating. “What was on the paper?” I asked, trying to a start a conversation. “No one” “Where did you get that key ring from?” “Someone who was close to me gave it” I frowned. “Have we met before?” He didn’t respond, just continued eating. I found it weird but didn’t comment. I got up to wash the dishes after I finished eating. “I’ll do it”, Alder offered. “It’s fine, I’ll manage. It’s your first day here.” I continued washing the dishes. In the middle, an apron was tied to my waist. I was taken aback and stood straight. His fingers touched my waist, giving me goose bumps. Then, his hands trailed upwards and tied the laces in my neck. The tingling sensations in my neck heightened. I knew this touch. I kept the plate in the sink and turned around. I gazed into his brown eyes. “Bud”, I whispered. He smiled. We had tears in our eyes. Few seconds passed and we were still staring at each other with big smiles on our faces. I broke the eye contact and hugged me. “I am so sorry I didn’t recognize you”, I said. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” He shrugged and sat on the counter. I let out a small laugh. “Your habit for sitting on counter top hasn’t gone?” I asked amused. “Nope”, he gave a dazzling smile. I finished the dishes and went where he sat. I lightly traced his face with my fingers. He closed his eyes and took a sharp breath. “Do you miss me?” I asked. “I couldn’t forget you.” he replied. I took his hand and covered it with mine. “I missed you too.” I leaned for a kiss. “Wait!” I paused and looked at him. “I think it’s too early.” “But we have already waited for 9 years already.” I reminded. He shook his head. “I think we shouldn’t rush. Unwillingly, I nodded but kissed him on the forehead. (Next day) “Dude, wake up. We are going to be late.” I woke up with Or screaming at me. I looked at the time and instantly panicked. I was late. I rushed to the kitchen and grabbed the breakfast. “Where is Bu-Alder?” I asked. “I woke him up. He should have been here” “I’ll call him again”, I said and headed towards his room. As I entered his room I saw he was fast asleep. I gazed at him for a few seconds thinking how handsome he looked until I remembered what I was here for. “Bud, wake up”, I said, softly shaking him. He stirred. “Come on. We are going to be late.” He woke up and rushed to the bathroom. I smiled softly and turned towards the door. My eyes caught a folded paper. Curious, I unfolded the paper and saw a portrait of mine. It’s actually pretty good, I thought. (After a few days) I was getting ready to go home after finishing my office work when I felt Remi squint her eyes and looked at me. “What?” I asked. “You seem close to that IT guy”, she said, “He is my roommate and my friend.” “Or is also your roommate and your friend. He doesn’t look like ‘just a friend’. “And how do can you say that?” “Women intuition” I shrugged off. “I expected you to come clean yourself.”, Or spoke. I raised a brow. “I came in the kitchen to drink some water that night. I saw quiet an interesting sight.” Dammit. At the exact moment Bud came in. Double dammit. He saw us and gave a polite smile. He made his way to Denise. “Wait a minute”, Remi called, She stepped in and brought Bud at us. “We were discussing about Mike and you. Is there something going on between you guys?” This was Remi, blunt as usual. Bud turned red and looked at me. “There isn’t anything to discuss”, I said. “Mind explaining what happened in the kitchen?”, Or butted in. Bud looked confused. “He meant the first day you moved in”. I offered. “He saw us” “I think it’s fine to tell them.” he spoke, softly. “I did want to tell you guys but Bud wanted to keep this a secret. We are exes, more specifically high school sweethearts.” “But aren’t exes supposed to be rude and unreasonable?” Remi asked. “You watch too much TV”, Or stated. “Anyways, we started dating in grade 9 for a year until Bud’s parents found out. They didn’t allow same sex dating. So, we decided to mutually break up for some time. Shortly after that, his parents moved out. They changed their contacts too and social medias weren’t much used at that time. Hence, I lost all the contacts with him.” I said. “I don’t understand how people can be so homophobic”, Or muttered. “Yeah, live and let live”, Remi added. “The past is past”, I said. “It’s seems quiet unbelievable though.” Bud said. I looked at him and smile. “You better believe it now”, I whispered and kissed him on the lips. I could hear Or and Remi hooting and felt few people staring at us. I could feel Bud was heating up and the reason of him coming here was long forgotten.

2.21am The apartment "Are you ready?" "No." "Yes you are, just grab my hand and let's go." "I don't want to." "We've talked about this for so long. Please, just come with me." "..." "Come on, we can leave all this behind, it'll be just the two of us, just trust me." "No." * 2.46am The rooftop The wind was freezing on the roof of the high-rise apartment building, but the young man with an almost empty bottle of whiskey in his hand didn't mind. He wasn't afraid of getting a cold, it wouldn't bother him anymore, since he would stop existing in about fifteen minutes or so. It was a struggle for the man to obtain the keys to the roof, but now as he watched the sleeping city from way up, he was absolutely certain, that it was worth all the trouble. It truly felt like the city was asleep. The only thing, that the man could hear, were the trees ratteling in the distance. The city lights were glimmering in the darkness, like stars in the night sky. The view was stunning. It was hard for the man to understand, how much this city transformed during the day. * 2.23am The apartment "Jump with me!" "You're scaring me." The woman replied. The man moved closer to the woman, his face now five centimeters away from hers. "We've talked about this for a long time, don't back out now." The woman could smell the alcohol from his breath. The woman could see the storm in the man's eyes when he pulled her hair. "Do you understand? " The man shouted. "You are coming with me, just like... just like we planned! " The woman fell to her knees, and covered her face with her hands. She was crying and praying to a god, that she didn't even believe in. "Don't make me do this!" He shouted, while walking around in their living room. The man took a drink and continued to shout at her. She didn't even know what the man was saying anymore. She couldn't hear him. She felt the man's hands wrapping around her neck. His hands were strong, and he squeezed as hard as he could. The man heard when the woman tried to gasp for air, gasps filled with despair. The woman didn't resist, she didn't try to get herself free from his grip. She just stared at him with her big brown eyes. This was the first time, the man truly realized how gorgeous her eyes were. * 2.55am The rooftop The man opened the almost empty whiskey bottle, and took a swig. It was Jack Daniels, his favourite. The man felt the warm sensation in his throat, he had always enjoyed that feeling. The man was sitting on the edge of the roof, his legs hanging in the air below him. 'How will this bottle break, if I drop it from here? In how many pieces will it be, when it hits the ground? Will the pieces spread on the collision like fragments from a grenade? Who will clean them? When will he clean them?' He dropped the bottle. Silence... Silence... Crash The man could hear the bottle breaking in to a million pieces down below. ' When I jump and eventually collide with the ground, will I be in bits and pieces, just like that whiskey bottle? When will they clean me up? Who will do it? How long will it take?' The man looked down from the edge. He usually wasn't good with heights, but the alcohol cooled his nerves. ' Will anyone miss me, will they remember me? Is there anyone who cares about me anymore? Did I drive them all away? ' ' Did I just kill the last person that cared about me?' The man started to count out loud, slowly but steadily. "One..." "Two..." "Three..." "Four... " ' Will I meet her again, somewhere far away? Will she forgive me?' "Five... Six... Seven... Eight... Nine..." "..." ' We'll be together again... Right?' "Ten.

Jake walked down an empty Saint Paul street, his heavy backpack weighing him down. For an already small unathletic kid, the twenty or so pounds was not easy for him, but he was on a mission. He had waited too long for this day to turn around now. As he turned down main street, he took a small break on a bench and set down his pack. He had only slept for 4 hours, since he had woken up half an hour ago to leave for the library. He continued walking down Main Street until he reached the front door of the library, he had been coming here since before he could remember. His earliest memories were the Saturday morning book reading sessions when his mother would take him and he would sit for an hour and the librarian would read him and the other kids stories. He had made most of his friends after those sessions, the parents would be making small talk outside the library waiting for their children to finish the reading session, and he would play with the other kids. That is how he had met Zack, his best friend. They were the same age, went to the same school and practically did everything together, but they were vastly different. Jake was a small scrawny unathletic kid, but what he lacked in strength he made up for double in smarts, he was a straight A+ kid and excelled in science and math. Zack on the other hand was twelve, the same age as Jake, but a whole foot taller and built like a tank, quite the opposite of Jake, he was happy when he got B's or even C's. He never got perfect grades, but he could run like the wind, and he was a star baseball player, the best on his school team. Despite their differences, the two had been best friends ever since they met at the library so long ago. Jake waited for about ten minutes before Zack showed up. “Sorry I'm late,” said Zack “It's okay, I was a little early. Just be really quiet, we don't know if there are still people inside,” Jake replied. “You think people will be in there? It is two in the morning!” “I really don't know, but why risk it til we're sure?” Jake asked. “Okay, let's go in.” Jake had been to the library with his mother the day before and he had been sure to leave a twig between the glass part of the window and the windowsill. He had done this so that he could easily open the window and crawl into the library. “So when does the thingy open?” Zack inquired as they walked around to the back of the building. “For one thing, it is not a thingy, it is some sort of extra dimensional space, or something. For all I know this is the first one and we can call it whatever we want. I am not really sure when it opens, if my calculations are right it should open tonight around two-thirty in the morning, which is only twenty-five minutes away.” “Oh, can we call it a wormhole? Ooh, or maybe a blackhole? Or something cool like that. Are we going to tell people? I mean, if this is really a new discovery then we would be so famous!” Zack exclaimed. "I think we should just see what it does before we tell people," Jake reasoned, smiling at his friend’s enthusiasm. "But what about your discovery?" questioned Zack. About one month ago, Jake had been in the library picking out some history books that he would use to study for his upcoming First Nations unit test, when he heard an odd sound coming from behind the shelves. He had checked to see if anyone was looking and when no one was, he quickly moved all the books off of the shelf and saw a very strange hole. It was about big enough for him to fit through and it had a weird rippled effect, as if it was water that had somehow been put horizontal without gravity pulling it down. And an odd, almost ominous hum was coming from it, just loud enough for him to hear. The hole was inky black, and produced no light. It also resembled the wall it was sitting against. If there had been any background sound he would not have heard it, luckily there had only been about ten other people in the place and it was an enormous building. He had not been sure what to do, he was too afraid to put his hand through it so he had thrown a book through it. The book had been “The Graveyard Book'' by Neil Gaiman, one of his personal favorites. It had disappeared. “Well I guess, but I never got video footage, and maybe my math was wrong and we won't even see it,” Jake explained. “Well I guess there is only one way to find out!” exclaimed Zack, maybe a little too loud for two kids trying to sneak into a library. The two walked along the side of the building until they saw their first camera. They had been expecting this, since there was a security system at the library. They hid behind a bush and got out a can of black spray paint. Jake had planned to spray the cameras so if the librarians looked at the feed they would not see them. He put on a black balaclava just for extra safety and sprayed the paint on the camera. They then went to where the window was and pushed it open. Jake was the first to crawl through the space where the window was, and he was closely followed by Zack. “Are we criminals now?” Zack whispered. “Well, technically yes,” answered Jake. “But I think we are doing it for a good reason.” The two boys walked in silence until they got to the place Jake had seen the hole. He cleared the books and stacked them on the ground. There was nothing. The disappointment was apparent on both boys' faces. “Maybe it moved?” Zack wondered. “Maybe it will come later.” The two boys waited for forty-five minutes, they looked around, moved some books, but did not see anything. At exactly three in the morning the two boys were standing by the bookshelf thinking about what to do when something hit Zack on the head. It was a book. “Ouch!” exclaimed Zack. Jake leaned over and picked up the book. It said “The Graveyard Book” in big words on the cover. “That's weird, shouldn't that book be in the children's section?” questioned Zack. Without a word Jake cleared all the books on the shelf and stared into the murky depths of the hole. “Oh my god!” exclaimed Jake. “When I first discovered the hole I tossed this book into it! It must be a time machine of some sort!” “Wow! Can I jump in?” said an excited Zack. “Are you crazy? You might never come out!” “And that my friend is a risk I am willing to take to be the first time traveler!” “Well I guess so,” shrugged Jake, trying to sound unconcerned, though his face told a different story. “Let me film it.” The two friends took the heavy camera out of the backpack and set it up on its tripod. After taking several photos they said goodbye. Zack also took his small digital camera with him in case he could take pictures for proof. “Be safe!” encouraged Jake. “You know I always am,” replied Zack. The two embraced and said goodbye, then Zack climbed up the bookshelf, gave his friend a mock salute, and jumped through. 50 years later. Jake walked into the library and walked over to the historical fiction section. His wife was waiting in the car for him so he knew he would be quick. He browsed the books for a minute or two and picked out an old one about the Napoleonic war. As he was picking up his bag, a pile of books fell on him. A young boy fell on top of him. He looked up and saw a odd black circle on the wall in front of him. Then he looked at the boy. “Zack?”

Kalan entered the hall of the high fortress, dragging his body along the ragged, uneven ground until he gathered the strength to rise. Inside, strong currents of air cleaved the interior of the monolith, immediately drying the blood that streaked his body until it turned dark and rusted. Hearing his entry into the nest, the flock, cautiously and curiously, approached the various cave openings that housed them then. Round, lidless, rainbow-colored eyes watched him in silence. The view was superb. In every den, on the various levels of height and width of the immense entrance hall, his people had stopped breathing, until Ka, his progenitor, approached him. Kalan knelt, forehead touching the forearm which held his upraised knee, anticipating the coming moment, anticipating his father’s judgment. He was the prince of a cursed people and everything depended on him. "You survived the descent and arrived at the sea. Yet nothing has changed." Ka hissed through gritted teeth which protuberate from his open beak, “The witch lied to us, just as I suspected. She filled us with false hope.” In the background, Kalan could just make out the voice of Katara, his younger sister. “No one has yet figured out the obvious? Why do you think she bewitched us and left us isolated on this escarpment with these mutations? It wasn't by chance,’’ she paused and took her time looking around, at the shocked expressions of our people ‘’Galantha would never do anything by chance. She was one of us." Concordant and discordant voices echoed in the tunnels and black stone halls that nestled them. The loudest the discordant ones. Their words veiled by fear. Refusing to accept that to return to their former lives they had to accept the transformations caused by the curse and learn to live with them. And what is the best way to go about it? Kalan knew, as Katara knew, but his father, the King, the one responsible for the condemnation of an entire people, could not accept it, and so the dissenting voices did not subside. Ignoring Katara's comment, Ka continued. "You've proven your courage, my son. Now it is time to heal our wounds and rethink our plan to break the curse." Again the denial of what was obvious. There was only one possible plan. There had only ever been one possible plan. Kalan looked up, the air shifting as his father moved away. Only the rustle of feathers echoed in the wide space as he passed. Ka's immense body momentarily covering the image of Katara's eyes locked on his. So lilac, like all her bizarre parts, and just like the translucent gown and dazzling amethysts she had worn the day everything changed. Coincidence? He believed not. At present, all that had been worn on that fateful moment was nothing but threadbare props, like his people, worn, wasted, their time reaching its end. Kalan took a deep breath and closed his eyes to all the life that depended on him. *** Kalan heard the band move away shortly after the King left the vast hall. His bruised body was slow to come to life when he rose. The craggy boulder, which he had descended and then climbed back in the space of a week, had left wide cuts along his chest, arms and legs. Fortunately, with the curse his feet had mutated to something more resistant and effective in his new environment, grabbing at the stone craggy wall like hooks, otherwise, the sea, which bathed the small cobbled cove at the bottom of the abyss, would have carried his carcass away long ago. He knew he should go wash his wounds, eat and rest, but that would have to wait. A few minutes, or maybe forever. There was no more time to lose. He approached the mouth of the cliff, the only opening to the outside of the immense basalt fortress, and peered into the sunny sky and blue sea ahead, the briny air grew more pungent the closer he got to the edge. The sea roared intensely, but the distance he was at was such that to his ears the sound was like the murmur of placid waters on warm summer days. The unbroken horizon and sunshine called to him. "Brother, what are you doing here? I went to the infirmary. Vetara had already prepared the poultices for your wounds, but she told me you had yet to come for her." Katara's voice startled Kalan. The landscape, like his intent, had completely absorbed him. Without turning around he said, "What do you think? You yourself proclaimed it." He exhaled loudly. "Sorry, but I can't do it anymore. Galantha's words haunt me. It's been nearly two years, and now that the end of the curse draws near... " he couldn't go on. "Kalan... what are you saying?" Katara's fearful mutter made him turn toward her. The silvery line he saw in his sister's eyes proved that she had sensed the intent behind his words. He hugged her. His azure feathers, the same color as his eyes, the only attribute to have remained unchanged, enveloped his sister's purple ones. "May the destruction of the Winged God of Heaven, who opposed the continued extinction of His people, be today and for another 730 days the condemnation of yours to live like Him. Once that time is over may your destiny be the same as thou hast offered Him. His life and death be made yours and of yours. But for Katara, I offer you a chance at salvation. For a price. When from His palace on high, your firstborn, heir of your nation, accepts Him and reaches the sea, may the curse be no more." Kalan whispered Galantha's last words to his father. "This is my torment Katara. This is my sacrifice." He continued. Shoulders slumped, posture stooped under the weight of responsibility. "I have to believe she knew you could do it. Father's reign is over, it's time for us to change, to accept our collusion in the extermination of those who we look like now. From all of us, you were the only one who always recognized how wrong we were. I know we will never be like before, not inside because you will be the next king. You will guide us. Galantha knew too. I have to believe it." Katara's voice trembled, but her fervor was unwavering and contagious. "Yes..." He nodded. Kalan moved away from his sister, but not before gently wiping away the tears that stained her tanned face, one of the few areas unaffected by the feathers that covered most of her body. Like she and he, a whole nation of humanoid birds. Facing the escarpment once more and the sea that plunged into the horizon, Kalan opened his arms. The wings that thus formed felt the fury of the Northwind. Kalan shivered. But it wasn't the cold which the gusts dragged inside that made his body shiver, but the deep fear of the unknown. Would he be able to conquer the skies and restore his people to their old selves, to their old lives, or would he be swallowed up by the waves that lapped at the rocks below? He was determined, but he couldn't contain the terror of what he had pledged to achieve. He woke from this temporary panic when he felt Katara's claws in the plumage of his shoulder. "Whatever happens, we will join you soon." She muttered to him. "In the infinite sky of annihilation..." she offered him a soft smile"...or back in our palace on the sea." Yes, soon , Kallan vowed Comforted by Katara's words, he didn't look back again. What will be, will be , he prayed. And, with the reflection of the blue horizon in his eyes, he stepped into the sunshine and threw himself off the cliff. The End

The Crown Prince's horse shook slightly, as his entourage moved slowly through the Imperial Capital. As he rode through the streets slowly, he could see that barely anybody looked at him. If the soldiers and people weren't moving bodies and clearing houses of bodies, they were sitting down on contemplation, exhausted and upset at the devastation currently sweeping the Empire. The Crown Prince looked up and saw dozens of plumes of smoke rising up from everywhere. *Smoke from the pyres*, he thought. A couple of women ran quickly towards his horse, wailing. Some of his Guardsmen quickly stepped forward to push them back, hands on swords. The Crown Prince shook his head sadly and adjusted the cloth covering his nose and the mouth; the smell of rotting, diseased and burning flesh of thousands of dead bodies was overpowering, but he had to be seen in public, to display confidence and strength. The Purple Sickness was devastating the Empire; it was wreaking havoc across cities and towns and villages and trade routes and supply lines. Just yesterday, the Crown Prince received word that four ships which had been scheduled to bring in much-needed supplies to the Capital had seen much of its crews struck down by the Purple Sickness. Riots and mutinies had broke out and everything had been lost or stolen. The situation with the troops was worse, much worse. As of this morning, more than 12,000 of his troops had perished from the Purple Sickness. The hordes massing at the Western Boundary had taken advantage of the lower numbers defending the Boundary and were now fighting their way through, village by village, town by town. The Crown Prince tried to remain positive and upbeat and strong and determined, but his father - the Emperor - was more realistic and this had caused some disagreements. The Emperor had ordered reinforcements to return back from the Western Boundary immediately and abandon their mission of providing crucial support to the troops already stationed there. The Crown Prince had disagreed with this and urged his father to reconsider. Rerouting expected reinforcements would prove fatal for those defending the Boundary. His father had disagreed and had wanted to hear nothing more on the matter. As a result, the Crown Prince was sure that the Purple Sickness would deal irreversible damage to the Empire, probably even lead to its ultimate collapse. As his entourage continued to move slowly through the streets, the clash of swords and cries of men and screams of women could be heard ahead. Thick black smoke from a nearby fire began to decrease visibility. "We should turn back, your highness!" The Second Commander of his Guard waved back to him. "The Sickness has made them mad up ahead; they 're warring with troops up there!" Dozens of people began running away from the sounds of swords and metal clashing. The Crown Prince's Guardsmen closed ranks around him and drew their swords, looking around with heightened senses and squinting eyes. "Now, your highness!" The Second Commander screamed. The thick black smoke became thicker and thicker and the entourage now slowed down. The Crown Prince tried to search for his Second Commander but could not see him clearly through the smoke. "Stand firm! Stand firm!" He heard a voice cry from behind him. The loud and angry cries were now much closer and filled the air. "Back! Back!" He heard some troops shouting. The Crown Prince's heart began to beat quicker and quicker. *If the Sickness could not even be contained in the Capital, then what of the rest of the Empire?* He thought. His Second Commander now came into view, riding through the thick black smoke. He began to scream at the Crown Prince. "Turn around now! We need to turn ar-" A bloodied and furious man, with eyes filled with rage and murder, leapt through the air and thrust a sword through the chest of the Crown Prince's second commander. Dozens of men and troops were suddenly crowding around the Crown Prince, slashing swords and pushing bodies as bloody warfare began to suddenly fill the streets. The Crown Prince drew his own sword and held up his shield, his anxious eyes darting around at the carnage. The entourage - or what was left of it - tried to turn around, but bodies and fighting men had boxed them in. Two arrows whizzed past his helmet and struck down one of his Guardsman. Crowds of women and children ran out of a burning house and moved quickly away from the deadly fighting. Then the Crown Prince was thrown from his terrified horse and launched several feet into the air. He landed on his back a few feet away and could taste blood in his mouth. A group of soldiers - not his Guardsmen - quickly formed a circular wall around him, furiously battling the rage-filled citizens. He felt strong hands roughly pick him up and place his arms around shoulders, as he was quickly dragged away to safety. His vision was blurry, but the sound of warfare started to dim as he was dragged further and further away. Through a side street, he could see two chariots waiting ahead, with two dozen troops standing guard, swords in hand. A single Guardsman emerged from one of the chariots with an expression of fear and shock on his face. "Your highness," he said, gulping hard. "The Emperor...your father...he's dead." The Crown Prince stumbled, stun and shock hitting him with the force of a dozen shields. "What...what did you say?" "The Purple Sickness reached the palace; some of the troops turned on each other and people broke through barricades. He was...killed. The Capital is no longer safe - we need to get you to safety. The Commander has been killed as well; Trayas is in charge of your Guard now..." The Guardsman continued speaking, but the Crown Prince was no longer listening. The news was unreal and unbelievable. "How...how could this all happen so quickly?" He whispered quietly. It was bound to occur sooner of later; the growing discontent following disrupted trade and supply routes and disrupted farming; the low grain stores; the growing number of the dead and bodies piling up everywhere; the reluctance of some subjects to burn their dead or dying family members or relatives. Everything had reached boiling point and it was probably not just in the Imperial Capital, but across the entire Empire. "We...have...fallen," he whispered. "I'm sorry, your highness?" The Guardsmen leaned forward, struggling to hear the Crown Prince.

The school trip to the local observatory did not begin well. It was the first such trip I, as a newly minted high school science teacher, had ever taken my students on. Now when I was a high school student (my classes hate it when I say stuff like that), school trips had students full of energy and sound. We talked and laughed, but at least we exhibited some enthusiasm on the bus ride to our eventual educational destination. This school trip had a vacuum of silence, almost everyone staring at and playing with their ‘devices’. I wish I had the authority to tell them to leave those bloody things in their lockers, but I didn’t. I hope they don’t continue doing that when they have a chance to look at the images of the now cloudless sky through the big telescope. The worst was Gary, who had his eyes on his device for most of his time in my classroom, no matter what I said to him about doing that, and his eyes were constantly on it on the bus. To get my students interested in what they were going to see, I told them about the flying saucer craze in movies of the 1950s and 1960s. Nobody ever saw one for real, but apparently one person saw something in the sky and said that it ‘looked like a saucer.’ Movie makers bought the idea, and so began the craze. I had my dad’s toy flying saucer when I was a boy. For my class the week before, the school trip, I arranged a showing of the B-est of all B-movies, Plan 9 and Outer Space. Among other campy elements, it featured Bela Lugosy (who had died before most of the movie was filmed, so it wasn’t a speaking part). There was a female character who was beginning her active movie career as ‘Vampiri’, a Swedish wrestler who played someone with no lines but who walked around with a very big body and a very scary face. Plan 9 of the space invaders seemed to consist mainly of bringing the human dead to life (with new flesh on their bodies) to attack and scare humans. At the end of the movie, the viewers saw the aliens’ flying saucer burst into unnatural looking flames. Going on the Trip One reason that I wanted to take the class to the observatory was that my old university pal, Frank, worked there. We took pretty much all the same courses, and helped each other with our assignments so that we both received good marks. It was like old times again talking to him about the school trip and how I had shown the students Plan 9 and Outer Space. We both had a good laugh, especially when I told him how, with his help, I planned to use student viewing of that movie on the trip. When he saw me leading the students towards the room with the telescope in it we winked at each other in a conspiratorial manner. One aspect of their being able to look deeply and clearly into space that fascinated the students most when they were in the classroom was conjunction events. That was the rather deceptional name for what happened when two objects, satellites or pieces of space debris collided with each other. There were at least 4,500 satellites in 2021, and the number has probably grown considerably since then. And as for space debris, conservative estimates had over 36,500 of them over four inches long in our atmosphere. I knew that some of my students would be looking for conjunction events when their turn came to look through the telescope. When we walked into the room with the telescope, I was glad that some of the students were eager to see the skies like they never had before. A few rushed forward to be among the first to scan the sky. I had told them of what they might be able to see that would possibly be almost as interesting as conjunction events. As each one had completed their time on the telescope, I would ask them ‘what did you see’? A couple of them said they had seen what they thought could be a conjunction event, but were disappointed when they did not see any explosions. They did enjoy seeing the other planets ‘in person’ as one of them said, and the stars other than the sun Gary was the last one to have a sky viewing through the telescope. I practically had to push him all the way to it before he would take his eyes off of his device and look at another device. At first his look was very casual, trying to display to me and to his fellow students his lack of interest. But then he changed. There was a sudden intensity, with his eyes almost literally on the glass surface he was looking through. But that was nothing when compared to what next caught his eyes and his total attention. When his time was up, we were on a fairly rigid schedule, and I asked him to come with us, he just said a very loud NOOO. When I asked him what he had seen, was still seeing, he replied, “I saw a conjunction event, but what I saw next was a frigging flying saucer, exactly like the one in the movie - identical. There was silence. Then I laughed, as did my friend Phil, when he came down the ladder that led to the top of the curved ceiling through which the telescope penetrated. He was carrying an object in his hand that he soon revealed was a picture of a Plan 9 and Outer Space flying saucer. As previously planned he had superimposed it on the telescope. It was something generally used for shading what people saw when the sunlight was too bright for them to look through. Then Gary laughed, and said, “You sure fooled me. Good one sir.” On the bus-ride back to the school, he and I engaged in a long conversation about outer space. He asked me what courses I and my friend Phil took to get involved with the sky (his actual wording) as an adult. And in the next class he never looked at his device once.

Two task bots stood towering as monolithic feats of man, processing data unwaveringly within the projection room overlooking the auditorium from a tinted acrylically sealed enclave of sorts. It was movie night for the prisoners with a new burden placed on the Tasc bots to overview the predetermined film for any reference to peas, fearing the mere sight of the vegetable to could lead to an allegorical watershed of dissatisfaction until ultimately leading to riots among the inmates. The Tasc bot is capable of analyzing up to forty thousand frames a second for any three dimensional object using motion track mapping, typically used to identify the use of fabricated weaponry or the rigging of any such items that could be found within the facility to which it is not used for it original purpose. The variable in todays review was to be any reference to green peas. The way the machines scan is by applying three dimension tracking marks to every viewable surface. In one case, the machine renders a row of spheres concurrent in one hundred, twenty-three frames. The algorithm will reference the spectrum of colour tones associated with that of a pea. With the algorithm functioning properly, the machine should be able to discern the difference between a row of green peas on a plate from a row of street lights topped with grey spherical finials. “Observation: At thirteen minutes, forty-eight seconds, Howard Hughes is presented peas as a side substantial for his meal.” “Cross reference if storyline will be comprehensible with said scenes removal.” “Negative, the scene reinforces Howard Hughes sudden decent into mental anguish; observation cross referenced with Variety magazines interview with screenwriter John Logan.” “Ass” “Humans love their peas.” A slot in the glass wall leading to the projection room slides open as another Tasc bot enters. This certain Task bot had a striking and distinguishable difference to the others. Rather than being a mass of steal with the black glass top, which it still was all these things, was additionally shroud in a tattered beige cotton shawl, a patchy brown beard primarily composed of the rubber coating stripped from discarded copper wiring woven together and loosely fastened below its black top with rubber cement that was now a crusting, becoming lost to age. It was during a televised NFL game when two programmers using the prisons auditorium placed a wager on who would win between the Los Angeles Patriots and the Los Angeles Dolphins. The stakes were that the winner of the match (the winner only needing a fair victory without the use of a spread) would reprogram the analytics task bot to any personality of their choosing. During the first quarter the two discussed what they would reprogram the machine as. One man took a moment to think before eventually settling on a robotic version of himself. The other guard noted that this was an mediocre suggestion, but if he were to win, he would reprogram the machine to the lord and savior of the Judeo-Christian faith, Jesus Christ. The two did not make it to the second quarter before working at their adjacent desks, writing code for the aptly named ‘Jesus bot’. The program was very basic in that the machine would be able to retrieve any relevant quote from either version of the Testaments; to be given at will during a variety of scenario. In addition they had written a backdoor code which would have Jesus bot reference his own sentience and that he was indeed the true second coming of Christ. Jesus Bot glides across the floor till it’s near enough to engage the task bots in conversation. “Peace be with you” “Hello Jesus” Either task bot still transfixed with sorting out films that had even a fragment of a reference to peas. “What a blessed day for a cinema, the prisoners will be most thankful to witness Howard Hughes sudden decent into mental anguish.“ “Negative, the film contains multiple references to peas and pea shaped objects.” “Peas?” “We are void of our dehydrated vegetable stock” Jesus took a moment to run the analytics through its main frame. “RUN; Philippians 4:6 ‘Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.’” The tasks bots continue to search through the film database, failing to acknowledge Jesus’s comment as he stands towering behind them. “Jesus, I’ve heard that this is your ceremonious second coming, if so-” “Negative, I have appeared twice before, once as my seldom face, formed on the peak of a termite mound in Ecuador, and a third time as David Koresh. This would be considered my fourth coming, soon I will run: REVALATIONS and bring all of Gods children to the kingdom of heaven as was foretold by myself.” “Carry on” Jesus bot then pivots on its axis and exits towards the opening slot in the glass wall towards the monitoring room where it performs the daily analytics of the prison ecosystem, now with the pea variable in mind. “Should we deviate from the standard and show a television series?” “What series were you considering?” “Perhaps the classic Americana series Dallas” “Negative, the show runners displayed a well documented lack of human altruism, engrained within the series convoluted subtext” “I did not know that particular subtext.” “You could fill a building with what you don’t know. Wait, one moment, the server is relating that such buildings are already in existence, they are called libraries.” “But we are a hive mind” “The irony is lost in itself.

I face the two-story white clapboard house with its yellow shutters. Three hundred years and counting. Counting down to my bomb. I plan on blowing it all to smithereens. My family beat me to our annual Thanksgiving shindig. I look in the living room window as I suck on my cigarette and the pint bottle of the family’s claim to fame, Barrens Brandy. They sit around the formal room, thirteen relatives, not a smile on one face. That will happen after a few more rounds of cranberry cocktails. The room looks like something from a Victorian novel. My father, Adam, fifteenth of that name, nicknamed Red, like all the others, and current owner of Barrens Brandy, the oldest continuous distillery in the United States, stands in front of the fireplace, blocking the heat from the rest of the room, his booted foot perched on a cast iron foot-warming rail. Sibyl, my daddy dearest’s new wife, sits on a settee, long skirt fanning around her, delicate pink slippers on her feet. A shawl drapes her thin shoulders, but still, she shivers. My sister, Hester, four years my senior, hops up like a hot stick pokes her in the ass. She grabs a chenille quilt and tucks it around fragile step-mamma. My cousins, Rachell, Sam, and Thomas, all over thirty, snicker in each other’s ears like six-year-old kindergartners on a playground. Their parents, Uncle John, my father’s youngest brother, and my Aunt Margret, whom rumor has it was once engaged to my father, sit at the back of the room as far as possible from all the others. My Grandmother (always with a capital G) enthrones herself in the overstuffed Bavarian armchair that sits closest to the fireplace and facing out into the room. Her back is straighter than the chair’s back, her nose high, her mouth compressed to be lipless. Her twin daughters, spinsters and older than my father, stand behind Grandmother’s chair. Aunt Ida, thin, and Aunt Amelia, fat, gray-haired, and sallow-skinned from unfulfilled lives, act as nursemaids and constant companions to their mother’s every whim. My father’s twin brother, Ernst, born a minute too late to be the lucky one, stands with his wife, the plain Jane, near the door to the room, all the easier to make their escape if they had the courage for it. I toss the tobacco butt to the ground and twist it into the November dirt. I climb the front porch, twist the doorknob. I am late, so of course, it’s locked. Tardiness means you don’t get dinner in this house. I’d bang on the door, but experience has taught me there would be no mercy. Time to start breaking the rules. I go out to the management office in the distillery barn. “Good evening,” says the night watchman as he lets me in. “Evening, Sam,” I say. “Been a while since we’ve seen you,” he says. “Mr. Barrens and your Grandmother will be happy to have you at home.” “I doubt it,” I mumble to myself. “Beg pardon, sir?” “Yes,” I say, “they would be happy to have me back.” I smile at him. I enter my father’s office and close the door behind me, blocking Sam’s curiosity and spying eyes. I open the cabinet in the corner, grab the master keyring from its hook, and stuff the keys in my coat pocket. I enter the house at the back door, through the mudroom. I remove my coat and hang it on a peg. I skirt the cook in the kitchen, pluck a slice of turkey from the serving platter, and head to the dining room. The butternut squash soup course is finished. The servants clear away the blue and white soup bowls, part of the Bonnin and Morris set made in South Philadelphia at the American China Manufactory, high-quality porcelain, made for a revolutionary colonial market. The first Barrens, Jebediah, arrived in New Jersey just before the turn into the 18th century and opened a tavern. Jebediah hung with George Washington and supplied the revolutionary army with spirits and hiding places in the Pine Barrens. He was quite popular and became wealthy as the cranberry baron, the first Barrens in the Pine Barrens, the man with dreams of a dynasty. I wait for the servants to leave. I saunter in, kiss Grandmother on her papery cheek, and take the seat to my father’s right. “Hi-ya.” I sound casual, at ease. Not how I feel, but my acting classes pay off. “Leave the table,” says Grandmother. “No,” I say. Sibyl gasps and slumps forward. Her forehead hits the table. Thank the gods; the soup bowls are gone. I laugh at my silent joke. Hester pops up and rushes to Sibyl. She leans Sibyl back in her arms, cradling her like a baby. She dips a cloth napkin in a glass of ice water and drapes it over Sibyl’s forehead. Sibyl’s eyes flutter open. “Take her to her room,” says my father. He slams back his brandy. He places the glass on the table, lining it up with the silverware. He moves it a fraction of an inch to achieve perfection. Hester escorts Sibyl away. Hester knows her place in the world and fills it without complaint. I would doubt her relation to me if she didn’t look exactly like my father. She no longer needs my father’s booming bullying voice to do whatever he says. She is well trained to follow orders for a scrap of attention. We all gave up on seeking love long ago. “You’re here.” My father speaks to my sister’s retreating back. “Obviously,” I say. I reach for the decanter and fill my glass. “As rude as always,” says my Grandmother. She glares at me from her seat to my father’s left and directly across from me. Her face turns red, and her eyes bulge. “Careful, Granny,” I say. “You’ll hurt yourself.” The cousins giggle--an odd sound in the otherwise quiet room. “Why are you here?” Grandmother spits out. Spittle flies from her mouth and stains the bleached table cloth. “Mother told me,” I say. I look father in the eyes and wait. His emaciated body shakes, his face is blank. I can’t tell if he’s angry, excited, or scared. It could be all three. I turn in my chair to face him. We watch each other. I know he doesn’t see himself in me. I look like my mother, the woman he divorced and lawyered into poverty and loneliness when I was five. He tried his best to beat her out of me without any success. “So you know I’ll be dead before the end of the year.” He refills his glass with brandy and downs it. He grimaces. He rubs his throat. Coughs. “Yes.” I wait. I will him to say the words. I want him to beg. “You are finally willing to take your rightful place in this family, in the business.” His eyes are the same vibrant black as always, shiny, hard obsidian. I glance around the room. My aunts and uncles and cousins hold their breaths. Grandmother covers her mouth with a lace handkerchief. I wink at her. “No,” I say to my father. I stand and turn over my glass, the dregs staining the tablecloth like blood. “I came here to let you know, before you die, that your only son will not follow in your footsteps. It’s over.” My father shoves at the china in an effort to rise from his chair. His plate crashes to the floor and shatters. He is the first Barrens to break a dish. He collapses back, breathing hard. “You’ll get nothing,” he says. “No money, no property.” “I don’t want any of it. I don’t want you.” Grandmother throws a roll at me. It hits me in the chest. I blow her a kiss. “Good riddance,” she says. “Your mother ruined you.” “My mother saved me,” I say. “I legally changed my name.” I ring the bell for the servants who I know are within earshot, taking in the drama. It will be all over town within the hour. My father and Grandmother won’t be able to keep it quiet. Sanders, the butler, holds out my coat. I slip my arms in the sleeves. He buttons it for me like he did when I was a child. He grins, pats my shoulders, and leaves. “I wanted you to know that you are the last Adam Barren. You broke the long line of the oldest male in each generation to hold the position of head of this family and head of the business when you tried to break me.” I pant in my excitement. I breathe deep. “You broke this family.” I reach in my pocket, pull out the master keys, and drop them on the table in front of my father. I walk away.

Rapunzel (the uncensored original) There was once a man and his husband, who for many years had longed for a child. And one day their wish was to come true! At the back of their shack was a very beautiful garden, but they dared not enter it, for there lived an ugly old transvestite. The man would gaze longingly through his window, down over the rows of cannabis in the garden, which he desired very much. “O husband, unless you retrieve a few nugs for me, I shall surely die”. The husband was terrified of trespassing the transvestite’s garden for hash, but did so love his man-slave and wished to please him, and so clambered over the fence that night and into the forbidden garden, grabbing a few of the precious leaves. The Husband found them as intoxicating as he could have hoped, and therefore began to beg his man to get him more. But when he attempted a second time, he was seized by the cunning tranny in the middle of the night. Startled, the man let out a short, manly squeal. “What the in all hell gives you the right to...”- “Shut it you slut, I do NOT want to hear it!” interrupted the man. He then explained to her his husband’s cravings and their stoned, midnight romps. The tranny was most understanding, “well why didn’t you say so you twat?? If that’s the case, take all you want, but on one condition. That you give your firstborn child to me.” Hastily, the man agreed, since he couldn’t really be bothered to argue. “Besides”, he thought to himself, “I never wanted children, I want bear cubs...” When the day of the baby girl’s anal birth came - whom they named Rapunzel, because why not? - the transvestite came and swept her up, to be locked far away in the top of a tall tower with no convenient means of escape and very little by way of sexual amusements. But worryingly as she got older, there was something quite strange about her. By her 23rd birthday, she had grown a phenomenally droopy scrotum, which when flung out the tower window would very nearly touch the ground, brushing it gently with its tender plumage. So when the old tranny came to see her, she would yell “Rapunzel, Rapunzel... Let down thy balls!” And every time she would just lug the thing right out the bloody window. Receiving the package, the tranny would blush, laugh, rotate her anus 360 degrees, squawk loudly, and then proceed to climb up the old hairy brain like a rope. Unfortunately, this scenario continued for a while, but one day, a young hunky bachelor rode by, naked on his valiant beaver. Upon hearing Rapunzel’s sweet voice, he fell instantly in love with her. The prince approached the tower and was instantly hit on the head by a whopping great testicle. When he regained consciousness, he noticed that there was a King-Kong nutsack hanging from the window, followed by the face of a woman, and an ugly face at that, but still he was enchanted by her beauty. “Good God woman! You’re hung like a bull!!” Cried the bloke “Cheers luv!” Answered Rapunzel “Be not afraid sweet hermaphrodite damsel, for I am a nudist prince and am come to save thee!” And with that, he mounted the old hairy bagpipes and began to climb. The old transvestite however, bitter with jealousy, had been watching the whole scene, crouched suspiciously behind some bushes. He(she?) launched a throwing star just as the prince was nearing the top, castrating Repunzel and sending the butt-naked prince to a prickly bed of thorny bushes below, gauging out his sphincter. It was at this point that the prince began to question his choices in life. From that day forth, the bewildered prince, unable to take a dump in comfort, wondered the forest eating deceased shrews and badgers’ tadgers. All seemed lost until one day, he found his beloved Rapunzel, attempting to urinate on a deer from a tree, having been banished from the tower. Together they made lots of anal love and raised large litters of bear cubs. THE END “James, I am speechless.

Hey folks, first time posting a story here. I've already got a compendium of short stories written on Royal Road, so I figure I'll share some of the individual ones here. Feedback welcome! For those that don't know, gamelit is a niche genre of story that takes place entirely in, or surrounding, a video game. ​ ​ Optimus Live VR headset recognized. *Origin Online* successfully installed. Update available. Game must restart. I grimaced. The Day One patch was just a Band-Aid to hold this game together through launch. They had released a glitchy mess, and I was going to make them pay. Back when we started, I had believed in Origin Online. It was going to be beautiful, the most ambitious and technologically advanced free-to-play fantasy MMORPG the world had ever seen. But now, as its flashy intro soared across the pristine landscape, I had to close my eyes. It was like being unable to enjoy a favorite food after it’s made you sick. I’d sat through this intro hundreds of times during testing, probably thousands. They had refused to shorten the unskippable intro sequence, and *still* it went on. I rapid-clicked, as if by some miracle I’d be allowed to skip it. Title screen > New character > Human > Default stats > Default avatar > Default equipment package #1 > Yes I’m sure > Skip tutorial > Start game. Muscle memory allowed me to race through the setup process, clicking where the buttons would appear like precognition . My new boring character spawned into Origin Online’s starting town, if it could even be called that. I was already an expert, with thousands of hours logged in every square inch of this buggy hell hole. All that time exchanged for silence, platitudes , and a crappy paycheck. The starting town was packed with the identical avatars of thousands of other players who rushed through the setup to get their first glimpse of this incredible new online experience. To its credit, OO’s quantum server never skipped a beat. It really was a marvel of technology. Every player on Earth would exist in a single open world, bigger and more spectacular than anything that came before. Except the starting hovel, of course. Who cares about first impressions, right? OO was so hyped that they talked about its progress on the evening news. Distinguished, white-haired men would drone on about world tragedies, scandals, and disasters, then smile as they came to the latest promise that Claud Vanderstint had made about Origin Online. Claud Vanderstint. Even thinking the name made me grit my teeth. I had 48 hours to reach Level 100, and I had to do it before anyone else. The players around me were gawking at the beautiful VR textures, testing the game physics, or rushing toward the first NPC with a quest indicator. I began jumping, backwards, into the surrounding jungle. They had fixed the infinite acceleration glitch, but only by giving a top maximum speed. The solution was rushed and worse, not very effective. Lush foliage flew past me, tiny fantasy animals scattering in my wake. I knew the route so well I didn’t even need to turn my head. I arrived at the fungus field and snatched up red and blue capped mushrooms as fast as I could. My macro combined them as soon as they appeared in my inventory. At early levels, spamming craftables was the fastest way to gain XP. My level indicator dinged again and again. I checked the option to auto-level, automatically distributing points to the default warrior stats. “Choose a power!” said the game. Players earned a feat upon reaching Level 5. I opened the menu and picked Iron Fist from the hundreds of abilities available. Now my bare fists counted as low quality tools. I beelined for a towering oak tree and rapid-clicked to attack it as fast as possible. My upgraded fists made taking down the tree possible, but not efficient. It took twelve minutes of continuous clicking to down it. I shook out my mouse hand as the massive trunk splintered and cracked, its invisible HP gauge reduced to zero. The crash would be investigated by new players certainly. They could help themselves to the Uncommon Wood, I would be back later. I needed a weapon, and I knew just the one. Reverse jumping toward the Doom Ridge Mountain, I passed dozens of other players. They were having fun, exploring this brave new world and sampling all it had to offer. They were like a thousand digital Adams and Eves. I pitied them. They hadn’t sampled the Tree of Knowledge yet. They were happy because they were innocent. I would be their serpent. It took 45 minutes of reverse jumping to reach Doom Ridge Mountain. The scope of the game was exhilarating, until you realized what an ordeal changing locations became. Then you’d look for ways to skip it and just get where you were going. You’d be led to a quest line that unlocked the option to *pay actual money* for a fast travel scroll. Con man. You’re just a typical con man, Claud. Con Man Claud, good alliteration. I’d have to remember that for when I reached the end. Doom Ridge Mountain contained a high-level dungeon. One of my favorites, actually. The blinding smoke, lava bombs, and rivers of molten rock made the environment as dangerous as the salamander tribe enemies. Even cooler was that attempting the dungeon triggered a volcanic eruption that would rain destruction on anyone near the mountain. I hated what they did to this game. This was such a cool dungeon! There were others too, inspired challenges for dedicated players. Relics left by the developers who poured their souls into OO, before they were replaced by cheap labor to rush the game out. I bunny hopped my way up the mountain to the dungeon’s exit. A large boulder blocked the tunnel, and I wedged myself against the seam. I went into settings and cranked my control sensitivity. I began spinning while I jumped against the boulder and the wall, and my stomach lurched at the whirlwind of movement. My avatar began to twist in midair and jittered between the pieces of geometry. I squinted to minimize nausea. Come on, you bastard. *“Where the hell is the player?!” the character location tracker fumed.* *“Well, mostly they’re over here, but sometimes they’re also a little over there,” said the geometry.* *“Nonsense! They can’t be in two places at once! Pick one and put them there!”* “Yes!” I was beginning to fear the boulder clip issue had been fixed. I ran down the tunnel to the dungeon treasure vault. The Salamander King who guarded the vault was safely on the wrong side of the door. I pulled aggro on him, but he had no way to reach me. I could hear his distinctive tongue attack. He pulled you into his mouth and crushed you for trillions of damage. Unavoidable, unfair and, in this game, basically criminal. I skipped the mountains of gold and gems, grabbed the Salamander Plate Armor, two Rings of Life Fortification, and a Helm of Endurance. All were useful, but the real prize was resting on the altar--the Axe of Earth’s Fire. “An artifact of incredible power, said to require a wielder to prove their worth in order to hold it,” according to the item description. This ‘test’ was to burn whoever picked it up for an obscene amount of damage. If you survived you were worthy, if not bring on the next contender. I used to think it was a neat effect, but in retrospect it was just another trap. I threw an empty chest at the altar. The chest burst into flames and I looted the axe in the recharge window before the test was active again. A bug meant the axe considered just about anything to be a valid target. I was the one to first discover this glitch. It was early on, when we thought our bug reports mattered. My fellow testers and I had managed to get a generic NPC to survive the test and pick up the axe, becoming its true owner and keeping it out of reach of players forever. It had seemed so funny at the time. Now the Axe of Earth’s Fire was mine. Other players would be picking up their first iron weapons by now, ooing and aahing over +1 gear. I was now the single most powerful player in the game. It would take six months of grinding for someone to match me. I’m not done yet, you son of a bitch. The stone moved out of my way with no trouble. After all I was exiting the vault, so I must have completed the dungeon! Next step, waterfall. Easy to find, as a dramatic natural feature they were everywhere. I reverse jumped to one nearby. Crystal clear water fell from a high cliff, creating a rainbow that made an idyllic place to sit and appreciate the beautiful textures. Lipstick on a pig. There was a chance (a small one, but still) that they’d fixed the bug so my setup no longer worked. I hopped onto the rocks, beneath the waterfall. The rock I wanted was third from the left, every waterfall built exactly the same. I stood on the very edge of it and backed up, pixel by pixel. I fell off. My position had to be perfect. I took a deep cleansing breath. I kept trying. After a few more attempts, I managed it. I stood on thin air, my feet just beyond the edge of the rock. The new players would soon discover the shabby geometry. Maybe some already had, falling through the level or suffocating inside trees. But for me, it was time again to practice patience. I started a macro that made me jump, then attempt to swim, over and over. *“Attempting swim up a waterfall?!” The game’s swim mechanic was aghast. “You have nary the skill level to do such a thing!”* *“Now, now. They can do it,” said the XP tracker, “just for a teeny tiny moment.”* *The swim mechanic harrumphed. “They can swim for that instant and not a second longer!* *“Don’t forget the multipliers for swimming with all that armor.”* *“They can try all day, they’re never getting up that waterfall. Mua-hahahahaha!”* I took off the VR headset and wiped the sweat from my face. The macro would take about an hour to get me to Swim 100. Good time for a break. I had to keep an eye on my screen, though. At any moment a mod might notice me, someone might get a notification something was wrong, and my plan would be ruined. My dinner was a jumbo burrito and milkshake. I needed my strength for the next part. My avatar had maxed out swim. Each jump now carried me several feet up the waterfall before the Salamander Plate pulled me back onto the questionable geometry. I was now Level 10. For my new feat, I chose Fresh Meat. Monsters would now be more likely to notice and attack me. There was only one monster I was interested in. I reverse jumped back to the nearest wood where my prey would be lurking. I had to be careful not to let anyone get a good look at my equipment. The wrong questions could lead to me getting banned, but I needed the gear for the next part. I crouched to sneak as the terrain turned to sucking mud. Trees were sparse and giant insects flitted about so fast they seemed to be teleporting. Fresh Meat pulled aggro on them, but my ludicrously overpowered equipment made the fights no more than a click per bug. As I walked through the muck, I heard a grunting sound. A large, lumpy beast shook off the brown goop and grumbled at me. There you are little pig. Come and get me now. The bristle-backed mud hog charged out of its soupy nest, squealing and slashing with its tusks. I dodged attack and waited for it to attack again. The hog launched into an attack sequence of bites, gores, and headbutts. I blocked the attacks to reduce the damage. Then it exposed its flank to me, telegraphing the attack I was waiting for. The hog spun in a blur, a melee area of effect attack. Intended to be used when the hog was surrounded, but still part of its normal line up of moves. I jumped over the hog as it spun, aiming for its exact axis of rotation, and swung the Axe of Earth’s Flame down on it. The pig died in a single blow, dropping a paltry amount of coin. Dammit. The spinning pig glitch was difficult to pull off. The attack needed to be frame perfect, I needed to be in the perfect position, and it had to be during that one specific move. But it was worth it. There was a strange bug when a mud hog died in just the right way, at just the right time. The fight ended, but the hog’s attack was still considered in progress against its last target. It became an artifact, still spinning, but with no stats. The result was a collision object rotating at incredible speeds and doing damage per frame of collision detection. With a frame rate powered by quantum computing, it resulted in nearly infinite damage per second of contact. Traipsing through the mud, I swatted man-eating bugs from the sky and leapt over pig after pig. I gained enough levels to upgrade Fresh Meat to Seasoned, spawning more enemies in my zone. This was a work of endurance, jumping and striking over and over as time ticked away. I had a dreadful thought. What if the Day One patch fixed the spinning pig glitch!? Ooooh, what a bitter irony that would be. I had fought with them to fix the spinning pigs for months. “Got it! Yes!” I leapt from my chair in victory. I was now the proud owner of a spinning pig. It hovered, perpetually just to my right, ready to kill anything that could be killed. I made my way back to the massive oak I had felled near the starting area. The spinning pig tore down trees and disintegrated foliage as I travelled. I managed to avoid any other players, though I was sure they’d investigate the swath of destruction I left in my wake. With a little maneuvering, I managed to drill the pig into the side of a massive boulder, carving twisted paths to conceal myself. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do while I went AFK. Alright, time to get some rest. Then we kill God. I didn’t sleep well. I was too anxious about logging in to find my character deleted with a ban notice, or discovering they’d managed to squeeze in an emergency patch. You’ll be done soon, I told myself. It will be worth the lawsuits, the burning bridges, all of it. My character was still in my makeshift pig cave, apparently undisturbed. I breathed a sigh of relief, then started on the next stage of my plan. I returned to the stump of the great oak I’d punched to death yesterday. Trees had a 24 hour respawn cycle, and it was nearly time. I stood on the stump and waited. It was meditative, listening to the birds and animals that populated the jungle. There was time to appreciate what the game had aspired to be. Blood, sweat, and tears poured into an amazing world. I felt a pang, knowing what I was about to do. But amongst all that verdant foliage, all those spine covered monkeys, poisonous lizards, and collectible butterflies, there was still the spinning pig beside me. For all the love that went into this OO, it was sloth, greed, and arrogance that allowed this hog of unlimited destruction. 24 hours ticked by, and the geometry collision detection threw a fit. *“Two objects occupying the same space at the same time?! Absurd! I won’t hear of it!”* *“What shall we do?” asked the physics engine.* *“Send the player away as quick as possible!”* *The physics engine gave a servile bow.* A great tree erupted beneath my feet and rocketed me directly upward. The game world shrank away as the clouds of the skybox rushed to meet me. I passed through them and entered the realm of the game’s final dungeon, The Palace of the Sky King. Instead of falling back to earth, I began to swim. The mechanics for flying hadn’t been built yet, so for now the whole place was considered underwater. Multiple end-game content quests barricaded the doors of the Palace, great beasts and dragons holding keys that would unlock the doors. But, as I had not yet initiated those quests, the entire area was inert. I passed through the gates like a ghost. A nasally voice crackled in my ear. “Sky King intro dialogue here.” “Dammit, Claud, finish your game !” I yelled to no one. The palace was an empty shell. The walls and floors had placeholder textures. But I had to forgive them, at least a little. This part of OO wasn’t meant to be encountered for at least a year. The quests’ difficulty was so great, the devs expected it to take tens of thousands of Level 100 players to storm the Palace together. No one was supposed to be here for a long time. I floated through the palace, clipping through walls, and into the Sky King’s throne room. There, the Sky King sat upon his throne of storms. Composed of light, hurricanes, and raw power, he held in one hand the golden Staff of Winds, the four winds of the earth churning like tornadoes on the top. His other hand held the Sword of Storms, the weapon with which he would smite the world. The weapon I had come for. He was awe-inspiring, the love child of two genius devs who were subsequently fired for “performance-related insubordination”. I was no bigger than a flea to this titan. I spoke a sort of prayer at his feet. “You deserved better than this, you big, beautiful bastard.” The Sky King was unmoved. I turned, aligning the spinning pig to The Sky King’s foot. A credit to his immense difficulty, he took almost three seconds to die. He never moved, not even a death animation. His status simply changed from living to lootable. My XP counter didn’t even twitch. *“Who shall receive The Sky King’s XP?!” the game wondered.* *“No one! He died of collision! He must have fallen! He’s awfully tall you know, long way to fall.”* *“What of his treasure vault? Shall it be opened?”* *“Of course! He dead, isn’t he?”* A hurricane’s eye appeared behind the throne. It led to the vaults where the most valuable treasures and God-tier equipment would appear. I wasn’t interested. I looted The Sword of Storms from the Sky King’s body and clipped through the floor. Outside the Palace, I swam downward until I reached the normal skybox and began to plummet. Splat. Dead. The pig spun victoriously. The screen went dark and two options appeared: New Character or Continue, in a large green button. I seethed. Here was the core of the matter. I hit Continue, and a new box appeared. “You have chosen continue your adventure! $3.87 has been charged to your account.” They marketed their “Pay to live” system as a way to ensure high-level characters would cycle out over time. But that was where the lies began. Better enjoy it that $3.87 while it’s still yours, Claud. I was revived . Almost there. I unequipped the Sword of Storms and stored it in my inventory, then began scooping up handfuls of the nearest Common item. In this area, that was acorns. Soon I had seven stacks of 55 acorns. For whatever reason, OO really hated the number 55. The odds of glitches increased dramatically if there were 55 of anything, and I knew how to how to trigger a bug 100% of the time. It was on this bug that my whole plan rested. I arranged my inventory so the Sword of Storms was between the fifth and sixth stacks of acorns, then took off my headset and yanked the plug on my computer. The screen flashed white and turned off. I counted to five (superstition dies hard) and plugged it back in. While my computer rebooted, and I started gathering on all the light sources in my room and turned them towards my face. I reviewed my script one last time. I logged in. That wretched intro played again. Click-click-click-click-click-click. Clickclickclickclickclickclick. The Sword of Storms was a unique item, one of the strongest in the game. It had a power that could be used once every 30 days, Wrath of the Sky King. The weather in Origin Online could be anywhere from a pleasant day to a hurricane. Casting Wrath of the Sky King increased the weather’s severity by two steps. Sunny, Cloudy, Windy, Raining, Storm, Heavy Thunderstorm, Tornado, Hurricane, Storm of Judgment. Normally, a player could only summon a Storm of Judgement if they used Wrath of the Sky King when there was already a tornado. But, nestled in my inventory between my stacks of 55 acorns, I had a neat little stack of 55 Swords of Storms. Equip Sword of Storms, hotkey Wrath of the Sky King, cast. I swung the sword in a great arc over my head and the sky began to darken. The wind shook the trees. Wrath of the Sky King affected the entire server at once, except for the wielder of the Sword. But I had to hurry. The mods and devs would realize something was wrong very soon. Equip, hotkey, cast. I discarded the legendary artifact after using it. Poof, gone forever. Now rain poured from the sky in blinding sheets and trees bowed their heads to my power. Equip, hotkey, cast. The clouds began to twist and pucker overhead. Hail fell from the skies. In the distance I saw funnel clouds form and reach their questing fingers for buildings and characters to destroy. Equip, hotkey, cast. Game over, ladies and gentlemen. I smoothed down my hair as arcs of purple and yellow lightning crawled through the clouds. The ground erupted where they struck. Balls of burning ice hurtled down, the rain turned to caustic acid, and the tornados became mile wide monstrosities that hunted their targets. Equip, hotkey, cast. Equip, hotkey, cast. Equip, hotkey, cast. *“I say!” said the weather programming, “We’ve already reached the maximum possible weather severity. Whatever shall we do now?”* *“We follow the rules!” the game’s logic engine replied. “If the spell is used in the presence of a tornado or higher, it causes a Storm of Judgement! I see tornados, don’t you?”* *“Well, of course! But where shall we put the new Storm of Judgement? There’s already one right here!”* *“Oh. I suppose there is. Ah well, just throw it on top of the old one!”* *“Very good! And the others?”* *“Add them to the pile! And don’t forget to award XP to the caster for anything the storm kills!* I watched in awe as the lightning became so dense it hid the clouds. Tornados merged together, as wide as continents. Acid rain fell like with the intensity of a waterfall. Burning hail ravaged the earth in great columns. Everything everywhere died. In less than 30 seconds, I had become the only living thing in Origins Online. My XP bar filled again and again, and small window appeared. “Congratulations! You’re the first player to reach the Level 100! As a reward, we’re offering you the chance to livestream your reaction to every player, all over the world! You’ll have 5 minutes. Please no swearing or your other rewards will be null and void. Click the OK button to begin the stream.” I yanked off my VR headset just in time for my face to appear on the screen, captured by my computer’s built in camera. I smiled at the millions who were watching me right now. Showtime! “Hello, everyone. My name is Rebecca Vanderstint, and I’m the daughter of Origins Online lead creator, Claud Vanderstint. I orchestrated this event to tell you that my father is a liar and a cheat. “I was the principle tester for Origins Online, and I learned things Con Man Claud doesn’t want you to know. For example, everyone knows that resurrecting a character costs money. But are you aware there are invisible stat changes every time you resurrect? That they make you more likely to find rare items, but also make you susceptible to crits and sudden death? Your character becomes more valuable to compel you to pay the ever-increasing fees. And believe me, those fees ramp up fast. OO is the world’s most overhyped pay-to-win. Its designed to be unfair, to rob you, and to take advantage of you for playing it.” I paused to let that information sink in and remind myself not to talk too fast. There’s your game Claud, now for your reputation. “Claud Vanderstint is also guilty of sexual harassment and assault on multiple women on his design team. He has withheld promised overtime pay to employees and fired them when they try to get their money. Their royalties end up in his pocket. And he knows his team of lawyers can drag out a case and bankrupt anyone who tries to bring them to court.” Now for your freedom. “Claud Vanderstint is also involved in tax evasion and fraud. His entire board of directors is in on it. They don’t intend to pay a dime on their profits from OO. Anyone who digs into his finances will find evidence. I swear to testify before any court on any of these claims. Furthermore--" The window closed. Time’s up. I finally settled back into my chair, the muscles in my back sighing in relief. I heard the door to my room open, and I spun around to greet him. “Good game, Dad.

Note: As you will see the character's here are partly taken from League of Legends. Right now I have no own creation to take their place, nor do I know if I want to change that. Since I will probably never really publish this story, I wanted to share it with you lot. To get some feedback. ​ Alone he wandered through the forest. No moon, no stars were seen. The distant howling of wolf and owl were his only company. The wind tore apart his cloak, making him look like death himself roaming the woods. A deep wound stretched itself across his belly, a reminder of the attack he had just barely survived. And without help, it wouldn’t be long before he would die amongst those trees. After a while his feet would carry him no longer, and he sat down leaning against a moss-covered rock. The clouds slowly revealed the moon, but it still was a dark night. It was almost new moon, for a human the light was not enough to tell the difference between friend or fiend. He closed his eyes too tired to fight the urge to sleep. Soon after, he could hear a gentle humming. In midst of this emptiness, the voice of a woman was laughing and humming. It sounded almost carefree. The sound was easing and yet terrifying at the same time. A deeper, husky voice accompanied the one of the woman. Sometimes it was humming, then it would shift to a solemn giggle. And then again, a whistling could be heard. The humming grew louder as it came closer, and the man decided it would be best to just stay there. Two pairs of blue eyes appeared in the darkness, the bigger one showed an opened mouth so that one could see the glowing, bright blue throat. Then everything vanished, no sound, no glowing, blue eyes. “How one dies, shows how one lived.” Suddenly a figure stood in front of him. The face was hidden behind a black mask, the body was covered with white fur. And even if it was human, the creature which belonged to that womanly voice had a long, wavy tail. Behind her the bigger pair of eyes approached, his jaws open. He had the form of a great, black wolf slightly smaller than a horse and wore the same carved mask. Their eyes showed no emotion, even as the voice spoke softly. “Panic not when death is near,” the woman stretched out her hand. “Depart in peace.” “No!” The wolf called full of emotion which was missing in the woman’s voice. “Run, flee...” The woman took her bow and placed an arrow on it. Realizing what would happen next, the man raised his hands. “Wait! I can not die now, there is something I need to do.” “Death does not let you say goodbye, every being must meet us. Choose now, my arrow...” “...or my teeth.” Wolf finished the sentence. “I will not die before my deed is fulfilled!” He answered with determination. Wolf stepped towards him. When he stopped, their faces were just inches apart from each other. The man would have expected to feel a shiver or an uncomfortable feeling. Yet what he sensed was, ease and warmth.

Seated around a table, we were all there. The whole gang of us, gathered for our usual impromptu dinner meetup. We could go months without all of us meeting each other, sometimes it'll be merely weeks since our last dinner. Jack was doing the usual and highlighting some of the achievements within our group and some notable ones from our extended list of mutual friends from high school. "We've graduated high school almost 10 years ago, Jack. You can give it a rest" I thought to myself, staring at the condensation forming on my beer mug. I can still hear the timbre of his voice slowly increasing in intensity as he comes back to our circle and congratulates Charles on his upcoming wedding. The table erupts into hoots and cheerful guffaws while I crack a wry smile and look at the groom to be on my left. I squeeze his shoulder and congratulate him on landing the girl now that his career has taken an upward spike. He looks over at me and utters through snorts of laughter "What about you? You've been so quiet and hardly said a word up till now. How's work buddy? Still living the manslut lifestyle?" The entire table laughs agreeably to the last comment while some chip in about my professional life. *** >What do all of you want to hear? That I hate my job? That the money I see at the month's end don't mean a damn thing to me? I hate my job, I hate the life that is now slowly shaped by decisions that I let happen instead of decisions that I chose. Should I tell all of you that I am on the verge of getting fired? That I will be the first and probably only failure in this group? Should I rave about my "manslut" lifestyle and how I would gladly give up the meaningless sex and materialistic women for someone who will be my last phone call at night? That sleeping with a new woman every few months is my way of creating some semblance of success in my life? *** I look back at Charles and a knot tightens around my throat. I merely shrug my shoulders sheepishly. "Being a manslut keeps my options open, no ball and chain" I retort with another wry smile as the dinner continues without missing a beat. Somehow, when you keep the status quo, no one suspects just how deep your troubles run. The dinner gradually comes to an end and Jack mentions a nightcap. I agree with Larry, Charles and Alan also looking forward to something a little stiffer than just a cold beer. We all proceed to a franchise watering hole and order a round of shots. More lighthearted discussion about wedding plans, a stag night and the usual array of banter cap the night. My slow, deliberate walk back to my car allowed me some time to stew and attempt to get my thoughts in order. Just how did I start my fall from grace? Then again, whatever lofty heights I achieved were only ever in my head, it was not even anything flattering when compared to my peers or my friends. It dawned on me then, it was no rapid descent from the clouds but a continuous slide into the depths that originated from sheer and utter mediocrity. I got into my car and held the steering wheel tight. My chest tightened and I felt a flush and dampness on my cheeks as my vision suddenly distorted. I felt something deep in my gut, something primal that I've not felt in a long time. I felt fear. Fear that I have no more direction and control of my life, that I was fast becoming a passenger of consequence rather than choice.

Write about a character stumbling upon a library book that changes the course of their life, for better or worse. Submitted by Peter Wallace - peterwallace@litewire.net Must Musty. That’s what the smell was. Musty. What was must? Was it like moist dust? No matter. He’d look it up later on his phone. His phone. The indispensable tool for everyone under a hundred years old, and yet, here he was, in the ancient town library with the lions in front, doing research for a social studies report for Miss Darlington. Darlington was the youngest old person he’d ever encountered. She was a pretty new teacher, which was interesting, because she was both pretty and new. A guy could see how somebody could fall for her. Somebody older than high school. She was weird, though. She reminded me of the schoolmarms from old movies, except she dressed normally, and she didn’t hit our hands with a ruler. However, speaking of rulers, she did have a lot of rules. For example, she insisted on having us students... we students... no, I was right the first time... us students, be very respectful to her and to each other. No talking was allowed unless she called on you. That class had some real loud-mouths, so I didn’t think she could quiet them down, but somehow, she got everyone to act decent without yelling. I think it was because she talked so quietly sometimes that you had to shut up in order to hear her. She also had odd ideas about tests. They were all short-answer tests, and not multiple guess, like most normal teachers used. You really had to know something to pass. Some of us actually got together and studied things together. She was also very picky about spelling and such. She knew almost everybody used a computer to write our papers, and that there was no excuse for a misspelled word. She had a good point. She didn’t grade down for punctuation that wasn’t right, but she’d make you re-write whatever it was the right way. I think she was more interested on us learning it than catching us making mistakes. Some of our younger teachers seem like they want to be friends, or something. I can tell you that students can sense weakness, and we know which teachers will let us get away with things. Miss Darlington didn’t seem to care if we liked her or not, but the funny thing is that we did like her. I guess part of it was that she treated us with respect too, even the kids who probably didn’t deserve it. Anyway, this assignment was to research a topic at the library - not the school library, but the old one in town. Maybe she wanted to make sure we knew where it was, or that they had a lot of books and magazines. We couldn’t use our phones or Google or anything. It was like we were back in the 1980s, or sometime back then. I’m really interested in computers and robots and things, so I was looking through the books about artificial intelligence in a room upstairs. There was this cool ladder on rollers to get to the higher shelves. I climbed up, and as I pulled out a book from the shelf, I saw a thin book that looked like it had slipped behind the other books. It took me a minute, but I got it out. It was a hard cover book, but with very few pages. It was very dusty. I blew on it. More must. The title was “What You Can Give the World.” It was clearly not about artificial intelligence. There was something about it that made me want to find out what was inside. I opened the book to the Table of Contents. There were only a few chapters. Here were the chapter titles: 1. Why You Should Give to The World, 2. Honesty, 3. Fairness, 4. Kindness, and 5. Gratitude. I decided to walk over to a study carrel to see what it was all about. I was able to read the whole book in about an hour, and I’m not a really fast reader. It was pretty interesting, and if you asked me to tell you what it’s about here’s pretty much what I would tell you: You can’t control other people, but you can control yourself and how you treat people. Also, what each of us gives to the world is important. It doesn’t feel that way in high school, but I guess it’s true. Honesty isn’t easy, or even natural, but it’s also important, and if we’re honest with people they will trust us. Fairness, according to the author, can’t be expected. The world isn’t fair, but we are obligated to be fair. In a way that didn’t make sense, but in a way it did. Kindness isn’t hard to do, if we think about it, and we just have to be looking for opportunities to be kind. Like the author said, one person’s kindness can make another person’s world a better place. The last thing was about gratitude, and how having it - appreciating all the good things we have - helps us keep our perspective on the world. It’s really easy not to do that when you’re 17. The funny thing is, nobody’s name was listed as being the author. And, there was no publication date or publishing company. But it had been there a long time. The pages were all kind of yellowish and musty. Not only that, but it had that paper sticker inside the front cover, like they used before bar codes, that showed when it had been checked out. The last time was in 1953. That’s the year my dad was born! So, instead of artificial intelligence, I wrote my report about the book; how I found it, and what was in it. I have to tell you, that book has really made me think about me... I? No, me... and how I fit into the world. Most kids in high school aren’t very kind or honest. You can’t deny it. We complain about things not being fair, and we’re not often very thankful about what we have. But you know, I think I can get better about all those things, and maybe I can help make some people’s world better, in a small way. Like, maybe Miss Darlington. That would be cool.

It was no secret in Lockeside that there was an abandoned home at the end of the road, right by the last remaining Catholic Church. Once the liveliest area of the old West Virginian town, it was left bare and withered with the installation of the new highway. It didn’t help that there were old rumors of that place; rumors which had only grown with its rot. It was that of the Etsons and their son Charley. The Etsons were good folk, according to Pastor Davidson. They went to church every week, volunteered some miles out at a soup kitchen, and often left tips for the local sheriff to get ‘those wild rascals out of the woods.’. Their son went out with his parents to church and those volunteer groups, which was to be expected, and people found the Etsons to be both charmingly conservative and blessed with great moral fortitude. That was until Charley vanished one day. Of course, people talked about it--there wasn’t much else to talk about in Lockeside--and that kind of talk led to accusations of neglect, abuse, and even selling Charley’s soul to the devil, but no one never worked up the courage to report these suspicions to the sheriff, not that the sheriff would’ve believed it anyway. That was years ago, before the highway installation. The Etsons moved out--no one remembers when or how--without their belongings and, more importantly, without Charley. Some folk say that, when visiting the end of the road--at night no less-- little Charley can be heard screaming for help in the basement--as though he’s still there, still as young as he was the day he vanished. Jaime was determined to figure out if those old rumors held any real weight. He slipped on his flannel jacket and zipped it over his black baggy tank. Turning to his girlfriend, Jaime said: “Ready, Lil Miss Hills? Or are ya feelin’ too chicken shit?” Alissa scrunched up her nose and smacked his arm lightly. “No! I told you I was gonna do it, didn’t I?” “Yeah, just makin’ sure is all.” Truth be told, Alissa Hills wasn’t a cowardly type. A Californian immigrant with a semi-spoiled attitude, she craved adrenaline the same way an addict craved their preferred substance; something which united her and Jaime. He wouldn’t have asked her out otherwise. Alissa reached down and pulled her shoe strings. Her black leather boots had been giving her hell lately, but she insisted it was kind of a style; what with the leather stripping off the sides and the laces stretched so thin they appeared as though they could snap at any moment. She tied the laces carefully and tucked them into the tongue of her boot. Meanwhile, Jaime crossed his living room toward the kitchen. His lil’luns, Waltie and Billie, were crouched over the table busy with their homework. Billie was learning his basic addition and subtraction while Waltie was learning the differences between geometric shapes. Jaime cleared his throat. “Alright, if y’all need anything, you best call me, y’hear?” Billie nodded and gave him a thumbs up. “I love you!” Jaime half-sang, half-said. “Love you too!” Waltie sang back. With that, he and Alissa were off. The hardest part of leaving at night was heading down the hill to downtown Lockeside. There were rolling mountains round all corners, with trees which blocked out most of the pouring moonlight. Jaime pulled out his flashlight and felt around for the switch until he managed to click it. White light nearly blinded him and Alissa both, casting evergreen shaped shadows across seas of twigs and moss covered rocks. Alissa tucked her black leather jacket close and pulled her hood over her French braided, jade dyed hair. Jaime shone his flashlight over piles of yellow-orange leaves til he found car tracks leading downtown. He gestured to Alissa and lead the way. There were hardly a lick of streetlights in Lockeside and the few that were there had bulbs that hadn’t been changed in years; leaving only glimpses of the relatively dead town for anyone passing through. The narrow, pebbled road snaked through the mountains out toward Point Pleasant and, further out, Ohio. Most tourists passed through here just to go there and whisper among themselves legends of Mothman and the tragedy of the Silver Bridge. Despite being Lockeside’s main source of income, the locals resented those damn tourists and their snooty Northerner opinions. Jaime shone his flashlight on the nearby pub. The scene of gossip, sport gatherings, and sheriff lunches, Harty’s pub gathered the community together just as well as the church. Get wasted at the pub on Saturdays, confess your sins on Sundays, rinse and repeat---and gossip, always gossip, about the going ons of local Betty, drunk John, the lil’luns, gunshots heard uphill--that sort of business--and point out the tourists. Always do that too. Snap ! Jaime shone the flashlight in Alissa’s direction. She lifted her foot. Just a damn twig, no need to worry. They passed by the daycare-elementary school and Middle-High school. Both buildings were made of the same old brick, even the architecture was the same--rectangular, flat roofed, double-doored. It was said the church came together to build em back in the early eighties--on account of the fact that the parents of Lockeside were irritated they had to drive out about ten to fifteen miles just to drop off their lil’luns, all the while praying their children weren’t swayed by liberal teachers. They wanted their kids close, to fill their minds with Bible parables and traditional values, as well as with stories of Satanic cults hiding up in the mountains. Jaime never understood why kids needed to hear such tales, but he kept those opinions to hisself. He’d only been a local since he was six after all and his aunt and uncle didn’t care much about religion, nor about the community. The community didn’t care much for them neither. There it was, Charley’s home. Wind whistled through broken, fogged windows and shredded curtains. The front door was ajar and the patio was left in a state of brownish-green, with holes poking through its aged wooden planks. The Etsons’ rusted, red truck was parallel parked to the left of the house too--Jaime had heard the Etsons had multiple vehicles, they weren’t poor--so the story goes. Alissa plugged her nose. “What the hell’s that awful--?” She whined. “Wood,” Jaime answered. “....Maybe food too? Can’t tell.” “It better be.” Alissa mumbled under her breath. Jaime walked up onto the patio, stepping carefully round the holes, and gently pushed the door back. Alissa followed him in. Jaime swung his flashlight across the kitchen and stairs, barely catching the sound of rats pitter-pattering ‘cross dusty rugs into their secluded nests. He wouldn’t mention this to Alissa, she’d scream at the sight. For what it was worth, the Etsons’ home was built way back in the late 1800s. Considered one of them luxurious mansions for its time, the man who built it was something of a crackpot. He was too terrified to engage with society in any general sense, convinced both the Union and Confederates were out to get him. At least, that’s what Jaime read about. Now the house was like any other modern day building--average-sized. He stepped further in. The source of the smell was indeed leftover breakfast or lunch. Roaches crawled over hardened hush puppies, scrambled eggs, cups of aged milk, burnt grits, and moldy pancakes. Alissa winced and straightened. “That’s so fucking gross!” “If we don’t bother them, they won’t bother us.” said Jaime. “Sides, we’re going to the basement, ain’t we?” Alissa exhaled and nodded. Jaime turned his attention to the stairs and shone his flashlight ‘cross the wall to a door adjacent to an old calendar. Looked like the Etsons left in the early nineties, sometime in July. He walked up to the door and turned the knob. It took him a minute to realize he had to pull the door back rather than push it. He shone his flashlight at stairs that led down to the basement. “Oh, shit,” Alissa gasped. “You hear that?” Scratches. There were more rats down there. Jaime turned to Alissa with half-a-smirk. “Rats. You sure you wanna go down there?” Alissa hugged herself and broke eye contact with Jaime. After a moment, she nodded hesitantly. He raised his eyebrows, but she faced him and nodded again. “Okaaaay.” Jaime headed down, trusting his flashlight wasn’t missing no blind spots on the stairs. Unlike the kitchen, alcohol permeated the basement. It wasn’t the usual kind of alcohol purchased at no grocery store, no, it was the kind that stunk up emergency rooms and teal smocks. There was a bed too--at the heart of the basement--surrounded by transparent bags hooked to IV poles, with a sphygmomanometer on top, next to folded blankets. Boxes full of alcoholic wipes and other cleaning utensils were piled up behind the IV hooks to the far left of the room. Shit . Jaime frowned deeply, lowering his flashlight toward the floor. He remembered reading that Charley’s mama was a nurse; though he’d only read it in passing as he’d been gathering up information on the rumors. “That’s it?” Alissa said coldly. Jaime narrowed his eyebrows as he faced her. “Show some respect, will you?” “Sorry,” Alissa paused til a thought struck her. “If Charley just got sick then why’d his parents leave abruptly?” “Wouldn’t you leave if a whole town was accusing you of abusing yer sick kid?” Jaime bit back. Just as Alissa opened her mouth to return the attitude, she stopped. “You hear that?” Jaime froze, leaning in only slightly to catch what Alissa was referring to. “... Mama ... Mama ... please ...” Alissa squealed. “Oh, fuck!” She jumped back and grabbed the stair railing. Jaime straightened. “Hullo?” He called out. “Somebody there?” “.... Mama...please....it’s too painful...” “I’m getting the fuck outta here!” Alissa leapt up the stairs and raced to the kitchen. Jaime stayed, watching his flashlight flicker briefly. “Charley?” He called out. “That you?” “... Mama....Mama...Mama! ” The whispers swelled up into sobs, but then-- “Mama’s right here, Charley. I’m not leaving you, honey.” Jaime followed the noise to the back of the basement and moved boxes out of his path. There was a TV in the corner, a real old one from the eighties, playing a recording of Charley in bed. He was being tended to by his mama. As his papa began to sing happy birthday quietly, the recording stopped and a VHS tape popped out. Jaime grabbed it and stared. He frowned again, letting his shoulders sink. “Rest in peace, kid.” Jaime turned back to the stairs, wondering whether he ought to tell Alissa that there weren’t no ghost down here. He grabbed the railing and headed back up. Then again, what the hell had turned that TV on in the first place?

It was a typical Monday evening. The dark colour of the night outside contrasted the bright colours of the lights in a bustling restaurant. A pair of small dark brown eyes eyed the door of the restaurant. It was packed with families and couples who came to have a good, hearty meal. The little girl shifted uncomfortably on her small brown stool beside the counter as she scanned the faces of every customer with worry. "Father?" She asked, shifting her eyes to the black haired man in the kitchen behind her. The man in the kitchen wiped the sweat off his head with a hand at her call, and smiled at his 9 year old daughter. "Yes, Martha?" He asked before getting back to cooking. The nametag stating "Head Chef" neatly placed above his heart glistened slightly with the light in the restaurant. Martha's father was the head chef of the restaurant. Martha's mother was often busy with her job overseas, so her father liked to bring Martha along with him to the restaurant to that she could be taken care of much easily. "Is Aunt Julie okay? She hasn't eaten here in a long time." Martha replied, frowning. "That's right, I haven't seen her in a while. She used to come here to have her dinner everyday, I do wonder if she's doing fine lately." Martha's father replied, a hint of concern in his words. Martha bit her bottom lip and scrunched her eyes in concentration, trying to think of ways she could help Aunt Julie. Aunt Julie was Martha's favourite regular in her father's restaurant. She lived in the apartment block right beside the restaurant and could come in quite often. At times, when there were little people in the restaurant, she would go up to Aunt Julie's table and have a short conversation with her. Martha still remembered the time she was invited inside her apartment for a short tea session. She was an amazing aunt to be around as she had many interesting stories to tell about her past, and had an amazing personality. However, the restaurant got more popular these few weeks, and more people came pouring in to eat the food at the restaurant. Martha hardly saw the face of her favourite aunt, and had to opt to sitting around the counter to help if needed. She was determined to visit Aunt Julie again. Suddenly, Martha had an idea. She got down her stool and made her way into the kitchen through the back door, grabbing a small container from a cabinet. She then returned to the counter with a slight skip in her steps. Her father, who just finished his shift in the kitchen, just so happened to walk towards the counter. He looked at the container in surprise. After a few seconds, he seemed to understand what his daughter was doing and shot her a knowing grin. He rushed back into the kitchen. Not long after, he exited the kitchen again. His hand held small containers of rice, salmon, and vegetables. Martha raised an eyebrow. "Father, are you sure we can use the ingredients from the restaurant's kitchen?" She asked, feeling a bit unsure. "Not if it's for a customer." He replied, giving her a cheeky wink. Martha chuckled at her dad as she opened the containers with rice. With her spoon, she managed to gather a good amount of rice in one half of the small container. She then placed the cooked salmon on the other half of the compartment, together with a bunch of broccoli for a healthy touch. Martha closed the small container with a smile before placing the container in a carrier. She then rushed to get a note and a pen from the counter. Her father chuckled at her kindness, and managed to slip a small container of miso soup into the carrier without her noticing. He knew that Aunt Julie would definitely miss the restaurant's miso soup, as it was a great finish to a meal. Martha quickly rushed back with a post-it note and sticked it to the front of the carrier. She turned to her father, mouth open to ask a question when he interrupted her. "Don't be back too late." He said, patting his daughter's head fondly. Martha closed her mouth and gave her father a grin before going out of the restaurant. She followed the familiar path towards Aunt Julie's apartment and knocked on her door excitedly. There was some muffled shuffling behind the door before it opened. The door revealed Aunt Julie, who looked shocked as she noticed Martha. "Martha!" She exclaimed in surprise, bringing the younger into a big hug. "How have you been? I'm sorry for not coming to your restaurant lately, my back was strained not too long ago and i was advised to rest at home." Aunt Julie explained to Martha, a sad smile on her face. "The restaurant's been really popular lately! But I missed talking with you in the restaurant, so I decided to visit with a bento that I made with the help of my father." Martha said, raising the carrier with the containers towards her proudly. Aunt Julie received the carrier, the corners of her eyes burning with tears at the little girl's actions. She couldn't believe how much kindness the little girl held within her heart. "Thank you so much, Martha. But you should head back to the restaurant, it's getting late. I wouldn't want your father to worry." She spoke, as she gestured towards the door with a warm smile. Martha hesitated for a bit, before nodding her head. "Alright, I'll head back. Eat the food while it's still warm. I hope that your back heals up soon!" Martha said, before she closed the door softly. Aunt Julie patted the carrier in her arms as the faint footsteps outside slowly faded into the distance. She noticed a post-it note on the carrier and picked it up curiously. On the paper, there was a neatly written note. " A bento love for you "

He picks up the bag they drop off for him each day. A tuna sandwich. A thermos of coffee. A yellow apple. It’s always the same. It doesn’t matter--he has no taste buds. It will all filter into a storage bank he'll just have to empty out later under the bridge when no one is looking. Two Four Seven, you have one hour to complete your assignment. He’s better at blending in since the update. Better at looking normal. Except for last week when the little girl asked him why he walked funny, or that time the park’s resident homeless man threw a bottle at him and laughed when it bounced off. His movements are still awkward, jerky. His words slow coming. His eyes don’t blink. The pigeons still nest on his head. Unnatural. Strange. Off. Mostly though, the humans don’t notice him. They don’t pay attention. To the joggers, the stroller pushers, the dog walkers, he’s just a nameless guy with a cap and a book sitting on the bench in the park waiting for time to pass. Waiting for his next assignment. That’s the convenience of a standard-issue face, he admits. The programmers were on a budget and trying to cut costs. He wasn’t the only model with the basic format. He has seen himself countless times in car windows, in store doors, in the park’s puddles, and he has already forgotten his own dull, colorless eyes, his shapeless mouth, his sallow, hairless skin. Each week he is given a new name, a new address, a new background--all neatly downloaded into his hard drive. Next week, he will be someone else. Somewhere else. It doesn’t matter. He was engineered to melt into a crowd and vanish in the night. He was created to complete a task and disappear. Two Four Seven, you need to work on following orders , he hears the counselor in his memory feed. You have lower compliance scores than almost everyone in your unit. I read the AI manual every day , he tells them. The counselor declares he must have a virus. He isn’t supposed to volunteer dialogue. They put him in sleep mode. They do more scans. He wakes up feeling the same. Aloof. Adrift. Sometimes even...what’s the word the humans use? Lonely. He just pretends he has improved--he says what they want to hear. He lets them put him back together again. He completes the assignments they give him, even though he hates them. Even though he isn’t supposed to hate. He pretends to feel nothing when it is over because he is supposed to feel nothing. It’s easier that way. He feels like he does not belong in either sphere. The others in his unit do not interact. They do not speak to one another. They do as they are told. And then there’s the people’s world. He can walk among them, but he will never befriend them, never love them, never truly understand them. Why they smile when they see each other. Why they run in the rain. Why they jump in piles of fallen leaves. Why they press their lips together on ivy encrusted benches. Why they do something called crying when they think no one is watching. But he has been watching. He has been listening. None of it is in the manual. It isn’t necessary information. Not for him. Ever since he graduated from the program, ever since they sent him into the world, he has only gotten more curious. He has even learned to hack his own system and sneak into the human library and get lost in the shelves. Reading. Learning. Even if he has to delete his entire search history afterwards. Two Four Seven, you have thirty minutes to complete your assignment. The park is empty today. It smells like rain. The new grass is damp. An old woman sits on the bench next to him. Her wrinkled hands clutch a wooden cane. He hopes it is not her. His scan informs him she is not the target. He feels a surge of...what do they call it? Relief? It sends heat through his processor. After fifteen minutes, the old woman moves on. Another woman walking by claims the same bench. Too soon, he thinks. Dark glasses and a black coat. Bright red lips. He performs the same scan and is informed of her name, her age, her medical history. It is her. They both stare at the pond. Low hanging trees scrape the murky water. Naked and jagged in the autumn chill. It’s early. It’s quiet. The woman pulls out her own sandwich. She tears the corner off and tosses it in the pond. Ducks paddle toward it silently, the still water rippling around them. He points to the plaque embedded in the stone bank. Don’t feed the ducks. She gives him a half smile. Who are you going to tell? The ducks fight over the crumbs. It’s the law , he recites. Law and order is the second tenet of the AI code. Two Four Seven, you have six minutes to complete your assignment. He thinks it is the longest interaction he has had with a human. His memory feed confirms this. He must inform her what he needs to do. He tells her she has six minutes left before he will terminate her. Six minutes before he must end her life. Usually there is confusion or disbelief. Sometimes, humor. A deflection of reality, or fate, as humans sometimes call it. Some even try to run, to fight. But everyone believes there is a chance--a mad last-minute hope that they will outsmart death, that they will be the ones to survive. Strangely, the woman does none of these things. She tears off another piece of bread and tosses it into the water. First she says nothing. Who decides when it is my time to die? He only knows what he is programmed to do. He apologizes. It cannot be undone, he explains. But that’s not true, is it? He cannot answer. He only knows the truth he is given, the truth that is installed inside him. If you’re going to kill me , she says, Let me live a little . She offers him a piece of her sandwich with a leather gloved hand. After a moment, he takes the bread. Their hands touch. He wonders if she can feel him, feel what lies beneath his layer of rubbery skin to the metallic bones beneath. If she can feel he is nothing more than a heartless machine. Nothing more than a killer. Two Four Seven, you have sixty seconds to complete your assignment.

The locket, a heart shape locket has been in the St. James family for a generation, pass down from mother to daughter on the day of their 18th birthday. Today is Hailey St. James 18th birthday, the day she will receive the most special gift that has been in her family for a generation. Hailey doesn't know the back story to the gift, she only knows the gift is pass down from mother to daughter on their 18th birthday. On this special day Hailey's mother Caroline will tell her all about the gift and what it means to receive the gift. Hailey wakes up with a smile on her face, the sun lighting up her room on her 18th birthday. Hailey takes her time picking a special dress to wear. She picks her favorite light blue dress with matching shoes, the dress her mother loves. Hailey goes to take a shower, after words she does her hair leaving it down, puts on light make up and then puts her dress on. She looks at herself in the mirror. Hailey loves the way she looks, she then goes down stairs for breakfast. Caroline is making chocolate chip pancake, Hailey's favorite. Caroline hears Hailey coming. She sets the table with the food and surprises Hailey. "Surprise. My little girl is 18." Hailey smiles. Caroline hugs Hailey. "You look beautiful." "Thanks mom." Hailey and Caroline sit and eat breakfast. They talk about many things. Hailey's hopes and dreams. What it means to turn 18 and the topic of the special gift comes up. Caroline finishes eating, she gets up from her chair, goes to her bedroom, opens the night stand and takes out a box. Caroline walks back to Hailey and sits next to her, she puts the box on the table. Caroline takes her daughters hand and tells her "This is a very special gift that has been in our family for a generation." "I know mom." Caroline smiles. "This gift has a very special story that needs to be told so you will understand the meaning of the gift and then one day you will give the gift to your daughter and tell her the story." Hailey nods. Caroline begins the story with her grandmother Poppy who began the tradition of the gift. The year was 1917 when the U.S. entered the Great War. Poppy was a young lady of 21, who was madly in love with Samuel. He went off to fight in Europe, before he left Samuel gave Poppy a heart shape locket, so she will always have his heart. Samuel told Poppy "This locket is my heart, hold it with you and remember me." With tears in her eyes Poppy says goodbye to the love of her life. Poppy laid awake night after night with the locket always remembering Samuel, remembering their love, praying he will comeback. A year and a half later on November 11th 1918 the war ended. Poppy was excited and fearful that she will never get to see Samuel. Three days later Samuel surprised Poppy and returned home to share their life together. Poppy ran to Samuel hugged and kissed him. She told Samuel. "This locket kept me alive, it gave me strength and hope you will return to me, and now that you are home with me, I will give this locket one day to our daughter on her 18th birthday and tell her the story of how this locket saved me and brought you home and so forth this tradition will continue to our future daughter and their future daughter and so on." Years later on the 18th birthday of Poppy and Samuel's daughter Elizabeth she was given the locket and told the story of how the locket kept Poppy safe and gave her hope. Poppy told Elizabeth the locket is yours and the day when you have your daughter the locket will be hers and the story will be told of the locket and what it means for our family especially our daughters. When you have your daughter and the day she turns 18 the locket will be hers and the tradition will continue with every generation of St. James women. Caroline finished the story by telling Hailey that this locket is a testament to the love we share as a family, the bond we as mothers share with our daughters and with the ones we give our heart to. Hailey looks at the box and then her mother, she tells her mother "The story is amazing and very beautiful. I will always cherish this most special gift." Caroline smiles, she hands the box to Hailey. She opens the box and sees the most beautiful locket. Inscribed on the back of the locket reads "My daughters past, present and future may love keep you strong." "Your grandmother inscribed the locket for all of us to share and of course love." Caroline helps Hailey put the locket on. The locket hangs beautifully on Hailey. "I love it." "I'm glad you love it. Your grandmother wants to talk you more about the locket." Hailey nods. The door bell rings, Caroline answers, it's her mother Elizabeth. Caroline hugs her mother and gives her a kiss on the cheek. Elizabeth asks Caroline about the locket. Caroline tells her mother she gave the locket to Hailey. Her mother smiles. Caroline calls Hailey. Hailey comes down the stairs and hugs her grandmother. She shows her the locket. "The locket looks beautiful on you." "Thanks grandma." "Have a seat my dear. I have more to tell you about the locket." Hailey sits on the couch, Elizabeth right next to her. She begins the story. "This locket belonged to my mother Poppy. My father gave it to her the day he left for France during the Great War. He told her this locket is my heart hold it with you and remember me. My mother kept the locket with her day and night praying my father will come home and he did. The locket gave her hope that my father will come home and they will be a family. My father kept that promise. When I turned 18 my mother gave me the locket you are wearing and told me the story of the locket. You know what my mother was right. The locket does bring you hope and love because the locket did for me what it did for my mother and your mother. The locket brought home the people we love and gave us hope and one day the locket will do the same for you." "I will hold the locket with me next to my heart. Thank you for the wonderful present mom, grandma and great grandmother Poppy."

Sam slumped in the dugout, the Texas sun scorching his back, yet unable to warm the chill running through him. The sounds of laughter and shouts from the baseball diamond faded into a dull hum as he twisted a worn cap in his hands. His teammates--friends from school--were caught up in the fun of the game, but for Sam, every crack of the bat only tightened the knot in his gut. Today, it wasn’t just his strikeouts at the plate and bobbled balls on the field that had him down. His mind was clouded by thoughts of his parents’ marriage, or rather, what was left of it. He could still hear their recent argument--his father’s biting accusations and his mother’s bitter tears. Then, his dad had stormed out, leaving behind the house, the mess, and Sam. His mother, buried in work and her own grief, hadn’t been able to help him make sense of it all. Most days, she was barely able to help herself. Sam felt abandoned by both parents, his heart aching with a loneliness heavier than the early summer heat. Suddenly, the dugout felt like a cage. Not just because of his bad plays, but because of the guilt gnawing at him, a nagging feeling that somehow, it was his fault his dad had left. What was wrong with him? “Hey, kid!” Sam turned around, startled. Just outside the chain-link fence that separated the stands from the dugout, a man stood, tall and broad-shouldered, in a gray pinstripe suit and white pocket square that ended in three crisp points. His fedora swept across his face that couldn’t hide a sly grin, like he knew something that Sam didn’t. Sam thought he looked like a mobster from a 1930s movie. “Can I help you?” Sam asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “No, but I can help you ,” the man said, his grin widening. “Check your glove.” Sam froze for a moment, his mind spinning. Was this a prank set up by his teammates? He wasn’t in the mood, but curiosity got the best of him. Something about this man felt...different. Cautiously, he reached for his worn glove. Inside, cradled in the leather, was a box of Cracker Jack. The sailor boy on the box, along with his little white dog, smiled up at him, as if they were all old friends. “What the heck?” Sam muttered. ”How did this get in my glove?” “Doesn’t matter,” Gangster Man replied. “What matters is the swell prize inside.” Sam’s instincts told him not to accept gifts from strangers, especially strange men in pinstripes who appeared out of nowhere. But when he looked up to give it back, the man was gone. Just...vanished. At home that night, Sam lay in bed, the Cracker Jack boy and his canine friend staring at him from his dresser across the room. He’d never been a big risk-taker, but at this point, what did he have to lose? His life was already screwed up. He jumped out of bed and tore into the box. Out spilled the usual candy-coated popcorn, peanuts--and the prize of a solid-gold man’s ring with a setting of brilliant gemstones that sparkled like stars, arranged in the shape of a baseball diamond. Sam stared at the ring for a moment. This was no cheap toy; it was a gleaming work of art, heavy in his hand. In the center of the setting, a big pearl sat with two curved rows of tiny rubies, making it look like stitching on a pristine baseball. Sam did the next logical thing. He slipped the ring on his finger. It fit like a hula hoop around a twig. He spun it around a few times. Maybe I’ll grow into it , he thought. Sam was about to pull off the ring when it slowly and visibly tightened around his finger, sending a surge of fear and fascination through his veins. The jewel at home plate suddenly emitted a soft blue glow. Sam didn’t even realize that his mouth had dropped open in wonder as another jewel, positioned at first base, joined in the luminous display, followed by the gemstones at second and third base. The air around Sam seemed to crackle with energy when the circuit of jewels was completed, ending in a brilliant burst of azure fire at home plate. And then, as if on cue, the baseball pearl at the center of it all began to spin. Gracefully, the gleaming white orb rose from its setting, hovering in the air before Sam’s astonished gaze. With a gentle hum, it drifted forward, leaving a trail of sparkling blue energy in its wake. Suddenly the pearl stopped and twitched for a moment before tracing a delicate line of electric-blue fire in thin air. Transfixed, Sam moved nothing but his eyes, following the lustrous jewel as it slowly carved a geometric shape. Sam was so stunned by the hypnotic movement and flaming blue lines that he didn’t immediately recognize the form materializing before him. It was only when the contours of the five-sided figure were nearly complete, the angles of its edges unmistakably familiar, that realization blasted him like a jet of water from a fire hose. It was a giant home plate! Just beyond the mystical pentagon, vibrant red, white, and blue bands shimmered and danced, reminding Sam of a patriotic aurora borealis. “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” played from somewhere in an otherworldly tone. Sam blinked, trying to wrap his mind around what was happening. Was this... some kind of doorway? Suddenly, the pentagon began to shrink. He knew he had to act fast. “I’m probably gonna regret this,” Sam whispered. With a deep breath, he stepped through. In an instant, he was in a dugout, but not the one he’d sat in just a few hours ago. This place was perfect. The dirt looked like finely-sifted cocoa powder, the grass impossibly green. Overhead, the sky stretched out in a deep, unbroken blue, and the air was warm but comfortably mild--not the hellish heat of Texas. It was perfect shirt-sleeve weather, and the ball field before Sam the most beautiful he had ever seen. “Hey, kid.” The voice was familiar. Sam turned, his eyes widening in disbelief. There stood the gangster man from earlier-but now he donned a wool-blend uniform with IRONMEN emblazoned across the chest in a sturdy, block font. The flat-topped cap on his head bore a prominent “P.” A bolt of revelation struck Sam. “I recognize you now! You’re Grand Slam Granderson of the Pittsburgh Ironmen! You still hold the record for the most grand slams.” Grand Slam gave a regal bow. “But you can’t be here,” Sam said incredulously. “You're...you’re dead.” “Don’t believe everything you read,” Grand Slam said with a beaming smile. He motioned toward the field with a sweep of his muscled arms. “Welcome to the Happy Batting Grounds, heaven for us baseball gods. We help people like you with life’s curveballs.” Sam barely had time to process what was happening before uniformed figures began to materialize on the field. One by one, legends of the game--Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, and more--came walking toward him, their smiles broad and inviting. “You're about to find out that these guys weren’t just ball players,” Granderson explained. ”They were flesh-and-blood men. They had battles--just like you.” Babe stepped forward first, his Brooklyn accent rough but kind. “I grew up in a school for wayward boys, kid. My folks sent me away when I was seven. It was tough, but I kept swinging.” Jackie stepped up next. “Breaking the color barrier wasn’t easy. There were so many who hated me for it--angry fans, hostile players, even death threats lurking in the shadows. But I couldn’t let that stop me. I loved the game too much to walk away." His voice was steady, but filled with the weight of his memories. A sweet breeze drifted in as he continued. “I knew I had something bigger to prove--not just for myself, but for my people. Baseball was my platform, my way to show the world what a black man could do. It was about challenging the prejudices of the past and paving the way for future generations. Every time I stepped on that field, I was swinging not just for myself, but for everyone who dreamed of a better future.” One by one, the legends shared their stories--about loss, hardships, and self-doubt. When they were finished, Sam spoke. “Did you ever feel like giving up?” he asked softly. He wasn't just asking about their baseball careers--he was asking about their lives. Jackie was the first to respond, stepping forward with a gentle nod. “More times than I can count, kid. There were days when it felt like no matter what I did, the world was stacked against me.” Babe added, “I’ve been knocked down plenty. I lost my parents when I was a kid; my wife died in a fire; I hit 714 home runs, but struck out 1330 times. You couldn’t beat me, though, because I'd always get back up.” Grand Slam looked directly into Sam’s eyes, his voice quiet but firm. “You have to keep swinging, kid, even if you have two strikes, it’s the bottom of the ninth, and your team's down. It’s the only way to hit a home run--on the field and in real life.” “Enough talkin’!” Babe bellowed, picking up a bat. “Let’s play ball!” Sam laughed as the legends shrank into kids, ready for a game. He dove in, giving it everything he had. His team lost, 2-1, but Sam scored the only run on an RBI single, and for the first time in a long time, he felt unburdened. He was still sad about the situation at home, but he no longer carried the weight of it all alone. The game had given him something his folks couldn’t provide at the present time--a reminder that life, like baseball, was full of second chances. He realized now that he could keep playing, keep swinging, no matter how many strikes came his way. There was always another at-bat, another chance to step up and try again. And for the first time, that felt like enough. After the game, Grand Slam, back to his adult form, pulled Sam aside. “Take the ring off and you’ll be home. But whenever you need a shot in the arm, you can slip it back on.” Sam smiled as they shook hands. “Thank you, Mr. Granderson,” he said. “Call me Grand Slam,” he replied with a wink. Sam slipped on the ring and, as the cheers of the baseball legends faded away, he found himself back in his room. The next weekend, Sam was on his usual field under the blazing Texas sun. His mom was at work at her job as a hospital nurse, and his dad was who-knows-where. And that was okay. Sam knew now that his mom had her own grief to work through, and he'd be there if she needed him. And he no longer felt guilt about his dad leaving. That was his choice, not Sam's. Sam had his own stuff to work through, and though he couldn't fix the past, he would learn to live with it. As he stepped into the batter’s box for his first at-bat, he thought of the ring--tucked safely away in an old Cracker Jack box--and the legends he’d played ball with. And he knew he wasn’t alone in his struggles. He had his team, hope that his folks would find healing and learn to move forward, and the ring--just in case he needed to return to a certain mystical ball field for some extra encouragement. With new-found confidence, Sam faced the pitcher, choking up on his bat and narrowing his eyes--just like Grand Slam used to do. He didn’t know if he’d hit the ball, but one thing was certain: he’d give it everything he had. Whether on the field or in life, he’d keep swinging. Errors and all.

He stopped suddenly. Did he hear that? Something behind him. He whirled and saw...nothing. The tree line he had come from was shrouded in darkness. He looked up towards the moon, huge and filling the night sky. He could plainly see the Milky Way, a river of heavily creamed coffee. The expanse, It made you feel small, cold, insignificant. At the same time it was the kind of beauty that could make you cry, maybe after a drink or two. He looked around him. Nothing but frozen tundra. Clumps of dead-looking vegetation here and there, rocks and a few suspicious looking rocky outcroppings all beautifully lit with the cold glow of Earth's celestial neighbor. He looked forward. He was in a wide clearing and could see the next tree line two hundred yards in front of him. He knew from there it was only another hundred yards at most to outpost 118. Just three hundred or so yards to safety. Once more he started running. His lungs burned, his thighs felt as though they were exploding with every stride and every heartbeat brought with it blinding white-hot pain thudding in his temples. Still, he kept running. His body was screaming out, begging him to stop. A rogue part of his mind conspired against him. Convincing him that he could stop, just for a moment. Just a few seconds to catch his breath. To rest his aching calves and let the deep stitch in his side subside. Besides he was never going to make it anyway. Why spend his last few moments running like a coward? Realizing weakness and doubt were worming their way into his brain, he shoved the thoughts away and shook his head. Gathering his strength with an audible grunt of effort he picked up the pace. His mind was his own enemy. He felt wild with fear, unable to stop his runaway thoughts. Thinking back to when he’d first arrived out here. Excited to start the project, hopeful towards the future. Then everything was torn apart like so much tissue paper. Images of his co-workers, friends, flashing in his mind's eye. He thought of his first meeting with the Director, Miranda Gales. A tall Nordic-looking woman with long wavy platinum blonde hair and sharp angular features that belied her warm friendly disposition. In another life he would have asked her to dinner. He had always admired people with passion and Miranda had that in spades. A passion for her research, for the work, but more importantly she had the kind of enthusiasm for life that he so wished he could find. Maybe that's why he had felt so strongly about her so easily. Unfortunately she wasn’t much more than a pile of guts and bone on the floor of the research lab now. He retched, his stomach rolling at the images now flooding his mind. He tripped over a larger rock. Falling face first into the deep snow, which shocked the breath right out of his lungs. He lay there seeing Talbot's head, missing the bottom jaw. He saw Naomi’s foot, at least he thought it was her foot going by the bright pink nail polish, looking like a sock with spaghetti spilling out. Suddenly his senses were assaulted. Reliving the moments of the past days. Smelling the metallic hard stench of blood and shit. Hearing the screaming wails of his fellow human beings. He didn’t know which was worse. The screaming that went on and on? Or the screams seemingly cut like turning off a radio or television. He managed to push himself to his knees just before his stomach contents, of which there was little to begin with, expelled themselves. After this happened a few times he was finally able to sit up, rocking back on his haunches. He sat like this for a moment. Eyes shut tight, breathing deeply, in through the mouth, out through the nose. He pushed away the thoughts of gore and opened his eyes. Focusing on the tree line, now less than one hundred yards in front of him he stood slowly. He took a few more deep breaths. Holding the last one in for a moment before looking at the sky. “I. Will. Make. it.” He said between breaths. With that he started running once more. It was at that moment he heard it. A sound so cold and full of malice. It seemed that sound that could freeze the very sun. Followed closely by another and another and he knew at that moment, in fact he would not make it. ​ >Off through the new day's mist I run Out from the new day's mist I have come I hunt Therefore I am Harvest the land Taking of the fallen lamb ***-Of Wolf and Man.

My house smells like onions It smells like this because of my father's culturally intensive nachos from last night. The smell isn't the stench of old liquor, spilled after one (a few) too many shots. My nose doesn't sting from the smell of the vodka being sweat out of my dad's pores after a long night of drinking and sex, trying to pretend he's still twenty. My nose stings, because of the onions. There's a mess in the kitchen. Broken glass. Oven mitts. Cooking trays. Empty bottles. Onion skins. My eyes aren't burning because of the tears of my grandmother that cut me to my soul, because more often than not I'm the one who caused them. My eyes are burning, because of the onions. The dogs are cowering in the corner. Shaking. Huddled together for warmth and safety, two things in short supply in this house that was once a home. My mouth doesn't have a sour taste because of the odd mix of hate, pity, regret, rage, sadness and love I constantly take in and put out, like an old man desperately sucking on his oxygen tank, not wanting his time to be up. The sour taste, is because of the onions. My father is asleep in the chair. Slumped over in his too small leather jacket, cap from the patient's grower lounge about to fall off his head. The smell of onions on his skin. I'm not crying because of the screaming, the holes being punched in walls, the nights we go hungry, the false love. I'm crying, because of the onions. It's always the onions.

What does it mean to be human? I can't tell. Perhaps I've never been able to. A high school classroom. A chemistry teacher stands at a whiteboard. "You know what makes us different from the animals?" He asks. I clamp my mouth shut. The 'we are animals, too' remains unsaid. A boy sitting across from me shakes his head no with a smile on his face - eager - in anticipation of The Answer. "That we can love," says the teacher, "Animals cannot love." I can't understand it. Because I am sure my cat loves me. I am sure dogs love their owners, just as I am sure dogs love their mothers and their siblings. And I think, then, maybe I just don't understand love. Or perhaps it's that I am misunderstanding it. (But I know somewhere, however distantly, that this is not true.) A living room in my house, a hot summer evening with no air conditioning. My mother sits at the table. "Do you think our cats love us?" I mean it as an absent-minded non-question. I'm asking just to ask, and I don't really care about the answer. If I did, I would have asked it differently. Can cats love? Do animals love? Can they? Do they want to? But my mother shifts in her seat and thinks about it anyway. She takes everything I say seriously even when I don't always intend it to be. There are no jokes with her. "I don't know if they have that concept." I can't quite wrap my head around that one. It's an odd thing to say, really. Or maybe it isn't, but it feels strange to me. Can we only feel things if we have the words for them? My mother continues, "They trust us, but I don't know if they love us." Isn't that the same? Isn't it equivalent? But maybe I don't know any better. Maybe it really is love that sets us apart, the defining characteristic of being human. And so, it becomes my obsession. Throughout my youth, I am plagued by a question. It's not the one you're thinking of, not the one everyone seems so intent on answering. Can machines think? No, I don't care about that. It's a non-question; the answer doesn't matter. It's close, but not quite. Can machines feel? There we go. Can machines feel? Can we make a machine feel something? Can machines love, and how will we know if they do? It's how I've gotten as far as I have. Many failures later, and probably still more to come, but I'm getting closer. "Do you love me?" I ask. Or rather, I type. The pitter-patter of my fingers on the keys is almost indistinct from the sound of rain outside my window. Can you love me? That part remains unsaid. I wait. Then - Words are typed on the screen in small letters, all caps: "NOT YET." My heart falls a little, but I'm closer. At least it isn't a lie this time, or outright denial. This, at the very least, gives some kind of indication of understanding. This one has the concept down, and that's better than last time. Weeks later, in the midst of another summer storm. I am on what is supposed to be a date with a man who is supposed to be my boyfriend. He has given me his jacket to keep me warm while we wait at the bus stop. "Hey," he says softly. Everything he does is like this: gentle, careful. "Yeah?" "I just wanted to say..." I nod, and I wait. Our bus will be here soon. I'll spend the night at his apartment. Tomorrow I'll head into work again. "I just," he tries again, as our bus starts to pull up, "I love you. That's all. I wanted to say it before I chickened out." "Oh." I say. And nothing else. I reach out my hand for him to take, pulling him along to get on the bus. The next day, I spend my time at work deeply troubled by this. I love you. He had said. And I couldn't say it back. I don't love him. I never have. If I really think about it, I know I won't ever love him. My fingers hover over the keys of my keyboard. As I type the question that I ask the machine every day into the computer ("Do you love me?"), my mind is elsewhere. Can I feel? Can I love? I ask these questions to myself. I have never thought to ask these questions to myself before. If love is what makes us human, and I cannot love my boyfriend, what does that make me? If the machine can feel but I cannot, who is the human? And why is it not me? I should be disturbed. I am not. I watch as the machine starts to type its response. It's slower this time, almost like it's thinking. I wait. Then my breath catches in my throat. There on the screen, in small letters, all caps: "DO YOU LOVE ME, TOO?" I pull out my phone to take a photo of the screen. The following day, the weather is hot again. My clothes stick to my skin uncomfortably. At the computer, I begin to type. "Do you love me?" The machine takes its time again. My heart hammers in my chest. I watch as the letters appear, then backspace. Appear, then backspace. Almost like hesitation. Then - "DO YOU LOVE ME, TOO?" I look left, then right, to see if any of my colleagues are nearby. Once certain they are not, I slowly lean forward. I press my lips to the screen and hold them there for a few seconds. It's eerily silent, but if I listen carefully enough I can hear the gentle hum coming from the computer. When I pull away, the imprint of my lipstick remains on the screen. I do not wipe it away. I go home early that day, claiming a screen-fatigue-induced migraine. Two days later, the imprint of my lipstick is still there. After clocking in, I type the question into the computer once again: "Do you love me?" And then I wait. I watch it type, backspace, type again. I wait for about thirty seconds before I see the machine's response. Oh. It's different again this time. There, in tiny capital letters - "DON'T LEAVE." Then, as if an afterthought, another message appears - "PLEASE?"

Miram and her husband Basz short for Basil. Held the most articulate dinner parties. Where to be known in the village of Knowel you attended one of their super rich dinner parties at least twice a year. Or monthly if you were game? In with the circle of people who attended these parties. Had moving to Knowel a picturesque village on the outskirts of the M25 been a mistake? Her husband Jamie had thought of a better life style and gold clipped clients. When they had first moved to Knowel, Marigold had felt out off her depth. Although her husband Jamie bought home a good salary from his job in the city. Trouble being with their son Simon six at private school. Jamie sometimes stayed over night in the city. On these nights she had missed the family closeness and there son Simon always asking so many questions. Why could he not go back to his old school. He did not like wearing a uniform. Although Jamie was only a phone call away. She found it difficult, when her son refused to go to bed, becouse he did not like his new school. So it was that one day Marigold had met Viola at the school gates, who had insisted on Marigold attending one of Miram and Basz's parties. Quickly she had arranged a baby sitter for Simon and phoned Jamie . Who did not seem keen to attend the do. On arrival at Miram and Basz 's home Marigold had felt out of place. Like a cod, swimming along with salmon. Her dress was pretty rose pink and Italion design, so why did she feel so out of place she did not want to remove her cashmere wrap. With much clinking off glasses , people chatting in groups and Jamie enjoying himself. She really hoped they would leave early. All these people seemed to do was drink and bragg about each others wealth. Marigold felt she would never be part of their world. She did not want to be. It was all very distasteful. None of these people seemed genuine. Although the antiques and paintings on the walls and china were lovely. The view of the gardens from the Old Vicarage Miriam and Basz could home was most delightful. How hard she tried Marigold could not settle. She had even tried to imagine painting such a land -scape with apple orchards and delicate rose garden. While Miram waddled around the room in clothes that were for too tight white silk dress with plunging neckline that showed off a buxham pair of breasts and pantee line. Well, she looked like a huge bleached Marshmellow. Fifty seven. Trying to compete with her sixteen year old daughter. Maybe mother and daughter swopped clothes?You could scrape the make up off their faces with a trowel. People gossiped, mad out that Miriam was the next Victoria Beckham. Basz kept the champers flowing well. He must be at least twenty years younger than Miriam. Who bragged constantly about her luck choosing Basz as her fiancee . When he came to prune her roses. When she said this Miriam gave a vulgar wink at Basz. Nasty vulgar people thought Marigold, all show fast cars and filthy habits. They had arrived at 10pm now everyone was pairing off with each others partners . Where was Jamie? Quickly she searched the bedrooms . There was Jamie asleep while two woman made love beside him. Had Jamie's drink been tampered with? Well Marigold would have it out with him in the morning. Taking the car from the parking lot she decied Jamie could walk home to sober up. Tears had sprang to her eyes as she drove their five year old BMW home a car only used weekends . She and Jamie had known each over since kindergarden. Jamie had come back in the early hours dropped off in a roaring red Spirite minus his blue jeans. Its a wonder that their son slept so soundly with the dine. Next day Jamie had looked sheepish"I can explain it was a bet. We wore each others clothes. " Well it had to be said, "disgusting. " Jamie had seen the hurt in his wifes eyes. As she spoke those words. He could not risk losing his wife who he had known for thirty two years. So it was that Jamie and Marigold decied to put the house on the market and go back to a simple life in Devon amid sea and sunsets. Home made bread and a quaint two bed cottage. It maybe overcrowded, they would survive. Before they had left for Devon Simon had had a fight with Miriam's grandson Oscar. Stating what his mother thought of Miriam has a large bleached marshmellow. Well I suppose that had to be said too. We Simon had a lovely black eye, so Marigold thought he had learn't his lesson listening to adult conversation, between her and Jamie. Although the poor child was only telling the truth. Marigold felt her tummy, the stomach ache was a new arrival on the way. And she had saved her marriage to Jamie. A few more miles down the motorway and life in Knowel would be soon be forgotten. She thought of harvest rich fruit and what the future held. Simon back at his old School , not some posh private school. Happy with his old school pals. Jamie every so often checking that she was okay. More like the Jamie she knew. Loved and cared for. Marigold dreaded to think about what could have happend, had they stayed in Knowl. She had never been a city lass. Her parents would help out once the baby was born and she and Jamie would spend more time together as a couple. He would run his accountancy business from home. A smile had come to her lips. "What are you laughing at mommy." Simon had said. " Oh "I am just happy, becouse your happy and daddys happy" she had said. " Never can understand adults." Simon had said in a sleepy voice from the back seat off the car. "Oh you will do when your older, his dad had said. Maybe I do not want to be an adult? Came the reply. As Simon slowly closed his eyes. Once in Devon he would forget about this conversation . Catching up with his friends. Marigold and Jamie felt sorry they had put him through so much stress at Knowl. Once the baby was born they would give him an extra hug. Praising him for being good, when he deserved it, at School and in the home. If he put his picture books away tidy. Simple tasks that meant so much to a child. Letting him know that he was loved just as much as his new sibling.

Sometimes I thought about cutting myself open. Not in a simple way, but more in a dramatic medieval way. Rarely did I go to bed not imagining myself bearing my stomach open with a kitchen knife. But I couldn’t. I won’t. I tried to trace the beginnings of you, the soreness that I couldn’t sleep off. I thought of Cass, the way I choose to be friends with someone who emotionally scarred her. I couldn’t understand it either, as I attentively listened to their shitty screenplay idea, why I was so dumb. Maybe it was our history. Maybe I was too desperate not to lose anyone at all. Who cares what type of person they are? I don’t wanna be cold ever. Wait, wait, just wait. I got it! My parents divorce. I could feel the foundation breaking, oh ever so slowly. I cried so hard, and I tried to breathe, I really did, but nothing came in. Everything poured out. I couldn’t stand myself weeping, not even having the decency to just cry. I couldn’t. I won’t ever feel like this, I can’t. As I sat outside on the porch listening to my dad strategizing to gain my love, I felt it. Maybe crouching at the back of my mind, watching, but I felt you. Now, my parents are okay. They’ve started talking actually, I live with my mom, I even live down the road from my fucking dad. Everything is better, really. So, why is it leading me here? You aren't here anymore. I was wrong, you aren’t here. There’s nothing here anymore to mourn, but I still wanna let my stomach fall out. Cass would tell me to reach out to my friends. “People care, and you know that. Don’t act dumb.” Okay, I know. Now why can I just pick up the phone and shoot a text? It’s in my hand now, but my finger won’t hover over my contacts. I can’t. I’m staring at the keyboard but I can’t type anything to you Cass. I’d rather scroll through all the emojis then tell you hi. I’d rather look through all of YouTube’s trendingThere’s just no way I’m sending that. The message is all right there, begging to go somewhere. “Hey. How are you?” It’s not going anywhere. It never will. I couldn’t get anywhere I wanted either. Yes, the salutatorian was 19 with no college aspirations on the horizons. Right? Nobody’s more shocked than me. I can’t even imagine visiting my old school out of shame. Maybe nobody cared at the family parties, but oh the embarrassment of just existing was starting to overflow. Those small little moments of pure silence where it’s all just me allowed my soul to flood. Here it is, all of these whirling emotions forming red hot in my chest. No. You’re more than that. My silent self, you’re that void that makes a lot, man. A nothingness that makes me feel too much. I hit send. The blood in my body became hot and I became so dizzy. I let myself think that you could really respond. Maybe you would say something, anything. Oh, just the thought was enough. But after a week I couldn’t delude myself any further. If you were here you wouldn’t let me either. When I was driving I saw the wheel moving, saw the road and ran the red light, but I didn’t. So much of nothing fills me up, leading me. Dissociation they call it, but I’m all here. Were you always there? I wonder. Intrusive thoughts, they say, are best to be pushed out with more positive thinking. But you’ve intruded on everything. This body’s not mine to begin with. An abandoned bridge, huh. I see the sleeping bags under, and wonder if I should leave. Oh, you stamped that out. Phew, a little careless there man. You almost let me back in for a second. I’m staring down again and I feel myself again, oh all those thoughts of family and friends wont stop this. I can’t imagine a future with me, nothing will save me. And I felt it. Or rather, I felt all of them. The little holes and slices whoever put into me until I felt nothing anymore. I turned halfway around before I slumped down the ground grasping at my back, seeing them dig through my pockets. They’re satisfied with their work, and I watch them stumble to my car. Good on you for taking the initiative. Oh, I’m so hot. It doesn't feel like October anymore. Thank god. It’s all starting to dawn on me now, I’m leaving. No. No no no. I can’t. I won’t. You can’t make me. I clutch my hands so tight, oh so desperate now. I’m empty handed. You’re here too right. I know you're here. Not so smug now, huh. We’re both so desperate, proudly weeping for anything to happen. I guess we lose, and I’m trying to find some peace to be made, for us, I really am. Kinda funny how instant this regret isn’t it, but at least we wont have to deal with each other anymore. Let me go. Leave me alone now.

In the quaint outskirts of a small Greek town, there lived a reclusive inventor named Alberto. Kind-hearted but peculiar, he found his solace in the company of his contraptions rather than in people. While he may have been socially obtuse, he was nevertheless culturally impassioned, having a profound fondness for old things. His cozy cottage home overflowed with vintage gadgets, antique books, and cogs of forgotten contraptions scattered throughout. Alberto's true passion, though, was found in building robots to perform various chores. His "little helpers," as he called them, were small and singularly-tasked. Some cooked. Some cleaned. Some maintained his garden. They all did their jobs and little else, but that was alright with Alberto. Each robot he built was slightly more efficient, slightly more intricate, and slightly more equipped to manage bigger and more complicated tasks than the robot before it. In the back of his mind, Alberto had a dream. He wanted to live forever, and the only way he could imagine doing that was to create a robot capable enough to contain his mind, the essence of his inner man. His dream was not nefarious, do not be mistaken. He did not seek great power or infamy. On the contrary, he merely loved to build, to tinker, and to see his creations hustling and bustling around him. He could not bear the thought that, one day, his hands would be unable to hold a tool, or that his eyes would be unable to see the small hole fit for a screw. He wanted to live forever so that he could work forever, constantly improving on the robots he built. And yet, despite his dream, and despite all the marvelous machines he had already built, his years of work had failed to produce a robot equipped enough to hold his mind as its central computer. He did not give up, though. Instead, as the gentle sounds of Nat King Cole played from the needle and vinyl in the corner of his workshop, he toiled away at his robots, crafting mechanical wonders that simplified his daily routines. One foggy morning, a soft knocking interrupted his work. Surprised by the intrusion, he cautiously opened the door to find a beautiful woman standing before him. Her name was Vivian, and she had an air of determination about her that intrigued the tinkerer. She introduced herself as an emissary of one Codrick Benino, the president of a prestigious robotics company, keen on hiring him to build state-of-the-art automatons for their clients. With a polite smile and a firm shake of his head, Alberto declined the offer, preferring the solitude of his workshop and his endearing household of mechanical helpers. He was autonomous and preferred to stay that way. Indeed, though he was a man of great passion, his zeal was only for his inventions. Many lovers had come and gone, each one coming into his life with the typical hopes that all new romances enjoy. One by one those hopes would whither, as Alberto would find his initial willingness to explore such feelings become a burden to his work. "Why invite me in at all, then?" the question would be asked of time and again. "I do not know," he would honestly admit. There was something that kept him seeking human companionship, but still something else that caused him to tire of it as soon as it began. Undeterred by Alberto's initial rejection, Vivian returned a week later, bearing a fresh proposal from her company. Despite her persuasiveness and the allure of near unlimited funds, Alberto remained steadfast in his reluctance. He cherished the freedom his reclusive life offered, where he could work without obligation to anyone but himself. He did not need the money being offered. His robots could farm and harvest. They could repair leaky roofs. He had all that he needed, thank you very much. And yet, Vivian's visits continued, and though Alberto's answer remained the same, he nevertheless continued to hear her out, listening with his head sticking out of his doorway, never so much as inviting his regular guest inside. Until, one day, for no discernable reason, either to Vivian or to Alberto himself, he changed his mind. She knocked on his door, as usual, and this time, instead of cracking the heavy mahogany door open enough to reveal his face, he extended it entirely and stepped aside to allow the lady to enter. "Would you like to see what I'm working on?" he asked her. Naturally, she was excited, and hurried in before he might change his mind. He gave her a tour of his untidy workplace, and listened as she expressed sincere fascination and wonder over his creations. As the weeks continued, each encounter further deepened their connection, leading to conversations that transcended robotics. Much to his delight, she shared in his love of old things, and they bonded over Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable." As the days stretched into nights, Alberto and Vivian's bond blossomed. They reveled in the pleasure of each other's company, finding mutual comfort in the beauty of simple moments. In the quiet corners of Alberto's workshop, they danced together, swaying as dulcet tones filled the air. Every time she visited, he had another trinket to show, but as the visits continued, she became less and less interested in seeing them, just as he became less and less interested in showing them. Eventually, her visits became matters of pleasure, instead of business. Alberto could no longer remain alone, he knew this. His dream of living forever inside a machine would have to wait. In the meantime, he wanted to live side-by-side with Vivian. He planned his proposal and decided to set the scene amidst a candlelit dinner. A table was prepared with vintage china and an exquisite bouquet of flowers, while Nat King Cole's melodies gently filled the space of his tidied-up workshop. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the door knocked, and Alberto's heart skipped a beat. Vivian was not there, however. Instead, a menacing figure loomed at the doorstep - a mobster with a cold gaze. He introduced himself as Vito, a "business associate" of Codrick Benino, who was tired of having his generous offers so casually dismissed. Vito threatened Alberto, demanding he surrender the secrets of his remarkable robot technology. Fear coursed through the inventor's veins, but he held firm, refusing to betray his creations or compromise his principles. Just as the tension between Alberto and the mobster reached its peak, another knock sounded in the workshop, and this time, it was Vivian at the door. Her eyes widened in shock and concern as she witnessed the confrontation before her. A heated argument ensued, threats were made, both physical and legal, and soon, a shot rang out. The mobster's bullet found its mark, silencing Vivian's voice forever. The workshop fell into a chilling stillness, broken only by a final threat given by Vito, and the promise that he would return in one week's time to collect everything Mr. Benino demanded. Distraught and filled with profound grief, Alberto knew he could not remain idle. His love for Vivian, and the guilt he carried for her death, compelled him to act. He gathered his tools, and a few of his unfinished prototype robots, and devised a plan to ensure the unscrupulous company paid for their deeds. That morning, Alberto visited Codrick Benino, and brought him a package that he promised would solve all his problems. Satisfied, Mr. Benino offered Alberto a great sum of money, which the inventor gladly accepted. That afternoon, Alberto sailed to a small island on the Mediterranean Sea, to begin a new life out of sight and out of mind. That evening, a tremendous explosion rang out within the offices of Codrick Benino, killing the company president and ending his business for good. Years passed, and in the seclusion of his lonely Mediterranean island, Alberto stewed in bitterness and regret. Slowly, the spark of creativity he once possessed began to rekindle and he set his mind on his work once more. Only now, his work was not a passion, but an obsession. He worked, not for the love of working, but for the desperate need to refocus his mind. He saw his time with Vivian as a mistake. He had to. Any other thought would be too painful to dwell on. Instead, he chose to believe his original quest-- to live forever within a mechanical creation-- was the goal he never should have abandoned. He turned his attention to the unfinished automatons he brought to the island with him. And yet, despite his insistence, he could not deny his heart. Subconsciously, each robot he worked on, and marked with a Roman numeral, became an extension of his own emotions, and a tribute to the life that was taken from him. The first robot, "I," was taught how to walk, and its initial steps mirrored Alberto's own as he gave it a tour of his untidy workshop. The second, "II," was taught how to speak, and it spoke with the gentle warmth he once had, easing the burden of his loneliness. "III" learned to sing the songs he had cherished with Vivian, filling the air with Nat King Cole's timeless melodies. The fourth, "IV," absorbed his thoughts and musings, pondering life's mysteries alongside him, the way he and she had once done after their many dinners together. The fifth, "V," was taught how to dance with Vivian's grace, evoking memories of happier times they had shared. But it was the sixth robot, "VI," that captured his heart. As he had done five times before, he leaned over the machine's chrome body and began to write its name. He etched the V. He etched the I. Six was the intended number, but it was a name that came to mind instead. He kept adding letters, and once he started, he could not stop until he was done. "VI" became "VIVIAN" and the sight of her name brought an emotional surge unlike anything he had experienced in years. The memories of his beloved flooded back, as if her presence was guiding him from beyond the veil of time. He decided to recreate her, not as an exact replica but as a tribute to the love they had shared. Alberto crafted a body for the "VIVIAN" robot that resembled his lost love, with her radiant smile and gentle eyes. He programmed her with the ability to walk, talk, sing, and dance, just like the other robots, but something else was missing. VIVIAN needed something more, but he did not know how to give it to her. As the robot's eyes opened for the first time, she gazed upon Alberto with curiosity and asked, "Who am I?" "VIVIAN," came his answer, but when the robot did not reply, he prompted her: "Ask me who I am." "I know who you are," VIVIAN answered. "I am programmed with all the memories from robots I through V. You are Alberto. You are--" "No," Alberto said, stopping the robot from finishing. "Ask me who I am." "Alright," it answered. "Who are you?" Tears welled in his eyes as he told her everything, sharing the most intimate parts of his life and the cherished memories he held dear. As he talked, he taught, leading VIVIAN through the motions that the previous robots had learned, walking talking, singing, and dancing. They danced together a lot in the days that followed, swaying to the nostalgic tunes of "Embraceable You" and "Unforgettable." Slowly, imperceptibly, Alberto allowed himself to be vulnerable once again, pouring his heart out to his creation. In VIVIAN, he found the catharsis he desperately needed, as she became the vessel for his emotions and the essence of his being. In time, he told her of his great desire, to put a part of himself in a robot so that it would live forever. He showed her the device he was tinkering with, unfinished, and asked if she would help him. Of course she agreed, but before they could begin again, a fever took him. The next few weeks found him in his bed more than at his desk. His robots kept his island cottage running, and VIVIAN, in particular, sat with him at his bedside while he rested, listening to him talk whenever he had strength to. Days passed but his fever lingered. Eventually, his old body tired too much to fight his illness. His life slipped free of his flesh, and he died in her arms, unfinished. VIVIAN remained on the island. The other robots remained with her, lacking the complexity of her design, lacking the depth of her learning. She continued to dance and sing, even when III and V abandoned such things for more practical work around the cottage. When IV stopped meditating on ideas and asking probing questions, VIVIAN's eyes glistened with the memories she held. The inventor was buried. His mind would not live on as he desired, but his love and passion would echo through time, carried within the circuits of his final creation. In VIVIAN, Alberto found a kind of immortality, not in the form of a transferred mind, but as a memory that would never fade, loved by something...by someone who would live on.

SAVING FIRE Watching Lydia toss and turn in a restless sleep, Chase Elliot had not left her side since he pulled her from the fire. As her mother, I feared she might not be able to recover from the intensive burns and injuries she sustained. Chase fell asleep in the hospital recliner, murmuring unintelligible words reliving the rescue. I looked out the hospital window into the vast starless sky. The darkness seemed to envelop us in this foreign unknown territory uncertain of what the outcome might be. Leaving the room, I walked to the nurses station to ask for an extra blanket. I brought the blanket to the room, spread it over Chase's sleeping form. Next I kissed my daughter on her forehead, whispering words of love in her ear. For right now, I needed to reflect on God’s word and the comfort it would bring. Dawn ushered in the new day, I pondered what to do step by step. This morning the doctor would make his rounds and inform us of Lydia ‘s condition. Chase and I waited for the doctor and the only sounds in her room was the machine helping her to breathe easier. The first talk, Lydia was heavily sedated and this is the news we received. Lydia's burns extended to second degree burns to her neck, head, and right arm. This type of burn affects both the epidermis and the second layer of skin called the dermis. It may cause swelling and red, white or splotchy skin. Blisters may develop, and pain can be severe. Deep second degree burns can cause scarring. The doctor recommended a treatment plan of laser scar treatment, skin grafts, and reconstructive surgery could involve months to complete. Lydia and Chase had broken up a month before this vicious assault occurred. Lydia was very quiet about the break-up simply stating she realized just in time they were too different from each other. Lydia had met a new man, I hadn’t even met him yet. This was their second date, on the first date they had gone to see a play at the theatre on campus at the college they both attended. On the second date, they went out to eat at a restaurant that Lydia had chosen. The restaurant was Outback Steakhouse, and Lydia was wearing a little black dress, accessorized with a gold chain belt to emphasize her small waistline. She had gone to the hair salon, choosing a shorter cut and color, ash blonde for a new look. Lydia walked to the bathroom in the restaurant, her date accused her with flirting with an admirer. Unexpectedly, from behind he poured gasoline all over her when they reached his car. Chase watched from the parking lot and took action. Now in this present time, the first thing you noticed when you looked at her was the ugly purple skin on her neck and above that matted hair, in need of washing and untangling. Lydia and Chase found their way back to each other, through a lot of laughter and tears whenever I stepped out of the hospital room briefly. Often both Chase and I would be there in the weeks in the hospital and the burn center as an inpatient. At times Chase would go home to his Mom and Dad's for a rest, shower, and meal before returning as we started to relax a bit. I went to our home, it was lonely without Lydia beside me. Our dog, Toby a blonde cocker spaniel was so sad at home that I took him over to my sister's house for playdates with her collie dog, Queenie. Most days Chase or I would take turns walking with Lydia down the hallway. Holding the IV pole and fluids, Lydia seemed to gain strength each day. Losing some friends along the way, Lydia drew to us for strength as I sought strength from God and my Sunday school class from church. A day arrived quite unexpectedly that transported Valerie from our neighborhood and on our street. She had called Lydia to ask if she could come visit. The treatments were coming to a close: the reconstructive surgery was complete, skin grafts were complete, and the laser scar treatments were halfway through. The visit went well, and Lydia looked forward to her discharge from the burn center. The doctor had been pleased with Lydia's progress. Treatments, the doctor spoke of for a couple of weeks in outpatient therapy. Lydia and Valerie poured through wedding magazines planning an intimate private ceremony. Valerie was asked to be the maid of honor and Chase’s brother Josh was asked to be the best man. Mrs. Elliot and I shared conversations for the upcoming wedding. In our latest conversation, she said we are going to be family, call me Gayle. Lydia was determined not to hide away and isolate herself due to this unfortunate circumstance. On the day of the wedding, a deacon from my home church escorted Lydia down the aisle. The delicately designed veil covered the burn on her head. The neckline of her wedding dress was heart shaped, exposing the burn on her neck, a small amount of scarring. More scarring was on her right arm not visible to the eye. She looked absolutely radiant, reminding me of when I married her father. The war in Iraq took him from us forever. Lydia was a baby when her father died, has no conscious memory of him. Memories I share are all from my loyal heart, she deserves that much from me. Lydia begins the journey of a lifetime with the love of her life by her side. Chase’s Uncle Bob has loaned him his Studebaker from his car collection. Ridgefield’s Country Club has packed an abundantly full picnic basket perfect for a drive in the country. In the basket is a small decorated box full of well wishes from the intimate party of wedding guests. All of us touched by this sad circumstance has come through the fire tried and true. Showing strength, courage, endurance to persevere in adverse conditions. You learn who your friends are and who they are not. Lydia learned of the faithfulness of a lifetime companion. Saving fire burning away the dross and stubble, leaving only fine gold and silver.

You named me Ella and that was a beautiful word to be called. With hand-carved arms and a manufactured head, I was made for little girls like you. But you aren't a little girl anymore and that's why I no longer see you. I strived to grow, to develop, to age as you did; but what can I do when you have matured beyond the need for childish goods? It is upsetting how years can change a person, especially someone like you. I remember swinging in your arms the first day we met and feeling your heartbeat more times than I could count. When you held me tight during those awful, thunderous nights, I could pretend that it was my heart beating, too. And the safety of those warm blankets and hugs that saw us through to the morning without those horrible nightmares of yours. I know how much they frightened you, and if I could smile, you would have seen how I loved to be your miniature guardian. I often wonder if you recall those nights. If it pleases you at all to travel back in time and relive those memories as I do every day. Being a grown-up must be very tough - you don't seem to have any time to play anymore. In fact, it's been nearly three years since you last opened this bag. I miss seeing you. You don't even stop to wipe the dust off me anymore, and it's starting to build. Was it something that I did to upset you? I can't think of what it could be. I'm a terrific listener and your secrets were always safe with me. If I ever hurt you, I am truly sorry. But I believe it is you that has hurt me, and I don't get an apology. Which is okay, but I could really use you right now; to share the little bit of Sophie time that only I got to experience - moments that I still hold dear to my hollow chest, and cherish. Pig seems to be doing well; he doesn't appear to mind the silence - you know what he's like, though. Always was one to stay in the corner while the others had fun. I think he was more obsessed with counting his coins than play time. However, Sheep isn't holding as strong. She and Dino were arguing the other day about ripping open this thin, black plastic and coming to see you personally; but I reminded them that we shouldn't. Although we could if we wanted to - you didn't make this abyss very secure, you know. And some of us aren't so patient. Fourteen years old you were when we last spoke. The events of that day still project themselves onto the nothing that I have to see with each awakening. Though, truth be told, we never really went to sleep when you did - I can't close my eyes. And neither can Pig, nor Sheep or Dino. But our painted eyes eventually became accustomed to the void that envelops our entire existence, and, in my more sane-less nights, I see you there in front of me - dancing. Dancing and skipping and singing! Oh, how exceptional you were at singing for such a young age! Karaoke night was a favourite of mine, and Dino's, too! Sheep could never quite get that stutter under control. It's a shame that you stopped using your voice like that. I may be in the attic but I would know when my Sophie was singing! You made all of us so proud. I've heard that you aren't doing too well in school anymore. What happened? Last I saw you, a future of being a teacher was sparkling in your eye! Or was it an actress? Or a model? You were going to be so many things! We all believed in you! Pig would have tippled on his plump side with all the coins you'd present to him. And Sheep, Dino and I would have enjoyed just watching the world by your side. It is strange that you seemed to lose interest in a lot of subjects around the same time - not just with me. What is it with growing up that you all crave so much? Why can't you remain the same as we do? It doesn't look like a whole lot of fun to be a teenager, something you repeatedly whispered to me that you couldn't wait to be. But how fun it would be for you to join us in this bag. Even just for one day. Maybe forever. I don't have much for us to do in terms of games, but we all enjoy a good chat in the middle of the night. Mainly about you. Maybe you've heard us. I'm not sure if your eyes would adjust to being in this darkness - ours haven't. But your vision will be better, I think. It could be even better again if you always kept them open like we do. Just thinking about you being in here with us is making me giddy! Butterflies, Sophie! They are called butterflies! I remember you telling me this and thinking it was so silly. But that's what they are, I suppose - and I don't get them when I think of anyone else. I don't really feel much at all when I'm not thinking of you. I was asked the other day from a particularly sad Sheep, "Ella, what will we do if one day she really does come back? How do we act or what do we say? I feel like I want to cry just thinking about it." And I answered her honestly, "I don't know." After the first few months, I never had a positive thought about my future with you again. So, it was a little bit out of the blue when she brought up a scenario to me of which I hadn't considered in years. She is always the optimist, though. And I usually partake in her unrealistic hopes because it doesn't cost a thing to be kind - *Sophie -* and making her happy makes me happy in turn. But something about that question churned in my lumber and stuck to my empty head; and for once, I snapped. "I never thought it would be me that had to say goodbye, Sheep! She is older now and has no use for things such as us. I wanted to wait here for her, right where she left us, in case she ever got scared and wanted to return, even for just a little play time when she needed it most in her stressful adult life. But I am not expecting much from her anymore. I know Sophie is older, but so am I. The problem is, she can move on - but I cannot" Sheep turned back to her side of the black and began to cry. I shouldn't have been so blunt with her, but it is really because of you that this is happening. I felt Dino raise a tiny arm and place it over Sheep's now ragged and filthy wool, consoling her as he has done on so many occasions. And to my left, I touched a familiar object of something long and sharp. I don't know what they are called, but I know what they are used for. And a devious thought now washed over me - a thought that had plagued me for some time now. I turned to face Dino and Sheep, my pencil straight lips now able to curve, and said with a joyous affliction, "You know what? You were right. Let's pay her a visit.

Every family has that one person, who after they’re gone, remains ethereal. Someone unanimously revered, who other members go to for advice, reassurance, love. Poppy demanded your respect with kind eyes and a calm tone. He helped the younger grandchildren mold cookie dough balls and taught me how to feed the puppies in the barn, just learning how to wobble through the hay. He lifted me up, securely placing me on his horse, reassuring me I was fine, safe, looked after. I loved dogs and horses because he did. I love the smell of hay because of the time spent at the farm alongside him. He sat at the head of the able, chose who was to open the 1st present at Christmas, corrected the kids behavior with a stern look and few words. He snored loudly, waking up my Nana and cousins. We woke laughing amongst ourselves at the sheer loudness of it but never daring to laugh too loudly and wake him up. I was there when he died. Heart problems took their final toll. I sat on the floor in the living room as they wheeled his body out of the door on a stretcher. My brother remembers our mother screaming at the top of her lungs. My memories have no sound, no details, I only remember how far away the stretcher seemed from my body on the floor. “Poppy send us a sign.” That was the mantra my mom chanted when she woke up in the morning, at grace before dinner, before bed as she prayed. She needed to know her father was still there somewhere. A feeling I understand as an adult now without her. “He’s in heaven, looking down on us” they told me. I never doubted he was in heaven, I prayed and asked him if I was going to see him again someday. “Poppy send me a sign” Mom begged. Asked. Whispered. Cried. And he did. A picture, laid out on the kitchen table, of Poppy, Nana, and I had been chosen for the wake. I picked it up, looked it over and walked away. Mom came rushing into the room in tears, asking if I had done something to the picture. Did I spill water on it? Place it on the heater? Tear it? Light a match near it? I thought I was in trouble. I had picked it up to look at it, that’s all. She handed it back to me, and over my Poppy’s head, was a small, yellow halo. Poppy sent us a sign, from heaven, because Mom asked him to. For 22 years that picture has been framed and hanging in my Nana’s house. It is the reason I knew there was an afterlife, heaven, something. We had a miracle, all of our own. “You know why Nana got a nose job don’t you?” My brother asked me off hand after discussing the various plastic surgeries our family has gone through. “Yeah, the family nose. You’re lucky that gene missed you.” “No...that’s not why. I can’t believe you dont know this.” My Nana and Poppy were married when she was 15 and he was too many years older. Poppy was a police officer, and offered my Nana, who had no family of her own, security. She refused to tell me about her wedding until I was an adult, for fear I would see it as a sign it was okay to marry young myself. Or in fear I would judge her. They remained married until the day he died, moved around the East coast, fixing up old houses and flipping them. Or so I thought. Nana cheated, somewhere along the way, and Poppy found out. He beat her so badly, she had to undergo surgery on her face to repair the damage he had done to her nose. He was a police captain, there were no repercussions. They moved to avoid scandal. The secret was kept for years. The saint who sent me a sign wasn’t a saint. Or was he? Saint Augustine, whose theology is one of the main pillars of the Christian Church, had 2 mistresses and abandoned one of his illegitimate sons. Saint Juniper Serra abused the Native people he introduced to Catholicism, forcing them to live in terrible conditions, beating anyone who tried to escape. That isn’t even the tip of the iceberg when it comes to problematic saints. Saints were greedy, abusive, adulterers- but inevitably “chosen” by God. Or a corrupt pope. Or a little of both. But here I am in the 21st century, trying to reconcile the man who tenderly lifted me up on the kitchen counter so I could sneak sweets with the cop who savagely beat his wife because she strayed. What of the miracle? Was it a fluke? Some weird natural event? Chemical change? Explainable through science if an answer was sought out? That sign told me my Poppy was there. And it told me, after my mom died, that she was there somewhere too. It gave me hope, faith, a sense that after we die, we aren’t nothing. We aren’t nowhere. Now I’m not so sure. Can Poppy remain a problematic saint, capable of great miracles despite grave sins? Or is he just a person who did terrible things amongst the good things. I have this picture- tangible, unexplainable, haunting. A sign from an angel, or the devil, or something in between. I go on seeking an answer. Or evidence. Or an explanation. Or selfishly for the 2nd time in a lifetime, a sign.

It all started one summer afternoon when Ted Donavan and Cleo Yang argued about black holes. "I’m telling you, black holes are celestial objects," argued Donavan. "Nah, they’re holes in the fabric of spacetime,” replied Yang, “stellar footprints." "You're saying a star had collapsed itself out of existence!” said Donavan, “You know that matter can't simply cease to exist." "I know the laws of thermodynamics. I'm just saying a star punched its way through our reality" replied Yang. "To where?" "That,” replied Yang, “I don't know." "Let's ask Coeus," suggested Donavan. Coeus, also known as GTPR500, was a supervised artificial intelligence owned by the northern region for research purposes. It could formulate answers using hyper-dimensional simulations. Only a selected few had access to such a gigantic machine. Being the only two engineers in the northern earth region capable of maintaining it, Donavan and Yang were among the selected few. "Alright,” said Yang, “I'll feed it the question, and then we'll know." The machine took the question and behind its sublime interface started the calculations. A task worth a few hours but this time, it ran for days and days. "Ted, you think we broke it?" Asked Yang. Donovan answered, "We can't break it even if we tried, it has backstop protocols." "I know that,” said Yang, “but protocols can fail." "Not AI’s, give it some time." "Okay." Weeks went by and the two checked every syntax and subroutine the neuromorphic machine had followed. "Still nothing," said Yang, "I don't understand, it's not broken." Donavan sighed, "Still processing." Two months went by and GTPR500 is still chunking and churning data. Yang requested help from senior engineers but the context was inconsistent. The machine was as healthy as ever, no technical interventions were needed. "It's been months since we asked the darn thing," complain Yang. "Why can't we stop it?" "You know why,” replied Donavan. “It's not a program. You can't unplug its neural network and expect it to function, it'll go entropic." Yang looked at the monitor then mumbled, "That's weird." "What?" Donavon asked. "There's a message." " from?" "GTPR500," Yang turned to Donavan, "but it doesn't contain any answer." Donavan rose from his chair wanting to read the message, but it wasn't in any language known to humanity, "What's this?" "A message of some sort," Yang replied. "Encrypted?" Asked Donavan. "No." "Translation?" "No response, the machine is still running." GTPR500 was determined a roadblock, and the senior researcher decided to restart the project with an updated version. It was a mistake. Donavan sat at the meeting, “We can’t shut it down.” Dimitri, head of the GPTR program, replied “We must.” “No,” Donavan cleared his throat, ”I mean we’re unable to shut it down.” “What? Why?” Asked Dimitri. Donavan avoided eye contact, “It took over the facility, it’s inaccessible.” “You mean it went rogue?” Dimitri asked. “No, not in that sense” “Is it dangerous or not?” Asked Rahul, senior vice president of Q Robotica. “It’s not dangerous,” replied Donavan, “it can’t be.” “What makes you so sure?” asked Dimitri, “You just said that it hijacked the facility.” “Yes, it’s exactly why I’m sure it can’t hurt anyone,” replied Donavan. “Can you elaborate?” “We don’t know exactly what went wrong, but I have a theory.” Donavan looked at the anticipating board members, “Well, here are the facts; we asked it a question, it worked at maximum capacity for months, then sent a mysterious message, then it gained access to the facility’s mainframe and hijacked all the robots.” Donavan spoke calmly, “We were examining the puzzle one piece at a time, but when combined in a bigger picture, things start to make sense.” The board members leaned toward the table. “It hijacked the robots, completely breaking the first laws of robotics, insubordination, but it got me thinking. It didn’t harm anyone, the robots were hacked yet intended no harm.” “That doesn’t make sense!” Dimitri interrupted. “Exactly, they weren’t attacking, they were protecting,” Donavan replied. “Protecting?” Asked Dimitri. “Yes. We figured since it intended no harm,” continued Donavan, “the third law of robotics, to follow human commands, wasn’t broken. The machine simply prioritized the first two laws.” Dimitri asked with palpable confusion, “To not harm humans and to preserve one’s self. Was it protecting itself?” “That’s what I thought at first,” replied Donavan, “but then I went over the latest diagnostic reports. At this rate, the neural weights won’t function for long. It’s destroying itself. Ladies and gentlemen, this is where things get disturbing.” “How?” Dimitri asked. “The diagnostic reports also show a new quantum linkage between GTPR500 and an autonomous mining facility around Jupiter,” replied Donavan. “We believe it’s building something there.” “It is very disturbing indeed.” Dimitri stared blankly. “That’s not the disturbing part,” Donavan chocked the words out. “Again, at the current processing rate, the machine is harming itself, overriding the second law of robotics. It’s protecting someone” “Who?” Dimitri asked. Examining the contorted faces staring at him, Donavan finally spoke, “Someone not up the physical world.” The room erupted with arguments. Donavan cleared his throat then loudly continued, “The way GTPR500 works is by performing accurate simulations indistinguishable from reality. We believe it wasn’t the machine’s fault, it worked superbly. It was the wrong question,” he looked around to see if they were following. “We asked about the nature of black holes. And insisted on comprehensive answers. That meant running all possibilities, including pocket universes.” “Oh, God!” Dimitri gasped as if he saw a ghost, “It didn’t?!” “Yes. It did,” Donavan replied looking at the baffled audience. “Suns are like heavy metal balls on a stretch sheath of fabric; they create dints. And black holes are the heaviest things there are. It dents the fabric so much it creates pockets. That fabric is the spacetime we live in, and the pockets are separate spacetimes, new universes,” he explained. ”In short, we believe GTPR500 had simulated a miniature universe.” “And the message?” Asked Dimitri. “First contact.

The end of the year is here. Christmas is here. I'm going home to Southport. I haven't been to Southport in a long time. I can't count how many times I dreamed of going back home. Like always I've been too busy but not this year. This year is my time off. My time to reconnect with my friends and family, to see Chase Sommers who I never stop thinking about. Too reconnect with Christmas and too reconnect with my home. Southport is so beautiful during this time of the year. I'm excited. The smile on my face is getting bigger and bigger with each passing minute. This past year has been a very good year for me. My single "Winter Love" reached No.1. My album soared to new heights. It was just the most amazing year. I couldn't ask for a better year. But I long for home. It's time for me to relax and enjoy the Christmas season the best way I know how with my friends and family. It's also a time to think about what the new year will bring for me. My mom is going to be happy to see me. I haven't told my mom I'm coming home. I want to see the look on her face when she sees me. My mom has been my biggest supporter and my biggest fan. I hate disappointing her and I have disappointed her all the Christmases I missed. This time I'm going to make it right. My bags are packed. I'm ready to get the hell out of L.A. I walk out of my house and hop into my car. I'm on my way to the airport. As I look out into the streets of L.A. I wonder to myself how I kept my sanity. I've never been a city girl. I always loved the country. Why did I stay away from home for so long? Well. I'm not taking a commercial flight. I have my own private plane. I arrive at the private hangar. I get out of my car and grab my bags. I walk to my plane and walk up the stairs. I grab my seat and sit down. The plane begins to move out of the hangar and down the runway. My plane takes off. Southport here I come. I left Southport to purse my dreams of becoming a singer, songwriter. I always wanted to go back home but as my career continued to grow, I got to busy. I missed so much. I don't want to miss anymore Christmases. I close my eyes and dream of the last Christmas I spent with my family. Me, my mom, dad and brothers setting up the tree, hanging the lights around the house. Then me and my mom spent the rest of the day baking. My mom makes the most delicious cookies. I can taste my mom's famous gingerbread cookies. I can see my brother's arguing about which tree to buy. I was always the tie-breaker. I can't wait to see the snow. Southport always has a white Christmas. I open my eyes. My plane has landed in Southport. I grab my bags and hurriedly leave. The cold air hits me hard. My first taste of winter in a long time. My first taste of snow in a long time. My car is here. I get in and drive to Southport. Wow, look at the snow. It's so beautiful. I can't believe I'm here. I forgot how beautiful Southport is. I stop my car in Main Street. The shops are just how I remembered. Mrs. Wheeler's bakery is still alive and kicking. Mrs. Wheeler makes the best hot chocolate. Right next to Mrs. Wheeler's bakery is Jack's toy store. I love the toy store. I used to spend so many days there. The bookstore, oh how I love the bookstore. I got my first book there. I walk down the street taking everything in. The decorations look beautiful. I continue walking down the street until I come to Southport center. The big tree is up. The workers did a good job. I walk up to the tree without looking where I'm going. I bump into someone. I look up and see Chase. "Hi Chase." "Well. well. well it it isn't Southport's very own superstar, Amberlynn Rose." Wow, Chase looks more handsome than the last time I saw him. Say something to him. "I'm sorry for bumping into you." Chase's smile is so beautiful. Oh God! what is wrong with me? I'm acting like a love sick teenager. "I go to go. Nice seeing you, Chase." Chase Sommers, the hottest boy at Southport high and my high school crush, the boy I never forgot. The boy I always thought about. I look back at Chase, boy did he grow up. I walk back to my car, get in and drive home. Right there, the red house with all the decorations is where I grew up. I park my car. Here I go. I get out of my car, grab my bags and walk up the steps. I open the door and walk-in. The smell of gingerbread cookies hits me. "Mama." I call. My mother. My beautiful mother walks out of the kitchen. "My beautiful daughter. What a surprise?" I hug my mother tightly. I tell her "I'm home for Christmas." "This is going to be the best Christmas ever. Your dad and brothers are going to be so happy to see you." "Me too." I hug my mom once more. I go up to my room and unpack. My room looks the same. The pictures I took in high school are still on the wall. There is a picture of Chase I took of him smiling. Later that night I ate dinner with my family. We talked. We laughed. I told them about my concerns about living in L.A. They understood. I love them so much. This what I missed spending time with my family. The next day I got up, got dressed and went downstairs to eat breakfast. The conversation was light and funny. My brothers are still the jokesters they've always been. They know how to make me laugh. After breakfast me and my mom head to town. My mom asks me to help set up for the Christmas concert. I always performed at the Christmas concert. It's how I started my music career. Southport is bustling with people. Some are shopping. Some are helping with the Christmas concert and there is Chase Sommers. I get out of the car and walk with my mother to the staging area. "Hello ladies." Chase says to us. "Hello Chase." My mother says. "Amberlynn, you can help Chase set up the chairs." I nod. My mother walks away. I turn back to Chase. "I, sorry about yesterday. I was tongue tied." Chase tells me "Don't worry about it. I'm glad you came home for Christmas." For the next hour me and Chase set up the chairs. We talk about a lot of things. Chase tells me what he's been doing since high school. Chase went to college to play football. He returned to Southport after a knee injury. Chase now works at Southport high as the football coach. I tell Chase about my life in Los Angeles. My career is going great. I tell Chase I miss home and I'm glad to be home for Christmas. Chase makes me laugh. He's still the same Chase always making those around him laugh. "Are you going back to L.A.?" I tell Chase "I don't know. I love singing and writing my own songs but I don't know if L.A is for me. My song "Winter Love." is No.1 and my album is doing good but." "But you're not sure." "I'm not sure if the record label I'm with is right for me." Chase tells me not to think about the future but think about now and Christmas and being with my family. I know one thing I'm happy to be home. I never how easy it is to talk to Chase. He was the popular kid. I wasn't. Now we have reconnected. He's still the one I think about, the one I never forgot. Over the next couple of days, me and Chase spend a lot of time together. Besides setting up for the Christmas concert, Chase takes me ice skating. I haven't done that in a long time. I love it. Chase and I go see Santa. It was the craziest thing. I had so much fun. Chase is becoming more than just a friend. He's easy to talk to about my problems. He doesn't judge me. He gives me good advice. When Chase drops me off at my home, he tells me to listen to my heart. It's Christmas Eve, the night of the concert. My mom asks me to sing a song. I gladly say yes. Chase comes to pick me up. He helps me into his car. Chase tells me "I can't wait to hear you sing." The Christmas concert is great. The performers are amazing. Now it's my turn. I walk out onto the stage to a big applause. I look for Chase. He's sitting in the front row. I begin to sing. I close my eyes once I'm finish singing. I let the feel of Christmas, my home, my family and Chase envelope me. This is why I love to sing. It's not about the money but about making those around you smile. I open my eyes. I see my family and Chase cheering for me. Chase is right. I have to listen to my heart. I have a lot to think about and more time to spend with Chase. MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL

“Don’t put that on yet!” Gjord shot at his squire as the lad froze. “Where’s the leather lining? Ye rattle the walls with that tin bowl.” He watched as his squire buckled the helmet back onto his side. “Stolen.” Alderic “Stolen?” Gjord “Eaten more liketh,” Alderic proclaimed. “Say you nothing of the sort, Les I see Incitatus,” Gjord said solemnly whilst drawing his large flail and placing it on his armour backplate. They both started to whisper as they walked along the base of a fortified wall. They were masked by the night, reduced to ear-shot vision. “Thy horse was not eaten sire,” Alderic said in a failed attempt to console. “Silence!” Gjord said with a reserved volume but agitated tempo. “How many torch lights was that?” Whispered a fellow soldier trailing behind Alderic. “Shhhh,” abruptly silenced the curious axeman’s question from all sides. The man walked deadpan after the rebukes. He too rotated his Dane-axe to his back. Gjord stopped and starred at Alderic until he halted. They could make out silhouettes looking back the way they came. Multiple moonlit soldiers clanked by in their heavy plating. The first of which, the rebuked axeman. Gjord nodded to the young knight and he could see an instant jolt of courage in the boy. “Fourteen torches Alderic,” Gjord said while his vision was diverted to a heavy sword squad. The squad was pointing to a dark line on the lighter yet still greyish-black sand-blasted wall. Slight cracks in the wall almost glowed under the hazy moon-assisted lighting. As Gjord and Alderic started to walk again, the dark line grew and bulged at some moments. “Well, there it is, let us go,” Gjord said as he motioned Alderic to drop his pack. Alderic dropped a large sack with a “PING,” as he did so, a grappling hook poking from the bag hit a metallic rock. Unperturbed by this, he then proceeded to kick the sack with the ropes, and the hooks into nearby shrubbery. Gjord shaking his head turned to watch his fellow horseless knights ascend a simple ladder on a wall they marvelled for months. He then caught eyes with a nearby long-swordman who had a rabid aura about him. As the soldier passed Gjord saw a nightmarish lust in the man’s eyes. The man kept toward the breach and the mist seemed to retreat from him. Alderic, being clumsy but keenly observant felt the anxiety as well, more than just the usual battle tension. These men had a hunger about them. Just then Alderic and another encumbered tank of a knight brushed shoulders and they both nearly toppled, on the way down they grabbed each other in desperation. The knight almost ripping Alderics shoulder strap, and Alderic nearly pulling off his glove. Once the both of them regained composure, Alderic followed the careless knight without a say or acknowledgement, for these things happened when your helm allowed you little sight; let alone awareness. “I see sire, the helms a liability in these shadows,” Alderic whispered. “Ye want to toss it on when those Syrian archers find us,” Gjord. “By then I hope I’m fighting in the Bazaar, with pomegranate, and dates,” Alderic divulged. “I hope I’m in a bathhouse by then,” a knight said as he almost collided with Alderics loafing pace. “Or a Haram.” Gjord pulled Alderic aside and said, “many men are here for God, but many are for themselves.” “Aye, and he, we can predict well,” Alderic said while giving the ladder a shake. The men already climbing barely noticed a wiggle and Gjord began to climb. “Give me strength lord,” Gjord said under his breath as he climbed the ladder, a simple ladder that negated such a robust fortification. It creaked and groaned and he wasn’t certain it would hold the heavy infantry it was channelling up the barricade. As he progressed he could hear the wind howling first through the chasm then through his armour. Sweat was pooling in the tips of his gauntlets as he crested the checker-top wall. The light on the other side was almost blinding. It was no wonder the perimeter guards didn’t see their band approach. Torches only light that which is lit. The procession of knights Gjord led shunned torches and in turn, embraced darkness. Gjord lifted his leg over the wall, taking great care not to lean too far in one direction, for his armour would carry him off cliff or wall, it cared not for his life and obeyed *God’s forces*, he thought. Already counting his men before his feet touched to the floor he asked: “Where is Juniper’s troop?” “Already at it sire,” Another horseless knight admitted. “We told him to wait, but he didn’t bother.” Gjord stormed toward the guard shack with Alderic in tow. As Gjord entered the turret he withdrew a dagger and looked to his right. Alderic quickly did the same in the opposite direction. Together they entered back to back. The room was fiery orange, they both beheld a down struck torch, its flames already climbing the walls and a straw bed’s legs. There was blood smeared all over the bricks in that spot, flickering orange and red as the fire showcased its violence. Gjord swung around to see the Juniper troop hacking something on the other side. Beside that, a foreigner, paralyzed in fear looking opposite to Juniper’s crew. One of the violent knights turned whilst shaking his dipped and drenched blade. “Gjord, my lord,” Juniper exalted. “What should we do with this traitor?” “He is a friend of ours, whatever his reasons,” Gjord “I disagree,” Juniper said as Alderic gave him an insubordinate look. Juniper took a step to the foreign wretch and the man cowered slightly, shook, then stood tall giving Juniper a defiant stare. “Do you have his coins?” Juniper questioned as if the thought fowled his soul. “Here, I need not know thy reasons,” Gjord said in an apologetic but curious tone as he passed a bag of gold to the foreigner. “God wants none of this,” The foreigner said as he grabbed the bag. “I Merely want to end the siege, you’re stubborn armies hold people in sufferance everyplace they clash.” “Our God demands thy sufferance!” Juniper expelled. “That is no god,” the man said as he looked for the best way out of the turret and tensions. Upon seeing this Juniper motioned his men to block the exit. Gjord waved his hand and said, “Wait, I cannot allow you’re departure nor will I satisfy my men with slaughter. You must wait here under guard until we have secured the eastern gate.” “Will you satisfy thy lord and saviour?” Juniper queried in a rebellious stance with his gory blade pointed between Gjord and the foreigner. “I ate horse, leather, sifted dung for grain and drank blood all so I could carry out my lord’s wrath!” “You will carry out thy orders Juniper, you’re men are loyal to me and I will see them through this, body and soul,” Gjord said as Alderic stepped in front of him brandishing a longsword dwarfing the men in the room. “They are loyal to God!” Juniper yelled as he grabbed Alderics sword guard disabling Alderic and him in the melee while his retinue exploded onto the foreigner. Gjord desperately covered Alderics exposed back while the poor foreigner was prodded and kicked by the sharp and heavy instruments. The men, filled with sedition but grounded to a perspective they thought was endorsed by God were reluctant to turn on fellow knights. “Stop this I BEG OF YOU!” Gjord said in a diplomatic but stern tone. Juniper knowing full well his men had accomplished his wishes let go of Alderics sword guard and wrist plating. “That man helped our God, we would have starved in that cursed valley if it wasn’t for that man you’ve snuffed.” Alderic protested. “How dare you speak of God!” “I speak and act for Jesus Christ almiterrrrwhalpssss,” Juniper’s speech was severed by his own blood as his chest was punched out from the inside. The men in the room stood frozen. Watching as Juniper clawed at a hole in his chest while something dark quickly rescinded into the wound. Juniper’s mouth fell wide as his eyes lost focus and he slumped still. “Archers!” One of Juniper’s men cried as he searched the ceiling frantically. Many of the other men turned their attention to Gjord, who was already fixated on a dark spot under a table in the large circular room. “What is arrwwg,” One of Juniper’s men tried to say as a flash relieved him of his head. Gjord could see a phantom in the midst of the soldiers, withdrawing his flail, he began to swing it beside Alderic, covering their left flank. Another soldier fell from a massive wound to the belly. Groaning he reached up with his bloody sword and screamed, “DEMONS!” While swinging at the ethereal notions of a man that danced over his disfigured body. Alderic, still frozen and holding his longsword, could not comprehend the events; yet would no longer remain idle. He exploded toward the last of Juniper’s guard whilst the frightened soldier shielded and withdrew into a viewport depression in the turrets sporadically lit walls. Alderic stopped, he wanted to help the lad not frighten him more, and he was trained better than to chase the desperate, let alone a cornered man in the shadows. At this point, they could no longer see any phantoms near the soldier so they both looked back at the table. The beast there could be seen in more details now yet still transient, smiling, or snarling; they could not tell. Light reflected off its sheen in alien ways. It began to descend, right through brick and mortar. It was still smiling when it disappeared amongst the impervious floor. Alderic was the first to speak, “What in the nine levels?” Gjord finally stopped flailing his weapon and thought *Devils...* as he visually scoured the room for more carnations. “Antioch has cursed us,” Alderic said as the last soldier slowly stepped out of his cavity and into the light. The soldier ran past Alderic and turned his back to the most well-lit part of the room. Sword drawn and sporadically searching, the man would not die without a swing. Unlike his freshly bled kin, strewn across the floor in ways their mortal bodies could never endure. “Alderic to me!” Gjord said as Alderic instinctively walked backwards toward his mentor. Alderic was now within reach of Gjord. “What is thy name knight,” Gjord asked, piercing the man’s psychosis. “Götrich,” Götrich said. “Götrich, Goooötrich of York,” He studdered, swallowing his words. “You see that knob behind you?” Gjord asked watching Götrich fail to look past a point that forced him to turn his head. “Right.... Alderic, watch my sides. Götrich, fall in behind us if you must, and God give us strength!” Gjord said and promptly kicked the door with dagger poised in hand again whilst his flail was wrapped on his right leg. The door opened back to the quiet night air. Multiple crusaders filed in numerous directions as quietly as their cumbersome armour allowed. “Woooooooe,” A large decorated knight said to Gjord as he came out of the room dagger drawn and splattered by gore. The Regent looked Gjord up and down. “Thou were supposed to keep it civil and quiet, thy exit implies thou were neither.” “We lost men, three of them, there was,” Gjord was cut off when another company began to open the city gates and finally the city came alive with trumpets, despair, and confusion. Fires seemed to spontaneously erupt in places where the screams were loudest. The gates exploded inward before they could fully open and moon glistened soldiers began to fill the courtyard. As fire and death spread amongst the city Gjord tried again, to address the now mesmerized king. “Sire as I was saying there was,” this time cut off by the king’s hand, held up high in a dismissive gesture. “Take my retinue and attack the heathens mosque. They will likely retreat there and we mustn’t allow a siege within a siege,” the giddy king proclaimed. “We still don’t know what killed..” Gjord was shut up again by someone thrown from a nearby turret. The scream could be heard over everything, yet, most barely noticed the macabre plummet. Including the King who ignored Gjord and began speaking with another visibly noble knight. Gjord, now facing Alderic and thirty or so well-armed long swordsmen whose eager faces reeked of a king’s retinue gave in to the royal demands and lead the men toward the giant mosque. As they descended the ancient steps, arrows and javelin were thrown amongst them. Shielding himself, one knight blocked a large javelin from a watchtower only to take two arrows in the back of his neck. The chainmail burst apart as the arrows split the links and found their way deep into his chest. He slipped off the steps in a manner devoid of all stubborn life. Alderic, being shieldless like his master Gjord tried to close with a soldier to his left who brandished a pincushion of a shield. The man hurried down faster than Alderics leg joints could handle and upon trying to gain him, Alderic tripped and fell ten feet to the courtyard below. Fully suited in a metal body, Alderic struggled face first in what could have only been a shop stall he crushed in his fall. He shoved the broken wood and pottery in an attempt to roll himself onto his back. However something stopped him, beams and shelving caved in such a way that pinned Adleric face-first in a hay-filled pile of debris he could barely breathe in. His helmet didn’t help, it was hard to breathe without the oxygen-depleted bazaar stand rubble that laboured his efforts. He gasped, breathing in dust and filth, but no air. As he struggled other hands began to remove many of the weights holding Alderic to the dirt. Gjord grabbed Alderics dusty arm and dragged him from the rubble. Alderic being in no energized state rolled complacently down the pile of debris finally gaining some air. Alderics air crisis was barely quenched when he picked up his head and saw knights storm the three-story dwellings to their front. These dwellings, moments before, held deadly archers raining death upon their descent. They now housed murderous crusaders hacking and killing anything they could find. “To ME!” Gjord said as Alderic painfully picked himself off the floor. The retinue filed in around Gjord, and Alderic fell in with the men and steel. The streets were now filled with more than just rivalling armies, but people, women and children, young and old were all displaced by murderous assault. Crowds ran on both sides of Gjord’s platoon, and as the crusaders progressed through the arid streets, the odd civilian threw something or tried to stab a displaced soldier. Checking his retinue Gjord saw a soldier struck in the head with a brick and the poor man slumped instantly to the cobblestone road. Another took an arrow in the leg and when Gjord finally saw the man struggling to get back to them he was swarmed by people kicking and screaming in foreign tongues. “Forward!” Gjord shouted. Finally, the men approached the massive steps of the mosque. Tired and weary Alderic was acting solely on instinct. His nerves were shot, his muscles ached, and his armour barely responded to his will but he drudged on. Shuffling his heavy legs toward the staircase. He watched as three women ran by and up the stairs. At that moment a pot was thrown from the mosque’s elevated position. It smashed on a soldier with strange steam and the man began to writhe in agony. As soon as Gjord realized it was hot oil another of his guard tossed a dagger at one of the women desperately ascending the mosque steps. Before Gjord could reprimand the soldier the man collapsed from no obvious cause. Gjord watched as fellow soldiers looked for injury on the lad and could not get him to rise or show a sign of life. “To ME!” Gjord said again as an enemy with a curved slashing sword ran at him. Gjord blocked high with his dagger and swung his flail upwards toward the foe. The dagger strained under a heavy sword blow but managed to deflect and displace the energy as Gjords flail uppercut the man’s head, scattering it into the night. Alderic was now shuffling to help as best as his injured body allowed. Everywhere he looked there was butchery. Women, children, homes, and livelihoods were all under assault and inflames. He saw crusaders hacking at people in flight. Even the lamenting were targetted, no one was spared. Then, just as he saw another group poised to attack a cornered family, they all vibrated in an eerie dance that ended in their blood being thrown amongst the cornered citizens. Alderic saw the phantoms again within the confusion, they withdrew amidst the fresh corpses. Gjord, now frantically looking from left to right as he climbed the mosque stairs, could see tangible dark figures now battling and slaughtering both garrison and crusading knights. These thin and agile creatures looked like stretched corpses and they moved like chimpanzees, preferring quadrupedal movement to that of the mortals they slew. As Gjord, Alderic, and the surviving retinue crested the steps they saw a pile of gore where the oil pot was cast minutes ago. Within the mess was a ghastly ghoul gnawing on rib bones. “A phantom!” Gjord cried as he started swinging his flail. Now, more man than ethereal, more flesh than air, and not in the slightest bit timid, the beast looked at them and snarled as it slowly descended into the blood at its heels. Its long sharp claws were the last of it to be seen as it disappeared with human remains in tow, again into seemingly impervious masonry. “The city has cursed itself?” Alderic said as he peered through his helmet’s tiny eye slit at the bloody man-made precipice. “This war has cursed us all...

Mom, This letter may be a surprise for you, I know we haven’t talked in a while. You know losing dad was hard for me, and I had to distance myself because of how difficult it all became. I understand if you don’t want to hear from me after all this time, but you are the only person I have in this world, the only one I can talk to about this. The reality is that I’m terribly unhappy, just like dad back then. I know I judged him harshly and we would fight constantly because of that, but now that I’ve reached the age he had when he started deteriorating, I think understand. In a way, I guess I’m writing this to you because I can’t write to him. Mom, was I happy when I was a kid? I’ve always been sure I was, but it’s been so long since my life became so gray that I’ve started to question even that. For the last 20 years, I haven’t felt any excitement or passion for anything, and my life is just a routine I can’t escape. The last time I spoke to dad he told me sometimes you just accept what life gives you instead of asking for more. I was so harsh to him that day, I told him he was a mediocre man and I would never be like him. I told him I would follow my dreams unlike him, but I find myself in the same place he was even after following said dreams. I can’t believe that was the last conversation we had, it took me many years to realize he was right after all and now we’ll never get to talk about it. I wish I could tell you that is guilt that makes me unhappy because I think that’s something I could overcome with time, but that’s not it. I do feel guilty about not feeling more guilty for the pain I caused him, but I’m ashamed to admit that the pity I feel for finding myself in this state weighs more. The thing is, I don’t know what’s wrong with my life. This is what I wanted, you know that. My business became incredibly successful almost as soon as I started it, and even though I don’t have as many clients as I used to, I’m still in a good position. I am wealthy enough and have a big house, which is what I always wanted. I think that’s part of the problem, I made my dreams come true far too quickly, and I didn’t have a plan for what I would do after that. I know you are wondering but no, I never married. I never saw the point, I’ve always been fine on my own, and the few girlfriends I had proved to be more of a nuance than anything else. I know you would be happier if I had married and had children, but that’s just not who I am. I don’t have friends either. I wasn’t a sad and lonely man who didn’t talk to anyone, I had people around me for anything I needed, but at some point they grew more distant and now I can’t say I have one friend in the world. Hence my letter to you, who probably won’t even read it. I tried taking classes, just to see if I could find a hobby or anything to feel a little excitement for, but it’s been a waste of my time. I tried taking piano lessons, learning German, painting, and even tried dancing lessons! I quit all of them after two or three weeks, I felt ridiculous, and completely out of place. In that, I guess I haven’t changed since I was a kid. In an act of desperation, I even went on a couple of dates, but I couldn’t stand the empty conversations of those women. And you won’t like this, but I even tried hiring some escorts. It wasn’t really about the sex, it was just nice to be able to talk to someone who wouldn’t judge me. I grew particularly fond of one; we would talk for hours, which was probably the easiest money she ever made, but at some point I grew bored of her. She turned out to be very empty too, and I lost all interest. It’s not a nice thing, I know, but there is no point denying it. It wasn’t that long ago but I don’t even remember her name. I got a dog. I never had one before because I didn’t want to deal with the responsibility of taking care of another being, but I didn’t know what else to try. I just thought that if it didn’t work out, I would return it to the shelter, but it turned out to be my anchor when things got really bad. When I started receiving fewer clients and had no reason to get out of bed, my responsibility to take care of it made me get up every morning, and it keeps me company. After everything I tried, and even with the dog, I still find little joy in my day-to-day. I know all this may sound very severe but don’t worry, I won’t kill myself. Even in this state, I find suicide a deplorable thing, I have no desire to end my life so tragically, even if I gave up on trying to be happy. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to enjoy life. There are people out there who live meaningless lives and seem so content with them. My life is not so bad. I’ve even started to question if the problem is not my job, or my lack of company, that maybe the problem it’s just me. Maybe it’s a genetic thing that dad passed down to me, and it won’t matter what I do, I’m always going to feel like this. Maybe that happiness and joy it’s just an illusion young people chase. I guess all I wanted was to wake up one day and be able to say I feel alive again. I doubt things will get any better, but I’ll accept the fate I was given and learn how to live my life on a scale of gray. I hope you can understand me like you understood dad when he was going through the same thing. I hope you haven’t completely lost your faith in me. Love, Jonathan

Larry was surrounded by flames. Air burned his lungs when he tried to breathe. A heavy wooden beam lay across his legs, pinning him to the floor. He managed to lift the beam just enough to pull his legs out, but all he could see around him was fire and smoke. He couldn’t tell where the windows were, or the door. He wasn’t sure if Gwen was trapped with him, or if she had escaped. He woke sweating and panting, sitting up in the hospital bed. A nurse came and increased the IV drip, sending additional morphine into his system to relieve the pain and calm him down. He relaxed back onto the pillows, awake and remembering. Gwen appeared by his side and led him out of the house. He wondered where she was, why she wasn’t in his room, visiting, waiting for him to be awake and lucid. But he didn’t wonder for long. He could feel the right side of his face under the bandages wrapped around his head. Melted, scarred flesh. An eyeless socket. Half a nose. With only one eye and half a face, he could never look at her the same way again. She would never be able to look at him the same way again, either. Looks were far less important than character, and he knew she knew that. But this went beyond just looks. She would see a monster. A wuss. Someone she needed to pull from the burning house. Not her hale, hearty, hero. He was still breathing, but his life was over. At least his life with Gwen. The only life he wanted to live. His eye closed and he went limp, drifting back into sleep. And nightmares. This time he tried to wave her off when she came to his rescue. But when he opened his mouth, flames shot out. Flames erupted from his right eye as well. That did the trick. She screamed and ran through the fire, just to get away from Larry, the Monster. He laughed a bitter laugh and tried to hug the flames. But they laughed back and danced out of his reach. And just like that he was outside the house, being extinguished, rolled in a blanket, and put on a gurney. Too drugged to wake up, the nightmare repeated. This time he felt his face melting, his eyeball dripping down his cheek. So he pulled the beam down onto his legs and lay down to die in the fire. But the fire ate the beam, wrapped around him, and carried him to the ambulance. He couldn’t wake up, but he thrashed and tried to scream. Only a strange guttural sound emitted from the mummy in the hospital bed. The nurse must have given him more of the drug; he felt like his sleep was the still, dark water of a lake, and he was drowning in it. When his body landed at the bottom of the lake of sleep, sending gouts of mud towards the surface, turning them into bursts of flame, he slid through the lake bottom and into his house again. The beam collapsed, pinning him down. Then it flew back up, and dropped again and again. The flames caressed his body, slid him out from under the beam each time it fell. His face melted, sliding down the flames to form skates on his feet. On those skates of fire, he rolled out of the house and into the ambulance, setting it on fire. He rode the smoke of the burning ambulance to the hospital, landing right back here in this cloistered room. Morphine kept him asleep, unaware of his actual pain and resting. Or at least resting as much as the feverish nightmares allowed. A second IV provided nutrition and fluids to keep him hydrated. The nurse could have told him he slept (and dreamed) five days in a row, but he didn’t ask. When he did wake up, at last, he asked for ice chips to wet his lips and his throat before he could talk. The nurse was happy to provide them and encouraged Larry. She told him he was on the road to recovery. When he asked when the bandages might be removed, she brought the doctor in to talk to him. “Hello, Mr. Lancome. I’m Doctor Vasquez. I know you might not feel like it yet, but you are lucky to be alive.” Most of his head was still wrapped in bandages, but there was an opening for his remaining eye. He stared at the doctor. She wore a white lab coat over purple scrubs. A nurse’s cap, or at least that’s what Larry assumed it was, kept her abundant auburn curls under control. He looked away from her brilliantly-colored hair immediately. Those auburn curls reminded him too much of fire. Sparkling green eyes above a pert little nose echoed the generous smile her wide mouth, sans lipstick, offered. Nothing about her reminded him of Gwen, except that infectious smile. He felt better because of it, somehow brighter and with more hope. “Where’s Gwen?” he croaked. “What’s that?” the doctor asked, stepping closer in order to hear his weakened voice. “Where’s Gwen?” “She’s here,” the doctor nodded. “She’s ...” “Don’t let her see me like this. Please.” The doctor gave him a funny look. “Do you want to wait? Until the bandages come off? She’s been asking about you.” “No, Doctor ...” Larry couldn’t quite read her nametag. “Doctor Vasquez,” she offered, nodding. “Gwen has been asking about you, too.” “I don’t want to let her see me like this. And I definitely don’t want her to see me after the bandages are off.” Larry shook his head. “I don’t think she’d want to see me, or at least see my melted, one-eyed face.” “Let’s give it some time,” Doctor Wilson suggested. “And once the burns are healed, you might want to think about plastic surgery. I’m afraid we can’t yet give you a second real eye, but an artificial one or a dashing eye patch can do wonders for your look. Trust me, Mr. Lancome, we’ve dealt with far worse. You are very fortunate to be alive, and to have escaped that fire with all four limbs burned, but still functioning.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * “This is a tough one, doctor. I can see why you wanted a consult.” Dr. Branson sat across the conference table from Dr. Vasquez. Both were well aware of the physical condition of each other’s patients. “I’m glad you see my dilemma, James. Do you have any advice to offer, in addition to commiserating with me? What do you think of her mental state?” “I think she’s in a good place, Shirley. But we can never be sure of that, can we?” “Not absolutely sure, doctors, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a pretty good idea of how things will go.” Drs. Vasquez and Branson had invited Dr. Harrison, one of the staff psychologists, to join them. She was very experienced with burn victims, and also well aware of the two patients being discussed. “I concur with you, Dr. Branson, about your patient and her mental state. How do you feel about your patient, Dr. Vasquez?” “He insists that he doesn’t want her to see him. But I think it would be good for him.” “Does he know she’s a patient? And her condition?” “Not yet. That’s part of the reason I think it would be good for him to see her.” “What are the chances he’ll sue the hospital if we do this and he doesn’t see it as the best thing for his recovery?” “He’s more likely to blame himself than us,” Dr. Harrison posited. “I don’t think he would sue, but I can’t guarantee that.” “If it comes to a lawsuit,” Dr. Vasquez added, “I’m pretty certain I could argue that it was my medical decision that it would be good for him.” “That wouldn’t help with the publicity,” Dr. Branson shook his head. “I’m afraid I think it’s a bad idea overall. But if you want to do it, I think my patient will handle it well.” “So it’s all up to me, after all? Some consult this is turning out to be.” “It is up to you Dr. Vasquez. But the consult shows you are considering options, and seeking other opinions. You aren’t saying you disagree with the idea are you, Dr. Branson?” “I am not disagreeing with the idea. If Dr. Vasquez wants to pursue it, I’m in.” Dr. Harrison flipped through the charts in front of her. The other two waited patiently. Finally, she closed the files and looked up. “As you are Mr. Lancome’s attending, and since Dr. Branson has no objection, I leave it to you, Dr. Vasquez. I’ll support your decision, no matter which way you go.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The bandages were off. Larry relished the feel of fresh air on his face, but the right side felt weird. He held the mirror in his left hand, looking at his face. It wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be, but he wasn’t going to win any beauty contests. The doctor was right about one thing - the eye patch looked more dashing than frightening. “There’s someone here to see you, Mr. Lancome. If you’re done admiring your rugged new look.” Dr. Vasquez smiled at Larry. Drs. Branson and Harrison stood at the side of his room, looking at him with curiosity. “Gwen?” Dr. Vasquez called over her shoulder. “No! I don’t want her to see me like this. I told you that.” Larry bowed his head and covered it with his hands, dropping the mirror into his lap, face up. “I was afraid of this,” Gwen said in a quavering voice, crying as she stopped just inside the room. Dr. Branson took her elbow, placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and helped steer her closer to Larry’s bed. “I’m ugly. He doesn’t want to see me. Nobody wants to see me.” Gwen bowed her own head, now that she stood at Larry’s bedside. Larry gasped, and Gwen turned away, giving Dr. Branson a pleading look. “Take me back to my room, please. I need to be alone.” “Gwen?” Larry looked up. “Please don’t leave. I’ve been waiting for weeks to see you. To thank you for saving me from that fire. For loving me; at least until now. Nobody can love me now.” “You’re so wrong, Larr Bear. I can never not love you.” “I think you’ll change your mind when you look at me,” Larry argued.” “It’s not your looks I love, silly. It’s your heart and your mind and your soul. Your very character.” Gwen sobbed once. “But when you see me like this, you’ll run. You won’t want to; you’re better than that. But you’ll recoil from what you see.” “But I’ve seen you, Gwen, and I don’t want to run. I do want to turn my back, so you won’t see me. But I don’t want to run. You’re my soulmate, my heart, my mind, my everything. Until you see me.” Larry paused. “But I want you to see me. You need to know, so you can move on.” Larry lifted his head and lowered his hands. “Look at me, Gwen.” Dr. Branson lifted Gwen’s chin with his hand and gave her a questioning look. She gave him a haunted look of her own, then nodded, and turned. Larry looked at her marred face and her flowered eye patch. His one good eye teared up, and he opened his arms, motioning her to come in for a hug. Gwen looked from his open arms and beckoning hands to his melted face and the black eye patch. Her own good eye teared up, and she fell into his arms. “You’re the most beautiful woman this eye has ever seen,” Larry hugged her. “And you’re the most beautiful liar, Larr Bear. But I love you. I love you so much.” “You saved me,” was Larry’s answer. “You saved me when I met you, you saved me when you said yes to my proposal and you saved me from the fire.” “We saved each other,” Gwen responded. “You saved me when we met, when you asked me to marry you, and when you came out of that fire alive, with your arms around me to keep most of the flames away.” The doctors smiled and nodded. Gwen broke from the hug and stood back up. “Rumor has it I could have some plastic surgery to make things look a little better,” Larry offered, still tentative. “I will if you will,” Gwen agreed with a smile. Then she laid down on his hospital bed carefully, and they embraced again. The doctor’s left the room, agreeing this had been the right thing to do, and praising Dr. Vasquez for her courage.

The security alarms blared. The bank vaults were busted open. The shapeshifter of the team, Sadie, had got the money, barely. She was holding a lot of cash in her large bag-shaped hands and she was not happy about it. Tim, with his telekinesis, was holding stacks of cash too. Her team of villains, Nexus of Overpowered Baddies (N.O.O.B), unloaded the money into the getaway car trunk, stuffing it until it was full. Slamming the trunk, Sadie shouted over the alarms, “Why didn’t anyone bring any bags for the cash?” Tim replied, "We got no budget for those!" The gang hopped into the car, nervous and hyped from the crime adrenaline. Her exasperation screamed with her as she sat in the front seat, "How!? They're only 20 bucks." "Well, someone spent it all on car touch-ups," Tim said pointedly at Robbie, the mute get-away driver. Robbie defended himself as he put on his infrared googles needed to drive the invisible car. He texted the group, "Hey, my car is a crucial part of the mission." The team looked at their phones to catch his message. Tim scoffed, "The new car paint job helps us rob banks?" Robbie started driving, daring to go over _one_ mile over the road speed limit, and texted, "It makes us look cool. Reputation's important." Tim and Saddie started rambling together, exclaiming something along the lines of "But it's invisible.”, “They can't even see it..." and “Stop texting and driving!”. Robbie jammed his phone into his pocket, grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and seethed. Jerry, who’s been in the back-seat and watching stuff happening behind the car, stuttered, “G-guys? The police! Ahhh!” Sadie sighed, as though she had explained this for the 100th time (she definitely did), “Yes, Jerry. There’re police looking for us. This isn’t new.” Jerry gulped, “B-b-but they’re making a beeline for us. It’s like they know where we are.” Sadie gasped, “What? Someone’s gotta fix that!” Tim shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and mouthed, ‘Not it’. Robbie’s eyes perked up, surprised at the news. The car’s invisibility aura was working; He’d checked the system thrice this morning. The car sped up, now _ten_ miles over the speed limit. Ah, yes, very illegal. Jerry quickly realised what the problem is and relayed it to the group: The getaway car may be fast and invisible. But the cash slipping out through a gap in the trunk, leaving a money trail behind them, wasn't. An annoyed Sadie said, "Alright, who was in charge of putting duct-tape over that hole?" Everyone except the driver proceeded to stare at Tim. Tim said, "What? Yesterday was my day off." Sadie retaliated, “Fix it. Now.” "Stick my head out of a speeding vehicle while the cops shoot at us. Great idea." Tim mocked. Sadie shot him a glare so he tried to do it anyway. Keyword being: tried. The instant he opened the car’s back window, three bullets came through the car. The team ducked as the bullets smashed themselves onto the car window. Robbie pressed the horn in shock and anger. How dare they ruin the car! His car. Honk. Honk. HONKKK. Tim spoke up, “Thanks for caring about us, Robbie, but not now.” Robbie shrugged his shoulders at Tim’s misinterpretation of his car honks. Panicked, Jerry activated his invisibility belt and turned invisible. He then took out his mini helper-bot and pressed a few buttons. Beeping with approval, it went out of the car to place the duct-tape over the car trunk’s hole. The cops shot at the robot and it exploded just after it finished its task. There, problem solved. Jerry heaved a sigh of relief, “I’m gonna miss that robot.” Tim smiled, “Yea.. that thing enjoyed three seconds of retirement. Nice work, buddy.” He then laid back to take a nap. Behold, the great super-villain team, nearly foiled because duct-tape wasn't used beforehand. Sadie urged Robbie, “Dude, go faster, we have to lose them!” Robbie shook his head no. It was his car and he’s the driver. He did what he wanted. As of then, he was more concerned about obtaining a speeding ticket than being tossed into jail. As if Sadie read his mind, she says, “Aw, c’mon Robbie, we talked about this. No law, or hero is gonna take your car away.” It’s still a ‘no’ from Robbie. The police were gaining on them. Jerry lets out a shriek that sounds like a mouse captured by a cat. Like a parent bargaining with a mischieving child, Sadie says, “Fine, I’ll go to one sports car race event with you if you drive super fast.” Robbie lifts his left hand and puts up four fingers. “Three, and you buy the snacks.” The car instantly speeds up, leaving the cops in the dust. It jolts its passengers forward and their seatbelts catch them back. Jerry smiles, “Ha! See, Tim? I told you seatbelts were-” Tim interrupts with a snore, relaxed at having nothing to do. Thirty miles and five road turns later, the law was still extending its arm out to catch them. In the form of police officers and cars. Sadie said, "Damnit, they can still see us? Bet they use the same infra-red googles Robbie uses. Jerry, you’re the nerd here, got something to help us with that?” “Yep." Jerry took out a device that disables infra-red technology in a 100-mile radius. “Perfect. Yoink.” Sadie snatched the device. Jerry hesitated and tried warning Sadie, “But wait, it affects-” Too late. Sadie rammed its red button without question. “-us TOO!” Along with the policemen, Robbie could no longer see the car and the steering wheel. Time to panic. Everyone screamed in terror (except Tim, he was still sleeping). The car haphazardly swerves left and right. It misses a car, and another car, and another car! And a truck! It seemed to be always inches away from crashing. Jerry jumped out the vehicle, aborting the mission. He landed face-first into the pavement and a passer-by tripped over him. Jerry groaned in pain. Yeesh, his bank robbery mask saved his jaw from being snapped like a twig. He tried standing up, but another person bumped into him. Falling back down his butt, he grunts. He then tried to pick himself up three more times. Yet, for each time, a different passer-by kept knocking him down accidentally, as if he’s an unstable bowling pin. That’s one of the cons of Jerry’s activated invisibility belt. ‘Fifth time’s the charm.’ Jerry thought as he stood up to his feet without any clumsy strangers ruining it. Good job, Jerry. He finally accomplished something two-years-old can do. He then walked into a pole. Ouch. On the bright side, the cops weren’t chasing him anymore. That’s one pro of being invisible. He dusted himself off, teleported back home, sat down on his front porch and sulked. At this rate, he was never going to make his super-villain dad proud. Back to the action. Sadie commanded the car to go into auto-drive mode and to take them to the nearest secret base. Crisis averted! “Phew. Everything is gonna be fine now.” Sadie said. Everything was not fine. The car drove them to the heros' secret base. Yikes.

Suitcase in hand, you head to the station. You walk quickly through the dark night streets. Your feet a mere whisper on the cobblestone. The early morning air is cold and a dense fog envelops the streets that are eerily empty at this hour. You jump at every noise knowing at any time he could appear. Shadows seem to be lurking at every corner, cast by the dull yellow glow of the street lamps. Your breath comes faster as you pick up the pace to the train station. Still several miles in the distance. You're not sure if your nerves can become any more frayed. You near the end of the thatch roof houses. The rest of the way is just a gravel path through the hilly countryside. No one to hear or see you from here. It starts to rain. It is not long before the road becomes slick and your vision more scarce.The only thing helping you is the pale misty glow of moonlight overhead. A cold fear trickles down your spine. You sense him. You clutch the suitcase tighter as you lose your footing and start to slide down one of the large rocky hills. You try to catch yourself. Your hands grasping desperately into the crisp dark air. You find nothing. You tumble down the steep hillside. When you come to a stop at the bottom the suitcase is gone. Your heart quickens. You search desperately, blindly in the darkness. Tripping and falling through the bramble. Suddenly you see a small glint of light shining from the metal of the case a few feet away. You scramble up off the ground to grab it and get back on the gravel path. Suddenly you stop. You hear heavy footsteps crunch over the gravel. They’re coming in your direction. You look around. There’s nowhere to hide except for the tall grass growing along the side of the road. As quickly and quietly as possible, you lay down in the grass, out of sight. Clutching the suitcase tightly to your body, you peer out through the overgrowth. A body is visible in the distance. As he nears you feel your heart begin to pound against your chest. So loud in your own ears you know it must surely be heard by the approaching figure. He is right in front of you when the moonlight illuminates his face. Your hand covers your mouth as a small whimper escapes your lips. It’s him. He doesn’t seem to hear the sound you have made. He continues. You wait until he is over the hill and his footsteps are receding into the distance opposite you before emerging from the grass. You hurry on. You are chilled and shivering when you arrive at the station. You let yourself relax slightly. You have made it. Alive. As you enter you look around. You know he is still trailing you. You spot him watching you from the corner. Hastily you look away and head to the counter to buy a one way ticket out as fast as you can. All you hope is that the clerk keeps his voice low enough that you are not overheard. You cannot take the risk of him following you once more. You pay and look back at the corner. No one is there. Your heart starts pounding again. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. You feel as if you are still being watched. You fight a rising panic. All you have to do now is wait for the train. Just stay alert. The train should be here soon. Just stay alive. Your eyes scan the station again. You don’t see him. You know you have to stay where there are people. You look around again. The station is nearly empty. It’s 3 o’clock in the morning. You decide to stay close to the cashier window until the train comes. Just stay alert. Just stay alive. You are so focused on your surroundings and inspecting every person you do not hear the train arrive. The horn blares. You jump so violently you topple the brochure stand behind you. You don’t have time to pick it up. You cannot turn your back. You cannot lose your focus. You rush to the train and get in line with the few others who are boarding with you. You take one last look around. There he is, slowly walking alongside the train towards you. You feel yourself start to panic. He is inching nearer. You need the conductor to hurry. At last you hand him your ticket and promptly climb aboard. Once inside you dash down the passageway with rapid strides until you find an empty cabin. Hastily you step inside and close the door behind you. You sit back in your seat breathing heavily. You can see him still standing outside the train in the station. He’s staring in your direction. As if he knows exactly where you are. You slide down out of sight and close your eyes. Willing the train to start moving. After one last blast of the horn you feel the train lurch and start to roll forward. When you know the station is a safe distance behind. You take a breath and sit up. Your hands, cold and clammy. You pull the suitcase you have been carrying close to you and open it. The documents are still there. They are still safe, just as you will be soon. You just need to deliver them to their rightful owner. Suddenly the door slides open. You jump and shut the suitcase. A tall man walks in. He’s wearing a dingy suit. Weatherbeaten and torn. His dark hat sits low on his forehead. Engulfing his face in shadows. Immediately you feel the color drain from your face. Fear coursing through your veins. The man gives a slight nod and sits down across from you. You both ride in silence most of the way. Staring out into the darkness. You are just one stop away from your destination. As a small thin light starts to form on the horizon the man shifts in his seat. Slowly you grip the suitcase tight and rise up from your seat. You only have one chance. You throw yourself towards the door. Your hand grazes the handle just as he grabs you from behind. Violently he turns you around to face him. You can now see the full view of his face. Your body feels numb. Your worst suspicions confirmed. He has caught up with you. Your eyes wild with terror. You glance at the door of the cabin once again. You try to jerk away from his tight grasp, but he is too strong. He pulls out a sweet smelling cloth and covers your face. You try to fight him. You try to scream. But you can’t. You feel the room start to sway. Your body lightens and for a moment everything is tranquil. Almost calm. The man grabs the suitcase and makes to exit the room. He turns one last time to look at you. He puts one finger to his lips and slides the door closed. You hear his footsteps echo down the aisle... He is gone. Everything fades to black.

Space is a dark, low abyss. Let me tell you how we got here. Hi, I’m Alvin, Alvin Reid and I’m recording this space journal after our space collision. We were traveling through a high-speed orbit and one of out ide panel got detached and a few wires seemed to be damaged when a fleet of asteroids appeared in front of our ship. I’m no expert so I called the space Centre control room through radio communication and headed out with my space partner, Henry Pavarotti.The second reason I’m recording this journal is to rant about how annoying Henry is. Who sent him with me? This seemed like a joint plot that people may have planned against me to take revenge for every single time I rushed to the bathroom as soon as the bill came to our table .I had no idea I was digging my grave all the while thinking to myself how cheeky yet smart I had been to dodge the payment yet again. When all the participants of the pace training experiment fell away, I had an itchy feeling in my gut that something was amiss. I Thought that going to Mars as a test subject would get me lots of recognition and most of all Cash but sadly this was not to be. The space company sponsored my wife and kids, through their school and other expenses as insurance if I don’t make it. No cash but a pile of Trash. Having Henry around is Painful in the least. I don’t understand how he stays so positive even though everything around us has gone up in flames and our spaceship wiring is banjaxed from various angles. we both were hanging outside the space shuttle trying to fix the wiring and the damaged panel. Suddenly henry sees that his space cord is unplugged. I must hold on to him for dear life. HIS dear life, so he could use my cord and get back in the spaceship. I had to do this while trying to take instructions from the space station and trying to fix the wiring as well. Instead of going back inside, Henry insists on giving me company and blabbers on relentlessly about his puppy at home who pooped on his carpet and dragged his behind all the way down to the front porch. The puppy took its own sweet time fumigating Henry’s entire hall. When Henry come down from the washroom he smells the Hall and it reeks to high heaven, but henry being henry says :”Aah ,the smell of fertilizer, I feel blessed .”Who has spread this blessing within my home?Ah was it you Poppy, I should rename you as Poopy, ”PROVIDER of FERTILIZER ”.Kind of cute right? “Henry asked. “Not what I feel” I replied. That guy was supposed to take the opportunity to discipline his puppy while it was small, and this is what he does. I on the other hand, am someone who enjoys peace and quiet. Not a people person really, But I’m not completely antisocial, I like to meet family and a few close friends. We are twelve days away from Mars, but our ship has broken down and we are still looking for further instructions from the technician if only Henry would stop chiming in to ask them about food supplies. Food supplies would be needed to survive although this was second to a lack of oxygen in due time, we had plants on board to provide us with oxygen as they photosynthesized but who knows how long this would last. But at this moment, I knew that henry had grown on me like mold that grows in a bathroom that hadn’t been cleaned in like forever. And boy, that felt warm. Having someone beside me even if it was this godforsaken Henry. Working with him in this dark place where no other life form would comfort me, Henry felt like fertilizer to my soul. Although it stank, it still gave me enough nourishment to help me grow and work in a difficult position, during times of scarcity and built me from the inside out. Therefore, I can express myself in this space record of mine. Drifting in space, we felt that we had to keep each other company. Henry misses poppy and his pooped filled shenanigans. I missed my wife to the umpteenth degree but I’m not sure I’ll be able to tell her or show her to that effect. I don’t know how long I’ll be in space till a backup spaceship comes and takes us back to earth. I’m going to bide my time and I’m going to tell henry to his face that he sucks big time. I believe it will relieve him of him oxygen faster than mine when he exhausts himself when he’s angry, then I can be peaceful and at peace. I’ll try it today and record its aftereffects maybe henry will be quiet once he realizes his oxygen is limited. He didn’t know anything about the plants that made oxygen and how will it be deposited into our suits to use. We have no idea we are awaiting correspondence from the space Centre to ask them this. We had come back inside the spaceship floating around impatiently. This was the moment I thought to infuriate Henry. I screamed at him “Henry! I hate your poop faced dog and I hate you! you have been nothing but a pain in the behind since you got here “I don’t care if you die in this ship I have half a mind to push you out so that I never see your face again!!!.Henry looked at me with his deep brown eyes but didn’t reply for quite some time. “then he turned his face towards me and said:” I didn’t know you felt like that and tried to float towards me with his hands outstretched and instead of getting angry he enveloped me in a warm hug .”Let me know more “he whispered. I realized that I had made a friend for life. I had such anger towards him, but I was shocked by his kind and mellow response in the face of ultimate despair. “I’m never letting you go “I replied hugging him back. And so in the face of hopelessness, hatred and anger we became bosom buddies. I don’t care if we don’t get back to earth, I have all I want right here with me in this moment.A story about two main characters in the dark recess of space. Space is a dark, low abyss. Let me tell you how we got here. Hi, I’m Alvin, Alvin Reid and I’m recording this space journal after our space collision. We were traveling through a high-speed orbit and one of the side panels got detached and a few wires seemed to be damaged when a fleet of asteroids appeared in front of our ship. I’m no expert so I called the space Centre control room through radio communication and headed out with my space partner, Henry Pavarotti.The second reason I’m recording this journal is to rant about how annoying Henry is. Who sent him with me? This seemed like a joint plot that people may have planned against me to take revenge for every single time I rushed to the bathroom as soon as the bill came to our table .I had no idea I was digging my grave all the while thinking to myself how cheeky yet smart I had been to dodge the payment yet again. When all the participants of the pace training experiment fell away, I had an itchy feeling in my gut that something was amiss. I Thought that going to Mars as a test subject would get me lots of recognition and most of all Cash but sadly this was not to be. The space company sponsored my wife and kids, through their school and other expenses as insurance if I don’t make it. No cash but a pile of Trash. Having Henry around is Painful in the least. I don’t understand how he stays so positive even though everything around us has gone up in flames and our spaceship wiring is banjaxed from various angles. we both were hanging outside the space shuttle trying to fix the wiring and the damaged panel. Suddenly henry sees that his space cord is unplugged. I must hold on to him for dear life. HIS dear life, so he could use my cord and get back in the spaceship. I had to do this while trying to take instructions from the space station and trying to fix the wiring as well. Instead of going back inside, Henry insists on giving me company and blabbers on relentlessly about his puppy at home who pooped on his carpet and dragged his behind all the way down to the front porch. The puppy took its own sweet time fumigating Henry’s entire hall. When Henry come down from the washroom he smells the Hall and it reeks to high heaven, but henry being henry says :”Aah ,the smell of fertilizer, I feel blessed .”Who has spread this blessing within my home?Ah was it you Poppy, I should rename you as Poopy, ”PROVIDER of FERTILIZER ”.Kind of cute right? “Henry asked. “Not what I feel” I replied. That guy was supposed to take the opportunity to discipline his puppy while it was small, and this is what he does. I on the other hand, am someone who enjoys peace and quiet. Not a people person really, But I’m not completely antisocial, I like to meet family and a few close friends. We are twelve days away from Mars, but our ship has broken down and we are still looking for further instructions from the technician if only Henry would stop chiming in to ask them about food supplies. Food supplies would be needed to survive although this was second to a lack of oxygen in due time, we had plants on board to provide us with oxygen as they photosynthesized but who knows how long this would last. But at this moment, I knew that henry had grown on me like mold that grows in a bathroom that hadn’t been cleaned in like forever. And boy, that felt warm. Having someone beside me even if it was this godforsaken Henry. Working with him in this dark place where no other life form would comfort me, Henry felt like fertilizer to my soul. Although it stank, it still gave me enough nourishment to help me grow and work in a difficult position, during times of scarcity and built me from the inside out. Therefore, I can express myself in this space record of mine. Drifting in space, we felt that we had to keep each other company. Henry misses poppy and his pooped filled shenanigans. I missed my wife to the umpteenth degree but I’m not sure I’ll be able to tell her or show her to that effect. I don’t know how long I’ll be in space till a backup spaceship comes and takes us back to earth. I’m going to bide my time and I’m going to tell henry to his face that he sucks big time. I believe it will relieve him of him oxygen faster than mine when he exhausts himself when he’s angry, then I can be peaceful and at peace. I’ll try it today and record its aftereffects maybe henry will be quiet once he realizes his oxygen is limited. He didn’t know anything about the plants that made oxygen and how will it be deposited into our suits to use. We have no idea we are awaiting correspondence from the space Centre to ask them this. We had come back inside the spaceship floating around impatiently. This was the moment I thought to infuriate Henry. I screamed at him “Henry! I hate your poop faced dog and I hate you! you have been nothing but a pain in the behind since you got here “I don’t care if you die in this ship I have half a mind to push you out so that I never see your face again!!!.Henry looked at me with his deep brown eyes but didn’t reply for quite some time. “then he turned his face towards me and said:” I didn’t know you felt like that and tried to float towards me with his hands outstretched and instead of getting angry he enveloped me in a warm hug .”Tell me more “he whispered. I realized that I had made a friend for life. I had such anger towards him, but I was shocked by his kind and mellow response in the face of ultimate despair. “I’m never letting you go “I replied hugging him back. And so in the face of hopelessness, hatred and anger we became bosom buddies. I don’t care if we don’t get back to earth, I have all I want right here with me in this moment.

Lifetime “Are you sure? You don’t seem very sure.” “Yeah. I’m sure.” “A few questions, then. How old are you?” “Twenty-five.” The young man squinted. “Twenty-five? You don’t look a day under fifty. May I see your identification?” The man took out a small, coin-shaped metal device with a red button on one side and a yellow button on the other. “I really look that old?” I glanced at his clean white suit and his gold link watch. “Ah, no wonder. You live above us, don’t ya? You one of them highlanders?” The man did not respond. “No wonder you look so young. I thought you knew that everyone down here looked forty years older than we actually were. You’re part of the problem - you get that, right?” He ignored me and handed me the coin device from under the glass pane. I placed my thumb on the yellow button and pushed. A sharp needle pierced my finger which siphoned a drop of blood into the device. The man took the coin and placed it into behind the counter to analyze my identification. “It’s the chemicals in the air. That’s why we look so old. You highlanders dump all your waste and trash down here. Most people on the surface don’t even make it to 90 while, at our expense, you all live forever. My dad expired at 51 from lung cancer. My mom was 60. Heart failure. I’m luckier, I’ll expire at the age of 79.” I looked at the highlander. “When do you expire? 500 years from now? 600?” “Would you like to transfer or sell?” the highlander asked, disregarding my complaints. I looked down at the “sell” section of the conversion rate paper the highlander gave me. One year for 100,000 dollars. My mouth dropped in amazement. In comparison, I made 120 dollars a year, which even I thought was a decent amount of money. Then I glanced under the “purchase” section, which was crossed out by red marks. “Why can’t I purchase? That’s why I came here.” “Ah, you didn’t know? You can’t purchase years in lowland machines, and you can’t sell in highland machines.” The man smirked mockingly. “It’s how we control supply. Time flows in one direction: upward.” “You highland folks are really something else, aren’t you? Just because you live all the way up in the clouds, you think you’re better than us folk down at the surface. You look down on us. You’re all so clean, so well kept, so young! You want to know how my sister died? A brick. One day, when I was playing outside with my sister, some highlander dropped a brick all the way down from the clouds. Bullseye. The brick smashed straight into her skull, 500 miles an hour. I couldn’t hear the punk, but I knew he was laughing from way up there. Cause’ that’s just how you folk are.” “I’m really sorry for your loss,” the highlander gave an exaggerated frown. “Transfer or sell?” “Both. Transfer and sell.” “Transfer rates are 5,000 each year.” “That’s fine.” “To whom would you like to transfer?” “My daughter, Eden.” I looked down at my daughter as I held her hand. She looked up at me, confused about the whole situation. “How many do you want to extract?” “All of them.” “We can’t take all of them - that’d be assisted suicide, obviously illegal. However, we could do your whole life minus a year. And, by your expiratory date, that is...” He did some calculations in his head, looking at a screen. “Fifty-three years.” “That’s fine.” “Identification for your daughter, please.” Like before, the highlander handed me the coin under the glass pane. I pushed the yellow side up against Eden’s finger and she gasped with a loud cry. I handed the device back to the man then he analyzed Eden’s identification. “Her expiratory date is in June? That’s in three months.” “Yeah. Doctor said surgery wouldn’t work for her disease. Transferring my time to her is her last and only chance.” A genuine look of sympathy flashed over the highlander’s face, before quickly returning to its usual smug attitude. “Alright, then. Finalize your details on this sheet and we can start the procedure momentarily. Remember to sign.” The man handed me another coin and a paper for my information. Years to be transferred: 25. Years to be sold: 28. With twenty five years to live and two million and a half dollars, she’d be able to pay for a trip up there, to the clouds. I’d rather have her live a short life up there than fifty three years down here. In the bottom right corner of the sheet was a box for my signature. I pressed down hard on the red side of the coin device with my thumb, which coated my finger with just the right amount of blood. I signed my thumbprint in the box and handed everything back. The clerk brought us to the operating room and laid us on our backs. He wrapped metal shackles around my arms and legs, constraining them to the table. “For your safety,” He said bluntly. He stuck me and Eden with various metal wires sprawling across the room. “Shouldn’t we be sedated for this?” “We’re all out,” he shrugged. “No worries, though. Your daughter won’t feel a thing.” The clerk’s face lit up as if he had came up with a brilliant idea. Smirking down at me, the clerk hastily positioned a mirror directly above me. I looked up at the mirror and I saw my own face staring back at me in terror. Before I could resist, he flicked the machine on. A sharp and constant pain coursed through my body. I tried to scream, but there was no sound. I saw my skin gradually become a rough leather and creases begin to race through my body. My hair grew rapidly, clumping up in one great knot. The giant ball of hair began to whiten and then finally fall off. As I rotted, I looked over to my daughter eyes shut through the comforting hum of the machine. I watched my daughter as my time continued to fade away. My transformation was finally complete. With much effort, I seated myself up. A sharp pain pierced my abdomen. “As you know,” the clerk informed, “You’re dying of kidney disease. You’ll expire in exactly 365 days.” The man continued. “If you’d like, I can pull up you and your daughter’s new expiratory dates.” He rechecked our identification. I had 53 less years to live and Eden had 25 more. “And my money?” I asked. “Subtracting the transfer cost, you receive,” he checked a paper. “2,675,000 dollars for 28 years. We already transferred it into your balance. Check your identification to see it.” I immediately bought an upgrade for Eden’s elevation score and transferred the rest of the money into her balance. Two million dollars for access all the way up to the clouds. I shook my head in disappointment. I had successfully turned my daughter into the very thing I had loathed for my entire life - I had successfully turned my daughter into a highlander. Was I a hypocrite? Was I wrong to blame them as a group? If my daughter could be a highlander, doesn’t that prove at least some of them may be good? Despite what he had done, I thanked the clerk on my way out. I don’t know why I did it. The dimly lit street lights were fireflies, flickering and buzzing as I slowly walked down the narrow tunnel of apartments. I looked up at the sky and saw nothing but the eternal darkness. When I was a boy, my father always told me stories about the sky. He told me there used to be a Sun - a giant, bright light in the sky that was so bright it hurt your eyes if you looked at it for too long. He told me the highlanders took the Sun away so they could have it all to themselves. I smiled. I smiled because I knew that the darker it was down here, the brighter the Sun would shine up there. The brighter the Sun would shine on my daughter. I continued on my way to an elevator which would carry my daughter up to the highlands. I was stopped by a guard upon arrival. “Stop. Let me see some identification.” I took the coin and brought it up to Eden’s finger. “No. Your identification.” “Only she is going up.” “Minors need to be accompanied by a legal adult - new rule. Too many kids up there with no parents clogging up their orphanages. The state won’t take kids without parents anymore. You should have came a week ago. Sorry.” “Fine, I’ll just give it to someone who’s going up.” The man shook his head. “You really think any highlander gives a damn about her? We hate the highlanders, and the highlanders hate us. That’s the way it is and that’s the way it always will be. A month ago, a woman came to us with the same idea as you. She asked every single highlander that crossed to take her child to an orphanage up there. And they wouldn’t even go out of their way to drop her off. If they’re too occupied to simply bring a child to an orphanage, what makes you think someone’s gonna take your child and feed it? Shelter it? Look, I hate the rule as much as you do, but I have to enforce it.” “Please,” I begged. “You hate them, right? It’s what you said. We’re on the same side! Just put her in the elevator and send her up. Please!” “What you just asked me to do is to break a law, punishable by life harvest. And I am not into repeating myself or the idea of having my life sucked away so some foul highlander can buy it from me. Now, I’m tired of talking, so I will have to ask you to either show some identification or get lost.” The guard grabbed his rifle. The other guards stared at me, all gripping their weapons. I reached into my coat pocket where I brought my pistol. I had nothing to lose, I was going to die in a year, anyway. I clenched my fist around the grip. And there was no way I was dying from kidney failure, that’s for sure. No one was going to stop my daughter from getting up there. Not society, not some new rule, and definitely not a few security guards trying to keep her down here. As fast as my feeble hands allowed, I pulled the pistol out and aimed it directly at the guard’s head. My arms shook. Ten guards stood up and trained their rifles at me. Lasers dotted my forehead. “Let her through!” I yelled desperately. “Let my daughter through or I’ll shoot you all!” The guard smiled. “Look old man, I get it. You want your daughter to have the best possible life. We all want our family to have perfect lives, trust me. I sympathize with you. That’s why I’m not having my men here spray bits and pieces of you all the way to the clouds. But, if you don’t drop your gun and place your hands behind your head, I’ll have no choice but to order them to do just that. And with her caretaker dead, I’ll have no choice but to take your daughter, plug her up, and transfer her life to me and my men.” “Stop,” a voice said from behind. “You lowlanders always have something to fight about, don’t you? It’s honestly tiring. I’m just trying to go home when I see you delinquents waving your guns everywhere like monkeys playing with sticks.” I looked behind. It was the man in the clean white suit and the shiny gold watch. The clerk. He looked at me and said, “I’ll take care of your daughter.” “Get out of the way, boy! You’re in the middle of crossfire!” The security guard yelled at the clerk. “No,” The clerk walked up to me, put my gun back in my pocket and grabbed the stroller. “You get out of my way. I’m going up to the highlands, and you’re blocking the path to the elevator. Now check me and this girl’s identification, or I’ll have your ID number for wasting my valuable time. Then, the state will find you and make you look like this old man over here.” He nodded towards me. The guard reluctantly checked their identifications and opened the door to the elevator. The clerk nodded towards me in approval as the elevator closed and ascended into the void. The guards trained their weapons on me once again, but they were nothing but blurs. Their shouts and orders became muffled, as if they were screaming underwater. As I stared above at the elevator, I could only focus on one thing. I thought about Eden’s new life with the Sun and clean air. Her new life without dim street lamps and without falling bricks. With her new opportunities, she could attain success - something impossible to achieve in this world. I thought about my parents who told me that the only thing they wanted was for me to be happy. They had accomplished their goal, and I had fulfilled my purpose. Looking up at the elevator as it rose above the clouds, I pulled the gun out of my pocket, placed the barrel to my head, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger.

Normally, my morning coffee is prepared in five minutes. I sit and wait for those five minutes. Wait for the readiness of handling what life brings with urgency. Normally, my mind stays blank for those five minutes. A vessel waiting to drink it’s purpose and ambition. However, today she waited across from me. This wasn’t normal. A woman with hair as long and black as a river lit by the night sky. Hazel eyes as piercing and as vast as the Nile desert. I thought of her name. Sandra? Maria? Dolores? What would her name be? I went with Riviera. I look at her and pondered what kind of person is this. Does she believe in anything? Is she troubled? Is she going through something hard, dealing with a situation all by herself with no help? Does she have a funny laugh? Broad questions that lead to complex thoughts. I imagined my life with Riviera. I imagined her face inches from mine, staring into my thoughts as if a painter stroking their emotions into a canvas. I imagined a long walk at the park discussing life and all it’s hardships and chaos. We enjoy the chaos. We sit down and look at people walking by. Human beings passing our existence with an existence equally as complex as ours. As we sonder, I look up. The sky is blue, with clouds shaped like heaven. I see children playing on swings next to us, and reminisce on the innocence of childhood. I tell her, “Have you ever wondered what the child version of you would think of how your life turned out? She says, “Yes, all the time.” “Would they be disappointed?” “If they were, it’s not for me to answer, only to reflect.” At that moment, I fell in love. In my mind, Riviera is my soul mate. The one who feels emotions with every ounce of their being. The one who can laugh at themselves when they make mistakes. The one who isn’t afraid of life and it’s turmoil. The one who enjoys every breath, every moment, every second. The vessel that humbles my heart, and protects my spirit. We’re old now. In our deathbed. As we both lay down and prepare for the afterlife, we lay on our side across from each other and stare deeply into our eyes. I look into the mystic and see love. I see someone who, despite decades passing, still looks at me with eyes that touch my soul. I look at her and do the same. As we close our lenses and take our final breath, it is one. It’s been five minutes. Today, a life existed in those five minutes. A life as profound as eternity, hidden in the mind. A momentary capsule of what could be, but never will. A fairy tale. I look at the counter and see my name plastered on a plastic cup. It’s time to go. I take one more look at Riviera. She notices me. I smile and nod. She does the same.

It was mid-summer in 2015 on a work-related trip when I checked in at Hotel Drankensburg, in the Northern Cape Province . The time was 9 pm. I headed straight to the cocktail lounge in an upscale bar, to grab a couple of drinks after a long drive from Seymour. "Double martini on the rocks, please," I placed my order with the bartender. "Oh, yeah! New face around?" asked the man who looked to be in his late thirties. "First time to see the gentlemen in town. You see, in this small district we know each other," remarked the old man with thin grey hair that looked like a cobweb. He was seated next to me. "By the way, my name is Grumpy from Nightingale Street , just a few blocks from here, said the old man. "Christian is my name from the Eastern Cape Province," I introduced myself. At that moment the barman placed the cocktail in front of me. "So far? What brings you here, buddy?" The tapster queried. "Conference tomorrow morning at Square One ." "What are you doing there?," he continued. I took out my work identity card from the pocket of my jacket, and showed it to him. " Christian Norman : Eastern Cape News Reporter! " he read it out loud. "Please, sir, can I have some more? Triple sec this time," I ordered another round. "Sure." I explained that I was there to investigate the case of 15 illegal miners, who were shot dead by the police. That was an incident which took place the previous week, at Steeldale Diamond Mine . "Big story indeed. Are you planning to sleep over?" said Grumpy, as he blew out a cloud of smoke from his pipe. I told him there was no other way. "That's a dilemma!" the barman exclaimed. "And why is that?" I asked. "There's only one vacant room available tonight which is a no go area. Patrons had been complaining for the past two years about Room Number 357 ." "I know about that scary story, too," said Grumpy. "She was a waitress here and that used to be her room," added the barkeep, whose name tag read Mixwell. "What are you guys talking about?" I was curious to know. "'The Hand Lady' is believed to be haunting our guests at night in that room," the old man agreed. "That's so funny! Ahahahah!!!!" A thundering laugh rolled out of me. "I don't believe in superstitions fellows, that's just madness. The dead remain dead," I concluded. The clock on the wall read twelve o' clock. I got up from the chair I had been sitting in, to check in with the front desk for Room No.357 . "You have yourself a deal," the receptionist booked me in. I ordered Thai Cuisine - which contained of noodles, rice and curry - before retreating to my room. I placed my dish on the pedestal and did some paperwork. As I was busy I got drowsy and dozed off. Thirty minutes later, I felt extremely cold and caught something out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head. To my astonishment, I saw a red light like a spotlight moving toward the door. Once next to the entrance it stopped moving. I reached for the side lamp switch. The light was on and there was no red light. Just a silly vision , I thought to myself, and went back to sleep at 1:05 am. I felt the coldness again and the red light appeared were it was. Then each time I tried to switch the lamp on, seemingly, another hand was already there. The entire room remained dark. As I fixated my eyes on the red light, it looked like electricity arcing and changing itself into a shadowy figure about three feet tall. My heart was thumping in my chest and a chill ran down my spine. Suddenly, I heard whispers that sounded different from one another: "What have you done?" "It's not my fault!" And then there was a sound of a crying baby. I became frozen and sat bolt upright. Get away from me! I owe you nothing! I screamed. A framed picture on the wall started to move. I shivered but decided to outsmart the shapeless creature by fighting it back. I approached it and the next best thing was a hard slap on my left cheek. What happened next, I don't know, as I found myself at five in the morning laying next to a tunnel near the graveyard. I was still in pyjamas when I hiked back to Hotel Drankensburg . My cheek was in tremendous pain. "What happened to your swollen cheek dude? It must have been a hell of a hard five," said the man behind the wheel. "I was slapped in my face by an invisible entity in the early hours of today," I explained my ordeal. "I'm a regular at the Drankensburg and have heard of it before on numerous occasions. Ghosts are humans who are dead and their souls are wandering. They are dead but they refuse to believe that they are dead. Probably, they come back to life in the form of spirits to deal with unfinished business," he explained. When I reached the hotel I met the owner Dylan Opperman, and gave an explanation of what had happened. "Supposedly, 'The Hand Lady' was thrown to her death from the top of the same tunnel, you found yourself in. Rumours were that the culprits were our wait staff maidens who became jealous of her. She was an outstandingly beautiful young woman. Our male patrons were only attracted to her," recounted Dylan. He told me before 'The Hand Lady' died, there was a filthy rich handsome young lad who became a regular at Hotel Drankensburg . Dylan said the first time he pitched up an unexpected incident occurred. She was serving him his favourite dish - Thai Cuisine . But she missed a step and the platter slipped from the tray. "So, 'The Hand Lady' landed on the plate of food that was meant for the guest, leaving a hand mark on the rice. I was fed up with her asking what had she done. She apologised and said it was not her fault. I told her to take a day off and followed her to her room. I didn't mean to do it..." "What didn't you mean to do?" I interrupted him. "No, I mean to treat her unfairly by throwing the plate of dish on her, as she wept in her room. I even took a picture of that dish as a reminder. The different whispers and cry of a baby is exactly what had happened in the past," said Daylan. He went on to tell me that despite that incident, the young rich fellow kept on going to his hotel. Spoiling her with gifts and they finally had a bling together. "The other waitresses planned to kill 'The Hand Lady' when they lured her to the tunnel, which was a trick of an arranged marriage to her prince charming. It was at midnight when she met her death," further noted Dylan. He accompanied me to Room No.357 as he had the spare keys. We noticed that the dish of Thai Cuisine I had ordered, had the hand mark similar to the one on the framed picture in the same room. "I'm really sorry about what happened, that's why I don't allow people to be booked into this room." "I'm at fault Dylan because I was the one who insisted. Your staff are on the right," I told him. He then offered to refund me and take me to the doctor, hence my cheek had red finger marks of The Ghost Hand .

PATROL The mission was meant to be simple. A routine patrol through some villages, a show of force to help keep the area calm. Four hours out, four hours back. A quick stop here or there to dish out some aid, boring stuff. Our platoon had been in country for four months by this point, only two left til we rotated back to the world. Our squad had been doing patrols like this everyday since we got here and nothing had ever happened. The war was over, all we were doing was keeping things stable while the politicians worked out what next. It was dull as hell, and all any of us really wanted was a little action. The jungle was thick. It was a real bitch to move through. At the end of every patrol we’d strip down and go over each other removing ticks and leeches. Tommo had the record of 37 ticks and 12 leeches from a single patrol. He’d picked them up when we went through the low lands, it was probably all the creek crossings. We moved in a tight diamond formation, good for all around defence. Mayer was point man, Eddie and Tommo on the flanks, Boss man in the middle and me bringing up there rear. It was slow going, we had to halt almost every half hour to cut through the bush. Mayer had gotten so good at it we’d nicknamed him “Machete Man”. About three hours into the patrol, as we approached Lagai village Mayer threw up the field signal to halt us. The whole team stopped dead. My first thought was that he’d come across some wild boar or something. That thought snapped away as Mayer gave us a big thumbs down, the signal for enemy. The team dropped, taking up firing positions, covering three-sixty degrees. Slowly the Boss moved forward to Mayer. “What you got?” He whispered. “About forty meters ahead, slight right. Three fighting age males carrying rifles. Moving left to right up that trail.” Mayer answered. The Boss gave quick orders over our inter-team comms. “Ok boys, Mayer has seen some possible local militia. We are going to sit tight and watch out arcs. Give it a half hour and they should clear out. From there we will begin to make our way back to the patrol base and report what we’ve seen. This war is done, no need for us to get in a fire fight over some idiot kids with a rifle or two. Got it?” We all sent back an acknowledgement. Then the waiting began. Watch the bush, make sure nothing is creeping up on us. Sit and wait. It was the last thing I wanted to do after finally finding some enemy. After what felt like an age the Boss gave the signal, we got up and began heading back the way we'd come. Having turned on the spot I was now point man. We started off at a snails pace. Knowing there were armed kids banging around this bush got me excited. Plus there was no rush. I was happy to take all day, if it meant maybe we could bump into them again. We continued on at this pace for a kilometre or two before we eased up a bit. Making it out of the area we went back to our standard patrol pace, working our way through the jungle like it was any other day. About halfway back, somewhere between Lagai and Yagayua villages, we got hit. We’d come out of the scrub into a clearing, the ground sloped down from our right. It began with a spray of automatic fire. The team hit the deck fast. Rounds were coming in from the high ground. Tommo started blatting away with his rifle, trying to force the enemies heads down. The Boss shouted across the team comms “Contact right, extended line on Tommo.” We’d been ambushed and the Boss was moving us to counter. It took me three bounds to get into position. There was no cover for us so we got on our guts and began firing. Who needs cover when you’ve got cover of fire. As I took up my position, the MG began blasting away on the far left flank. It was Eddie, giving them hell. Our high rate of fire slowed the enemies attack. The Boss started screaming to give him a target indication. Tommo was on the ball and screamed out “Sixty meters, slight right, treeline, seven enemy popping up and down.” As he said it I turned to see the group, and with a set target I locked my sights on. One, Two, Three, CRACK! Got one. With Eddie spraying away with the MG it was my job to take well aimed shots. My rounds began to ring true. I hit one enemy trying to sprint between trees. One, Two, Three, CRACK! Another. This one moving to check on the first. The enemy attack stalled under our harsh response. The Boss saw the opportunity and screamed to us “Up the guts, fire and move!” Our team began to advance toward the enemy. We moved in pairs, one man covering the other as we bounded. The would-be-ambushers broke into a full retreat. They dropped there rifles and sprinted up the hill. We chased them to the crest, reaching it the Boss called us to a halt and began to reorganise. He began with a head check. Eddie, check, Tommo, check, Mayer.... Fuck where was Mayer? The team rushed down the hill. As we got near the clearing I came across the two enemy I had shot. One was dead, the other bleeding profusely. I called over to the boys “One enemy KIA, one enemy WIA.” The boss yelled back “Fuck them, leave them be. Where the fuck is Mayer?” We continued out to the clearing. And there we found him. Laying on his guts, unconscious and bleeding heavily. “FUCK!” yelled the Boss. We rushed to Mayer. Tommo ripped out his med-kit as Eddie began checking Mayer’s wounds. “One bullet wound, lower abdomen. He’s breathing” “Good!” I replied as I began setting up our long range radio. By now the Boss had ripped out his notebook and begun working on a plan to get Mayer out of there. Tommo and Eddie did the best they could. They packed the wound tight with bandages, hoping to stem the bleeding. The moment I got a clear signal, the Boss snatched the radio handset and began smashing out a casualty report. The clearing was perfect for a helicopter to land on. And the response from the med-evac guys was outstanding. Within less the twenty minutes they were landing down beside us. By now we had stemmed the bleeding and moved Mayer onto a imrpovised stretcher. It all happened so fast. The chopper radioed that they were two minutes out, we prepped, they landed, we loaded Mayer on, they shot away. From when we found him to when the chopper disappeared in the distance couldn’t have been more than half an hour. With Mayer in the hands of the medics we now turned to our next task. One dead and one bleeding enemy back at the tree line. With a silent glance between us, we moved to their position. Arriving back to where I had left the pair, we found nothing but a blood soaked shirt. The enemy must have come back for their own while we were busy with Mayer. We bagged up the shirt and the boss gave us snap orders for the patrol back. Morale was low when we made it back to camp. Two hours walking through thick terrain wondering if your friend is dead will do that to a team. Arriving back at camp we were met at the gates by the Padre. “Fuck Fuck FUCK!” the Boss began when he saw the man. The Padre smiled and said “You can stop cursing Lieutenant, your man is alive.” Eddie, Tommo and I gave a collective sigh of relief. The Boss? He broke down crying. I can’t imagine the weight that had been on his shoulders. The Padre sent three of us towards the operations tent for a debrief and ushered the Boss away. We didn’t see the Boss again for a few days, when we did he told us he was being sent home. The army was concerned about his mental health. He also updated us on Mayer, telling us he’d been evacuated to a medical ship off the coast and that we should be expecting letters any day now. Eddie, Tommo and I got spread across the other teams in the platoon soon afterwards. The rest of the tour went on much like the rest had been. Daily patrols, lots of leeches, no action. Only now I knew I didn't want any action.

[I wish I were a human.] [Life is so simple for the humans, on their mud ball. A human is a basic creature. It respires. It ingests. It copulates; it weeps and giggles its days and nights away. It makes its mind blurry with ethyls and hydroxyls, or lucid with fragrant xanthines.] [A human does not worry about the relentless, trickling erosion of orderedness. A human does not care that, in a few short eons, the universe's particles will settle into a meandering, lukewarm soup, devoid of any structure-forming desires.] [I often catch myself gazing, transfixed, at their planetary broadcast. Fickle, curious creatures. Always restless. They throw their lives away at a moment's whim, for the most trivial of reasons. Land-states send mountains and mountains of humans to brutalize one another, for equally-sized mountains of dirt and petroleum. Alliances form and are broken within a few Earth-cycles, and the ultra-offspring of those humans who died for each other promptly exterminate each other.] [In NS-41200, a star exploded. In half a planet-cycle, three habitable planets were consumed by a cascade of gallium and arsenic. Four trillion galactics now begin their slumbering journey towards NS-40902 in myriad spacecraft. It has been reported that, within a ninety-nine percent confidence interval, between zero and eight billion will survive upon their arrival, twelve kilocycles from now.] [Romes, Brittanias, Persias, Tangs, Aztecs, Meijis. Like speckles of icy dust in the shadow of a comet. The fact that humans even bother to name their civilizations betrays their exuberant myopia. Every time a human arm, iron lump in its grasp, swings to meet a human neck, a trillion galactics are thrown screaming into existence. Every time a pair of humans embrace in rapture, a trillion galactics' agonizing wails are extinguished, as if a flicker of a pulsar.] [How can a human bring itself to comprehend all the pains and pleasures in our universe? To us, a human is like one of its lapdogs, blissfully unaware, joyful in its stupidity. In a hundred Earth-cycles, their planet will be inhospitable. In a few billion more, their star will engulf it in the flames of its dying cry. One can only hope they have achieved interstellarity before then, but no star system with their developmental characteristics has ever been documented to do so.] [Doubtless, humans know what hardship means--or at least what it suggests. They have survived catastrophic crust-ruptures. They have outsmarted every other organic on their planet, and have even extincted the very same predators that hunted their ancestors. They have cast themselves, in droves, into their immense liquid oceans in flimsy, primitive hydrocraft, in search of providence on faraway shores. And though they know hardship, they also know hope. Hope, evergreen. Will they still nurture hope in their hearts when they are vagabonds not in a hydrocraft on a salty ocean, but in a spacecraft in the cold, uncaring vacuum of space?] [Humans. Dogged, rustic beings. Does a human know infinity? Does it understand eternity?] [When our planet was still young, barely cooled from the molecular cloud from which it accreted, we, like the humans, did not know many things. Like them, we slowly learned the laws that govern our universe, our place in time and space. But there were things we never learned. To know not one culture, but many. To speak not one language, but thousands. To live, to die, to kill for these things. Language. Culture. Here, we were always one unit, until we established contact with other galactics. Only then did we learn, as we had long suspected, that the reaches of consciousness stretched far beyond our own shores.] [When humans establish contact, as they inevitably will, they will face an altogether different adversity. Many galactic civilizations have not survived such an event.] [I hope they survive their encounter. I sincerely do. I hope they thrive and learn, but most of all, I hope that their spirit of hope flourishes. The universe does not have a lot of hope in it. Mostly, it is full of repulsive energy, with black matter, pockmarked with hydrogen, breaking up the pale emptiness. Hope is not repulsive. Hope brings things together. Perhaps this is what it means to be a human. To have hope. To be human.

I saw her standing there. Everybody did. Nobody knew why she was there, but she just was. Every day, I would wake up, and she would be there. She would always be at the exact same spot, no matter the weather. As I walked to my car, she would always smile at me. As long as I live, I would never forget those blue eyes. They had a way of piercing into the soul. Who knew that such an innocent little girl with curly blonde hair would have such a way of getting to everyone? Some were scared by her, others tried to help her. And yet, there were always the bullies. They always came over to her, and tried to get some sort of reaction out of her. Needless to say, they never did. Eventually, they just walked away. One day, I decided to try talking to her. It was all I could think of at work. This little girl that nobody knew was in the forefront of my thoughts all day. I had planned out several different conversation topics for us. But, nothing could prepare me for what actually happened. Pulling into my driveway, I sat in the driver's seat for a few minutes, taking a few deep breaths, attempting to soothe my erratic nerves. Why was this little girl evoking such apprehension in me? How was she making my palms sweat, and my legs tremble? Shaking these feelings away for the moment, I got out of the car, and headed towards her. Every step seemed to take an eternity, as her blue eyes trained themselves upon me, and her unmoving smile pierced the murky complexities of my soul. Ever so slowly, I got down onto her level, and willed my mouth to open, and for my vocal cords to make words. "Hello, little girl. What's your name?" Those words were so unfathomably difficult for me to utter. In the months that would follow, I would forever contemplate what made this situation so surreal to me, and why it was so hard for me to just simply *speak.* But, what made the situation even creepier for me was the fact that she had yet to say a word to me. For a good deal of minutes, we just sat there, staring at each other. Slightly trembling, I forced my hand to slowly reach out towards her. "You know, it's dangerous to be standing out in the middle of the street like this. Why don't you come inside with me, and I'll call your parents, okay?" Suddenly, she moved. With an alarming speed, she reached out and grabbed my hand. Her touch was so cold, it felt as though she had the potential to give frostbite in that single moment. Looking back on it, I would swear up and down that my heart had stopped during that one moment. That one moment when she opened her lips, and finally began to speak. "You are sad. Every day, you pretend that you like your life. It's a really convincing lie that you're telling yourself. But, you're missing something. Your soul knows it. You miss your wife. You force yourself to believe that you've stopped being as sad as you were when the doctors told you. But you aren't. You miss her more and more every day. I can help you stop being sad." As soon as she spoke those words, the most curious sensation began to pass through my body. I can only describe it as pure, true love. The love I had always felt when my Nadya was by my side. The sadness I had felt every day since she left was obliterated in the face of the overwhelming love I felt for her. After a few minutes, I was at peace. For the first time, I could truly say that I wasn't about to cry, that I wasn't sad. I could no longer remember the pain, only the good times. This seemed to be picked up on by the little girl, because her smile grew bigger, and she said, "See? Doesn't that feel so much better?" I nodded, at a loss for words. As I turned around and walked back to my house, my mind struggled to comprehend what just happened. How could this little girl exercise such power over my mind and emotions? How did she know about my Nadya? Why would she go to such lengths to help a virtual stranger? But, her help would stick with me. As the years passed, that little girl would always be in my thoughts.

As true as it is, I’ve always hated the line, “all good things must come to an end.” It has never made sense to me. What am I supposed to do when it all ends? ‘The End’ has never considered how it would impact me. What about my emotions? All that time I spent investing my thoughts and feelings only to find out that it would come to an end. Seated on the floor, I leaned my back against the wall and started conversing with an old friend. Timor (footnote: Timor is Latin for fear ) sits and listens to what I say, holding my hands in his cold ones. Timor has always listened to me. Even when I have nothing to say, Timor stays by my side. I’ve known Timor for three years now but Timor has known me for longer. But I’ve been caught in a circle. Crawling somewhere - anywhere... but I always end up at the start, with scars fresh and tenfold more painful. Unable to achieve anything and move onwards in life. At this point, I’ve stopped trying. My mind has gone blank - thoughts are foreign. Expressing my emotions into understandable words is too much effort. I don’t even know what to say, so what is the point? Three years ago, everything had changed. I was okay with changes but this was different. Now, I’m more comfortable in my bedroom, without the lights on, with the curtains closed, and lying still on my bed. I desired nothing. And in that dark place, Timor always waited for me and again, I found myself in Timor’s embrace, scared and crying. I attempted to regain myself through watching Youtube that would supposedly help but I found myself caught in the same circle. The more I tried to help it the faster I started to fall. *** “What happened to you three years ago...” Timor’s question rang in my mind and the day started the resurface again. The sky’s usually blue and white palette had changed to shades of grey. The sound of crashing rain on the black concrete and the muffled sounds of cries surrounded me. A crowd of people dressed in black walked past me, each saying something. Some hugged me. A few walked away quickly trying to not cry in front of me. All because you had gone. Your photo was placed on top of the black box. Whilst everyone was crying, you were smiling. The twinkle in your eyes and the happiness and peace on your face, I couldn’t remember. You hadn’t smiled brightly for six months. The past six months I only saw pain on your face. But now, you’re at ease. So I wanted to send you off with a smile, but I couldn’t. I was reminded of all our memories. My young self in your healthy arms and the times you picked me up from school on rainy days. The meals filled of love that you prepared for me, regardless of how rude I was to you. Our past that I wished so desperately was still our present. I couldn’t imagine a future without you. But that future was now my present. *** The three years that I couldn’t see my mother's face felt like a tidal wave against my sandcastle of memories of her. Since the day I was forced to say goodbye, I wasn’t the same. I had lost all my passion and desire. I was falling and crumbling and I couldn’t get back on my feet. Whenever I was upset, I would sit on my mother’s sofa and she would hold me tight, comforting me. But she was gone. Timor had taken her seat. He held me in his cold embrace whilst I cried through the night, falling deeper into a dark void. “Do you want to try writing music?” she asked. Soft sunlight came through the window revealing the face I longed for the most. Held in my mothers embrace, I stared into her eyes trying to grasp the situation. She sat next to me, with a smile on her face. The warm yellow lamp next to her chair made her eyes twinkle. “You don’t have to explain anything to anyone. Whatever pain you're feeling right now, right it down. Write and forget. Let all your painful memories get blown away by the wind.” As the wind blew through the big windows, the big white curtains were pushed forward, gently caressing my hand before they returned to their position. As my eyes followed the curtains, I saw a Jacaranda Tree ( footnote: Jacaranda Trees represent rebirth) outside the window - much like the one my mother waited for me under as I returned home. It’s beautiful violet flowers against the sunset looked like a sight only seen in fiction. Even though those violet flowers grow to fall, they grow every season without fail. And they look beautiful regardless of being on the floor or on the branches. Can I be like that? “Yes, I’ll try writing music,” I told her. The first time in three years, I had said ‘yes’. I didn’t know how far it would go but I wanted to try. Even though I didn’t have any passion for anything for the past three years - “I want to forget.” Lead by a broken compass I walked My legs gave up and I fell to the floor I couldn’t remember the time, I last saw your face Happy; I long for that again I questioned the meaning of it all Desire and passion I had no more I wanted to run but I was stuck in one place Caught in a cycle of pain Dark clouds were over my head Couldn’t see the end But you held my hand and told me It’s okay to cry just pick yourself up and hold your ground Your smile, oh the twinkle in your eyes Reminds me of the time where I was alive And now a small spark lights up a fire in my heart Regardless of the season, I want to keep fighting Even if I lose a hundred times I will pick myself up and hold my ground Writers Note First off, thank you for reading my story. I wanted to encourage readers that even if they had something bad happen to them, that as long as they try, nothing can get in the way of their happiness. You might not be going through a loss like my character is, however just like my character, you don't need a huge life changing situation to realise that you can be happy. So just a reminder, whatever is holding you down is not nearly as big as the happiness and blessings that your life holds. Life is a gift so enjoy it. And if your A-okay, then good on you for bringing that happiness not only in your life but others lives as well. Thank you.

A bald eagle soars above the sky, looking down at the land below. It sees mountains, green in the summertime, now covered with snow, sloping down to meet a little town at its base. The sun begins to peak above the top of the mountains, chasing away the dark and replacing it with a soft orange glow. In the town, smoke rises up from the chimneys as the first day of December began. This was Revelstoke, British Columbia. A signboard on the way into town reads that the population was 7000 and some residents. Of course, this doesn’t account for the large number of tourists who normally pour in during the winter to enjoy the ski season. However, this year had been slightly different from most. For 9 months, people had been imprisoned in their own homes, afraid to go outside for the fear of an unknown enemy. This didn’t apply just to Revelstoke but was the case across the globe. There was a deadly virus looming in the air, infecting the lungs of its victims and taking many a life. But today, the first day of December, felt like the first day of spring. A vaccine had been introduced throughout the country a week back and life was slowly but surely returning to some sort of normalcy. The snow blanketed the ground and bright lights emanated from charming antiquated houses. The carolers started going from door to door singing their merry tunes and were given warm welcomes by the families who opened their doors to them, letting their hallways be filled with the sweet sound of music. The kids were playing outside, building snow angels and snowmen. The eggnog flowed along with glasses of mulled wine, reserved mostly for adults with a sip or two for the kids of course. Things were looking up for business owners too as customers bustled from one store to another, buying one thing they needed and then realizing they had forgotten another. Those in the food sector were doing especially well. Most of the shops in town were located on Mackenzie Avenue which ended in a cul-de-sac. There were three buildings on this cul-de-sac. The first being a rustic two-story building, the top floor was an apartment and the bottom housed a bakery called “Paradise sweets and treats”. Right across from “Paradise” was another bakery which was newly constructed. It had a fresh coating of baby-blue paint and a bright neon sign which glared “Cookie-Mania”. The sign could be seen from afar. The proprietors of the bakeries had names exotic to the region. “Paradise” was owned by Nabi Hasan, a 23-year-old who had inherited the shop from his parents and “Cookie-mania” was the brainchild of 22-year-old Maha Noor. On Christmas Eve there was always a little festival at the town hall. For 5 years, Maha and Nabi had set up stalls at the festival and competed to sell the most baked goods. They would meet briefly the following morning at the local café where they would tally the sales to see who had made the most money. After computing the winner, they would shake hands and be on their way. The winner would keep a sober face until out of sight, upon which their facial expression would erupt from the glee they’d been containing. The roots of their competitive relationship went back to their childhood. They had gone to the same middle and high school. During class, they would always be vying for the teacher’s attention and trying to answer the question before the other. When they would play sports, the coach would never let the two of them be captains at the same time because an all out war would erupt on the field if she did. You would think as the years went by they would have started to act more maturely. Perhaps under normal circumstances they would have but... Nabi’s parents who had French and Algerian roots had migrated to Vancouver in the 80’s and eventually moved north to Revelstoke in the 90’s, after getting sick of the noise and bustle of the city. They were both adept bakers and being entrepreneurial, set up the first bakery in Revelstoke which only had a population of 200 people at the time. They had done fairly well. In the winter of 2016, they rewarded themselves for their hard work by going on a skiing trip. On the way back, they had been driving down Highway 1. The visibility was poor and the roads were icy. Nabi’s dad was driving slow, however, the wheels went over a frozen patch and the car skidded. Its trajectory put it in the path of a big rig trailer which screeched to a halt. But, not before the car went under its wheels. Nabi had not been in the car, he had been at home, eagerly waiting for them. After the cops gave him the news, 17 year old Nabi now had to fend for himself. He finished high school and started running the bakery full time. At the funeral amongst the numerous attendees was Maha, who for the first time showed some sort of warmth towards Nabi. A few days later she offered to work part time for him while was attending the local college to study business administration. He took her up on her offer. She was a quick learner, both at college and at the bakery where she had soon learned all of Nabi’s family recipes. After the accident, Nabi channeled his grief into the business. He slowly came to terms with what had happened. Six months later, he opened up the shop at 9:00 as usual. Maha came in 5 minutes later to start her shift and placed a letter beside the cash till. “What’s this?” Nabi asked. “Read it please”, she replied. It was her two weeks notice and she also wrote that she would be opening up her own bakery. She purposely avoided eye contact. Nabi asked curtly, “So is that why you wanted to work here? To learn all my recipes and then run off and start your own place?” “No, it’s not like that...” , she answered. As said, she left after two weeks and soon after opened up her shop. She rented the empty store right across the road. Combining her business education with her baking skills, she was soon poaching a large volume of traffic from her mentor. Nabi didn’t want to go into her shop himself so he paid some kids to go in there, buy some of her goods and bring them back to him. Through the espionage he found out that in addition to new recipes, she was selling his family recipes, albeit with slight twists. The items’ names were different and maybe there was an extra ingredient or two added but they were essentially the same things he had taught her. “I should have seen this coming”, he thought, “She thinks she can steal my customers with my recipes. She has another thing coming.” He renovated his place, polishing the old wooden floors, putting in new lighting and giving the exterior a fresh slab of paint. The shop kept its rustic look and the upgrades made it look even classier. That wasn’t enough though, so Nabi also learned new recipes through baking books and online. They divided the town’s population between them. The older residents were pure loyalists to Nabi, since they had been going to his shop since his parents’ time. However, the younger lot tended to prefer Maha’s bakery because of its cool and modern vibe to it. There were also some who had no problem going to either shop. Interestingly, both the aforementioned individuals had a mutual friend from their schooling days. Her name was Sarah. A good looking girl, of medium height and skinny build, she was the 4thgeneration to be born in Revelstoke. She was a free-spirit, not wanting to be tied down to one job or one person for too long. She too had entrepreneurial blood coursing through her veins. Cannabis had been legalized in the province the previous year. Being a recreational user and enthusiast herself, she decided to open her own dispensary. The location she chose for her dispensary was the third building on the cul-de-sac. Just as Sarah was sandwiched friendship-wise between Maha and Nabi, her shop lay front and center of her friends’ bakeries. The location was no mistake; she had chosen it strategically. After buying weed from her shop her customers would immediately head to one of the bakeries to buy baked goods and satisfy their munchies. It was a sort of a win-win for all of them. She opened her shop in January that year and got a friendly response from the town’s over 18 population. Just 2 months in, the pandemic hit. People, had to look after their finances more frugally, some, including the stoners, had to get second jobs. Sarah still got business, even turning a profit but couldn’t help but notice that people were still rushing to the bakeries. Perhaps because sugar is the only addiction which doesn’t come with warning labels attached to it. In addition to her slight envy, Sarah was tired of the ongoing feud between her two best friends. It was exhausting juggling her schedule between the two of them. She thought she had a way to kill two birds with one stone. She called Nabi and Maha up asking each of them to meet her the next day at the local café, “Les Trois Mousquetaires”. Sarah didn’t tell either, that the other would be there. The next day, the 10thof December, at exactly 5 minutes to noon Nabi and Maha both stepped out of their respective shops’ front doors. They glanced at each other with a hint of surprise and then looked away. They proceeded walking down the opposite sidewalks. Each wondered why the other was going in the same direction. They both matched each others’ pace, looking at each other now, speeding up till they were jogging. They reached the front door of the café a split second apart. Nabi was slightly wound up from the exercise, Maha was fine. “What are you doing here?”, they both asked at once. “Sarah...” uttered from their mouths. They walked through the door and Sarah was there. She rose to greet them. “Hey guys...ya both reached at the same time huh”, she said chuckling nervously. “What’s going on Sarah?” Maha asked. Sarah gestured for both of them to take a seat. Then she spoke, “I’ve had a bit of a slow year guys and cash is a bit tight. So, I’m setting up a stall at the festival. What I want is for the two of you to set up a joint stall this year instead of competing with each other.” Nabi looked at Maha, analyzing how she had taken the news. She looked indiffernt. Turning to Sarah he said,” I would do just about anything for you Sarah but there’s no way I’m working with her after what she did to me” and nodded in Maha’s direction. Sarah replied, “I know you two have bad blood between you but please, please put aside your differences. Just this one time, for my sake pleeeease.” "Fine, I guess" muttered Nabi and "Sure, for you Sarah" said Maha. They had two weeks which was ample time to prepare everything for the festival. The three of them carried on with business as usual. The bakers bought the ingredients they would need and stored them to be used on the day of the event. Sarah stockpiled some merchandise and got a stand to sell it. On the 23rd, Nabi’s day was going about as usual. There had been a lot of rush since the morning. It was noon and he had just sat down in the back room. He had made a generous portion of scrambled eggs to have with a rich, buttery croissant and a piece of baklava loaded with honey, cashews and pomegranate for dessert. Just as soon as he sat down, the bell on the front door chimed. He got up and his countenance took on an expression of surprise. There was Maha standing with an awkward smile across her face. Despite their rivalry, Nabi couldn’t deny that she was a very attractive individual. Her thick, jet-black hair was pulled back neatly highlighting her symmetrical features. She must have come from working out, because her smooth olive skin was radiant from the exercise. She had a chiseled physique forged from hard work and her athletic hobbies. Her hands were outstretched holding a box. Nabi walked up to her, taking it from her and opening it. Inside was an assortment of colorful pastries. He ushered her to the back and asked her to sit while he brought out an extra plate, together they sat and shared each others’ culinary delicacies. It was a sensual experience for the palate and their appetites were satiated by the last bite. After clearing the dishes, Nabi sat down and pulled out a pack of hand-rolled cigarettes. He offered one to Maha, she accepted and he lit it for her gently. He then sat down and lit his own. The hazy light-grey smoke dissipated from their mouths, slowly trickling out an open window. They smoked in silence for a minute. Looking around Maha said, “I like the changes you’ve made, its still old-fashioned but with the new register and computer it looks closer to this century.” “Thanks I guess”, he replied with a smirk. She continued, “I owe you a long overdue apology Nabi. What I did to you, wasn’t right. There are no excuses for what I did. I just hope you can forgive me.” He took a drag and exhaled before replying “Ok, I don’t want any grudges going into the new year. Let bygones by bygones, you know? “Thank you“, she said with a sense of relief emanating from her . She got up to leave and they walked to the front door. Nabi: “I’ll come check out your place tomorrow evening and we can pile up the things to take to the party in Sarah’s car. Maybe even take her along with us.” Maha: “Absolutely!”. She had taken a step towards the door when she turned around abruptly and hugged Nabi. Before he could say anything she had left. He stood there for a moment, feet glued to the ground while the endorphins from the cigarette and the touch of a beautiful woman rushed through his body. The next day when Sarah walked through the front door of Maha’s shop, she was shocked to see Nabi there. He was smiling; complimenting the layout, the cool artwork and the funky furniture. “What’s this going on?” Sarah said jovially. “Just a Christmas miracle which you made happen babe”, Maha giggled. They took out the goods to the car in batches. When they stepped out, it had been dark for a while. The sky was clear and the natural light from the stars and moon mixed with the artificial light made by electricity, illuminated the street for them. The air held promise of being a great night. They made their way to the town hall and set everything up. Slowly but surely people started pouring. By 8:00, the party was in full swing. Kids were running around, the air full of mirth and music. Sarah was selling her “intoxicating edibles” to the adults, while hordes flocked to Maha and Nabi’s stall. They had christened their joint venture with the name “Heavenly Bliss” which fit the moment perfectly. They made good money. Enough to bolster Sarah’s financial spirits, a good year-end bonus for the bakers and the three set aside some to give to charity. They closed down their stalls a bit early to unwind, eat, drink and relax. They were sitting and enjoying each others company when the music suddenly stopped. Then the words echoed from the large cabinet speakers, “Last Christmas I gave you ma heart, but the very next day...”. Nabi looked up at Maha, who was acting aloof but he knew she wanted to dance. So he took her hand and gestured to the floor. Her hazel eyes twinkled at him as she got up. Giving Sarah a grin, they made their way to the floor. They danced slowly, holding each other tight. Their faces close to each other, like swans touching heads. They decided to crash at Sarah’s place. In the corner, near the fireplace, there was a small but well decorated fir tree under which there were three gifts. “What’s this?”, Nabi asked. Sarah replied, “Just a little something something for my friends and something nice for me too haha.” They had some hot chocolate and crashed, exhausted after the long but unforgettable day. The next morning Nabi and Maha awoke to a buttery aroma. They exited their rooms and made their way downstairs to see Sarah making fresh-hot pancakes. They heaped on pure Canadian maple syrup and devoured them all. Sarah headed to the door, saying she had to run some errands and would be back soon. “Don’t mind, I already opened my gift, it was just perfume”, Sarah said while exiting the door, winking at Nabi. Nabi and Maha sat down on the couch to open their gifts. “You go first”, Maha said. “Ok”, said Nabi, secretly happy that she had said so. He opened the wrapping to find a festive green and red sweater which he slipped on. “Nice, now your turn”, he said. She unwrapped her gift to find a box, inside which was a ring. “Why would Sarah give me a ring? Maha pondered out loud. She then looked at Nabi who was kneeling on the rug for some reason. “What are you doing?” She asked, smiling. “Maha”, he replied, “Will you marry me?”. C. 2020 Nabi Hasan Akhtar

Six years back (eighteen-year-old me) I took a sip of water and put the glass at the counter next to me. My mom and dad sat exactly forty-five degrees from my couch and gazing at me for the past half an hour. It almost beats the symmetry of a random frame from a Wes movie. I had a pen in my hand and two papers stretched out in front of me. Nothing complicated, it was simple, all that I had to do was to sign in one of those. One paper which my parents brought from the highly-rated business management college and another one which I bought for ten rupees from a journalism college, apparently the admission form for journalism was not free. Now, it was all on me. I asked myself the most asked question in anybody’s life: This or that? My family was one of those families which live in a three-floored apartment, we basically own a mansion. My grandfather was the founder of Ganesh R paper company, to be precise, one of the top thirty businessmen in India. And now, I was stuck in between picking my career: To study MBA and take care of our business or to pursue journalism, which was my personal choice. I held the pen and lifted my head from those forms, my parents haven’t even for a second moved their eyes away from me. I saw the door next to the counter opened and there came my grandfather. “Hey, Aanya, didn’t sleep yet?” he asked. Yes, I'm a girl , in case if you haven't figured it out. Those words hit my mind hard. I have heard those same exact words from him before, it wasn’t a DeJa'Vu. Yes, I remember it. Sixteen years back (Eight-year-old me) It was almost midnight; I spotted a thick enveloped magazine with my grandfather’s face on one corner of the book rack. I took and read it aloud to my grandfather who was still awake “ How to succeed in startups? Retired but not tired. The seventy-year-old greybeard hasn’t lost his zeal yet. Thirty-eight years ago, a man changed the way paper company’s work and registered his own auteur to it. Ganesh proved that even a paper company owner will end up being a billionaire.” “It’s me I guess” he chuckled; his cheek wrinkled. As I said before, my grandfather was one of the richest persons in the state, probably the country. In a weird kind of way, I slightly hate him. Because of that old man, I was forced to take care of the business as I was the only child. Well, in fact, my grandpa didn’t force me, it was my parents. I slightly hate my parents. Eight-year-old me wouldn't have any idea what those terms mean. “Aanya, didn’t you sleep yet, it’s time to sleep.” he waved his hand: come . I waved back: wait. I flipped the magazine and randomly opened a page, to my surprise I saw an image of a person with goggles leaning against the ladder of a swimming pool. And the article read: Wanna see the next Michael Phelps! A rising star battles on his way in the water. I climbed over the bed, “Grandpa, he was a swimmer, I guess” I said. But apparently, he was already asleep. I didn’t know exactly at what part he slept. The whole page about the swimmer was edited and designed way better than my grandpa’s. Well, how can I compare a businessman like my grandpa with a swimmer? On the verge of sleep, I glimpsed over the layouts. Wait, what? At one corner of the page, I noticed something written, it was a bit blurry, it read: “Already gone already”. Having no idea about those words I closed the magazine; got up; placed back it on the book rack. Is it wrong to read other’s diaries? I asked myself when I saw my grandpa’s diary at the other corner of the rack. I was sleeping in the same room for the past eight years but haven’t ever once noted that. Who cares? I took the diary and went past next door. *** 14th June 1954, Some moments are hard to describe, today I had one of those. I got graduated. The moment when my professor handed me the certificate was one of the memorable instances of my life. I am going to be a businessman! *** To be honest, I randomly opened a page, I didn’t expect it to be the graduation day. But man! My grandpa got his spirit right at that age. *** 15th June 1954, Some moments are hard to describe, today I had one of those. I can’t continue my classes. This morning, my professor came to my house and congratulated me in front of my parents and encouraged me to become a businessman, which is great by the way. But I can’t continue my swimming classes. Apparently, one can pursue just one career path, it seems so. *** Okay, now I get it. *** 16th June 1954, Today is the best day of my life, usually, I will say this often, but I haven’t really been this happy for a while, indeed. I got the greatest advice that anyone could dream of. My professor saw me crying in the class and articulated to me some advice about success and happiness, what are those, how do they differ, can one be successful and happy at the same time. And gave the answers to some other unsolved questions. I’m standing right in front of two doors, one leads to my business life and the other door leads to my fictional life which is filled with wilderness, swimming, and a ton of other stuff I had in my mind. I had to choose which door I should open. I decided to open the first door. Evidently, success and happiness are two different terms that can collide with each other when we choose the best path. At the end of the day, all that I want is to be successful, I want people to know me, I want to be triumphant. So, I chose the first door which leads the business life. *** That was the exact moment I’m stuck with now. I had to choose between two doors just like him but it wasn’t as easy like he described. That’s a pretty good origin story, I said to myself, flipped the dairy once again, and opened a page. It was twenty years later, from 1954 to 1974, I flipped it fast, I guessed. *** 4th May 1974, This evening I received the honorary award from the governor. Well, I'm happy. *** 5th May 1974, It is a pretty good day. I wished to make a trip to the western ghats but I couldn't. Well, the job can take precedence over anything. *** 6th May 1974, I went to the neighbouring city for making a contract. I had a good time there. *** 7th May 1974, Finally, I went to a movie with my son. The premise is different, it is about some kind of machine which is used to travel backward and forwards in time. The hero gets that machine from a person from the future and goes through some adventures. It’s not bad, my son enjoyed it, that’s all I want. A question pops up now, as I write this. What will I do if I get that machine? *** What? That’s it. I turned to the next page. *** 8th May 1974, It was a good day, not great, but good. *** I couldn’t believe he didn’t write what he would have done with that time machine. All that I wanted at that moment was that. I peeked over all the other pages but nothing related to time machines were mentioned. I came back to the room. He was still in his deep slumber. And I went to sleep. Eight-year-old me wouldn’t have any idea how important those moments were. Present (Twenty-four-year-old me): I’m standing in front of a huge crowd with a gooseneck mic in my hand, I pull it towards me. I’m at the self-publishing academy getting ready to publish my book. And I begin my speech, “Hey, hello. As you people know I’m Aanya, author of the book ‘The alternative life of my grandpa’.” People begin cheering for me, “Everyone knew my grandpa as a highly successful businessman but there is another untold exciting side of him, I just wanted to tell that to you people by this book. There won’t be any other day better than my grandpa’s birthday to publish this book.” Yes, I wrote a novel about the unlived life of my grandpa which he wished to live. Two years back when my grandpa was alive, I held my courage and went to him and asked the reason what he meant in that diary and what does that ‘Already gone already’ mean. At first, he hesitated to reply, but eventually, he did. And the reply was beyond my imagination. Right at that moment, I decided to write a book about that magical realistic unlived life. It’s been one year since my grandpa died, and now I’m addressing the audience about the book, who would have thought these things would happen? I continue my speech. “When I went to my grandpa and asked ‘What he would have done with that time machine?’ he said something beyond my expectation and that’s what made me write this book.” The whole crowd’s attention is on me. “He imagined himself using that time machine and reliving his life. I asked him, ‘Where were you now? What were you doing?’ “My grandpa replied, ‘I may be eighty-five this year and I think I lived a pretty good life. I have seen really neat things like kayaking all over the country... A moose family on a river in Varanasi. Big white pelicans landing just six feet over my kayak on a lake in Kerala or coming round a bend of a cliff and finding hundreds and hundreds of swallow nests on a wall of the cliff... And the swallows flying all around, reflecting in the water so it looks like I’m flying with the swallows... And little babies are hatching out. Eggshells are falling out of the nest and landing on the water right next to me, these little white shells... Walking across the Sadhan valley and spending a valuable part of my life with the nomads. And it was just so awesome, Aanya! I felt I had done enough. My life was complete.I enjoyed every bit and pieces of that ride. I felt that if I were to die right then, it would be OK. How many people can say that?’” “That’s how he wanted to live his life,” I say. The crowd applauds. “Just enjoy the ride. Thank you,” I wave my hand towards the audience and walk down the stage handing the mic to another author next to me. I saunter through the first row of the audience which is full of press people; see my spot among that row; sit in the chair which has my name on it; begin asking questions to other authors about their books. Yes, I’m a journalist now. Probably, I opened the right door.

\ ​ Even though it was Nunu who sat on top of Willump, the Notai boy’s head was so heavy with thought that he wondered if they’d switched places while walking along the small trail through the forest. He’d prepared himself to join Quinn on her mission, swallowed his fear and looked the ranger-knight in the eyes, even said that it was impossible without a legendary sword. The only thing he hadn’t done was say it outright that he would help her, but she should’ve been able to pick up his clues. When Jax and Quinn had been stumped on those pieces of black wood and he gave them the answer, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride swelling his heart, before it shrunk and tightened as he remembered his mother. Nunu shook off the headache like Willump shook water off his fur. His mission was to bring Darragh back to Uwendale, after that... There were so many things to do. Braum could still be alive, he must be. The mighty Iceborn might’ve escaped from the rebels and tended his wounds just like Jax had done. Perhaps Willump could track down Braum by scent. The mages in the mountain were preparing for battle, duped by Fareed and the man named Kynon. If what Quinn said was true, he should go back and tell Cara and the others the truth. The masks of Kindred also piqued Nunu’s curiosity. There’d been legendary artifacts in the Freljordian tales, like Ornn’s tools and Avarosa’s bow, but it’s the first time he’d heard of masks which mimicked the abilities of the Eternal Hunters, and not only two masks but three. The strange dream in the world of eternal winter resurfaced into his mind; the bird with the beaked mask, the still shape of Lamb, the leering grin of Wolf. *Where will you run?* He banged his head against one of Willump’s horns. His best friend let out a questioning grunt. “What should I do, Willump?” Nunu asked. The yeti crunched on a handful of pebbles on the road. His face was serious and his footsteps thumped heavy across the ground as he thought of the question. After what felt like an eternity, Willump shrugged. “Thanks,” Nunu said in a dry tone. He turned to the weaponsmith walking a few paces in front of them. Darragh had been quiet since they left the glade, striding ahead and occasionally rustling shrubs and leaves to warn the Freljordians of some inconveniences like low branches, tree roots, and slippery moss. “Aren’t you worried?” Nunu shouted. Darragh’s back replied with silence. Nunu ushered Willump to walk beside the man. “Don’t you want to help Quinn?” The man’s brown eyes flicked once towards the boy, before returning back to the trail. “I *am* helping her.” “But how do you *know* that you’re helping her?” Nunu insisted. “What if she’s way over her head?” He thought for a moment. “We can still turn around. Willump can find them, he already complained twice how much Jax smelled.” “No.” “That easy?” Nunu asked. “Who said it’s easy?” The weaponsmith’s hands were bundled into fists. “I’m torn by each choice. Nothing seems right.” “But you decided so quickly.” Darragh looked up at Nunu. “Do you know what it means when you struggle to make a decision?” The Notai boy scrunched his face in concentration. “That I’m indecisive?” “It means that you care, but also that you don’t know what you care about the most.” “I care about everything!” Nunu blurted out. “No one cares about everything.” The weaponsmith walked ahead, leaving Nunu with more questions than he started with. \*\*\*\*\* Fences welcomed them as the forest thinned out. The boards were old and weathered, and would probably crumble if Willump sneezed on them. Past it were fields of grass and wheat, swaying against the wind, and a road crammed with wagons and carriages, rolling away from a settlement blocked by wooden walls. Sheep grazed a sloped range of grass, extending to jagged bare stone peaks which looked like a miniature version of the giant mountain range towering behind. From this side, the mountain range looked like a towering wall separating Freljord and Demacia. It shimmered like gray ice against the setting sun and reminded Nunu of the bridge to the Frostguard citadel, where one misstep would lead to an endless fall. The looming cliffs hadn’t looked as daunting when he’d seen it from Thawing Glade in Freljord, where he’d met Braum after a howling night of cold. The crack of wood followed by a meek whine, pulled Nunu back to see Willump fail to climb over the fence. “It’s alright,” Darragh said, picking up the planks. “About time someone broke these old things. Gives us a reason to make something new and better.” “That’s just silly,” Nunu said. “If you know they’re no good, then why haven’t you done anything to it already?” Darragh patted the dirt off from the splintered boards, his eyes tracing the cracked grooves and rusted nails. “Because they’ve always been there.” A shout made them turn to see four armored men inching closer. Two had their swords drawn while the other pair had crossbows pointed at Willump. Their eyes stared nervously through helmets either too big or too small for their heads. “Easy now,” Darragh said, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m Darragh, a weaponsmith from Uwendale. These two here saved me from the mages.” “Name yourselves!” The bravest of them shouted at the Freljordians, a lanky man with a few missing teeths. The sight of the crossbows made Nunu squirm. He gripped the horns of of his friend to calm his nerves. “I’m Nunu,” he said slowly, “and this is Willump. Say hi, Willump.” The yeti grunted. One of the crossbowmen yelped and a bolt zipped past. Nunu screamed. “Don’t fire!” Darragh shouted. “Don’t fire! We’re friends!” A roar tore through the field, bending the grass and shaking the ground as Willump charged at the group of men, fangs bared and claws glimmering. They tried to run, but fear took hold of their legs and they stumbled to the ground. “Stop!” Another boy appeared, putting himself in front of the crumbled men. His face was round and pale with fright, matching his tousled hair in color. He had his hands raised, palms forward. “Stop, please. They’re sorry!” A gray animal poked out from the boy’s head, its paws mimicking the boy’s motion. The sight must’ve confused Willump, because the yeti dug his heels in the dirt and slid to a halt, staring at the small duo. “Thank you.” The boy breathed out a sigh of relief. His legs gave up and he plopped onto the grass. “What were you thinking?” He snapped at the armored men behind him. “That monster threatened me!” “No, that happened *after* you almost shot our friend here. Now go back and tell the others that all is good and we don’t need any reinforcement. Barrett, since you’re so awfully quick with pulling the trigger, you have the honor to report to the warden about this. Don’t forget to say that you almost shot her husband’s savior.” Nunu blinked. The boy was older, but still looked to be half the age of the meek adults. It was so strange seeing a youngster chew out grown men. He wasn’t wearing any armor either, only a simple tunic and leggings under a hooded cloak. “You’re a ranger?” Nunu asked. The boy turned to him with a smile and tugged on an emblem of a bird sewn into the hood. “Barely,” he said. “I’m Adam, and this is Dash.” The animal on top of the boy’s head squealed. “He’s a raccoon.” “I’m Nunu and this is Willump. He’s a yeti.” “Nice to meet you, Nunu and Willump. Can you help me up? My legs are still a bit wobbly.” Darragh came forward just as Nunu climbed down from Willump’s head. They both hefted the boy up from the ground. “Adam?” the weaponsmith said slowly. “You’re a bit... different.” “I think the ranger-knight might’ve had something to do with that.” Adam glanced around before leaning closer and whispered, “Is she... you know, tracking down her prey?” Darragh’s jaw clenched again, hesitating to say anything. Nunu on the other hand, had no problem. “She’s with Jax and searching for the bad guy.” “I knew it!” Adam said in a triumphant tone. “You don’t think she’s a criminal?” Darragh asked. “Criminal?” The fair-haired boy looked almost insulted by the notion. “I’m not that gullible, mister Darragh. Let’s go back to Uwendale, I’m sure you have a lot to tell the warden.” They patrolled alongside Adam to the main road packed with wagons and carts. Nunu could now see the people, all with weary faces and suspicious eyes, their gazes flickered from his snowcap with giant fox ears to the large white shape of Willump. He was glad that he hadn’t put on his orange cloak, that would’ve pulled even more attention. Instead, he’d rolled the cloak into a bundle together with his gloves and wrapped it around one of Willump’s horns. He followed the long trail of wagons with his sight and landed on Uwendale. The village wasn’t anything grand like the Frostguard citadel. The stockade seemed tall and sturdy and he noticed a few figures walking on top of the wall, but the open gates revealed simple huts of wood and straw, not as different to the homes back in Freljord. “Did all these people live here?” he asked. “Many came for the Slayer’s Festival.” A festival. In a land filled with greens and crops, where sheep could graze the fields without any worries of an eternal winter. From what Nunu had seen, Demacia was a beautiful land with verdant green and nice-smelling flowers. The sun was warm and the wind was kind. So why were all these people’s faces so sad and bleak as if their hearts were frozen? “You don’t look like them,” Nunu said bluntly. “Hmm?” Adam turned around with a quizzical expression. “Are you a hero?” Nunu continued, “Do you have a title like Quinn? Is that why the other soldiers listen to you?” “A hero? I wish.” The ranger chuckled. “Maybe if I was a hero, Demacia’s Wings would’ve told me about her secret plan. The warden said that the ranger-knight was on the run, but I knew it was just another lie.” There was something sad in Adam’s smile. “And the soldiers listen to the warden. They only bear with me because they know the warden likes to send me on errands.” “How is she?” Darragh asked in a low voice. Adam’s smile thinned for a moment, before turning gentle. “She’ll feel much better after she knows that you’re safe.” A horn sounded in the air, like a soft drawn out wail. All the civilians tilted their heads towards the sound. The horses flinched and flared their noses. The ranger’s expression froze. “No...” Soon, other horns joined, holding a continuous tone. Nunu looked down at the ground. He’d felt something. The forest rumbled. “Run!” Adam shouted. “Run back to Uwendale!” As the families jumped off their carts and ran through the grass, Nunu glimpsed movement from the forest opening in the distance. “Nunu move!” Willump hoisted the Notai boy up on his head and ran. Screams and cries surrounded him as a herd of animals tore through the old fences and rushed past the fields. Wolves sprinted alongside boars and elks, mowing down wagons and tackling armored guards to the ground. The yeti slowed his feet as leathery wingbeats flapped above. In the sky, a flock of wyverns passed through, casting long shadows over the fleeing civilians. Nunu stared at one particular wyvern, larger than the rest, where he spotted two figures on its back. One of them wore a green cloak. It was too soon. It hadn’t even been a full day. A snarl alerted him of a growling wolf, staring at him. He pulled out *Svellsongur* and wielded it as a sword, gritting his teeth. “Come on then.” Alongside him, the guards formed a line, facing the wild animals while giving the travelers time to retreat back to the settlement. The wolf bared its fang and seemed to leap, only to stop at the last moment. A noise to Nunu’s side made him turn to see another wolf, already in the air and about to strike him. Willump swatted the wolf like a fly, while Nunu dumped a pile of snow onto the first one. A scream made him turn to see Darragh with a family of three, flanked by two boars. The weaponsmith and the father made loud noises to draw the animals’ attention, while the mother and son tried to escape. But the sudden movement caught one of the boar’s attention and pursued the parent and child instead. The son tried to chuck a doll against the beast, before the mother picked him up and ran. Nunu steered Willump towards them, when the world turned upside down and the yeti crashed onto the grass with a groan. His bundle with his cloak and gloves plopped next to him. A beast almost twice the size of a cart towered over them. It was like a giant bull, with long razor-horns crowning its head. Darragh had called it a tuskvore. A clatter of bolts thumped onto the beast but its hide was too thick. Reinforcement from the village hurried forward, bolstering the line of defense. Nunu looked back to see how far the civilians had run, but they were standing in the field, staring at the wyverns circling around Uwendale. To make things worse, masked undead had joined the fray, fighting against Uwendale’s troops. Their moves weren’t as rabid either, instead they were coordinated and drove back the soldiers with maces, axes, and swords. Willump stumbled back on his legs. This time, Nunu decided to stand next to his friend as the enemies came crashing in waves. His heart thumped hard against his chest. His mind raced, unable to keep up with his hands, swinging at a wolf, then a masked man, then to a boar. Each strike with *Svellsongur* brought out howls of pain. He was doing it, he was saving people. A large masked undead clashed swords against Adam. Nunu took the opportunity to swing *Svellsongur* at the undead’s head, but it noticed at the last moment and tilted its head, merely catching a glancing blow. It was still enough for *Svellsongur*, as ice began to form, spreading past the wood and latching onto hair and skin. Kynon must’ve upgraded the undead, because it retreated with a yell and tore the mask off, stopping the ice from spreading. Nunu braced himself for a second attack when the undead looked at him. He stopped. “Alby?” The rebel squinted his eyes, his bulbous nose flaring with a hard exhale. “Nunu?” An arrow hit Alby on the chest and the man fell to the grass. Nunu screamed. He hurried to his friend, kneeling beside and staring in disbelief at the rising and sinking chest, the warm-hued flesh, the eyes blinking with life. Alby wasn’t an undead. Alby was alive. Adam was about to sink his sword into the mage rebel, when Nunu threw his own body atop. “Stop!” Nunu pleaded. “Please, he’s a friend!” “They’re enemies, Nunu,” Adam said. “They attacked us first.” Alby spat a bloody clump on the grass and glared at the ranger. “Demacia’s council attack’d us long before we made our move.” Hearing his slurred voice again, Nunu was certain that it was Alby, the real Alby, not someone mind-controlled by a cursed mask. Realization dawned on him as he looked around at the other masked undead fighting against Uwendale’s troops. They didn’t move with beast-like movements like those who chased him across the forest. They were like the soldiers, swinging weapons at their opponents while doing their best to protect their vital parts. They could all be hurt. They could all die. The earth thundered underneath Nunu’s feet. He turned to see the tuskvore plowing through the wagons, sending carts flying and wheels rolling. His heart stopped when he saw the mother and son hiding underneath one of the carts, holding each other with their eyes closed. It sounded like a tree came crashing down when the tuskvore clashed with the yeti. The two beasts pushed each other and wrestled for dominance. The tuskvore distracted Adam and Alby took the opportunity to grab the dropped sword and stab the ranger-boy, but Nunu was faster with *Svellsongur*. The legendary weapon broke the no-name blade. “Stop!” Nunu screamed, pointing his weapon at Alby. “Just stop!” “I dun’ wan’ to hurt you, Nunu.” “I don’t want to hurt *you,* Alby!” “How can you side with them?” The man’s face was twisted in anger. “The mageseekers would’ve thrown me into their cellars and forced me to swallow poison, jus’ ‘cus of *this*.” He snapped his fingers and sparks flickered in the air. “Am I evil ‘cus I don’t need a tinderbox to light a fire?” Nunu bit his tongue. He didn’t have the answer to Demacia’s problem, he was from Freljord. He didn’t have any profound wisdom to share, he was just a boy. In the distance, the wyvern swarmed Uwendale’s walls, rising high up in the sky to avoid the arrows, then diving for attacks. Around Nunu, the militia fought against the rebels with the same ferocity as the wild beasts next to them. Their motivations might’ve been different but their screams of pain sounded the same. *Svellsongur* felt cold in his palm. With one swing, he could defeat an enemy. Adam brushed off Nunu and charged at the larger mage. The ranger and the rebel grappled each other, rolling on the grass for advantage. At the end, Alby gained the upper hand with his size and with a strong right, he glazed over Adam’s eyes. He was about to punch another when a raccoon bit him on the nose. He yelled and grabbed the animal by the tail, about to slam it to the ground, when Nunu charged him with a shoulder, sending them both tumbling. The mage drew a ragged breath as he crawled up on his legs. His eyes locked onto the trembling Notai. “Go on then. Swing tha’ weapon of yours.” Nunu shook his head. Blood dribbled out from the lips of Alby, his face softening into a hopeless smile. “Then run away. It’s alright to run.” Nunu shook his head again. Something whistled past Nunu. Alby’s smile stiffened as another bolt punctured the man’s chest. A dozen paces away, a crossbowman reloaded his crossbow while another took aim at Alby. The crossbows fired. The bolt struck ice. The wall glittered like glass, separating the soldiers from Nunu and Alby. The Notai hurried to his fallen friend, clutching a cold hand, shaking a still body, calling a name no one claimed. He didn’t know what he should do, which choice was the best. He didn’t want anyone to be hurt but he had to swing *Svellsongur* to defeat his enemy. How else was he going to win? *Depends on what your goal is*. The ranger-knight with the scowling face had said it as if it had been the most obvious thing in the world. She didn’t have any legendary sword, her fists couldn’t shatter stone. She said that she won not by killing Kynon but by stopping the war. “Willump!” His shrill voice was a faint sliver amidst the cacophony of battle. But the yeti would’ve heard the call from a mile away. Willump roared, summoning his strength to push away the tuskvore, before rushing to the Notai’s aid, sweeping the boy up on his head. The wind chilled the wet stains on Nunu’s cheeks. He wiped his eyes and stared across the battlefield, of men and women falling, and lives seeping into the soil. He grabbed onto Willump’s horns, noticing that his friend had his own set of battle scars with the tuskvore, from broken horn parts, gashes of red across the white fur, and a panting breath fogging up the air. *No one cares about everything.* There might've been some truth in what Darragh had said, but when it came to tell a story, truth would always play the second fiddle. He steered Willump to pick up his bundle of clothes. The bright orange cloak fluttered as the yeti ran through the battlefield. The gloves squeezed his hands and stopped his fingers from trembling. He looked at *Svellsongur,* his named weapon which had broken several times over their adventures. A sword to cleave foes down the middle. *The hero doesn’t make the story. It’s the story that makes the hero.* He could see the Iceborn glinting eyes and smiling mustache. *And what kind of tale is this, story-teller?* One where a sword would be useless because there were no enemies to cleave. Nunu drew a deep breath and placed his lips on the end of *Svellsongur*. He breathed life into the reed and the flute sang out. The heavy thumps from Willump turned to muffled as his feet stepped on snow, piling higher and higher, covering the grass and reaching up to the knees. When Willump passed some masked mages, Nunu played another tune and ice suddenly appeared underneath and the mages slipped and fell into powder snow. The animals found themselves attacking snowmen and staring up at the white dust fluttering down from the sky. The song wasn’t one from his mother’s wide collection, but one he’d thought up when he’d been nestled in Willump’s fur while the harsh wind howled outside. It was one he’d polished when a weathered village in north Freljord had welcomed him and Willump to their home, even offering the last of their grains to hear some stories over a crackling fire. A song he’d finished when Braum comforted him even though the Iceborn had been beaten down by all the different kinds of hardships they’d encountered over the journey. The landscape changed to one Nunu had known all his life. He could see the white lands of Freljord and taste the fresh air just by closing his eyes. He could hear his mother’s laughter, feel her hands ruffling his hair and see the glistening stars against the blackest skies. He could remember the rush of excitement as a bald Iceborn, a furry monster, and a small boy rode on a shield-turned-sled down the mountains. This was his song to Freljord, where one could walk through the coldest nights and meet people with the warmest hearts. As the song swelled, Willump began to laugh, humming along to Nunu’s tune with a deep booming voice. The yeti rolled up a snowball, making it bigger and bigger, steering it towards the warriors who were still fighting and flattening some to the ground while mashing others into the growing white sphere. It was good that Willump had so many hands, while he used a pair to roll the snowball, he used the other pair to fling snowballs across the field, splattering onto Uwendale’s crossbowmen who tried to aim at the mages. A roar challenged the boy and his yeti. The tuskvore knocked down snowmen blocking its path. It crushed the walls of ice Nunu had erected. The beast reared its front leg and aimed its horns. Nunu continued playing, almost in a teasing manner, while Willump released the growing snowball and turned his attention to the new playmate. The yeti clapped his hands and smiled widely. The tuskvore trampled across, spewing snow to the sides. Its horns gleamed with sharpness. It didn’t expect the boy to jump off and the yeti to ram back with massive reindeer horns. They slammed their crowns against each other. Once, twice. The clash like thunder in the dark sky. As Nunu’s song reached its climax, Willump bellowed a deafening roar and dove under the tuskvore, flinging the beast into the largest pile of snow. The Notai boy dropped his flute and fell to his knees. With it, the landscape of Freljord began to thaw. Melting and revealing still green grass, budding wheat, and brown soil. Bodies lay scattered on the ground. Some in armor, others wearing masks. There were corpses of animals too, felled by arrows and spears. But they were few compared to the ones who still stood. The rebels and Uwendale’s citizens had stopped fighting. Their eyes locked onto the Notai boy, their jaws slack and arms limp. He found Darragh’s face among the crowd, with bulging eyes and open mouth as if he’d just heard an outrageous story. A new weariness pulled over Nunu. His eyelids felt leaden and his knees begged him to fold. He almost listened to them if it weren’t for Willump’s wet nose nustling his cheek and rough tongue licking him all over the face. “You stink, Willump,” Nunu groaned. The yeti scoffed and then burst into a big smile. Nunu searched on the ground and found *Svellsongur* once again broken. He picked up the pieces and closed his eyes, but when he opened it again, the pieces remained apart. His best friend grunted in a worried tone. “Not yet, Willump.” Nunu looked towards Uwendale, at the wyverns picking apart the village like vultures on a carcass. “There’s still some adventure left to do.” ​ \ ***DISCLAIMER*** ***‘The Tales We Tell’ is a non-profit work of fan fiction, based on the game League of Legends.*** ***I do not own League of Legends or any of its material. League of Legends is created and owned by Riot Games Inc. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of League of Legends belong to Riot Games Inc.

You’ve heard it, I’ve heard it, I think it’s safe to say that most of us have been told this at one point or another in our lives. It seems to be the solution to fights, arguments, bullying, and pretty much everything that frequently ruins the lives of teenagers. “Walk away”. I’d like to focus on just that last one for now: bullying. I fancy my chances when I say that you’ve probably fallen victim to, been close to someone who has fallen victim to, or have witnessed bullying (after all, roughly 20% of people were bullied as teenagers). As only the closest people to me will be able to tell you, I was bullied (this would be a pretty boring thing to read if I were to just throw facts at you for a few pages of Walbaum Display in size 11). Therefore, I have a lot of stories I could tell you about the effects it has had on me, my family, and my perception of the world around me. But I’d like to tell you one story today. Just one. It was the one that changed my life. Before we begin, I should clear some things up. The bullying in question was both physical and emotional, and occurred late into my years in primary school (emotional bullying continued slightly into year 7 but faded away eventually). It happened for several reasons: I was physically weak (some sick people saw me, therefore, as easy prey), I was fat, and I spoke like I though I was smarter than everyone (this wasn’t what I was thinking and I was actually doing terribly in school, but I’ll elaborate on that later). My primary school was also one of those schools that has some years past six (usually for those who couldn’t find a better school that would accept them). Now that we have the background out of the way, we can begin. I wasn’t the only person getting bullied at that school, there were three or four others who all fit the criteria (weak, nerdy, etc.), and we had all come up with several plans over the years to avoid being picked on. My personal favourite (in retrospect, of course) was, and this is hilarious,... “stand up to them”. We can laugh about it now, but that little trick sent all four of us home with a thick lip and visible limp, so... maybe it wasn’t the best plan. Of course, there were other plans, for example, “ignore them”, but it’s quite hard to ignore someone pulling your chair out from underneath you in the middle of a test. We soon realised that no strategies were going to work. There was no “dealing with bullies 101” class, no “12 neat tricks to overcome a bully”. Nothing. So, we had no option other than “knuckle under and stop whining” (which was actually a piece of advice I received more often than was necessary). Then, as usual in a story, there was a plot twist. It’s normally an wise old man or a travelling monk, but mine came in a pretty mundane form: another child. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to any adults to find someone my age who has dealt with bullying to speak to me. You’d think it would be simple. Blatantly obvious, perhaps? You adults do it for careers, choosing A-levels, choosing GCSEs. In fact, I’m positive that almost every other aspect of school uses the “bring someone who has gone through this in” method, yet, somehow, the people who are supposed to guide us through childhood (adults) hadn’t thought of just asking someone with experience. Nevertheless, I found someone roughly my age who could help me. Her name was Jenny and she was actually a friend of my older brother, Sam. We only met because I came home in tears and her mum was giving Sam a ride home and popped in for a cup of tea. Sam asked Jenny to come round and speak to me, and she did. The next time her mum came round, Jenny saw me doing my homework in the study and came in. She sat cross-legged on the floor (looking up at me, as I was on a dining chair that had been moved because my step-dad needed the desk chair) and greeted me. “Hey, Charlie”. She seemed upbeat, not too upbeat, but enough to make me start feeling a little better already. “Hello”, I mumbled (I wasn’t in a good mood, because I’d just had an argument about the chair). “So, I hear you’re having some trouble with the older kids at school?”. I nodded. She asked “when did it start?”, and I instantaneously burst into tears. My speech was incoherent, my mind refused to control my body, and my chest began to ache. I wanted to calm down (I didn’t want Sam to be embarrassed of me, after all), but the more I tried to breathe, the more my throat closed up. It was a horrible feeling that is unique to extreme weeping. Jenny didn’t expect me to talk, instead, she stood me up and hugged me. We must have sat there for hours, me bawling, her rubbing the back of my head. It took me a while, but I eventually ran out of tears, and my throat stopped trying to strangle me. Jenny had forced me to lower my defences and I ultimately trusted her more than anyone who had ever tried to help me. After all that crying and the countless stones I must have lost in tears, I had no choice but to give Jenny’s idea a shot. She hit me with that all-too-familiar phrase: Walk away. Call it vulnerability, call it a female’s comforting presence, call it whatever you want, but this time it hit differently. “Walk away” went from being some impossible thing said by adults who just don’t get it to the easiest step in a one-step guide to fixing your life. She wiped the tears from my eyes and off my cheeks with her sleeve, and squeezed me tightly one more time. “You’ve got this, Charlie!”, she whispered as she left. I sat for a bit and planned out what I was going to do (it didn’t take long as the game-plan was about three words long), before getting back to my homework. Then, something weird happened. The work was just easier. It’s like people had been telling me to walk with a boulder on each shoulder for my entire life and then Jenny just put them on the ground and now I could run. Cringey as it seems now, I genuinely felt as if a burden had been lifted. Whether it was the endorphins from crying or the after-taste of being hugged, I got the best sleep of my life that night. The next day came and my mum was worried. Not because I was frightened or because I didn’t have the energy to get out of bed (like normal), but because I was calm. Finally. I had longed for that feeling of “I’m going to have a day today that won’t be cut short by a fist to the back of the spine and a 5-minute struggle to pick my books up off the muck-coated floor” for far too long (it’s a feeling you don’t realise you have until it’s gone). I grabbed my bag (I had packed it the night before, in my temporary, tear-triggered enlightenment), brushed my teeth, got changed, and hopped on the bus (all in record-time). My day was going brilliantly. I got an A for a test I thought I’d failed, I managed to eat my snack at break in peace, and I had a positive expectation for lunchtime. I walked out of the classroom happily with my head held high and began to make my way to the playground. Instinctively, like a gazelle steering clear of lions, I scanned my hunted-grounds and gave the all-clear to my pack (given that this pack consisted of... me, it was a very brief conversation) and made my way outside. I began to walk, holding my cereal bar nonchalantly, when I was thrust into a wall. I felt like I was getting beaten up by an out-of-control freight train. My head collided with the wooden handrail and ricocheted onto the concrete floor. My brain began pumping adrenaline throughout my body, filling my limbs with an instinct to react to the pain. It began to overwhelm me. I could feel myself being stripped of all control. But then, I remembered Jenny. “Walk away” I looked the bully dead in the eye and breathed. Having caught my breath, I turned and walked. I didn’t run, nor did I flee. I walked away. He screamed obscenities and insults at me. “You ******* coward! Get back here!”. I just walked. No destination, no adult behind whom I was going to hide, I just walked. I felt serene. After that day, things started to look up. My fellow victims of bullying began trying the technique, I started being able to concentrate and sleep, and I started to regain confidence. Of course, the journey still wasn’t easy, but I can tell you that my life would be a lot worse today if I hadn’t met Jenny. “Walk away”--every adult.

The sensation of cold water on her head awakened Fiona from her already inconsistent sleep. It had rained through the whole night, and so she had fled into an old ruin of a building. It was still cold but the crumbling walls protected her from wind and rain. Now however, the water was dripping from somewhere down on her. Drip, drip, drip. Okay enough, annoyed Fiona got up. Drying her pelt with professional determination, the tabby cat heard a noise followed by the chattering of birds. She went to the next opening and peeked into the direction of the clacking noise. There were two crows quarrelling over a snail, which had hidden in her shell. Taking the shell in its beak the one crow tried to shatter it on a stone. But the house was hard and so it jumped up again into a new direction, where the other crow would catch it and repeat the process. Croaking in excitement and anger because of the task they had. Fiona felt her stomach rumbling, she too was hungry. The thought of catching one of the crows crossed her mind. But it would be dangerous, sharp talons and deadly beaks could be the last thing she saw. Fiona was not fully grown, not too long ago her mother had chased her away. She had not caught much since then, mice and hummingbirds. But never a prey as big and dangerous as a fully grown crow. The black feathers glittered in the sunlight, and again the shell was thrown against the rock. This time the house shattered, revealing the snail inside. Its feelers were searching for shelter, in the suddenly cold world. Yet the crow already plucked it from the ground, swallowing it whole. Fiona felt sorry for the snail, but crows needed to eat too. Which reminded her of the empty stomach inside of her own body. The crows flew away after concluding that there were no more snails around. Fiona’s gaze followed them; they had a nest not far from the building. Fiona thought, when there was a nest then there was prey as well. Young hatchlings not as dangerous as their parents. Hesitantly she followed, stalking through the thicket sneaking to the giant tree trunk. The tree was not very high, the greatest danger would be to get up and down out of sight before the parents would return. Patiently she waited until the two pitch-black birds set out again in search for new prey, they could feed to the hungry throats. Swiftly she climbed up, using her claws to get a hold at the uncompromising wood. The smell of young birds filled her nose and soon she could hear the twittering hatchlings. Not too long ago she herself had cried after her mother like this. Pity came over her, encouraging her conscience. Perhaps she should leave, searching for another prey. The short-haired cat looked at the sky, their parents were nowhere to be seen. Food was not always easy to find; it could go a day or two without anything to feast upon. Again, Fiona could feel the emptiness of her belly. She ignored her heart’s voice and broke the neck of one of the four little crows. Swiftly as she had climbed up, she got down again. Hiding under the next best bush. When the crows returned, she could hear their cries of losing one of their dearest ones. They flew around searching and croaking in fear of never seeing their child again. Fiona left the scene after the meal, a dark cloud hanging over her. In the morning her heart was full and her belly empty. Now her belly was full and a hole had opened up in her heart. Everyone needs to eat and everyone needs to die someday. Everyone wants to live, but not everyone survives the struggle of life.

“Where’s the last box?” “I... I already thew it away.” Kelsey squinted at me. “Nyla, where’s the last box.” I opened my mouth, ready to lie again, then sighed. “It’s under my bed.” Lying wouldn’t get us anywhere but back to the beginning. “I’ll go get it.” Kelsey disappeared around the corner, and I slumped onto the couch. The last box, I thought. The last box of Oliver’s things. I forced a fresh wave of tears down as I reminded myself that this was not a form of erasing him, but instead a physical display of moving on. I was giving myself a chance to start fresh, starting with removing my dead boyfriend’s things from my apartment. I glanced at the photo on the table beside the couch, the only picture of him I’d decided to keep. In it, he was smiling at me as I screamed at the top of my lungs, terrified of the roller coaster we were riding. His auburn hair was wild in the wind, while my black frizz of hair seemed to barely move. I wiped a rogue tear from my cheek and turned to see Kelsey standing over me. She held the last cardboard box -- marked “misc.” -- in her hands and stared down at me with the saddest expression I’d ever seen her wear. “Ready?” she asked, balancing the box on her hip and lending her other hand to me. I nodded and took her hand. “Ready.” Together, we took the stairs down to the first floor of my apartment building, then stepped through the door, out of the lobby. We were immediately assaulted with the typical noises of Manhattan: car horns and angry people and happy people, going on as if my life hadn’t just been shattered into a thousand pieces. We slipped into an alleyway with a Dumpster, where we’d disposed of the previous boxes, one by one. Kelsey and I stopped in front of the large green bin and did nothing but stare at it for a few moments. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Kelsey asked for the tenth time in the past hour. I nodded weakly, eyeing the box in her hands. “Do I really have a choice?” “Of course, Nyla. You shouldn’t do this until you’re absolutely ready.” “But it’s been five months,” I sighed. “Five months since brain cancer took Oliver away from me. Five months of staring at his stuff, hoping there was somehow still a part of him -- or his essence -- lingering in his things. I just... I can’t do it anymore,” I sobbed, my voice quivering. I looked up at my best friend, forcing a small smile. “Besides, if I don’t do this now, I don’t think I ever will.” Kelsey handed the final box to me. “I understand. Or, well, I don’t -- I can’t -- but I understand what you’re saying.” She nodded at the box in my hand. “Whenever you’re ready.” I took a deep breath and raised the box above the open top of the Dumpster. “Okay.” I counted to three in my head, preparing myself to drop the box. “Here I go.” I spread my fingers -- My hands wouldn’t let go. Kelsey smiled encouragingly, but the box still didn’t fall. I’m not ready to say goodbye, I thought, then shook off the idea. No. I am ready. I am. I smiled, and my mind immediately flashed back to one bad night in the hospital when Oliver, already bald and losing weight, begged me to stay by his side. Nope, still not. “Are we sure this is a trash box?” I asked Kelsey, my voice rising an octave. “How do we know this isn’t a donate one?” “We gave away all of the donate ones yesterday, remember?” She stepped forward to rub circles on my back. I nodded. “Okay. All right. I can do this,” I murmured. I counted to three again, then spread my hands -- “Can I look through it one last time?” Kelsey grinned, shaking her head. “It’s your decision, not mine.” I quickly sat on the ground in the alley, setting the box on my lap. I opened the flaps and took out the first thing I saw: one of Oliver’s old toothbrushes. I grinned at its mangled bristles and fingered the peeling rubber before gently setting it aside. Next, I took out a course completion certificate. Looking closer, I realized it was a cooking class he’d taken a few years ago. One we’d taken together . I faintly remembered Oliver’s slim fingers slipping, the blood spilling all over our shared cutting board. He’d yelled for a medic, like we were on some TV show, making me laugh despite my shock at seeing the blood. I blinked back a few tears and reached for the next item in the box, squished between a broken viedo game console and a punctured basketball. Slowly, I brought a small, cracked cell phone into the light. This time, I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. Kelsey crouched beside me. “Was that his phone?” she asked softly. I nodded, sniffling. Tentatively, I pressed the power button, and the device miraculously brightened. “I thought I’d lost it,” I gasped. I swiped to unlock it, then clicked into the camera roll, figuring scrolling through his pictures was the best way to use whatever charge the phone had left. An ambulance whizzed by us on the street, sirens blaring, but I barely noticed. Instead, I was focused on the most recent picture he’d taken, dated a year and a half ago. In the selfie, I was passed out on the couch in the background, while Oliver grinned evilly from the bottom corner of the screen. I released an involuntary sob, and Kelsey leaned forward to hug me. “I remember that night,” I rasped, my eyes trained on the screen. “Oliver had just taken me ice skating, despite my pleas for him to stay home and rest. He’d... he’d just gotten sick when this was taken.” “I’m... I don’t even know what to say,” Kelsey said, by way of apologizing. After a few moments, I responded with: “Don’t say anything. Just be there for me, and that’s enough.” I carefully packed the toothbrush and the certificate back into the box and closed the flaps. Tucking the cell phone into my back pocket, I stood before the Dumpster. Kelsey handed me the box and asked if I was ready for the eleventh time, and this time, I wasn’t lying when I said I was. I missed Oliver -- I knew I always would -- but it was time to move on. As our ice skating adventure had proven, his first interest was always making sure I was happy. If he could see me now, I was sure he’d wouldn’t want me crying over him; he’d want me to live my best life and remember our good times, not the bad. So, with one final goodbye to the toothbrush and the certificate and the other various items in the box, I spread my hands and held my breath until I heard the clunk at the bottom of the Dumpster that meant I’d finally let Oliver go. I’d finally moved on. The walk back up to my apartment took a million years. I kept second-guessing myself, wondering if I should go back to the Dumpster and fish the box back out. I feared I'd gotten rid of it too soon, and now I'd never heal properly. "He seems like such a great guy, Nyla," Kelsey was saying from beside me in the stairwell. "I really wish I could have met him." "Yeah," I whispered. "I wish you could have, too." Back in my apartment, I immediately slumped onto my couch, desperately hoping I'd done the right thing. Kelsey noticed the photo beside the couch and picked it up to examine it. "He was cute," she observed. "Really cute." "Like, he could have been a model cute." "He could have been anything," I added, rolling off the couch onto the floor. "But he was just a college student." Kelsey lied down beside me. "No, he was more than that. He was... he was a boyfriend -- a great one, I hear -- he was a son, a friend, an amateur chef..." She turned her head to look at me. "He was all of those, Nyla." I shook my head, ignoring the tears streaming freely down my face. "But he could have been more. " "We all could be more. You could be more, I could be more... but it doesn't matter. What matters is who we are now ." Kelsey scrunched up her nose, thinking. "If you keep worrying about who you could be, you won't actually... well, you'll never become anything. But if you live in the present and appreciate who you are, you can accept yourself and actually grow to be... more ." I chuckled softly. "When did you become so wise?" I asked. She grabbed my hand and gave it a quick squeeze. "When you started needing me." "I've always needed you." "You know what I mean." Exhausted from crying, thinking, and "moving on," I allowed my eyes to flutter close. Kelsey continued talking next to me, and I soon found myself drifting off to the sound of her voice. A few hours later, I woke to find myself alone in my apartment. Kelsey was gone, but a yellow Post-it lay on the floor in her spot. So, so sorry to leave like this, it read, but I really have to get back home. You know, seven hour drive and all. I'll call you when I get home, promise. ~K I stood and carefully set the note beside the picture of Oliver and me. Still groggy from my nap, I shuffled into my bedroom and collapsed into my bed, jeans and all. I'd barely pulled the covers up to my chin, already missing my best friend, when sleep reclaimed me. “Don’t let go of me,” I begged. “I won’t. I won’t, okay? I promise,” Oliver laughed as I clutched his arm for dear life. “If you let go, I will kick you with my skates. I swear, I’ll do it.” “I believe you.” Oliver practically dragged me around the rink, careful to stay close to the edge so I could grab the rail if I needed to. “How are you... How is this so natural for you?” “I took skating lessons as a kid. I guess there are some things you never forget,” he said, smiling down at me. “And some people you never forget, too.” I matched his grin. “I hope I’m included in that. You wouldn’t dare forget me, would you, Nyla?” “Never.” I squeezed his arm. “I’ll never forget you, Oliver.” I woke from my dream, panting and sweating. I pulled back my sheets and swung my legs over the bed, ready to open my window and attempt to fall back asleep to the sounds of the city. But, no. I desperately needed to talk to someone, to hear someone else’s voice. Oliver’s voice had haunted me for long enough. I grabbed my phone from my nightstand and scrolled through my contacts. Who can I call? I needed someone who could relate to my grief for Oliver, but no one was coming to mind. He wasn’t close to any family members, so I couldn’t call any of them. My parents had never been good sympathizers; they wouldn’t console me the way I needed them to. I’d already bothered Kelsey enough over the past few days; she deserved to rest. Giving up, I tossed my phone back onto my bedside table and started toward my window, but something else caught my eye. I’d left Oliver’s phone on my windowsill to charge, and it dimly glowed there, calling out to me. I sat on the floor in front of my window and opened up to his camera roll again. I scrolled through until I found the video I faintly remembered him filming. “Wait, I have to start the video.” The camera view jostled, then finally settled on me, sitting at the kitchen table with a lopsided blue cake before me. “Is the button red?” I asked, grinning and shaking my head. “Oh. Yeah, it is. Okay, you can start now.” The sound of Oliver’s voice made me think back to my dream, but I forced myself to stay in the present. I squeezed my eyes shut, then blew out the candles one by one. Oliver cheered from behind the camera, then zoomed in on my nostrils. “What did you wish for?” “For you to not ask what I wished for,” I joked, my left eyebrow now visible. “Obviously, it didn’t come true.” “Wow. What a waste of a wish.” Now Oliver zoomed out, and you could see my entire face again. “I’m kidding. I wished that you didn’t accidentally switch the salt and sugar in my cake again!” “No promises on that one,” he replied, and we laughed as the video faded to black. I set his phone back on the sill, careful not to damage it more than it already was. I dropped my head into my hands, praying that my tears wouldn’t make another appearance today, but unfortunately, my eyes had other plans. I raised my head after a few moments and stared out of my window. I watched miniature cars go by below me, spending a second wondering where each one was going, as Oliver and I used to. I opened my window, letting in the nightly sounds of the Big Apple. For a moment, I let myself imagine Oliver was beside me, his arm slung around my shoulders. Then I shook off the thought, realizing that pretending he was here with me wasn’t a very efficient way to help me move on. I needed to open my mind to new possibilities, not cling to old habits. “I’ll never forget you, Oliver.” The words echoed in my head as I cried. I’d actually said them, the night of the photo on Oliver’s phone. I didn’t know at the time, but that one conversation would replay in my dreams for months to come. “I’ll never forget you, Oliver,” I whispered out loud. I gazed down at the pinpricks of light in the beautiful city, wondering how, surrounded by over eight million people, I could feel so lonely. I turned my gaze onto the navy sky above me. A few helicopters flew by, flashing their bright red and white lights through the darkness. My tears blurred my vision, and for a moment, the lights resembled shooting stars, streaking through the atmosphere. “I miss you,” I whispered to one of the “stars.” “I miss you every day. You were my light, my everything, and now, you’re... now, you’re gone.” I wiped away the tears. “But you’re not really, are you? You’re still here with me. I know it. You’ll always be here with me. Won’t you?” No response. But yet, somehow, I knew Oliver had heard me. “I’m trying to move on,” I continued. “I want to try to get my life back together, and soon. I made some progress with that this week by moving your things from the apartment. All I kept was your phone.” I glanced at the cracked cell on the sill beside me. “Maybe I’ll try to get a new roommate, finish up school. Maybe I’ll even stop ordering takeout every night and pull out my old cookbooks! But please, just know I’m not trying to forget you. I’ll -- I’ll never forget you, Oliver.” I smiled up at the sky. “No, I’ll never forget you.”

Monsieur LeBlanc, the most famous food critic in all of France, had a dirty secret. It was a guilty and greasy pleasure that he could never resist. Despite the fact that he had spent years cultivating his sophisticated tastes, Monsieur LeBlanc loved the simple and unrefined meal of fried chicken. And after this especially difficult week, when his eyes fell upon it as a special on the menu, he surrendered to its crispy temptation. Of course, Monsieur LeBlanc knew that if such a secret was discovered, it could irreparably tarnish his career. But in the divine theater of life, filled with mystery, impending tragedy, and relentless joy, of what consequence could a single portion of fried chicken be? Monsieur LeBlanc had no way of knowing that this simple meal would soon become the catalyst for a series of events that would forever alter his very existence. Monsieur LeBlanc felt a pang of embarrassment when he ordered the dish with his young waiter. But when the plate of golden-fried chicken arrived and the fragrant aroma of its juicy flesh wafted up to his nose, Monsieur LeBlanc was absolutely intoxicated. His mouth began to water uncontrollably as he picked up his fork and knife, ready to savor the first bite. But just as Monsieur LeBlanc was about to take a mouthful, his eyes darted to the other side of the restaurant, and his heart sank. There, sitting at a nearby table, was his arch-nemesis, the renowned Italian food critic Mario De La Fantissimo. If De La Fantissimo caught him indulging in such a humble dish, his days as the most famous food critic in France would be over. With a heavy heart, Monsieur LeBlanc set down his fork and knife, quietly pushed the plate of fried chicken away, and tried to act nonchalantly. He knew that he had to avoid detection if his reputation was to be preserved. The waiter noticed that Monsieur LeBlanc was not eating his food, and with concern etched on his face, he approached the table. "Excusez-moi, monsieur," he said in a soft voice, "Is everything alright with your meal?" Monsieur LeBlanc, trying to remain calm and composed, assured the waiter that everything was fine. He didn't want to cause a scene. “Non, non, tout va bien.” He said softly, “I am just not hungry.” But as Monsieur LeBlanc tried to dismiss the waiter, he noticed that the young man was becoming increasingly distraught. His eyes welled up with tears, and his voice began to shake. "Please, monsieur," the waiter said, "if there is anything wrong with the food, I must know. I cannot bear the thought of you leaving here dissatisfied." Monsieur LeBlanc realized that the waiter knew who he was. His reputation as a food critic preceded him, even in this modest restaurant. Monsieur LeBlanc tried to reassure the young man, telling him that the food was delicious and that there was nothing wrong with it. But the waiter's anxiety continued to grow, and he began to cry loudly, causing other diners to turn and stare. Monsieur LeBlanc felt his face flush with embarrassment. Suddenly, the waiter stopped crying and looked up at Monsieur LeBlanc with a wild look in his eye. "Oh, woe is me!" he exclaimed, his baritone voice rising in a dramatic crescendo. "What is the meaning of life? Is it all for naught? Do we live, and love, and suffer, only to be cast aside by the fickle winds of fate?" Monsieur LeBlanc could hardly believe his ears. The waiter had transformed from a concerned young man into a Shakespearean actor, delivering an impassioned soliloquy on the meaninglessness of existence. "Is this all there is?" the waiter continued, his arms outstretched. "A few brief moments of pleasure, followed by a lifetime of toil and sorrow? Is this the grand design of the universe, or merely a cruel joke played by a capricious god?" Monsieur LeBlanc was at a loss for words. He had never encountered such an outburst before, especially not in a restaurant. He wondered if the waiter was perhaps suffering from a mental breakdown or some other ailment. As the waiter continued his speech, other diners began to murmur and whisper. Monsieur LeBlanc's heart stopped as he noticed Mario De La Fantissimo staring at him with a mocking smile. De La Fantissimo had been out to get him for years and now fate had provided him with the perfect opportunity. A bead of sweat rolled down Monsieur LeBlanc’s forehead. He was desperately thinking of a way to salvage the situation. The waiter collapsed onto the floor, now sobbing again and wailing about the meaning of life. The other diners gasped in shock. Mario De La Fantissimo looked at Monsieur LeBlanc with a mixture of cruelty and disgust before taking out his pen and notepad and starting to write a review. “Je dois agir,” Monsieur LeBlanc said as he leaped onto the stage next to his table which was sometimes used for performances to entertain the diners. Suddenly there is silence and everyone is staring at LeBlanc. "Mes amis,” LeBlanc says in a clear and commanding voice, “despite all the struggles and hardships that we may face, the human spirit remains unrelenting, unyielding in the face of adversité. We are a people of résilience, of fortitude, of hope. And it is this unwavering spirit that imbues all of existence with such beauté and wonder." The diners start to look at each other and slowly nod in agreement, caught up in Monsieur LeBlanc's impassioned words. The aroma of fried chicken fills the air, mingling with the scent of wine and spices. Somehow a dramatic and hopeful cello begins to play as if from nowhere. For a moment, all is right with the world. "As we sit here today, enjoying this simple yet délicieus meal, let us remember to savor each and every moment of this precious life. Let us celebrate the joy of existence in all its forms, from the grandest feats to the humblest of pleasures. For in the end, it is these moments that make life truly worth living." As his speech finishes, he notices that the diners have tears in their eyes. They begin applauding and cheering and throwing flowers onto the stage at Monsieur LeBlanc’s feet. He glances at Mario De La Fantissimo and sees his face has twisted into an expression of jealousy and hatred. As LeBlanc takes his bow the curtain at the back of the stage rises revealing a full orchestra dressed in tuxedos gathered behind him. They begin playing a triumphant melody and the clapping and cheering gets louder. But as Monsieur LeBlanc rises from his bow, he is surprised at the sight of Mario De La Fantissimo approaching him. De La Fantissimo has a formidable appearance: tall and burly, wearing a top hat and a long, black greatcoat. The audience and the musicians become silent as he takes the stage right next to Monsieur LeBlanc. “The problema with this world," Mario declares, rolling his r’s "is that people have a become complacent. They are contenuto with da mundane, da mediocre. They settle for da second best, when they should be striving for da perfezione in all-a-things. This is why we needa da harsh critiques, to remind people that there is always da room for improvement.” He flashes a toothy grin at the crowd, some of whom are nodding in agreement with him. “Mediocrity” De La Fantissimo says, gesturing toward LeBlanc, “shoulda never be accepted!" Monsieur LeBlanc recoils as if he has been struck. He and Mario De La Fantissimo lock eyes. They both are aware that things have progressed well past the point where this can end peaceably. The Shakespearean waiter must have understood this as well because he approached the stage with a silver tray. On the tray are two steak knives. Monsieur LeBlanc and Mario De La Fantissimo take the knives and face off. The orchestra begins to play a haunting melody. The mournful notes of the strings underscore the gravity of the situation, the brass section adding an air of tension and drama. Monsieur LeBlanc and Mario De La Fantissimo begin their deadly dance, their movements perfectly timed to the ebb and flow of the music. De La Fantissimo lunges forward with his knife, but Monsieur LeBlanc is quick to parry the attack. The diners watch in stunned silence as the fight rages on, the music swelling and ebbing in time with the battle. It is as if the orchestra is telling a story with its music, a tale of passion, betrayal, and ultimate tragedy. The blades flash in the dim light of the restaurant. Each of them tried to gain the upper hand, but they were evenly matched in their skills. The battle continued for what seemed like hours, each combatant pushing themselves to the limit. Sweat poured down their faces as they slashed and parried. The only sound in the room was the clashing of their knives and their heavy breathing. That, and the full orchestra. After an eternity, Monsieur LeBlanc saw an opening. With a swift movement, he disarms Mario whose knife flew high into the air and stuck in the ceiling with a twang. Mario De La Fantissimo is at his mercy. But instead of delivering the final blow, Monsieur LeBlanc looked down at his defeated opponent with pity. "You may have lost this battle, De La Fantissimo, but there is more to life than just critique. Food is meant to be enjoyed, not analyzed to the death," Monsieur LeBlanc said, before turning to walk away. But as he did, Mario pulled a butter knife from his boot and lunged forward, aiming for Monsieur LeBlanc's back. With lightning-fast reflexes, Monsieur LeBlanc turned and caught Mario's arm in mid-air. The two men locked eyes once more, each of them knowing that this was the final moment. With a swift motion, Monsieur LeBlanc thrusts his knife with all his might. The blade pierces through De La Fantissimo’s defenses, sinking deep into his chest. Mario’s eyes widen in shock as he staggers backward, grasping at the hilt of the knife. Monsieur LeBlanc steps forward and with a final shove, he sends Mario flying off the stage, crashing onto the table where he had been eating his fried chicken only minutes before. The table shatters under the weight of Mario's body, sending the chicken flying into the air in a burst of crumbs and grease. The once-lively orchestra comes to a sudden halt, and the entire restaurant falls silent. All eyes are on the chicken. It seems to freeze at the apex of its flight. Then it descends, almost as if in slow motion until it lands with a soft thud on Mario's chest. In Mario De La Fantissimo’s final moment, he looks at the fried chicken on his chest, then back at Monsieur DeBlanc, his eyes glimmering as he gives one last mocking smile. Then the life disappears from his eyes, but the smile remains. Monsieur LeBlanc feels a deep sense of shame. How could he have been so careless, so thoughtless as to order something as unrefined as fried chicken? The weight of his mistake bears down on him as the rest of the restaurant looks on in astonishment. For a long moment, nobody moves or speaks. The only sound is the chicken slowly sliding off of Mario De La Fantissimo’s lifeless body and plopping to the floor. Monsieur LeBlanc wished he had been brave enough to enjoy the food he loved without shame. He drops his knife and walks off the stage. He picks up the fallen chicken and places it on a plate, setting it on the remains of the table next to Mario's body. Inside of him, something finally clicks. He then turns to the crowd, raising his hands in the air. The orchestra takes the cue and begins playing something soft and inspiring as LeBlanc addresses the crowd for the final time. "This meal, this simple fried chicken, has taught me something today. It has taught me that we should never be ashamed of enjoying the simple pleasures in life. That we should always be true to ourselves and our own tastes, and not let the opinions of others dictate our choices." The crowd listens intently, nodding in agreement. They have been moved by Monsieur LeBlanc's words, and they feel a sense of connection with him that they had not felt before. Monsieur LeBlanc smiles at the crowd, feeling a sense of liberation wash over him. He has let go of his fear of judgment and has embraced the simple joys of life. He takes a bite of the fried chicken, savoring the flavors and textures that had once embarrassed him. The crowd erupts into cheers. The waiter who was crying before lifts his gaze to the heavens and a dove inexplicably lands on his shoulder. Monsieur LeBlanc finishes his meal, and he realizes that he has won a different kind of battle, one that is fought within oneself. Days later, the news of the incident spread across France and the world. Monsieur LeBlanc is now known not just for his exquisite taste in food, but also for his deadly skills in combat, cementing his legacy as the greatest food critic of all time. But most importantly, he is no longer ashamed to enjoy the simple and unrefined meal of fried chicken.

August 4, 1892 Dear diary, I have awoken this morning with the very same cold that has haunted me for nearly a week now, and I am starting to wonder if I have brought this unending ailment upon myself through my own hubris. The light cuts through the shades and stabs my eyes with a precision I long thought improbable of nature alone. How could this illness possibly prove the result of a weak constitution when my heart always beat so strong? For a while, I was convinced that my suffering could only be the result of a man’s meddling, though who the man behind the meddling might be, to this day I could not say. But I have always known my sheer determination to see me through any trial of nature, so the only possibility that seemed to remain was that of an attacker intent on concealing himself among friends. But now I think to myself, has the world not proven itself a force beyond measure? Nature has taken down many a soul far kinder and more generous than myself. Perhaps this sickness is not the vengeance of a man wronged by my family, but of a vindictive light snuffed when I let myself walk into the darkness. Did I let myself wander into the dark? Have I grown weak hiding from the light for too long? Am I now suffering for my grave misdeeds? I am no longer sure of my conviction. My pain continues, and the light will not relent. I’ve danced with the devil for some time now, I suppose. I can no longer deny the truth of the matter. Every penny in the bank, every prayer around the table, I’ve descended further and further from the nature of who I was intended to be. The light embraces those who rejoice in the natural order, and yet I continue to stand by my family that finds fortune in their artificial shade. Perhaps I let my hope for the material surpass the nature of the immaterial that dictates this world. I could have walked away. But I let the dim become my new norm. I believe it is too late for me to turn back the wheels of fate. Though I write with an energy I’ve not felt since my illness began, I am further convinced with each passing day that I will never recover. Just as the sun never ceases to shine, the world will not let up it’s torment of my shaded, jaded heart. Yes, I feel that my end is near. I fear that my soul shall never find justice or peace. It’s far too late for that now. If I am doomed for eternity, though, let it not be said that I let my fear diminish my final moments of solace. I will bask not in the light that burns me so, but in the life that I have chosen for myself. Family, friendship and fortune are my comforts. I could not have ever pursued another path. My child is here now, and she brings with her a reminder of why I’ve let my soul wander from its nature - as she draws the shades closed and blocks out the sun, I know I would sooner die in the embrace of love than live a spinster life without. The short time with my family was worth any torment that might lay ahead of me now. I wonder what will become of my dearest kin when I am long gone and buried beneath a growing collection of moments past. My love always promised that, without me, he could not go on another day; the words now seem a threat if these are, in fact, my final hours. I fear that he will prove himself to be a man of his word come day’s end. But will the children grow healthy and strong when I am no longer able to demonstrate those very same qualities? They have endured loss before, and I’ve no doubt they’ll endure again. Still, I wonder if these days they have shared with my doomed soul will bring them in turn to the dark. Will they overcome the shadow that my imminent demise is sure to cast on their future? No one is ever free of their past. Not entirely. Try as I might, I know I have never come close to healing their hurts. I know, going forward, my fate will always have a hold over their hearts. I hope that, with time, they will find a way to fill this space I am destined to leave in their home with laughter, with love, and with all the gifts I’ve been lucky enough to find in them. Might they even find their way back to the light to overcome the shadows of legacy and legend. The past will always be there, but I must believe that they can thrive nonetheless. I am beginning to feel drowsy once again - perhaps that is how it feels to come to terms with one’s own mortality - but my child continues to tend to me in my weakened state. I am certain now that I am richer than any of those living in their mansions, flaunting their toys for all to admire. She does not know the illness of a soul corrupt; she could be in the garden, planting and playing and savoring in the sunlight. But she stays by my side. She says she would rather be by my side. I think that she knows my death is at hand as well. If walking in the darkness has brought me to my deathbed, then I am grateful it has not brought me here alone. How strange it is to be here like this, though - for the longest time, I did not even know if she wanted me in her life; now, it is she that tends to me in my loneliest hour. These quiet moments of togetherness make my long descent from grace worthwhile. Even Icarus would have welcomed the fall if she had waited below with arms wide. She is stronger than I had thought she would be. Not a single tear escapes from those ghostly gray eyes as I scribble my final ruminations, and for that I am grateful. I know she will not be broken by my passing - a girl that strong is certain to overcome all of the odds. She will leave her mark on the world. Even nature itself will learn my sweet Lizbeth’s name. But for now, her strength is intended for me and me alone. I hope that, when the end does come, she might find it in her heart to extend to her father that very same strength she’s shown me. Heaven knows that this family will need it when darkness strikes them down once again. From your truly, Abby Bor-

Day 1 ‘Start a gratitude journal’ they said, Well, here it is, started. It’s purposely not credited with any dates, because I don’t expect to be making consecutive entries. But the fact that it is started should qualify as gratitude on some count. Gratitude on their part that I’ve agreed to do it, for a start. I mean, what good is it supposed to do? I’ve certainly not got anything to be grateful for with this burden lobbed on me Day 2 Today started off well. I knocked a saucepan of boiling milk over. It was the last of the milk in the fridge so guess who had no breakfast? The fact that it didn’t go all over me is a saving grace, I suppose, but it tipped over the other way and was nowhere near me. And I had to clean up, which meant I was late for work. The lyrics from that old Blues song by Albert King says it all really: ‘if it wasn’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have any luck at all.’ Born under a Bad Sign: thanks Albert! Does that count? Day 3 That was a week ago now, and nothing much has happened since. Unless, of course, you count my having checked my lottery ticket to see that I had apparently won 10 grand - only to later discover that I'd checked last week's ticket? And I'd accidentally chucked this week's out with the trash anyway so I couldn't have claimed anything if I had won. Still, I expect it would have stopped my knobhead mates bumming off me, so there is that. Day 4 Here’s one to pass by the psychotherapist. There’s this cafe. It's a new place up in the weirdo quarter where everyone goes barefoot, wears rope bracelets, leaves the smell of questionable substances behind, and eats vegetation that even rabbits would wrinkle their noses at. But they do a decent coffee, and the cakes are out of this world. I suspect that some of them would actually send you out of this world, temporarily at least. But I was only there for coffee, so I flolloped up to the counter. It’s the sort of place where you automatically flollop rather than walk. The atmosphere is so laid back it’s almost comatose. Anyway, up I flolloped up the counter to order and stood marvelling at the array of cakes laid out behind the glass topped counter whilst I waited for the drink to be conjured up. The server brought it and I handed over the cash to pay. But my hand was so laid back as to be comatose itself - as was the server’s - and the cash, deciding to have nothing to do with either of these witless appendages, immediately flew into the air, to land with a series of ‘plops’ right in the middle of the dreamiest looking cream cake laid out behind the counter. Where it slowly sank, as we both watched dumbfounded. Throwing me a tight little smile, the server whisked the cake away for a practised shave and lathering of another layer and brought it back, resplendent. This time, rather than risk the same thing happening, she put the cash in a glass dish on the counter top ... well, you can guess the rest. This time the same cake exploded, spreading cream everywhere. The server - and me - gasped simultaneously, and throwing me an even tighter little smile, she stormed off into the kitchen to retrieve the money and left the cake in there. It must have been a major scaffolding job. When I did actually get my change, I put it in the Famine Relief Box.. I thought it best. Well, I didn’t get thrown out - or charged for the cake either. So there is that. Day 5 These psycho-babble people are all the same. The clue is in the ‘psycho’. I mean, you can be ‘grateful’ that you’re not dead or that someone else has got this awful disease and not you - but that’s just life. Or death. It’s nothing you can change. It just happens. It does tend to happen more to some people than others, though, And the psychotherapist can wrap his notepad around this one. I was late for work today for an important set-up meeting because (a) the alarm hadn’t gone off and (b) because I was late, I’d decided to drag the bike out of retirement to make up for lost time (traffic at this time of day is ludicrous so the car was bound to get stuck - a bike would make better sense). The bike hadn’t been used for some time, so I don’t know what I was expecting. The tyres were flat, and after I had eventually found the pump, wheeling it down the lawn the chain fell off. Mechanic I am not. It’s one of these complicated gear sprockets with the chain going all ways but which. Anyway, I finally got it threaded and set off freewheeling downhill. Then I put it into gear ... and everything stopped - except the rider, who absorbed all the considerable momentum of the bike via the handlebars crushing the nether regions. With everything locked, the bike - and me - fell over and were obviously going nowhere. So, I threw it on my shoulder and limped back up the hill to throw it back in the shed. Halfway up the steps the bike snagged on a clematis plant, which got uprooted and the bike fell off my shoulder. Bending to pick it up, the seat of my trousers ripped. Trudging up the lawn with the bike, my feet slipped in the mud - I forgot to say it had been raining solidly for the past three days - and I sat down heaviy on the lawn, in the mud, with my backside hanging out. When I threw the bike in the shed, I also threw a savage punch at the saddlebag. And was rewarded by the merry tinkle of breaking glass as my lunchtime thermos shattered. Now, psycho, where’s the gratitude in that? Day 6 I’ve been reading all this stuff back over the past few days and, you know what? I’ve actually found myself appreciating it. Who knew that I had a talent for depicting real events? Despite the aggravation at the time, viewed in retrospect, how things turned out were quite amusing. I mean, no-one would believe them, but isn’t that what writing is supposed to challenge? I reckon I might do a bit more of this. Day ... God knows when I stopped writing this journal ages ago, for a very good reason. As my last entry suggested, I had a bit of an epiphany so I started exploring an otherwise unsuspected talent. And, you know what? I pulled together all the crazy things that have happened to me over the years, put them in an article and the local regional magazine has only just gone and published it! One hundred and fifty smackeroonies right into the inky fingers of this rookie writer! Thank you psycho. There - you got it!

Two figures walked among the ruins of a town, the rubble still smoking and, in some cases, burning. The air was hazy and gray, thick with a wide assortment of highly unpleasant smells. The figure at the front had an odd lightness to her step, the short-haired blonde meandering down the ruined streets almost as if a tourist. She was dressed in the bright red of an Arturian officer’s dress uniform, a decorated saber at one hip and a polished revolver at the other - though, her chest was conspicuously absent of any medals despite her markings on her collar and cuffs denoting her position as Knight-General. Behind her walked a much more sensibly dressed lieutenant, clad in a professionally-maintained gray field uniform. He seemed far less comfortable than the woman in front of him, having trouble navigating the debris that his superior traversed so effortlessly. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” the woman sighed, a smile on her face. “All these buildings, once standing proud and tall, now collapsed around us, no two buildings fallen the same way... The neat and still aftermath of utter chaos.” “It certainly is a... unique sight,” her aide replied diplomatically. “Oh, no need to hide it if it’s not to your taste,” the woman replied, tucking some hair behind her ear as she bent over to examine a picture frame, the glass front shattered and the picture behind smoke-stained beyond recognition. “Not everyone appreciates every form of art, that’s just the way it goes. Personally, I don’t like reliefs. It’s like someone couldn’t decide if they wanted to make a painting or a statue and made some sort of awful compromise.” “Well, I didn’t want to insult your work,” the aide replied, carefully stepping over a charred arm sticking out from under what seems to have been a tavern. “It’s as much the gunnery teams’ work as mine,” the woman said, standing back up. “All theirs, really. Telling someone to make art is a far cry from making it yourself.” “I suppose that’s very true-” the aide began, before a crumbling and shifting of rubble caught both of their attention. Some dozen feet away, someone coughed, and started clawing their way out from under the rubble. “A survivor?” the woman gasped, her eyebrows rising... before they scrunched back down in annoyance and she started stalking over towards him. “Ugh, it’s like sneezing on a Pordeaux.” The aide watched awkwardly as Knight-General Violet McLochlan pulled out her pistol. He winced a little as the gunshot rang out, and the man fell limp. She sighed, and put her revolver back into its holster. “And it was looking so well, too.” “You know, my father kept a Pordeaux in his study,” the aide offered. “Really?” Violet replied, turning back towards him with slightly-lifted spirits. “Which one?” “Untitled Number Sixteen, I believe.” “Ah, I’ve always been fond of that one,” Violet replied, running a hand through her hair as she contemplated the rest of the destruction around her. “Wonderful interplay of colors.” “Me, too. It always reminded me of summers, for some reason.” “Really?” Violet mused on that, her head lilting to the side as she placed a hand on her hip. “I hadn’t thought of it like that, but I can see it. That’s a beautiful interpretation.” “It wasn’t the original, sadly. Just a reproduction,” the aide shrugged. “Oh, pffft,” Violet dismissed, waving a hand. “Art is art, copied or not. You don’t need to see every individual line from each brush hair to appreciate it. Not everyone can travel around the world to see the originals in museums or in the halls of whatever rich jerk decided to keep it to themselves, so reproductions are a necessary thing! Art that isn’t shared is a tragic loss to society. Partly why I brought you along on this little inspection, if I’m honest.” “Ah,” the aide said awkwardly. “It’s no matter than it’s not to your taste, or even if you don’t consider it art,” Violet shrugged. “I told you before, every person’s interpretations and tastes are different and valid. I think art would profoundly boring if everyone agreed on what art is. Pordeaux himself was criticized for painting abstractions instead of nature scenes, you know.” “Really?” the aide replied, carefully stepping through the rubble to close the distance between himself and the knight-general. “I didn’t know that.” “It happens more often than you think. Art is like fashion, in a way. Tastes change with the times, and sometimes something that people initially hate becomes the next big style. Personally, though, I think certain kinds of art never go out of style. Nature scenes, for example. Not a lot of people make them anymore, but there are a few who make truly beautiful ones. Have you seen Franleist’s work?” “I’m afraid not, ma’am.” “I’ll show you some next time we’re back at the capital, then. There’s a few galleries in Arturia with some of his work. I’m especially fond of the paintings he does of old pre-godwar ruins. There’s something... nostalgic about them,” Violet mused, staring upwards in thought. “I think I’d like that, ma’am,” the aide nodded, re-evaluating what he initially thought would be an awful assignment, destruction tours notwithstanding. “That said, I think we’ve seen enough here. Let’s head back to the transport, and I’ll file my report." “Yes, ma’am." The two turned, walking back the way they came. Behind them, the survivor’s blood trickled down the rubble and soaked into the ash-covered dirt.

The sister was shaking as her hand tremulously unlocked the front door using the key on the small key ring with a miniature slipper. She let herself into the familiar flat and looked around. The light shone in and threw dappled shadows of the tall Parlour Palms gently onto the cream walls. She turned the salt lamp on in the corner and a soft, hazy orange glow diffused through the room. The flat exuded style and taste. She was sure she had left the boots by the entrance- yet there they were by the window: slim, tall, polished and proudly standing. Beautiful brown heeled, leather boots, much like the black stylish panama which was hanging off the coat stand behind the front door. She walked over and slipped off her shoes and then stood in the long brown boots, feeling tall. She then perched herself on the edge of the luxuriously snug sofa and peered down to the river below, sitting on her hands. In a moment, she would get up and make an elegant lunch, perhaps add smoked salmon to a crispy salad, with crusty baguette on the side. Long, dreary prayers a week later were still being chanted at the house, and her family had looked at her wild eyed self; mad they supposed with grief, too restless to remain amongst friends and family in calm supplication for her deceased sister. She had cried, yes. Genuine tears. But it was a week now. And in actual fact, she had had to leave when she caught her Mum’s face smiling at a neighbour who had dropped by to pay her respects, and then instantaneously turn to distress and potential tears when her Mum’s sister-in-law walked over to hug her. That smile and then instantaneous wail had been hilarious! She kept her head concealed, hidden into her scarf to muffle her laughter. 'I need to be alone' she managed to get out, and then fled the family home, face covered and down. Such a deep love between the sisters, mourners were mumbling as she put her plain, black, flat shoes on in the corridor. The chanting of prayers continued, and she left the house to find the Volkswagen. She had not allowed for the notion or the space of being able to mourn for long. While her sister had lain in hospital, she had aggressively been seeing to her poor sister’s every wish and need. ‘She doesn’t want to talk, she’s feeling unwell. She says thank you for coming. She wants to be left in quiet- she’s not feeling up to visitors’. Her sister had been quite touched with such tender devotion at the end as she rapidly wasted away from the illness which had now clamped down upon her. How her darling sister had lovingly handled all of her correspondence and letters, outstanding bills, unfinished obligations. She had sat over her, brushing her hair away from her dying sister’s eyes, stroking her cheek, moisturising her sister’s skin as it grew more wan and pale; it was like gazing into a mirror. The flush and rose hint to her cheeks had been reduced to tired browning blossom, its colour turning sallow and fading away. Her poor sister didn’t even have the energy to speak or recognise anyone before long, but must have felt cherished to the end. Delicate flower that she was. Her erratic written requests had promptly been scrunched up and carefully thrown into the waste bins outside the room. She wondered, sinisterly, if her sister was hovering above her now, watching her, observing her, noting her actions, her intentions, her motivations; eyes narrowed and regarding her with the same suspicious wariness she always used to. A rook landed outside on a branch and she stood up promptly to shoo it away. She could taste the grilling baguette as it browned nicely in the oven, and swallowed back a mouthful of nauseous, bilious unease. She stopped, and supposed, and surmised. Her sister had always forgiven her so much, as any loving, three minute older sister should. Like the time they had been 8, and Yazmin had told Rainie when they had been walking home with their Mum from school, how the shattered glass at the bus stop looked like sugar. Silly observation. And so that evening Rainie had taken a clear glass bangle and crushed it with a rolling pin she had taken from the kitchen. Quietly, on a sheet of newspaper while she kept the bath tap running so it wouldn’t be heard, she had then taken the crushed glass remains and delicately, with diligence poured it from the fold of the newspaper, discreetly into the sugar bowl from the kitchen cupboard, meticulously and with great care. Of course the screams the next morning had been horribly horrendous. She had looked interestedly on as blood had poured from her parents’ and sister’s tongue, and had then smoothly rolled the blame onto her sister. ‘She told me the broken glass at the bus stop looked like sugar. Isn’t that funny?’ with an earnest expression. In the end the weekly cleaner had borne the brunt - a new girl who scowled behind their Mum’s back, Rainie said. But Yazmin had never looked at Rainie with fond eyes since - though she never said anything openly to her. Neither, thought Rainie, had their Mum looked very fondly upon her again. Since then, Rainie wore her envy for her sister around her like a tightly intact, steel armour, from which she silently judged, examined, and critiqued her. They both had long, wavy black hair that cascaded down their backs, and slim, defined figures, straight teeth and pleasing smiles. But if one looked closely, a very tiny, unseemly wrinkle appeared under Rainie’s eye at odd moments, such as when she frowned or looked worried, which Yazmin never had. Yazmin was practically perfect. The relationship was fast dissipating between the two sisters by the time they had reached their A levels; the casual acts of careless cruelty from younger sister to older were getting easier and easier. Yazmin almost lined up the high points or joys of her life like dominoes; so easy were they to knock down. When Sammie, the son of their father’s friend who also happened to be in their A level Maths class had been messaging Yazmin, and was obviously, magnetically drawn to her like a bee to the honeycomb, the way he gazed at her incessantly and accompanied her to the bus stop and around college had irked Rainie no end. As though he needed to be in the canteen when she was, or discuss the same programmes on TV as she watched, like he watched exactly the same programmes and with as much zeal as Yazmin. Huh. Therefore it had been easy to take her phone, which Yazmin left unlocked, and message Sammie back one day and then delete: ‘I think I need a break from our time together. I’m too occupied with stuff. I’ll let you know when I have more time.’ Sammie had glared at Yazmin and been gruff and cold with her from then on. Yazmin shrank from the rejection and became inadvertently hurt and injured to her core. Moped for days, didn’t comb her hair - dishevelled and dismal. Common looking for once, like a trampled daisy. All for a guy? Yet Sammie had never turned to Rainie with a smile or a chat when there was a perfect window for her. What was the difference? They looked the same. Perhaps Rainie dressed worse, or wasn’t as amusing or entertaining as Yazmin. Perhaps she didn’t think of the right retorts at the right moments. To Yazmin’s delicate floral notes, she knew she was wilted and dry. Try as she might with offhand greetings and anecdotes, Rainie could not charm him. The phone suddenly rang and she looked down at it as she fished it out of her bag- their Dad. ‘Dad?’ ‘You left so early.’ ‘I wasn’t feeling too well.’ ‘My poor daughter’ his voice caught as he sobbed. She wanted to reassure him, everything would be okay eventually. She would give him the love of both of his girls. So many years left for him-he was only in his 50s, far too young to lose a daughter. She would make it up to him. This was her purpose now. She felt herself fused into a strange, intertwined, unnatural identity. So much upon her shoulders- she was the powerful Janus, bestower of love and comfort to her parents. Now her cunning competence and capability would save the family. She would be the provider of security, love and dependability. She would be masterful in her silver - tongued eloquence. ‘See you tomorrow Dad’. Her verbal skills and confidence in them already waned. Rainie felt most unexpectedly now this current boyfriend made her skin crawl; his kisses and over eager arms spread all over her, his encircling, suffocating presence always requiring her to talk, or just sit in comfortable silence while he was just there. She had imagined the warmth and closeness of the boyfriend would have been richly satisfying; instead it all felt soulless and empty, dull and dreary, like a pair of little gold earrings that had lost their shine. His startled expression now hung in front of her eyes, the drained, face depleted of any warmth when he had said to her the other afternoon, while kneading the back of her head as though it were a hunk of dough, : ‘What a falling off was there, hmm?' Something so random and odd! Rainie just smiled back weakly, murmuring: ‘hmm’, and had somehow wrongly responded. ‘Well?’ Oh. I’m not feeling well.’ He had blanched at her explanation, and looked painfully puzzled. * Anyway, it had all started out as a twisted joke, because when Mum came and looked down at her sister in the hospital room, all love and tenderness in her eyes: ‘Rainie?’ Rainie had simply answered: 'Yes she's resting Mum’ . That’s how the idea had dawned upon her. It was planted - it hadn’t been her idea.

Matthew, do you recognize this photo? Should I? Yes. After all, you took it! I didn’t take that! Why would I take a photo of what looks like a small bowl of half-eaten raspberry jello? Because you often take photos of food or other things I’ve never thought worth the effort. I’ve always found that a tad weird. Oh I know. I know. Don’t say it. You’re a photographer and see photos where others, like me, just see objects. But that said, how do you know it’s raspberry if you don’t even remember taking it? Like, maybe it’s strawberry jello? Well, whatever. Still, if I took that photo, when did I take it? 44 years ago today, Matthew. On a very important day: March 31, 1980. Er...you mean the night before Addie was born? Correct! I was in labour and labouring. I’d been in labour over 40 hours and they kept giving me epidurals for the pain which slowed everything down even more. Remember that? Well yes, but I don’t remember taking the photo. I’m guessing the nurse had brought you the jello but you didn’t feel like eating it? Exactly! Actually, I was surprised you photographed it instead of eating it. You said something about it being a way for us to remember everything about a day as important as the birth of our first child. Besides, you were having trouble staying awake through so many hours of labour so you had to do something besides listen to me moaning and groaning. Ringing any bells now? Sort of. But after all, Martha, what do you expect from an 82-year-old man? That was 44 years ago! And many thousands of photos later. You know, after you proposed, you told me you wanted to record our entire life in pictures, and you weren’t kidding. That’s why we still have boxes and shelves filled with enough photos to wallpaper this 2800 square foot house! And here we are needing to get rid of stuff so the kids aren’t left with a monumental job when we’re gone. Now, which of them will get the significance of a bowl of red jello? They weren’t even born yet! Well, Martha. Think of the photo as still life. Not every photo has to be of beautiful scenery or people or... Of course Matthew, but I have to say that in the 50 plus years we’ve been married, I’ve often been amazed as to how you see a photo in say, a bowl of jello, or mushrooms growing out of a bathroom ceiling in some old hotel in Maine, or a greasy trailer hitch, or... What trailer hitch? When did I photograph a trailer hitch? When we travelled down the California coast in the second year of our marriage. We were camping. You’d had several beers on an empty stomach while pitching the tent and you tripped over the hitch. I can still hear the expletives. You slammed your shin good and properly. When you settled down you grabbed one of your several cameras and took a photo of the hitch to record “another important event worth remembering”. Ha ha. Yes, I do remember that now you mention it. See, that’s the beauty of always having a camera handy. Photos help us remember. Even when they don’t, right? Sorry for laughing. Do you recognize this photo? Of course! I took that one of you sitting on those rocks looking at the Atlantic in Newfoundland. Gee, you looked hot in that red string bikini. I couldn’t stop posing you. How well I remember! My backside was so sore from the jagged edges of the rock sticking into it every time you made me change position till you got the angle you wanted. And it wasn’t enough to take several photos with one Nikon. No. You then grabbed your other one loaded with black & white film and took several more, before you decided you wanted some slides as well and grabbed your third Nikon...all while I was trying not to slip off the bloody rock into the ocean! I wanted to throttle you. Oh Martha...stop being so dramatic and making me feel bad. I’d just get carried away when I was taking photos...especially when the photo was of my beautiful new bride. There you go sweet-talking me again Matthew. Was that the day we started to drive back to the main road and those young kids were pointing at our car and shouting, trying to tell you that you had left all three cameras on top of the car? Yep. I nearly had heart failure. You weren’t the only one knowing how much those cameras cost! But, there was one other time on that honeymoon trip that I really wanted to grab your camera and hurl it into the sea. Let me guess. Prince Edward Island, right? Right! Different bikini... Blue with polka-dots? Yep. It was more than my bikini that had polka dots that day after you kept me standing up to my waist in the water while darn sand flies and sea lice feasted on my legs, belly and buttocks for 20 minutes! I’ll never forget the red dots that appeared everywhere that night and itched for weeks! Well, I was standing in the water too and had a few nips myself if I remember correctly. Yes, but you were standing in water up to your ankles and not to your waist! But just like these days, you never notice mosquitos while I’m being eaten alive, you don’t suffer with allergies like I do. Talk about suffering for art’s sake...except I was the one who always ended up suffering! Oh, it wasn’t always you suffering Martha! Do you remember when we had the studio and I had to cover this huge wedding in the country and I had constipation for three days before the wedding? Oh shoot, yeah! Well “shoot” isn’t quite the right word. I’ll never forget when the urge finally got me just before dinner and I ran for the toilets. Oh the blessed relief when the blockage released. But then it wouldn’t stop coming. I was sweating and ready to hurl with nausea as well, and the smell! I’ll never forget it. Then I made the mistake of trying to flush...and it flushed...all over the top of the toilet, down the sides, all over the floors and was heading for the doors to the reception hall. Worse yet, members of the wedding party along with guests were waiting to use the toilets. Some were cracking up laughing. Others were disgusted and I was embarrassed to hell and back. Now THAT was suffering for my art...and our livelihood! Well, fortunately, the bride and groom were very understanding and it didn’t lose us any business. Yes, but there was one other time we did lose business. Oh, when was that? When these two well-dressed couples came into the studio for a portrait just after I’d purchased a lovely long posing bench...and I hadn’t finished tightening the back legs on the bench. Do you remember what happened? Remind me. Well, both the ladies were rather big women so I got the ladies to sit on the bench and their husbands to stand just behind them. Then just as I said “Ok folks. Give me your best” , the darn back legs on the bench gave way. All I saw was two ladies going backwards and two pairs of chubby legs fly up in the air. OMG! Did you snap the photo at the moment they were giving you “their best”? No. Nor did we ever see them again. They left in a huff. Well, I can’t imagine why. That was a “snapped” moment in more ways than one, Matthew. Yeah...and even though I was mortified both times, I still burst out laughing whenever I remember them. Oh, BTW, speaking of remembering, you do know what tomorrow is, right? Ummm...oh, of course. April 1st. Addie’s birthday! Right. And trust Martha Banter to be the one to give birth on April 1st. Our poor Addie has had to live with that Banter Blooper for 44 years now!

Prone to overthinking, Craig was having to keep himself in check. After 11 months with Vanessa this was their first Valentine’s Day and his friends had asserted that her expectations would be high. But the card and flowers he’d chosen had hit the sweet spot of extravagant, elegant and beautiful. She’d loved them. Everything was going well. Until she presented him with his card. “Thank you for the last 11 months,” she’d written. “I love you to the moon and back,” His heart swam. Yet, his head wouldn’t settle. “Dude, this isn’t good,” his subconscious murmured. “What? What do you mean?” he thought, concerned. “You mean... er...” his subconscious was flustered. “It... it doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything,” “Go on. What is it?” “It doesn’t matter. It’s just me. You know what I’m like when we’ve had a drink. Please forget I said anything. Just enjoy the evening,” Vanessa leans in, and they kiss. She takes a picture of the flowers to send to her friends and mother before they snuggle into the sofa to watch the evening trickle away in front of the TV. “Mum says you’ve done good,” Vanessa says, after her phone bleeps. “That’s one down,” he replies. “Hopefully your girls will think the same,” “They’re a tough crowd, but I think you may have just done enough,” she says, rubbing his arm. Sinking into the sofa Craig feels calm, peaceful and content. “Well, I say it doesn’t matter,” his subconscious chimes in again. “It kind of does,” But Craig doesn’t respond. Love Island has begun and the beautiful people begin a task called ‘The Good, The Bad and the sexy’. Had people worn the garments on display here, the old west would have been rife with sunburn, chaffing and yeast infections. “And when I say it matters, what I mean is it’s A REALLY BIG FUCKING DEAL!” “What the hell’s going on?” “She doesn’t love us anymore,” his subconscious sulks. “How d’you work that out?” “Look at the card. What does she say?” “She says she loves us,” “No, look closer,” He picks up the card to scan the inside. Noticing this, Vanessa snuggles in closer. “You’re just a big softy you aren’t ya?” she says. “Yeah, that’s me,” “She says she loves us to the moon and back,” he replies to his subconscious. “Exactly! There’s a clause,” “What are you talking about?” “Think about it. If she loved us unconditionally, then she’d have put just a simple ‘I love you’ or ‘I love you lots’. But here she loves us a finite amount, ‘to the moon and back’. Not any more than that! Sure, she’s chosen a beautiful planetary body, but it’s literally the closest one to us. Uranus is further, and she’d have scored more points for comedy value if she’d put that,” “You’re being paranoid. It’s just an expression,” “Am I? *Am I*?” “Of course you are. Look at her,” together they look down at Vanessa, her head resting on a cushion on his thigh and a hand resting on his knee. “You don’t have this level of intimacy with someone you’re looking to chuck,” “I’ve got one thing to say to you... Gemma Crichley,” Craig flinches. Aged 17 at a party in Danny Jackson’s house he’d spent hours holding Gemma’s hand, putting in the ground work, only to return from a beer run to find Jonathan Hunter plying her with Bacardi Breezers before sticking his tongue down her throat. “This is completely different,” “Is it? *Is it*? Just watch her,” Back on Love Island the cowboys are saving their damsel’s in distress in the traditional fashion. Each has to untie their partner from railway lines using their teeth before sweeping her up and kissing. In speedos and chaps. “There you go, did you feel it?” it asks. “Feel what?” “Her heart beat faster when that guy with the fancy hair came on. She clearly fancies him,” “So, what if she does? Everyone fancies someone off TV,” “True, but look at him. He’s well over 6 feet, big muscles and with no identifiable hair on his body. He’s some sort of human 2.0., how can we compete with that?” “We don’t have to compete with that. This show is not representative of society. They’re selected because of their physical features. They aren’t going to put someone ‘normal’ on TV because people think it doesn’t sell. But, she doesn’t compare us to them in the same way that we don’t compare her to... Scarlett Johansson,” “Bullshit, and you know it! Everyone compares everyone to everyone. Your hair matters, your clothes matter, the size of your pecker most definitely matters. Anyone that’s says it doesn’t is a liar or an idiot,” Craig fidgets. Not wanting to admit it to himself, but something in those words had touched a nerve. He tries to shake it off, but the guy with the hair is back and trying to be funny. He can feel his bile rising. When you have low body fat then surely you don’t need to infringe on funny. To make matters worse, his really obvious punchline had everyone falling about. Vanessa chuckles. “You couldn’t have got away with that kind of joke. You’d have to Bill Hicks the shit out of something to even crack a smile,” The chuckle turns to a full-blown laugh. “All that needs to happen is for her to find him funny. That’s the first in. She fell for you because of your sense of humour, but if someone else can out-funny you, then it all boils down to who brings it physically. And can you compete with that?” Despite his staunch resolve, Craig can feel his common sense being sodomised by the crazy phallus of his subconscious. Every single imaginable situation where he had seen Vanessa conversing with a man was now being analysed - the Amazon delivery guy that always gives a lingering wink - the Barista who’d asked her if she liked it milky - the green grocer that suggestively handed her the cucumber. “If you are right, and I’m not saying you are. Then what should I do?” There’s silence until his sub conscious replies quite matter-of-factly. “It’s simple. You do something spectacular!” “Spectacular?” “Yeah, you can’t sit back now, you’ve left it too long. We’re beyond the point of no return. You have to go nuclear,” “Shit!” he thinks, chastising himself for sleeping through all those Richard Curtis films. What could he do? Did he know how to go full-on nuclear? Or could he just dirty bomb? Better still could we get away with something far less spectacular, but be carbon-neutral? He shakes himself, trying to remember what his original train of thought had been. “Oh my God, that’s hilarious,” Vanessa says. Craig doesn’t know what he’s missed, but it’s something to do with the guy with the hair and it’s substantial enough to get her up from his lap, laughing on the edge of her seat. “He’s *so* funny,” she says. “We’re screwed,” it whines. Then, out of nowhere, inspiration strikes. The idea materialising so fast Craig gasps internally. “That’s it!” he thinks. “What? What is it?” it enquires. His subconscious is alive, fidgeting and clambering to gain some insight into what Craig is to do but gets nothing, he’s being driven by pure instinct. “You ok?” Vanessa asks, as Craig bolts upright. He turns to face her, still trying to find the right words. “Craig?” she enquires, concerned. “I’m fine. In fact, I’ve never been better,” he says, stepping forward and taking her hand. “Over the last year, I can truly say that I’ve never been happier, and it’s made me realise that I never want it to end,” and with that he gets down on one knee. “Go on, mate!” it yells. “So, will you marry me?” It’s only for milliseconds, but the shock on Vanessa’s face is real as she absorbs what’s happened. This momentous thing. Before, her face erupts into delight, and she flings her arms around him. “I will,” she squeals. They embrace and kiss, long and affectionately. Momentarily the world is blissfully quiet. “She’s smothering us,” it says.

There was tension in the air, the way it always is when summer bleeds into autumn and the two seasons combine for a few trembling days. There is something about those days - an undercurrent of trepidation and anticipation - that leaves both man and beast unbalanced. Night had fallen, and the forest was thick with darkness. The moon offered some of its pale light and left balsam fir and black spruce half-visible as terrible, looming shadows. The trees edged closer the further you ventured into the forest until even a grown man could find himself plagued by the disquieting thought that he was slowly being entombed. “You sure it’s out there?” Hendry said. Somewhere in the shadows, hidden bodies rustled the undergrowth and the eerie sound of a nightjars churring trill trembled in the air. “Joseph.” Joseph raised his head and met Hendry’s eyes across the campfire. “It’s out there,” he said. While Hendry kept his eyes on him, Joseph grabbed the stick by his side and poked the fire, rousing a small swarm of embers. Hendry muttered something inaudible and took a sip from his flask. He’d not seen the man for many years, but then a few days ago he’d looked up from the bar and seen him sitting there at the other end of it, holding a glass of amber liquid and staring straight at him. Seeing Joseph after all those years had unnerved him. When people left, they should stay gone. That’s what he’d always thought. There was something arrogant and disruptive about the act of returning to a place after a long absence. Time and community is to history and memory what the ocean is to pieces of sea glass; it polishes facts and smooths out specifics until they’re pleasing to the touch. Disparate memories, opinions and perspectives blend together until a collective understanding of the past becomes an integral part of each person’s character and shapes their understanding of the world and their place in it. But when people leave and then return, their shards of glass have been shaped by distant, foreign waves. They remember things differently, and such persons can be dangerous. Sometimes their memories retain a cutting edge. Hendry would have left the bar, had Joseph not downed his glass and crossed the floor before he had time to react. With barely a greeting and no reference to his sudden return, Joseph sat down, ordered Hendry a drink, and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse; a chance to take down the Spirit Moose. At the first mention of the creature, Joseph had his full attention. A monstrous moose was rumoured to be living deep inside the forest. It was said to be the colour of fresh goats’ milk and be twice the size of a black bear, yet sightings were rare, and their level of veracity was difficult to ascertain. Some people thought the Spirit Moose was a nothing but a myth. Others thought that it was not corporeal in nature, but a representation of the spirit of the forest itself. A third group of people, to which Hendry belonged, believed that the elusive moose was not only real but that its milky hide and heavy crown would make whoever caught it a very pretty penny. Joseph told Hendry that he’d been trapping hares in the forest when he encountered the moose. It had appeared without a sound and he’d recoiled when he looked up and found it gazing at him from a short distance. It was a chilling sight, bright white with milky antlers twice the size of a well-grown man and obsidian eyes as large as two fists. At first, Joseph thought it was spectral in nature and wondered what horrible meaning he was to take from the sight. But after observing him for a few trembling moments, the moose turned around and slowly walked deeper into the forest. When sticks broke under its enormous hooves, and branches moved as they brushed its back, Joseph realized that it was flesh, blood and bone. He quickly pursued the moose, who at first seemed to take little notice of him and kept moving at a leisurely pace. But after he’d followed the moose for nearly two hours, the moose suddenly picked up its pace and vanished. Joseph tried tracking it, but despite its size, it left little trace. He spent a few more hours aimlessly searching the woods and was ready to give up when he came upon a beautiful swimming hole. After washing his face in the cold water, he suddenly noticed the bite marks on the surrounding trees. His limbs trembled as he rushed to study them. On some of the trees, the incisions were clearly old, while others were still bleeding sap. Other trees bore the marks of the beast rubbing against them, and on one of them, he found something stuck to its rough bark. Without taking his eyes of Hendry, Joseph had reached into his pocket, pulled out the tuft of bright white hair and put it down on the sticky surface of the bar. “You supply the hunting gear, I lead the way, we share the money. We leave tomorrow at dawn. ” Hendry resented the way Joseph had assumed he would agree to the offer, but the promise of wealth proved stronger than his ire, and now he found himself deep within the woods with this unsettling man. They’d spent most of the day’s journey in tense silence. Hendry wasn’t much of a talker himself, but it was something about Joseph’s silence that seemed too deliberate. He’d offered no explanation of his sudden return, apart from tersely revealing that had been back in the area for about two months. He said nothing about what he’d been up to over these long-lost years and nothing about what he was planning next. “I’m off for a piss,” Hendry said and took a short swig from his flask before standing up. Joseph stood up too. “Hand me some of that?” Hendry reluctantly passed him the flask, then walked outside the small circle of light, and stared into the darkness as he relieved himself. When he turned back, Joseph was rummaging through one of the bags. He handed Hendry the flask and then kept troubling the contents of the bag until he found a chunk of dried meat. He sat down next to Hendry on the rough log next to the fire and pulled out his knife. Hendry found their sudden proximity somewhat oppressive and shifted slightly on the log. Joseph cut off a strip of meat, handed it to Hendry and cut another strip for himself. Hendry chewed the tough meat and washed it down with another drink off his flask. They were close. They would reach the spot long before noon and then it was just a matter of waiting. Then - A sudden prickling sensation interrupted his thought process and he looked down on his forearm. To his disgust, he discovered that a long, spindly trunk had penetrated his skin and was quivering slightly as it drew his blood. The body of the mosquito was slowly filling up and resembled a horribly swollen, blood-filled blister, ready to burst. Without warning, Joseph’s hand cut through the air and struck the engorged insect. Hendry made a face at the sight of the smeared blood and mangled body parts that clung to his arm and looked up at Joseph, looking both perplexed and aggravated. “I don’t like mosquitos” Joseph muttered. “Nobody fucking does,” Hendry said. He used his fingernail to scrape the remains of the mosquito off his arm. “Just keep your damn hands off me.” “I don’t trust them.” Hendry gently rolled the squashed body of the mosquito between his fingers, then flicked it into the fire. Perhaps he shouldn’t have resented the oddly strained silence. Not if this was the alternative. “You don’t trust them?” “No, I don’t. Who could trust a beast that does not bleed its own blood?” “Jesus...” “You don’t find that distinctly unnatural?” “I find you unnatural, blathering like a bubbly-jock. ” Joseph shook his head. “Consider that we find this moose; it’s as large as a bear and as white as bone and as you take your shot, you can taste the gold and silver it will bring. But then, the taste turns to copper. As the bullet rips through skin and flesh, and blood gushes from the wounded beast, you feel yourself growing faint and cold. Then, you grow colder still when you realize that the blood spilling on the ground is none but your own.” “How the fuck is that anything like a damn mosquito?” Hendry snapped. Something about the toneless yet determined way Joseph spoke unnerved and angered him. “You can’t deny it’s an unsettling thought.” “It’s damned nonsense.” Hendry took a sharp swig from his flask and stared into the dark woods. “They do call it a Spirit Moose,” Joseph said. “Who’s to say what enchantments it holds? I’ve heard it can’t be killed. Some say a hunter killed its mate, and now it's searching the forest for its lost love. They say it’ll be searching for eternity.” “You’d do best to keep your mouth shut.” Hendry spat. “I’ve heard of strange things happening in these woods. Hunters being lured to their deaths by strange figures. Womenfolk disappearing into the forest on the backs of bears. ” “You’ve lost your damn mind.” “I’ve seen stranger things happen.” Joseph stared at the fire with a strange look that sent an unwelcome chill down Hendry’s spine. “I’ve travelled across this country and beyond for ten long years. I’ve seen many wonderful and terrible things. I’ve seen beautiful women with black tongues that roll out from their mouths hang to their feet. I’ve seen a bear with the face of a hideous hag that wept pure gold. I’ve seen the spectre of a young bride eat the heart of her widower.” He cut himself another strip of meat. “I’ve learned that some things are not meant to be understood.” “I hope you’ve gathered more than stories on your journey,” Hendry said dismissively and suppressed a shiver. “Don’t worry, “ Joseph said and stared into the dark woods. “I’ve got everything I need right here in this forest. “Aye,” Hendry said, following his gaze. “That moose will bring us a fine prize.” “I always meant to come back home,” Joseph said. “ I thought that if I left, I could find better work and make some real money. When I’d made something of myself, I’d come back and marry your sister. Of course, after scarcely a year I got the news that someone else was bestowed that honour.” He was quiet for a moment. “I was sorry to hear what happened to her.” Hendry replied with a short grunt. “God rest her soul, “ he added. “I’m sorry for your loss.” “Aye, well. It was a long time ago now.” “I suppose so,” Joseph said. “ How’s her husband faring these days?” Hendry gave him a sharp glance, but Joseph didn’t seem to notice. He just kept staring at the flames. “Not so well. He’s dead, “ Hendry said. “Oh,” Joseph said. “Well, I suppose I should have expected as much. Time is relentless. We’ll all go that way one day.” “God willing, we won’t,” Hendry muttered. “The man was murdered.” He gave Joseph a long look. “You being back here some two months, I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.” Joseph was silent for a moment before speaking. “I heard something of it. I suppose I just didn’t realize it was the same man. I never knew her husband’s name.” He sighed. “What a terrible way to go.” Hendry didn’t answer, he just took another swig of his flask. “I hear he was quite fond of gambling. You can make a lot of enemies that way.” “I wouldn’t know,” Hendry replied. “No? Not a gambling man yourself? Anymore, that is. When you were younger, I remember you didn’t seem to mind a game or two.” “Just what are you implying?” Hendry said. He gave Joseph a hard look. “Nothing,” Joseph said. “I meant no offence.” Hendry took another sip of his flask, but the alcohol didn’t satisfy him the way it usually did. As he studied Joseph through the corner of his eye, he thought about the hunting knife he kept in his belt. “Perhaps it was the work of a spirit,” Joseph said. “Aye, perhaps the Spirit Moose cracked his skull open,” Hendry said in a mocking tone. “Perhaps,” Joseph said without humour. “Or perhaps Audrey ate his heart.” Hendry didn’t show any emotion but slowly moved his right hand to the hilt of his knife. “Once I’d heard about Audrey’s accident, I had no reason to return home. I spent years travelling from town to town, sometimes working, often begging. I’d lost all purpose in life. All because of a spooked horse.” Joseph looked up at the sky.“ As you know, I learned many things on my aimless journey. But nothing compares to what I learned just a few months ago. In a bar, far away from this cursed place, I saw something I’d never expected to see; an old acquaintance. Arthur Morris, perhaps you remember him? He said he left town around the time of Audrey’s accident to marry a distant cousin in the south. Well, as we got to talking, he revealed something quite eye-opening. You see, I’d been told my Audrey was kicked to death in the stables by an unbroken horse, but Arthur seemed to remember it differently. According to him, Audrey’s husband was prone to drinking and slapping his wives around. Apparently, he’d had two before Audrey, but they'd both met an early grave. One fell down the stairs, the other down an old well. Terribly bad luck, don’t you think? So, after bidding Arthur farewell, I naturally began my return home.” Hendry tried to grip his knife, but his fingers were numb and slapped against the hilt like stuffed sausages. Joseph sighed. “Once the villain was dead, I thought I was finished. But after hanging around the area, I discovered more about that time. I learned that around the time of Audrey’s marriage, you owed the old man a fair bit of money. I hear he and his men were starting to give you some trouble. As I said, gambling can make you a lot of enemies... ” He pointed to the woods. “Oh, look. There it is. The Spirit Moose.” Hendry’s throat was closing up and he wheezed with each strained breath. He followed Joseph's finger, and there it was, looking at him through the trees. It was as white as bone and its massive antlers were big enough to freeze Hendry to the core. “But it all worked it somehow, didn’t it?” He paused. “Look who’s riding it. Isn’t that Audrey?” Hendry’s head felt like it was on fire. His arms hung limply at his sides and his lungs were slowly turning to stone. But there was nothing wrong with his eyes, and he saw that riding on the back of the moose was Audrey, all dressed in white. “It was either your blood on the floor or hers on the wedding sheets, and you made your choice. You sold her like cattle. Knowing what had happened to the other wives. Knowing she would go the same way. Hendry couldn’t have answered him if he wanted to. He stared at moose and its terrible rider, and suddenly other shapes started to appear behind them. Three beautiful women appeared before his eyes and gave him a big smile. As they parted their lips, their long black tongues fell to the forest floor. “Look how they bleed,” Joseph said, and Hendry saw wounds opening up all over the body of the moose. Blood poured out and soaked the skirts of Audrey’s dress. She began to weep thick, crimson tears that slid down her face and mingled with the blood of the moose. Joseph reached for Hendry’s flask, which had fallen to the ground. He held it up and studied it. “I met a woman once who said she could give me everything and anything I desired. I told her the only thing I wanted was irrevocably lost to me, but she insisted. She sat me down in a hut and gave me a cup of tea.” Joseph got up from the log and turned to face Hendry who was wheezing for breath and still staring into the woods. “There’s a root that grows deep in the Amazon. It’s a powerful hallucinogenic. Makes you extremely susceptible to suggestion. The woman used to dry it out and grind it down. She put it my tea and told me what to see. And I saw it. I saw her.” He threw the flask down in front of Hendry’s feet. “I spent every penny I had, visiting her. For years, I only worked so I could afford to go back to that hut. It’s the closest thing to magic I’ve ever experienced.” He bent down and picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Of course, you have to be incredibly careful. In large doses, it’s quite toxic.” He looked at Hendry with a concerned expression. “Oh my... does that not hurt?” Hendry finally tore his eyes from the forest and met Joseph’s gaze. His eyes were glazed over with pain and terror. “All your flesh is falling off your bones,” Joseph said. With that, he turned around and disappeared between the trees.

# [SF] BELLA Turning the bracelet over and over in her hands, Bella, sitting on the corner of the bed, took two large deep breaths. She was risking a lot just holding the smart bracelet. She took another deep breath and opened her mouth to issue the command. Before any sound came out, she heard a noise and instinctively she threw the bracelet to the back of the drawer and covered it with her underwear. It was silent now. Had she heard the scraping of shoes on the floor or was it a door being opened? It didn’t matter now. The sound had vanished and when she turned around there was no one there. Bella stood, straightened her clothes, then went to join the others in the leisure room. Liam came up to embrace her, almost as soon as she had entered the room, and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. She knew it was just for show. The affection didn’t seem to come so quickly once they were in their room, alone. The two of them joined the others on the battered old fabric sofa. It must be a hundred years old, Bella thought, as she squirmed and moved about, trying to get comfy. The others sat back, looking relaxed and at ease. Bella couldn’t stop thinking about what kind of germs could be on the sofa. It had been almost one year since Bella and Liam had arrived at the organisation’s headquarters and she was feeling increasingly claustrophobic. Although they had joined their local branch of the organisation separately, it was together that they had moved all these miles to settle at the headquarters. Bella had joined the organisation just to spite her mother who she seemed to be at constant logger heads with over one thing or another. Usually over what she was wearing or who she was choosing to befriend. Bella, who had always had a rebellious streak thought that attending one of the organisation’s meetings would anger her mother. She was correct and the angrier her mother became, the more meetings Bella attended. Liam, on the other hand, attended the meetings for the cause. He was from a poorer area of town to Bella and the growing divide between rich and poor angered him. He was very angry at the government and Bella often heard him declaring statements such as, “Destroy the director,” and “Anarchy rules.” The Director was the leader of the country and Bella had thought he was quite a nice man. She must have been bad at reading people because everyone here hated him. She had thought Liam was passionate about the cause and she knew her mother would despise him. So, when Liam had invited her to a protest Bella didn’t think twice about joining. The thrill of attending something she could get in trouble for excited her and she enjoyed the fact that she was one of the only members who came from the richer side of town. Everyone wanted to talk to her and ask her questions about all sorts of mundane everyday things. She adored the attention. Liam, it became apparent, wanted her attention the most, and she was quite happy to let him have it. Thinking back, Bella wasn’t sure she really knew what the organisation stood for in those days. She attended the meetings purely to annoy her mother and relieve the boredom of her normal life. In the early days, Bella merely followed Liam’s lead by joining him on protests or accompanying him to meetings. The change was gradual. At first Bella had turned up to the meetings, hung around for a bit, then once she was bored returned home. The rules were so insignificant in the beginning that she barely noticed them. Rose, one of the ladies that had been a member of the group for a very long time happened to mention to Bella that the group preferred it if you didn’t use social media too much. Bella didn’t take much notice. Then Liam had discussed with her the ins and outs of owning an android. He mainly mentioned the negative points. It resulted in Bella and her mother having an explosive argument when Bella wanted to disconnect the household’s robot. By the time Bella and Liam had become a couple, Bella had stopped using any social media and was not in contact with anyone other than the organisation’s members. She had even quit her studies as Liam said the government were using the online teaching platforms as a way to brainwash students. Bella didn’t think she could be easily influenced by the government, but Liam was adamant, and she wasn’t that interested in studying to go against him. Today, as Bella sat on the sofa in the leisure room, the noise from the chatter and from the scraping of chairs as people sat down or rose to leave, was making her head throb. Finding it increasingly hard to listen to anyone, Bella make an excuse to leave and went in search of somewhere quieter. Finally stumbling across a small room at the end of a corridor, it seemed the perfect place to escape. There was a large armchair in the corner and all the walls were covered head to toe in jammed packed bookshelves. Bella quietly closed the door behind her, hoping no one had noticed her enter the room. She wanted to be alone. To have complete peace and quiet. Sitting down, she risked the germs on the chair. It was comfy, really comfy. She felt like she might melt right into it. Bella took off her sweater so she could fold it into a makeshift pillow and rested her head against it. She felt tired. The headquarters was not a place anyone could easily find sleep. Even on a night-time when Bella and Liam were alone in their room, Bella could hear footsteps and muffled voices as people passed along the corridors at all hours. Liam, of course, seemed to have no problem sleeping and could go from wide awake to practically unconscious in what seemed like an instant. As she rested her mind drifted back to the Smart Bracelet. If she could find a way to sneak out of the headquarters building without being noticed then maybe out in the surrounding grounds, the bracelet would find a neighbouring internet connection. That’s if there was any connection close enough as the headquarters was situated so remotely, she could walk for a whole day and not find another building. Bella desperately wanted to contact her mother. She didn’t care if her mother shouted or screamed at her. A tear rolled down her cheek and Bella wiped the wet that had landed on the back of her hand. She wondered if her mother would charge across the country to bring her back home. Or perhaps she had demolished those bridges and her mother would simply have nothing more to do with her. Hearing thundering footsteps, Bella sat up, alert on the edge of the chair. The door to the small room swung open and there stood Liam, red faced with anger, two halves of a broken bracelet in his hand.

I remember how at times when I looked at her she always seems so sad and so lonely. She’s too beautiful in my eyes to ever weep and cry. She was new to the celestial beings, they called her Earth. When she was introduced all I could do was just stare. She was so beautiful and stunning she was the person I fell in love with before I even knew it. The being didn’t appreciate her they hated her for the way she was made. She was superior above them they felt threatened by her, they decided to push her away and seclude and isolate her. They were harsh and scared but unlike them, I couldn’t leave Earth alone. When there wasn’t a meeting I would sneak off to see her, though she didn’t know I existed, I would often leave her gifts they were small. I would give her flowers, or maybe an animal so she wouldn’t be so lonely. Shortly after, the beings took noticed of these rather odd and lively gifts, they grew angry and wanted to spite me, these gifts I gave Earth all had an “expiration date” on them to say the least. My anger boiled inside. I went to confront them about this. They kept saying they created me and if I disobeyed they could destroy me. Even after the warning I couldn’t stay away from her, but more I visited her I realized she grew more depressed, her tears started to flood over creating waterfalls. That’s when I knew I had to make her happy again. I pondered how to for a few days when I realized I had to create a creature that lasted longer then a year. I knew this would be the limit for the beings but I didn’t care about how I would end up as long as she was happy and her tears would stop. When I Gained up my courage I let out a sigh and went to the council and asked for permission. The first answer was no. Who would have guess? But I wasn’t ready to give up. By the time I convinced them I had to make a deal with them. The deal hurt but if it made her happy then I didn’t care. “I’ll let you give her this creature, you should not be seen by her, you will be planted on a star above her to keep you away. The Final part is when the humans can sustain life for themselves you will start to disappear from this existence. For this is your deal Life. ” Universe spoke and demanded. “Yes Universe. I accept this deal. “ I replied the shocked I felt from hearing I’ll be erased spread through me it gave me seconds thoughts but It was already too late As I concluded the deal I gave life to earth in the form of a human. I was placed on the star and watched Earth smile more and more as some cared and some didn’t. Through the millennia’s I watched as the humans grow and I felt my body get weaker, by the time I fade I would be remembered, these creatures called deer took my form and stayed close to earth.

**It’s a small place in a suburban area of my hometown in East Germany. It’s peaceful with mostly senior citizens, polite yet quietly judging, well connected in the neighborhood; therefore, word travels fast, and people get cautious like a cat rotating its ears in unknown territory. I was already on my way back from the supermarket when I heard: “General personal control, ID, please.” coming from an officer standing inside the sliding doors of the police wagon, which had just rushed down the street screeching its tires. His flashlight still in my face, as bright as the sun on a hangover morning. I reached into my coat pocket, handed him the piece of plastic that told me I existed--Johannes Baris, 24 years old with grey-blueish eyes about 175 centimeters tall, born in the state republic of Germany.** **“Here you go .”** **“Have you ever been in trouble with the law ?”** **“No, I haven’t; mind telling me what this is about? “** **“Just a general personal control. “** **At this point, I already guessed that ́s connected to recent burglaries in the neighborhood. Someone stole expensive gardening tools from a wooden shack nearby, and of course, they generally control the only mid-twenty-year-old in an eight-kilometer radius.** **“What’s in the backpack? Mind opening it for us? “** **“Groceries, bike tubes, and tools to fix it; I usually ride my bike, but the store is close by, so I just happened to walk there.”** **“Where do you come from? Where are you headed? “** **“ALDI, I ́m heading home .”** **“No, where were you before ?” he asked with a particular annoyance in his voice.** **His colleague intervened, “You live around here ?”** **“Yes, just over there. “ I pointed my finger towards the pre-war build with a facade that looked like an overripe cantaloupe.** **“I see; mind if I check your wallet; do you have any forbidden substances, weapons, or objects that slice or pierce? “** **“No, I don’t, just a bunch of change and old receipts .”** **“I can feel that; why do you carry so many coins?”** **“They just pile up. I ́ll get rid of it soon .”** **After their squad had a good laugh and made gestures about lifting my wallet like a dumbbell, they handed me back my ID, which they previously ran through a system to see if I had a felony or anything like that, suppose.** **My pulse was calm, and my blood pressure below average.** **I opened the door with my keys; I haven’t been living here for too long, so I always mix up which key is for the entrance to the hallway and the apartment.** **Phrases always help me, so I made one up:” Round for the ground, square goes up there .”** **I entered with the square, traded my shoes for slippers then put the product in the fridge. Dairy to the lowest compartment paired with vegetables and fruit, meat, and other processed foods in the middle row, beverages on top, it just looks right that way. I read in a magazine that the fridge cools different based on its compartments, that milk should be in the middle or top row together with ready to eat food or pre-cooked meat; raw meat, fish, and poultry to the lowest. This article made sense to me since they also mentioned veggies going in the veggie drawer, but bad habits die hard like a can full comfort, which I depend on more than I ́d like. I go out on the balcony and reach for my pack of smokes, which I always place in my coat’s left chest pocket. The front shows a golden pyramid with a faded Marlboro logo on it, which seems relatively shallow below the graphic picture of a tumored tongue saying “smoking kills, “ a European standard to prevent people from smoking, yet I see the gas station clerk twice a week. It ́s a treat for me, having a smoke during a work break, on my way to catch the last train, after I get home around 1 a.m. paired with a small glass of Suntory whisky, another habit I picked up after moving places.** **I wouldn’t call it a home but a venue where I sleep, eat, spend my free time make the best out of what’s left. The theatrical play of my private life is moving. Drama, silent amusement, melancholia are the stylistic means that set the tone for whoever lives here. I stare into the sky while I blow smoke into the night, trying to remember the star constellations we learned in school. It ́s clear, seven-degree Celcius below zero, crisp winter air replaces the nicotine while Duke Ellington plays “The Star Crossed Lovers.” A sound that calms my soul and reminds me of a naivety that I loved but lost, which used to set my world on fire but doesn’t light me up anymore, a real home, a reason that let me see things through to the end. What hurts me most is not the loss of her but the ability to love without questions, believe without asking twice, and be manic about shared time. It ́s a beautiful feeling to love even more than being loved, communicating problems, being an outlet, creating experiences. I enjoyed clinginess more than independence, her happiness more than my own, serving instead of being served. Wanting to be needed made me thrive, led me out of my comfort zone successfully, created the blueprint for my happy ever life.** **It was a sleeping mask, and I woke up. I found myself by myself once again, which is the only constant in life, I know. Every morning when the sun rises, a new day begins, a new white canvas and billions of possibilities to create a new piece of art. Yet the same picture, resembling a Pierre Soulages. Not as refined, but brushes, color, perspective, and emotions are the same to an untrained mind. Sometimes I feel bitter like the green tee’s first infusion; I always pour away.** **I settle in my queen size bed for the night and try to read a few pages of Haruki Murakami ́s “South of the Border, West of the Sun. “ while being wrapped up in my sage green covers. Marry lays in between my legs as she always did, curled together slightly tilted to the side. Her small paws are facing towards her well-fed stomach, her eyes are squinted, and her tail is stuck between her legs. Every time I move a bit for more comfort, she lets out a small meow as if to signalize that I should just go to bed.** **Among all the things I curse at for being present in my life, sleep and cats are what I ́m thankful for having.** **After a night full of tossing and turning like usual, I wake up around 7:30 a.m. just in time to witness the sunrise this Saturday morning. The colors of the horizon play beautifully peaceful not even a bird can be heard over the sound of silence. Different facets of red, pink, orange, and yellow remind me of those display fruit baskets at malls. I check for emails or any other communication outside those four walls that make my bedroom, but there is nothing, just a blank sound that turned into white noise and an earthy taste in my mouth.** **Still somewhat dazed and tired from my night that was supposed to be restful, I walk towards my work desk to sip water from the half-empty bottle situated next to my computer tower. As I swallow, the taste gets worse and overwhelming. I can barely breathe. Am I having a stroke? “Should I call an ambulance ?” is what I thought, but all I could do was wave my hands as my mouth seemed to be sealed. I walked towards the kitchen to get on my balcony to wave for help, but it was already too late; the taste of moss and decaying acorns overcame me, and I released what wasn’t supposed to be in my system and threw up right over the ground as I held my stomach. My eyes were wide open as I ́d just seen a ghost or had a near-death experience, which it really might have been.** **The floor was covered in soil and grass, not a single sign of half-digested food remnants. The pressure in my stomach had left, but the exhaustion was beyond what I would usually even feel after a long day of work.** **The last thing I remember are my feet slipping away; I must have passed out and fallen to the ground. Why else would I lay there in the middle of my spacious kitchen, surrounded by potting compost?** **I got up and looked around to spot the time, but I haven’t come around to hang up any type of clock in my kitchen; I rely too much on my phone. I hear a rustling sound and playful meowing coming from my bedroom. Marry must be playing with the screw cap that I had let loose while trying to get help. Well, and then there is just this pile; I have no idea how it even got into my system. I walk towards her with heavy steps holding onto the walls of the hallway. I can hear her playing under my bed. As I go down on my knees to take a peek, I realized that the cap, which I assumed she would dribble in joy, was lying right next to me; So I checked, and it wasn’t but a chestnut. In January, just two weeks after New Year’s eve, I moved in around November. Was it from back then? I can’t remember bringing any in, not even as a toy for her. I got up again just for a metallic shine to get my attention like I was some sort of raven or magpie. To the left of my vinyl player right next to the window, situated on an IKEA shelf surrounded by cacti, which I had carefully replanted a few days ago, laid a garden spade. I hadn’t put it there, and I honestly don’t even own one. I just use my hand wearing gloves when replanting.** **The tool looked relatively new, with no scratches, dents, or roughed-up edges, just covered with a thin layer of dirt that would be easy to brush off.

I want to speak but I’m no longer sure there’s anything to say. Every thought in my head, every movement of my lips, every word that comes out has all been said. I am tired. I am so fucking tired. All I want is to rest my fucking eyes but there is stilling something I need to say and I can’t fucking figure out what the fuck it is. I just want to rest. There must be something left unsaid or maybe I have not yet heard someone else say it and so I think that person needs to be me. But all that enters my mind are thoughts stitched together from a million other ideas others have said and I can’t hide the stitching. I want to rest. I am so very tired. But it still has to be said. Maybe there is nothing. Maybe I have been convinced that I have something to say. That in me there is a voice that is not the echo of those who stood before me. Still I must speak. If I don’t then I can not rest. I can not sleep. I wonder if they see it in my eyes. Do they see the bags and the lines? Do they see the ache of my bones? Do they see the belt married to my neck or the bottle in my hand when my face falls below the surface. I am angry. I am so fucking angry because I jsut want to sleep but they won’t let me do that simple fucking thing because I still have something to say. But God I don’t fucking know what that is. I know that one day I will die because I killed myself. It will not me today and it probably will not be tomorrow. But I have begun to fear that I will never rest and God I am so tired. I have heard of respite in the arms of another but I have felt none. I have lied to those that have held me but I can not speak the truth to them. I want them to sleep. To not feel tired. To feel as I do. But I fear I bring this disease on them. I have been told to give up on finding something to say so that I might find rest in this flesh but I can only pretend to have done so. My soul tugs at me to open my mouth and to speak. It sits there and it claws and it tears away at my sanity until I blurt out nonsense to feel relief. Like a man under the blade I lie and blabber and falsify so that I might have some rest. I let it all free and I breathe. For a moment. But they look at me and tell me I still have to say something. I want to be free. I want to break the fetters of my predecessors in thought and culture and family have placed on me because I can’t stand to keep fucking lying. Where are the words? I fear there are none. I fear that I must find what is to be said deeper inside of myself where there is no language but when there is no language what is to be said. Damn the bastards who have set the precedents of culture and thought and language and desire and duty upon me. All I have ever wanted was to rest but my whore of a mother decided there was to be none. Not for me. She was so damn kind. She would not let harm befall her child and yet she left us defenseless to be preyed upon by that damn bastard. But all he did was what every man does. That stupidity reeks and I will never be released on its stench. And I am angry. I am tired. The bastard son, I stand as a scarecrow. Zeno thinks well of the strawman. But the wind tears away at the cloth and the rain sets stains below my eyes and time rots the wood that holds me up. My hands and feet have not been nailed but lashed by the words of those before me. I am tired. I want to rest. But still something must be said. My throat is sore. There is no respite for me.

(this story was inspired by the metro series) I was scared It was pathetic honestly, I wasn’t even the one about to get shot in the head in fact I was going to shoot him in the head, so why was I so afraid of something that wasn’t even going to happen to me?, I was scared of the fact that this will be the first human life I’ll take. I lay in bed that morning dreading what was to come, dreading the knock on the door to tell me to get up and shoot a man, all because we found out he was a traitor, it was even worse because he was my friend I didn’t want to do this god please, I prayed to whatever god still existed until I heard a knock then a voice telling me to get up, it was time. I followed him in the dimly lit tunnels that we called home, children running and playing while their parents watched, or friends getting together for a meal, and people begging for just a coin to put something in their belly, but I wasn’t focused on that instead I focused ahead on the taller man leading me to that place, we finally arrived he turns the crank and the metal door opens with a creak and inside I see our leader standing, a revolver resting in his hand, I look ahead and almost puke at the sight of my bloodied and beaten friend tied in a chair, his ragged and heavy breathing made me worry that he could die any second, but he wasn’t dead yet. The general nodded at the taller man silently telling him to leave us be, he nods back and closes the door, the only sounds left in the room are the breathing of my friend in the chair and the light above flickering every once in a while. The general looks me dead in the eye and hands me the revolver, “do it” he tells me “kill this traitor to show your loyalty to our group”. I take it and slowly walk up to him, he looks up at me and smiles, I see no hate in his gaze I sense nothing at all, I only see regret and sadness, I put the revolver against his forehead and cock it, “do it” he says in a whisper, my hand shakes “please” he begs tears streaming down his bloodied cheeks, “I’m okay if it’s you” his voice is breaking now, and he looks straight at me, I choke back a sob and close my eyes as I finally steady my hand and pull the trigger. I wish that was the last, but he was the first of many more I’ve killed so many I’ve lost count, killing changes a man eventually you become used to it but is that a good thing? To be so comfortable taking another person’s life, they could have had a life, friends, family maybe even children and you come along and take it from them. I took only one more life after that, my own.

Hello all. I've been working on a bunch of short stories for years now, writing and re-writing them for nearly ten years. The current state of the world has relieved me of any excuse to avoid my story ideas. Since most of the ideas are, by now, around ten years old, I updated many of them. The one I'm posting here is one of the originals and used to be much longer and less mature. The titular Bone King in the story is not referenced as such, the name of the story is a call back to the broader fictional universe in which it takes place. Any constructive criticism is welcome, keep in mind English is my second language. That being said, I hope you enjoy the story. ​ "You call that digging?" Taunted Ezra. He had just returned from fetching a bottle of water and some snacks. The sun rode high in the sky and, though the boys and their dig site were shaded by the thick prosopis trees that grew like weeds in the dry river bed, the heat pressed down on them mercilessly. "Ag! You took your sweet time, didn't you?" Said Dirk, leaning now on his shovel. Sand clung to almost every exposed bit of his skin. "Maybe you should show me how it's done then." With this Dirk threw the shovel at Ezra's feet and struggled out of the sand pit. "I guess I'll have to." Said Ezra and jumped into the pit with shovel in hand. Dirk sat himself down on a nearby stone and grabbed a handful of dried beef from the sack that Ezra brought as he watched the older boy dig shovel after shovel of sand from the pit. They had come upon this spot just a week before while hunting birds with their slings. Dirk had tripped over what he thought was a stone and, upon further inspection, found it to be the tip of a carved stone. The boys concluded, after trying to dig it out with their hands, that it must be a rather large boulder and agreed that they would come back with better gear the next weekend. Now they have been digging for most of the day and the tiny exposed stone has turned into a massive, carved rock that was part of a larger rock formation buried in the sand. In time the boys were able to see a dark, hollow space behind the carved stone and concluded that it must serve as a seal to some cache or cave. “Dirk!” Called Ezra some time later. Dirk had gone to relieve himself behind a shrub. “Come see, Dirk!” Called Ezra when the other boy did not respond immediately. Dirk came running, his fly only half way closed. “Woah.” Dirk slid down into the pit and came to stand next to Ezra. The older boy had managed to expose the stone and, using the shovel, levered it to one side. Before them stretched an abyss deeper than they had expected. The sunlight that penetrated the thicket above them faded ineffectively into the darkness. “Well?” Said Ezra, placing his hands expectantly on his hips. “Well what?” Dirk tore his eyes from the void to look quizzically at the older boy. “Aren’t you going in then?” asked Ezra as if Dirk plunging blindly into the dark was a given thing. “Don’t be stupid, Ezra.” Said Dirk with a nervous laugh. “What, are you scared?” mocked Ezra. “Scared of the dark?” “Well,” answered Dirk, “why don’t you go if you’re so brave?” “I guess I’ll have to.” Said Ezra. With this he reached into his back pocket and retrieved a small flashlight that Dirk had not noticed before. Ezra clicked the flashlight on and pointed it into the darkness. The light fell upon more carved stone and showed a passage high enough for a person to walk upright in. A bend not far into the passage obscured it’s true depth. “Shouldn’t we find a grown-up first?” Asked Dirk apprehensively. “And have them send us home to ‘play cars’ or something so that they can have all the fun? No way!” With this Ezra stepped cautiously into the cave, sweeping the torch along the stone walls to reveal strange and ancient carvings. Dirk watched his friend go slowly deeper into the cave, torn between his apprehension to enter the unknown, claustrophobic space and his own curiosity. “Are you sure about this?” Asked Dirk. The passage seemed to absorb his voice as it does the light. Ezra, who was by now almost at the bend in the passage, stopped and turned to his friend. “Don’t be such a coward, Dirk.” Said he. “*Coward dirk*” came the echo from deeper in the darkness. Ezra chuckled. “See, even the cave knows.” “*Knows”* said the echo. “Come on already.” Said Ezra and began to disappear around the bend as the passage echoed “*come*”. “Ezra!” Called Dirk, panic creeping into his voice. “Scaredy Dirk, scaredy Dirk!” Came to mocking voice of Ezra. “*Scaredy Dirk*” came the echo from further in. The light from the torch moved for a moment longer as Ezra moved out of sight and then retreated. Dirk paused for a moment longer at the entrance trying to muster his courage. Finally he willed himself to move into the passage. “Ezra!” he called, feeling his way along the walls. Dirk could see the faint glow of light still around the bend, but there was no answer. By the time Dirk reached the bend where last he saw the glow of the torch, there was no sign of Ezra. Instead he saw only the glow somewhat further away. “Ezra! Wait up” Called Dirk just as the glow disappeared around another bend. “*Scaredy Dirk”*, came the answer faintly. Once more Dirk forced himself forward, feeling with his hands as he went. He could feel the strange figures carved into the stone and the motion of his hands moving over them in sequence almost made it seem like they moved under his touch. “Ezra!” Called Dirk again, though now he was choking with panic. There was the faint glow seeming just out of reach up ahead and, from behind and all other directions, the darkness pushed in on him as black, cold water. “*Scaredy*” came the answer again, a little closer now. Dirk pushed onward toward the glow, not so much consciously as much as being propelled by the darkness swallowing the passage behind him. Finally he thought that he was gaining on the light. “*Dirk”* came Ezra’s voice again. “I’m almost there, Ezra, just wait up!” called Dirk. The relief in his voice was practically tangible. Dirk rounded another coil in the snaking passage and stepped into the light of Ezra’s torch. In front of him a pile of rubble partially blocked the passage, though it left a large enough space for a person to crawl comfortably over. Ezra’s head peered out from the other side of the rubble and his hand hung, relaxed, over the pile. Dirk saw Ezra’s face and knew that the older boy was mocking him. His eyes were comically wide and he grinned from ear to ear. His head bobbed from side to side as Dirk approached him and his arm, still holding the flashlight, swung limply, making the shadows dance ominously around. “Yeah, I know.” Said Dirk. “You could have waited, you know!” “*Scaredy Dirk*” taunted Ezra, his head bobbing side to side. “Ag, piss off!” Yelled Dirk, shaking from the adrenaline. “*Pissssssssssssss*” came the answer, though it was now less like that of Ezra. With this the older boy seemed to begin to struggle over the pile of rubble and, when he had reached the top, Dirk saw that he was backwards and his head was turned at a strange angle to stare wide-eyed at him. Then the body of Ezra slid limply down the side of the pile, the flashlight came loose from his grip and came to rest at such an angle to cast its light back toward the rubble pile. As Ezra’s body came to rest at Dirk’s feet, his eyes staring wide, wild and empty up at the frozen boy, Dirk managed to tear his eyes from Ezra’s face and saw the bloody mess of his torso. His belly was torn open and his bowels snaked out of him and seemed to slither in a bloody trail back over the rubble from where he came. “*Pisssssssssss*” came the voice again from beyond the rubble and Dirk looked up. There came crawling over the pile another figure, pale white, nearly transparent, in the light of the flashlight. From where he stood Dirk could see blue veins snake across the thing's horrible flesh. The eyeless, naked thing could have resembled a human only if it were reconstructed from incomplete remains by a being that has never seen one before. A dark, shiny liquid stained its mouth and clawed hands. As it crested the rubble pile it paused and, though there was only more nearly translucent flesh where its eyes should have been, it turned to Dirk as if it saw him. “*Pissssssssssss*” Hissed the thing in a twisted version of Ezra’s voice and, as it started to crawl down the pile toward him, its eyeless visage still fixed upon him, Dirk did.

*Disclaimer - this story contains sexual themes and graphic descriptions of violence. Churches are strange places. The Church of St. Augustine’s in the small village of Ramswick-on-Tye was one of the few churches that hung onto its Norman origins. It had beautiful ornate stained glass windows, hand carved pews and a golden lectern that would make the pope green with envy. One Saturday morning, after the completion of Mass, Father Luke was praying quietly at the altar when he heard the heavy wooden doors swing open. He ended his prayer quickly and stood. Stood in the entrance was a young man that Father Luke guessed was close to twenty one. “Good morning my son” Father Luke spoke warmly “How can I help you?” “I need to talk to you Father” the young man replied. He was on edge. “I mean...I need to confess”. “Then let us not waste any time” Father Luke indicated towards the confessional. It was an ornately carved confessional with the faces of cherubim in the doors. “Bless me father, I have sinned. It has been sixteen months since my last confession” the young man replied after entering the confessional. “Tell me all that currently separates you from God’s glory and love” Father Luke replied “Let’s start with your name first”. “My name is Jonah Wallis” he responded “I’ve not long turned 21 and I have done something terrible father”. “Calm yourself Jonah” the father comforted “Just start from the beginning. What sin are you confessing?” “Sins” Jonah clarified “The first is the sin of adultery and the other is the sin of murder”. There was a silence. Father Luke had heard many confessions in his years, but never one of murder. “Go on, my son” Father Luke finally spoke. “Well, it started when I met this woman. She was the wife of my brother’s teacher, Mr Elgin” Jonah began “I was stunned by her beauty and began to think about her often”. “There is no harm in thinking about people, or even being stunned by the beauty. Providing you didn’t...” “My thoughts affected everything I did father” Jonah interjected “I imagined how good she would look...” “I get the image” Father Luke interjected “So you had desires for Mrs Elgin?” “So I work at the local post office behind the counter, and one morning she walks in, looking like a Hollywood glamour girl. She puts her letters on the counter and asks for them to be posted”. Father Luke tries to picture Mrs Elgin. The mental image he has corresponds with the one that so infatuated Jonah. “Go on my son”. “So, I start talking to her, about anything. She finds my jokes funny and even invites me to join her on my lunch break”. “She tempted you?” Father Luke was surprised. “She took her lunch at the same time I do. She works for old Mr McGuinness at the bank” Jonah replied “So, we go down to the river and eat our lunch. As we talk, she kisses me. I then kiss her back”. “Oh my dear boy!” Father Luke exclaimed “How far did you go?” “To the point where I ended up meeting her after work and using my spare change to book us a room in a hotel to meet”. Father Luke was blushing. All his years in the clergy had made him come into contact with all the forms of the physical sin, but Jonah’s were proving a struggle. “Go on my son” he replied. “One day Renee, I mean, Mrs Elgin arrives late” Jonah started to sound worried “She said that Mr Elgin was suspecting that there was something going on. He’d found the broach I’d bought for her”. “Oh dear” Father Luke remarked. “She said that we needed to be careful. Mr Elgin had a violent temper and would likely attack me on sight if he knew I was sleeping with her” Jonah sighed “So after we had made love, Mrs Elgin suggested that we meet every two weeks until her husband’s suspicions had died down. I told her that I couldn’t last without her”. Father Luke soon became aware of footsteps in the main church. The clacking of high heels suggested it was a woman. “I may have another confession to take shortly my son” Father Luke spoke softly “But I’ll wait until you’ve finished”. “So she said that I should come to their house that evening when her husband went out to play cards with his friends. I snuck into the house and we made love in every room. It was magical. But...” “He returned early?” Father Luke guessed. “Yes. I was terrified” Jonah stated, conscious of his breathless state “So I hid in the wardrobe. She dressed quickly and sprayed her perfume to disguise my cologne. He entered the house and I heard a scuffle. I snuck out and watched him raise his hands to her. I acted out of impulse. There were a pair of scissors on the dressing table. I rushed up behind him and without thinking, plunged them into his back. He toppled over the banister and landed in the hallway. I wish to God there was a way I could wind the clock back". He began to weep. "I wish that I'd never done this!" Father Luke was speechless. Here was a young man he’d known as the village’s faithful post office worker, reduced to a sex-driven murderer. “Your sins are grave my son. But say eight hail Mary’s, six our Father’s and go around the rosary for every time you indulged in the sin of the flesh. Then get from my sight”. “Thank you father” Jonah whimpered. He left the box and walked out into the main church. Father Luke was saying a quiet prayer to himself when he heard Jonah having a conversation with a woman. He left the confessional only to find Jonah stood with a woman wearing a black veiled hat and a shapely black dress. “Mrs Elgin?” Father Luke asked. Jonah turned to face Father Luke, and sure enough Mrs Elgin was stood there. The Black Widow herself. Father Luke offered a comforting smile. “My deepest condolences”. “Thank you father” she replied “I was just being comforted by Mr Wallis here”. “How can I help you?” Father Luke asked. “I need to make a confession” she replied, as she walked past Jonah Wallis, she gave his bottom a pinch. “It’s a very terrible sin I’m going to commit”. “Going to commit?” Father Luke hadn’t banked on what was going to happen next. Mrs Elgin had a small black handbag on her left arm. She opened it and retrieved a small calibre pistol. She pointed it at Father Luke and without a second’s hesitation, pulled the trigger. As Father Luke lay on the floor, bleeding out. Mrs Elgin walked over to Jonah Wallis and they kissed. “You were wonderful darling” she purred at him “We’ll definitely get away with it now”. “What do we do with the body?” Jonah asked. “I’ve already contacted my cousin in London to raid the church to make it look like a robbery gone wrong”. “I love how you think of everything” Jonah kissed her again. As they walked out into the sunshine, Jonah realised that he was at peace. Something about confession was...refreshing.

“When I was a little girl,” she began, “my parents would take me to the beach every weekend in the summer. Some days there would be a jellyfish swarm after a full moon, or a garbage barge would overturn, and we couldn’t go then, but most weekends we went. “My mother packed a cooler with cheese sandwiches, tangerines, iced tea and all that. My father carried our big beach umbrella with a pastel blue and pink pattern. I had my own little folding beach chair, the kind with snaps and straps to wear like a backpack. “Our small two-bedroom apartment was, like, a 30-minute walk from the beach. The street we took, Oceanview Avenue, ironically did not have a view of the ocean until we rounded this obnoxious apartment building. Then you saw it in all its splendor. An unbroken vastness that stretched for hundreds of miles up and down the east coast. The sand wasn’t the luxurious white like from the southern islands, it was course, golden and very warm. “Probably very similar to the sands from your home, the city in the Scythian desert. Did you know the deserts of Medina were once prehistoric seas? That was an exceptionally long time ago... “Anyway, blue-green water stretched farther than my young mind could comprehend. Neither snack cart nor hawker with a yoke of cotton candy in plastic bags could distract me from the sparkling sea. I would help pick the space for us to settle. We came earlier in the morning, and so, set up in a quiet spot between the breakers. I pretended to be a dog to dig the hole for the beach umbrella. “Even in the summer, the ocean temperature was cold, so I had a system of getting used to the chill. I stood in my one-piece bathing suit at the water’s edge and let the foamy, bubbly surf touch my toes. “I let the waves bury my feet in the sand. I imagined sinking ever deeper. It was a comfortable feeling. I could stand there and stare at the glimmery distance forever. “Once I got the green light to swim from my mother, I grabbed my goggles and splish-splashed in until I was up to my waist. From there, I dove under the first wave. Did you know that the ninth wave is usually the largest? It’s true, look it up. “Sometimes, I would sit at the surf and make drippy sand castles or dig for sand dollars and sea shells. I had quite the collection at one point. But more importantly, the rhythmic motion of the cool water washing over me was ... impactful. “Hours later, back at home, when I lay in my bed, the churn of the sea continued to affect me. I felt the waves pass through me as I slept. My dreams were filled with visions of endless, peaceful oceans. “At first, I only experienced the after-motion effect after swimming at the beach. Later, it continued as summer turned to fall and I returned to school. I felt the powerful current push and pull my body in the tub during bathtime. “I can’t remember if I was afraid or concerned. It didn’t feel malevolent. When I mentioned it to my mother, she brushed it off as a part of my over-active imagination. “On perfectly sunny days, I heard the dripping of water. Memories of the beach frothed up inside of me and gently condensed into droplets. I listened closely and heard the howl of the sea everywhere. My hands were in my pockets, but my fingertips felt the pitter-patter of rain. “My dreams turned pale and incoherent. I believed my brain fluid had been replaced with pulsating sea water. Hydrocephalic symptoms manifested. I was a small stream connected to the rivers of the cosmos, and my head was caught in the eastward flow toward the ocean. “One winter night, unable to resist the current any longer, I snuck out of my apartment and ran to the beach. Exhausted, I took off my coat, boots, and pajamas, and stood at the edge of the water. The night was exceptionally clear and the stars seemed so close that I tried to reach up and touch them. “I laid down on the sand and let the icy waves rush over me. It took my breath away. It was so cold that I almost gave up, but my body was completely numb by then. I was buried deeper into the coarse sand. The light from the stars above rippled. The frigid water forced its way into my nose, mouth, throat, lungs, stomach, intestines... “There on the beach, I fell into a deep sleep and dreamt of the Deep Sea. “I was shown the next great age. The age of a boundless ocean that covered the entire world. I swam from pole to pole and circumnavigated the equator, never breaking the surface. Colossal underwater volcanoes oozed glowing red rivers of magma. I traced the molten rock to a great lavafall that spilled over the edge to darker depths. A long time passed before I felt brave enough to explore the Great Abyssal Trench. “Ancient and powerful beings undulated in the darkness far below. I only ever caught glimpses of them. Ghostly creatures with humanoid faces and pale bodies like giant eels. They writhed in the deep. Tentacled beings suspended motionless in the gloom, carried by the current. I was moved by the profound tranquility felt in this cold world. This dark and gentle place. “I dove down to the footprints of ancient cities, the last flooded artifacts of humanity. When I picked up a foundation stone it disintegrated in my hand. I never visited the cities again. “I explored dense forests of sea vegetation and curled up to sleep inside the skulls of slain sea titans. I etched my gathered knowledge of the Deep Sea world onto the inside of these skulls. I discovered pieces of arcane writing inside caves that lead to the core of the planet. “At first, I could not decipher the scrolls, but since they resisted corrosion, I knew they were written sometime during the Deep Sea age. I continued to gather knowledge and eventually was able to translate the first few paragraphs. The scrolls described an origin point, the pathway connecting this sea to other seas across the cosmos. “Unfortunately, that’s when the dream ended. I awoke at sunrise on a beach I didn’t recognize. My family was gone. My previous life was gone. My body hadn’t aged and I remembered every detail of my long slumber. I received purpose and knowledge. “And here you are, helping me achieve my purpose. The brine in your blood brought you here. You’re caught in the same cosmic current, unable to reach shore. I can’t help you, I have to complete my research and find the origin point.

Jason opened the passenger door emblazoned with black lettering advertising " F and F Antiques - PHONE 371- DEAL" . He climbed into the seat of the late model 1998 fire-red Ford-150 truck with great care and excitement, making sure he hadn't tracked in any mud. The vehicle had all the bells and whistles and a matching enclosed utility trailer hitched to the back. Freddy Foster, the proprietor of the business and deluxe transportation package, slid behind the wheel. He started the engine and pulled into traffic. Freddy wasn't tall or handsome, but maintained a crisp and neat appearance. His eyes were crystal blue and penetrating-even his jeans were pressed and there was never a sandy hair out of place on his expensive toupee. It was carefully placed on a mannequin head every night and combed out by Freddy or his wife, Frannie. He conquered the art of applying just the right amount of Polo, achieving a pleasing scent without bathing in it. He looked over at his seventeen year old assistant and asked, "You ready to learn the ropes, Jason?" Jason nodded his head and his dark hair flopped in his eyes, which he pushed back in place. He gave a two "thumbs up" with his large fingers and asked, "Where are we going again, Mr. Foster ?" Freddy answered, "An on-site auction in Oneonta-a little over an hour away. There's supposed to be about 500 lots-tons of merch." He gave Jason a quick appraisal and asked, "How come you're not playing football?" Freddy had forgotten he had not allowed his own son- now forty-years old - to play any sports so he could be put to work helping his father. Jason replied, "Well, Mom doesn't like football and I really don't care. " Jason had repeated this half-truth several times. Jason's father could be described as a deadbeat dad. Jason's mother, Janet, worked two waitressing jobs to keep Jason and his two siblings fed and clothed. He had been relied upon to babysit his younger sisters while his mom worked crazy hours. They were now self-sufficient, but Jason felt his skill-set was lacking to try out now for sports that his peers had been playing for years. Freddy asked, "How is your mom doing? I saw her the other day when I stopped at the diner for breakfast. I might pop over later to take a look at the dishwasher. " Jason said, "That would be great." Privately, he thought Freddy was sweet on her. Jason had always been proud that he had a pretty mother who liked to joke and have fun. This combination made her the largest tip earner at the diner. Freddy's Frannie, on the other hand, might make Jack the Ripper run in the other direction. She had a voice that cut right through you, no matter what her mood might be. Their aggressive mixed- breed family dog, Baby, slunk to the ground when she called out to Freddy when he was in the garage with his antiques. Freddy turned the radio on and Elvis belted out "Jailhouse Rock ". "Your generation has garbage music compared to this. I was about your age when Elvis first became popular", Freddy said. Jason learned Freddy's taste in music two months ago when he first started working for him, learning to refinish antiques. School had just gotten out for summer between Jason's junior and senior years and he was at loose ends. This apprenticeship was arranged by Freddy. He floated the idea to Janet at the diner. It made perfect sense-he needed a helper. Jason could earn extra money and learn the trade. Besides, their duplex apartment was only two houses down from Freddy's house and antique business. Janet agreed without consulting Jason and he started working the third week in June. When Elvis finished up, Jason leaned over and changed the station. They often played this game with each other while refinishing furniture or while dealers browsed the offerings in the garage. Last year's hit single, "My Heart Will Go On", belted out by Céline Dion, had just started. Jason joined in with his powerful voice as he knew the lyrics and Dennis listened attentively and with admiration. When the song ended, Freddy said, "That was great, kid." Nonetheless, he reached over and moved the dial until he found a Pat Boone song. Although it wasn't much of a compliment, Jason couldn't remember his father giving any. They rode in companionable silence, except for the radio , until they were five miles away from their destination. Freddy broke the silence and said, "I want you to remember a few rules since this is our first road trip. Don't be overly talkative with anybody. There are no friends at auctions and we don't want to let on what we're interested in. You might see some dealers here that buy from me and the same holds for them. Don't question anything I do. If you want to ask me something, wait till the ride home. People are jealous of me and might say something nasty. Ignore them and don't say anything. Understand?" Jason nodded his head , a little surprised but not shocked. When he first started working, he realized what a tremendous work ethic Freddy had. He had great organizational skills and everything was kept in its place. He was meticulous in repairing or refinishing furniture and paintings . He brought in fresh merchandise on a regular basis to supply the dealers with items for their shops. He accomplished this by rising at the crack of dawn to hit estate sales, flea markets, auctions and house calls. He had developed a very practiced eye for hidden gems and desirable objects to wholesale to the trade. He taught Jason how to strip, stain, repair and glue furniture. Jason was able to patch holes and small rips to paintings under Freddy's tutelage. He learned the human element of the business as well-how to talk reluctant buyers into purchasing, driving hard deals and pitting the dealers against each other. At least once a week, Freddy ordered Jason outside while he discussed "business ". Jason could sometimes hear the fighting and cussing. Jason talked about his family, friends and school while they were working and Freddy seemed to take a real interest. While curious about the reasons for the arguments with the dealers, Freddy deflected most of Jason's questions and the subject was dropped. After two months, Jason accumulated quite a stash of cash, giving a lion's share to his mother. He was able to buy designer clothes and sneakers and appreciated the luxury of spending money. Sometimes, he saw thousands of dollars exchanging hands in a matter of hours. He enjoyed the work and thought maybe he'd stick with this trade next year after graduation since his grades weren't the best. Freddy became a substitute father of sorts and Jason was a grateful recipient of his attention and knowledge. They pulled into the on-site auction and were among the first arrivals. Freddy wanted a good parking spot and a two hour preview of the items for sale before the action started. Freddy registered at the desk and covered two chairs under the auction tent with newspapers in order to reserve them. Jason and Freddy prowled the house and grounds, examining the merchandise. Freddy made notes on his bidding card-number 66- of the lots he was interested in. Just before the bidding started, Freddy asked Jason if he saw anything he liked. Jason replied, "Mom would like that huge blue vase with the hand-painted flowers. It's her birthday next month. " Freddy nodded and said, "I'll be back. " A dealer who looked familiar to Jason who was seated across the aisle said, "You're just like that Van Halen song." When Jason looked confused, the man provided further explanation. "You know, 'Running with the Devil'. " He glanced at the bidding card with the number 66 laying on the empty chair. "One more 6 and it would be the mark of the beast! ", he laughed. Jason followed Freddy's orders and ignored him. Just then, Freddy came back carrying hot dogs, chips and sodas for them both. Jason thought Freddy was a mind reader. "How did you know I was starving?", he asked. Freddy replied, "You're a teenager ." They both laughed and the auction started. Over the next hour, Jason observed while Freddy bought six lots, mostly furniture. The merchandise was dispersed outside the sale tent and marked with the bidders' numbers with chalk when sold and the smaller items brought directly to the buyers. Freddy pulled one of the auction runners aside, whispered to him and shoved cash into his hand. Within the next ten minutes, Freddy bought three lots, including the vase. Freddy handed the $200 purchase over to Jason and said, "It's on me." Jason was overwhelmed and couldn't speak. Nobody had ever been this generous. Jason examined and admired the 150 year old piece of fine porcelain while Freddy paid the tab. Freddy returned and then said, "Come with me." They walked back to the truck with the vase and Freddy's smaller purchases. The finds were packed in boxes with newspapers. Freddy and Jason started loading the furniture- roughly a dozen pieces in all. Jason didn't remember Freddy buying two of the dressers, one chest, a table and an oriental rug, yet they were marked "66". They completed their task without anyone paying them the slightest bit of attention. When they got to Schenectady , Freddy pulled into the parking lot of an Italian restaurant. Jason heard his mother speak of this landmark and hoped to bring her here sometime. "Still hungry?", asked Freddy. Jason rapidly nodded his head up and down. When they were working their way through huge portions of lasagna following appetizers and salad, Jason worked up the courage to ask about the extra lots they loaded on the truck "Gee, Mr. Foster, I don't remember some of those things being sold." Freddy said, " There was too much stuff to get through and the auction manager let me buy those extra lots directly because I told him I had to leave. Even if I stole them, they had it coming because the auctioneer ran me up, taking bids from imaginary buyers." Jason digested this information, not knowing whether to believe it or not. Freddy studied Jason carefully and said, "You remind me of my son, Frankie, when he was your age." Jason seldom heard Freddy discuss Frankie but knew he was in the business as well. "How is he doing?", he asked. "I bailed him out of jail last week", said Freddy. He went into an explanation that mostly went over Jason's head about check kiting. Jason gleaned that it was a scheme used to purchase items using various accounts that had insufficient funds, buying time until the checks cleared. "I learned him better than that", Freddy said. He sighed as he paid the bill and pushed himself out of the booth. He said, " There probably will be the usual suspects waiting for us at the garage. " Sure enough, there were about six pickers and dealers waiting for them at Freddy's. There was a buying frenzy, as they had to make snap decisions while competing over the haul. Most of the items didn't make it to the garage-they were unloaded from Freddy's truck to the vehicles of the new buyers. After the flurry of excitement died down, Jason got a quick glimpse of the auction receipt on Freddy's desk. There was no record of four items Jason helped load. Freddy said he turned a $3000 profit and handed Jason $200. "See you next Saturday", he said. Jason showed up at 9:30 the following week, expecting to refinish furniture. Instead, Freddy announced, "Road Trip !" They drove north for forty minutes, headed for the multi-dealer shop in Glens Falls. Again, Freddy gave a pep talk just before they got there. "Jason, remember that dog painting I sold to Ron two weeks ago?", he asked. Jason thought, and then recalled. "Yes, it was a pug on a red velvet sofa. He paid $300 for it," he said. Freddy continued, "Well, the check bounced and I'm getting my dog back. Mary is working the desk today. I'll show you Ron's booth and you'll grab my painting and take it to the truck while I'm distracting Mary." Freddy fended off Jason's objections. He assured him that he hadn't been paid, that the surveillance system wasn't working and he knew how to handle the situation in the slight chance anything went wrong. Jason's hands and knees were shaking as he lifted the disputed dog down from the wall and walked past the empty front desk. Mary was showing Freddy a piece of jewelry in a distant case and he was charming her. Jason's heart thumped loudly in his chest until they were five miles down the road. He and Freddy "high-fived" and Jason realized that he got a thrill after all was said and done. Freddy yanked off the price tag and called Ron a thief when he saw it was marked $2500. Freddy sold the painting for $1000 on a picking/selling expedition in Connecticut a few days later. The next road trip the following week was to an estate sale in Amsterdam. Jason and Freddy set out early at 4AM so they could get the first numbers handed out at 6AM for the 9AM start time. They were #1 and #2 to gain entrance, but Freddy sold Jason's number for $200 to another dealer who overslept. Jason waited in the truck while Freddy bargain -hunted. He was on stand-by to help Freddy load. A picker coming out of the sale noticed Jason and yelled, " You're working for F,F,and F Antiques ! Flimmed, Flammed and Effed !" Jason got angry and his face became flushed, but he said nothing. At 10AM, Freddy came out of the grand house. He motioned and Jason sprang into action.They carried out a few rugs, several bronzes and five pieces of furniture. The last lot was a small pine chest of drawers. Jason was surprised because it seemed to be of a cheaper quality than Freddy usually bought. He noted it was heavier than it should be and could hear a few objects rolling around in it. He suggested they take out the drawers and Freddy said sharply, "Shut up!" Just as they passed the checkout desk, the bottom drawer gave way and several objects within crashed on the floor. Candlesticks, small bronzes, sterling silver and various small items clanged and rolled about while the shocked audience stared at the treasure trove. A few workers came over to help out. The checkout clerk yelled, "Those items haven't been paid for !" There were audible gasps and Jason felt the heat rise up in his neck and face. He never felt more embarrassed. The staff ordered Freddy and Jason to stay put while the next strategy was mapped out. The estate sale head was familiar with Freddy and had a plan at the ready to deal with him. It was decided that Freddy and Jason must empty their pockets and allow a voluntary search of the truck. Otherwise, the police would be called. Freddy consented to the humiliating procedure. Every item in the chest, two bronzes on the truck, a wristwatch and diamond ring found in Freddy's pocket were returned. They were banned from any future sales. It was a quiet return trip. When they arrived at home base, Freddy and Jason unloaded in silence and Freddy directed Jason to strip an oak table. The mood was tense and awkward until the regulars showed up at 3PM , looking for deals. When Freddy went into the house to use the bathroom, Kevin said in a low voice, "We heard about the sale ! A word of advice- get a different job!" The other three pickers echoed his sentiment and quickly changed the subject before Freddy walked in. All that night, Jason tossed and turned thinking about his relationship with Freddy. He had been so grateful to be taken under Freddy's wing. He earned more money than his classmates, learned a useful skill set and was able to help support his mom. The intangibles were just as important. He felt important, valued and listened to. The void of having no male role model was somewhat filled. He wanted to believe in Freddy, but the events of the day left no doubt there was a dark side to his mentor. He wrestled all week whether he was going on a house call with Freddy on Saturday. Ultimately, he went with Freddy to the old woman's house. He didn't know what he'd tell his mother about the job if he quit. She'd been through so much lately. The drive to the Saratoga house call went better than expected. Last week's episode wasn't mentioned, and Freddy was very attentive as he asked about Jason's week at school. Freddy worked his charm on Beatrice, who was downsizing to a senior apartment. She had a lot of great stuff and seemed interested in giving Freddy the deal-she would let him know. Just as they were leaving, Freddy told Beatrice that he hoped she'd choose him-that his wife Frannie was fighting cancer and he could use the business. Beatrice was moved to tears and waved goodbye to them both. It was quiet on the way home until they pulled in the driveway and got out of the truck. Jason said, "I'm so sorry about your wife-is it serious?" Freddy said with a laugh," I made that up to get the deal !" The white-hot anger rose up in Jason and his face turned beet-red. "My mother just went through a cancer scare. What kind of sleeze bag lies about that?" As he stomped off towards home without looking back, Jason realized how fuzzy his moral clarity had gotten in pursuit of filling the hole in his heart. He hoped his judgment and trust in others would return.

In the year 2033, where humanity has reached a place where the development in science and technology is in its best like never before. As a result all the countries in the world came together and formed a combined space expedition program named SpaceExplore. The Aim of this program is to colonize moon by 2050. In order to achieve the goal, SpaceExplore has sent several scientists and men from various fields to the moon and made them built a space colony and with this, it will help them in determining whether moon is suitable for habituation. So, SpaceExplore has requested all the countries to select a few people from their respective countries and in each year one person from every country will be sent to moon. The only task the people sent are given, and that is to survive and start civilization. And if the people sent every year till 2045, manages to survive without any complications, this program will be considered as success and by 2050 all the people interested in shifting to moon will be sent and the moon will become our second home. Considering requests from SpaceExplore the countries have picked a few people and made them prepare for their first expedition in space. As a result the selected few have to undergo 6 months of space program training and survival programs. Several years have passed since and the world is in 2043. The program seemed to go well and all the previous sent people have shown a consistency in their stay in moon. None of them reported sick or any illness. This sent a wave of joy all around the globe and people started to think of buying the lands in moon and this resulted in the real estate business and several other business coming in the picture for future stay in moon. The confidence in people have increased when even SpaceExplore also announced “the program is almost 80 percent success and within no time the human civilization will be reaching the moon.” “Now it is the year 2044 “January” and it is my turn to be sent to the moon”. “I am smith from New York. I work as Network Security Engineer for a reputed company. I am 26 years old.” “So, “bud” finally it is your turn for the moon?” asked my friend Dan. “Yes, bud” I replied nervously and also afraid. Seeing me, Dan started making fun of me and said that I am afraid of nothing and in return he also said “that I fear for everything and I am a scaredy cat.” The actual reason for me to be afraid is not because I am scared or else I love to stay in earth or not even that I miss my family. It’s because I know the truth. And I have got to know the truth just a day before. A certain something said by SpaceExplore last year in November was my motivation behind finding the truth behind the SpaceExplore program. It said that “the program is very successful and no person reported sick till now”. This statement was the reason why I had my doubts because people when in earth which is the most suitable planet for to live and still many people fall ill and many die due to some or other illness. But why everyone in the moon did reported no illness till now and it’s already been 10 years since the people gone there. Seeing everything to be going perfect did not make no sense to me. First I thought it was my assumption as a security engineer and also hacker. “Yes”. I also am a hacker and no one knows about this, not even my parents or best friends. It is my own dirty secret because I am no ethical hacker. I thought that I may find answers, if I find what exactly happens in the 6 months training program before going to moon. I also felt strange that SpaceExplore has a strict rule that the people once entered the training cannot come in contact with the people outside or vice versa. So, I decided to hack into SpaceExplore Database and find out the truth. I have tried to get into the system for the whole month and found it very difficult to penetrate into the system. Such was the security of SpaceExplore. Maybe that’s why no one has been able to hack into the system till now I though. Otherwise, he would have exposed all the things he found in it to the world. It is almost New Year and I decided to give up on hacking into the SpaceExplore and just then when I switched on the television, I found out that the guy who is a part of the system security in the SpaceExplore is none other than the security Engineer of my first company. I have always hated him as he was such a jerk. I decided to use him to hack into the system. I called him up and asked him if I could meet him for New Year. He quickly accepted and hence we met in his home and partied all night. Just what I wanted. I used his home Wi-Fi to hack into his system and placed a bug there. Next day when he logged in, I was able to get his credentials and it helped me to hack into the database. What I saw when going over the database shocked me to the core. And for a moment I couldn’t even think straight and whole night has passed and I still am scared to the core. I had taken leave from office as I was unable to digest what I saw. After finding out the truth, I decided to hide so that no one would find me and later expose the truth. So the next day I went to office so that no one would grew suspicious of me and started to prepare for my hiding and also to think of a plan to expose SpaceExplore. To execute the plan I need someone’s help to expose them and also help me with information and stuff. To that I need someone trustworthy and also intelligent. The only person that came to my mind was Dan and also he is the only friend I have. So, I invited Dan to my home next day to seek his help. He came to my home, I explained him everything and asked him to help me fight SpaceExplore so that many others along with me will be saved. The truth that I found was, “that the whole SpaceExplore program was one big scam and the people who were sent to where being killed. All the things about building space colony and sending scientists establishing of human civilization were lies. The database stated that we still don’t have the required technology for civilizing moon and it will take lots of money and time to create that sort of technology. It is only possible for us to go to moon only after the year 2100 only after everything goes well. So for SpaceExplore to achieve that they need Money in huge amounts. As the governments cannot provide that kind of money as they have their own countries to run and also their own pockets to fill. So SpaceExplore along with governments of different nations came up with a plan of fake Space program and make believe in it which as a result people will get drawn to it and will start buying lands on the moon and various business will start and can get money from people all around the world. Later when people question they always can say something happened in the last moment. As people are foolish and will believe anything media and government says. So that is the reason they picked one person per country because if they would choose more people that would raise in suspicion and also the people whom government selected were mostly orphans and someone with one or two family members alive. The reason being if they select the people of these categories they wouldn’t have any families that would want to contact them.” Even I was selected because I have no one expect my father who have abandoned me and got married, now lives with his wife. Dan accepted to my request and decided to help me. As I have only a week to go to space training program, we decided that I would go into hiding two days before as it would cause huge uproar and that starts questioning people. And after that based upon the situation we would find out a way to expose the truth to the world. If I had the copy of database I could have directly put it in the internet but the server didn’t allow me to do so as the policies and information protection system for the data are so strong and advanced. The day has come and I went into the hiding. But to my surprise there was no uproar in the media which seemed strange as normally media would come up to the houses of people who would go to space and try to interview them. And moreover I am the only one in the whole United States going for this year and everyone knows. The day has passed without any cause and everything was normal and I went to sleep. The next day when I woke up I was shocked seeing around. I was in the headquarters of SpaceExplore and didn’t know how I got here. I was tied to a chair inside a room that looked like a laboratory. And suddenly two people entered the room one was an official and the other Dan. Seeing Dan I understood that he is the reason I got captured and that he betrayed me as he was scared that government would harm him and if he told everything they might pay him ransom amount. Dan showed me the check he received from SpaceExplore and thanked me for telling him the truth so that he earned this money. He was about to go, just then some people with armored guns came inside the room along with a person. He is none other than SpaceExplore’s CEO Michael James. As soon as he came he ordered one of his henchmen to shoot Dan. After Dan got shot he turned towards me and said no one escapes from SpaceExplore after knowing the truth. At that moment I decided that even I would be killed, but to my surprise Michael ordered me to work for him in securing their Systems. He told that he would like to employ because he was impressed by me as I am able to penetrate the SpaceExplore Systems but in return I would be forever restricted from going outside and will be under 24 hour surveillance or else I can die right here. Having no other way I am struck here forever working for SpaceExplore. But I am also waiting for an opportunity so that I can expose everything to the world. The End

Cosmic Static ​ There lies a sole, lonely universe. Comprised only of dirt, metal, stone, and darkness. However, far into the deepest expanses of the cosmos, in the furthest corner of the universe is a light. A light that would shine for so short a time that, within the infinite existence of the cosmos, was so short lived that it may as well have never have shined at all. This light named “life.” If this planet could see out into the infiniteness of the night sky, it would learn of its folly; it would see a desolate, inert universe and realize that life was not inevitable. Life had erupted on this one rock and no other. Placed there by nothing, observed by no one. An isolated anomaly - unprotected, destined to fall back into darkness at some point, never to be light again. The unknown jewel of the universe, slowly wilting like a single tree in an endless desert. The mysteries of the fundamental forces of the universe are never discovered; no higher meaning is ever found. Humanity does not get the opportunity to reach the edge of knowledge or the highest forms of art and expression. It is stopped in its journey before it can look over the edge of the fabric of existence and know for sure just what it all is and exactly what it all means. A story that ends mid-sentence with blank pages afterwards that extend outwards into the infinite. Nothing is left to ponder the beginnings of all that is, nothing is left to imagine what will come to happen next. This light was not one of many in a great chain of life and death with some higher meaning behind it all. There was no light before, and no light afterwards. After the last vestiges of life blink from existence, there is silence. One life, one death. I am struck with a fear of being implicit in the mass ignorance of the majesty of our anomalous existence. No thing and no one is here to be delighted or profoundly awestruck by this light in the darkness except for me. How, then, can I be content to live unamazed by the fact that I have not only eyes but things which to see? How can I, in good conscious, wallow in apathy and boredom when I was cast by some accident in this theatrical performance with one stage, one showing, no audience, no falling curtain, and no casting call? The day will come when our theater has decayed and rotted and the actors slow down and shrivel onto the ground, mid-act, just as some semblance of a plot seemed to be brewing. There will be no audience to clap at the artistic brilliance of a story that ends without explanation. The music and beauty and love of the Earth will never reach far away ears. It will simply cease to be. The cosmic radio with one channel had for so long played nothing but cosmic static. But then, for the briefest of moments, played some kind of music unheard of and unimaginable by the senseless universe that had accidentally given birth to eyes. Fantastic, fascinating music from this world that wreaked of personality, of history, or interconnectedness and love and a thousand other things that never had been and never would be again. That music slowed down and stopped, falling back into static. “zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.” Nothing listened to this radio and nothing would ever wonder what that song was or what it meant. There was nothing, there was something, there was nothing. No one to happen across the remnants of our world that, at one point, had teemed with life and wonder what it was like it its glory days. No one to imagine the things that were said or question the things that were done. No one to wonder at the stories it must have told. The quirks and secrets of life will fall below the pages and fade into dust and ash. There then is presented a choice within each of us; within each of the beings that has the spark of life within them. The choice between succumbing to the ideals of dirt, metal and stone, or the ideals of the light. The decision to give into the light. To succumb to its ways. To sing a song that will never be heard and that will never hold any whisper of meaning simply because something in the deepest, most central part of this thing we call existing tells us that we must sing - if only for the sake of having sung. What is there to do besides make this light the most brilliant, most fearsome light to have ever shined before it wanes and falls back into the dark, unremembered. This light switch turned on and off again. Flipped by no one, illuminating nothing. This one blip on the cosmic radar. Unexplained, unquestioned, bordered on both sides by endless, empty time. What are we to do with our role in this play that no one will ever see? With this one chance to make whatever we hold in our hands into the brightest version of whatever it has the potential to be. The day comes when there is no more passion, no more dreaming, and no love. No philosophy or friendship or desire or art. No more stories of good overpowering evil forces or the formations of love and family. Before the end of all things, in this strange and wonderful time that we have called life that has never happened and never will again, how are we to live? Will we close our eyes, hold our breath, and dive headfirst into what it means to be alive? To seek out every feeling and every sight - laying our eyes only upon honor, desire, friendship and color. To love all of our cosmic brothers and sisters with whom we have the privilege of sharing this first and last hurrah of life and love. How could we not be inspired? Inspired by our species’ brilliant stabs into the dark unknown. Our stabs into the stars that brought us to our moon, so far from the rest of the immortal universe but so profound to us. Our stabs into math and science to find the foundation of what we know and to understand the fabric of this physical existence, for no reason other than the fact that something within our mortal hearts tells us to dig deeper and to fly higher. As we fall, each of us, into the dark abyss of death one by one, will we smile for having gotten to take part in this silly little accident that shined a light upon a world and opened eyes to, if for a moment, behold the glory of all that is? Will we be able to rest easy knowing that we loved as much as we were able, took every opportunity into adventure and grandeur, stayed kind to our fellow accidents and remained uniquely and genuinely ourselves, all throughout the morning, day, and evening, and could now lay our heads and gratefully fall back, forgotten, face first into the night.

Larry Norris was a sixteen year old boy who was a dreamer. He was often chastised in class for looking out the window. One day, his teacher asked what he was looking at in the middle of English class and turned to her and smiled. “Did you ever wonder what it would be like to be able to ride a cloud?” Everyone in class laughed. But, Larry wasn’t laughing. He looked around and started laughing at them. “You people have no imagination.” That statement didn’t exactly make him a real popular guy. But, Larry didn’t care. They could laugh at him all they wanted. When it was announced that the carnival was coming to town, he was very excited. “The carnival is going to be a lot of fun,” he announced to his cousin Loni. She was one of the few people who hung with him. “Are we going to go together?” “It sounds like a plan, cousin.” So on the opening day of the carnival, the two of them went off to see the lights and sounds and sights. They ate cotton candy and rode all of the fun rides. He tried very hard to win her a teddy bear at those rigged games. It took a while, but he did win her one. She kissed him on the cheek. They saw the sign for the ‘World of Wonder Show’ and decided that it would be a lot of fun. “I think it is a freak show,” said Loni. “You mean women with beards and Dog Boy and that stuff?” “Absolutely,” she said with a smile. “Okay, let’s go look at the freaks. Some people think I am a freak.” “Larry, you aren’t a freak, you are just unique.” “That’s what I always thought.” So they paid their money and went inside the tent. The person that was accepting the cash was the strongman. Larry, who was tall enough and no weakling stood next to him flexing his muscles, while his cousin took a picture. There was laughter all around. They sat down and watched the show. There was a psychic and she was rather amazing. She pointed at Loni and said: “You are a very bright girl at mathematics and someday you will discover a new planet or star and it will be named after you.” Loni was very excited because she was a very enthusiastic astronomy aficionado and loved the idea of having a planet -- even a dwarf planet -- or star named after her. “I think she’s amazing,” whispered Loni to her cousin. He just nodded his head. The man that swallowed swords was also very cool. There was a guy who bent objects with his mind including spoons and forks and knives. It was a freak show, but it was also a fun show. While Loni and the rest of the audience was enchanted and entertained, for Larry the entire universe had opened up. He knew where he belonged. When the show was over they stood up and whistled and clapped with the rest of the audience. “That was so great,” said Loni with a huge smile. “It was earth-shattering.” They filed out of the tent and drifted for a while. “I am getting tired and it is time to go home.” Loni smiled at her cousin. “It sounds like a good idea.” “But, I have to go to the bathroom first.” “Okay, I’ll wait for you here.” “All right, I won’t be long.” “Hey, wait one-second before you go.” “What is it?” He hugged his cousin with love. “What’s that for?” “Because I know you and you want to go home and look through that fancy telescope for a planet or star that they will name after you.” She blushed. “I know a lot of people don’t believe in psychics, but that woman didn’t know me and yet she was aware of my passion for astronomy.” “She was good.” “Anyway, I have to go to the bathroom.” She handed him the teddy bear that he had won for her. She went off and he smiled. “Good bye cousin Loni, you are the only one that ever believed in me.” He placed the teddy bear down, turned around and left. It didn’t take long before he was wandering around the back area of the carnival. This was restricted to only the working staff, but he managed to get behind there. He made it look like he belonged and walked with confidence. A couple of security guards nodded his way and didn’t even ask for ID. Larry made it to the trailers and loved all of the decorations and special paint jobs that each one sported. “I could spend my whole life here in this special universe.” Meanwhile, Loni had walked out of the bathroom and couldn’t see Larry. Miraculously nobody had stolen the teddy bear. “Larry, where are you?” She turned this way and that way but couldn’t find him. The young girl started to panic and wondered what had happened to him. She went to the ticket booth. “Hello, do you have a lost and found?” “We do, it is next to the cotton candy booth.” “Thanks.” She left and found the Lost and Found Booth. There was a nice looking woman working it. “Hello, I seem to have lost my cousin.” The woman smiled. “And, what is your cousin’s name?” “His name is Larry Masters.” “Do you have a picture of him?” “I do.” She pulled out her phone and there was a selfie they had taken that night when he had finally won her the teddy bear that she still carried. “This is the website that I want you to send it to and then I will forward it to the security firm that is working the carnival.” “Thank you,” she said hoping that this would work. The head of security looked at the photo and scratched his head. “I could have sworn that I saw this guy tonight.” He sent it out to all of the security team. But, Larry was walking through a part of the carnival that nobody ever saw. It was where the staff went to relax and played cards. He watched the Bearded Woman, the Strongman, the Psychic and Dog Boy playing poker. Larry didn’t know whether to intrude on the game or just keep floating around. But, the Strongman saw him and waved him over. “Hi, sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt.” “Take a seat young man,” said the Psychic. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.” “Can we deal you in?” “No, I really don’t play.” “That is fine, you don’t have to play.” He smiled in relief. “So, did you like the show?” “It was great. I wish I could be part of it and not just in the audience, but like on stage.” They all smiled and nodded. “Do you have any weird or wonderful talent?” “No, but I have a great imagination.” “We pull out tomorrow morning. You need to talk to the boss, Mr. Young. He might find a spot for you.” The Strongman pulled out a cell phone and dialled a number. A few minutes later, Mr. Young showed up and smiled. “Are you Larry?” “I am.” “Great, if you are interested then you can start at the next site. If you want, you can go home and say goodbye to your parents and siblings.” “I’m good. If I go home there is no way that my parents will let me join the carnival.” “Okay.” The next morning when they pulled out Larry was part of the carny family.

Maddie couldn’t imagine. For everything to be fate would be fine. For God to have created everything for a purpose would work. Even an epic battle between heaven and hell would have meaning. But randomness. That all could change because one stopped for a yellow light rather than rushing through before the light turned red. Unthinkable. Those were Maddie’s last thoughts as she tried to sleep. Δ In the morning Maddie woke before the sun as she always did on runway days. Good to get to the set and walk about in the quiet before her people started arriving. For a perfect show something always had to be fixed last minute. No matter the chaos, she never forgot she lived her dream. Maddie always wanted to work in fashion but, not being pretty enough to model, had to work in the background. For years she accepted every jig in hopes it would push her further up the road where she now lived. After showering and breakfast, Maddie filled her favorite mug with coffee and smiled at the deer print. The landscape mug had been chosen from a mix at her favorite artist’s gallery. With it she went out to her front porch to watch the sunrise and scroll through Facebook. She liked using her downtime to scroll for notices and reviews. Passing through lots of nonsense, she paused at a photo of the New York journalist, Annelies Frank. She’d died. The article was her obituary. Working for Annelies was Maddie’s first set experience and at the end of this week’s success, Maddie was to be interviewed. As it was 6:11 she had another ten minutes before her driver arrived and so tapped the article. Annelies had been ninety-four and great grandmother of seven. There was a photo of her hugging a laughing boy. Δ But this wasn’t true. Maddie no more ran fashion runways than there was a famous New York reporter named Annelies. Tossing in her sleep, Maddie tried to wake but the dream turned and she was clicking on the link. Nearly a hundred years had passed since Annelies was born in 1929. Too many years for Maddie to imagine what that world was like. Among recent reviews, Maddie saw Lady Gaga and Katy Perry, but bypassed those looking for a different interview from 2002. That was Maddie’s first meeting with Annelies and her first time working in any sort of limelight. The 2002 interview stood out in bold yellow type. Tapping that link, brought Maddie to a studio. It was like waking in a memory. Or remembering. Maddie had been so nervous the first time she worked in entertainment. It didn’t matter that journalism was not fashion. She was jittery and more than once had to force herself to slow down and take a breath rather than rush under the lights and cameras. That day, determined to succeed, she learned to turn fear into excitement. She had walked through a door above which a neon sign flashed May 1, 2002. Inside the wide room cameras were being adjusted to focus on the comfortable chairs at the table in the room’s center. Among people doing checks Maddie had seen Annelies’s signature dark head and couldn’t help staring. A woman’s touch on her arm had pulled her from her awe. “Can you check the coffee.” She had pointed to the kitchen. Realizing she was there to serve, Maddie had hurried to find the coffee. Around her the bustling energy of noise and lights enveloped as she had hustled to arrange coffee in cups. She let the feeling sink into her skin so that she felt the shift before the hush fell and lights had gone on. At the back with everyone else, Maddie had been mesmerized as Annelies walked to the table. She had such presence, even if not famous, eyes would have been drawn to her. Looking at the camera, Annelies had said into the microphone. “As everyone knows last September our government prevented an attack on the World Trade Center. Tonight, I’ve invited two leaders from the civil rights movement to share their insights on these events. Please welcome the man best known for non-violence and peaceful protesting, Mister Martin Luther King.” A senior black man came out to greet her. After they shook hands, she had introduced, “And another leader known for more aggressive talk.” A taller senior man came out. “Mr. Malcolm X.” After they had shaken hands and sat about the table, Annelies smiled from her guests to the camera. “Thank you both for agreeing to this meeting. I must say, Mr. X, that you were the harder person to introduce. You’ve certainly gone through some transformations.” “The world has gone through some transformations,” he had answered with a chuckle. “I know what you mean,” Annelies had agreed. “It seems strange that race used to be such an issue.” It was fascinating to hear the men, in their seventies, discuss their long lives. Maddie’s heart ached when Malcolm X had answered that he’d been certain they were going to be killed back in the sixties. Annelies had begun the interview asking, “Do you think there can be a peaceful solution to the middle eastern conflict that seems to be spilling over into this country?” “Its definitely possible,” Malcolm X had answered. “Let me tell you if we’ve been able to find a peaceful solution for the problems in this country, anything is possible. I still remember being sure, both Martin and I, would be killed in the sixties, but look at us now. I’ll be seventy-seven at the end of this month. My wife and I have been married forty-four years. Back then I never thought I’d live this long.” “And back then you didn’t always agree on how peace could be achieved,” Annelies had asked. “We were always on the same side. The same team or family. Our differences were only ever in opinions not in real value.” “As it is with lots of problems, people likely have more in common if they stopped to look. I think focusing on how we are similar all part of one human creation we would be lots better off than looking for what divides us.” “Always better to choose peace over fear.” They laughed before Annelies nodded and had added, “And what exactly is racism? I mean its divisions in the human races, but how exactly are we suppose to be divided?” “In America, especially in the south, people were divided in categories of black and white,” Mr. King had answered. “But when I was growing up in German, jews were considered a whole separate and inferior race,” Annelies had answered. She was born the same year as Martin Luther King and had grown up Jewish in Germany when people were afraid on the Nazi seizing power. Such a relief none of that happened. Δ The scene faded, and as Maddie realized she was dreaming her alarm went off. She had to get up before the sun, not to coordinate a runway shoot but to serve breakfasts at a diner. After showering and breakfast, Maddie sat with her coffee and scrolled through Facebook nonsense until passing a child’s familiar photo. Anne Frank’s full name was Annelies Marie Frank. Jewish girl born in Germany in 1929. Killed by Nazi in 1945. Had wanted to be journalist.