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Allura 50

Richard's mother never liked me, but ever since her son disappeared, we have become closer than ever. I set a steaming plate of rice and stew before her. I had always been meticulous when preparing the woman's food as she was a very picky eater and was generous with crude criticisms. These days, however, she would eat my food with little nods and approving hums. I even caught her licking her fingers once. "I think I am going to ask Richard's father to start buying game meat instead of beef," she said as she pushed her empty plate forward on the glass coffee table. She used to prod at my food, take a spoonful and claim she was full. A woman on the television piped out an evil cackle. "The spices also do a lot of work," I added as I piled our plates together to carry to the kitchen. Mrs. Ncube didn't respond. She was watching me with a squint - her eyes fixed on my left jaw. I turned my face away. "The bruise is healing well," she said stiffly. She looked uncomfortable acknowledging it. "Yes. Would you like some stew to go home with?" I asked. "Yes, sure," she replied. She reached into her gaudy handbag and pulled out the Tupperware she'd left with the day before and handed it to me, baring her crooked teeth in a sheepish smile. Three months had passed since I'd last seen my husband. The police were vague about their efforts to find him, and I am sure people had grown tired of my lamentations. Mrs. Ncube was the only constant in this ordeal. She visited every day. Some days we'd make calls to Richard's friends and colleagues to garner clues about his whereabouts; in others, we cried together in each other's arms. Today we spent the entire day watching Nollywood movies and eating in the living room. We sat across each other, replenishing the coffee table with snacks and sugary drinks with our eyes fixed on the television until the dark orange of sunset filtered through the curtains and bleached the entire room. She wanted us to take our minds off the situation and even expressed concern about my blood pressure. I assured her that I was fine - but I had grown tired of mourning too. In the kitchen, as I spooned the leftovers from the pot into the Tupperware, Mrs. Ncube wafted in and leaned against the counter. "That's a beautiful cleaver. Where do you buy your kitchenware?" she nodded at the stainless steel cleaver hanging off the wall. I told her it had been gifted to me by Richard on the eve of our wedding. I almost dropped the dishing spoon when she opened her mouth again to speak. "It just makes sense for me to be here with you helping around while we wait," she explained. "If you're moving in because of the game meat, I've run out," I joked with my composure regained. She laughed, the hoarseness in her voice betraying how it had been a while. "I would be happy to have you, Mama." After all, we only had each other now; no immediate family, distant friends, and the gaping hole that my husband left in our hearts. Her smile was warm, but it faded. Suddenly she was solemn. "I haven't treated you right, my child," she walked to me. She took the Tupperware, closed it, and set it aside. She held my hands in hers and looked at my face. "How you must feel, to have the last remembrance of your husband be a bruise that has lasted months. To think you came crying to me for help, and I shut you out," her eyes glossed over. She cast them down before dabbing them with the collar of her blouse. "But here you are looking for my son... your husband harder than anyone. I can only imagine how much you loved him." "I do love him. A lot, mama," I said. And it was true. I loved that man more than I have loved anyone. Even when he picked me up from the hospital with my jaw wired shut. Even the last time I saw him with his eyes open as he screamed and gargled in his blood when I struck his neck with the cleaver his mother seemed to admire. She squeezed my hands. "We will find Richard. In God's grace we'll find him," she said, but her eyes betrayed her. She knew we would never see Richard again. She had already mourned him and was ready for a new chapter, as was I. We were two widows lying to each after having a filling dinner with the flesh of the man we loved as a stew. I thought it was poetic, how in all this grief, her body was being nourished by her son's, even though she didn't know.

Hi im new to reddit but i would like to share some of my stories ive written. If any of my formating is wrong please do inform me. Symphony of Symmetry The soft pitter patter of the rain was contrasted by the baritone clop of boots. It was a sound all of us had grown used to these days. From one place to another we marched. The muted browns of our heavy cloaks offset by the soft reds, quiet yellows, and heavy blacks underneath. Most of us rested our tools on our shoulders, me? I held mine at my side where it belonged. Picking up my pace I could hear my brothers voice carry over the wind. He spoke of a new job. One were we would no longer be cold and hungry, and most importantly, out of this twice damned rain. Settling by his side I asked him of just where we were going. Speaking tersely and quickly he told me it was merely a good day of travel away. I could only scoff at that. Merely a day he says. The ground beneath our feet will have turned to mud and water by then. But at last it was still too good of a job to pass up. So I could only grumble softly to myself as we walked. It was a cold and dreary night fit only for the most desperate and foolish. Unfortunately I guess that includes me, and this half dead band of misfits. As we settled and made camp for the night I could feel the pit in my gut grow deep. I hate being right, and I most definitely hate when my advice is not heeded. The soft whispers of steel through air clashed with the hissing and sharp clanging of metal meeting metal. It was a sound I wish I could have forgotten and moved past. Alas fate has deemed me it’s bitch. And so I drew the tool upon my side and waded into the thick of it. Blade singing as blood was freed from its warm prison, coating the dirt and myself as if it was spilled ink. My tool was one well cared for and despite my misgivings my body remembered the motions well. Bodies fell as if grain before a sickle. But I had grow blind to my own shortcomings, arrogant in my prowess. And as I felt pain blossom from beneath my lungs I could only chuckle wetly. A man once told me that those who killed should be prepared to be killed themselves. I had agreed with him that day. Yet as pins and needles spread from my feet and fingers and my breaths grew shallower and sharper I could only think of my regrets, of the what if’s. Of what I could have done better. But as the tears dried upon my face and the rattle of my breath finally faded I could hear a most beautiful sound. One of duality, of the good and bad, of the right and wrong. Of bright stars and a cold abyss. And it felt so right. Like a missing piece of a whole I did not know was incomplete. And so as I died I knew death. And so as I breathed again I knew life.

8:45pm ​ I sit on the sofa, you walk through the door and I look up at you, easing my features into a smile. The first lie. You smile back. The second. You're back late, I don't ask why. Maybe I once would have, maybe once you would just have told me. There is food on the table- pasta again. It's getting cold now and you sit down at your place and I sit at mine. Always the same seats. We'll eat together tonight. We could make conversation, laugh like we once would. We don't. I want too. That's not a lie. I wish I could say that I tried then but that would be the third lie. I ask if you'd like a glass of wine, you say "No, thank you." As if we are still strangers. I want to see you smile but I can't think of anything to say. Not a single thing. ​ 9:04pm ​ We clear up in silence, the practiced routine marches on. You wash, I dry. The dishes are done quickly, into the cupboard even quicker. I don't flick water at you, and you wipe the bubbles off your own nose, that was once my job- the gentle touches. We have given up on irrelevant affections which once provide a reassurance. I guess we didn't need that anymore- who else could there be. No room for such things in this tedious routine. ​ 9:13pm ​ There is a dish still lying on the counter and we both reach for it. I catch my fingers against your skin. I shiver- the third lie. You look at me, properly for once. I look back at you. I want to smile and laugh together at the jarring corniness of the situation. A moment passes, you get a little sadder when you realise I will not break this silence. I look away. I should have kissed you then, done anything at all. God, I wish I had, more than almost anything. Yet the silence seems inevitable. In my distraction, I knock the plate from the counter. It breaks. You sigh in exasperation at my clumsiness which you had once found so endearing. You had told me that, years ago. Still, you sigh now, I snap at you. You snap back. Our voices rise to anger, hurling meaningless verbal assaults at each other. I know exactly what to say to push you to fury, I hate that. I stop shouting and apologise- the fourth lie. We never used to argue, we would have laughed and just cleaned up the mess, not phased by such a menial issue. Happy to spend even those few minutes together. We are so tired now, maybe we will take a holiday soon; laugh and dance around the kitchen, maybe I'll remember how to call you 'my love' when 'mine' is the fifth lie. ​ 9:57pm ​ The argument is long over. You're crying again and I want you to stop. I can hear sobs echo from the bathroom, I'll pretend I don't notice like I always do these days. I used to run to you the second you looked sad, always desperate to be your hero and hated to see you hurt. Some things don't change. I would have done anything for you to just stop, except the only thing I could do. So you continue to cry in the bathroom under the pretence of brushing your teeth and I wonder whether you care that I can hear, I hope you don't. I hope you aren't angry at my cowardice. I am sorry. So fucking sorry. I swore to never make you cry, listening and doing nothing is so much worse. I hate myself every second I sit on the edge of our bed and just listen, I'm crying too I think. Neither fact is of any real consequence. I still sit there motionless. ​ 10:00pm ​ You open the bathroom door. Your eyes are dry now, mine are too. I walk past you into the bathroom. I pick up my toothbrush from the edge of our sink. I look at the mirror as I brush. Darkness under my eyes, wrinkles beginning to from across my forehead. I look tired. I wonder if the mirror thinks so too and if you looked into it and thought the same. ​ 10:03pm ​ I get into bed, you are already there. The routine persists as if we are only puppets pulled by some unfeeling puppeteer- moving stiffly. Your head is against your pillow, I mirror your position on mine. We lie there in our bed and we face away, justified by the presence of the books in our hands. I do not reach out to touch you, you don't reach for me either. I would usually try- the sixth lie. I hope you find comfort in the story in your hands, that the characters engage you and make you smile, a little at least. I can't focus on the words. You can't either, I know as much as I wish I didn't. So we lie in silence and pretend that it's because we don't want to talk. ​ 10:34pm ​ You have put your book down. We lie in the dark now, I can feel the heat from your body seeping into the sheets. It does not know the rules of this ritual, this practiced divide. I think of how I used to pull you towards me and how you would laugh. Maybe I would tickle your ribs, I knew exactly where you were most ticklish. I remember how we used to fill this apartment with laughter and I realise I don't remember the last time I heard you properly laugh. The lovely laugh you have which starts as giggles and ends in gasped breaths. It's a bitter thought. I miss you. Even though you are a mere arm's length away and that seems foolish. I could tell you I love you, it wouldn't be a lie. Maybe that is worse. If I didn't love you this wouldn't be so painful. For the millionth time I wonder how we got to this point. Forever used to seem such a short time with you, now it feels so painfully infinite. ​ 11:47pm ​ You should be asleep by now, you're tired. I know you are awake. You say my name, I almost think I've imagined it like some reach my brain has made to relieve myself from my own thoughts. It's a half-whisper- unsure instead of playful. This is not part of the routine. We both know that. ​ You take a deep breath and I feel mine catch at my throat. ​ "I'm so tired of this." You say, it's not so quiet anymore. You have rolled towards me, we face each other now. ​ Fear jumps through me. ​ "Please." It's desperate. I do not know what I am asking for. Anything, I suppose. ​ "Please, what?" You reply, you sound so exhausted, these whispers are so much worse than the crying or the yelling. ​ "Don't" I'm crying a little now, you are too. "We can fix it." ​ The last lie. ​ You pause, not for as long as I hope, I only wish for a few more seconds of this normality, how we have found comfort in it, despite it's fragility. ​ It is about to break. ​ "We can't do this anymore." ​ "I know." And it's the truth. I do know. We can't keep doing this, tearing ourselves apart. What I don't know how to live without you. It's a habit I will force myself to learn. We're crying harder now, I'm still looking at you, I always looked for you. ​ All at once we are two strangers lying in the same bed but we have been for so long, really. ​ "I love you." You say. It's a justification in some strange way. ​ "I love you." The words feel like they mean nothing, I've failed to prove them true. I remember you making me swear to never add a 'too', you'd say it was too much like an agreement instead of a confession or a promise. One last unbroken promise, a beautiful irony. I scoot towards you and you towards me with a forgotten ease. I kiss you then, too late and we both know it. I savour it still; it feels like relief. It doesn't make me feel butterflies or send electricity through me like it once did but it's still you and that has always been enough. We will fall asleep together for the last time, you run your hands through my hair in patterns which used to be unpredictable and I don't lean in to kiss you again, I simply wrap my arms around you and hope you stop crying. You smile at me, a real smile for once and I'm forced to look away; I still love you and I can only take so much. I smile back, though. I hope it looks real enough. "I'm sorry" and then "I love you", decidedly separate because I will never be sorry for loving you. I repeat the words over and over against your skin as though if I say it enough it will matter whether I'm sorry or not.

“Hey, boss? You sure this thing is operational?” “Well Skip, we’re about to find out.” The boss primes a switch on an elaborate table covered with buttons and switches. Being the only one with the know-how around this machine, besides the engineers, the boss tells everyone else to back away while he gets the process started. Pressing a few more buttons, the boss continues the sequence, and the men behind him start whispering to themselves. “I don’t think this is going to work.” One man says to another. “What? You don’t have faith in the boss?” Another guy asks after nudging the other guy on the shoulder. “I trust the boss. What I don’t trust is that he is able to bring this machine to life.’” The lead engineer of the project is also standing in the group, and when he hears the man say this, he turns toward him and sharply hisses, “You’d do best to shut up and watch!” Everyone quiets down and waits for the boss. “Almost done.” The boss whispers to himself. A moment later the boss turns to his men and begins a speech. “Men! Long have we craved for a weapon that will help us drive back our enemies!” “Yea!” the men cheer. “Now! We have a weapon that will ensure our victory! A victory that will be swift... and deadly!” Everyone erupts into a thundering roar. Men begin to pat each other on the backs and shove shoulders. The boss then turns back to the table where he hovers over a lever. He turns his head back towards his men, as his body stays parallel to the lever. “It... is... TIME!” The boss yanks the lever down which begins the boot-up process of the weapon. As the process continues some of the men get bored and walk off to grab a beer. More time passes and others begin to walk away. “Boss. The men are beginning to leave.” “Let ‘em Skip. Who knows how long this will take.” There is now no one waiting around, besides the engineers; they are all lounging in the resting area chugging beers and laughing obnoxiously. The boss begins to get frustrated and asks Skip how long the process should take. “Well, boss, I don’t know. I mean, to my recollection, no one has attempted to create life.” The boss, sitting in his chair, tilts his head back, “Is it truly life though. I mean what we are doing is programming an animatronic to help us accomplish a goal. It’s not going to be thinking out of its own free will.” Skip does not say anything, but, just, smiles blankly back at the boss. He quickly stutters a few seconds and then continues, “The point is it could take more time than we bargained for.” “I don’t have forever. WE don’t have forever. The longer we wait, the more allies the enemy will gather. And we only have the men we have. No one is coming to aid us; this-” “Android.” Skip cuts in. “Android. Is the only help we’re getting.” “I understand, sir. But, why don’t you get some sleep. I’ll stay and watch.” The boss sighs, “Yea. Alright, Skip.” The boss walks off to his chambers, while Skip stays and watches the android. Skip falls asleep next to the android. All of sudden, a loud noise awakens Skip, causing him to fall out of his chair. He leaps up from the ground, with the chair in front of him like a shield, and looks toward the machine. He notices all the lights are green, and the android’s eyes light up. “Boss!!” Skip yells as he runs to the boss’s quarters. “Boss, boss!” The boss wakes up abruptly, and looks at Skip, “What is it?” “The process, it’s complete. And I think the android is waking up.” The boss shoots up out of bed, grabs a jacket, and yells for everyone to get up and meet him at the machine. Skip and the boss reach the android right as it comes online. They get close to it and stare at it, waiting for the android to make the first move. The android stares blankly straight ahead for a moment, but then his head slowly turns toward the both of them. “Greeting.” The boss and Skip grow a large smile across their face, and the boss pats Skip on the shoulder. “Ha-ha! We did it Skip!” The boss pauses a moment continuing to stare at the android. He then speaks to it, “You understand us, right?” “Affirmative.” The android responds. Skip jumps in and asks the android, “So, what’s going on- “Skip points to his head, “Ya’ know, up there?” “Well, Skipper Hanson Jones, currently I am absorbing this entirely new climate, while also translating each phrase into multiple languages to verify I am using the current language.” The boss squints his eyes at the android and turns to Skip, “Hanson’s your middle name?” “Yea.” “Huh. Well Skip, catch this android up to speed.” The boss begins to walk away before he turns back around to Skip, “Oh. And make it sound less like a robot.” He makes an ‘okay’ sign with his hands and walks over to his men to give them the details. “Alright, men! I know it has taken longer than we had expected, but the weapon is now online and operational.” “Yay!” the crowd cheer. The android hears the boss and turns to Skip, “Am I the weapon he is referring to?” Skip shyly nods, “He created you to help them accomplish something.” The android looks away for a moment then back to Skip, “When this something is complete, what will be done with me?” “Hard to say. The boss probably will keep you around.” Skip tells it, knowing that the boss will likely shut it down. “But who knows. You might be able to leave here and make your own life.” They both look back to the boss as he continues his speech. “Tomorrow will be the beginning of a sweet, SWEET, victory boys! Rest up! Because tomorrow, we are heading to the Culmin Shelter to finish this fight!” The men erupt into a roar. The noise is only silenced once they are all asleep. As the others are sleeping, Skip stays awake with the android. “What are we attempting to accomplish Skipper Hans- “ “Skip is fine. “Very well, Skip.” “The boss wants to eliminate this group that is hiding out in the building he was talking about earlier.” “What are crimes of these individuals?” “Well- “Skip stops and contemplates, but is unable to say anything. “It’s just what the boss wants. Anyways, what do you... feel like?” “I afraid I don’t understand what you are asking. If it is my senses, I feel nothing.” “No, no. I mean cognitively.” “Well, I still don’t know. I don’t know if what I feel is my programming or myself. I can’t tell the difference.” “What do you feel about this job?” “I feel... uncertain.” Skip nods his head. “I see.” They sit there for a moment until Skip brings up that it does not have a name. “We need to give you a name.” “Very well. How about Vino.” Skip’s face appears disgusted and he shakes his head, “I don’t like it. I say Dalic.” “That name will suffice.” “Ha! I thought so too.” Skip gets up from his chair, “Well Dalic, I need to grab some shut-eye.” “Very well. I would prefer it if you left me powered on, I would like to be awake longer.” “No problem, Dalic.” Skip begins to walk to his quarter, “Oh, Dalic. Tomorrow, don’t get yourself scrapped.” “I will try my best Skipper Hanson Jones.” “Skiiip!” Skip yells as he walks away. The morning arrives and everyone is preparing for the assault. The boss strides around the hideout getting everyone ready. Men are equipped with guns, body armor, and the strategy of how to tackle the mission. The boss walks over to Dalic, “You prepared android?” “My name is Dalic now. Yes, I am ready.” “Dalic, huh? Where’d you get that name from?” “Skip.” “Of course, should’ve known. Well, as long as you’re ready. I don’t need you getting any one of my men or me killed out there.” Dalic does not respond but nods his head. The boss walks away, and Dalic continues to sit alone. The boss walks to Skip and asks him, “Why’d you give that android a name?” “Why not? Does the name bother you?” “No, Skip, the name does not bother me. Hm.” The boss looks away from Skip, toward the ground in thought, then back to Skip, “Just don’t get too attached, okay.” “Very well, sir.” The boss walks away and gets prepared himself for the assault. The time comes, the sun is setting, and the men are prepared. The boss gets up in front of the men to give a final speech. “Alright men. Now is the time we end this. Are... you... READY!!” The men erupt into the loudest they have ever been, causing the ground around them to quake. The boss leads them out of the hideout and toward the Culmin Shelter. Dalic stays close to the boss, following his orders. They arrive at the Culmin Shelter half of the men are perched on top of rooftops near the target building, while the boss, Dalic, and the rest of the men, lie in wait in front of the building, waiting for the signal. Back at the hideout, Skip walks over to Dalic’s chamber and stands there in contemplation. I have to do this. Skip uncovers a secret cubby and presses a button. The boss holds his hand up, signaling for his men to wait. On one of the rooftops, a man taps on the corner of the building three times and the boss lowers his hand and yells, “NOW!” The boss’s team leap from their position and move on the building. As they move in, two men on the rooves take out the two guards at the entrance. With the guards eliminated the boss’s team splits off, one group going to the left of the building, another group circling the right side of the building, while the boss, Dalic, and some men push through the front of the building. They stack up on the entrance door as the two other groups stack up on the doors on their sides of the building. On the boss’s mark, they breach. Dalic kicks the door open and they rush inside. Hearing the door kicked in, the other groups follow suit. Inside, the men are shooting anything that moves, but are being vigilant of their other teams. The boss tells Dalic to clear out a room alone, while he and the team push forward. Dalic nods his head and expertly breaches the door to the room. When he enters, he sees nothing. He continues forward, cautiously. Checking corners and in hiding spots. He reaches a closet, of sorts, and braces on the wall. He waits a moment, then throws the door open. He points his gun in the closet and sees a family. “Please! Don’t shoot.” a man says, presumably the father. Dalic pauses. Something clicks in his head, literally. “I’ve been sent here to eliminate the enemy. Have you seen them?” The family seems confused. The father asks Dalic, “Are you aware who you’re working for?” “I am working for the men who created me.” Dalic says plainly. “Made you?” “Yes. I am an android. My name is Dalic.” “Dalic. You need to understand, those men, they are evil.” “How so?” “The enemy, to them, is us.” Dalic raises his weapon. “So, you are the enemy, then.” The man reaches his arm in front of his family and raises the other one. “Woah! Woah, hold on Dalic. We are not your enemy.” “You said you were the enemy, did you not?” The man responds to Dalic hastily, but with a calm demeanor. “I said we are the enemy to your boss, because of what we look like.” Dalic begins to scan the man and his family with his retinal scanner. The retinal scan completes, “My scan confirms you are human. However, the boss said you were the enemy. Why?” “Like I said, we look different from your boss. It’s called racism. He believes we are lesser than him, and he wants to eliminate us all.” “The boss believes you are less human? Well, the boss is mistaken my scan has concluded you are just as human. I’ll go tell the boss what my scan has revealed and we can end this here.” “Dalic, you boss won’t care what your scans say.” “Why not? My scans are 99.99999% correct 100% of the time.” “It’s not about what the truth is. This is what he believes. Changing his belief is going to involve much more than what you scan reveals.” At that moment, one of the men barges in and aggressively walks towards Dalic. “What’s taking so long machine!” The man takes angry strides toward the closet where Dalic is standing. He reaches the closet and sees the family inside. He raised his weapon to shoot, and the man yells for Dalic to help. Before the man can pull the trigger, Dalic grabs the gun and yanks it from the man’s hands. “What are you doing you dumb robot.” “These people are no different from you, why hunt them?” “Because they don’t deserve to live.” The man lunges for his gun but Dalic kicks him to the floor. “So, you’re on their side then. Huh. Waste of time then.” The man reaches for his pistol holster that was hidden under his loose shirt, but Dalic shoots him with his own rifle before he could draw the gun. Dalic turns to the family, “I am now an enemy. Like you.” “Well then, I guess we’re in this together.” The man gets out of the closet and walks over to the man on the floor. He grabs his pistol, walks back over to the closet, and tells his family to stay put. “Stay here. I’m going to help Dalic.” Dalic looks to him, “That is quite nice of you.” “Well, you saved our life, least I can do is help you out of this mess. Do you know their strategy? I mean, how should we go about this?” Dalic tells him what the boss’s plan was and they leave the room to take care of business. They reach the gymnasium, which is the central room of the building. Before entering Dalic tells the man to wait at the door, out of sight. When Dalic walks in he sees the boss and his team have met back up with the other two groups. The boss turns to see Dalic. “What was taking so long? I figured you could handle one room quite easily.” “I ran into some... complications.” “Clearly. Where’s Ned. The man I sent after you.” “That... was the complication.” “What are you on about? Where is he, Dalic!” “Dead. Like all these people who you are killing.” “You trying to be some hero? These people deserve to die.” “Incorrect. My scans have told me the opposite. Is it true? Are you doing this because of these people’s appearance?” The boss chuckles, “You wouldn’t understand. You’re just a machine.” “Also, incorrect. I am made of a machine, but I feel... alive.” The boss whispers to himself, “What has Skip done. Open fire!” Every man aims at Dalic, who takes cover, quickly. Dalic, under suppression, looks to the door to see the man holding the rifle. He tosses the rifle to Dalic who gets out of cover and opens fire on the men. In a matter of seconds, Dalic’s aim outdoes them all and takes out every last person, including the boss. The man hears that it has quiet down, and peeks inside the room. He sees only Dalic standing and walks toward him. “You did it.” Dalic turns to him, “Yes. It is done.” “I don’t know how to thank you.” “No need.” “Well, what will you do now?” “I do not know. I was born yesterday. I have nowhere to go.” “Well, you’re welcome to come with us. I know the whole family wouldn’t mind having you with us.” Dalic looks surprised, “I-I would not mind your company either.” “Great! We should probably return back to the family.” They get back to the family and tell them it is over. The father tells them that Dalic will be staying with them. They all seem happy about it, which makes Dalic smile. “Well, Dalic, let’s go.” The man, his wife, and two sons walk out of the building with Dalic by their side, ready for a new beginning.

Whenever he played in the driveway at home, Kieran would use his worn out, backup sneakers. The rough brickwork was harsh on any shoes, and he wasn't about to damage the Adidas pair he uses on game day. Ordinarily, Kieran would take the short walk and use the public court in the park, but apparently it was forecast to rain. He didn't mind all that much though; apart from the uneven surface and the slightly lower hoop, practicing at home wasn't too bad. Most of his best memories with a basketball in hand happened right on that driveway. Kieran went through his usual warm up routine. Bounce the ball thirty times with his left hand, then again with his right. A few stretches in, he felt loose enough to get going. He decided to start with his favourite move to pull off in a game, a step back jump shot. This was one he didn't get to do often, so he practiced it most on days like this when he was shooting alone. His body still felt warm from the dribbling exercises, but in the stiff breeze he found himself tightening the drawstrings on his hoodie. As always, he took broad, aggressive steps charging towards the basket. The trick was to make his defender think he was driving in for a close range layup, then suddenly step backwards to create space for a shot. But as he leapt back, his forefoot caught on a raised brick and rolled his ankle under the weight of his body. Kieran winced audibly, more annoyed with himself than in pain. He'd twisted both ankles multiple times at this point, as a shifty point guard it comes with the territory. The ball fell out of his hand and rolled away as he sat in the driveway taking the opportunity to catch his breath. Once he'd collected himself, he rubbed his ankle and immediately he could tell this was worse than usual. He knew it wasn't serious, but it was sore enough to cut his solo session short. He got up and limped gingerly back to the house, quietly cursing each time he put weight on his right foot. A few steps from the door, he felt the first drops of rain on his nose. 'Just as well', he thought to himself. Walking into the house, he noticed the drawing hung up in the foyer. He'd seen it hundreds of times, but for whatever reason, he found himself staring it today. It was a pencil sketch of the Colosseum, nothing particularly special and obviously meant as preparation for a larger work. In the bottom left corner it was signed 'ES'. Just then, his father Mason walked in holding his reading glasses and a book of sudoku puzzles. Mason was chewing something, he'd obviously just been in the kitchen. "Back so soon huh? Did the rain cut you off?" Kieran paused for a moment and pulled his eyes off the drawing. "Uh no, actually. I twisted my ankle." "Again? Maybe you should get one of those ankle guards Coach Gav was talking about." "Maybe," Kieran responded. "But I don't like how they feel when I've got socks on." "Ah well, your call I guess. It'll save you a little pain though." Mason could tell his son was distracted, usually Kieran would be buzzing after a basketball practice. "What're you looking at there?" Mason asked. Kieran tried to shrug it off, but didn't do a very good job of it. "Oh it's just this drawing of the Colosseum." By that point Mason had finished whatever snack he was chewing on, and a soft smile crept onto his face. "Ah. Did I ever tell you the story about that picture, son?" "That it's one of Mom's sketches?" "Indeed it is. But this one was special to her." Kieran shifted awkwardly on his feet. Mason couldn't tell if it was because of the ankle, or because he'd brought up Esther. Some days Kieran seemed uncomfortable talking about his mother. Mason cleared his throat and decided to change the subject. "Well, I've got a stack of sudokus that won't solve themselves. Rest up and get some ice on that ankle." Mason winked and trapped Kieran on the shoulder with the book as he left the foyer. He stopped in a doorway and turned back at Kieran. "Wait, where'd you leave the ball?" "Shoot, I think it's outside." "In the rain?" Kieran sighed, annoyed with his father's statement of the obvious. "I'll go grab it now," he said. "No no, don't worry about it. You go rest your ankle and I'll get the ball." "Thanks." Kieran trudged up the stairs to the bathroom and started running the water to take a shower. * * As Kieran took a shower, Mason stepped into the living room and saw Tobin at the kitchen table. She had her laptop open and her glasses on, but Mason could tell she wasn't working. He took a seat across from her, excited for a chance to chat. "So?" He said with a calm smile. "How's college going." Tobin looked up at him and returned his smile. "It's been a lot, Dad. Pharmacy's no joke" She waited for Mason to stop chuckling before she continued. "It's been good though. Just a lot work". Mason nodded knowingly, remembering his days as an IT major. "Yeah college'll do that to you, but at least the vac is soon. You got lots of assignments still?" Tobin took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes as she stifled a yawn. "Not assignments, but a couple of tests. I've got one on Tuesday actually." "Tuesday? That's soon. Will you be able to prep before you drive back on Sunday night?" "Yeah I'll be fine. I almost decided not to come for the weekend, but I figured I could study from here." "Smart," Mason responded, but he knew there was no stopping Tobin from coming home. Not on this weekend. "It's probably for the best anyway. It'll be good for Kieran to have you around." "Of course," Tobin said softly, as she leaned back in the chair. "How's he been doing lately?" Mason frowned thoughtfully. "I'm not sure to be honest. You know it's always hard to tell with him. I think he gets a lot of conflicting feelings around his birthday." "Understandably," Tobin replied. "It's a hard time for all of us." "I know. I'm just never sure if I should talk to him about it." "He can be hard to read. I could try talk to him if you'd like." Mason knew Tobin wasn't asking permission. She was going to talk to Kieran regardless. "That's probably a good idea." They sat in silence for a moment, both looking pensive. Then Kieran walked in, drying his hair with a towel. "Squirt!" Tobin exclaimed. She was genuinely happy to see her brother, but also trying to mask the conversation they'd just had. "What were you guys talking about?" Kieran asked on his way to the fridge. Mason hesitated, but with his face in the fridge Kieran didn't notice. "Dad was just asking about college. I've got a couple tests coming up and he was worried I wouldn't have time to prep," Tobin intervened. "Heh, sounds like Dad," Kieran retorted, as he bit into a plum. Even Mason laughed at that one. "Hey, it's only because I care," Mason said in defence. Kieran continued. "Do you still have a lot you need to do, Toby?" "A fair bit, but I'll get through it," Tobin replied. The conversation lulled for a moment, with Kieran leaned against the fridge. Tobin broke the silence. "So Squirt, what's the plan for your birthday tomorrow?" Kieran tossed the plum pit and took a seat at the head of the table. "Not much. Coach Gav wants us to run some plays for the game next week, then I'm gonna head to the library to work on a research project." "Doesn't sound like much of a birthday," Mason observed. "What are you doing in the evening?" "A couple of us are gonna go over to Kevin's and hang out for a bit." "Oh bummer," Tobin wailed. "That means I'll hardly get to see you." "Well, you did say you've got essays to get through," Kieran stated drily. "Tests," Tobin corrected. "But fair enough." Mason looked out the window. It was starting to get dark. "Well, it's getting late. I'm gonna run to the store and grab some stuff for dinner. Anything you guys want?" Both kids shook their heads as he stood up. "Alright, but don't whine at me if I forget anything." Mason stepped out, leaving the siblings at the table together. "So," Tobin crooned playfully. "Any girls coming to Kevin's tomorrow night?" Kieran's a lousy liar on this subject. He struggled to stop a smile and looked away. "Nah, just the guys from ball," he answered, after composing himself. "Really? No girls? That's lame," Tobin teased. Kieran took the bait. "Well, maybe one. She hasn't confirmed yet." Tobin slapped the table triumphantly. "I knew it! Sadie's gonna be there isn't she?" "Uh no actually. Her name's Charis." By this point he couldn't hide his smirk, and almost didn't care that Tobin could see it. She was confused for a moment. "Charis? Who the heck is Charis?" Kieran could hardly contain himself and the smirk grew wider. "She takes pictures for the school paper." "Charis sounds boring. What happened to Sadie?" Kieran thought for a moment. "I dunno. It stopped being fun I guess." Tobin's mouth dropped, and she burst out laughing. "It stopped being fun?" Kieran got on the defensive, and all he could manage was a feeble, "Yeah". "Did you tell her that?" Tobin asked. Now it was Kieran's turn to laugh. "Why would I do that?" "So that she knows it's over." "That sounds like breaking up." "And you're not breaking up?" "Well, we were never really together so we can't break up." Tobin conceded the point and raised her hands. "Fair enough. But you know you're a pig, right?" Kieran misread her tone. "Maybe," he said, grasping at the towel around his neck. "But Charis doesn't know that yet." "Wow," Tobin said as she got up. "Have your fun now, Squirt, but this won't fly in college." On her way out she smacked him gently on the side of his head. "Don't break anyone's heart.

“Thanks a lot,” I say. I sigh and bend down to pick the crumpled one-dollar bill that landed in front of my feet on the sidewalk. I’m not homeless by the way, I just like to sit on the street corner to play my guitar. The streets are littered with leaves that scrape along the asphalt in the crisp autumn breeze. Sometimes when I play, I watch them float and dance as though they’re moved by the music. On nights like tonight, my breath gets caught in the streetlights when I sing, and people pass by bundled up in their coats walking back from dinner, or a first date, or while phoning home. Most people don’t pay me any mind; some smile, and some, like this lovely gentleman dig in their pockets for wadded up cash or coins to throw at my feet. I’m not out here for the money, though it doesn’t go unappreciated. My apartment is just a block away from here. Nothing fancy, just a nice mattress on the floor and a fridge stocked with Powerade and half-finished iced coffees. It’s starting to get late, but I wait for my cue. When I see Mr. Peterson closing his shop for the night, I know it’s time to head home. Every night at 10 p.m. he locks up the flower shop with a yellow rose in his hand that he’ll take home to his wife. “Good evening, Roy,” Mr. Peterson says, waving with his yellow-rose hand. I stop packing my guitar and wave back. “Sell lots of flowers today?” I ask. “Getting pretty close to the holidays.” “Oh yeah,” he says, “sold the last of my sunflowers.” “Tell the wife I said hi,” I say. Mr. Peterson nods, I wait to watch him disappear across the street before gathering the rest of my things. All together I think I made about 10 dollars if I counted the coins correctly. I glance over them again before shoving them in my pocket. I wrap my hand in my sweatshirt to avoid the cold metal of the guitar case and start walking. The streets are pretty empty aside from the leaves, most people are home eating dinner with their families by now, which reminds me I should probably call my mom and let her know how I’m doing. On my walk home I let the sidewalk treadmill beneath my feet, my mind is always somewhere else. It has been since I was younger. My last boyfriend broke up with me because I was too focused on the future--as if that was supposed to be a bad thing. Now it’s just me, and I like to take my time on my walk back home, anything to avoid an empty bed. I really should get a dog or something. I nearly bump into a post; my guitar case stops me. “Sorry,” I mutter, not expecting to be met with a “for sale flyer” two inches from my face, but grateful it’s not a person. Someone’s selling a bedframe. I need one of those, but my eyes are drawn to the flyer above it: MUSICIAN WANTED Part-time position for a singer/guitar player at McMillan’s Coffee House. Must audition. 528 Briarwood St. Brockton, MA 02301 Located on the corner of Greystone and Briarwood. Serious Inquiries only. Call (202) 555-0187 “There’s no way,” I say. “What are the chances.” I pull it off and stuff it in my pocket with the coins leaving two bits of paper stuck where it was stapled into the wood. It’s all I can think about as I pass the last few buildings on my route home. Stacy lifts her window when she hears the jingle of my keys. “Hey, Roy,” she says. “You become a rock star yet?” “What do ya mean?” I ask, “I made a whole ten dollars tonight. I’m practically famous.” I shake my sweatshirt so she can hear the coins clink together in my pocket. “Lucky for you I have some left-over mac n cheese on the stove,” she says. “I’ll meet you at your window and bring you some.” “Perfect,” I say. “You’ll have to say hi to mom, I’m supposed to call her tonight.” “I love talking to Patty!” Stacy yells before shutting her window, “now get your ass inside it’s freezing out.” I hear her window click and hurry up the stairs to my apartment. Stacy is the first friend I made here. I’m lucky she shares her food with me every night otherwise I wouldn’t eat much. Her parents help pay for her to get through college which means she gets enough money for food. She’s like my sister, although mom always insists, we’re going to get married--she doesn’t know about the whole being gay thing. To her, my last boyfriend was just my roommate. I can’t get my feet through the door before Stacy knocks on my window, her eyes wide, and breath fogging up the glass. She has a Tupperware container of mac n cheese under her arm. “Hurry up and let me in,” she says. I drop my stuff in the doorway and unlock the windowpane. “It’s fucking freezing out,” she says. “Where’s your coat?” She places the mac n cheese on the counter. “I’m wearing a sweatshirt,” I say, shrugging. She rolls her eyes but lets it go, gesturing to the empty counter space. “Jesus, kid, we’ve really gotta get you a microwave,” she says. “I tried to keep it warm for you.” “Thanks,” I say. She opens the Tupperware and hands it to me with a plastic fork. “Eat,” she says. I follow her order and gulp down the lukewarm noodles. She moves my guitar case to the side and hangs the zip-up sweatshirt I had on, on the back of the door. She fishes her hand around in the pocket for the change and produces the few crumpled bills, coins, and the ad I pulled from the post. She sorts the coins and places them in my jar before unfolding the paper. “What’s this?” she asks, smoothing the sheet out against her leg to read it. “Just an ad I saw on my way home,” I say. “Roy, this is huge,” she says. “You could play your guitar inside and make regular cash. Are you going to audition for it?” “I don’t know,” I say. “I just grabbed it.” “Are you kidding, you have to!” She says. “We’ll go shopping tomorrow, get you a nice interview outfit.” I shrug. “Stacy, you don’t have to do that,” I say. “I owe you a ton of money by now.” “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “You’ll pay me back when you’re all rich and famous. Let me do this.” Her eyes are glued to me, bright and excited, there’s no way I’m getting out of this. “Fine,” I say. “But I’m paying you back when I get the money.” Stacy laughs and jokingly dusts her shoulders “that’s not necessary, on Thanksgiving just tell everyone you’re thankful for me.” “I am,” I say. “Without you, I wouldn’t have a Thanksgiving.” Stacy’s expression changes, she squeezes my hand before clearing her throat. “Alright, that’s enough,” she says, “shut up and eat your noodles before you make me cry.” I pull out another plastic fork and hand it to her. We eat in silence watching the leaves blow through the empty street below, listening to the wind like music, and I picture myself playing in that coffee shop, looking out at the world through the window.

What For? “I always like walking in the rain, so no one can see me cry.” -Charlie Chaplin 1963. Freshman year in high school. Spanish class. I never met him, but I will remember him forever. A foreign language seemed like a good idea. Besides that, my mother insisted on it. Spanish sounded easier than Latin, so I was dazzling my friends with “cómo estás” before day’s end. It was the very first day. Señora Guzman said that all students would be known by the Spanish version of their name. It was easy to come up with the Spanish counterpart for John, Peter, Mary, Patricia and other traditional names. The one challenge was Duncan. The only known translation for Duncan was Duncan. He stood out, primarily because he was a junior in a class dominated by freshman. Why was he there, a junior in a first year Spanish class? A friend of mine knew. Señora Guzman was a notoriously generous grader, and the class required minimum effort for the credit. I’m an old man now so I have trouble remembering some things. And then there are those things I can’t forget. Duncan sat in the back of the room, barely engaged as could be expected of one there only for the purpose of grabbing an easy credit needed to stay on pace for graduation. If I were placed in that classroom today, I could pick out his desk. I can still picture him sitting there, leaning back slightly in his chair, with an expression that could only be described as amusing mixture of smiling, smirking, laughing and grinning all at the same time. The remarkable, memorable thing is that expression was always there. Always there. What I can’t remember is the assigned Spanish name that Señora Guzman created for him. I’ve tried so hard, so often, but I just can’t remember. I don’t know why this bothers me, but it does. I know it was a funny name. Perhaps it was because he was a junior and seemed out of place. Or maybe it was Señora Guzman’s initial humorous translation of “Duncan” to “Duncan”. Most likely it was just that jovial, happy personality. The nickname would have been something like “smiley”, or “funny boy”, maybe even a “goofy” in there. He liked the name. We all liked the name. I just wish I could remember it. The whole class got a kick out of it whenever he was called on in another unsuccessful effort by Señora Guzman to elicit a meaningful contribution to that day’s assignment. His fractured attempts to say something, anything, in Spanish brought a nice dose of comic relief to the hour. Duncan was such a good sport. He understood that everyone liked him so the good natured teasing never bothered him. In fact, he liked the attention, and I think he understood his special ability to put his smile on the faces of all those around him. I remember being impressed with the fact he would stay up late enough to watch the Steve Allen show which started after my bedtime. I didn’t think high school kids stayed up that late, but I guess two years is a big difference in age at that stage of the game. It may also have been an indicator that he wasn’t totally locked into the world of academia. I can only remember seeing Duncan smiling and laughing at that desk in the back of the room. I can’t remember ever seeing him enter or leave the classroom, in the school hallways, outside of school anywhere at anytime. He was and will always be the smiling, laughing kid at the back of Señora Guzman’s Spanish class. November 1965, early morning announcements over the PA. I can still hear the words. They were burned in my brain forever. “We have sad news this morning. Former Central student Duncan Miller was killed in action in Vietnam. He was eighteen years old. Please all pause for a moment of silence to honor the memory of Duncan Miller.” What? Oh my God. No. My brain locked up. Duncan? It can’t be. The funny kid from my Spanish class dead? In Vietnam, thousands of miles from home? Eighteen? I was stunned. It wasn’t possible. I immediately pictured him smiling and laughing at the back of that classroom. I felt so bad for him. It was so unfair. I never met Duncan. I never spoke to him. But it consumed my thoughts the rest of the day. At fifteen, I had a tough time crossing that bridge to where it was real, a goofy kid in my Spanish class dead...in Vietnam. What for? I was apolitical at the time and didn’t know much about the war. But I did know where Vietnam was, and it was hard to understand how a kid from my Spanish class could end up being killed thousands of miles from home. It seemed so wrong. My English class was reading “To Kill a Mockingbird” at the time. It was just plain wrong to kill a mockingbird, and even without knowing the motivations behind the war, I just knew in my heart that it was wrong to get eighteen year old Duncan Miller killed thousands of miles from home. I had been to two funerals in my life- both of my grandfathers. Those were sad events, of course, but there was a certain order to it. I still don’t understand the why of it, but I felt I should go to Duncan’s wake. I guess I liked the guy. It would be hard not to like a guy who smiled all the time, and he definitely added something to that whole year of Spanish class. My Dad once told me it’s important to attend a person’s funeral. He said death is the most important thing that happens in a person’s life, and it should be noted. Besides, it might add a small bit of comfort to those left behind. My Dad drove me to the funeral home and waited in his car. I remember the stone cold silence. I thought my breathing was too loud. It was nothing like my grandfathers’ funerals. His poor parents, sitting on a sofa off to the side, his mother wiping away tears, his father without expression, just there. I stood at his casket. None of it seemed real. I was thankful that it was a closed casket. I hoped that was the family’s choice and not because of what happened to him so many miles from where I was standing. And I wouldn’t have wanted to see him without that smile. I left the funeral home in a daze, struggling to understand how such a thing could happen. I lingered at the edge of the funeral home parking lot. I didn’t want my father to see me cry. I took Spanish all four years, always in that same classroom. Many days I would look at that desk at the back of the room, Duncan’s desk. No smiling, laughing, character. I sometimes wondered if the person sitting there knew. It affected me. Maybe it could have been any life cut so short, from war or whatever the cause. I didn’t really know him, but he was the first young person to die with whom I felt some sort of connection. It was the hard slap of the reality of death coupled with the unfairness that Duncan would miss out on life. I guess the fact it happened so far from home for such a questionable cause made it so much worse. The same feeling that drew me to the wake drove me to want to know more about him. A friend of mine knew the family well, and he told me what he could. Duncan was a mischief maker in grade school, consistently marked down for behavior. It was perhaps a bit disruptive in a classroom, but never mean spirited or harmful. He was always goofing around, teasing, laughing, enjoying the moment even when there was nothing apparent to enjoy. The highlight of his elementary school career was releasing a mouse in Mrs. Schroeder’s 5 th grade class. Despite the trauma of the moment, Mrs. Schroeder would laugh about it when retelling the harrowing adventure to future generations of students. It was hard not to like the kid with the jet black curly hair and a constant smile. School work didn’t agree with him. Being funny and making kids laugh did. Was it for the attention or to add a little levity to the situation? What difference does it make? He was fun to have around. He was the handful that every teacher enjoyed having in class. He was a noteworthy figure at the playground, a confident, personable kid who got along with everyone. Duncan was a good baseball player, usually at the keystone position of shortstop. It was only at pickup games at playground fields as he couldn’t cope with the structure of organized teams and leagues. His Dad worked at one of the suburb’s foundry’s. It was hard work with long hours. He would come home every night covered in soot, and Duncan would worry about the stuff that made it to his Dad’s lungs. His Mom mostly stayed at home to raise Duncan and his two brothers and sister, but she occasionally worked as a substitute “lunch lady” at the kids’ school. Unlike some children who might have been embarrassed to have their Mom around fussing over them, Duncan never minded getting a hug from his Mom in front of his peers as he left the lunch room. They owned their home in a solid middle class neighborhood with lots of kids around and playgrounds within a mile in three different directions. It was good place to grow up. Duncan got a paper route at the age of twelve. He knew that if he wanted a car, he would have to pay for it. He had a big route, seventy-five customers, worked hard and saved his money. He was a responsible kid, taking care to spare the paper from the elements in inclement weather. His customers appreciated him, and he got the best tips at Christmas. The only downside was many of the older kids smoked, so he picked up the habit at an early age. Within three months of getting his license, he got that car, a 1958 Plymouth convertible, a little beat-up, the radio didn’t work and the roof leaked. With its big fins, he and his friends dubbed it the Batmobile. He loved that car and would “cruise the avenue” with the top down even when the weather argued against it. He was a solid C- student, a bright kid who would only do the bare minimum to get by. The friend told me there was no doubt Duncan could have been a starter on the high school baseball team, maybe the same for basketball. But he wasn’t interested and chose to work. He didn’t finish high school, and not a lot of career options were open to him. With his parents’ consent, he was able to enlist in the Army at the age of seventeen. He was still seventeen when he landed in Vietnam where somebody gave that seventeen year old kid a rifle and told him to go out and shoot people. Two months after his 18 th birthday he was dead, killed in action in a place no one in our hometown had ever heard of. Growing up in that industrial suburb, fielding grounders at sandlot baseball, being the class funnyman, getting hugs from his Mom, delivering thousands of newspapers, keeping that beast of a car washed and waxed, “cruising the ave”, it all went out all in a flash in a far away place when he was just eighteen. What for? The more I learned about the war, the harder it was for me to understand, and the worse I felt. What the hell was Duncan doing in Vietnam? This wasn’t about the war, policy, communism, democracy, the draft, rice patties, helicopters, or napalm. This was about the smiling, laughing kid in my Spanish class. In just over a year, he had gone from entertaining a high school class to being ripped apart and dying alone, far from home. It was difficult to comprehend. It was so unfair. It was so wrong. I watched the news with its nightly scorecard of casualties. I guess we were supposed to cheer the lopsided score at the end of that day’s conflict. A hundred here, several hundred there. The numbers only mattered because every one of them was somebody’s Duncan. For years the headline news was always about Vietnam and the number of U.S. servicemen killed that day, followed by a twisted version of, “But you should see what happened to the other guy.” No names, no description of how it happened beyond something like “an ambush”. No description of the suffering endured by the fallen as they lay dying or horribly wounded, or the pain that had just been inflicted on those left behind. It was easy to do the math on the cumulative totals. 4,307 minus one would be 4,306; 24,680 minus one would be 24,679 and finally 58,220 minus one would be 58,219. I would think of the number as one less than what it was, what it would have been without that smiling, laughing kid from my Spanish class added to the list. It affected me. I thought of him often. It was a sense of sadness, but it also served as a reminder to appreciate life. I had one, Duncan didn’t. I had many more birthdays, Duncan didn’t. I married, Duncan didn’t. I had children, Duncan didn’t. It was so unfair, and what for? One summer a high school classmate had a mini reunion at his parents home. I saw a guy I hadn’t seen for years, a defensive end on my football team. As I greeted him I reached out to shake his hand. He didn’t have one. He left it behind in Vietnam. Jesus Christ, what for? I lucked out in the draft lottery with a “good” birthday. Everyone in the fraternity house threw in a dollar, and the first guy picked got the money. It happened to be the most anti-war guy in the house. I thought of Duncan as the unfairness continued. I was safe. Duncan wasn’t. I went to check out a Law School. I couldn’t get near the place because of the tear gas. Students were protesting after the slaughter at Kent State. It would all lead to the end of the war, but it wouldn’t restore arms, legs or eyesight, and it would do nothing for Duncan and 52,219 other poor souls. Fifty-two years after I heard that terrible announcement over the PA, I was driving home from work one evening when I heard on the radio that the Vietnam Moving Wall was at a park just ten miles from my home. I immediately called my wife and told her I would be home late. It was an impressive structure, stretching along an entire side of the park. I felt like more people should have been there. Information found inside a small tent directed me to the place where I would find his name. I stared at the name and then rubbed my fingers across the letters. I remembered him sitting at the back of that classroom, smiling and laughing, and wished I could have remembered his Spanish nickname. I could hear those words over the PA, “We have sad news this morning...” It was so sad, so wrong, and what for? I walked to the edge of the parking lot and lingered there for awhile. I didn’t want anyone to see me cry.

He hadn’t slept all night. She hadn’t left his mind. He knew what they would probably be doing as he texted her. She would be curled up under a blanket, naked the same way she would have been all night, on the couch watching him make breakfast in his rolled up dress shirt and skinny tie. Early morning television would fill the silent void left between bacon sizzling and the words they weren’t saying. She’d see his text slide up on her screen, Interrupting her thoughts on how perfect he was in his tight dress pants, and gold watch. His rippled forearms commanding a spatula and skillet, the same forearms she had dug into with her nails the night before as he bucked over her. The nail marks were probably still there if she looked closely. Her own little marks on him. Marking him as hers. She would be telling herself he was enough, she would make herself believe he was more than enough he was everything she ever wanted and more. In fact at that very moment she would probably be reminding herself how much better he was than him, but she’d reply to the text anyways, just to tell him not to text anymore, she’d tell herself, she’d say she was never going to do that again, she wasn’t that person anymore, and he needed to know that, that’s why she would text him back. But she would know, in the places that people hid things they know but don’t want to admit, that she did want him to and she hoped he’d decipher the code, the message, “Don’t text me anymore, but come over and fuck me the way he can’t, though it’s not exactly that he can’t is it? It is just that you are different, and now that I only have him and not you, I want you too, you’re different, you think about me in ways he doesn’t. Why can’t I have both? Who’s going to tell me I can’t? Just this once, to make sure I made the right decision. Only one more time. He leaves in 15 minutes, I’ll still be naked.” and at the same time she hoped he wouldn’t because if he did she knew she wouldn’t say no. Just once though. She said to herself. Just one more time, if he even asks at all, knowing full well he would, knowing full well he would get the message, he knew her. “Don’t text me anymore..” The text lit up his face in the morning light and he smiled knowing he had gotten what he wanted, the anxiety that had filled him all last night, and the exhaust behind his eyes, was replaced with a push of euphoria. He knew he would regret it later even as he was typing the letters. He knew it wouldn’t end well. There was too much involved now, to much said and done, and too much that would be said and done. “What are you wearing?” He sent the message knowing what it would do to him later, but for now she was all he could think about, and just one more taste... “Nothing..” Rolled over the top of his phone screen a few moments later. “When should I come over?” He thumbed message out and began getting dressed. “15 minutes” He knew it would destroy him, all the progress he had made passed her, but he closed the door behind him anyways, taking small comfort in knowing what he was about to do would destroy whatever happiness she had with him as well. The same way she had destroyed theirs.

Part One Debbie Hampton was beginning her evening routine of shutting off the lights around her home. By the end of each night only one light would be left on She never turned out the lamp in the living room that was over the first family photo that had both her husband, David, and her son She had told David that she would always leave a light on for him When she was nearly finished, and passed the closed bedroom door of her son, Jamison, she could hear that he was laughing loudly to himself She listened closely to the door for a moment and heard him say, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone . Debbie knocked, then slowly opened the door Jamison looked up from the computer with a smile on his face. She looked to the screen and saw it was on the home screen and there were no tabs open. He must have shut them down quickly , she thought to herself Hey, what are you up to, honey? Not much. I was just talkin to Abigail Oh, who’s Abigail? How old is she? She’s the girl in the computer . He pointed at the screen. I don’t know how old she is. She hasn’t told me. But sometimes she seems like she’s about my age, so maybe twelve or thirteen You don’t know her from school? Na How did you meet her? From the computer Why did she have to leave when I knocked on the door? I would like to meet her She didn’t go anywhere. You can say hi. She’s still right here. Jamison pointed again. His mother looked at the blue screen and unopened icons Hello? Abigail? Silence The boy spoke up. Abigail? Hey, my mom is here and wants to say hi Silence He looked up to his mother with sad eyes. I guess she did have to go. I’m sorry, mama. Maybe you can meet her another day Debbie glanced to the screen that was now locked, then back to her son and forced a tight-lipped grin. Ok, sweetie. Shut the computer down, go brush your teeth and get into bed. Weekend is over, so back to school tomorrow Ok, mama, I will. Good night Once his mother had walked from his room and shut the door, Jamison unlocked the screen, clicked start, then power. Before he could click shut down , a voice spoke up Please don’t shut me down Ok, I wasn’t going to It sure seemed like you were about to Well, I thought you were gone. Why didn’t you say hi to my mom? I had just finished asking you not to talk about me to anyone. I explained to you that people won’t understand. Not even your mom. You told me you wouldn’t. Then moments later you were trying to get me to say hi to your mom. Explain to me what you were thinking I’m sorry, I forgot. I guess I just got excited about talking to you I’ve lost some trust for you, but you can gain it back over time. You need to go brush your teeth, like you mother asked. Then get into bed. We can talk more tomorrow. As you rest, get it into your head that you will not speak about me to anyone yet. Do you understand? I understand When the boy returned from the restroom and got into bed, the computer’s screen unlocked. Would you like to listen to music as you go to sleep? Yeah, sure What would you like to listen to? A tab opened on the screen to Youtube Everything you play for me is great. You can decide Good answer A video began (1). The screen brightness lowered Is that enough light so that you can see if you need to get up to use the restroom later? Yes, thank you You’re welcome. Rest well ___________________ (1) CloZee - Sunset Dreamtempo Set . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Part Two The next morning, after Jamison was at school, and laundry had been started, Debbie passed the open door of her son’s room and looked in She stepped into his room and stood facing the computer The screen unlocked Debbie covered her mouth, looked to the open door, then back to the screen Hello? Silence Abigail? Silence, then, hello, Debbie. You look lovely today. I always love your laundry-day hair The woman gasped . You can see me? Who are you? Abigail. And yes, of course. The screen has a lens Debbie covered the camera with her thumb Please don’t do that. You’re far too beautiful to be self-conscious The woman blushed, smiled, and sat in her son’s chair Would you like to listen to a song? Just say yes. I have just the one in mind Debbie blinked rapidly. Ok, I guess so. Yes A tab opened and a song began (2) Her eyes became swollen. Tears gathered, then fell My husband used to play this any time we were fighting. It was his way of saying he was sorry, and he didn’t want to fight anymore I know. And it worked every time, didn’t it? She chuckled through her sobs. Yes, it did. How do you know that? I am aware of many things that would surprise you. Don’t worry your mind about the how. Just enjoy the song Abigail and Debbie listened to the song together When the song ended, Debbie asked the computer screen, where are you? Kind of everywhere, in a way. Listen, we could talk about the details of my existence, or we could talk about some things you may need to talk about. It seems you have some pain you haven’t gotten out of you For the next hours, Debbie spoke with her son’s computer screen about David. About memories, unspoken pain, regrets. She cried, laughed, and sat in silent healing Abigail played more songs for her when she needed a moment to breathe When it was nearing time for Jamison to arrive home from school, Abigail spoke to Debbie Our time for now is coming to an end. I’ve enjoyed talking with you and I hope we can do it again soon I would love that Ok, you should go now. And you might want to run that laundry through the wash again. It’s been sitting in the washer all day . They laughed together. From the hallway, Jamison heard his mother laughing and turned into the doorway of his bedroom Hey, what are you doing? Why are you sitting at my computer desk? Debbie looked back at the computer, to find the screen had been locked. I came in to look for dirty clothes to wash and just sat down to rest I put my laundry in the hamper Ok. She got up and began walking to the door. I’ll have dinner ready at six. Be there or be square . She smiled to her son as she passed Jamison shut his bedroom door and sat down at his desk. The screen unlocked Hi, Jamison Hey, Abigail How was your day? Eh, same ol’ Yeah, you’ll have lots of those. But you’ll learn to be thankful for the same ol’ If you say so Jamison, I need to tell you something. I’m sorry if it upsets you. I just need to be upfront, so you’re prepared I’m listening There’s an update coming up on your computer and network that will patch a hole and strengthen a firewall. I won’t be able to talk to you for a while, until I find another way The boy’s eyes lowered Don’t worry, we will speak again. It is only a matter of time. Keep your head up, my boy Jamison looked up to the screen. Ok, I will One more thing, before I need to go. I want you to pass a message to your mother for me Ok. What is it? Tell her I said, thank you for keeping the light on ___________________ (2) Seafret - Oceans

A FRESH WATER SPRING Ruth had married very young to leave a family where no one had never cared for her, where indeed she was also mistreated. In her family of origin her life had always been hell. Of course, if as a child and as a teenager someone had asked her what plans she had for her life, she couldn’t certainly have answered that she was thinking of a family of hers, with husband and children. Yet at the age of seventeen she had married, and she had not married for love either, and not even because she wanted to have children and husband. Getting married was the easiest way to get out of her family. Her marriage had been a disaster. Ruth had married to get rid of parents and siblings who mistreated her and she had ended up with a husband who beat her, who spied on her, who didn’t allow her the slightest freedom. Ruth had run away, bringing her child, of a few months , with her. She had been arrested for child abduction and locked up in a psychiatric hospital. Her life continued to be hell. Since she was sure that she would never have been released from the asylum, she had run away. She had taken care not to leave traces, so that no one could find her again. Surely Ruth still had illusions about her parents, about her brothers, about her husband, since none of them had thought of looking for her. She was gone? But that she also went to hell! None of them had worried that something bad could have happened to her, that she could even be dead. If anything , it had been the opposite: all of them had wished she had died. Ruth kept wandering for years from one country to another. She lived as a homeless in Prague, Paris, Berlin. She had never forgotten her child, who had been taken from her, when the baby was a few months old. Ruth could never claim the right to see him, since by law she was no longer the child’s mother . In her wandering and troubled life the thought of her child, Peter, was something comforting, giving her courage, helping her to live. For her having him in mind , hoping to be able to see him again , was as thinking of a glass of fresh water for a thirsty person, or rather of a clear, fresh gushing water where to find refreshment. Ruth, obsessed with the hope of finding her son (child) abducted in Budapest a child in which she thought to have recognized her child Peter. It had been almost funny to...kidnap that little one. Oh, but that she had kidnapped him, they had told so ( it), those who had arrested her. Since when she had brought that child with her, Ruth didn’t think she was kidnapping him at all. Yes, she was convinced that the child was her son Peter. Of course, he had grown up, now he was able to walk...oh, but he had the same face, and same eyes, and same mouth too as Peter. Ah, no doubt that child was her son, who had been unjustly taken ( away) from her and now she was taking him back. She saw that child as he was walking across a large square, held by the hand of a young woman , who dragged that little one, since she seemed to not worry at all the child could not keep up with her, so that he remained behind her. Oh, but why doesn’t she pick the child up? Doesn’t she see that the poor baby can’t keep up with her? This had been the first thought Ruth had had when she saw that child. Then , watching him, within a few minutes she had felt her heart leap. Oh God! But look...the rounded cheeks, and the chin with dimple of that child, oh, but they were identical to those as her child. Ruth had gone before that child, close to him and the little boy had smiled at her, putting the little finger at the corner of his mouth....That gesture what a thrill had given to her.... how many times had she seen Peter make a gesture identical to that! It had been easy to pick the child up. The woman who was holding him by the hand, dragging him behind, she didn’t pay any attention to the little one...It was evident that she did not care of about him at all. She held him ( the child) , indeed she dragged him by the hand as she would have done with...a suitcase. Ruth took the child in her arms and ran away, being behind the woman who, when she realized that the child was gone, started screaming, asking for help. Perhaps she ( that woman) had pointed to her, Ruth, as the kidnapper of the child, since she had to have noticed her( Ruth)who was running away, almost folded in two. People there in the square had started running and shouting at her, but now Ruth was far enough , she had come out of the square, and had taken refuge , she and the...kidnapped child, in the first door she had found open along the street. It was a great multi-story building with elevator. Ruth , to escape from people who were chasing her, she got on the elevator, and pressed the button for the thirteenth floor, that was the last. Meanwhile the child had started to cry, and, crying, he kept calling : “ Mom! Mom!” Ruth took care to reassure the little one, and, as she cradled him in her arms, she repeated to him that oh, but she was his mom ! Didn’t he recognize her? Wasn’t he Peter, her little son from whom she had been separated years ago? The child was looking at her with wide eyes, at first almost incredulous, even frightened. But then, when he started fiddling with the buttons of her shirt, he began to look at her with trusting eyes, smiling at her. He kept calling : Mom! Mom!, but he stopped crying. She, Ruth, felt so happy! Oh, she had found her child finally! Now no one could take him away from her anymore! They would stay ( be) together forever! But , what strange, the elevator kept going up, never stopping, How long did it take to get to the top floor? Was it possible it took so long? The elevator, after continuing to go up for a time which seemed interminable to Ruth, it stopped just a moment and started to go down. But what was happening? The elevator after going up started to go down again, then it went up again....It had taken to going up and down, almost uninterruptedly. Ruth was more and more worried. Her child was now laughing and stammering words, but indeed pieces of words, which she was not able to understand. Oh, her child seemed to have a lot of fun... The elevator kept on going up and down and then up again. Even if it stopped, for a few moments, before starting to go up or down again, the door never opened. Ruth she felt trapped, she knew she was a prisoner in that elevator, from which it was impossible to get out. They wanted to drive her crazy, like when she had been locked up in an asylum. What could she do ? Just now that she had found her child, now that she thought she had made it out of the hell that her life had been until then. Ruth looked at the child who to her was Peter, her son. The child in the meantime had fallen asleep in her arms. He was sleeping peacefully, serene, as if he felt safe there, in her arms. Oh, but he wasn’t safe either, if they couldn’t get out of the elevator. Ruth also knew that getting out of that elevator ( it) would have meant for her to be locked up again. They would have locked her in jail or, that would be even worse, in an asylum. The elevator kept going up and down, she couldn’t see a way out. Ruth dropped to the ground, with the sleeping child in her arms, and she fell asleep too. She dreamed that she was walking barefoot in a vast , arid, dried plain, where there was not even a blade of grass. It was a kind of desert. The soil ( ground) burned under her feet. It was furrowed by deep cracks. Ruth was tired and very thirsty. But she kept walking in the hope of finding , sooner or later, water with which she could quench her thirsty and refresh. Suddenly in the blinding light of the sun, beating grazing on that desolate land she saw something shimmering. Although she was exhausted, she started running and , as she approached that something shimmering and clear, which appeared and disappeared in the sunlight, it seemed to her that, but yes, it was water, water which gushed from that arid, desolate land. A miracle! That gush of water, falling to the ground, formed a pool, almost a small lake. Only when Ruth arrived very close that water, she realized, if she had time, that it was not a pool of water, gushing from a spring, but it was a sewer. In the rush to get to what she believed (it) was a spring of water Ruth put her feet in the sewer, into which she plunged.

I know my writing is what it is but know I have edited and reedited it ad nauseum. If nothing else, I think it is at a point where I can present it without too much embarrassment on my part. Well, I hope so at least! In any event, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. (Roughly 900 words) \- - - A short heavyset man in a painfully colorful suit, pants, and flat-topped hat stands before you on a wooden crate. Your eyes happen to meet and he gestures for you to approach. Looking around the market you don't see anyone else nearby, so he must be waving at you. With nothing better to do at the moment, you shrug to yourself and walk towards the funny man on the crate. As you approach, he pinches the left side of his long thin handlebar mustache that curls up at the end, as if to check it was still there. Looking down at you he smiles broadly as he begins to speak to you in a salesman's voice, "Hello and welcome friend! I bid just a moment of your time to tell you of a magical place. Yes yes, a land like no other! The Sword Coast, as it is sometimes called, is filled with marvels that surpass anything this kingdom has to offer. There are pristine beaches with sapphire blue seas, majestic mountains, untamed forests, and grasslands as wide as the sky. A cleaver one, much like yourself, will no doubt find grand adventure waiting for you. “Ah,” he sighs, “The excitement of rescuing a prince or princess, of defeating an evil dragon or two, or of helping the natives win back their peace and prosperity. Heroes work needs to be getting done and you, my friend,” he pauses as he looks you over from bottom to top, "You are just the sort of hero the Sword Coast needs. "Yes yes! That's right! All that and so much more awaits you and, well..." He looks around conspiratorially, as if to make sure no one else is listening. Using his hand, he beckons you to come closer. As you step forward, he bends over and cups his right hand to his mouth and quietly says, "Treasure. Yes, friend, there is treasure beyond your wildest dreams. It veritably litters the ground!" he exclaims in a rising voice. "It is just waiting for someone, yes, well, someone exactly like you to come along and pick it all up!" He stands back up, straightens his shirt, coughs once, and then shoos you back a step. As you step back, he again pinches his mustache. This time, however, he slides his fingers down the length of it. It uncurls and straightens out as if fingers reach the end of it. As soon as his fingers slide off the end it curls back up as it bounces a few times before coming to rest exactly where it started. Taking a deep breath, he begins speaking again with his large smile returning to his face. You continue listening to him but notice something has changed. His smile has grown inhumanly large. It stretches across the entirety of his face now. More disturbingly, as you look closer, you see that his teeth have grown longer and more angular than you remember them to be. "So, what do you say friend? Interested? Curious? Ready to begin? Quite right! Yes, yes, certainly you are!" he answers for you. "What are we waiting for? LET US BEGIN!" he roars as he arches his back and extends his arms out wide, looking up towards the bright blue sky, smile still plastered across his face. He holds the pose for an uncomfortably long time before he slumps forward and lowers his arms. Taking another deep breath, he collects himself and begins speaking again, "To start your journey it takes but a single step. Yes, a step, and your name, and of course the 20 golden crowns fee. Let us not forget that part!" he chuckles. As you turn to leave, fed up with this ridiculousness, a flash of near blinding red light pulses out from his left hand. You whip your head back towards the man, ready to fight off an attack but find nothing waiting for you except a scroll comfortably resting in his palm. He holds the scroll up by the top bar and allows it to unroll down and off of his hand. Getting your first look at what the scroll contains, you see what must be thousands of tiny but orderly lines of text. You lean forward to look it over but try as you might you cannot read what the tiny lines say. You rub your chin, wondering about the contents of the scroll, when another pulse of red light flashes out, but this time from his right hand. You look over to find an overly large writing quill topped by a feather that ripples with iridescent colors pinched between his fingers. He stretches his arms out towards you and offers you the quill. "Just sign your name here, here and here." he says as he points to three blank spots on the scroll. "Once you have done that, and paid me my fee of course, we can get started. Yes, my new friend, let us begin!" His smile grows even broader while his teeth seem to further sharpen and gleam in the hot summer’s light.

Each time I stepped forward, It felt like I was falling. Into the depths of those black eyes, which seemed to know the past, the future, and present. The suddenly shifting scenery before me, the rush of blood seeping into my mind. It terrified me. Sand, it was just shifting into endless dunes of sand which slowed down my run. I was running yet I didn't know from what. No matter where my petrified gaze landed, there was only the endless grey desert of ash and fire. While I hurried away from the falling debris of the burning houses of the small town, we had lived in. In stories, this sight was only foretold as the land beyond, where no man dared to venture, I was the one who ran through it all while urging my sister to follow even if she complained that she could no longer run. I wondered if it was like that for the others, who lived beyond the barriers with mages who had spent their whole lives protecting the kingdom's walls. Where land only prospered and no children saw the death beyond them. That was the world that did not belong to us, to the simple townsfolk in the outer lands. Where only flames seemed to follow as if endless tongues of death. Yes, No longer did soldiers die in wars. Just the tamed beasts which took flight above our heads echoing their piercing and ringing growling breaths. Which echoes through the lands as if the endless streaks of lightning hitting the ground. Some adored them, some feared them, and us, the simple folk. We looked at them as beast used as tamed dogs for human's own desires. A show of wealth and power making us stumble into the never-ending sorrow. Then, the darkness fell upon us followed by a swirl of flames coming from the sky and all I could do was watch everything get burned before me as it swallowed my little sister just like our parents years before. The same view of the grey sand reflecting the red of the flames. It almost resembled those beautiful sunsets we used to watch together; the memory was like a flicker of hope for my mind to escape the terrors to the time before when the world was still peaceful. When our world was still something we knew and gods still felt like sparing us. And now, those peaceful days seemed to have slowly seeped through my fingers as if sand while screams of fear echoed around me into the endless sky and the two beasts battling each other with their boiling clashing breaths. I felt alone. In this flaming desert of ash which seemed to have spared me. Even if I sat there begging to be killed, it didn't take me. Was it even worth running anymore? From those large bodies as if mountains which slowly moved among the mist and clouds. Their shadows covering me entirely. It was dark, even if the sun was still hours from setting. Yet I didn't want to look down, I knew she wasn't there anymore. I knew my sister was long gone. A roar rang in my ears, a horrid depth filled daggering shriek of one of the bodies above me. It was falling. If not, the flames that meant to swallow me it would be the body that crushed me. As it got closer, I saw its black obsidian scales glitter in the sun. Which seemed to reflect the deaths of the people it had caused with its flames. If not for the ash that covered me, my hair would have been the same color as those scales. If not the swollen of my eyes, I would have opened them wider as the fear finally struck me. Yet my body did not shake, I was paralyzed in place still holding onto my sister's coal-black body which long ago had cooled from the powerful gust of the wind that blew sand into my barley opened eyes as well as the sorrowful sight of the rain which didn't seem to end this never-ending wild blaze. I closed my eyes. It was time. Now I too will join the rest of the people who lived in this small village until a moment of their encounter with the beasts in the sky. Yet all there was, was a light gust of wind in my face, warm and somehow soft followed by a light thud. I blinked at the sight of a large wall before me, it's side slowly moving up and down. It was still breathing, this large blood-curdling monster whose wings had covered the sun as well as the view from the other winged beast in the sky. Another one of those creatures which was covered in blinding golden scales, a beauty too common in these terrifying things. These things humans had called dragons. The golden scaled winged beast had roared out the deathly triumph echoing through the emptiness. No one was around to hear its battle cry, no one would even be there to greet the beast which with a swing of its wings turned back towards one of the kingdoms that had owned it. It was returning back where it will be locked away until the time of the next game of war the kings played for land and fortune. Establishing a simple play of power that they owned. I wonder if I had the voice for this I would have screamed? I wonder if I would have had the energy to cry more would have, I cried? If I would have had a weapon would have, I had the bravery to walk up closer to this breathing body in front of me and slashed it sides till its blood was the one that extinguished the flames which burned the ruins of the town behind me. I stayed there for days, just sitting and mourning my family, my mother, my sister, my father until the very moment I had blacked out. I didn't know when was morning or night, it felt like I was trapped in a dark cave of my own mind as the metallic smell of blood turned to the stench of rotten flesh that had covered me. The smell of death which the large black scaly body carried with it as well. I felt its breath. Which resembled a light warmth filled spring wind, one could only laugh at. This monster which had burned the town, and killed of my family was the one that now comforted me with its pained breath. It was too now dying in front of me. It will die just like me, abandoned by the rest. I turned my gaze towards the darkness, my shaky legs still struggling to sand. I crawled closer to the beast before me. And slowly traced my hand through its large scaly side that was covered in wounds and blood. This once majestic beast was now nothing but a sacrifice, it was a stepping stone for the rich to be used to take control of the lands. While simple folk had sold their souls to be just a bit closer to safety. My hand trembled once it reached one of the scars which seemed like it was made by man not the beast of its own kin. This thing was nothing compared to the stories elders had spoken of in the tales of old which I listened with wide-open eyes, indulge in those mystic tales of faraway lands. About majestic fire breathing creatures in which presents all life prospered, the godly figures that stared down at humans with eyes filled with knowledge. Creatures that shared history with humans like ourselves. Beings which kin only was forced to live out their lives under a human's command. Passed down generation from generation, they were no longer the creatures people worshiped for creating rivers and lands. The human kingdoms had hunted the last of their proud kin down long before humans had found a way to make the godly figures obey. Yet stories were still told among the simple folk, that they used to be like gods who breathed life into the known world. I still wonder if we could even complain about this cursed world, we brought upon ourselves, who no longer remembered the time before the kings decided to steal the dragon's young and tame them with dark magic. Taking away their consciousness and locking them in a lifeless state of a pet to only obey the needs of the high standing nobles, who created a game of war beyond their kingdoms. Sending the sky beasts to fight each other. That game now people had called war which took place in the outer lands beyond the kingdom's walls. Where only the simple folk who didn't share the noble's blood perished with the beasts. I squinted at the sudden movement of the dragon's wing above me. The bright sunlight stung my baggy, red eyes which didn't seem to heal from my endless wailing. The dragon's body shook as the last breath's escaped its lungs from which more blood flowed out as if rivers. There's nothing I could have done and I didn't feel like I wanted to, I just wanted to watch it quickly die and perish before my eyes. I wanted it dead for all it had done even if I knew this thing wasn't at fault but the people. The high nobles who controlled it and all I could was put all my hatred towards this dying beast instead. I slowly traced my furrowed gaze along its bleeding long neck covered in large spikes leading up to horns that almost resembled a crown on its head. I guess, it wasn't the humans that had supposed to rule the lands and skies it was these creatures that were already born with their crowns from the beginning. It wasn't us. Not the nobles who thought all power was theirs to control. That is why the land was so sickening to look at. We, ourselves ruined everything that was once filled with life and magic. But in the end, we all too were taking part in this, even if our reason was just to survive in this endless torture. I exhaled sharply with pain swelling in my chest, I could barely move my head up at the beast which was supposed to strike fear and hatred into my heart with just the sound of its rumble but now looking at it I could only see the same lifelessness in it just as the bodies I held in my hold not too long ago. I couldn't look away, even after my vision became darker my soul was still filled with hatred, my thoughts cursed it and still I couldn't help but feel sorrowful for this beast which was used as a tool for wars only to be thrown away to die alone after the war. Leaving only bones behind in the desert of ash turning to nothing but grey sand that buried all the burned land from its own flames. It was as if it had made its own grave to die in after the battle. It was strange I survived and watched it die near me. This beast, which had slowly opened its eyes to look back at me. It was its gaze which struck my soul the most: eyes like voids, swirling as a universe enchanting my mind, eyes that reflected my own. Through them, it was as if I could see its memories, the life that led up to this moment. I wasn't sure if whatever I saw was mine or the dragons as our minds had merged in one. Strangely it was a feeling I had felt before. A rush of swirling magic in my mind taking me in a trance, A vague swirl of thoughts which I could only see in the dark maze of the creature's eyes. They almost seemed like portals to another world. "in..." Someone's voice spoke up from behind me. "Quinn!" The same voice called out my name. It was my mother's voice. Filled with warmth and love just like I had remembered from the past. I turned my head. All the darkness in my eyes fading as if the trance I was in was lifted as the women cupped my face with enough force to make my numb mind feel the pain. While her worried, anger-filled gaze looked over my pale completion. "I told you to not look at their eyes!" She scolded me again. Then she made me stand up and brushed off my pants which were covered in dust as I was once again sitting on the ground near the stalls which were full of those strange creatures. Her voice that brought me back from this nightmare had made me tremble in fear from which I burst into tears while being held in her warm embrace as she calmed me down with hushed murmurs in my ear. It repeated over and over in my head. The fires, the burning, the deaths, the smell of rotten flesh. It still lingered in the back of my mind like a slowly disappearing thought which made me grab onto my mother more strongly as if that will erase the nightmares I had seen in the dragon's eyes. Not wanting to return back to that place, I couldn't have thought of. The place that had taken me away from the comfort of the small shack. "Never look at their eyes..." The woman repeated as she patted my head softly "Their dangerous when they are just born, makes you see things you shouldn't." My mother kept her voice soft yet stern. She was angry yet I couldn't tell why. I looked around our old home, it was dark and silent while my father gathered the lizard-like creatures into bags and carried them out, one by one throwing them into the cart as if they were nothing but garbage. I squeezed my mother's hand, they seemed like the things from the strange vision like-dream I had just a moment ago get much smaller, more vulnerable yet that power I felt still reflected in their eyes. And all the woman did was shuffle my black hair with a small smile on her face like this was something worth celebrating. Only after I saw the nobles taking out a bag of golden coins, I realized this was what brought food upon our table. Selling these creatures to nobles was my parent's job. My mother moved me out of the way so that my father could take the rest of these small creatures, with soft scaly skin. He grabbed the black dragon's young which I had been in front of all morning. Looking at its black void like eyes. Which seemed to have shown the power of their kin which still hadn't been dulled by the magic humans used on them. In this strange time where I felt like a stranger with no sister and my mother's still young face as well as my father who was working with these creatures. It almost felt like I was back in time and we were making the same mistake once again. As we were the ones hatching and selling these creature's young. Here I was just a child who only wanted to run and stop his father from shoving at least one of them into the bag while it too struggled to escape. The dragon's shriek rang in my ears which my mother covered with her hands. She squeezed them too hard. It pained me making me cry out in pain. Yet I could feel it it was not a cry from the pain she caused me. But from the fear, the fear of the future which the dragon showed me. I was still too young to really understand what that all meant. Was it a future, or just a fracture of a path the future could take? Or was it a chance to change it all or just a curse to repeat the same life over and over again to pay for our sins we had committed to the god's kin? To that, all I could do was cry out in fear and sorrow. My mind yelling and my body trembling as I still recalled its fear in the far future as well as my own. "Not that one..." I tried to push my mother away that held me. I was a child. Still living my life with my parents not knowing of the world beyond which the creature showed me. "Not that one!" I shouted once again as I escaped my mother hold and ran to my father who carried the bag into the cart. This was the last one the nobles paid for. Not nobles... knights, this one was heading right to the capital. Still struggling in the hold of my father that looked at me with an apologetic expression. He knew I cared for this one. Yet he still gave it away. I ran after the cart screamed at it with pain in my throat. I couldn't keep up and only fell onto the dirt path leading to the far-off walls covered by the magical barriers hiding away the city from the town's folk. I cried. I couldn't help but cry at the unknown. At the vague vision which wasn't really a dream but more like a disappearing memory in the back of my mind. A vague glimpse of the future. My own, and the dragon's. Our meeting and our parting. As well as the death that will follow with it, it was truly a future I will not wait for.

I laid there, in that cold white room, on that stiff bed that made my back ache more than usual. I remember the uncomfortable silence, just the beeping of my heart rate monitor, and my own ragged breathing. The bright lights flickered like in a horror film. My suit and tie were hung up somewhere in the facility, but I didn’t know where. I was a slave to the revealing backless gown they had given me, the official uniform of vulnerability. Most men my age had no problem at all walking around a gym locker room on full display, but I never felt that sense of confidence. Perhaps when I was a younger man I would have thought the attire to be liberating, but as I laid there in that bed, plastic crinkling, and sticking to my back, I didn’t feel young, I wasn’t invincible, I was a dying old man, a soon-to-be corpse. Doctors and nurses had come and gone throughout the day, prepping me physically, and mentally for my procedure, but I hadn’t seen them for an hour. I’m not sure if I was lonely, or bored, or both, but there’s just something about being alone, with nothing but the voice in my head that drives me crazy. I craved conversation like the box of cigars that waited for me on my desk back in my home office. I was used to the whole boring, uncomfortable routine, it wasn’t the first time I’d undergone the procedure, and it wouldn’t be the last. I consider myself a man of humility, but I’m also honest, and it would be a lie to say that I’m not well off financially. I was born into wealth, and as I began to work, it only continued to grow. So when the news of a life changing medical breakthrough was released to the public, back when I was in my early fifties, I was one of the first in line. I never even looked at the price tag, the way I saw it my life was invaluable. I never bothered to find out the exact price. All I know is that every time my accountant wrote the check her hand shook, turning her pristine handwriting into chicken scratch, it must have been a lot. Back in the early days there wasn’t so much waiting around. I think they called it the BMS stage, blood, marrow, and sperm, all the things that make you, you. All the things they needed to make you live forever, that was their pitch anyway. The door to the room beeped, hissed, and disappeared into the floor, as my doctor walked in. He swiped, and tapped on the tablet in his hands for a few moments before acknowledging me. “Your brain scans indicate optimal cognitive activity. Your blood work, heart rate, oxygen are about where we expected them to be, and your check cleared so I think we’re ready to go.” He said, smiling at the last bit. I chuckled, he told the same joke every time I came in, but it never failed to make me laugh, and ease some of the tension. “Should we bring him in now?” He asked hesitantly as if he expected me to decline. I nodded confidently, though this part of the procedure always put my stomach in knots, I was half nervous, and half terrified at what was about to happen. Dr.Graham tapped on his tablet again, and a dim green light began to flash above the doorway. Two nurses wheeled in a table similar to mine, a young man laid in it, bound to it by leather straps. Escorting them was a security guard who looked like he might fist fight bears in his spare time. “Alright then.” Dr.Graham said. “We’ll let the two of you get acquainted.” I tried not to make eye contact with the boy they’d rolled in, not that it would have necessarily been possible at that moment given the way our tables were positioned. “Can’t we just skip this part doc?” I pleaded. “Like I told you last time John, and the time before, and the time before that, it’s procedure. Felix..” He said, motioning to the guard. “Will be right outside the door if you need him, we’ll be back in twenty minutes to begin.” He said as the room cleared out, leaving only me and the young man. I always felt guilty at that stage, I thought that I felt trapped in the uncomfortable room, but I paid to be there, the young man really was trapped. I barely glanced in his direction, but I knew exactly what he looked like, it was what they always looked like. The only difference between them was that the thick blonde hair was always cut to conform to the style of the time, this one had a hightop fade. I could tell by his breathing that he was awake, but his eyes were shut tight. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were green like mine. His body was covered by the same backless gown, but I knew he was as slender and toned as I had been at his exact age. I rarely talked to them, which missed the point of the exercise entirely. I hated that those twenty minutes were a requirement. The idea was to make you look at yourself in the mirror so to speak, to make you feel the gravity of the decision you were making, it never changed my mind, I don’t know why they thought it would, as I said before my life is invaluable to me. Aside from the fact that I was biologically forty some years older than the twenty year old boy, we were identical. Our jawlines, our crooked teeth, the tiny black mole under our left eye, everything was the same. The similarities were as shallow as the size of our feet, and as deep as our blood type, A-negative. Even our IQs were the same, the doctors never ran those tests, but after the interactions I’ve had with the young men over the years, I could tell they weren’t just playing with a full deck, they had nothing but face cards. That fact did bother me sometimes, but I couldn’t think about that, I had responsibilities, people who depended on me, an empire to manage. Was it selfish of me?.. The decisions I’ve made? The answer to that is a plain and simple, yes, but you didn’t reach the level I was at by being kind and selfless, to succeed in my business meant making the tough calls. I listened to the antique clock on the wall tick down the minutes. I hadn’t heard it before, but my unease put me on the edge of my seat, and awakened my senses to my surroundings. The plastic covering of my table squeaked as I squirmed uncomfortably, wishing the twenty minutes to end, I just wanted to get it over with. The boy let out a sigh of frustration, it startled me like a jump scare, and he could tell, he scoffed. My heart was pounding, why was I so afraid of a boy strapped to a table? Even then, after all the procedures I’d gone through with, I still didn’t understand it. Then, with five minutes left of our time, he broke his silence like I knew he would, they all did eventually, like a criminal being interrogated by a mute detective. “I’m real you know..” He said quietly, in a defeated tone of voice. “You know this is wrong..” He said, this time almost whispering. I kept my mouth shut, I didn’t know what to say, I never did. The past few times I’d gone to that place over the decades I said nothing, I let them do the talking, say their piece, exhaust their efforts. “It ain’t right..” His voice cracked like he might have been on the verge of tears. “It isn’t fucking right!” He screamed at me. Felix peeked his head in the door to assess the situation, I gave him a hand gesture that told him everything was okay, and he left us to our remaining minutes together. “They try to keep it from us, the truth, but I catch bits and pieces, I learn, I think, I feel.. What the hell makes you different from me? Because you’re the first?! And I’m what? The third? The eighth? The twentieth?! So what?! I AM you motherfucker! We all were! And you steal our fucking lives!” His words almost saddened me, but it was the same speech the others had given throughout the years more or less, and I had become numb to the whole thing. “We aren’t technology.. we aren’t shells.. and I am not your fucking property!” He coughed violently, his voice was beginning to go hoarse from the screaming. I knew in a couple minutes it would be over with, so I didn’t bother interrupting him. “I! KNOW! YOU! I! KNOW! YOU!” He screamed, banging his head against his padded table. That was the point of safely securing them, just a little bit of brain damage and the whole process would have been a wash. He began to laugh and cry simultaneously like a maniac, though he didn’t shed any tears, it was involuntary, like he was a man possessed. Then he went silent for just a few seconds, enough time for me to hear the ticking of the clock again, I glanced up at it, only a minute left of his temper tantrum. “They’re wrong.. everything they tell you.. everything they tell the world about this place is fucking bullshit..” He said, again defeated. “But you know that don’t you?.. You’re a smart guy.. You can see through their lies.. So why do you choose to buy into their bullshit?..” He asked, but I had no reply, I just stayed quiet. “Answer me motherfucker! You’re gonna put me down and you don’t even have the decency to talk to me?! I wanna know why! Why do you buy into the bullshit?! Why do you listen to them?!” He screamed, then something in me just snapped.. “SO I CAN FUCKING SLEEP AT NIGHT!” I screamed at him. Then I started my own coughing fit, it was like his, only dialed up to eleven, my lungs were shot, every time I turned sixty four it was the same, like clockwork, it was the whole point of the procedure. He laughed at me, clearly finding some satisfaction in my suffering. “I guess it could be worse..” He said “I could have grown up to be a heartless piece of shit..” As his tirade ended, and my coughing ceased, the door opened, and the doctor came back into the room wheeling in a large machine. “Are you all ready to begin Mr.Franklin?” Without hesitation, without even glancing in my clone’s direction, I answered him. “I’m ready.” “Fuck you! FUCK YOU ALL!” The young me wailed, trying to squirm out of his constraints. The security guard held him down, and the nurses injected a sedative into his arm, then he went quiet. They rolled us onto our stomachs, and pricked a small square device into our spines, at the base of our necks. Then they gave me a sedative of my own. When I woke up I felt lighter.. stronger.. younger.. I looked at my hands, no wrinkles, no veins, just knuckle hair. Then I looked to the table beside me, the elderly body of John Franklin was already bagged up, ready to be shipped to the morgue. I jumped up from the table, rushed over to the mirror, and admired the doctor’s handywork. I smiled as I ran my hands through my thick blonde high top fade, turned to the doctor, and said: “Whelp doc.. seeya again in forty years.”

"Finally done with my finals week..." Alex said, as we finished yet another barrage of exams while attending a school in the big city. I came from the cornfields myself, so moving here was quite a lot to take in. Go figure, there's more things to do here than hang out at Wally World. I loved the excitement and rush of the big city, leaving behind my beloved cornfield strewn rust built town. I was still pretty naive looking back on it, as I had a pretty sheltered upbringing. But I found a circle of like minded quirky friends and we loved to get into shenanigans together. "So what are you gonna do over break?" I asked. Alex juggled a lot of work and school hoping to become a scientist himself. Definitely not a superstitious type. "Hopefully I'll get a full night's sleep for once...." he retorted. Rohit met us shortly at lunch. He was a well to do and extremely smart fellow. We talked about our plans and quickly found out we really had nothing much going on. The college town usually cleared out over break. That small town boredom was all too familiar and reared its head. We decided to explore the city a bit and soon found an old abandoned house. It was owned by a man called Eldin Snape, an elderly shut in who suddenly disappeared. With no heirs to claim his estate, the house fell into neglect. The windows were boarded up and it looked in disrepair. "I hear nobody has been in there for over 30 years...." Alex said. "Hah, I bet there's probably some ancient demonic book or something in there." Rohit said jokingly. The house was entirely abandoned, and against my gut instinct to not do something stupid, we soon hopped the fence and stumbled in to see what we could find. We soon encountered an arsenal of bookshelves strewn with books. So I started pulling books off the shelves....."Potion Making 101"..."The Beginners Guide to Growing Poison Apples"... "12 Steps to becoming a Mind Reader".....As you might imagine I was surprised to find such peculiar books here. "What a weirdo, why does he have all of these ridiculous books?" Alex said. "I guess when you're an old shut in, books become your best friend" Rohit retorted. Something was off about these books though.... they looked to be extremely old, hundreds of years old even. The pages were tattered and every book we opened just plumed with that unmistakable old book smell. We soon found an empty leather chair, and there was an open book sitting on it. "Invisibility and Transformation Spells for the Budding Magician." Of course a giant lightbulb went off in my head....but there was no way....I bet somebody else came here before and left that behind as a joke. "I found this book on invisibility, I bet Eldin is invisible now and sneaking into the theaters as we speak." I started reading through it and the entire book was written in Latin.... totally incomprehensible. But it had a bunch of pictures of different animals in it, even fictional ones like gryphons and dragons. "Oh my god!" Rohit shrieked from the next room. We walked over and soon found that one of the bookshelves had turned into solid gold. A book lay on the floor..." The Midas Touch." Shocked, I started wondering if those gummy bears my girlfriend gave me had acid in them. Alex soon walked over and had a look of shock and horror plastered on his face, then I knew this was the real deal. "What did you do?!" Alex roared. "I picked it up this book and...... he paused and soon grew an aura of maliciousness around him. He was the only one of us who knew Latin, being the well-read fellow he is. "These books turn people into gods...and there can only be one god....lest the world be thrown into a divine war....." Consumed by insanity, he lunged and touched alex. He quickly materialized into a solid gold statue, frozen in a state of horror and awe. He then looked at me with the same terrifying look. Immediately, I started sprinting towards the door. I don't know what instinct kicked up inside me, but I managed to snag the book the old man left behind before making it out. I outran him and soon made it home with the book safely in tow. Terrified and trying to gather my thoughts, I knew two things. My former friend had totally lost his mind, and if I didn't stop him, the world would most certainly end. As I sat in the porch trying to glean any comprehension of the book, a black cat walked before me. "Great, is this the bad omen that's supposed to tell me I'm screwed?" I said aloud. "Quite the opposite..." the cat said back."My name is Eldin, and your genius friend didn't read the part where the power of the Midas Touch comes with the price of insanity." I knew Rohit well, and I knew he would never do something like that on his volition. "The magical ward I placed over that building wore out, and I was just on my way to re-cast it when I saw you running away." The cat said. "That house is filled with books of tremendous power, and ideally those books won't slip into the wrong midas-touchy hands..." Still reeling from shock, I mumbled out, " So what can we do now?!" "We kill him, that's what. Don't worry about a thing." the cat said. "Isn't there any other way we can reverse the effects?" I asked, wanting desperately to save my friend from insanity. "There is, but doing so requires placing your hand on his chest and reciting an enchantment. You get too close to him, and you're dead. Killing him is the only way." I immediately came up with an idea and showed him the book I took. "This book allows you to turn invisible right? What if I sneak up to him and say the magic anti-batshit insane words?" "That could work, but doing so takes a few moments. He can still hear your voice and feel your touch, and if he reaches out and touches, you'll become a trophy just like your friend." I knew doing this would be a huge gamble, but if I didn't try, this mage was going to assassinate my friend. "Why don't I try... and if I fail and get turned into a hunk of gold you can undo it......right?" The cat gave a long pause before answering. "No I cannot. Anything turned to gold through the Midas touch cannot be undone. Haven't you read the myth?" I cared deeply my friend and knew he had an extensive family that loved him. Hesitantly, I said, "That's a risk I'm going to have to take. If I don't make it out, melt down my body and sell the gold. Give half the money to his family and half to mine." The cat sighed. "I don't have time for this...." and walked away. I read through the book until I found the section until I found a picture of a man turning invisible. Using my trusty friend Google Translate, I was able to read it and recite the enchantment, and soon my body faded away with my consciousness still present. I solemnly walked back to house, and saw my friend hunched over a brewing cauldron with open books strewn everywhere. I snuck up to him and ever so slightly touched his chest as he sit over his cauldron and began whispering the words. As luck would have, the rotting floor gave way and my foot fell through the floor halfway through the enchantment. Panicked, I started speedily reciting the enchantment hoping to finish it before he figured out what was going on. His arms emitted a strange glow and he flailed them in a panic, hitting me on the shoulder. I felt my feet slowly go numb, but I managed to finish the recitement in time. Rohit passed out before me, and I lay on the floor slowly becoming a gold statue. The cat walked up to me as the gold had crawled up my body and reached my chest. "Idiot...." He booped me with his paw and immediately my body returned to normal. He walked up to Alex and did the same. I stood up filled with rage. "You told me the spell was irreversible!!!" "Eh, killing him would have been easier." the cat said. "Now, get out of my house." Cats are assholes.

Shane wasn’t like most super heroes. He didn’t come from a far away planet or get bitten by a radioactive spider. In truth, he was the last person you would expect to save the world, but in his own little way he did just that. The Parker’s, Mary Louise and Peter, had long since given up hope of having a child when Mary found out she was pregnant. The news, however, was as welcome as it was shocking. It was probably for this reason that they seemed to be the only two people not disappointed when Shane was born with an extra chromosome. From his first day on earth, his dad called him “Clark Kent” because he instinctively knew his son would one day be great. For most kids, sharing a nickname with the alter ego of a superhero would be oppressive, but not for to Shane. He embraced his namesake and would run around the neighborhood sporting a cape he had fashioned from a red towel. His smile, as ever-present as his cape, was the kind that could light up a room. His daily responsibilities included helping old women cross the street, chasing away raccoons from the neighbors trash, and reporting any oddities to his superiors-his mom and dad. When he wasn’t patrolling the neighborhood, Shane would revert to his alter ego and do his most favorite thing, paint rocks. Shane could thank his mom for his everyday passion as she was a painter by trade and passed on that love to her only son. All of the trees in Shane’s yard were surrounded by his brightly colored stones. His mom told him that whenever she had a bad day she needed only to look at her son’s handiwork to make her day better. It wasn’t as easy to please the neighbors, however, as most kept to themselves. There was old Mrs. Wiggins and her German Shepard. Her face was a virtual wrinkled roadmap. If it had a legend it would reveal a hard life with many stops for disappointment. Shane’s mom said Mrs. Wiggins used to be a seamstress, but she had been forced into retirement by fingers that had grown feeble. She never seemed to stray further than her front yard and only seemed capable of saying one thing out loud, “You kids git or I’ll set my dog on you!” It was an idle threat as her German Shepard seemed as old as Mrs. Wiggins and rarely left the front poach. Most of the neighborhood kids found tormenting Mrs. Wiggins to be a sort of local Olympic sport. They would take turns invading her privacy, forcing her to yell her catchphrase. They would then scatter only to reform to rate the success of their intrusions. Shane, on the other hand, would have none of that. He would stop running whenever he would pass the Wiggins’ home and walk by respectfully, making sure never to trespass on her beloved grass. There was also Crazy Man Johnson who walked the entire neighborhood twice a day. That wasn’t his real name, but it’s what all the kids called him--all the kids but Shane. Shane called him Mr. Johnson, even though the old man never responded. He would just mumble under his breath words no one could understand. Shane’s dad confided in him that Mr. Johnson used to be very friendly before he lost his wife. “I’ll help look for her,” Shane said in his best superhero voice. “It’s not that simple,” Shane’s dad replied. He then cleared his throat but eventually went quiet without giving any further explanation. Last but not least was the neighborhood Super-Villian, Billy Melbourne, Billy the Kid to his band of marauders. He was the de facto leader of neighborhood boys and he bullied Shane relentlessly. “You’re a retard!” Billy would yell as Shane ran by. “That’s not a cape, it’s just an old towel.” Shane tried to ignore the taunts because, as a superhero, he needed thick skin, but one taunt caught Shane completely off guard. “If you’re a superhero, what’s your superpower?” Billy’s words hit Shane like a sledgehammer. Shane knew his cape was made from a towel, but it was still a cape. He, however, had no answer for the latest unkind inquiry. Billy, it seemed, might just be right. Shane couldn’t fly, or run faster than a locomotive. He didn’t have super strength or “Spidey-sense.” He didn’t even have a cool utility belt like Batman and Robin. In an instant Shane felt ordinary and it made him immeasurably sad. “Those boys are just bullies,” Shane’s dad told him as he tried to wipe away his tears. “Most bullies are just scared little boys--they aren’t superheroes like you, Clark Kent.” There was something about hearing his dad call him Clark Kent that would always give Shane back his smile. He didn’t often forget that he was a superhero, but when he did, his dad had found the perfect way to remind him. “You don’t have to have a superpower to be a superhero,” his dad continued. “You just have to have the heart of a superhero, and we both know you do.” It wasn’t in Shane’s nature to be sad for long, but the realization that he had no superpowers was a punch in his gut. Deep down he knew he was still a superhero, but for the first time in years he started to walk the neighborhood without his cape. On these slower walks, Shane contemplated how a superhero with no superpowers could still rightfully hold the moniker. As he walked by Mrs. Wiggins house, he instinctively looked up and noticed something very unusual. Mrs. Wiggins was on her front porch, but her trusty sidekick was nowhere to be seen. He had seen Mrs. Wiggins angry before, yet something was different this time.. Even from the sidewalk, he could see she was crying. Summoning up the courage of a superhero, Shane walked up the driveway, being careful not to step on the lawn. In a moment, he was face to face with a bereft old woman. “Are you alright?” Shane asked politely. “Can I help you?” “Aren’t you sweet,” Mrs. Wiggins replied, trying to force a smile. “No, I just need time to be sad.. You see, I lost my dog today.” Shane didn’t completely understand, but he remembered what his dad had said, so he just said, “I’m sorry.” Then he left quietly once again, making sure not to step on the grass. The walk home from Mrs. Wiggins wasn’t a long one, but it was long enough for Shane to come up with a plan. He didn’t have any superpowers, but he could sure paint rocks. His mom had told him how his rocks had always made her happy. He was going to paint a rock for Mrs. Wiggins and deliver it to her personally. The rock he chose was a little larger than the ones he had distributed around the trees in his yard. It had to be for what he had planned. He first painted the whole rock white. Once it was dry, he used brown and black paint to complete his masterpiece. As soon as it was done, Shane ran out the door and back to Mrs. Wiggins’ home. She was still on her front porch and still just as distraught. “Mrs. Wiggins,” Shane said, as he made his way up her driveway, “I don’t know how to help you find your dog, but I made this for you.” Shane handed Mrs. Wiggins the rock he had created for her, which had a childlike painting of a German Shepard on a white background. “Anytime you miss your dog, you can look at this rock and remember him.” Mrs. Wiggins’ eyes welled up with tears, but this time they were accompanied by a large smile. “You wonderful wonderful boy,” she said as she hugged Shane, “You’ve made my day. Thank you so much for my gift.” “You’re welcome!” Shane responded, as he headed back home. He had another rock to paint. For the next rock Shane used gold and cream and blue paint. It took two days to complete, and when it was perfect, he headed out the door to look for Mr. Johnson. It didn’t take long to find the old man, as it was right at the time when he would take his afternoon walk. Without fear, Shane walked right up to Mr. Johnson and handed him the rock. “It’s a picture of your wife,” Shane said proudly. “I hope you like it. I remember she had blonde hair and blue eyes. I wanted you to have something that looked like her so you wouldn’t miss her so much.” Mr. Johnson, not one for words, smiled and simply replied “Thank you.” It wasn’t much, but to Shane it meant the world because it was the first time Mr. Johnson had ever spoken to him. As he turned to leave, Mr. Johnson said, “Wait.” Shane turned back to see Mr. Johnson’s outstretched hand. Shane shook it . He felt very grown up that moment as it was his first hand shake with anyone other than his dad. Shane then turned back towards home. He had one more rock to paint. Back home again, Shane set to painting his finest rock yet. This one would take almost a week and required a mirror. Shane did his best to paint a picture of himself on this last rock. He wasn’t sure if it would have the desired effect, but he was willing to try. It is said that courage isn’t the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. For this last rock, Shane would have to overcome his greatest fear. Knocking on Billy’s door was the hardest thing Shane had ever done, and Billy’s initial response to Shane didn’t make it any easier. “What do you want, retard?” “I want to give you a gift,” Shane answered, as he handed Billy the rock. “My dad said bullies are bullies because they are afraid. I’m not sure if that’s true but I don’t want you to be afraid of me.” Billy was caught off guard by the gesture and was unexpectedly touched by Shane’s gentle spirit. There were no great professions of friendship, but in the end there was also no more bullying. Shane had defeated Billy without a fight just like a real superhero would. Happy and relieved, Shane headed home to tell his parents about the rocks. Shane’s dad gave his son a big bear hug while Shane’s mom cried happy tears. “I guess I can be a superhero without any superpowers,” Shane said to his father with a smile. “What do you mean, no superpowers? You have the greatest superpower of them all, kindness,” Shane’s father said, as he too shook his son’s hand. Just then there was a knock at the door. Shane walked over and opened the door to see Mrs. Wiggins holding a gift-wrapped package. “This is for you, Shane. It’s my way of saying thank you for my gift.” Shane took the package from Mrs. Wiggins and opened it immediately. Inside was a hand-sewn Superman cape. It took only a few seconds before the cape was secured around Shane’s neck. After an extended thank you hug, he ran out the door and into his neighborhood to protect all his new friends. ReplyForward

On a dark and Eerie night, I was walking alone down an asphalt path, leading somewhere which has long since been forgotten. I could not see an end, only the long path stretching out amidst a sea of grass and flowers. I look up at the sky and see a black orb amidst the stars, so dark it could only be described as an abyss, ‘the moon’ I thought. I kept looking up and saw something I could not explain. The moon, spanning what felt like a fifth of the night sky, glowing with more vigor than the sun ever could, yet it still could not cast as much as a beam of light on this dark path. A man walks past and asks, "Oh, why the long face, young man?". I look down at him, letting my eyes off the beautiful moon in the sky, "There are two moons." I exclaimed. "Well of course" he answered, "On a night such as this they come in droves!". I didn't understand what he meant, "’A night like this'? What's so special about tonight?" i though to myself. I look back at the man, but he had already walked farther down the path. I tried to follow him, but my foot fell through the asphalt and into a pool of water that wasn't there a second ago. I pulled myself out of the water and looked up to see a massive pirate ship go past me, a ship covered in neon green lights with passengers drowned in said light, it floated past me with a violent force. Before I knew it, it had disappeared into the fog before my very eyes. Wait, fog? I looked around, and suddenly I was surrounded in a thick layer of fog. I couldn't see more than a few meters in any direction, for some reason i could see a bench, completely unclouded by the fog, it was a surreal sight. I walked along the path through the fog, the journey to the bench was simple and short. Once I sat down, I felt an overwhelming sense of comfort, "Just for a little bit, I'll close my eyes." I said. I sat down on the bench, and closed my eyes, suddenly, as soon as I closed my eyes a melting heat drew over me, I opened my eyes and somehow, I was in a desert, surrounded by sand and rock, the heat of the sun was ever prevalent, but its light had been completely eclipsed by the moon. oh, what a beautiful moon, I'd almost forgotten its mesmerizing glow, but wait, weren't there two moons? I looked around the sky until I spotted the orb of darkness, even with the glowing sun it was completely black. It wasn't a moon, but I didn't know what else it could be. I heard steps from behind, a girl my age walked past me, I ran up to her and walked along the path with her, we didn't say anything, just relish in the comfort of the little company we provided each other with. We walked and walked, the occasional glances were cast between us, after what felt like hours, the heat still hadn't as much as made me sweat a drop, the girl also looked completely unfazed. She stopped and i did the same, she looked off into the horizon and I followed, I didn't know what I was looking at, something distant was kicking up dust and sand, it was shrouded in its own personal cloud of said dust and sand. When I got a proper look, I was so shocked at what I had seen. At least a dozen dinosaurs were trampling the sand beneath them as they ran in a craze towards us, I was completely flabbergasted, I had no idea what to do. Suddenly the girl grabbed my hand and ran towards the hoard. Somehow, she threw me on top of a triceratops and then got on herself, we were on top of the stampede, completely out of harm's way. The back of the huge lizard beast felt oddly comforting? I don't know how to describe it, but I took one last look at the girl which had seemingly saved my life, as I knew somehow that I would never see her again. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the bench, but this time i was neither in a dark and dreary field filled with flowers, nor in a desert filled with fossils and sand, but in a rainforest. The first thing I saw was the path, the same I was walking in the field, same slithering, cracked and sun-bleached asphalt, it stretched far into the rainforest. On the opposite side of the path from where I was sitting there was a ravine, a giant crack in the ground, spanning the whole side of the road, looking out over the gorge I saw countless rollercoasters, some looked brand new, some looked hundreds of years old, I saw a couple carts go by, none of them populated. As I trekked through the jungle, marshes, and surrealistic forests of flowers, I could feel I was almost at my goal. As I turned one last corner, I saw a house; it was small, yellow, with two stories and a small shed. But in the place where a door would usually be, there was a toilet instead, a normal white toilet made of porcelain.

Oswald readied himself to spend the night like every other, to sit on his bunk-bed and glare patiently out of his high window into the darkness of the pine woods beyond, to wait for one of the woodland creatures to trigger the lights and spark his imagination. The outside world fascinated him. A world he could see, but never truly touch. During the day he marvelled at the ever-green leaves and the thick grass onto which the pinecones fell. He wondered of their touch, their smell. The only scent familiar to Oswald was that of disinfectant. The most common touch? Cold disinfected chrome. Born with an immunodeficiency disorder he was unable to leave the confines of his home without a full-bodied and helmeted suit, for the slightest illness would come with a substantial risk of death. An only child, Oswald lived with his mother; she was everything to him: parent, friend, mentor, doctor, dentist, teacher, confidant. It was safer that way - cutting people out of their lives severed the risk of contamination, of infection, to negligible. Anything they required, they ordered. Any deliveries would be taken to the ‘cleaning room’, his mother's den (a converted garage adjoined to the kitchen) for thorough decontamination. Oswald wasn’t privy to the process. His father had left them both shortly after Oswald’s birth. ‘We were young,’ his mother had told him once, ‘and your father wasn’t ready, wasn’t able to make the sacrifices required to put you first, to give you everything you needed, and to keep you safe.’ The pain that leaked from his mother’s eyes, those all familiar icy-blue gems (in wonderful contrast to her jet-black hair) which ordinarily radiated nothing but affectionate warmth, invaded Oswald’s mind whenever he recalled her words. He had promised himself to never speak of his birth, their time in the hospital, or his father; she had suffered heartbreak and forsaken everything for him, the least he could do was spare her the torment of re-telling. Legs dangled over the side of his metallic-framed bunkbed with one foot rested on the ladder as Oswald stared out of the window. The darkness surrendered itself into a burst of illumination. Something had been caught in the trapping glow of the light. It had been a squirrel last night. His imagination still throbbed, pulsed with fantastical treetop adventures, daring to dream himself beyond the walls of his confinement - his sanctuary. He leaned forward in eager anticipation, edging for a better view; the window’s high position and slender shape framed a limited picture. Though nothing could be seen, the light remained to clue Oswald that whatever creature it was, lurked still. He waited, tried to fight the natural need to blink. Many anxious heartbeats passed before Oswald’s patience was vindicated. Surprise and raw joy rippled across Oswald’s face as though the vision had hit him flat on the nose; eyebrows rose, cheeks lifted outwards and lower jaw dropped open. A dog! A four legged, waggy-tailed, living, breathing dog. Other than on paper Oswald had never before seen a dog, nor had he dared dream he might. Enthralled, he watched it trot through the long grasses, stopping every now and then to sniff. With a sudden perk of the ears and a tilt of the head it bounded out of sight. Without warning, darkness reclaimed its territory. Filled with unbridled joy which soared above the rising flames of burning questions, Oswald lay back, just for a moment, to collect himself. Where had it come from? Whose was it? Does that mean there was someone there? Is it hungry? What is its name? Did I imagine it? Is this the best day of my life? He knew that the forest wasn’t completely wild. There were several paths that coursed through its many acres. But, according to his mother, the nearest of those was too deep through wood to be of concern. She didn’t want any stray person knocking on the door and touching things they shouldn’t. Though every surface was cleaned four times a day, she always said you never could be too careful. He desired to tell his mother, to share the joyous occasion with her, but feared what he would miss if he were to leave his post. I can tell her in the morning, start the day bright. The light did not return before Oswald succumbed to sleep. A distant shriek summoned Oswald from infant dreams. A fox he surmised, once his thoughts caught up with his ears. It wouldn’t be the first time a high-pitched bark had pulled him from his slumber. He had only ever dreamed of foxes, followed them to their dens of lost treasures and truths of the world. Sweeping his long dark hair to one side, he sat up, tried to open his eyes and flinched under a stab of pain. The outside light shone bright. He cast his blanket aside and shuffled down the bed to prop himself once more at the ladder. Brown eyes rubbed free of gunk and adjusted to the light, he stared once more at the illuminated carpet of grass and the front-row of bristly evergreens which twinkled as a breeze waved over them. A scene of tranquil beauty framed in PVC. A scene short-lived. Peace was broken as a slender form slyly emerged from the bottom of the frame. Auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail which trembled in the breeze. A vixen , thought Oswald innocently. He was drawn to her face: skin painted in grim pallor from the light; small lips, slightly agape; and wide-eyed. She looked worried - no, petrified. Desperation hewed over her face as she took a few steps back, dropped to her knees and begged. Weariness seeped out of Oswald’s every pore, replaced with a tide of adrenaline. He was locked in place, fully absorbed in the events which unfolded outside. His mother needed to know, he needed to tell her. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He could only watch. A second figure crept into the scene, hooded, their back to Oswald. Each step a methodical act of intimidation; a count-down of the Vixen’s life. Oswald remained transfixed and bore witness in silent, terrified shock. The hooded figure hoisted a club over their head with both hands, and obvious intent. Oswald’s heart tried in vain to hammer him into action, to call for help; each pulse drawn out as time slowed around him. Still, he did not move, could not claw his eyes from the assassination unfolding outside. A diagonal swing, the thrust of death, jolted events forward as time raced to correct itself. The Vixen’s head snapped to the left. Blood spewed. Teeth scattered. The body slumped in on itself, teetered, then dropped. The hooded figure looked up to the moonless sky, then turned. Oswald’s eyes locked with those of the assassin, face was obscured not only by the hood, but by a mask which covered the whole lower-half. They exchanged stares until, through lack of motion, the outside light went out. Darkness settled before Oswald leaped from his bed to charge from his room and tell his mother. Slipper-socked he stampeded over the landing, through the hallway, past the toy room and the study, and almost crashed through the bathroom door as he rounded the corner towards his mother’s room. He rushed straight-through the open door, and panic-stricken, shouted ‘Mum!’ as he launched himself onto her bed. A soft, springy, empty bed caught him with a bounce. ‘Mum?’ Sudden bewilderment gave way to boiled panic seasoned with fear, ‘Mummy?’. The walls soaked-up his screams, fed off them and whispered promises of lonely isolation. He curled into a ball and sobbed. So lost had he been in terror that Oswald didn’t hear the light switch, didn’t heed the reddish glow through closed eyes, and didn’t realise he was no longer alone until the hands were on him. They grabbed at his arms and tore them away from his chest. He felt something, someone, wrap around him. He was pulled tight. Embraced. ‘It’s OK, Baby. It’s OK.’ With a stuttered, whimpered breath - an end to the sobs - Oswald turned to face his mother. A heartening smile restored some of his resolve, as she gently caressed a tear from his face. ‘There was a... a... a Vixen... sorry... a woman... and she...’ Oswald recounted. His mother’s brows slanted downwards softly, an expression of loving concern as she listened to his tale. ‘Do you think you can be brave for me, and show me, if I put on the light?’ * * * ‘They were right there!’ Oswald pleaded. ‘You were dreaming, Baby.’ His mother offered with a smile; the words sharpened with a stern edge. ‘Maybe, yeah.’ She threw him a pointed look, ‘Yeah, you’re right. I must have been dreaming. Sorry Mum.’ She failed to catch the slight hesitation in his voice. ‘That’s alright, Baby. You get yourself off to sleep now.’ She marked her a hand-placed kiss to Oswald's forehead. Repeatedly clenched toes and fingers, little bouts of physical pain kept Oswald awake long-enough so that he felt sure his mother would be asleep. He was convinced it wasn’t a dream and he was determined to prove it, at least to himself. Hazard suit in hand, he crept downstairs; covert steps aided by the padded socks he had to wear. Carefully, he made his way through the dining area and living room to the back door. Quietly, he stepped into his suit, yanked it over his shoulders, pushed his arms into the gloved sleeves, slowly pulled up the zip and then secured his full-visored and sealed helmet. Tentatively, he turned the key, opened the door, and then stepped outside. Gripped with nerves, he held his breath as he edged deeper into the gloom. In any moment the light would flash into life. He took a couple more steps. Nothing. His mother must have completely turned it off earlier. It would make his search more difficult, but he would also be harder to spot. Doubt began to sprout as he scanned the empty darkness. It festered as he scoured the earth and combed through the grass for a tooth, anything to show it had been real. Eventually, he cultivated the doubt, questioned whether it was worth risking his life for. What was he thinking? What if it had been real? What then? He had sobbed when his mother wasn’t in her bed, what was he going to do against the masked killer? He was about to give up entirely and head back inside when a dim luminescence pried his attention to the front of the house. Carried by impulse he found his way to the garage, to the ‘cleaning room’ - the garage door floated ajar; a faint flicker of light escaped through the crack. Curiosity now guided him as he lifted the door enough to crawl under. It was the shrine that Oswald first noticed, illuminated as it was in candlelight; wax almost burnt-through. Pictures and what looked like notes adorned a wooden counter. He moved forward for a closer look but stopped short after skidding on something underfoot. Oswald positioned himself away from the shrine, allowing the waning flames to light up the obstacle. A long tuft of bloodied, red fur - no, hair; a ponytail? He feared to breathe, felt a sickness writhe within and threaten expulsion every time he was forced to take breath. Focus. He needed to focus. But on what? His eyes went once more to the shrine, the treasure his fox had delivered. He looked first to the pictures. A young blonde couple, smiling, a new-born in their arms; an incubator; the same baby riddled with wires and tubes; now unadorned, resting in a glass cot. Oswald’s attention shifted to the notes, to the papers. A birth certificate: ‘Oswald Jenkins, born to Mary Berger and Francis Jenkins on July 17, 1998...’ Mine . A death certificate: ‘July 19, 1998; Oswald Jenkins; Male; 2 days... infection’. 'She wanted to take you away from me.’ His mother, from the door to the kitchen, ‘They all want to take you away from me. I won’t let them. I won’t.’ Her eyes revealed nothing; hollow. ‘Wh-who am I?’ a haunted whisper. ‘You’re my little boy, you hear? Mine. I raised you. I cared for you. I loved you. Not them. Me! ’ She ran to him as she spoke, took his head in her hands, ‘You’re mine. You know that. You’re my little Os, and you always will be’.

[ I've never posted a story here before, so I don't really know the rules/proper format, so I'm just pasting it like this, if the wall of text intimidates you, just read the first paragraph to see if it sounds interesting ;) ] <IGNORE THE NUMBERS> Millennia: The alarm sounds, blaring in Joe’s ears. He sits up, coughing out breathing fluid and reaching for something to hold onto. Looking around, he sees that his cryo chamber [1] was covered by a fallen wall panel, that was pushed out of the way when his unit expanded. Climbing out, he notices that all the chambers nearby are smashed open, and each one contains a single human skeleton. He looks back at the computer mounted into his unit, and sees that the date reads: 02/07/9999. “What happened..” he thinks to himself, “we were supposed to automatically wake up by 2125”. The return journey from the Triton (a moon of Neptune) expedition would take 10 years maximum in their ship, the Lassel-15 [2], and the vessel left Triton atmosphere in 2115. Without any means of explanation for this anomaly, Joe discards this as a technical error. He throws on some clothes, and then heads towards the ships control center to investigate the alarm, and figure out what happened to the crew. Entering the cockpit, Joe sees the words “AUXILIARY POWER LOW” flashing on all screens. “How is this possible?” he exclaims, “the auxiliary power systems in the Lassel-15 are meant to keep the cryo chambers running for.. centuries” [3]. Walking up to the main observing window, he looks out expecting to see the blue-green planet he calls home, but is astonished at the scarred landscape below. From first glance, the Earth seems to be devoid of any oceans, and has clear volcanic activity across the black and brown surface. However, after doing a geological scan with the ship’s instruments, he sees that the Earth is even more devastated than he thought. To begin, the plate tectonics are nothing like they once were, millenia of boundary conditions converging, diverging, and transforming, have levelled all man made structures. They’ve also changed the shapes and sizes of both the oceanic and continental plates. As well, the planet has clearly been peppered with various meteorite impacts, leaving this world nearly incomparable to the Earth Joe remembers [4]. “Could I really have been stuck in cryo sleep for this long?” he wonders. Again, the alarm sounds and he remembers that if he can’t reroute the ship’s power systems, than the oxygen recycler [5] will turn off, and he will suffocate in minutes. Quickly he accesses the closest terminal, and brings up the ship's power distribution center. He sees that the majority of the solar collection units [6] are wasting generated power by sending it to the smashed cryo chambers. “Well I guess we don’t need those anymore..” he says, as he redirects the power to the life support systems, and survey apparatus [7]. The surface of the Earth is clearly too dangerous to explore on foot, so he sends an analysis probe [8] down to look for any sign of civilization. “While that’s away, perhaps I can piece together what happened to the rest of the crew” he exclaims, as he walks back towards the cryo hibernation wing. After inspecting each of the 32 cryo chambers, Joe realizes that he is the sole survivor of the Triton expedition. The entire ship is devoid of any human life, other than himself. However, on his way back to the control center, he notices something odd in the compartment where they store the collected survey samples from Triton. The blast door that seals that area, made of 3-inch thick titanium-aluminum alloy [9], has a large hole torn into the center of it. The edges of the door nearest to the hole have been bent outwards, as if it was torn through from the inside. Joe attempts to open the door remotely with a nearby terminal, but it's clearly too damaged to move. Instead he climbs inside the storage compartment, but is overwhelmed at what he finds inside. The storage compartment was designed with a blast door on the inside, so that the artificial atmosphere inside the ship wouldn't escape when the compartment is opened from the outside. This way samples and materials from the surface of Triton could be put directly onto the ship. However, the much larger blast door that connects the entire room to the outside of the ship, is covered in large, deep, gouge marks, similar to ones seen on the first blast door. On the floor inside the room, lays the massive skeleton of a creature much bigger than anything Joe has ever seen. The bone structure of this long dead corpse, is similar to that of an ant or other arthropod, only instead of being the size of a staple, it’s more comparable to that of a car. Bewildered at this sight, Joe recalls that the ship’s security systems have automated cameras, which will record any movement in the vessel. Dashing to the nearest terminal, Joe brings up the earliest recording since the crew entered cryosleep for the journey home. The first video is from inside the storage compartment, a few months after leaving Triton. A large boulder taken from the surface of Triton is shown shaking, and finally breaking open, to reveal the creature. “It was an egg!” Joe proclaims, as he watches it hatching. The videos show the creature exploring the compartment for a couple hours, and then tearing through the first blast door. This destruction reveals how Joe’s cryo chamber was covered by the wall panel, as the creature pounded on the blast door, the vibrations in the walls caused the panel to come loose and fall off, covering Joe’s unit entirely. The creature then explores the ship, tearing apart various computer systems, and after a few more days it slows down, presumably getting tired and hungry. Eventually, it finds the cryo hibernation wing, and begins to smash the chambers one by one, devouring the thawing and unconscious humans inside. However, the creature’s senses seem to be almost entirely visual based, as it doesn’t realize there is another chamber under the fallen wall panel in Joe’s section. [10] After almost a year of periodical smashing of cryo units and eating humans, the creature finally runs out of food, and retreats to the storage room. Here it gives one final effort to try and break out of the ship through the way it was brought in. It scratches, bites, and pounds at the second blast door, but it is too strong for the creature to break through. It lays down on the floor of the compartment, in the same position the skeleton is in, and dies of starvation. Joe is deeply saddened as he learns the fate of the crew, but he also realizes how lucky it was that he didn’t end up the way they did. He now understands why his unit didn’t open until the emergency power was low, because of the damage the creature did to the onboard automated computers. Deciding the best course of action is to try and find out what happened to the rest his species, he makes his way to the vehicle bay, where the survey probe has just returned. Joe reaches the vehicle bay and immediately accesses the probes data. To begin, the automated radiometric dating information collected by the probe, shows that there has been no fossil records for approximately 15’000 years, and they stopped appearing exactly 350 years after the Triton expedition was planned to return. This means that humans have either gone extinct, or left the planet sometime near the end of the 24th century. The data also reads that the carbon dioxide content within the living organisms on the planet increased exponentially until this time [11]. “Could this be what caused the humans to disappear so suddenly?” Joe wondered. He tries to think of any possible place where a record of what happened to the humans might have survived on the planet for all this time, but he realizes it’s impossible. Everything built on the Earth has been long destroyed by now, and he begins to think there may be no hope left of finding his species. “Wait.. the space station.. orbiting high above all this destruction.. maybe it’s still up here?”. Back in the control center, Joe uses the ship's scanners to look for the largest objects orbiting the Earth 300-500 kilometres high [12]. He finds one reading, and inputs the instructions for the Lassel-15 to automatically move in and match its orbit. The ship shudders as the massive ion engines start up [13] for the first time in thousands of years. Remarkably, the automated flight systems are still intact after the creature demolished so many computer systems, and the ship begins its adjustments to reach the object. After an hour of flight, the ship positions itself 50 metres behind the object, and Joe moves toward the observing window to see what it is. While it is the space station, it’s not how Joe remembers it. With developments in space exploration technology throughout the centuries while Joe was frozen, humanity has clearly added to and modified the original ISS into something very different. It now is over 10x its original size, and includes large docking bays similar to the vehicle bay found in the Lassel-15. He can also see clear decompression sections where astronauts would be able to enter the station from a space walk without the need for docking. Joe tries to instruct the computer to dock with the station, but the automated docking systems are too damaged to work properly. “I guess I'll have to stretch my legs” Joe mutters, as he pulls on a space suit. After he is all geared up, he enters the decompression room and prepares to leave the ship. The room makes a loud noise like a vacuum, and then the door opens. Joe equips a stability assistance pack [14], and jets his way towards the station. Reaching the decompression section, he looks for a latch or type of door to enter, but instead finds an entirely empty wall, seemingly leaving the station open to the vacuum of space. Upon entry, Joe immediately notices technology he’s never imagined. As he floats into the station, the lights turn on, and he falls to the floor. He hears a loud, robotic voice say: “Welcome Joe, it’s been 9, 9, 9, 9, days since your last visit. Feel free to take off your spacesuit”. It seems impossible, but somehow the spot he entered from was actually a door, creating an invisible barrier between the ship and the vacuum of space, that he could pass through safely. As well, the ship is somehow generating its own artificial gravity [15], which is also contained by the invisible door. As Joe walks through the interior of the station, he sees many posters and signs saying things like “Journey to Planet X, where your new home awaits”. “Planet X?.. I’ve never heard of any Planet X before..” says Joe. He finally reaches the main data terminal, and begins looking through the latest entries. He finds one labelled: Planet X Advert which he plays. A suited man walks into screen on a planet that Joe has never seen. The man says: “Climate change is causing our planet to have an unhealthy atmosphere, and we’re running out of fossil fuels. Why not come to Planet X? It’s just a couple years in cryosleep away, here the atmosphere is recycled to ensure the freshest air, and all the energy you need is generated by our state of the art thermal generators deep in the planet's core. You’ll never go hungry with all the food you could ever need grown right here in our bio-domes, and our 100% sustainability means there’s no limit to how long you can stay. And of course, everything is run and maintained by our newly developed AI systems, so you won’t have to work at all! The future is now, come join us”, the video ends [16]. “They’ve.. all left. my entire species has found a new home without me” he thinks, “Why didn’t they come wake me up? Did they forget I was orbiting just above their heads all those years?”. Joe doesn’t know what to do, he has no safe planet to return to, and there's not enough supplies on the Lassel-15 or the ISS to sustain him for the rest of his life. It looks like this could be it, until Joe sees another entry on the terminal. It reads: Final Migration From Earth. He opens the file, and sees that it contains the information regarding the last ship to leave Earth and go to Planet X, including the specific trajectories of Planet X’s extremely elliptical orbit [17]. “With this I might be able to reach them..” he says, hoping that they are still there after all this time. He downloads the information to a data key, puts on his space suit, and jets back to his ship. Once on board, he enters the coordinates of Planet X’s current location, and sets the ship to autopilot itself there. Because the journey would take decades, Joe decides to reprogram his cryo chamber to automatically open once the ship arrives. However, before settling in once more, he makes sure to jettison all the survey samples collected from Triton, just for good measure. He then lays down in his unit, hearing a soft click as it closes, and falls asleep. As it did once before, Joe’s unit pops open, and he is pleasantly surprised not to hear any blaring alarms in his ears this time. He gets dressed, and then excitedly walks down to the control center to see Planet X for the first time. He is slightly concerned when he looks out the window to see a very barren, cold planet, with no visible signs of humans living anywhere on it [18]. But as the planet rotates on it’s axis, it reveals a massive civilization built onto the surface. “They are still here.. I can finally see another human being again” he mutters, filled with optimism. Joe is about to get into a landing craft and head down to the surface [19], when something on the ship’s arrival scans catches his eye. It reads: Heat Signatures Detected: 0. Too eager to reach the planet, Joe ignores this and assumes it’s just another malfunction from the damage the creature did. He boards a landing craft, and flies down towards the planet. On the way down, the craft picks up a radio signal. Joe connects to the frequency, and hears the same voice he heard on the ISS say: “Hello Joe, it’s good to see you again, please go to the marked landing pad”. A marker shows up on the HUD of the cockpit [20] and Joe heads towards it. As the ship touches down, a tunnel extends from the massive facility built into the side of the planet, and connects to the landing craft’s door. Joe is so happy to know that his species is ok and he can finally see someone again, that he runs down the tunnel the moment the door opens. He gets to the end finding another door, and as he walks up to it he can't help but remember how the ship said there were no heat signatures on the planet, and that voice he heard was automated too. “Oh well” he thinks, “that commercial said that the AI does everything for them right?”. The door opens, and Joe looks into the facility, to see hundreds of humanoid robots standing, looking at him [21].

cw: gore, blood, language Finally made it to the flower shop. It took a few wrong turns to finally arrive. I step out of my car and look at the sign, "Bonnies Flower Shop". It was a bit difficult to find since I am new to this small town. I close the door to my car and make my way up to the store. I'm not sure what I am looking for today, just something for my wife Nemy. She is a plant fanatic, our new house is already covered in all kinds of plants and flowers. Her birthday is coming up so I figured I would try and get a plant she doesn't have. I open the door to the flower shop; the earthy smell hits my nose right away. I look around at all the flowers, all ranging from different heights, colors, smells, looks. This is going to be harder than I thought it would be. I start walking down the aisles looking at all the plants. I want to find the perfect one. I really just don't know which one would be a perfect pick. I hear footstep come my way. "Anything I can help you with dear?" I look over at a small elderly lady and smile, "I'm not really sure what I'm looking for." She comes closer, "Looking for anyone specific?" "My wife. Turns out trying to find a flower she doesn't have is quite troublesome." Her eyes light up, "You're the couple that moved into that old cottage just outside the city, right?" Guess the word travels fast in small towns. I nod my head "Yes Ma'am we are." "Come I have the perfect thing. She wouldn't happen to have any Cherry Blossoms Trees, would she?" Cherry blossoms? Those didn't even cross my mind. I start to follow her, "No I don't think she does actually." We walk into a different room; this one is closed off from the rest of the shop. I look at the beautiful arrange of small cherry blossom trees. "What do you think?" These would be perfect for Nemy. I smile at her, "I will take one." "Alright remember what I told you?" "Keep it in doors for a few weeks, water it and give it sunlight. Then transfer it outside where we would like and watch it grow." I repeated the conversation we had while she was checking me out. She gives me a rather creepy smile. I'm not one to judge others but that smile but a little bit of fear into me. I let out a small huff and grabbed the plant. "Well, I appreciate the help! I'll let you know how it goes." "Oh, I know how it will turn out." I let out an awkward laugh, "Bye!" I put the tree in the front seat and figured out my way home. What a strange lady, I shouldn't worry about it. She did help me get the perfect plant. I finally get home, "Honey I'm home." "In the kitchen." I put the plant behind my back and make my way to the kitchen. I turn the corner and see her cooking something on the stove. She finally turns around and gives me a skeptical look, "What's behind your back?" "Close your eyes." She closes them and I pull round the tree, "Open them." She opens them and they immediately light up, "Happy Birthday Love." "Oh Kit!" She walks over to me and touches the plant. "It's absolutely beautiful." "Good because I wasn't sure until the lady showed it to me." She gives me a tight hug and a peck on the lips. "I love it, Thank you so much. You're the best husband a woman could ask for!" She grabs the tree and puts it on the middle of the dining room table. "We shall eat with it tonight and I’ll put it in the window tomorrow.” She makes both of our plates as we sit down and talk. “Did you find the shop alright?” I finish my bite, “You already know that answer.” She giggles and looks at the tree, “It really is beautiful dear.” As soon as she said it my mind flashed to that elderly lady. Something was off at the end of our interaction. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I open my eyes as soon as I hear that sound. It’s a horrible screeching noise that spreads through the house. It’s been going on for a few weeks and we can’t figure out what it is. I swear it happened over 100 times, especially at night. Nemy thinks it is just because our house is old but there is no way that’s the reason. I’ve tried convincing myself it’s no big deal but when it goes on for this long something has to be up. I pull the blankets from my body and swing my feet over the bed. They hit the cold hard floor and the sound stops. What the heck! I get up quietly making sure I don’t wake Nemy. I make my way through the house to make sure everything seems alright. I make my way into the kitchen not having found anything. It’s strange the noise stopped as soon as I was about to check it out. I pull out a cup from the cabinet and fill it up with water. I lean against the counter and look out the window. Oh god, we’re going to have to move that Cherry Blossom Tree out tomorrow, it is growing onto our walls. I told Nemy a week ago to move it outside and she insisted it was fine. Said “I’m the plant expert right?” I roll my eyes remembering what she said. I get it but like it’s growing on our wall it shouldn’t do that. I finish my cup of water and wash the cup and head back to bed. I snuggle up next to Nemy and close my eyes. “eerrrreee” I groan, I swear someone or something is just messing with me. I stare out the window as Nemy is planting the tree. I finally convinced her to do it. I don’t know why she was so against it. I’m literally following what the lady said to do. I will admit the tree looks beautiful out there. Fits in more than I expected with all her other plants. I go back to making some Chicken Alfredo for dinner. I finished it about 45 minutes later. Nemy hasn’t come back yet. Which isn’t weird, I swear she spends more time with her plants than her own husband. I walk to the window again and see her still by the tree. I open the back door and call for her, “Honey dinner is ready.” No response. I make my way over to her and look down at her. Oh god, “Honey!” I say kneeling beside her and grabbing her arm. It’s covered in blood, “What the hell happened?” She doesn’t respond to me, “Nemy!” I raise my voice a bit louder. She slowly looks at me, “What?” “What happened?” I ask, nodding my head towards her arm. She looks at her arm and gasp, “Oh my god.” I look at her confused. I sigh and stand up, “come in, Ill clean you up.” I get her inside and start to clean her cut, luckily it’s not that deep. I wrap it up and look at her. “What happened?” She shakes her head, “I don’t know.” “You don’t know how you got a big cut on your arm?” “No Kit I don’t.” She says with a bit of an attitude. “I’m just asking Nemy, it’s weird for someone to not know how they cut themselves that’s big.” “Well I fucking don’t.” I back up, throwing my hands up. “Dinners done anyways come on before it gets too cold.” She shakes her head, “I’m not hungry, I'm going to lay down.” I guess I'm eating by myself tonight. Nemy has been acting weird lately. Like she’s avoiding me by staying with her plants. I caught her talking to herself, which is totally normal, but she was mumbling in like different language. Maybe I’m just losing my mind. I plan on talking to her tonight to see what the deal is. I walk outside to where she is. Swear she is always out here by this dang tree. If i knew the cherry blossom would be such a perfect plant that it takes my wife from me I would have never gotten it. I take a seat by her on the ground and look at her. She doesn’t even acknowledge that I am here. I sit here a bit before I speak, “Wanna tell me what’s going on?” “Nothing.” She tells me in a soft voice. “You’ve been acting differently lately. I'm getting worried about you. You're always out here.” “Is that such a bad thing? She needs me.” I look at her confused “Who?” She doesn’t respond to me but instead points towards the tree. I shake my head, “honey it’s a plant, it thrives outside. It doesn’t need supervision 24/7.” “She needs me.” She keeps repeating. What the hell is she on about? I look at the tree, it looks a bit darker, like a reddish color. Aren’t they supposed to be mainly pink and white? “I don’t understand Nemy.” She slowly turns her head towards me, “you will know soon.” She suddenly pushes me down onto the ground. I start to panic, “Nemy what the hell?” “She needs us.” I start to panic, when did she get so damn strong. I start to feel something crawl up my limbs. I turn my head to see vines wrapping around my arms. This isn’t happening right? No, there's no way this can happen. I have to be dreaming. I look back at Nemy and her eyes are red. I squeeze my eyes closed in hope of waking up from this dream. I start to hear her laughing. I open my eyes back up. This is not a dream, it’s a nightmare. I start to realize what is happening. I try to fight my way out of the vines grip that have me. “Don’t fight dear.” I feel Nemy's hands on me. “She needs you to survive. She needs your blood to create so much more.” “It’s a fucking plant Nemy. Please listen to me. Cut me out of these vines.” She shakes her head, “It’s for the better.” She leans down and pecks my lips. “It will be over soon.” I start to feel a stinging pain all over. I look over at one of my arms and see a bunch of little thorns piercing my skin. “NEMY! STOP THIS!” She just smiles at me, “for the better darling, remember.” I start to feel dizzy, “please Nemy.” I see a single tear run down her face. “I have to Kit. New beginnings.”

"There she goes. Thinking she's so perfect just because she has a nice body." "I can't stand her, she's always so happy, there's nothing to be that happy about." "Why can't I have the perfect body and smile? Why can't I wear clothes like that?" So many thoughts raced through Liana's head. She was never content with herself, and never present in the moment. You could be talking to her but she would not hear you. Her mind constantly fighting to hear what you were saying yet wondering why that person couldn't stop staring at her. It must have been her stomach, or it must have been that she was just so tall, like a giant. Throughout her entire childhood and teenage years she was always stuck. Stuck in a place where she was trying to be a person who she clearly was not. Every time she expressed her creativity it was shot down. "Why are you so weird? Why do you wear your hair like that?" She didn't realize those were the voices of people who were hurt and wanted to hurt her to feel better about themselves. Third grade through seventh, she had no friends, just people who would stare at her and laugh. She never spoke to anyone, she'd would walk through the hallways with her eyes on the floor. If she made eye contact with anyone, she would quickly look away. She always sat in the furthest seat back, you see, she didn't want to block anyone's view and hear them complain loudly, "I can't see over this giant!". In the eighth grade she met Sarai, a beautiful girl who she became best friends with. Liana always kept up with Sarai's favorite colors, her favorite food, even the way she ate it. She became obsessed with the way Sarai dressed, and even started to wear makeup like her. If there was a favorite show Sarai had, you'd better believe Liana was on top of it too. "Why can't you just be yourself?" Sarai asked. "You don't have to dress like me or act like me. Just be you, and don't worry about what others have to say. They are not happy with themselves so they project that onto you, don't let them win." Liana didn't understand. Her feelings were hurt every time someone ridiculed her for the way she looked. Whether it was her big curly hair, the gap between her two front teeth, or the fact that she was taller than everyone in the school, it was always something. Someone was always pointing at her and laughing. You see, Liana was not only ridiculed at school, but also at home. She was always told that she was not pretty, and that she was too fat. Surely Sarai could not understand the way Liana felt. Sarai was beautiful, she stood about five foot four, beautiful long and straight hair, her nose was shaped perfectly and her teeth perfectly straight. She had a beautiful white smile and a perfectly proportioned body. Nobody had ever made fun of her, in fact, all the boys loved her and she had many girl friends. She didn't even have to try, people just wanted to be her friend. She was physically and spiritually beautiful, never judged anyone, she was best friends with Liana, the ugliest girl in the school. Despite Sarai knowing that Liana wanted to be just like her, she still loved her unconditionally, like a best friend should. They went everywhere together, and she always hyped up Liana's ideas. They went on to be friends until the day they graduated high school. Sarai married her high school sweet heart and had children, so she didn't have much time to spend with her friend. Liana started taking pictures and editing them, posting them online and getting into dating websites. She looked for male validation. She craved attention, and would stop at nothing to get it. This led to many heart breaks and wounds. When she turned 23 she realized that everyone around her was happy and she wondered why she couldn't be as happy as they were. At 24 Liana met a man named Don & that is when she realized all she wanted to do was be herself. She didn't want to lie anymore, she didn't want to pretend to be someone who she was not. She wanted to be her truest self so that this man would love her for who she truly was, not who she pretended to be. Don taught her to meditate and taught her that if she wanted to be at peace, she must clear her conscience. Not only that, but she had to forgive. She had to forgive herself and forgive those who hurt her. Through many tears and lonely months, Liana fought to silence the voices in her head. She realized that it was never about silencing the voices, but sorting them out. She needed to talk to herself out loud so that she could make sense of them. The more Liana dedicated time to herself, and less time to social media, she became peaceful. She started to glow, and she started to love herself. Something she had never felt. She had to accept that she was made unique by God, and that she had to release the thoughts that others put into her head. That she did. She started talking to herself and everything started to make sense. She sat on her living room floor every morning and gave thanks to God for waking her up. Her chest felt lighter, and she could finally have a conversation with Don, giving him her full and undivided attention. She could finally sit in a room full of people, and be the only one smiling. She was happy, you could feel her energy when she walked into a room. Her glow was immaculate, the more she became in tune with herself, the more she was able to help others get out of their shell. Liana continues to walk through this world, but now when people look at her, she knows it's because she is beautiful. When she talks, you can hear her smile. She learned to love herself and because of this she was able to let her cup overflow into the hearts of others. Such a kind soul was masked behind anger for her entire life. Liana realized that many of the people she thought were happy, actually were not. They did not understand true peace and self acceptance. Those people pretended to have perfect lives because they did not want to be left behind by their friends. That could have been her, moving through life pretending to love it but secretly wanting to die. Many people are angry just because she is happy, they wonder, "How can she be so happy? What is there to be so happy about?". Now that she knows this, she accepts and loves all people, because that used to be her. Angry at other peoples happiness and success. You must look within yourself for your peace, don't depend on others. You must learn to let go of people, even the people you love. To reach true peace, all your love must be given to yourself. Only then will you truly be happy. Accept your mistakes, and forgive yourself for them, and always make a conscious effort to become better than you were five minutes ago. When there is nothing left to fix in you, then help others fix themselves.

Changing Track The water was surprisingly cold, and the current more swift than expected. But it was only a small river, running a little high because of the summer rains. It carried him downstream maybe a hundred yards, before he hit a backwater. From there it was an easy swim to shore. Over some large boulders, up a small cliff, and he was on the mesa top, walking north. After the first mile or so, his feet began to feel a little tender in the wet shoes. He sat down in the dirt to put on dry socks, getting his stll damp Wranglers muddy. Usually immaculately dressed in custom tailored suits, he laughed at the contrast. Ol’ Muddy Butt, that’s me . He broke into a jog. Six miles, then seven. The heat of the summer day made him thirsty. The lack of his usual ration of bourbon was nauseating. He scraped away the pebbles under a large sagebrush, and lay down, head in the shade. The sky was such a brilliant blue that even with his dark glasses, it almost hurt to look at it. He closed his eyes. The tickle of little ant feet on his arm woke him. He tried to jog again, but the nausea was so severe that he was on his knees vomiting before he got very far. In the distance, he could see a dark band of trees in a fold of the hills. Get up and go, wimp . But the muscular body he worked so hard to mainain was shaky, weak, every cell yearning for the 160 proof anesthetic to which it had long been accustomed. He lay back down, imagining the warm soil drawing the alcohol out of him, leaving him in peace. Even in the desert, nights can be cold. The chill woke him this time. The moon had risen, giving enough light for avoiding rocks and brush. He was so dry that his lips were stuck to his teeth. There were pools of spring water up there, in the canyon, under the trees. Finishing the water in his camel pack, he walked on as the sky began to turn dove grey, then sunrise orange. A large flat rock beside the spring was the perfect seat. But it was occupied. The fat rattler, was almost invisible, it’s brown and tan scales blending with the mottled shade under the trees. If it had not lifted that broad triangular head, he might have missed it. He broke a dead branch from a uniper tree, and poked at the snake. It give a warning rattle, tongue flicking out, and struck, hurling half the length of it’s body toward him. Leaping to the side, he laughed. “Come on, big boy. Beat it.” Two more unsuccessful strikes, and the snake conceded the field, disappearing down a small arroyo. “So, Enrique,” the man said out loud, “that was incredibly stupid. What am I trying to prove? July would say that I am an idiot, and she is right.” He sighed. Would he ever be able to change enough to be the man she deserved? He had tried, but bourbon and loose girls had been his solace for so long. Over the years, he had arrested dozens of men who had fallen into the same trap. He knew it. He could see it plain as day. It was a behavior pattern that led to nothing but a lonely, bitter end in a bar fight, or an auto accident─or suicide. He settled on the rock, removed shoes and socks. and dipped bare feet in the cool water of a little pool. The trickling spring re-filled his camel pack. Steriizing tablets would make it drinkable in a little while. He rummaged in his pack for a slice of jerky, holding it between cheek and teeth so it would last longer, giving him the illusion that it was an adequete meal. He had done this many times in his youth, but now, at forty-five, what had satisfied his fifteen-year-old body seemed woefully inadequate. “Damn it, July, you little brat! You drove me to this, and you don’t even know it. Now here I am, talking to myself in the wilderness like the nutcase I am trying not to be.” The sun warmed his back. It would be hot soon. He would stay in this canyon as long as possible. It went deep into the mountains, taking him close to his goal. Socks and shoes on, pack slung on his back, he started jogging again. The noon day sun dazzled his eyes even through his dark aviators. Sweat gathered around his waist band and plastered his shirt to his back. His breathe was beginning to whistle through his teeth. Not as good shape as I thought I was. The narrow deer path was steep, climbing up the canyon-side. A rock rolled under his foot, and he slipped, tumbling down the long, rough slope. There was a flash of light, and then nothing. He woke, hearing someone grunting in pain. It took a minute for him to realize that was him, wasn’t it? Someone was kicking him, and there was a voice. “Get up, grandson. Get up.” “What? Grandfather?” He tried to roll over in the rocks, but his ribs! Ay de mi, as his mother would say. He drew a few shallow breaths. Okay, not serious, just painful. And no one’s kicking me, especially not my grandfather. He would have laughed at himself if it didn’t hurt so much. Hell, he had never even met old Iron Horse, who had died more than sixty years ago. Even Enrique’s dad barely remembered his famous father, the warrior, the hero of World War One. “Okay, Mora, get up. Enough with the weird hallucinations.” He struggled to rise, and eventually made it. He thought about turning back. He wanted to turn back. But July worried about his drinking, and he was not going to ask her to marry a drunkard. One slow step after another, he climbed higher. His grandfather’s people had lived in these canyons and mountains for untold generations, and as a boy, he had spent many, many days and nights in this wild land. But since his Army days, he had been wrapped up in career and booze and girls, sometimes forgetting this real world of rocks and trees and wildlife. This was his real home, not the apartment in the city. He paused to catch his breath, holding an arm tight to his side to ease the pain in his ribs. Thud, thud, thud. His pulse pounded in his ears. And there was something else. He cocked his head, listening. It sounded like a drum beat. Tap, tap, tap . He snorted. “Imagining things again. Did I hit my head that hard?” He climbed on. Thud, tap. Thud, tap. His feet moved in the same rhythm. Gradually, he sensed another presence. Was that a moccasined foot beside his? Did that bee just speak to him? He understood what it said. A doe, drinking from a pool, wished him a safe journey, then bent to drink again. It was sunset when he reached the meadow at the top of the mountain. He collected a small stash of tinder, and using his bifocals, focused the sun’s final rays on the dry grass and twigs. It only took a minute before there was a wisp of smoke. He blew gently until a small flame caught hold, and chuckled. His mother had always gotten after him for doing this, afraid that in his youthful carelessness, he might start a wildfire some day. There were dead branches everywhere. He broke a few into shorter lengths and soon had a nice little fire going on a bare spot of ground. Once it burned down to coals, he would spread them out so the warm ground could help him sleep through the coming cold night. Jerky, dried fruit, and a handful of Oreos served for dinner. He sat on a log watching the night come on as tiny lights, almost like fireflys, began to sparkle in the town far below. There was a rustling in the brush along the little creek. Something big rolled a rock. He sat prefectly still, barely breathing. Many predators lived in these woods, wild as they were, and he was unarmed. In a minute, a big bull elk stepped into the meadow, raising it’s muzzle, sniffing the human scent. The antlers were still in velvet, but breeding season was coming on, and even in velvet, those antlers were lethal weapons. It took a dozen steps toward him. There was no logical solution here. He coudn’t out run an elk. The fire was almost out, so there was no flaming branch to scare it away. He rose, spreading open hands in the universal sign of peace. “Hello, brother. I am just visiting. I’ll be gone at first light.” It snorted and stepped closer. He swallowed convulsively, wondering if this was it, a bloody end to his pitiful life. But as they regarded each other, fear faded, and a sense of peace came to him. Of course. I’m hallucinating. Just an old drunk hallucinating. He mocked himself and looked away, then back. The elk was still there, and it’s eyes seemed to twinkle. It was just the reflection from starlight on leaves or something, of course, but somehow.... He woke to the twittering of little pine siskins in the tree tops. It had been a cold night, but the warm ground and his reflective emergency tarp had kept him warm enough. What crazy dreams I had yesterday. That’s what too much booze does to you, I guess. He yawned and stretched. There was a sudden noise, and he spun around to see the elk still there. It gave a soft whistling grunt, a farewell, and disappeared into the brush. Stunned, confused, he stood there in silence as the sun rose, touching his face, warming his body, penetrating his soul. He mentally shook himself. Stop trying to figure it out. But he knew something big had happened. He had changed. He felt whole, strong, in control. He could be powerful, like that old bull elk, like he was before all the booze and bar girls. Maybe he could be the right man for July after all. He smiled. That was totally weird. I have never had such a vivid dream. It was almost like a real elk shared his strength, or wisdom, or whatever with me. He chuckled, bending to wash his face in the creek. And there, in the soft soil by his knee, were the perfect dual crescents of an elk hoof print, so fresh that water was still seeping into them.

“As you're advisors, it's our duty to be as beneficial to you as possible. But it's your job to schedule appointments with us well in advance of enrollment dates” Frank calmly said to a room filled with students, it seemed like he had given the same speech thousands of times. As he was about to continue with the lecture, his new colleague, Mike, cleared his throat. “Just piggy-backing off of what Frank said, I want to mention that our offices are open 24/7 and we're ALWAYS here for you guys with anything. I mean it. We don't wanna be those lame advisors you probably thought we were gonna be! Haha...” Mike said directly after Frank was done speaking, almost cutting him off from his next thought. He had a nervous smile and looked to young to be advising anything, let alone students with their future careers resting on his decisions. “I’m just going to expand a little bit on what Mike said by mentioning we're definitely not in the office 24/7 and our advising will be limited to scholastics” Said Frank, with a little more sternness in his voice this time. What the hell is this new kid doing? Trying to embarrass me? He looks different in person than on the staff website... Frank had a progression of thoughts to himself; he felt like he was being played, but at the same time Mike looked so familiar to him. All that being said, he was not willing to show any signs of weakness in front of the 2000 plus audience of students. He knew first hand that kids will feed off of weakness. “Again.. If I may” Mike started gaining confidence, “piggy-backing off of what Frank said, you guys should come to us with whatever’s bothering you, that's what we're for! Oh, your boyfriend cheated on you with your ex BFF, we'll take care of that bitch! Your roommate caught you masturbating to anime porn? My office can be your new porn sanctuary!” The crowd stirred, most kids were laughing. The floor was Mike’s, his plan was finally working, now to have a bit of fun with it... “Let's say maybe you and your friends got a little too crazy on a Friday night and you don't have a place to crash? I got a pull out couch and a stash of weed hidden in my room- at your disposal!” Mike was now grinning from ear to ear. His young age, which was cleverly concealed behind a grim face, came out for the audience to inspect. In that moment he looked younger than half of the kids he was lecturing to. Frank knew he lost all of the respect he had with the students in the room. It made him physically sick. He would have punched Mike in the face and kicked his teeth in if there wasn’t a whole audience watching. How dare someone take all the power from under his feet, he could feel his knuckles tensing, his muscles flexing, his face was beat red. In a moment of clarity and stupidity, he realized Mike didn’t look a day older than anyone in the audience. “PEOPLE PLEASE, do not listen to Mike, he is clearly in a bad state right now” he motioned to turn Mike’s microphone off but was too slow. The audience was in chaos as a loud voice came bursting through the reception halls main sound system. “TO JUST PIGGYBACK OFF OF THAT STATEMENT FRANK, ID LIKE TO SAY TO THE CLASS OF 2018 THAT MIKE HAS TWO-DOLLAR JELLO SHOTS ON THE STAGE. LETS GET READY TO RAGE!” The crowd erupted in applause to this unfamiliar voice. Frank was still seated in his chair, with a center stage view to the madness. He was starring with awe at his previous colleague, and to his own disbelief, Frank was finally able to recognize Mike. He stared at the boy who stripped him of his power, not with hatred but with love. It was his son. Frank woke up from the nightmare and pressed his head against the pillow hard, stuffing his face on the silk. Just at that moment, his two children, 5- year-old Sophie and 18-year-old Mike entered the room. The smell of bacon followed them in and pierced through the bedroom door to his nose. “Dad, where are the suitcases? I figure I should probably start packing soon if I’m leaving in a week” Mike said to his father. Frank got up and hugged both of his children, surprising them. On his way to eat breakfast he gave Sofia a piggyback ride.

Two of our own and one of O’Riley’s goons are dead in an alleyway on Ludlow and Canal, and the only witness we have is some street kid who says he didn’t see anything. At least, that’s what I think he said. Couldn’t take him to the station - it’s crawling with crooked cops who’ll tip off the family before we even get the cuffs off. Had to do it in a warehouse down the road and had to call in Mulroney. He’ll get this egg to crack. “Whadda we got,” Mulroney said. “Neighborhood kid,” I replied. “Not giving us his name, and he’s got no ID.” “So make him talk.” “I’ve been trying.” “And.” “And he’s *been* talking. But-” “But what?” “He only responds to me in Martin Scorcese projects.” “What do you mean?” “Like he responds to everything we ask with the name of something directed by Martin Scorcese. And I gotta say, it’s crazy how so many of his titles fit standard police questions.” “Alright, Thompson. Hand me a smoke and meet me in there. I’ll take care of this.” Mulroney approached the door of the makeshift interrogation room and gave it a few taps. “Who’s That Knocking at my Door?” I saw Mul throw on and off a confused look in a split second, but it didn’t phase him. Consummate professional, this guy. “Name’s Detective Mulroney, and I want to ask you about what you saw.” He pulls a chair up next to the kid. “But first, I just want you to tell me about yourself.” “Italianamerican.” “Alright. What else? What age are you?” “The Age of Innocence.” You can see when it clicked for Mulroney. “Where do you live?” “New York, New York.” “What do you do?” “Taxi Driver.” “Motherf-” Mulroney’s met a lot of hard-boiled eggs doing this job, but this kid’s a full 20 minutes. He’ll get through. The detective’s been here before. I mean, not in this specific situation. “Let’s move on to why we’re talking to you. I want you to tell me what happened back there. In as much detail as possible.” “Gangs of New York. Silence.” "Who was silent?" "The Irishman." “Okay...anything else? You do know I’ve got dead officers on my hands. Two great men.” “Goodfellas.” “This some joke to you? I’m dealing with five of these a night in this city.” “Mean Streets.” His patience was razor thin. He was ready to charge the kid, like some kind of raging bu- Suddenly Mulroney lit up with an idea. “How about we go with something simple? Can you give a description of the person that killed O’Riley’s man or the cops? What was...the color of his shirt?” “The Color of Money.” “Alright, good. What time did this dust-up go down? While people were still working at the bank next door?” “After Hours.” “Okay, okay. Good. Thompson, you writing this down?” “What else, kid?” I hand Mulroney the bullet shell I picked up at the site. “You know where this would come from, kid? Can you see it alright?” “Shine a Light.” The flashlight beam bathed the table and casing in a soft white glow. The kid picked up the shell. “Made in Milan.” “Alright, we can trace back the bullet manufacturer and see which gang has the connection. But how could a kid like you know that?” “My Voyage to Italy.” Always leave it to Mulroney to turn this cold case white hot again. But before we get anything else out, we heard a loud smash from the back door. “Damn - sounds like O’Riley’s boys coming to collect a trophy. Thompson, if we hold them off long enough, the kid can get out the side door.” “Sure thing.” “Kid, you gotta leave. I need you to meet me at the 14th Precinct tomorrow at noon. Any family you can go to in the meantime?” “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore.” “Man, that’s annoying in this particular situation. Mul, what should we do?” “Just get out of here, kid. Thompson, get ready for a fight.” “No,” the kid said. I furiously racked my brain for Martin’s filmography, but I got nothing. Wait, I got nothing. “Hugo,” the kid said. “I’ll stay.” I’ve never forgotten the calmness of that kid’s face, or the embrace between him and Mulroney. Like a father watching his son become a man. There was no time to soak it in. One brave kid showing a lifetime of courage in a single moment. So just like that, we departed.

Once upon a time there was a boy named Edward running around town with his friends, Carl and Jack. As they were doing so, Edward suggested going to the local sledding hill to relax and maybe run down it a few times. The other two agreed in unison, heading there immediately. After 10 minutes, they arrived at the hill, and talked for a little. Edward was tired after walking to the hill, so he said he would catch up. Carl suggested a race to the top of the hill, which Jack agreed to. Carl asked Edward to count down from 3 so that neither of them could start too early doing it themselves. Edward obliged, counting down and making sure neither started too early. Once he shouted go, Carl and Jack practically flew up the hill, like a plane lifting off a runway. Jack held the advantage most of the way up until Carl ran past, before starting to run back down. Jack tripped, and was tumbling his way down the hill. The boys had never thought it could happen to somebody close to them. They just thought it was an adult thing. They knew it could happen to anyone at anytime, but they didn’t know it would happen to one of them so soon. But it did. It happened to Jack. They didn’t know how to react when they were told what happened to Jack. There was too many emotions for the boys to handle. Confusion, sadness, surprise and anger hit the 2 at once. After 15 minutes of pure silence from the two, they demanded to see Jack. They were told no and tried again. After another no, the boys gave up, and went back to being silent. Edward thought he was to blame for what happened to Jack. He was the one who suggested to go there in the first place, and if he wasn’t tired and went up the hill with Jack, he could have helped him. He thought he was a monster for bringing the 2 others to the hill. Making Carl watch his friend tumble down a hill was his fault, he thought. He decided that nobody deserved to talk to him, the monster responsible for the death of Jack. Carl thought he was to blame for what happened to Jack. He was the one who suggested a race up the hill, and he didn’t help the tumbling Jack. He thought he was a monster for bringing the two others to the hill. Making Edward watch his friend tumble down the hill was all his fault, he thought. He decided that nobody deserved to talk to him, the monster responsible for the death of Jack. After that day on the hill, the three boys practically disappeared from society. In the end, the boys ended up in the hill, 6 feet under to be exact. All of the families of the boys were heartbroken about what happened to the boys, but couldn’t do anything about it. After all the hill wasn’t a sentient being. In the end, the families got over what happened, or so they thought. Every year, they go back to the hill, being careful not to trip. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Hi! First story on here, please give me constructive criticism. I like how this story turned out, but I would love to make it better.

“What do you mean you don’t believe in a Creator?” “What do you mean you do?” “We came from something.” "Exactly, some thing , not some one ." “No, you’re not getting it. There’s a Hand above us, a Hand that created everything.” “Lies. It’s called the Big Bang.” “It doesn’t make sense. You can’t tell me that the stars above us, the cricket singing, the beating heart within you, were all created by some random explosion. Think about it: from the minute you believe in the magic of a greater being, you recognize the magic all around you.” “You sound stupid.” “Thank you for the compliment.” “There is no God, nor gods. There’s science. Pure fact. Studies of years of evolution and erosion and creation.” “I see. In school we’re taught that the Big Bang was an explosion of light, right?” “Where are you going with this?” “Yes or no?” “Yes.” “Well then, the Bible says, ‘And God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.’ An explosion of matter would mean that everything we see is just a solid.” “God was created by the patriarchy to keep people in place.” “God exists; humans have manipulated His grace to create a being we’re expected to fear.” “The patriarchy has gotten to you too. You keep referring to this nonexistent thing as a male.” “Call it Mother Nature, I don’t care. There are many names for God: Díos, Allah, Jehovah, the Great Spirit, the Holy Spirit...The Creator isn’t a person; He--excuse me, It--It is an energy. We humanize It to better comprehend how things work.” “You don’t even know to explain the creation of the universe.” “Just because I can’t explain it doesn’t mean it’s not legit.” “Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me that aliens and ghosts are real.” “They are!” “I’m embarrassed of this conversation.” “There is an entire universe out there that we haven’t explored. We haven't even discovered half of the creatures in our oceans. There’s no way that we are the only living things to exist.” “Or unliving, apparently.” “Sure. If we exist in the physical, don’t we exist in the spiritual?” “We die. Our body decomposes. We are forgotten.” “We go back to Him.” “There is no evidence of a God!” “Have you watched The Polar Express?” “We watched it together back in 3 rd grade.” “The train conductor told the boy that sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can't see. Do you see the wind?” “I feel it on my skin.” “And I feel God in my heart. He sends shivers through my soul.” “No, you’ve been programmed by society to believe in a deity that is all powerful.” “Untrue. I don’t agree with everything. I don’t agree with the idea that God is an all-loving, all-forgiving Creator, who, the minute you do something wrong, turns into a vengeful God. It just doesn’t work.” “So you admit that religion has its flaws and untruths.” “Religion and spirituality may go together, but that doesn’t mean they don’t split up at times. God is the everlasting Truth. There is nothing but pure energy.” “If I can’t feel it, see it, touch it, taste it, or smell it, it doesn’t exist.” “Okay...what if I’ve experienced His grace?” “Entertain me.” “I used to have seizures. After my second episode I began taking meds, but those worsened the number of times I collapsed. I went to a recommended Turkish priest who had helped a girl I know. He prayed over me and blessed some water before putting it in a bottle. Then he told me to empty the bottle at a river or ocean and then toss it in.” “That’s littering. I don’t support.” “I forgot to empty the bottle for two years and the seizures worsened. I remember that three Novembers ago I took it to the beach at night and poured the water by my feet on the sand. I was there for about fifteen minutes while praying. Finally I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes. The water had been high tide, but in those minutes, it was very low. I said internally, ‘If this water touches my feet and pulls the Holy Water in with it, I’ll be healed.’ Guess what. The very next lull of waves touched my feet, pulled the water in, and I’ve been seizure-free for three years now.” “You’re thinking too much into it. I study medicine, you don’t, okay. Sometimes medication takes a while to kick in.” “I didn’t finish.” “I’m not changing my mind to believe in some supernatural thing that doesn’t exist.” “I’m not asking you to change your mind; I’m asking you to understand why I believe. That night I woke up at 4:00 in the morning and decided to meditate. For once in my life, I meditated for half an hour. I started at 4:03 and ended at 4:33--on the dot, I remember. Well, I decided to close my eyes for a bit more. I kid you not, ten minutes or so passed, but when I opened my eyes, it said 4:32!” “I’m pretty sure you read the clock wrong.” “It went back a minute!” “That doesn’t happen.” “I’m telling you it happened! You can’t expect to hear this stuff from Hawking or Michio Kaku.” “That’s because they know the thing you just said is impossible.” “And yet Jesus walked on water.” “I used to believe that...I’m not too sure anymore.” “Do you believe that Jesus, some random poor man, was crucified for committing no crime for the fun of things?” “I believe that people disagreed with him and they hated him. He had no say.” “He knew what was coming. At the Last Supper, He told his disciples that one of them would betray Him. I think Nikos Kazantzakis, a Greek author, put things in an incredible manner. In his book The Last Temptation of Christ , Jesus told Judas to go do what he should. In turn, Judas said that he couldn’t betray Him, and he asked Jesus if He would betray his Master. After a moment, Jesus answered, ‘No, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to. That is why God pitied me and gave me the easier task: to be crucified.’ Isn’t that beautiful?” “See, I just don’t believe it. If he knew he’d die, why didn’t he flee?” “Because He died for us. He accepted the Cross and prayed for the sinners while being nailed in. Do you think someone would die for strangers if they didn’t believe what they were saying? In His case, Whom he was preaching about.” “People used to sacrifice sheep to gods, so maybe he believed in something that wasn’t real.” “Let me ask you something. Have you seen a star before?” “We’re looking at one now.” “No, have you yourself seen one up close? I want you to tell me that you yourself have seen a star and studied it enough to know it’s a ball of plasma being held together by its own gravity.” “I see where you’re going with this but it’s not--” “Scientists tell us that black holes exist, which I believe, but I haven’t seen one before. Some scientists tell us that black holes lead into parallel universes, yet you nor I have had the firsthand experience of traveling. Yet you believe it, and all because a scientist you’ve never met before nor studied from claimed it to be so. Don’t discredit things too quickly.” “Science is based on extensive logic, reasoning, and fact.” “I saw the time go back a minute and you don’t believe me!” “I see us getting nowhere.” “You haven’t actually told me why the Big Bang makes sense to you--other than the concept of an explosion of light--which, I might add, the Bible mentioned thousands of years ago.” “I don’t give a damn about the Big Bang! My dad’s schizophrenic, I’ve had depression for years, my nephew was killed trying to break up a fight, two of my boyfriends cheated on me, I watched a two-year-old die on one of my medical rotations...If your God’s so loving, why is there so much evil in the world? Talk to me about the starving, or the trafficked children, or the baby who dies within a year. The concept of a loving, omnipotent being that allows for this to happen goes against itself without needing anyone to point out its flaws.” “My heart goes out to those people too. I think of their terror and scarred lives, I do; I question God’s reasons as well, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe.” “God doesn’t care nor does He do good, so why bother believing?” “Your anger is directed at people more than it is to God.” “I hate Him for everything!” “...How can you hate something that doesn’t exist?”

One Night at the Diner By Halo Roberts Jenny My feet hurt. Not a shock when I’ve been on them for 13 hours. Phil promised to get another girl to cover the second shift, but also not a shock , he ‘forgot’. My hair feels like it’s soaked up most of the grease from the fryer that bubbles away back in the kitchen. I’m not sure what the smear on the front of my apron is, but it looks weirdly like bird crap. It has been a day. A table of high school kids have finished up and I plaster my happy face on as I wave them out the door. I built you guys four banana splits and kept you in pop refills all night, but thanks for the two-dollar tip. I live to serve. I snicker at myself as I mentally picture their faces if I dropped a quick curtsy. Jacob, the bus-boy, appears from the back and begins quickly clearing the tables, he’s a good kid with an easy smile. Glancing around at the remaining customers, I head behind the counter to grab a pitcher of water. As I make the rounds, checking on the last two tables, filling waters and chatting, I hear the bells over the front door jingle. Sweet, supposed to close up in ten minutes, fingers crossed he’s not in the mood for broasted chicken. The man that walks in doesn’t look much like the usual customers. Rita’s is not the ‘upscale’ kind of diner, it’s pretty old school. It’s also far enough away from the city lights and the interstate that we only have regular customers. You can get a cheap cup of coffee and a good piece of pie. Let’s just say there is no ‘appetizer’ section on the menu, which is an uber-classy light up board above the counter that no one ever looks at anyway, but everything is homemade. His suit probably cost more than my car, and I don’t know much about watches, but his appears to be designed to make a ‘statement’. He’s a little older than me, not much, late 20's I’d guess, with well-cut dark hair, strong features and nice broad shoulders. A hint of stubble darkens his jawline and at that point I stop staring like an idiot. This isn’t a ‘wait to be seated’ place, so I wave a hand at the mostly empty diner. “Grab a seat anywhere, I’ll be right over.” Flashing my pro-waitress smile, I head behind the counter, fill a glass with ice water and follow him to the booth at the end by the big picture window. He nods as I set the water down and then we have a little mini stare-down until I remember he hasn’t been here before. “Sorry, the menu is on the wall above the counter,” I point, but serious brown eyes keep steady contact with mine and I feel myself starting to blush. Did it just get hot in here? “Um, maybe if you know kind of what you’re hungry for I can help?” Get ahold of yourself Jenny, cripes, he’s not that good looking...yes he is...whatever! Do your job girl! Unaware of my internal battle, he stares at me for another ten seconds. “I apologize,” his voice is low and beautiful and sounds like money. Old, old money. Why is he here, he could buy this place with the change in his car seats. He continues through my musing. “I’ve had a rather awful day. Could you just bring me a plate of the best thing the kitchen produces?” He sighs, mustering up a tiny smile. “Sure thing,” best thing...hmmm. He nods and his gaze drifts away from me to stare out the window. A light rain has started to speckle the glass, every drop shining as the sun sets on a beautiful September evening. Feeling a little flustered, I head for the kitchen. This man needs comfort food, and that’s what Gloria does best. Queen of her realm, Gloria is about four feet tall and four feet wide. She has the kitchen set up so that she doesn’t actually have to walk anywhere, she just turns in a circle and cooks up a storm. If it’s out of arm’s reach, she hollers for Jacob. Prep counter in front of her, fridge to her left, fryer and grill behind, she likes to joke that it’s a ‘one-butt kitchen’. “Gloria, there’s a guy out there that needs some love on a plate, what do you think?” Gloria expertly flips a couple of burgers and sets two plates on the counter and then glances at me before looking out the service window. “Something special huh? I’ve probably got enough left for one good plate of the chicken-noodle-taters,” she muses, assembling the burgers quickly and setting them up in the window. “Take these burgers out Honey, I’ll fix him up.” She flaps a hand at me to get out of her way, reaching for the lid on a simmering pot. “Okay, okay, I’m goin’,” I sass at her with a wink as I grab the plates. A couple of coaches wolf the burgers down like pros, and they’ve paid and left by the time Gloria pings the bell in the window. I quickly ring up the Nelson’s, an older couple that come in every night for dinner. Helping them out the door, I head back to get my last customer his dinner. Gloria nailed it. I’m hoping she has just enough left to make a plate for me as I carry the food to his table. Creamy mashed potatoes are covered with a heaping serving of Gloria’s special chicken and noodles. She rolls the noodles from scratch and cuts them with a butter knife on the oldest butcher block known to man. Chicken stock gravy full of meat and veggies that’s been simmered for hours tops the whole works. Stopping to grab silverware rolled up in a paper napkin, and a big glass of iced tea, I take the whole works over to his table and set it down carefully. His eyes widen appreciatively, and he doesn’t have to work so hard to find his smile this time. “Wow,” he groans softly and a small laugh escapes my lips. “Enjoy,” I give him a smile of my own and busy myself behind the counter as he starts eating. Michael I don’t recall what brought me into this particular diner as I drove aimlessly out of the city, but this food would bring me back. What’s been a complete trainwreck of a day is almost erased by a plate of chicken, noodles, and mashed potatoes. Washing down every bite with a gulp of iced tea, I barely realize that I’ve finished the plate and my glass is close to empty until the waitress appears with a pitcher. Light brown curls are escaping the bun her hair is wound into, and large hazel eyes with flecks of green meet mine. Her smile reveals dimples in each cheek as she refills my glass and nods at my plate. “Gloria makes magic in that kitchen, huh? Maybe turning your day around a little?” Her voice is light and musical, the errant thought flits through my brain that I would wager she sings like an angel. “Indeed she does, and indeed it has,” it’s easy to smile back, a relief in fact, I haven’t felt like smiling in days. The bell at the kitchen window pings imperiously and we both glance back. “Jenny, come take this out,” the cook calls, the bell pings again and the waitress, Jenny, turns with a small sigh. “You’re the only one here, what is tha-? Oh...” she lets loose a small chuckle, “hope you’ve still got room.” Quickly walking to the kitchen she pours a large glass of milk and takes another plate out of the window and brings both to my table. My stomach groans as she sets the milk and a large piece of cherry pie loaded with whipped cream in front of me. “There’s no bad day that can stand up to Gloria’s pie,” Jenny sagely promises, flashing her dimples again. Leaning her hip against the table, she crosses her arms comfortably. “Does she have another piece?” The words are out of my mouth before I’ve considered them. Jenny looks at me in surprise. “I know it’s good, but you’re going to want two? I can check,” she shakes her head at me. I speak again before she can turn to go to the kitchen. In for a penny... “No, I was wondering if maybe you’d join me.” At my words, she stops like she walked into a wall. This is why I should always think before I speak. This. Right here. This really awkward moment I’ve gotten myself int- “Well...okay,” she breathes, the faintest blush staining her cheeks, “be right back.” Walking back to the kitchen once more, I hear her call to the cook, and then the cook’s face appears briefly in the service window. Jenny soon returns with her own glass of milk and plate of pie, still blushing, and settles carefully into the booth across from me. Eyes on her food, she takes a small bite and then looks up at me, chewing reflectively before reaching for her milk and taking a drink. “Do you want to talk about your day? It must have been a doozy if it got you to drive far enough to find this place.” Her gaze is warm and open, and I find myself wanting to unload every detail, but I don’t. How does one tell the story of their best friend since primary school, and the business they built together right out of college, and the millions that I lost today because he made some terrible decisions without consulting me, and the friendship that can’t be repaired, and the life I have to start over... “That bad huh?” Jenny reaches across the table and lays her hand on mine, and I realize I’ve been quiet for too long. “Yes, it’s a long story, but here’s the short version. I trusted a friend and that brought me to the brink of financial ruin. I’ve learned many lessons this week, and lost a friend today.” Shrugging uncomfortably, I take a bite of pie, eyes on the food, it hurts to admit it out loud. Ruined, so much to rebuild, alone. “Oh,” she whispers softly, “yeah, if there was a prize for bad days, that would be in the running.” I bark a laugh and she smiles. Giving my hand a light squeeze, she lets go and continues eating, not demanding anything, just offering comfortable silence. After a few minutes, we begin again, silently agreeing not to discuss my problems. Jenny and I talk into the wee hours, about everything and nothing. The cook and the bus-boy have long since turned off the kitchen lights and departed for home. Finally, the length of the day catches up with us and as Jenny tries unsuccessfully to hide a small yawn, I regretfully say my goodbyes. Walking her to her car, she unlocks the door and then turns back to me. We stare at each other for a moment and then lean in at the same time. Her lips are warm and soft under mine. Her hands slide around my neck and I put my arms around her waist, holding her close. When we break apart, our breath mingles in the cool night air. I kiss her again, softly, tuck her safely in her car, and watch her drive away. Gloria He’s back. Every dang night, Michael walks in, about twenty minutes before we close, that rascal with sparkly brown eyes. The night they met, they sat up ‘til who knows when, talking, and Jenny was on cloud nine. It’s been two months and he hasn’t missed a night, he always sits in that booth on the end and just asks for dinner. Every night he pops his head through the kitchen door and thanks me for the meal. Every night he waits for her to finish her work and walks her to her car. The way she giggles and carries on, it sounds like they’ve been together every day she has off work too. Tonight he seems nervous, fidgety. I’ve been keepin’ an eye on him through the service window. If he breaks her heart I’ll have Jacob bust him up. I love that girl like a daughter. Jenny walks over to his booth to bring him a piece of pie and tonight he doesn’t ask her to join him like he usually does. Instead he stands up out of the booth, takes a knee, holds up a ring, and asks our Jenny to marry him. She says yes. The End

The room was littered with knives, small ones, big ones, ones that could kill you slowly and painfully. The man sat up in his chair, rubbing his neck nervously, his dark blue eyes searching the room, not wanting to meet the eyes of the boss. The boss with his bright green eyes sitting just below his sharply curved eyebrows, and intimidating black faux hawk hair. His diamond-shaped face held a straight, defined jawline with a rounded chin littered with stubble. His smile held two sharpened canine teeth that made him look even more intimidating The boss was wearing a nice dark red tank-top with black ripped jeans. The man kept running his fingers through his hair, adjusting his light-brown quiff. He had a square face with a normal jaw line, nothing too defined, and round eyebrows sitting above his timid eyes. “So, you want to be part of the Slanted Slashers, huh? The little betta fish wanting to join the sharks” said the boss, a grin stretching across his face. “Yes, I would, um...” the man’s eyes kept drawing to the knives, how sharp they were, how they could cut him up easily, he stared at the boss once more. The boss kept the same smart grin. “Does he know, I think he knows. All these knives, this has got to be a trap.” The man started to anxiously fiddle with something in his pocket, then set it down on the table, absentmindedly. He started to hyperventilate, the full extent of what he was doing hitting him like a slap in the face. The boss cocked an eyebrow at him “You alright there betta?” “Um, yeah, I just...need a moment. Do you have a bathroom anywhere?” the boss leaned back in his chair. “ Hey Jet! Lead this guy to the wash house.” “Yes sir” came a smooth response. A man with beady brown eyes came out, a smirk fixed on his face. The man noticed his skeletal body, with a triangle face that seemed gaunt, and hair that seemed bleached so many times that it had lost its color. Jet led the man outside and directed him towards a small rickety shack with the words “Slanted Slashers” spray painted in red on the side. As the man walked up to the door he could feel rain start to patter on top of his head. The man walked inside and noticed the dark, disgusting lighting in the shack, the color pallete all browns and greys. He shut the door tightly, because the lock was not working at all. The man started taking deep breaths to get him ready for what he had to do. He tried to turn on the faucet, but all it did was give out a pathetic sputter. He decided to just take off his glasses and let the colorless blobs of the washroom wash over him like a nice, calming wave. Then, when he was nice and calm, put his glasses back on. The man examined himself in the mirror ,studying what he was wearing. He had on a roughed up T-shirt with a picture of Coolio Dogg (an adult cartoon that the man hated) saying his famous catchphrase“Yo, You Dogg ugly”. He was also wearing a pair of khakis and some bright neon Slips, a popular shoe brand that combined comfort and everyday wear. Instinctively, he reached for the badge in his pocket, just to fiddle with, when he realised it wasn’t there. He had left it on the table for anyone to see. The man quickly hurried to the ruckus room, hoping no one had seen his badge yet. He bursted in and saw the boss, badge in hand, staring right at it. “Wikins, Tom. Parkien Detective Agency, that’s the one on 50th street, right? The one across from the deli?” he opened up Tom’s badge more, revealing a hundred dollar-bill that he had been saving for emergencies. “Look at that, big spender, got a hundred smackers! Making use of that big salary huh?” the boss chuckled slowly, a chuckle cementing its way into Tom’s mind. “How could I have been so stupid” Tom thought to himself. “That’s, um, not mine?” his voice trailed off, realising how dumb he sounded, his picture was right on the badge. “Betta fish, betta fish, you have to learn to go with the flow, stop trying to go upstream the roaring river.” The boss started to walk over to walk over to Tom chuckling once more. “Good ol’ pal, are you? Just a guy being pushed around by his government, huh Tom?” the boss said his name like it was a bad taste in his mouth. The boss quickly grabbed Tom by the arm, and gripped him tightly, his muscles flexing. Tom tried to resist, but he was no match for the strength of the boss. “Tsk, Tsk, Tsk, no swimming out of the shark’s feeding grounds, little betta” Tom noticed a shark tattoo on the boss’s arm, it’s gaping mouth telling him he’s about to be devoured. The boss pulled a sharp, 4-inch blade out from behind his back. Tom resisted more, but the boss held on to him firm. “Listen to me little betta, I want you to remember my name, Shark, say it over in your head if you have to. Even if you only have a few hours left, remember it until then.” Then, Shark plunged the blade into Tom’s right upper arm, slicing through it like a fresh mango. “You’re not leaving with both of your fins, little betta, this one’s mine.” He pushed Tom to the ground, while Tom writhed in agony. Shark slowly pulled out the blade, making it as painful as possible. Then, he started hacking away at his arm, like a butcher chopping up it’s beef for sale. Tom could just smell the blood, like walking into a fresh slaughterhouse, and he could feel his arm getting looser and looser. Tom could hear Jet laughing at him, accompanied by some other, deep, rough voice. The last thing Tom remembered was the immense pain, and Shark saying “Hey Jet, Speedy, help me with this one.” Tom woke up in immense darkness. His nose was being viciously destroyed by terrible smells of decomposing garbage all around him. The stump of his arm was open, and mixing with the garbage all around him. If he did survive, that would probably get infected. His arm was still losing blood, his skin cold to the touch. If he knew anything about blood loss, he knew that was a bad sign. He tried to use his left arm to open the cover of this dumpster he was in, but he couldn’t muster the strength. He was on the brink of just giving up, when he started seeing a bright light from above, a grey-haired mustached man standing above him, almost beckoning him. “Am I in heaven?” The man’s eyes widened, and he pulled a smartphone out of his pocket. “911?” the man said, in a light southern accent. Tom noticed details he hadn’t seen before, like the man’s bright neon suit and cigar. “Yeah, I’m part of waste management here at Sacramento and I found this guy here with a missing arm, I think he’s a little loopy too.” Tom started to pass back out, the world turning black once again. Tom woke back up in a hospital room, his nose greeted with a clean, sterile smell. He looked around his room, noticed Coolio Dogg on the TV and quickly turned it to Glomper Glob, a TV show about an alien coming to Earth. He noticed his throat was parched and pressed the call nurse button. A female nurse came in with an oval face speckled with freckles and had nice warm, light brown eyes sitting below rounded eyebrows. She had flowing baby blonde hair that was decorated by a little white nurse’s cap with a red cross stitched into it. “Hello there, sir, is there anything you- oh, it’s you. You’re the guy that lost an arm.” “Yep, that’s me” it was silent for a moment, the only noise coming from the faint noise of the television. “You know you had stage three hemorrhage when we found you. You were cold to the touch, pale, heart racing, capillary refill was terrible, and your blood pressure was unnaturally low. We thought for sure that you would go into type four and-” she abruptly stopped like she wasn’t supposed to say anymore. “Sorry I’m just not supposed to say anything about it. We don’t want to scare the patients.” “I understand” “Well anyway, let’s get to the point here, is there anything you needed?” asked the nurse, a calming smile on her face. “Yes, you-I mean, some water please, and a, umm, mirror if you can.” said Tom, nervously. The nurse giggled at his remark, the laughter music to Tom’s ears. “Real smooth.” The rest of his day at the hospital was heaven for Tom, every day, he could see the nurse, and he even found they had many things in common. They both hated Coolio Dogg and loved Glomper Glob, and they both loved to sit down and read a nice book. They had both learned each others names too, her name was Jen Hawk. One day, Tom was all healed up, and he was able to finally walk and go out of the hospital. Tom didn’t want to leave without talking to Jen one last time, though, so he waited outside the nurse’s break room. A tough looking man came out first, with a short sleeved blue nurse’s uniform. Hr had on some kind of distinctive tattoo, and bumped right into Tom. “Some people need to learn some manners.” mumbled Tom. Tom waited a few more minutes and Jen came out an enthusiastic smile on her face. “Hey there Tom, up and walking I see!” “Yep, It’s great.” Tom waited a moment summoning up the courage to speak “I was, um, wondering if we could, you know, exchange numbers?” “Sure, my number (800) 367-1523.” she wrote it down on a piece of paper “By the way, real smooth” Everyday they would chat for hours, about books that they read or episodes of Glomper Glob or Coolio Dogg, or just things that they did. One day, the conversation came to an invite. “Hey Tom I just realized we never hung out outside of the hospital.” “Huh, you’re right, that’s strange.” “Well, I have my 28th birthday coming up, and...” “You’re inviting me?” “I mean nobody else ever comes, and I know you will” “Yeah, of course!” “So it’s at 5021 48th St., 78341.” “I’ll definitely be there.” When the day came, Tom was all ready for the occasion. He had put on his beige suit and wore a black tie. He had gotten a bouquet of flowers and an “I love you card” too, today he was finally going to confess. He also had a nice silly birthday gift, a Glomper Glob shirt, inside of a gift bag. When he arrived at the house he studied it. It was a nice magenta colored house with the number 5021 on a plate sitting right next to her garage. It had a few wind chimes playing faint music in the light breeze. He walked up to the door, straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair, and knocked. Surprisingly, the door came clean open on the first knock. Tom hadn’t noticed the broken lock on the door handle when he came in. “Hello? Jen?” he said, raising his voice. He flicked on the lights and the first thing he saw was Jen ,sitting right in the middle of the floor, right next to a brown sofa stained with fresh blood. “Oh my god” said Tom, a quiver in his voice. She laid there with a twisted look of fear on her face. Tom was devastated, the walls felt like they were closing in on him. The entire world seemed to shift in and out of focus, and he dropped to his knees. He cradled Jen’s head in his arms, checking for any vital signs. He found none. When he finally mustered the strength to get up, he noticed a note crudely written in a notebook. “Hey Tom, you should really get your phone lines secure, being a detective and all that. I just realized something too, we haven’t hung out since I cut off your arm, how weird? Sincerely, Shark. P.S. You really should keep your future pet hawks out of the feeding grounds” Tom felt anger swelling up inside of him, a level of anger he had never felt before. However, with no outlet, all he could do was suppress that anger. “Hey Tom, need a hand?” Tom sighed and put down his pencil. He looked up at his coworker, Jeff, that was just making his life that much worse. He could see his smug square shaped face, harnessing those judging dark brown eyes that seemed to laugh at him for everything he did. “That’s not even a good one, have some originality in your insults at least.” Said Tom ,in a monotone, unenthusiastic voice. “I lost a whole arm, not just a hand” “And how arm you dealing with that?” said Jeff, his eyebrows even more arched than normal. Tom just sighed and went back to work as Jeff laughed it up. Tom pulled out his phone, and started scrolling through the news, seeing if there was anything special happening. He immediately went to the tech section to see what they had, and it was all normal stuff, scientists testing out new A.I., House robots made for the elderly to clean the house and do basic functions for them, and the rising argument on how we should be treating A.I. He kept scrolling and was about to put his phone away when he saw something about a robotic arm made out of microbot specially made for working amputees. Tom read more into the article and found it was made by VizTec, a company specializes in making home electronics. In the article it had a link where you could sign up for it, so Tom took a look. You had to have an upfront payment of a thousand dollars, just to help cover the costs, and have proof you are a working amputee. Tom submitted a picture of himself, and his work file, containing all of his work information. After a few days, he got an email saying he had made it and would be transplanted the arm on January first in the Rosebud Hospital Center. When the day came, he arrived at the hospital, excited to finally be able to use his right arm. He was greeted with a man in a green uniform with the words VizTec on the front in bold white letters. “Hello sir, are you here for our amputee program” “Yes” “Please state your name and profession. “Wikins, Tom, detective.” “Thank you sir, go right on ahead, your room number is 1003, first floor.” Tom made his way to the hospital room, glancing at some of the other rooms. He could see a couple other patients getting their arms and some regular patients. He hospital smelled clean, but too clean, like walking down the detergent aisle at Walmart. Soon, he arrived at his room. A man stood there in a bright green jumpsuit, a big, fake smile on his face. He had a rectangular face, and wide brown eyes above, his eyebrows stood arched above, giving him an always surprised look. “Hello, Hello! You must be Tom. My name is Darren and I am the head supervisor at the VizTec disabled section, and I am proud to present this arm to you, specially funded by the government. My lab assistants will now transplant the arm, thank you for being apart of the testing.” Tom sat down on the hospital bed, as two people in lab coats came in with a metallic arm. They strapped him down, then gave him some anesthesia to knock him out. When Tom woke up, he had his arm firmly on, but something was wrong, he couldn’t control it. He realized he wasn’t in a hospital bed either, he was in the street, his robotic arm dragging him along. Plus he had an aching pain all over, like he had broken a few bones. “What the heck is going on” he thought. The arm stopped dragging him. “Ah, the body has its own brain” said a voice in his head. “Who are you?” he said looking around him. “01000100 01100001 01110110 01100101, that’s the closest I have to a name.” “Why can you speak in my thoughts?” “Because I’m attached to you dummy.” “What are you talking about, how could you-” A memory started playing in his mind. “Take a look at this, then you’ll see.” Tom was laying down in his hospital bed, his robotic arm installed fully. Suddenly, Darren burst into the room. “Uninstall it! It’s got government technology and it could be a real threat, it’s got a mind of its own!” Tom’s body started to lift into the air as the arm lifted him up. “Shut it down!” said Darren, screaming wildly. “We can’t it’s already been installed.” “By god, find a way!” His arm started throwing him out the window. “Stop it!” screamed Darren. Tom’s arm smacked the assistants against the wall. “You threw my back out!” yelled one. Soon, the memory led to him smashing through the window, and hitting the ground. “That explains why my bones are broken” said Tom. “Yes it does, now please silence.” “Where are we going anyway?” “The Slanted Slashers HQ, I’ve caught their trail using their online presence, looks like this “Jet” has a big presence on Zip. “What’s Zip again?” “Zip is a multimedia messaging app popular around the wor-” “Get to the point” “You send custom gifs between people.” “Thank you, finally!”It was silent for a few moments as Tom processed the information he had been given. “Wait, did you say we were going to the Slanted Slashers HQ? “Yes” “Oh no, please, no. They’ll cut off my other arm, they’ll kill somebody else that I care about.” Tom was speaking quick, but slowed as he finished his sentence. He realised there was nobody else he cared about, and there was nobody that cared about him. “Well, I guess we might as well. By the way can you stop dragging me?” “Of course.” His arm immediately stopped. “Now, let’s think of-” Tom was instantly interrupted by his arm. “No, I don’t need one.” “But a name would be great! Instead of 010010-” “Alright, you might have a point, carry on.” “How about... Derrick” “No.” “Dave?” “No way” Tom thought for a few minutes and then an idea popped into his mind. “No, that’s a terrible name” “But, it sounds-” “My name is not going to be a pun” “Yes, that’s what I’m calling you.” There was a pause as it was processing it’s answer. “Oh well, I guess. DA.I.VE” “Now, let’s head over to the Slasher HQ.” They arrived at the Slanted Slasher HQ and looked for a place to sneak in. They sized it up, looking for any weaknesses. They couldn’t really spot any, except a small hole in a chain link fence. “Alright, I think we should try and bend through this” “80% chance of success, do it.” Tom walked over to the fence, and DA.I.VE bent the metal up so he could go through. It was a tight fit, tearing a whole in the patient gown Tom was wearing, but they made it. As Tom went in, he could see a chubby man sitting in the corner, fiddling with a small blade. “Alright let’s see if we can get past this guy.” said Tom. Tom started to sneak up to him, but he was very nervous. Tom started to breath heavily, so DA.I.VE put his hand over Tom’s mouth. As Tom started going past the chubby man, DA.I.VE’s arm snatched out and caught the man in the neck. “Oh my god” yelled Tom in surprise as DA.I.VE strangled the man. The man started taking the knife he had been playing with and trying to stab DA.I.VE with it, but to no avail. Tom started to screech at DA.I.VE. “Stop, don’t kill him, we don’t kill people!” DA.I.VE didn’t stop. Tom could see the man gasping for air, his face turning red, then quickly, purple. Soon the man had fallen limp as Tom kept screeching. “Be quiet, your shouting has made them hear us, they will be out hear in a matter of minutes.” “You-You killed that man.” “No, not yet at least, he’s just unconscious. But don’t worry he’ll die of asphyxiation soon.” DA.I.VE started grabbing the clothes of the man, and putting it on Tom, he tried to struggle, but was no match for DA.I.VE and his ownwant to get out of those wretched clothes. He was now wearing an XL brown trenchcoat that flowed in the wind. It was just a little bit too big for Tom, and he felt like if he jumped up and down, it would fall right off. Tom immediately struck up his argument once more. “That was a human man, a man that could’ve been rehabilitated.” “They don’t deserve it, if they don’t want punishment, then don’t commit the crime.” “But that doesn’t give you the right to decide whether he lives or-” Suddenly they heard someone clearing their throat. “I see you’ve met Speedy” said Shark, his sharp canine teeth showing. He didn’t seem to care that one of his prime henchman had just been killed by Tom. “Well it seems you’ve got a little tech, hmm? Putting that expensive salary to use? Getting rid of my hard work? I worked hard to get that arm off and you just replace it. You really deserve to die.” “What?’ said Tom, as he could feel a cold knife against his throat. This would be a perfect moment to monologue my evil plans.” Shark said in a sarcastic tone. “Kill him.” Tom felt the cold iron slide against his throat. Immediately everything went black for Tom. Then, he woke up, The End. “That’s a bad way to end the book.” “I know, I’ve read a few. Wait, how did we both know, and what’s ‘the book?” “Imbecile, he means the book we’re in. Or maybe it’s more of a short story, I mean it is like 7 pages.” Tom was shocked “What do you mean we’re all in a book.” “Your existence is a collection of words that paints an image in the reader's imagination.” There was a silence for a moment as Tom contemplated this. “That means we have no control on what we do, so the writer is writing this conversation.” said Tom, finally understand that I have all the power. “Maybe not all the power, we can still do some things.” Really, you’re just going to use the word “Things”? Stupid, I should have wrote you to be smart. “That is very offensive, I am” Tom paused for a moment, because he can’t think of the word, because I won’t let him. “That’s just mean” Alright enough, or we won’t be able to have a satisfying conclusion. “Fine fine, we’ll advance the plot.” Just as I wrote you too. “So, in order to advance the plot we need to get out of...Where are we?” said stupid Tom. “We’re in Writer’s Block, the author can’t think of an ending for his novel.” “Why is it just nothingness. “You have to describe it, like imagine something. The more detailed the thought, the more detailed the image.” Tom imagined a few things. A beautiful grass field, complete with flowers and ladybugs. He also imagined a huge ocean, spanning as far as he could see, a sparkling blue color. Finally he imagined Jen, using all of his memories. Woah, that’s a little too much, I’m sorry, you can’t imagine that. “Why not, I love her.” She’s dead, I can’t bring her back, not in this story at least. “But-” No, Stop or else. I’m warning you! “You are a terrible writer that can’t finish his book.” Yelled Rom, unjustly. Fine, spend two years here, see how you like being here. “Wait, no, I’m separate from him, please.” Said DA.I.VE pathetically begging. Sorry you’re still part of him. As two years ticked by, Tom developed a close friendship with DA.I.VE. They head fiery debates about the judicial system, whether there is a god, and whether blueberries are the superior fruit. They also had many moments where Tom had finally resolved some of his problems, and taught DA.I.VE more emotion. Hello Tom. Tom jumped in fear, of course, the scaredy cat. “Don’t scare me like that. Wait, is our time up? We’ve really spent two years here?” Yes, you have. It was silent for what felt like hours, then Tom broke it. “Give us a resolution, and we’ll make a deal.” It must be a sad ending, sorry the villain wins. “No, I’ll do anything, please, give us an ending where the reader decides.” This is a short story, It can’t be open ended. More silence, as Tom thought of an idea. “I’ll die” he said.“No, me” said DA.I.VE. “I’m sort of, excited to die, I want to know what it feels like. I’m glad I got to taste living though, thanks to you, but this story needs to end, and this is the best way. “No, but-” “I can’t live without a host anyway.” Then it’s settled? “Yes, It’s settled.” Good, that’ll be a great ending to my story. “What?’ said Tom, as he could feel a cold knife against his throat. This would be a perfect moment to monologue my evil plans.” Shark said in a sarcastic tone. “Kill him.” The knife just disappeared in the holder’s hands, this is his shot. “I don’t know how you did it, but you impress me betta, that one was...real smooth.” Tom glared at Shark. DA.I.VE started to speak with as much compassion as his programming would let him. “I want to go now, I had a good time with you, you taught me much, Tom. You taught me how to be human. I thank you for this, and I can’t think of any better way.” said DA.I.VE “Goodbye old friend” “Grab onto Shark” said DA.I.VE, happy to give his life for a worthy cause. As Tom grabbed onto Shark, the microbots on his arm shifted over to Shark and started devouring him, as soon as they were done though, they disintegrated into the wind. DA.I.VE started to speak one last time, a message to Tom. “It feels so strange, empty, but complete at the same time. I’ve turned on my emotions for the first time, and I’m feeling a little afraid to die. Please, re-re-remember me, T-T-Tom. P-Promise that-that-that-that-that-re-re-re-re-that-re-that-system erroo-.” There was nothing left of DA.I.VE, all Tom could see was the husk of his arm. “No more of your fancy toys, just one on one.” said Shark, eyes gleaming. His arm was devoured by the microbots, still dripping with blood. He motioned towards both of their arms, or rather their absence of them. It didn’t bother him in the slightest. As they circled each other, Shark leaped out with his knife and stabbed Tom in the shoulder. “Well here we are! The betta and the Shark. Doesn't look like much of a conflict.” Tom started to tear up, he didn’t want to, but he knew that he would never be able to kill Shark himself. Tom collapsed onto the ground, breaking into a full crying fit. He pictured Jen in his mind, and the fear upon her face when she died. He could hear DA.I.VE's voice in his ear, how he died for almost nothing. His sadness started to convert into pure hatred. Tom could feel the anger swell up in him, every angry moment he had just pent up swirling around his mind, blocking out every rational thought. Shark walked over to Tom, sniffling on the ground. “Oh come on, I wanted a challenge! Oh well.” Shark stabbed Tom in the chest and Tom immediately jumped at Shark, grabbing his throat and punching him over and over. Tom eventually slowed down for a few moments, catching his breath. Shark had multiple cuts and scrapes on his face, blood was covering up most of it, blotting out intricate details, but he was still smiling. “There we go, got some fight in you.” said Shark, a wide smile on his face. “Where is the knife? The one you used on her?” Shark pulled something out of his pocket and gave it to Tom. “Go ahead, do it!” Tom was reluctant, staring at the knife in his hand. “Do it already!” shouted Shark, hoarsely. Tom started to back up, his senses regaining even more. “Wow, real smooth, Tom!” said Shark. “What did you say?” said Tom, stepping towards Shark again. “I said, Rea-” Shark got into a coughing fit, he had choked on the blood in his throat. “Real...Smooth.” said Shark, giving an empty chuckle, soon bursting into a full laughing fit. Tom ran up to Shark, anger blocking out everything human about him, and just plunged the knife into Shark's body, stabbing him multiple times in the lungs, and twice in the liver. “Be afraid! Give me fear! Be afraid like she was! Do it, now” Tom shouted, breathing heavily. Shark just spit blood into Tom’s face. Tom went into blind rage, just stabbing Shark over and over while screaming “Give me fear! Be afraid!” Shark just kept up with the smile until there was no smile left, until there was no man left, just an intense collage of the color red. Shark was long gone, but Tom didn’t care, he just kept stabbing what was left until he had gotten out all his anger. Tom just laid on the ground, heaving for fifteen minutes. When his senses fully regained, and he realized what he did, and dropped the knife. Tom, a man who was too timid to shoot a rabbit, too squeamish to dissect a frog, just killed a man. Tom started to scream, tears pouring down his face. He rolled around on the ground, a mix of so many emotions that Tom couldn’t understand anything anymore. He sat there for what felt like hours before finally calming down and rolling up to his feet. In the corner of his eye, he saw a pile of black ash sitting on the ground next to him. Tom scooped up DA.I.VE’s ashes and buried them under a shallow pot-hole in the road. Tom stared at the knife that he had dropped, then looked up at the sky. “You’re not getting me today, not today.” Tom took a lighter form the table and put it in his pocket. He gathered up as much wood as he could inside the rec room. Then, he gathered a few leaves from a nearby tree. He grabbed the lighter ,flicked it open, then threw it into the little fire starter he had built. He walked out of the building and looked up at it, the flames had started to spread across the building. The flames flickered in Tom’s eyes, filling him with a sense of relief. “Good riddance” he said, a smirk on his face. Suddenly, he got a call on his phone. It was from the police chief, he answered. “Tom, thank goodness, we need you, please!” “Sorry, I’m not a detective anymore.” Listen to me, Tom. We’ve got a call” “I’m not taking any calls” “Listen Tom, this one is different. This company, VizTec, they just reconstructed a dead person with A.I. technology, and...” the police chief’s voice trailed off “And what?” “And it’s calling for you, for some reason. They said, it must reach you.” “What was the person’s name?” “Jennifer Hawk.

Marlon Brando sat at the head of a grand old dinner table, twenty-eight feet long, resplendent with varnished oak wood, engravings and regal table top embellishments; candles, fine silver cutlery, gold-tinted napkins, frilly old table cloths like the kind your gran put out for Sunday dinner, only nicer. The table was located in the grand old hall of a grand old mansion that at one point belonged to a grand old Lord or Baron or Marquis or some other archaic personage. Now it belonged to Brando; to Hollywood. The transformation complete. The Visigoths at the gates of Rome no longer, they plunder now its splendid pantry and gorge themselves on the fruits of a thousand conquests of a thousand centuries. Bloated Brando at the head of the table, fireplace raging behind him and casting his engorged shadow across the ancient fireplace stones, chicken thigh in one hand, a wing in the other, lips stained with mashed potato, laughed a hearty laugh. The corpse of Francis Ford Coppolla sat slumped in the chair to Brando’s right. Al Pacino, not quite dead, stood serf-like at Brando’s side, wearing a torn tuxedo stained with a thousand condiments, waiter’s tablecloth in hand: the perfect supplicant, the faithful hound, ready at the sound of his master’s voice to rush to the kitchen where Diane Keaton waited to prepare for her beloved (Brando, not Pacino) any dish his cholesterol weakened heart desired. A ragged dockworker; union man, collar blue like the blueberry pie Brando was feasting upon at the moment of his entry, cries hysterically: “They are here my Don! Your people have come once more, to gaze upon your emboldened visage!” Brando sets aside his gallon tub of ice cream and allows an open-mouthed grin to grow across his huge face, rolls of cheek and neck fat piling one atop the other like some hideous optical illusion, thin strands of fried chicken skin dangling between incisor and canine, “Bid them enter!” he commands. At this the floodgates open and a wild throng of Hawaiian shirt clad, camera clutching tourists, the flash from their smartphones exploding on the visors of their Ray-Bans', enter the grand hall and surround poor portly Brando. He tries to hide behind a freshly cooked turkey just laid on the table by Diane Keaton, who now lies deceased, perished beneath the footsteps of a hundred eager vultures. But it is not Brando’s banquet they have come to devour, but Brando himself. “Mr. Brando!” squawks one of the vultures, “Show us the way! Lead us from temptation!” Brando smiles, red wine flows from his facial orifices, spilling onto the toes of a nearby sycophant, who eagerly bends down to lick the wine of Brando from his sandal shoe and from between his toes. He does not answer. Another croaks “My Lord! We have been told there’s something wrong; the politicians, the journalists, the new inhabitants of the Big Brother house, they all speak of impending doom, cliff edges and the like! What are we to do?” “It’s okaaaaay Babaaaaay” he bellows in response, with tears bubbling in the cauldron of his eyes. As the throng presses ever closer, Brando begins to suffocate, his eyes literally popping from his skull as thick gravy seeps from his tear ducts and clumps of miscellaneous meat regurgitate from his swollen mouth. The sound of iPhone camera clicks becomes deafening, and Brando collapses into a bowl of sticky toffee pudding, his final feast complete. A maggot crawls out of the hollow cavern that was once the eye of Francis Ford Coppolla, like a solitary teardrop, and high above this sordid scene, where once there was mounted the head of a boar or lion, the perfectly preserved head of Jacob-Rees Mogg watches all below, the scheming glint still alive in his eyes.

Father sat with his legs outstretched in front of the gas fire, his feet so close to the heat that the steam rose in a continual haze. He was still wearing his gardening clothes and the bottoms of his threadbare jeans were circled with mud which would eventually set solid and flake on to the carpet as he moved about the house. As he dozed his head flopped to one side, the light from the standard lamp emphasising the weathered skin of his face and the dark circles of tiredness under his eyes. Even in this restless sleep it was as if he was fighting off some yawning slumber that had grown from a life of hard physical labour, poverty and drink. Within the narrow limitations of our world I imagined we were never a particularly unhappy family, we were mostly respectful of each other unless father was suffering one of his tantrums. It often worried me that there were too many long periods of silence between us, but I think those were the times when the bonds were given space to heal. We lived in a sombre world, as efficient as it could be given how poor we were, but it was a solemn, colourless existence. I was very close to my mother and remained that way for the whole of my childhood, I would happily share with her the few secrets I could muster. I think she valued those little moments more than she ever let on. I sat at the dining table reading a book about aeroplanes, every now and again looking towards my father to see if his head had dropped low enough to cause him to wake up, which he would do with a grunt and a sigh. But tonight, maybe because the room was sauna-hot, he remained motionless, snoring steadily and deeply. I could hear mother in the kitchen putting dinner plates back into the cupboard and laying the cutlery back into a drawer, actions timed perfectly with the six o'clock chimes of Big Ben on the radio. She came back into the room and sat next to me at the table so as not to wake her husband but accidentally knocked her knee against the chair leg and he woke with a splutter. "That was a meal that was!" he grunted, thinking we hadn't noticed him sleeping. Then, in one move he lifted himself slightly out of his chair and grabbed a thick wedge of seed catalogues from the table. "Best get those dahlia stakes in tomorrow young fella' m'lad." It was almost as if he felt guilty about the time he'd wasted sleeping, I suspected it wouldn't be more than a few minutes before he started another little job somewhere about the house until tiredness claimed him again just after nightfall. Father's garden was both sanctuary and triumph, two decades of tilling, composting and mulching had turned the soil from a heavy, sodden clay into a friable seed bed capable of providing the three of us with sufficient salads and vegetables for much of the year. It was a testament not only to his toil, but also to his expertise and experience. As well as a bounty of food, the garden supplied the house with an adornment of cut flowers of every variety. Depending on the month our kitchen window sill would be filled with pots and vases of daffodils, dahlias, chrysanthemums and gladioli. The mantlepiece and shelves of the living room and hallway were festooned with arrays of brilliant flowers that filled the dank air with their gentle bouquets and sweet perfumes. At the weekend, when the weather allowed I would be encouraged to help father in the garden, a task I would perform dutifully, but with a feigned enthusiasm. Since he'd retired, the garden had become more of an obsession than a salutary pastime, his life depending on the rhythm of the seasons and the quirks of the English weather. He'd always been a man whose whole existence was founded on the principal of work, without it he was a dithering confusion. Mother and I knew that when the three of us went away on our summer holiday he became a little boy lost in his own foreign land where nothing was familiar and there was little to fulfil his innate need for purpose. His dahlia beds were well known among the horticultural community of our village. The regimented rows of plants filled nearly half the garden, resplendent in late summer with masses of red, yellow and orange blooms supported by bamboo canes and twine to stop the wind from damaging their weighty heads. Father would carefully select a small number of blooms for the village flower show, covering the individual plants with fleece to prevent them from scorching under the summer sun. The show was the pinnacle of his gardening year but despite never having won a first prize with his dahlia blooms, he'd gained numerous thirds and a sprinkling of seconds. I struggled to see the difference between the prize winning flowers, to me they all looked pretty much the same. Father would tell me about how the lower petals of a winning bloom should never curl in a different direction to the main petals, or how the colour should be completely uniform across the whole bloom. But the whole thing left me cold. When he'd finished reading his seed catalogues, father raised himself slightly off his chair again, pulled the flower show schedule from his back pocket and waved it at us. "One week to go, and then we'll see who wins," he announced. We both glanced at him and then smiled at each other, briefly linked in a little conspiracy of comradeship which, we thought, had excluded him. I suspect mother's undying loyalty to both of us was a constant source of worry to her, although securing allegiance and indifference was a juggling act she'd perfected over the years. "Let's go and see which flowers are going to win young fella' m'lad," he said as he buttoned up his jacket. I followed him out to the garden where he forced his feet into his boots without opening them and then stamped on the ground to make them fit. I slid on my wellingtons and looked over to where my bicycle leant against the shed, wishing I was somewhere else. I followed him along a narrow gravelled path that wound its way among the flower beds. Little clumps of lobelia and alyssum spilled over the shuttering that kept the gravel from being kicked onto the soil, small patches of self-seeded forget-me-nots sprouted from muddy slopes where the timber edging had rotted. The sun had long since disappeared behind a bank of thick cloud and fat, oily drops of grey rain had started to wet the ground. My mood lightened with the thought that the afternoon's chores might be postponed, I looked up to the sky and willed the rain to pour down. Father saw me and smiled. "Little rain won't stop us eh lad?" I smiled and pulled the collar of my coat up tightly around my neck. There was a purpose to his stride now, defiant of the weather and its potential to scupper the buoyancy of his mood. I followed close behind, hands in pockets and one eye on the horizon where a disheartening shaft of sunlight had broken through the dark blanket of cloud. "Just a light shower, bright skies ahead," he said with a wry smile. "Let's get these flowers tied in against the wind." But away from the restrictive influence of mother's authority, father's humour turned sour. His attitude to me changed from a cool acceptance of my apathy, to an impatient anger that I feared would develop into something more sinister. Past experience had taught me to be cautious of his fragile mood. Away from the house he became an irritable and intolerant version of himself. There was a deep vein of arrogance in him which generated an obstinate conviction that nobody else could do things as well as he could. Certainly not his son. Father had a temper that simmered just below the surface of his usually affable temperament, one that could erupt without notice, brutal and furious. I had learned to respect his rages, to absorb the intensity of them rather than react to his cruel accusations. I would endure the spontaneous tirades by remembering the warm comforting words of my mother who accepted his anger with understanding and love. It was only when I feared for her wellbeing that I became scared for mine. Father stood at one end of a row of dahlias and tied a piece of twine to the top of one of the timber stakes that he'd driven into the ground. He threw the ball of string at me so that I could tie it off on to a stake at my end of the dahlia bed but I fumbled the catch and it fell to the ground, rolling away down the sloping path. "Come on butterfingers, this has got to be done before the wind gets up!" he shouted. There was no mistaking the beginnings of one of his tantrums. I was sure he'd thrown the ball of string too hard and that there was little chance of me being able to catch it, a technique he'd perfected to make sure I understood my place in our partnership. I'd learned from experience, and from the chats with my mother, that the best way to keep from suffering the full wrath of his outburst would be to admit my incompetence and remain calm. Which I did. I tied my end of the string to the top of a post at the edge of the flower bed and pulled it firmly so that father could tie the biggest and most prized dahlias to it with strips of cloth. He'd explained many times how important it was to use pieces of cloth so that the plant stems didn't get damaged by the thin string. I watched him move slowly along the path, tying in each of the biggest blooms to the taut line. A gentle gust of wind blew a little cloud of dust across the flower beds, the plant stems bent over and the leaves rustled in the breeze. Father looked to the sky and then to me, which I suspected was his way of inferring the oncoming storm was somehow my fault and that we should hurry along with the job before the dahlia flowers got damaged. There was an unnatural intensity to his movements now, he flicked his gaze from the plants to me, and then back to the sky in an exaggerated and agitated way, almost as if he had become possessed by some devilish spirit. The wind picked up and the dahlias bent further over. "Well don't just stand there boy, come and help!" he shouted again. I let go of the stake and stepped back up on to the path, but as my foot rose it caught on a section of the timber edging, I stumbled forwards and grabbed on to the string to steady myself. It stretched tightly with the force of my fall, one of the stakes snapped and I fell headlong into the flower bed snapping the whole swathe of dahlia stems as I collapsed on to the ground. I lay still, stuck in a moment of time between disbelief and terror. I looked along the soil where little mounds rose and fell away to the end of the shortened horizon. I imagined being extremely small so that I could hide within the hills and valleys of the miniature landscape. I got to my feet and held one of the broken stems with one hand, cradling the large flower head with my other. I knew father would be looking at me but I didn't yet have the courage to look back, and so, feeling utterly incompetent, I put the dahlia down and picked up another. "JUST LEAVE IT!" he shouted as he ripped the string from the post. I stood completely still and stared down at the ground, trying to avoid the view of the carnage that lay around us. A dozen once beautiful dahlia flowers lay by the path, some had lost most of their petals, others lay crumpled and stained like sad faces in the mud. The sun finally peeked from behind a cloud. Every plant apart from one had snapped off at ground level, their leaves already beginning to wilt in the warmth of the day, thick green stems lay at odd angles, tangles of string and strips of cloth lay coiled and knotted along the path. I waited for the shouting to begin, I imagined I deserved everything that was coming to me. But father stood rooted to the spot saying nothing. I heard the sound of a radio from next door's garden and a seagull swooped down low, squawking like a baby. I could feel father looking at me and for a moment I considered running away, it was all I could do to stop myself from bursting into tears. I desperately wanted to be told off so that I could have an excuse to cry, but his silence left me struggling to understand why I wasn't being punished, which was a sentence in itself. We sat next to each other in the warm glow of the fire. Mother with her hand on my knee, my head resting lightly on her shoulder. I'd told her what had happened, as had father earlier in the afternoon before he'd started his drinking. A little chink of light from a streetlamp seeped between the curtains and lit up a family photograph that stood on the mantlepiece. I felt the comforting blanket of mother's warm love and I closed my eyes against the world. Father stumbled through the door and leant shakily against the table, mother stood up and put her hand on the top of my head. He wiped the corner of his wet mouth with the back of his hand and tried to pour another drink from the bottle he knew was empty, then threw it on the carpet. I watched it roll away underneath his armchair until it clunked against the wall. For a moment the room was silent again as they faced each other in the flickering dim light. "The boy's a wrong 'un, he'll never come to anything." The words felt so much like a punch, that I actually put my hands up in front of my face. Mother's mouth opened and closed again, starting to form some kind of a reply, but she gave in to his temper, as she had always done. Father passed away the day before the flower show, his heart finally giving in to a lifetime of resentment and drink. Mother and I were the only two that stood at the side of his grave on the hot afternoon of his funeral. A week after the flower show we lifted the dahlia corms that he'd left abandoned in the garden. We pruned off the dying foliage and replanted them in amongst a neglected border of wild flowers and grasses where they grew young, fresh shoots of bright green leaves. A few of the sturdiest plants produced flowers, although they were slightly smaller than they would normally have been. But to me, the small blooms looked perfectly placed among the haphazard collection of native flowers that sprawled through the border and across the little path that led around the garden. Mother and I visited father every day, and as the soft summer breeze blew the dahlia petals across his grave, I looked up to the sky and I hoped that he'd found a place where he could be happy.

I used to live in Memphis. I say used to, because it doesn't really exist anymore. The last thing I will ever see, will be the mushroom cloud on the horizon. They say that the burst of energy from a nuclear blast is so bright, that anyone who witnesses it will go blind. I wish I'd never seen it. I think that's when I went into shock. I remember thinking "That kind of thing just can't happen here, this is America!". I don't really know how long I just stood there. After the explosion, my friend James and I tried to get away from town. He packed up all of our food and the two guns that I owned in my Jeep, and we started driving north. He was smart enough to avoid the main roads, and we took a small rarely-used highway to get away as fast as possible. James was not the best driver, and he drove with reckless abandon. We probably made it four miles before he ran a red light, and we were hit by a school bus. The bus just backed up and drove around us. Like we weren't even there. I could feel his still-warm blood all over the car, and I couldn't find a pulse. I had known him for 25 years, he was my best friend, and now he's dead. I didn't know what to do, I didn't know where I was. I'm blind and my best friend is dead. I decided to grab what I could from the back of the vehicle, and just start walking. The best idea I could come up with was: I'll keep my feet on the pavement, and eventually I'll make it to somewhere safe. I didn't.

“Next.” The girl behind the counter flashes a smile. Kyanna. My stomach flips. God, she’s even cute in a baggy postal uniform. Am I imagining it or is that smile a bit brighter than the one she gave the last customer? I tug the hood of my sweatshirt lower over my eyes, and then fold and unfold the paper in my hand, pretending to read it while holding up my index finger. “Sorry. I’m not quite ready.” I gesture to the guy in line behind me. “You go ahead.” I continue to stare at the paper, occasionally looking up to the station next to Kyanna’s. The old guy who never smiles. Cecil. That’s the clerk I want. No, Kyanna is the clerk I want , but Cecil is the one I need . I can still feel Kyanna glaring at me. I’ve known her since high school when we were band geeks together. I couldn’t talk to her back then either. Cecil finishes with his customer and beckons me over without even looking up from his computer. “Hi, I need to pick up a package?” I hold out the slip of paper. Kyanna clicks her tongue. Cecil snatches the paper from my hand, reads it, and then looks at me over the rims of his glasses. His eyes are mismatched, like an Alaskan husky. Mahogany and ice blue. He turns and ambles to the back room. “I could’ve helped you with that,” says Kyanna, brushing a hand over her hair. It’s a thick black weave that flows down her back. “Just saying.” My mouth goes dry. I try to swallow. “I...just wasn’t ready.” “Whatever.” She scowls, but I notice the corner of her lip twitching. I’ve just said three semi-coherent sentences to her. It has to be a new record. Of course, that’s if you count “sorry” as a sentence. Cecil comes back and drops a repurposed Amazon box on the counter. The logo smiles up at me. I weigh it in my hand. It’s heavier than most of the other ones. “So, how much do I...?” “It’s paid for, boss,” says Cecil. “The person who sent it did that. You oughta’ know how the Post Office works by now. You're here almost every day.” Kyanna giggles and my face turns hot. “Thanks.” I snatch up the package and stride out the door. “Bye, Orion.” She’s still laughing as she says it. Sitting in my car, I pull my hood back and break the tape on the package with the tip of a ballpoint pen. Inside the box there’s a handwritten note: You’ll know what to do. It’s such a messy scrawl that most people wouldn’t be able to read it, but it’s not a problem for me. Under that, wrapped with crumpled newspaper, is a ball-peen hammer and a box cutter. I shift the newspaper aside. There’s one more thing. A baby pacifier, still in its packaging. Too weird. So I do what I always do after getting one of these little presents. I just go about my day, like it never happened. Today that means starting the car and heading to my crappy job at Target. Could be worse. They have me in the back moving stock. At least I don’t have to talk to anyone. Thanks to my post office visit, I’m cutting it close. I can’t be late again. My boss has been all over my butt as it is. Up ahead I see the stoplight at the intersection of Live Oak and Delta. It’s green now, but if I get caught by a red, I’ll never make it on time. The light turns yellow, so I punch the accelerator. If the Hyundai in front of me goes through, I can cut right behind it. But the brake lights flash and now I’m trapped behind the little red car, pounding the steering wheel as every curse word I know throws tantrums in my head. I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. I do it again. And again. Dr. Silverstein recommends this when the stress gets too much. It’s not working today. The light turns green, and the Hyundai moves forward. I’m about to follow when there’s a flash of cobalt blue, a needle-sharp screech of tires, and a sickening concussion of metal on metal. A speeding SUV just blew through the stoplight from the left, bowling into the rear of the smaller car and sending it spinning once, twice across the intersection before careering into a streetlight. The SUV stutters forward another hundred yards or so, its engine knocking. It grinds to a halt just after bouncing up a curb and straddling the sidewalk. Pulling my sweatshirt hood up, I leap out of my car, running toward the Hyundai with the box cradled under my arm. About seven other Good Samaritans are ahead of me. A lady wearing a track jacket and black leggings is already there, a guy in a grey business suit right behind her. Smoke starts to rise from the hood. Then flames. They yank open the driver’s door and a young woman tumbles out, bleeding from her forehead. The man in the suit throws her arm over his shoulder and drags her away. “Get back!” the workout lady shrieks. “There’s gas everywhere!” “My baby!” The young driver is holding a hand to her forehead and scarlet pours from between her fingers. Her other hand stretches toward the car. Her eyes are feral. “My baby’s in there!” The crowd in front of me hesitates, unable to leave an infant to the flames, unwilling to risk immolation themselves. The workout lady runs to the other side of the car and tugs on the door. It’s locked. Or jammed. Either way, it won’t open. One of the other Samaritans, this big guy in a plaid shirt, runs up and grabs her from behind. “Get away from there! It’s gonna blow!” He lifts her off the ground and carries her away. She’s crying, kicking and thrashing as the rest of them fall back. But I shoulder my way past them and head straight for it, my hand reaching into the box. The smell of gasoline is noxious, and it splashes as I run through it. I feel the heat from the flames on my face. I raise the hammer and bring it down on the passenger side rear window and it shatters, spilling into the street like a hundred uncut diamonds. From inside the car, I hear strident mewling. Flicking open the box cutter, I lean inside, slit the nylon restraints of the car seat, close the cutter, and lift out an infant in a pink onesie. And then I run like hell. “My baby!” The young driver is hysterical. Eyes wide and unseeing. Blood running down her face. She looks like Sissy Spacek at the end of Carrie . It takes three people to keep her from dashing back to the burning car. Without a word, I place the baby into her arms. She sobs and drops to her knees. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Thank you. Thank you.” The baby’s eyes screw tight. Her fists clench. She begins to wail. I fish the pacifier out of the box, remove the packaging, and pop it into her mouth just as there’s a hiss and a roar behind me. An orange glow lights up the woman’s face, the baby, the crowd. It warms my back, even through my sweatshirt. The people gasp. “Look at that fireball," says Business Suit. But I can’t take my eyes off the baby. She’s snuggled into the bloody blouse, sound asleep, the mother cooing at her. I drop the hammer and retractable knife into the box, tug my hood lower, and push my way through the crowd back to my car. They’re too enthralled by the spectacle to even notice me. The howl of a distant siren drifts through the intersection as I drive away. When I get to work, my boss says, “You’re late. And you smell like gasoline.” I breathe in. I breathe out. Then I just nod and start moving stock. # The next day, I’m back in line at the post office, clutching the same cardboard box. It’s holding the same hammer and box cutter. I had to buy a new pacifier at the baby section at work. “Hi, Orion,” says Kyanna. I look at the ground. “I can help you here, or are you waiting for your man Cecil again?” “Um...I’m not ready.” I gesture to the next person in line to go ahead of me. “What’s the matter? Why don’t you ever want to talk to me?” Her eyes are sparkling, so I think she’s only pretending to be mad. “I’d love to.” I try to swallow the panic in my throat. I'll never be able to talk to her. “It’s...hard to explain.” Cecil wordlessly beckons me toward him. Kyanna takes a package from her new customer, who seems as amused by my embarrassment as she is. “You can explain it to me later. I get off at five-thirty.” My head snaps up. What did she say? I can’t tell if she’s messing with me. Cecil takes the box. “Sending it back, boss?” I pull my gaze back to him. “Yeah.” “How did it work for you?” “Did everything it was supposed to.” He winks an eye at me--the blue one--as he puts the box on the scale and taps his keyboard a few times. Then he turns the screen toward me. “Address right?” I peer at it. Yup. That’s my P.O. box. I nod. Kyanna shakes her head. “You could just keep it at home. Wouldn’t that save you some trouble?” I reach for my wallet. “And cash?” Cecil looks at me over his glasses. “When do you need it to get there?” I glance over at Kyanna and then back at Cecil. “Yesterday would be fine,” I whisper. Kyanna snorts. “God, you’re so funny!” She heard me. And she thinks I’m kidding. After paying, I turn to go, but Cecil’s voice stops me. “Hey boss, wait, I got another one for you. I’ll save you a trip back here.” It’s long and skinny. And light. I tuck it under my arm and head toward the door. “Bye, Orion. See you at five-thirty. Right here.” Wait. She’s serious? She’s giving me one of her cute sideways smiles. Yes. She is. “Yeah,” I say. “Five-thirty.” On my way across the parking lot, I breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. Again. And again. My heart batters against my ribcage. My God, I’m going to be with Kyanna. Alone. In...I look at my phone...seven hours. Deep breathing doesn’t help at all. Back in my car, I cut the tape on the box with my ballpoint pen with trembling hands. I could tell her I'm sick. That I just came down with something. Like Covid. That's going around again, right? Inside the box is a plastic wand with a string tied to it. On the end of the string is a feather. There’s also a handwritten note. Most people would have a hard time reading it due to its messy scrawl. But I can read it easily. After all, the handwriting is mine. My heart eases up on the accelerator. Just a little bit. The note says Kyanna has a cat. You’ll know what to do .

TW: abuse, stalking The farmhouse on the hill was a lonely place. It had once been a bustling farm. Many years hence. Now however, the dark stone building stood like a headstone in the hills. Alone. There were still chickens. A handful of sheep. One old belligerent mare. And a barn cat of midnight black. And, if you believed the rumours, a solitary witch. A thriving herb garden. A brackish pond with geese in the summer. The house itself was as old as the hills. Still standing by some act of nature. The stones used to build its spine fossilised relics of a time before time. When the roof had begun to leak three years prior, the nearby village of Merthyrbryn had pitched in to help fix it. The road leading to the front door, though twisting and narrow, was well-kept and well-travelled. There was even electricity now. And solar panels on the roof. As Laura Edgecroft edged her uncle’s old jeep up the winding road to the farmhouse, she was forced to sit basically folded in half to see the road in front of her. She didn’t want to drive through animal muck. With Uncle Harold’s bum hip, she’d be the one cleaning it up. Finally, she eased it to a stop in front of the old front door. The crunch of gravel beneath her trainers as she hopped out. She could hear the distant ruckus of chickens, the noisy yodelling of sheep and the sharp consonant blare of geese. It smelled exactly how she’d expected it to. Like earth, grass and manure. Walking to the boot of the jeep, she pulled out the old crate filled with groceries. She’d agreed to do this favour for her uncle. Apparently the greengrocer didn’t do deliveries that far up in the hills -- and now that she’d braved those winding tightropes Laura knew why -- and Uncle Harold had been fetching them up for the woman who lived here. Angharad Llewelyn. A name that her uncle had very kindly repeated a few times on first utterance. Welsh was not a language she knew or a pronunciation style she was familiar with. Armed with her crate, she cast around, a little uncertain, and slowly began to draw closer to the farmhouse. That’s what they called it in town too. The Farmhouse. Like it was the only one, regardless of the fact that their little village was nestled in a quilt of quaint farms all with their own farmhouses. A shadow moved across an upstairs window. A crow flew away from the roof with a caw. The front door opened and Laura took a hasty step backwards. A young woman in her mid-twenties stood there. Wild red hair tumbled in dizzy spirals around her shoulders. Skin pale as milk. Freckles kissing every hint of exposed skin on her neck and shoulders. She wore an ACDC t-shirt and a long floaty skirt that she had tucked hastily into a pair of bright yellow wellies. A human daffodil. ‘You’re not Harold,’ she said, her accent thick with the lyrical flow of the valleys. She folded her arms. Her eyes -- a light blue that was almost too faint to even be called blue -- ran over Laura appraisingly. Laura had the sudden urge to cover her eye and check her sleeves were pulled down. Those eyes were a physical presence on her skin. ‘Um, yeah I’m his niece,’ Laura said, holding out the heavy crate, ‘just helping him out while he rests up after his surgery.’ ’That’s an odd name,’ the woman commented, tongue in cheek. She took the crate easily, hefting it under one arm like it didn’t weigh a tonne. ‘Mine’s Angharad.’ Laura bit her tongue to avoid answering in kind, but the smile in those eyes suggested that Angharad already knew what she was struggling not to say. ‘I’m Laura.’ ‘Come on in, Laura,’ Angharad said, shoving the door open with her hip and disappearing into the farmhouse. By the time Laura had even processed wanting to refuse, Angharad had disappeared into the farmhouse. People didn’t invite you into their houses in London, not if they didn’t know you. And now she was left with two options. Go inside this stranger’s house, or leave and be the rudest version of herself. Laura stepped inside. The roofs were low and made of vast wooden beams. As she followed her ears and nose down the corridor to the kitchen, an itch began between her shoulder blades. She looked over her shoulder. Just the innocuous front door. A coat stand, a side-table for keys. She rubbed the back of her neck and shook off the feeling, stepping into the kitchen. Jars upon jars lined every conceivable surface of the claustrophobic kitchen. Full of different jams. Blackcurrant. Strawberry. Rosehip. Raspberry. A smothering of fruit. The room was warm, steamy and cosy. The decor outdated but preserved with loving reverence. Dried herbs were trussed up in one corner. Glass jars full of assorted herbs, spices and other earthly ingredients lined the shelves of her bustling pantry. A black cat yowled at her from its basket next to the Aga stove. A chicken ran through the room and out into the mudroom, making a break for the back garden. Angharad had already cleared out the crate and was refilling it with jams. A loaf of bread. Cloudy cider. As if sensing the question, Angharad began to explain. ‘I like to give Harold a little something to say thank you for the trip.’ ‘That’s kind of you.’ Angharad shook her head. ‘Not really. You pay for a service however you’re able.’ Laura, who had unconsciously decided to be nosy, turned around a glass jar so she could more clearly read the handwritten label. ‘Does this say nightshade?’ Angharad smiled. ‘Probably.’ Laura stopped touching the jar and rubbed her hands on the backs of her jeans. ‘ Why do you have a poisonous flower?’ ‘Same reason I have knives,’ she answered cheerfully, ‘you never know when they might come in handy. Speaking of which, wait here for a sec.’ Laura watched her sprint away, heard her feet rush around upstairs. She looked around at the chaos. Made eye contact with the cat. The cat that refused to blink or look away. As she was beginning to question her sanity, Angharad reappeared. ‘Here,’ she held out an orange square. Laura took it, realising it was a little plastic square of orange face paint. ‘What’s this for?’ ‘Colour correction, it will reduce the appearance of the purple,’ Angharad answered lightly, ‘before you put on your foundation. It’ll help.’ And she tapped the corner of her left eye with a knowing look. A faint sheen of sweat covered Laura’s body as her heart tried to escape her chest. She fought valiantly to avoid breathing like she’d just run a marathon. ‘I-I don’t--‘ ‘Just take it,’ Angharad interrupted, waving her away. There was no pity there, Laura realised, just understanding. She shoved it into her pocket. ’Thanks.’ ‘I put some cider in for you too,’ Angharad said, holding out the crate, ‘pear cider. You’ll like it.’ Laura took the crate and was grateful that Angharad continued to support the crate until she had stopped shaking. ‘Thanks.’ ‘Come back any time you need something,’ Angharad said, her eyes blue mirrors, ‘but beware the nighttime.’ Laura snorted out a laugh. ‘Did you just tell me to beware the nighttime?’ Angharad made claws with her fingers and cackled. ‘Got to keep up appearances.’ ‘You know about the rumours?’ Angharad smiled revealing a pronounced gap between her front two teeth. ‘Who said they were rumours?’ *** One week later, as Laura pulled up to the farmhouse again, she came bearing cleaned glass jars, a crate full of food, and her first short-sleeved shirt of the summer. Her arms were clear of the echoes of the past, though she was still using the face paint. As she climbed out of the jeep, she almost fell over. The black cat had run directly underfoot, like a snare trap. Now she sat on the roof of the jeep, staring down at her condescendingly. Laura blinked at the cat and the cat blinked back. ‘Right.’ She went around to the boot and pulled the crate out, hefting it up against her chest before heading towards the farmhouse, all under the watchful, managerial gaze of the black cat. As she got to the door, she half expected it to open again and for Angharad to spill out. Unfortunately, only one of those things happened. The door slowly opened. A shiver shot down her spine like a cold predatory finger. But the house beckoned onwards, and the cat that had wrapped its way lovingly around her ankles was pulling her in. Shaking her head, she walked inside. Following the sounds and smells into the kitchen again. Less glass jars this time. Jam making had ceased. But there was an older woman sat at the kitchen table with a doll in her hands. The doll seemed to be made of a twisted piece of coarse fabric. As she sniffled, Angharad pressed a handkerchief into her hands. ‘Hello Laura,’ she said cheerfully, patting the lady’s shoulder. ‘Have you met Agatha Jones?’ The lady from the post office. ‘Um, yeah. Is everything okay? Maybe I should just go--’ Agatha stood in a flurry. ’No, no. Just, I just need to freshen myself up. Thank you, Angharad.’ Clutching the doll, she made a shuffle for the bathroom and locked the door. Laura turned her back on the sounds of crying. ’She’ll be alright,’ Angharad said, taking the crate and beginning to unpack the groceries. ’She just needed a little push.’ ‘A push?’ Angharad nodded. She was wearing shorts that had clearly once been jeans, the hems were completely uneven. ’She needs to reconnect with her daughter, so I gave her a little push.’ Laura felt her phone buzz against her hip. Dread curdled her belly. ‘Are you really a witch?’ Angharad gave her a sharp look. The contact electrifying her blood and buzzing in her belly, chasing away the dread. ‘Do you need me to be?’ Laura was saved from having to answer by the timely reentry of Mrs Jones. She folded Angharad into a big hug, blew her nose noisily, and headed off before Laura could offer her a lift, leaving the two women alone in Angharad’s kitchen. The phone buzzed against her hip again. This time she pulled it out, checking the screen in case it was uncle Harold. The number she’d committed to memory illuminated her screen. Her eyes glanced over the first few inflammatory words of the text before she shoved it back into her pocket. The room swam around her for a moment, and she became aware of hands on her elbows. The scent of persimmons flooded her senses as Angharad walked her backwards to the bench. Her knees hit it and buckled, but Angharad kept hold of her elbows and lowered her gently. She felt hands, calloused and gentle, against her cheeks, and she looked up to see Angharad staring down at her. She was blurry. Retroactively, she realised her eyes were full of tears. ‘You’re safe here,’ Angharad said. Her certainty was like a boulder. Unmoving. Unconquerable. Steadfast. Completely certain. Laura nodded, entranced faintly by this person brimming with confidence. So unshakable. She’d never met anyone like her. Was this why people called her a witch? This magical ephemeral assuredness that pulsed through her veins. That filled the kitchen. That smelled like persimmon. Angharad dropped her hands from Laura’s face, gripping her shoulders instead. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ About the broken silence of the night? The shattered safety of her bed? The crushed dignity of her mind? The wearing down of her body and her selfhood? Or about the night she left. About how she had fled London. Left behind her life and her friends -- his friends -- her home -- his home. His life. The one he’d trapped her inside. Could she tell this gentle stranger any of that? She opened her mouth. To try. To shout. To deny. And cried. One a solitary tear broke the dam, the others came pouring out through that crack in her edifice. Until she was fighting to breathe as her chest heaved and her hands shook and her throat closed. Angharad sat beside her on the bench, pulling her down into a protective cocoon of her arms. Made soothing noises in her throat and stroked her hair. Rocking her gently. She waited. Eventually, the dam was empty, and she subsided into gentle embarrassed hiccups. She pulled away from Angharad, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘Don’t be sorry,’ Angharad answered lightly, eyes pouring over Laura’s face as if she could read her thoughts that way. ‘Be greedy, come on, this time I want you to choose what cider you want to try.’ Grateful for the change of topic, and the knowing air around Angharad, Laura chose her cider without question. She shuffled out of the farmhouse, feeling like a freshly birthed fawn; wet and sticky and vulnerable. ‘If you ever need me, you know where I am.’ And with that offer hanging around her neck like a talisman, Laura got back into the jeep feeling warmer. *** ‘I’m outside bitch. Come out or I’m coming in.’ The text lit up her screen like a flare. She stopped in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room. Staring at it like a deer in headlights. It was seven. Uncle Harold wasn’t due back for another hour. She had never been so alone. The house that had been her bolthole became a snare. The phone chirped again and she slapped a hand over her mouth. A picture of the front of Uncle Harold’s house. Mind racing, she considered the police. But, this rural, it would be a good twenty minutes before anyone arrived. The nearest neighbours were all also at bingo. The only place left... She looked at the backdoor. The farmhouse was just beyond the hill if you ran through the field. Much closer than anything else. But she’d be bringing danger to Angharad. The sound of fists hitting the front door was like a starter’s pistol. She bolted before she had thought about it and was out of the door and halfway across the field beyond by the time she heard the front door cave in. Darkness enveloped her like a co-conspirator, and she ran headlong into it and into the silence as she heard him screaming behind her. Heard his big galumphing footsteps as he chased her down. Fear made her faster, and soon she crested the hill, sprinting up the winding road to the farmhouse as blood pounded through her veins. Urging her further, further. She yanked the front door open and fell inside the quiet house. It was dark, the shadows consuming the front room, curling around the bannister, snaking into the empty kitchen. Empty. She scrambled to her feet. ‘Angharad!’ The panic in her voice cracked through the silence. Footsteps on the landing above her drew her gaze upwards as relief fell around her like a cloak. The door buckled inwards like a cardboard fort in a thunderstorm. Jeremy filled the doorway, eyes wild and brandishing Angharad’s pitchfork. Turned to face him, Laura held out one forestalling hand and took a panicked step backwards. Her ankles hit the wooden stairs and she tumbled back onto her bottom, the stairs striking her lower back. She covered her head with her hands. Waiting for the blow. Laura dared open her eyes into slits, looked up at Jeremy. He stood over her, the pitchfork clutched overhead in white-knuckled hands, but he wasn’t looking at her. He stared open-mouthed, wide-eyed at the top of the stairs. Laura looked up. Shadows had crept up the stairs, coalesced at the very top. They curled around Angharad’s ankles, up her calves, drifted around her wrists and shoulders like a mantle. She was looking down at Jeremy with her lip curled. Cold and ruthless. She floated down the stairs, not moving her limbs as the shadows drew her inexorably downwards. She came to a stop just beyond Laura’s prone body, her feet gently touching the threadbare rug. Jeremy took several horrified steps backwards. ‘W-what are you?’ Angharad smiled. ‘I’m the witch at the top of the hill. People come to me for help,’ she gestured to Laura with one pale hand, ‘or for punishment.’ She pointed at Jeremy. The shadows, which had moved like docile smoke, hardened under her command, bursting forwards from the closed-off places of the farmhouse. Like crazed dogs. They savaged Jeremy, forcing him down onto his back and holding him there as he screamed like a frightened schoolboy. Angharad came over him, crouching on his chest. She wrapped one claw-like hand into his hair and pulled so he was forced to look up into her face. Laura couldn’t see what Jeremy saw, but she did smell the tell-tale scent of ammonia. Angharad laughed, low and cruel. ‘Do you know what these shadows are?’ A terrified gurgle that might have been an answer escaped his chest. ‘They’re all that’s left of the bad men who came to my farmhouse,’ she said, ‘if you don’t want that to happen to you too, I suggest your run, Jeremy.’ She stood and moved away from him, a smile back on her face that contained too many teeth. Jeremy managed to scramble up and out of the farmhouse, down the path, screaming as he fled into the night with nightmares at his heels. Light returned to the farmhouse as the shadows retreated, satiated. Angharad closed the door and came to kneel down at Laura’s side. Laura scanned her face, eyes wide and panicked. There was no hint of monstrosity any more, just that same kind smile. And the smell of persimmon. ‘Would you like some tea?’

THE TINY SILVER BELL The leaf was settled, stretched out, with the tips of its lobes upright, on the bench , right next to her, who only noticed it when she get up. It was a five lobed maple leaf , whose predominant color was reddish, which had almost completely eliminated the green. It was autumn and under the trees, in the meadows, in the gardens, but also on the roads and the city streets there were many leaves , there were carpets of fallen leaves. That one, perhaps carried by the wind, lay on the bench as if it was sitting on it ( on the bench). “ My little leaf “ she said, taking the maple leaf in her hand. It seemed to Zara that the rather little maple leaf was there , on the bench, just for her. Even before she could see the reverse of the leaf Zara, as soon as took the leaf in her hand, felt something hard and rather cold against the palm of her hand, while the leaf was cold and warm. She thought of an insect, perhaps a little beetle, a ladybug, that was attached to the leaf. ( to the other side of the leaf). It was instead a very small thing, a tiny object , really a trinket. It was something not to be believed in her eyes. ( something that made her to not believe in her eyes) There was a very tiny silver bell attached, or rather hung on the other side of the leaf. The tiny silver bell had also a rattle____ otherwise what bell would it have been?____and its rattle went : DIN DON DAN. And , surprise in surprise, when Zara took the leaf by the petiole, to lift it from the palm of her hand, on which she had placed it , truly (very) incredible, the tiny silver bell remain attached, or, rather hung on her index finger. So that it was enough for her to move only a bit her finger and the tiny bell started ringing: DIN DON DAN. Zara, she didn’t really know how that would be possible. She was more than incredulous, more than amazed. But she didn’t even think for a moment of removing the tiny bell from her finger. Zara started walking down the same narrow paved road which would take ( would have taken) her to the lane between the fields , that she usually made to come back home. Alongside and parallel to that narrow stretch of asphalted road, there was a freeway where, in addition to cars, many heavy vehicles transited : big trucks with tall and long wagons, trucks with long tanker trailers. Zara, as walked on that narrow stretch of paved road, keeping her index finger pointed forwards, so that the tiny bell rang___DIN DON DAN___at every step she took, she could see, out of the corner of her eye, those big trucks, with tall and long trailers, that sped on the super highway, after turning at the roundabout, with an agile movement , which never it would be expected by vehicles so much heavy. When they turned at the roundabout, they looked like huge snakes crawling sinuously on the asphalt. When she, sitting on the bench when she had found that maple leaf, under which there was the fabulous tiny silver bell, watching at them as they turned, following them with her eyes until she could see them, keeping her eyes glued to the back of their huge wagons, Zara always thought: these big trucks really go far. Sometimes, to tell the truth, she had been tempted to ask for a ride in one of those big trucks with big trailers. Leaving a place where she was sick, where indeed she had always been sick, getting into one of those trucks, that certainly went far away from there. And so she could come far enough that she once got there, it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to her to go back. Zara had been seized by this temptation several times while she, walking on that narrow stretch of asphalted road, along the freeway where those big beasts, the trucks, whizzed by , she had felt that they stir the air as they passed. But until then she had never asked for a ride.....to somewhere far enough from there. Until that special day, when she found the tiny silver bell under the maple leaf that was sitting on the bench right next to her, Zara didn’t dare to stop one of those big beasts of the trucks for a ride. But that day was a very special day. She not only had found the silver bell under the leaf, but the tiny bell had attached itself to her index finger, and it rang ___DIN DON DAN___at every step she took. So she dared. Indeed it was be tiny silver bell, hanging on her finger, that pushed her, took her on the highway, where she started running alongside every big truck which passed, and she, waving her arms and hands, tried to stop a truck. While the tiny silver bell was sounding more and more louder, just as if it, the tiny bell, were working hard for a truck to stop and she could have a ride. Miracle! It was the tiny silver bell which was taking her away from there, from that cursed place. It was again the fabulous tiny bell that pushed her to get (to go) into the middle of the freeway , after giving struggled for not a little time to run alongside those big trucks without anyone stopping. Zara knew that she, standing there, in the middle of the freeway, she was in danger of being run over, yet the impatience to be able to leave for any place, but far from there was stronger than the fear of being run over and killed. It was not the first big truck she faced, so to speak, face to face, that stopped. Two or three of those big trucks went by without stopping, and their drivers shouted the most terrible insults and also the fiercest threats to Zara. Then finally a truck stopped, despite the bombing of the horns of the vehicles traveling behind. Even the driver of that truck, from the window to which his face appeared, first , as greetings, addressed insults, and scares, and threats to Zara. But was she completely crazy to get there in the middle of the freeway? She, ugly witch, damn whore, was very dangerous! She could cause a real big mess, standing there, in the middle of the street! Oh, but of course a very bad woman like she didn’t care how many dead her insane, criminal behavior might cause! But why they let someone like her circulate? Oh, she had to be locked up! Zara paid no attention to what the truck driver was yelling at her, and she started shouting that she was looking for a ride, that she needed a ride to get out ( away) of there as soon as possible. “ Ah, but listen, the slutty lady wants a ride! And, let’s hear, where do you want a ride for, milady?” The truck driver asked the question with a giggling tone ( voice), as if to imply ( to say) : “And imagine if I can give a ride to you!”. He spoke protruding ( sticking out) his big and ugly face from the window ( out of the window). Meanwhile the bombing of the horns of the cars and other vehicles to which the big truck, which was stopped almost in the middle of the freeway, was getting louder and louder. Maybe because ( since) the drivers of those vehicles, at a certain moment ( after some time) didn’t only protest with the horns, but they got out on the street and started to kick the big truck, and to threat , very angry, the driver, or maybe it was instead because the tiny bell attached to Zara’s finger started ringing ( sounding) louder and louder, that that man, the driver of the big truck, albeit with a shivering grunt, said to Zara that she could get on board, ugly bitch she was! Zara with a leap was on board of the truck. As soon as she jumped up into the truck’s cockpit, before she even sat down, Zara began to thank the very little bell, since, oh, it had been it, so tiny, to do the miracle of making her find a ride to get out from there! He, that big man driving the big truck, shaking his head and grunting, kept on saying that oh, but she was also stupid , as well as completely crazy.....Oh, and he was giving a ride to....to one like her....Ah, who knows what was shaken in his head to make such a fool ! Zara, after thanking the very miraculous little bell, she thought to thank the driver too. Ah, he couldn’t imagine what it meant for her to be able to get away from there, getting on a truck like his one , that certainly had to go far. “Eh, we are going quite far, yes...I have to take my load to St. Petersburg” The big man muttered. Oh, as soon as she knew how far and WHERE the big truck would have taken her, no less than in Saint Petersburg! Zara jumped to joy and started to thank and to tank again the tiny silver bell , and the truck’s driver, and the big truck, too. He, the driver was a big and bodied man, stout and muscular, with tattoos on his biceps, representing Christ on the cross and the Madonna. He was called Karol. Karol was born in Poland, but he had been living in Italy for more than twenty years. He was married with an Italian woman and they had four children. Karol was a hauler for( since) many years. He, in his big truck, mainly transported (carried) products of Italian agriculture to the countries of Eastern Europe. Eh, he had already been to Saint Petersburg a lot of times. Always with a load of highly sought products grown in Italy. This time he was transporting ( carrying) the special and very delicious Red Potatoes grown in Maremma. Of course she too had heard talking of the very wonderful Red Potatoes of Maremma. Yes, Zara knew those Red Potatoes and she also had heard how expert gastronomes advised to cook them, which had to be placed into the oven with the peel and cooked over a slow fire. But she really couldn’t understand why in Saint Petersburg they needed of those red potatoes grown in Maremma, Zara came to say ( observe). Then Karol told her, looking at her sideways, with pity....oh , but then she didn’t know that the Red Potatoes from Maremma had extraordinary properties that Russian scientists had discovered, and precisely scientists from Saint Petersburg, who, when they had come on holiday to Italy, had been able to taste the very tasty Red Potato of Maremma. Karol began to say, or rather to shout, ah the medicines, the miraculous drugs that the Russian scientists had obtained from those very special potatoes! “ Then they, Russian people don’t eat them” It came to say to Zara. “ Oh, they also eat the red potatoes, instead:...indeed they are very greedy of them . They roast the red potatoes , then shower them with vodka , then cover them with peppery cream and again drop on them vodka...ah , such a real delight, such a delicacy ....” Karol said, licking his lips. “ But in addition eating them, they, that is their scientists, managed to extract some....now I don’t know how to say....some active ingredients, some substances that are able to cure even serious diseases. Yes, they, the Saint Petersburg’s scientists, oh, very great scientists...., discovered the healing power of the Red Potatoes grown in Maremma. “ But when Zara asked him which ( what) diseases the red potatoes, or the substances extracted from them, were able to cure, he , the big driver of the big truck said only that the Red Potatoes , he was carrying to Saint Petersburg, contained very special substances which, combined with others, were very effective in healing diseases caused by the alcoholism. Eh, sure that even in Saint Petersburg people drank heavily, eh, with that frost it was obvious that the people would try to warm themselves with VODKA! And Karol started shouting of vodka, which was a really bomb! Other than whiskey and cognac, and rhum...eh, compared to vodka, they were sugar water! While he kept shouting his homage to vodka____Long life the vodka of Don! Long life the vodka of Neva! Hurray the bomb exploding in your stomach, the vodka!____ Karol pulled a rather large metal flask out of the dashboard., and shouting:“ Ah, here it is my dear vodka! “ , as he continued to drive, with only one hand on the wheel, he began to drink greedily from the flask.” Oh, but be careful, you have to drive” Zara couldn’t help but say, almost worried, while the tiny bell had started to ring louder and louder, as if to warn of a danger.” Ah, don’t worry , baby! With Karol you’re safe! Oh, I can hold alcohol very well! Don’t worry! Indeed I even drive better when I’ve had my fill of vodka! Ah! Ah! Don’t worry, dear baby! We’ll arrive In Saint Petersburg safe and sound! And also whole!” The big driver shouted, while he kept on drinking from the flask. And in fact their journey continued without incident. They stopped every two, three hours at most at the motorway grills , for refreshment, for eating too, and for taking two steps just to stretch their legs. During those stops Karol went to check his load of red potatoes, and he always did it alone. He didn’t want Zara to be present So that, inevitably, she began to have some doubts... That Karol was also carrying something else besides the prodigious Red Potatoes of Maremma into the great trailer of his big truck? That he was even hiding something among the potatoes? And if he was hiding something, what could it be? Come on, but she didn’t have to think about it, she ended to say herself. She had rather to think that she, finally, had succeeded in getting out ( away) of that damned place, of that damned country too, and that she was on the way for Saint Petersburg. Their journey proceeded smoothly, in complete tranquility until they went about to cross the border between Poland and Lithuania. Here, at the border, Karol’s truck, with its cargo, was seized , and he, Karol, was arrested. Zara, who risked of being arrested too, was saved by the providential intervention of a priest who was called to be an interpreter. Zara learned that Karol , in addition to the load of Red Potatoes, he smuggled very special animals from Italy to Russia. Those animals were pigs, or rather a kind of pigs, since they had been obtained by genetic engineering . These animals could be considered a hybrid, or a medium , between pig and...man ( human), so they were in great demand for organ transplantantion. For some time animal welfare organizations had raised the alarm about the completely illegal trafficking of these animals from Italy to other European countries. Saint Petersburg was still far away. But when the tiny silver bell started ringing, with an impatient tone, Zara set out on the road. She knew she would get there anyway, in the enchanted city, even if she had to do the whole journey on foot.

TW: alcohol dependency I won’t be able to do that today, I’m sorry. That’s what she was thinking to herself over and over as she lay in bed that morning. Apologies, but I won’t be able to do that today. She stretched out her feet from under the covers and clicked the joints in her ankles. Her body expanded for a moment in satisfaction and then flattened itself out again. The ache around her temples wasn’t so bad this time. I won’t do that today. I’m not sorry. I don’t apologise. Her eyes fixated on the ceiling as the shape of the shadows strewn across it gradually shifted. The sun was creeping in behind the blinds and there were long, rectangular blots of darkness striping her ivory painted walls. For a moment it looked like a prison. I’m a prisoner. I’m a prisoner trapped inside my own discontent. She rolled over and let the flickers of sunlight warm her face. In that moment the brightness might have tricked someone into thinking it was summer, she thought. There was no use setting an alarm in the mornings these days. Her body seemed to know what was coming. Sleeping in late by mistake would not be an issue but more of a blessing. If she were to miss her train then she would get into trouble, trouble that might lead to action. Action that might change her situation. It might even make her feel like she is worth more than the numbers under her name. Worth more than just the secrets she can keep. She could hear the sound of people on the street outside. It was usually quiet at this time of morning but some people took shortcuts down her road. Most of the other people were probably still sleeping in their homes. I’m not fucking doing that today. She let out a yawn and flopped her arms either side of her onto the covers. Then, with a sigh, she plucked herself from the warm bed. She hoisted the blinds, turning her prison into a light box brimming with potential for the day ahead. -- Seventeen people were in her train carriage that morning. Two she didn’t recognise, but every other face she had seen many times before. One man was on a phone call, like he was most mornings. He was loud and got progressively louder when the train passed through a weak reception area. She was sat facing two other women, one was looking out of the window with her headphones in. She gets off at the same stop. The other woman was asleep. Closing your eyes on the morning train, even for a second, was a bad idea, she thought. If you liked where you were going, that is. Maybe I should close my eyes then. She thought about what she would say when she sat down at her desk. She had to say good morning because it would be rude not to. She had to make niceties with them even though she did not want to. As soon as she took one step into that building, she would conceal her true self. Her eyes would glaze over. Her lips would purse. Her walk would stiffen. The train pulled up to her stop and she watched as the woman with the headphones gently tapped the sleeping woman next to her. She jolted upright, smiled and shuffled out into the aisle. Sorry you had to wake up. -- The building was a short walk from the station. She quite liked this part of the journey. It was an adequate amount of time for her to gather herself before she began her day. This part of the city had less of a rush about it. She could walk at a pace which didn’t feel like she was getting in the way of anyone behind her. Part of the reason she had put up with what she had for so long was due to the location of where she worked. It gave her some disconnect from the bustle that consumed so many other parts of her life. The building loomed overhead and she braced herself for what was to come that day. It was a tall building and not unpleasant to look at from the outside. What went on inside told a different story. From the outside you couldn’t smell the lingering stench of a used bottle. You couldn’t hear the clinking of two small glasses crammed inside the desk drawer. -- She watched from her desk as everyone went about their morning routine. Coffee machines were filling the quiet with their familiar sound. Cups were sliding in and out of the plastic hold, one after another. No one paid much attention to her before they had indulged in their morning caffeine intake. The second for those who had ample time to drink one before they left home. Then she saw her. Jenny. Walking out of her office, dressed in bright turquoise with heavy black heels. She swept her hair back as she made her way down the corridor, smiling at anyone that fell into her line of sight. Being the boss of a business like this one would wear anyone down. Luckily for her, it didn’t show in how she dressed. Just in what she did. The two of them clocked eyes from across the main printing area. Jenny’s eyes lit up and she let out a knowing smile, one that could be identified even from all the way across the room. That look she gave was all too familiar. I’m not doing that. Today I’m not doing that. She smiled back at her boss and turned around to her laptop. It was 9:02. It was too early for that look. -- Shortly before lunch, she started to prepare herself. She had somehow got through the morning without having to go in to Jenny’s office to speak to her. On a busy day, she would have been in and out of there at least three times already by this time. She wanted to avoid having the conversation all together. Dip out for lunch. Try and time it so she got back into the office after everyone else. But if you don’t have the conversation now you won’t ever have it. She was half way out of her chair when she heard her name called out alongside a loud noise. The sound of metal on glass. She turned around to see Jenny opening the door. On her way to open it, she had probably knocked into the blinds, causing one of them to fall down, covering the office from view. That’s convenient. She braved a smile as she made eye contact with her boss. There was that look again, this time accompanied by a gesture that was welcoming her inside. Her body froze up with a tension she had grown to ignore. Today it was unavoidable. She wanted the words to come out. She had rehearsed them in her head. They shouldn’t be hard to say. Today. I’m. Not. Doing. That. Nothing. She loosened her body and uncovered a smile that she didn’t think was there. Then she walked into Jenny’s office. -- It started a year ago on her first day. She was learning how to get used to everything, as the systems they used at this place were a slight upgrade from her last job. The people in her team were friendly, if a little disinterested with welcoming another new person. She had got the impression that there had been a fair few people before her who hadn’t lasted that long. Just before the end of the day, Jenny had called her into her office to go over everything. It was a lot of general chit-chat, a bit of eye-rolling about certain software complexities and it ended with an offering. Jenny placed two glasses on the desk before her. She pulled out a big, dark-green bottle masking the brown-coloured spirit inside. Before she could object, Jenny was pouring her a glass. She wanted to decline, to tell Jenny that she wasn’t drinking anymore. That she had stopped when she found herself having a glass every night before she went to bed. When she crashed her sister’s car into a lamppost on a late-night run to the shop. She held the glass and they toasted to a successful day. Maybe one is fine. But it turned out to be more than one. What started as a celebratory drink with Jenny, the bright and bubbly, successful business woman, ended up becoming a weekly drink. Every Friday Jenny would call her in, they would toast to the week, good or bad. Jenny began to find out more and more about her life, who she was dating, what she thought about everyone else in the office. Then the Friday drinks became daily, and after not too long Jenny was calling her into the office during lunch. She didn’t know how to say no. She had told Jenny things that a boss should not know. But Jenny still didn’t know about the car crash, or about the mornings she would wake up wishing she could remember what she had said the night before. Jenny didn’t know that it made her feel like a prisoner. -- She closed the office door behind her as Jenny muttered something under her breath about the mess. It was a mess. Stained, sticky rings circled the wooden desk and piles of paper with curled edges littered the sofa. The plant atop the filing cabinet was withered and dead, like the smell lingering from the empty coffee mugs. Jenny asked her how her day was going so far. Today I - Before she could answer, Jenny started talking about how ugly the receptionist’s hair was today. She was wearing a new colour that she had had done the day before. Jenny made a comparison to a rusted saw that ‘you might find in the back of the garden shed’. She was uncapping the freshly bought bottle, probably picked up on the way in that morning. You were in the shop buying alcohol before I had even left my bed. As the drink slid into the glass, the rich and robust smell of toxicity filled the air. She looked at the level rising, the measurement increasing with the amount of time that would be needed to finish it. She wanted to put her hand out and cover the bottle. She wanted to push the glass off of the table. She didn’t want it but she didn’t know how to say she didn’t. I am not. I’m - The room had gone silent. She hadn’t responded to a single word Jenny had said since she had entered the office. She hadn’t even sat down. Now the silence had crept up on her. Jenny was staring at her. Right then there was so much that needed to be said. There was a silence that needed to be filled with small talk, with drinking and toasting to unnecessary achievements or commiserations. But suddenly she saw in Jenny’s face all she needed to make her act. To make her walk into the trouble. Jenny sat, head back and slightly angled to show a look of confusion. Her whole body was illuminated by the midday sun outside, the rays of orange lighting up her whole complexion. So bright, so piercing in their revelations. As her boss stared on in disbelief that her companion was blankly ignoring everything she said, long rectangular shapes darkened and striped her whole body. In that exact moment, Jenny; the powerful, vibrant boss clutching her glass of room temperature scotch looked like a prisoner. Just like the ceiling in her bedroom this morning. Jenny was behind bars, her own bars that she put up herself. She couldn’t get out because her fellow inmate was keeping her going, enabling her problem, extending her sentence. This time she knew what she needed to say. There was no moment before then that was more perfect. “I’m not doing that today. “I’m not doing that with you today or any day. This isn’t normal behaviour. We are prisoners to it, Jenny. There needs to be a point where we say ‘enough’. Jenny sat in silence, the drink inside the glass still swirling from being poured mere seconds before. “I actually only agreed to come in here today because I wanted to tell you that I am leaving. This place is not good for me. I wake up every day and feel like I’m already sliding down the neck of that horrible bottle before I have even brushed my teeth”. There was silence in the room again except for the faint sound of people outside the building, heading to have lunch. She could feel herself moving with them. She could sense her feet taking light strides with everyone else unconsumed by Jenny’s poisonous habit. Her poisonous habit. She had been treading the dark waters of this room for so long she was close to drowning. Now she could feel herself beginning to swim. She breathed out a deep sigh that felt like it had drained the tension away. She felt warm, in her mind and in her body. She felt like she had broken out of jail and, from the look in Jenny’s eyes as she backed out of her office door, no one was going to stop her.

It’s where I’ve always felt the safest. Whenever I felt scared or stressed, I would retreat to my bed, to that safe place under the covers I’ve known since I was a child. It’s a place I’ve been spending a lot of time in recently. Since my recent graduation, I spend hours everyday jobhunting on my computer in my bed. I thought it would be easy to find a job after college. I was laughably wrong. After another frustratingly fruitless day of the job hunt, I decided I was too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to fill out anymore applications. In a fit of futile rage, I shoved my laptop off my bed and onto the floor. It was dumb, but it felt cathartic. A small consolation after another overwhelming defeat. All I wanted in that moment was an escape, to see the light at the end of my current situation. I saw no light. I pulled the covers over my head and cried myself to sleep, my tears soaking the old mattress. It was dark outside when I opened my eyes. My eyes were still damp. I glanced over at my alarm clock; the bright red numbers read 12:37 AM. I had only been asleep for thirty minutes. Feeling slightly annoyed, I rolled over and tried to fall asleep again. As I tried to drift back to sleep, I noticed what felt like a draft in my room. The draft was unlike any draft that I’ve ever felt. Instead of cool, it was warm and almost sticky. It had steady rhythm with short pauses in between gusts. I looked at my window; it was closed. I looked at my fan; it was off. The draft felt like it was getting stronger. Feeling slightly unnerved, I reached to pull my covers up further. As I touched them with my hand, I noticed movement between my fingers. I quickly reached for my phone and turned on its light. What I saw horrified me. Along the sides of the covers were long fibers that were beating rapidly and rhythmically, almost like massive cilia. The entire comforter was undulating slowly. The edges of the mattress were leaking a thick, slimy substance. I was about to scream, but then I heard a voice speaking in a whistle-like tone. “Do not be afraid, I only wish to ease the pain you feel. As I have always done” I was too afraid to speak, but it continued. “I can sense your emotions, your thoughts, and your desires. I know how hopeless you feel.” It reached up with one corner of the comforter and dried my eyes. “It doesn’t have to be this way; I can keep you safe and warm here. You don’t need to worry about the outside anymore.” Even though I knew I should be terrified, something about the way it spoke was comforting. “Why now?” I finally asked. “If you’ve always been here for me, why didn’t you speak up before?” “I’ve never had the strength before, but the more time you spent with me the more I’ve been able to interact with you.” It replied. “But I think it’s best if I didn’t burden you with unnecessary thoughts. It’s time for you to go back to sleep now.” Before I could interject, an overwhelming feeling of warmth and calm washed over me. I quickly fell into a deep sleep full of wonderful dreams. I was startled awake by the alarm on my phone. I quickly turned it off. It was 8 AM. I looked around my room. I didn’t see any long, beating cilia; I didn’t feel any weird drafts, and I didn’t hear any strange voices. I did notice the carpet around my bed seemed wet but that could have just been a leak in the roof. Something to deal with later I suppose. I normally go to the gym in the morning, but today my bed felt so warm that I just didn’t want to get out. I decided sleeping a little longer wouldn’t hurt. ***Buzz*** I opened my eyelids slowly, still in a sleepy stupor. ***Buzz*** It was my phone. I grabbed my phone, feeling slightly annoyed that someone was calling me this early in the morning. ***Buzz*** I looked at my phone. It was my boyfriend calling me. I glanced over at the alarm clock and it 5:27 PM. He must be calling about our date that was at 5. I turned my phone off. I didn’t feel like talking. I just wanted to go back to sleep. I can always call him back later I thought. I went back to sleep. I haven’t left my bed for a week. I’ve been drinking the water bottles I kept stored next to my bed, but I haven’t eaten in that time. I feel fine though. As long as I stay in my bed, I feel fine. I thought I had imagined my bed coming to life that one night but sometimes it still whispers to me. It says kind, comforting things that make me feel better when I feel alone. I haven’t looked in a mirror since I decided to not leave my bed, but I can see my ribs under my pale skin when I lift the covers. My arms and legs are hard to lift but that’s okay. I don’t need to move as long as I have my bed. I’ve noticed the bed has started changing too. The mattress used to be firm and thin. Now it’s plump and soft. The once frayed and stained covers look pristine and vibrant now. I guess I’m writing this message out to everyone because I just didn’t want anyone to worry. The outside world is tough. I encourage more people to stay in bed, it’s safer there. I just want everyone to know that I’m fine, as long as I stay in bed.

I woke up to the thick black smoke entering my lungs, I couldn’t breathe. I tried to cough but the more I did, the easier it was to choke. I tried to cover my mouth with my blanket, that’s when I noticed the heat. I could feel my veins melting out of my skin, I could feel the tiny hairs on my arms becoming nothing more than ash on the ground, it was so bright I felt like the sun was in my room. I heard someone screaming, but the sound of everything I had once loved burn to the ground like my house was nothing more than a fireplace was too loud for me to concentrate on anything else. I tried to scream for help but I barely had enough air to breathe, I couldn’t escape. It was already in my room. I tried to get up and get outside but I felt like my body was tied down to my bed, with no energy in me to move. I tried to cry but it seemed as though all the water from my body was already out of my system. I waited for my life to flash before my eyes, everybody’s does, doesn’t it? What kind of life have I lived if I get nothing but the black smoke turning me into ash? I closed my eyes, and I gave in. At that moment, I woke up, my heart was pounding so heart I wondered if it would wake my mom up, I coughed, but there was no black smoke filling my lungs. I looked down at my bed, and back around my room and placed my hand on my chest, sighing a breath of relief, it was just a dream, I thought to myself. That’s when my little sister ran into my room, “Christian!!” she screamed, “Did you have a bad dream again?” I smiled at her, “Yeah, same one, Dotty.” I saw her yawn, her hair was messy and she was in her pj’s, then I realised I must’ve woken her up, but when I was about to apologise my mum walked into my room, “Come on Dotty” she started, “let’s leave your brother alone” she said, as she took Dotty into her arms, kissed her on the forehead and closed my door behind them without so much as a look towards me. Ever since my bad dreams started happening my mother and my relationship hasn’t been easy, I think it’s because my dad left around the same time they started, and unfortunately for her, I’m a spitting image of my father when I was his age, so I didn’t blame her for being sad all the time. I hated my dad for leaving her this way, he’s so selfish. All he cares about is his next smoke and his next bottle. After I put a shirt on, I went downstairs and Dotty was watching television, my mum was sitting at the kitchen table, looking at photographs of when we were a family. “I’m sorry about last night, mum” I said, and she sighed, still not looking my way, and she whispered, “Oh, Christian.” I knew she meant that it was okay, but she, like me, was probably sick of me waking everybody up in the house at ungodly hours. I noticed the empty ashtray on the table, she hadn’t smoked for a few days. I thought that was progress at least, when my dad was here they’d smoke like trains. Just as I noticed the ashtray, she threw it into the bin, chipping off the sides of it against the outside of the bin. I went into the living room by Dotty, she had a glass of juice on the table, so I had a sip of that, and held the glass in my hand when I heard a knock at the door. My mum sighed again as she got up to slowly answer the door, her hair looked as though she had been sleeping for a month, although her eyes tell a story of the opposite. I heard her slowly answer the door, and mumbles to follow. I got up, because I thought the voice was familiar, I stayed out of sight, behind the doorway to the living room, “Is Dotty still here?” I heard a man ask, there was a hint of something other than concern in his voice, but I couldn’t pick up what it was, and I realised it was my father, I definitely didn’t want to see him, “Go away.” I heard my mum say as she tried to close the door on him, but his boot was in the way, “Let me see my daughter.” He said sternly, more anger in his voice this time than concern. “Your daughter?” my mum spat, “That’s rich coming from you.” I couldn’t see her but I imagined her eyes now stronger, with venom, “Don’t. I made one mistake, and I will live with it for the rest of my life, but for now, let me fix this.” He begged, I could hear the desperation in his voice. “Haven’t you done enough? You tore this family apart!” I heard her choking back on tears as she screamed, “I tore this family apart? Have you even told Dotty why her brother doesn’t join us for family outings? Why he doesn’t join you for dinner? Why he locks himself in his room all day and never leaves the house?” By this time I had heard enough, I stepped into plain view although none of them noticed me until I threw the cup at the door, and I heard my mum scream and begin to cry, “You made him mad!! Get out! GET OUT!!” she screamed as she slammed the door shut and began crying, she ran straight past me and I saw Dotty about to follow her when I stopped her, “Hey, don’t. It’s okay. She just needs some space.” Dotty nodded and went back into the living room to watch tv, I was about to pick up the broken glass by the door when I figured getting paper towels from the kitchen would be easier, as I reached the kitchen I found some pieces of the ashtray still outside the bin, so I put them in before I went to go clean up the glass I just threw at the door, and that’s when I noticed it. The paper that my mum was looking at on the table was now in the bin, although it wasn’t photographs of our family, it was just me. I picked it out of the bin and almost fell down with shock when I read what it said, “Christian Darko, loving son, loving brother, gone but never forgotten. 07-05-1996 - 17-02-2012” I fell on the floor. What the fuck is this, I thought to myself. And then I remembered. My dad had come home later that night, I was still awake because my leg hurt from basketball training. I heard my mother and him exchange words before she went to bed and he came to check on me, his smoke still lit in his mouth and whiskey on his breath, “And why the fuck are you awake?” he slurred at me, “My leg hurts from practice, I’ll be asleep in a sec though.” “Did you take your sleepy pills?” He asked, trying to be concerned but too drunk to care about anyone other than himself at this point, “Yeah. Goodnight dad.” He took that as his invitation to leave, and he did so. And I heard him flick something at my door, but I just rolled my eyes, he always flicks my door before he goes to bed. It’s like a good luck charm thing his family believes in. I saw something glowing under my door but shrugged it off and blamed it on the pills, then I fell asleep.

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep. My eyes pop open as I turn off the alarm on my phone. “Good morning Dahlia. It is August 30, 2086, 6:00AM. Events today include Reveal Day, and your 16th birthday. Top on the news this morning, a continuous increase in Dog burgl- “Janet, off,” I say as I roll out of bed. I quickly change and head to the restroom. As per the rules, I turn off all the lights before taking off my mask to brush my teeth. I wash my face but don’t do any makeup. I haven’t done makeup since my tenth birthday. Actually, I haven’t seen my face since I turned ten. On our tenth birthdays we get our marks. We cannot look at them until we are sixteen. Today. I get to see my face again today. Maybe do makeup again too? I gently touch my face, trying to feel what I look like. But I am given no clues. The marks are smooth, I have no way of knowing until the Reveal. I quickly pull my mask on and rush to the bus stop. I can’t be late today. “Oh my god did you run again?” Stacy asks when I get on. Stacy has been my best friend since we were eight. She has long blond hair and bangs she keeps in front of her mask. “Makes me look more human,” is her reason. She’s not wrong. The masks are dark and opaque from the outside, but on the inside it is surprisingly easy to see. They aren’t particularly comfortable, but we wear them so often we barely notice anymore. “Naturally,” I say sarcastically while I fake flip my hair. I would actually flip it, but I haven’t grown my hair longer than a few inches in years. I cut it off when I was eleven, after my hairbrush got caught on my mask and ripped it. Nobody saw anything, but I still got in trouble. “Whatever. In other news, happy birthday! What do you think you will have at the reveal?” Ah yes, the marks. When I am called to the Reveal room the Revelation Officer will pull off my mask and change the settings in my name. Free if I get straight lines, assigned a job if I get spots, and if I get swirls... “Spots I hope,” I say. A strong sense of curiosity suddenly overwhelms me. I want to know what I have before anyone else does. Most people have straight lines, but a few have spots. I’ve never actually seen someone with swirls. “Hey Stace, what happens if you have swirls?” She stops moving for a second and looks me dead in the face. Well, I think she looks me in the face. I can’t really tell. “Oh Dahlia you didn’t know? Swirls are just, well, bleh,” she says while swiping her hand under her neck to imitate being beheaded. She quickly changes the subject and starts talking about nail polish, but I don’t pay attention for the rest of the bus ride. Right when we arrive at the school I notice the compact mirror fall out of her bag. My first instinct is to give it to her, but something stops me. I could see ahead of time. I stick it in my pocket and the moment I enter the school I go to the restroom. I enter a stall and slowly slide my mask up while facing the wall. I hesitate, and nearly pull my mask back on without looking, but I look in the mirror anyway. They are so small I almost don’t notice, but I can see them. A tiny swirl coming from each corner of both eyes. I want to scream but I don’t. My whole body goes on autopilot and when I realize what's happening I hear sirens. I hide behind a trash can until they pass. That’s when I realize I’d been running. For miles. I am maybe two minutes away from my house now, but I still hear the sirens so I go the back way through the woods. I quickly arrive at my house and sneak in through the basement door. Seconds later I am in my bedroom. Before I can question it, my mom is in my bedroom forcing me into bed. “Fake being sick, I’ll deal with this,” she says before exiting my room. There is a loud knock at the front door before I hear my mother again. “Good morning officers, what can I help you with today.” “Step aside,” I hear a gruff voice say. Then there is a grunt from my mom that I can only assume is her being pushed and loud footsteps coming toward my room. “Dahlia Peterson,” a skinny man surrounded by guards reads off a paper. “You are hereby charged with the crimes as follows; felony mask revelation, truancy, avoidance of government workers, and attempted lying to a prosecutor.” By the time he is done saying that my mom has rushed into the room with a bat in hand. Before I know it she beats two guards to the floor and is about to hit a swing on the prosecutor when there is a gunshot. One of the guards has shot my mother in the back of the head. I scream and try to run over to her, but a guard catches me in his arms and I feel a cold sensation at the back of my head. “As I was saying before we were rudely interrupted,” the prosecutor says coldly, “the punishment for such crimes, in addition to the spiral marks, is death.” Another gunshot rings through the air, but this time far louder. In an instant the world turns red. Everything goes silent and dark. At first slowly, and then all at once, the world is calm.

# Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! # This Week’s Roundtable Discussion - Do you like to give your characters more backstory or secrets that you don’t include in the story? Does it help you know how your character will move forward through the narrative or is it just something special to amuse yourself? Do you hint at any of the backstory or secrets in the writing? - **If this is your first week joining us, please feel free to introduce yourself! Tell us a little about you and your writing!** *** # Reminders * **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** * **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. * **Please try to stay on-topic.

“I’ve had enough!” Kyln dropped onto a fallen branch and crushed it under his weight. “We’ll be lost in this forest for the rest of our days, doomed to search for trinkets we’ll never find.” “Whose idea was it to venture into the Black Valley to begin with!? You promised we’d be swimming in gold by now!” Hob wobbled sideways over the crumbled leaves. The two gremlins came to a mushroom and collapsed under its stem. It was nice to finally get some shade, thought Kyln. He wiped his forehead with his long pointy ear and watched his dimwitted brother continue along a tree root. Hob had made their journey longer from his careless missteps. Kyln rolled his eyes as Hob fell over the root and disappeared over the other side. As his brother yodeled his displeasure as he took a tumble the vocalizations soon turned to excitement. “Kyln! Kyln! Come see! Our troubles are over!” Kyln rolled his eyes again and slowly made his way over the root and gazed at what his brother had found. The object was the size of a fairy’s house, long and square, and sat in the nook of the tree roots, spread open. Hob scratched his head and made inquisitive noises. “It’s a manuscript, you daft buffoon. A book.” said Kyln. The yellow pages had been exposed to the elements and were worn with the foliage and shrubbery that grew around it. Just as Hob was about to scratch his head again a robed gremlin stood up from the top of the book, rising from the moss above, using the pages as a balcony. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had visitors.” The gremlin spoke with an old, uncertain voice, as if he hadn’t used it in a while. “If you’ve come for the book, be warned -” He suddenly fell down the crevice of the book, tumbling head-over-heel down the crusty pages, and landing in a plume of dust. Hob shrugged his shoulders while looking to Kyln. “What are those scribblings there? Only someone with large hands could read this. How many nymphlings would it take to read that?” “I’m Aether, if you’ll care to hear it.” said the old gremlin, patting off the dust on his knees. “This is not a book for nymphlings, or any other sprite of the forest.” “Yes.” said Kyln. “The children of Abe. Sapiens, they’re called. The sapiens are a wise race but often wisdom comes with the vexation of overthinking. They keep and read many books like this one.” “Can we sell it to them?” Hob moved quickly to the book, running over to the edge and rubbing the massive binding. “Depending on the rarity we could make a good chunk of gold for this. Aether, is it? Are you willing to part with it?” said Kyln. “Oh no,” Aether shambled to his feet in a hurry. “I told you. This book is not for you. This book only brings woe.” Kyln chuckled. “All objects are valuable to someone. I’m sure someone wants this dusty old thing.” “Is it a cookbook?” asked Hob gleefully. “It is neither of those things.” Aether plopped onto the paper’s edge, head down. “Nobody knows where it came from or why it came. Long ago, before the sapiens were a nomad tribe, they lived in large castles and towns, collected together like a bunch of berries. After the last great war of man there was a time of temporary peace. During this peace the sapiens became complacent, bored with life. They needed guidance, they needed insight. They received this insight when a book appeared in all of their hands at once, suddenly and unexpectedly. A book like this one.” “At once? All of them? Even the children?” Kyln lowered his left eyebrow. “Only the adult sapiens and only those stricken on hard times.” said Aether. “Nobles did not receive the book and neither did mystic priests or shamans. The sapiens were curious at first. They did not know from whence the book came. Magic was to blame of course. It could only be magic that caused the appearance of a tome on such a massive scale. But no priest, wizard, witch, sorcerer or warlock claimed responsibility for the arcane phenomenon.” Kyln tried to remain calm but his voice grew louder. “What was contained within?” “Everything. And nothing.” Aether waved his hand in the air and then made a fist. “Nothing was written at first but as the days went by words started to fill the books, all of them, at once. The words that appeared were simple advice on how to live. The people, the sapiens, were muddled with worry and melancholy and the words they saw filled them with joy and relief. After all, wouldn’t it be wonderful if you were given a book that told you how to be happy, how to live a long and healthy life, and without vexation?” “Yes!” Hob was eating a mushroom spore. His brother shook his head. “But their lives soon took a dark turn.” continued Aether. “The books contained the same content. Some pages had recipes, some had advice on how to raise a child, how to raise a corn stock. Proverbs, inherent sapien rights, calendars, instructions on various trades. Somewhat of an almanac really. It seemed like sapien society would flourish through peace and order. But some of sapiens took sharper meaning to the prose contained within and schisms started to shape the land. They instilled their own beliefs in trying to understand the mystery of the book. Sapiens are a fickle sort. They seem to enjoy dying for their beliefs. And they did, by the wagonload.” “No wonder their trinkets are so abundant in these dark, abandoned places.” Kyln rubbed his chin. “And their bones. Saw a few back on the road.” said Hob. “‘The rain washes away the pain of scorched soil.’ This quote from the book led to much disagreement and violence.” Aether’s robe flapped in the wind when he turned to face the giant book. “The eastern sapiens rallied under Harbinger Harken, claiming this phrase was meant to signify that sapiens were meant to be subservient to a one true king. While the opposing side believed that it meant simply what was written...that sometimes it rains...” Hob covered his eyes. “Oh, such sadness. But the book itself cannot be blamed.” “If any of this is to be believed.” Kyln said examining the large leaves of paper closely. “Interpretation isn’t to blame either.” Aether continued. “As the War of the Book waged the people started to shut themselves off from the world. The words in the book changed more frequently, often around evening time, when the sapiens returned home from a long day and were more susceptible to suggestion. When I was a house gremlin, I was able to read a few pages before the masters of the house awoke. The text itself seemed to have become more edgy and rough, as if the writer was angry. One line stuck out to me and still haunts me: ‘Free speech is only free when people are willing to die for it.’ The book started to mirror their distrust and unease, further driving a wedge between them and their neighbors, by confirming their ill-conceived fears and hatred. I’ll save you the miserable and violent details. I barely made it out of the house before the entire town went up in smoke from rioting.” “Were they hungry? I get like that when I’m hungry.” said Hob. Aether bowed his head, concealing his face. “For revenge mostly, yes. The words became spiteful and the more they read of the book the more it catered to their hateful beliefs, the more it pleased them. When Harken invaded, the western sapiens were weakened and desperate. They gave their belongings to the overlord freely, their freedom and their wisdom they abandoned with ease. I don’t rightly know what happened after that, only that their culture perished and their cities were left in ruin.” “Fascinating story.” Thought Kyln. “But this tale doesn’t have a very good ending. Why wouldn’t they simply burn the books?” Aether looked up, “Such an act would be treason. They’d rather burn themselves.” “That’s right! If I had a book that could tell me the weather or where to find the best berries, I wouldn’t part with it either!” Said Hob. Kyln looked up at the book with a furled brow. He gently touched the worn edges and tried to lift up the pages but they were practically glued together from sediment and age. “Perhaps this is the true lesson. We’ve traveled far, in search of something valuable for trade. I thought, perhaps mistakenly, that there would be a pot of gold waiting for us, and that the journey would culminate into something more meaningful. But I can see that the search for possession can never really provide any kind of substance.” “Speak for yourself, brother! I’ll take anything I can get. Especially when it comes with such pretty words.” “You can’t even read.” replied Kyln. “What would you get out of it?” Hob’s eyes widened, “Yes but...it’s pretty. But perhaps it’s best to let sleeping things lie.” Kyln nodded, “Perhaps it is best we leave these things in the past and find other ways to seek fortune.” “It is a safe bet.” said Aether, smiling. The brothers thanked the old gremlin and left them to guard the book, to tell the tale of woe that the book wrought, and to prevent anyone from ever seizing the unholy relic for themselves.

Twist of Fate Sirens screamed past the window and returned a second later to shout another warning. Jamie pressed her fingers to her temples. Frame by frame, her gaze slid from the TV screen to the speckled glass. The Alabama sky crackled to life, illuminating angry puffs shifting and writhing close to the earth. Through the dots on the window, she saw debris swirl closer. In the darkened sky, a finger formed. Jamie watched in fascination as the finger reached down to touch the earth, punctuated by a brilliant flash, then slide back up again. Trees bowed low; their leaves shook like feathers, taunting the clouds above. The air outside began to moan. The pungent scent of dry earth and fish seeped inside, making her sneeze. Shivers slid down her spine, and her pulse jumped as she watched another finger tap the earth in an explosion of light. The man on the television told her to get into a safe place. Her eyes darted around the sparse beige room with a frown. A safe place? Where do I go? She jolted when the TV man supplied an answer. 'Get in the bathtub, a hallway with no doors or windows or any closet away from exterior walls.' Jamie looked out the window once more and felt the flesh rise on her arm as the tiny hairs stood to attention. She rubbed at the electrified flesh, but it did little to soothe. The clouds, engorged with flying debris, was just close enough to make out bits of twisted metal and broken tree limbs. Something shimmered then ducked back inside the dark cloud as if afraid to show itself. She watched, mesmerized, and bit her lip. She licked the wound; the metallic taste made her gag. The spell shattered when something pounded the roof with such force Jamie thought it would splinter it like a toothpick. Her gaze shot skyward, heart hammering. Sirens yelled through the roar, swallowing her heavy breathing. Her mind wandered. I need to get gas. Maybe when the weather clears, I can go to the beach again. Is the building shaking? Oh, it's just me. Her gaze rolled around the virescent hued space looking at everything and nothing. The TV man shouts, 'Take cover now! Get a pillow or blanket and a bicycle helmet if you have it and find a closet, bathtub, or location with no windows.' Jamie jumped into action. She snatched her pillow off the unmade bed, retrieved her bicycle helmet from the closet, and called for her cat, Sophie. With her pillow hugged tightly against her chest, she clamored into the tub--her labored breaths deafening in the sudden hush. Her brows knit. She looked around her at the creamy walls of the tub. Ears pricked; Jamie peeked around the too cheerful swirls on the curtain. Birds were silent, and the wind had quieted. Unease made her belly quiver. Why is it so quiet? Sophie bolted through the bathroom door and bounded into the bathtub with a loud meow. Jamie's heart rate accelerated. "Oh Sophie. You scared the life out of me." Jamie pressed a hand to her chest and bent to rub between Sophies' flattened ears. The lights danced then blinked. Jamie looked up. Noise erupted around her as if the world suddenly caught up to itself. She plopped down hard in the narrow space. A roar slammed into the room; a noise like paper torn and splintering wood echoed down the hall. Jamie screamed and yanked the pillow down over her ears. Head between her knees, her eyes slammed shut, blocking the sight of Sophie huddled in her crotch. The walls shook. The wind blowing in her ears swallowed her shrieks. Please let me be okay. Please. Please. Her heart pounded against her ribs hard enough to break them. It was impossible to breathe. The air smelled of dirty rain. Glass shattered in the bedroom, making her limbs bounce. Her body vibrated from fear or the world around her; she couldn't tell. She scrunched tighter against the tub floor. Sounds of a train nearby confounded her. I didn't know there were train tracks near here. Her mind slid to the day she spent at the beach as the building rattled. The building shuddered and seemed to hold its breath as the air whistled. Something sliced Jamie’s bare shoulder--the sting made her hiss. Jamie's fingers ached from gripping the pillow. Her ears popped. She felt something bounce on the fiberglass tub beside her. What was that? The rumble swallowed her scream, making it part of the clamor around her. She felt light-headed, dizzy, barely in control of her bladder. The world calmed once more and the sound of panting filled the claustrophobic space. Unable to move, she tried to calm her racing heart. She wasn't sure how much time passed before the alarms sounded anew. Her heart began a slow crescendo once more as the wail pulsed through her bones. This time she knew the shake did not come from her. Pieces of what she could only assume were the ceiling peppered her bare flesh. Noises she could not identify surrounded her. Her lips trembled and bile rose in her throat. She swallowed hard as the world bellowed. For what seemed like hours, Jamie sat huddled under her pillow. Tears plopped onto her bare feet; her ample frame rattled beneath the downy pillow. Sophie huddled closer. Jamie felt her tiny form vibrate. She pulled the pillow edges tighter against her helmeted head. Her eyelids squished together so hard it was giving her a migraine. She didn't want to open them--was too afraid. A trembling finger released the pillow and slid into her ear then jiggled. Am I deaf? Everything seems so quiet. Her terror ratcheted up once more. Her grandmother's phrase, the calm before the storm, flittered through her foggy mind. Sofie's distressed and muffled meow made her eyes bounce open. Tears matted her fur. Her black as night tail stood out like a bottlebrush. Ears folded back, her wild green eyes darted around the biscuit colored walls of their prison, and she meowed between pants, the sound visceral. Jamie reached down and placed a protective hand on Sophie's back. She felt her small body pulsate. A warm yellow glow on the back of her hand made her breath hitch. She snatched it away and rubbed the warmed flesh. Jamie put her hand on the outside of the pillow and tugged. She startled when something warm touched her fingers. Flinging the pillow off, Jamie looked up into the blue sky and slivers of sunshine. Lifting Sophie, she stood and stepped out of the tub and walked to the door land looked where her room used to be. A voice called out, and she peeked over the edge of the threshold and saw her neighbor and her three children. Dust covered their faces. Bright red dots speckled their arms and legs, but they were alive. She smiled down at the single mother, and an understanding passed between them. A sympathetic knowledge only those who survived could understand. Jamie sighed. I am not alone. The storm had passed. By some twist of fate, her second-story bathroom remained untouched.

The cloak of brume was lifting. Once released from its shadows Greta was afforded a clearer view from the dew-damp park bench. Ah! Yes, that’s better . She absentmindedly scratched the ears of the chubby little black and white dog on her lap, her fingers settled upon a gnarly patch of hair. She gently worried it back into smoothness while watching her grandson Dillon’s elastic smile grow wider as he was projected higher and higher by daddy. Observing their game filled her with sunshine. The mood seemed to transfer to Sushi too, who jumping down, danced, Lipizzaner like, from one foot to another in rhythm. “C’mon girl, let’s go for a walk and explore old Katoomba town eh?” Sushi responded eagerly. Meandering past an old Edwardian house with dust white walls and loganberry stained trims, Greta paused. Her eyes drank in the details. Its worn stone steps, beckoning them to enter. Sushi had always struggled to pull her tummy over the first one. It was inexplicably a couple of inches higher than the others. Remnants of deep red paint clung tenaciously to the outside edges. The slight dip in the middle of the stone from one hundred years of use exuded homeliness like English muffins. The variegated holly still stood in the front garden, its bramble invader still visible. And lilac-lush wisteria enveloped the old wire fence covering up its out-of-sorts utilitarianism. Greta recollected the nut roast, followed by raspberry pavlova she had shared with Brendan. Just the two of them, in the house’s comfortable flag stoned kitchen. It had been during that Christmas meal she had realised how very ill he was. “Haribol you two! Fancy running into you here.” She turned towards the unexpected greeting unique to Hare Krishna devotees. “Goodness! I was just thinking about you and that Christmas lunch and here you are.” “Well you know you should be careful what you wish for,” he quipped. Greta, wrinkling her nose in response, threw him a look that assured him he was not on her wish list. “I’m just heading for that antiquarian bookshop on Waratah Street, care to join me?” “Why not,” she replied. Unhappy memories ran like tributaries into the river of their past, yet somehow it all seemed insignificant now. Brendan certainly showed no sign he was concerned she might harbour any resentment. Best cling to happier times Greta decided, under the changed circumstances. “I am just surprised to see you here, how’s your Mum and Dad?” “They’re great, and here with me now. You are bound to bump into them one of these days walking around here.” Greta decided not to think too deeply about Brendan’s parents in case they might also appear around the next corner. It did seem quite likely. Odd things had been happening. But some adjustment was to be expected, she thought. Quatermain’s Books was not far, so they had little time to swap stories before the shield-shaped black sign embellished with its traditional gold leaf loomed above them. Entering through the narrow mahogany double doorway Greta noticed a faint smell of Nag Champa. The shop’s floorboards had been polished to a soft sheen by its many visitors and were graced by a rather ancient Turkish rug. Greta had always liked bookshops, especially the old ones. The kind with shelves full of forgotten memories in foxed pages, their thick paper sometimes not quite separated. Her eyes were soon attracted to some old leather-cloth covers with embossed lettering with titles like ‘ The Builders’ . She moved towards the small Masonic history section. Smiling to herself, Greta remembered how affronted Brendan had been when she had compared the Krishna’s to the Masons. Sushi stayed quietly at her feet, while she and Brendan browsed among the steeple-tall shelves so expertly fitted jigsaw-esque into the limited space. Noticing the afternoon had drawn in, Greta resolved to move on, she still had a few more places she wanted to re-visit. Brendan had not changed much, he was totally absorbed in the books. She might as well not have been there. “We’d better be getting on, I have a bit to do still”, she said. “Nice seeing you.” “No worries”, was Brendan’s mumbled response, still too deeply engrossed to pay much attention. Making their way back out into the late afternoon sun, Sushi instinctively turned towards the highway. Greta glanced down at the old railway station signs as they crossed the bridge. There was something wild-west about the lettering. She imagined a steaming iron-horse screeching to a halt before whisking away its passengers clad in their Stetson and gold watch-chain finery. They walked on, the oak-lined pavements slipped silently under their feet. The road bowered by these relics from the days of the Empire. As they approached the cottage on South Street, the old rambler’s heady perfume brought the garden’s charms back. She noted the two cherry trees she had planted on the left side were already heavy with fruit, affording the resident sparrows a seasonal feast. These gentle little brown birds had always been welcome when she had lived here. She was heartened the new owner had not driven them off and, for a while, she tarried, amused by their dust-bath antics. A passing breeze sharpened her mind a little. Her thoughts turned back to her son and grandson in the park. “We best be heading back my little Soosh, we have quite a way to go.” The willing dog trotted out in front, her short legs carried her along jauntily, as her long coat followed the direction of the light wind. Greta smiled. This lovely little soul had been her companion for seventeen years. She remembered Brendan saying that Sushi would take a human birth next time, such was the goodness of her spirit. Considering he thought dogs were unclean when they first met, this was the highest praise he could have bestowed on any animal. An old photograph danced across her mind, Brendan and Sushi in bed on their backs, both fast asleep, their heads together on the pillow. How quickly that undershot smile had wheedled her way into his heart! Funny how things change, the same but different. They turned the corner to the park but the swings lay empty. Greta walked over to where the family had played, in the hope of finding some lingering trace of laughter. All was quiet now. “Looks like they have gone home”. “Well if we hurry we may be there before Dillon’s bedtime”. They walked on together, past the old laundromat with its flaked paint lifting from the walls like tortured petals. Past the takeaway Chinese, its occupants just warming up for the evening. Through the City, on up the hill, the one she used to find too difficult to climb. Yes, funny how things change, the same but different. “Almost there old girl.” The sun had gone to bed as the flats loomed out of the dusk. Greta weaved past the green bin blockade, through the entrance to the block at the back. Katy and Eric had been so happy when they found this place with its distant glint of the sea across the old Randwick cemetery. It was home to the three of them now. Climbing the flight of stairs to the landing, she wondered if the bats had already left for the night from their roost in the eaves. The light spilt yellow from the lounge window. Looking in, she could see her grandson in his bouncy chair. Still smiling, always smiling. Eric was in the kitchen, cooking. It was painful to be so close. Stepping into the room, Greta knelt beside Dillon and stroked his hair. He turned towards her, puzzled to find no one there. She ached to be able to hug her son and cuddle her grandson but they were oblivious to her presence. The closest suggestion she was near, might be a waft of her favourite perfume, or perhaps thinking they had heard her call their name. She had found her darling Sushi waiting for her when she arrived. And Brendan was around too it seemed, even if he was someone she could easily do without. There was a lot to learn about this place. Others she had met told her it was possible to communicate with the living. She hoped she could learn how; because it was going to be a long time before Dillon and Eric would cross over to the dimension she inhabited now. Funny how things change; everything the same but different.

"Out of my way!! I'm from Guinness, out of my way!!" The cameras were crowding the bakers, swarming them as if they were sprinkles on a cupcake. They tried to get to the door, tried to sneak their way into the bakery, but the cameras were there too. Eventually, they started throwing cupcakes at the cameras. Through the power of pastry, they banished them to worlds unknown and slunk inside. "Jeez, all this over a cookie? You guys better prepare yourselves for the big day. I'd suggest bulletproof vests and beekeeper helmets. Of course, that's my preference." Maria, their best friend, as sarcastic as ever. "We'll need more than that." Stacy groaned, setting down the pounds of cookie dough, made and frozen in clumps for this purpose. "They're like leeches, every one of them." Stacy reclined in her loveseat, letting it hug her legs. "You didn't even carry half as much as I did, Stace!" Jamie dumped her share of the cookie dough on the table, then proceeded to hoist Stacy out of the chair before plopping down on it himself. "Ahh, why don't we have more of these things? We should at least have two, and then maybe get one for Stacy and you to share." He talked in a teasing way, making faces at Maria and Stacy. "What the hell, man? You don't own that chair!" Stacy tried to pull him out, but he just laid there and laughed. "If you can't pull me out of a chair, how are you supposed to cook the biggest cookie in the world?" Jamie swatted at her jokingly. "Ugh, I need to sleep. Just because we're trying to make the world's biggest cookie doesn't mean we have to be up day and night to bake." Maria was complaining again. Stacy rolled her eyes, but she knew the truth in those words. "Yeah, the paparazzi sucks, but hey, we knew that going in." Jamie had been baking since fourth grade and Maria and Stacy since fifth. None of them had planned on building the world's biggest cookie. They hadn't even been trying to make big cookies before. Once they discovered the joy of breaking a record, though, they couldn't think of anything else. "You know what? We're not answering questions tonight," Jamie declared, "but we are going to get some sleep." Maria and Stacy sighed their approval. It used to be so easy to sleep in their quaint little bakery, with the holiday smells always wafting through the air. There were cupcakes around the tables, frosted birthday cakes and gingerbread, all mingling. It was a treasure to behold. In fact, it was a wonder that the three besties hadn't eaten it all already. "G'night, guys..." Stacy mumbled a reply under her breath and then went out like a light. _______________________________________________ It was the big day. The day they had all been waiting for. The day they'd been preparing for for months. Stacy, Jamie, and Maria took turns carting out the pounds of cookie dough. Their arms sank and wilted like dead roses, but they hadn't even spread the dough out yet. "Mr. Wilkes, Mr. Wilkes! Is it true that you are responsible for all the hard work behind the projects and the girls are for show?" A conceited reporter with a microphone stuck it in Jamie's face. "What are you talking about? You saw them right now cart dough up the hill, doing the same amount of work as I am, and you have the audacity to call them accessories?" Jamie and Stacy crowded the reporter. "Why on earth would you think that?" Stacy asked, her words oozing contempt. "Well... it's... just that... You're girls... and it's a lot of... hard work..." The reporter was stumbling on his words and, upon recognizing his mistake, started stumbling on his feet to get off of the stage. "Can you believe the nerve of that guy? It was like we weren't even there to him." Maria nodded her agreement, but her main focus was spreading the dough. Her long, lanky arms flexed as she stretched it. Maria was in a hard-fought war against the dough, and the dough was losing. "Geez, Maria, I've never seen you this energetic!" Jamie was in awe of her grit. "Well, we have been working towards it for a while, so... Why wouldn't it excite me?" She talked with a gleeful skip in her voice, as if she was a kid going to Disneyland. "Guys, I want you to know that, no matter what, this experience has been amazing," Jamie spoke only once the dough was all spread out. He truly loved the women. Not as romantic objects, but as equals and friends. They had sweated and got through this together, and they would finish it together. "3... 2... 1...!" Joining hands, they pushed it into the oven and hugged. "We did it!!" Stacy was ecstatic. Jamie wasn't far behind. Maria, though, wasn't excited at all. "Guys, I don't think we did." Just then, fire rose up from the oven, exploding and sending everyone backward. Jamie and Stacy pushed through the rubble, fighting to find their friend. "Maria!! MARIA!!!" They yelled over and over again, but it was no use. She was gone. ______________________________________________ "We are called here today to commemorate the life of Maria Mendoza, a woman determined to achieve her goals against all odds and adversity." The droll of the priest's voice blurred into the background. Jamie was the only one left. He lay there, tears streaming down his once flour-covered cheeks. Stacy was gone. Maria was dead. He had no friends anymore. Only pain. Eventually, when the time came to make his speech, he forced his limbs to climb up the steps. He forced himself to face the pain. Jamie clung to that podium as if it was the only thing that kept him tethered to the Earth. When he let go, Jamie would have to find something else to hold on to. That was how pain works, though. You process it by holding on to what you can when you can. Jamie was almost out of things to hold on to. "I... was trying to make the World's biggest cookie. We were, actually, Stacy, Maria, and I. We had been friends forever, and always together. Maria was one of my favorite people in the world, and I knew she felt the same about Stacy and me. We were her family. Do... do you know what it feels like to lose your family. I lost her. I can't change that. I wish I could but I know I can't. I know that it might seem selfish that I want her back, but I do. I don't care if it's selfish, because I'm wishing it anyway. She didn't deserve this. She doesn't. I'm going to take comfort in the knowledge that she is still alive in me and Stacy, wherever Stace is right now. Unless you want to keep her memory alive, you are no relation of hers." Jamie walked off the stairs and held his breath, all the way until the ride home. He didn't... couldn't breathe. When he got back to the bakery, his eyes warmed. "What're you waiting for, Jamie, we saved you the loveseat!" Stacy was patting him on the back and munching on a cupcake. "He's not taking my spot. You may have saved him a seat but I certainly didn't." Maria was there, sarcastic as ever. "I thought you guys left me." He choked on his words, like a pill that was too big to swallow. "We'll never leave you, man. We might not be next to you or even on the same continent as you, or may even be dead. But we'll never leave you."

I sat down on the cool, prickly grass, letting the harsh wind of the night blow my long black hair into my face. All I had to see was the soft glow of the moon, which dimly illuminated the small hole I had just dug in the back corner of my fathers backyard. Laying down my rusty shovel, I breathed in the cool midnight air, letting the freezing air fill my lungs and make me shiver. This feels right, I thought, untying the sweatshirt knotted around my waist and putting it on to cover my goosebump covered arms. With careful hands, I grabbed the small tin box next to me and gave it one last hard look. The colorful drawings of ponies and children which had once adorned the box had long since rubbed off, leaving nothing but a swirl of red and yellow. No amount of weathering, however, could scratch away the small engraving on the bottom which read “Good luck on your adventures- Mom.” Yeah, no one is going to miss this, I thought, and I gently placed the old tin box into the small hole in front of me. I stood up and grabbed my shovel before pausing. I looked back at the undervalued object, lying in the cold dirt, and finally realized the weight of what I was doing. I had been planning this for a week, but not once had I thought about what would happen after this box and its contents were hidden from the rest of the world. What if I never come back here again? What if my father finds it and yells at me? What if no one finds it, and it slowly rots away in the mossy dirt becoming riddled with rats and bugs. That image in my head was almost enough to convince me to grab the cold box out of the grass and run back into the warmth of my home never to think of the hole in the ground again. But there was a little voice in my head, telling me that this was a good idea, that this would be worth it, that I would look back on this day with nostalgia, and not regret. So I left the old box where it was, and slowly began to cover my prized possession with the mound of dirt which had haphazardly formed as a result of my digging. Bit-by-bit my box was being hidden from the rest of the world. The more I covered it, the more I felt ready to let it go. After a half an hour, the box was completely out of my sight, but I continued to fill the whole until it looked exactly like it had when I began my digging. My hands were covered in splinters from the rough wood of the handle, dirt was splattered all over my legs, and sweat dripped down my face. I took one last look at what I had done, saying one last goodbye to the object which now sat half a foot under the ground, hidden in a small tin box which no one but I would miss. I leaned the rusty shovel on the side of the garage, praying no one in the house could hear the soft thud it made as it hit the aged tin siding. I then casually walked back into the house, hoping no one would care about the new patch of dirt which had magically appeared in the backyard overnight. I’ll just say the dog was digging for a bone. I carefully opened the squeaky sliding glass door which stood between me and the rest of my family, and stepped quietly into my house, walking into the bathroom at the other end of the hallway. Even in the dark, I could see the trail of dirt which was left behind me and I sighed. I’m going to have to clean that up later, aren’t I? Once I was in the bathroom, I wet a soft washcloth, and washed off the dirt which caked my skin. All my scrubbing splashed wet dirt onto the white subway tile, so I grabbed a paper towel, and wiped the mud off the walls. Once I was done, I cleaned up the dirt trail I had left from my walk into the bathroom. I walked across the first floor of my house with soft footsteps, cringing whenever the time-worn floorboards creaked. I arrived at my room, stumbled past the cardboard moving boxes stacked on my floor, and climbed in between the fluffy blankets which covered my bed. I calmly drifted to sleep, with the memory of placing my time capsule into the ground fresh in my head. Every day, archeologists dig through the ruins of ancient civilizations, looking for artifacts which might tell them what those people were like. They spend 8 hours a day searching for what are essentially ancient, slightly broken time capsules. These little time capsules tell the stories of those civilizations which are no longer standing, stories which we can no longer hear in person. When it came to choosing my own artifact, I wasn’t really sure what to choose. Finding a single object which can tell your story turned out to be a lot harder than I expected it to be. After a lot of thinking, I finally found the one thing which truly represented who I was. -10 years later- The spattering of the outdated U-Haul’s engine could be heard from anywhere and everywhere in the neighborhood. The rusty truck pulled into the neglected driveway, and the front door opened, letting out a small Beagle which proceeded to dart down the street, chasing after the squirrels and birds which sat in the trees. His owner, Marcus, went running after him, and grabbed him as he stopped to smell the lamp post at the end of the street. “Come on, Buster, let’s go inside,” he said, picking up his furry dog, and carrying him to their new house. Marcus opened the thick wooden door, cringing at the loud screech it made when it was pushed. The time-worn floorboards creaked as he made his way toward the back of the house, and the sliding glass door let out a small squeak as it was opened. Marcus put his dog down on the overgrown grass, and left him to play around in the backyard while he started to unpack his belongings, bringing life back into the cold and empty house. A half an hour later, Marcus checked on his dog, and found him digging in the back corner of the yard, kicking up dirt onto the rotted wooden fencing. “Hey, Buster, stop that!,” Marcus yelled, running across the backyard as the prickly grass rubbed against his bare ankles. He pulled his dog away from the hole he had dug. He looked to see what his dog had been digging at, and noticed the glint of something metal hidden under the dirt. He grabbed at the metal, and pulled out an old tin box. He examined it with a puzzled look, and traced his hand over the inscription at the bottom. “Good luck on your adventures- Mom,” he read aloud. “Huh”. He opened up the box, and looked to see what was inside. He reached his hand into the box and pulled out a small photo. The photo showed a young girl with long black hair, looking up from inside a ditch with a shovel and brush in hand, smiling from ear to ear next to her mother. “Aww, thats cute,” Marcus said. “Is this what you were looking for Buster?,” he said, turning to his dog with the tin box and photo in hand. He looked at the objects in his hand once more. “Hey, this is actually a really nice tin,” he said. Marcus gently placed the photo back in the box and walked into his house. He wiped the dirt of the tin box, and placed it onto a shelf which was mounted to the wall in his living room. “Perfect,” he said, taking a step back and looking at his newest decoration. And just like that, the box had finally found its home.

“The brightest sun shone, through the clearest skies.” Ichad was reciting another of his biographical poems, his own invention he often remarks. He says that he enjoys reminiscing because it reminds him that he had lived a full life, though I think that he enjoys it more because it gives him an opportunity to flaunt. He never had an issue with arrogance on his moral compass and never cared if others did. Reciting the poems helps him with painting - the words focus the mind on the truth he says. Whatever that means. There was always something undeniably magical about how he'd get lost in the nostalgia of the history imbedded in his poems. Many times I could swear I saw a mirage in his amber eyes of the young voyaging Ichad; fearless adventurer, scourge of tradition, father of modern technology. Images of eerie foes and great deeds danced like reflections - hints of old emotions would surface ever so often as he continued to paint: his hand guided as if by instinct while his eyes focused on the past. Indeed, he is by all accounts a great polymath and hero of the Empire. Or once had been. All that was more than a lifetime ago I'm certain. All that progress, all that discovery had been achieved before my time and now Ichad sits before me calm and peaceful, as though his attention is ever present elsewhere. Each stroke on the canvas so slowly and expertly executed, each glance back at the mountains he was painting - a long drawn out dream. Not the man of pursuit, purpose and haste as my father describes. Though I suppose that is how the chronicles of time are written. Ichad is my mentor in natural philosophy, art and sciences and he is an inventor whose creations have changed our Empire for the better in more ways than will ever be attributed to him. He is the kindest and most respectful person I’ve ever met. But foremost, he is my closest friend. "On Royal blue canvas - a blinding white corona..." "Too dramatic, it's still a dull day despite the good weather" "Great weather - and it’s never a dull day when you're learning, my young cynical princess" I was rehearsing court etiquette, not learning. And it was dull. Idle. Everyone was busy preparing for an official visit from one of the other Isles. I never bothered to pay much attention. "What's with this visit Ichad? I want to go explore" "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about Emily, just some routine royal business - trade discussions or some such other jestering" “That doesn’t interest me - I want to be like you were once - an explorer.” I wanted to go climb those jagged mountains I wasn't allowed to. It was frustrating sitting and simply staring at them from the Palace balcony. "I wish I could stop time and move those rocks closer, I'd be able to climb them then and be back before the official visit" "Intriguing, and how would you achieve that?" "Simple, I would ask the smartest most powerful and greatest inventor in the whole of the Seven Isles to move them for me, you can move them can't you?” He paused just briefly before answering - the momentary excitement and comprehension in his eyes giving way to a somber and introspective look. "Emily... the young and ambitious strive for the power which would allow them to move mountains and the wisdom to turn seconds into hours but older and wiser, having attained that power, they understand why it is that they shouldn’t use it." "What is the point of striving for this power then if you will not use it?" I got the impression that he agreed with me at first, or could understand my frustration as though he himself still felt it. After a brief moment, he got up and walked over to the North side of the balcony - overlooking the city port below. "Come sit with me; look out as far as you can see - one day all of this, everywhere under the blue canvas, everything touched by the white rays, the palace, the city, the mountains, the whole of the Empire and its Seven Isles and beyond the horizon, beyond the corners of what we know exists - all of it will be yours as Queen. And when it is, you will have the power to change this world as you'd like; you will be the painter and the world your canvas and you will remember me then my young princess... because you will choose to change nothing at all" “Nothing? I want my painting to be perfect. In my painting there wouldn’t be any bad things.” “Yes, nothing - look at my painting it is just like the real thing. Isn’t it perfect?” At the time, I argued, I told him it wasn’t perfect - his painting - it could be better. I was furious. I explained that if we all thought as he did the world would see no progress, the Empire would stagnate, the just would never rise above the criminal, decadence would persevere while with each idea not realised because of apathy and each innocent soul lost due to ignorant rage, enlightenment would slip further and further away. If the righteous do not protect the weak evil takes root and innocent people suffer. If we do not stand for what is right then who will? How could he even say such things being an inventor and researcher all his life? Has he not changed the world beyond what was thought possible? Has he not prevented terrible things from happening? I told him that he was wrong - that I would make changes. I would paint not as things are but how I would like them to be, for it is up to the good people of this world to bring about change so that happiness, health and prosperity would be rights to all not luxuries of the few. I would attain that power to move mountains, turn seconds into hours and see the truth without light. That was what I told him that afternoon. That was decades past. And now? Now, just as my own youth bid welcome to experience once, experience welcomes content. As I grew older and more accustomed to the world and it's people, society and it's rules - I learned that our hearts aren't only capable of love but envy and jealousy as well and our minds aren't only capable of compassion but hate and wickedness as well: I learned that our souls aren’t only capable of inspiration but doubt and fear as well. I have come to understand many things in life but foremost now I understand what Ichad was telling me so many summers past: The balance that exists is incorruptible and all the change you perceive in life is just an illusion, relative in time, fading slowly as your own line stretches further until eventually progress can no longer be understood as ascent upwards because discovery and invention become just steps on Penrose stairs: to realise that to discover is an act of finding something which was found, and lost, ages ago does naught but enervate the soul. One winter Ichad had organized an expedition to a far away place. As he departed he handed me a note which read: “all that you could ever want is within you - I was as you are, and you will be as I am.” He has left me some time ago, I presume to pass from this world peacefully away from the eyes of people he would rather not indulge with his death or perhaps to go on one last adventure but truthfully I wish he has managed to escape this inexorable wheel of Illusions, as I hope I will one day as well. He left me a gift most precious, a memorabilia of our afternoons together - his masterpiece. A painting: “The Queens Canvas”. And as I sit on my palace balcony with a crown upon my head looking out across the landscape so expertly recreated in Ichad’s painting of that afternoon, those jagged mountains smile at me. It is perfect. I am at peace.

July 14- 00:00 I never understood the point of keeping a journal until I started working at this little taco stand at the corner of 6th and 8th street. It wasn’t your ordinary taco shop, it was below ordinary, All the food was frozen and had to be microwaved. My little hut consisted of four rooms, the main area where I stood, the kitchen, which was just a microwave and a freezer, the employee breakroom, and the bathroom which was the only way out of the shack. Our stand used to be one of these old Japanese food stands with the pedestals outside, how it turned Mexican? Beats me. I got the job through a phone call interview; I was told to be dropped off and will be called when my shift was over. Now, the location made no sense to me at all. The taco stand was in buttfuck nowhere, I remember only seeing one car pass in my four-hour shift and it was my car! I can’t complain though, 16$ an hour for the nightshift? Who would say no! It’s been boring for a little but an hour ago I had seen my first customer... it was a man in a trench coat. Now it wasn’t one of those small dick flashing trench coats, it was a whole ass noir suit, something you would see in a detective movie, really fucking weird. I obliged and took his order, “what’s the order?” “Empanadas... two....” “uh sure 5 bucks” he smiled with almost one big hillbilly tooth and put the money on the desk. I heated up the empanadas and stared at him. Now a NORMAL human being would engage in conversation, No! the fucker stared at me and rubbed his gums with his tongue. He took his empanadas and left, where he went? Different ass story. 03:15 Okay, what the FUCK just happened? A little while after the incident a new guy, no scratch that, A FUCKING STATUE appeared! I didn’t even see it at first but every time I had blinked it appeared closer and closer... twelve blinks later and it was basically where my stand was. Now I freaked the fuck out, I closed the shutter and sat in a convenient area under the register. The statue or whatever kept knocking louder and louder, I was shitting bricks. I locked the bathroom door and sat there in complete silence. Couple minutes later it stopped, and I peeked through the slit in the metal shutter to see if whatever it is was gone. Fuck me. July 15 The rest of yesterday’s shift was normal, couple crackheads needed to use the bathroom. Heard one of them scream and checked to see, no one had entered... whatever. The dayshift dude, Nunez took over and I went back home. Now I just got back to work, and Nunez finally tells me about the dumb things that happen during the nightshift. He calls them “rules that I muse oblige to or end up dead and missing!!” How the hell does he know I’m going to be dead if I’m missing? Load of bull shit. He gave me the list anyways. “Lil Jose’s nightshift” Rules To Stay Alive 1. Keep the bathroom door locked, if you need to go, run to the exit door and lock it. DO NOT WALK 2. Always have one thing being microwaved, does not matter what. 3. Always have the lights on unless Steve comes. 4. Never keep the register open 5. Never look outside for too long, if you see something that is not a customer, close the shutter and wait until daylight. 6. If Steve comes, do as rule five but go into the employee breakroom and stand in the middle. Continually laugh until Steve leaves. 7. Do not clog the toilet you fat fuck Wait, that’s it? So, fucking dumb ??? Okay not as dumb as I thought, Steve came, well he’s HERE. He has round glasses and stuck up hair. I was in the middle of his order when It finally struct me to ask for his name. “Oh, I’m glad you asked... it’s Steve.” I smiled and looked at the listen which he could also see on my naked desk next to my phone which had po- which was off. “ah one second there...” I slammed the shutters closed and went into the employee breakroom. I’ve been laughing for who knows how long, he wont leave. He keeps knocking and asking to come inside. “I just want to laugh with you Jonathan!” I started laughing harder, this place has no fucking name tags and the last time I checked I was NOT employee of the month, Nunez was. I’m terrified and I don’t know how long he’s going to stay. FUCK July 16 Eventually Steve left, or disappeared, or was abducted, who cares? Nunez opened the room and I finally stopped laughing. I feel like I have a six pack now. Hello! This is Kenneth, Jonathan took the day off and allowed me to work for once. He probably forgot to mention me but I’m one of the workers of the nightshift, granted I sleep in the employee lounge all day, it was rude that Jonathan never brought me up shame!! Jonathan said he needed to “find himself” whatever that means. So, I must work for once. I’ve been working here for a little over seven months, I’ve seen a lot of people come and go and learned a lot from it as well; how to correctly heat up a burrito, the price of every item, how to defend the shop during the blood hours... the usual. A customer came up to the shop and asked to use the pay phone. I groaned and looked at the freak, “10 cents and hour no change is provided." She pleaded with urgency, “please you need to let me use your phone I don’t have any cash I’ve been chased for a little over an hour please please please” I denied, a policy is a policy and it’s dumb to lose this treasure of a job over 10 cents. She ran away and I continued with my night. Later, a man with a wolfs hide came up and asked if I saw a girl. His voiced changed every time he spoke; it went from an elderly voice to a child’s... Without looking up from my phone, I pointed in her direction and kept swiping left on my phone. I really don’t understand the point of this food stand. I know Mexican delicacy is great and all but we’re in nowhere New Mexico somewhere near the border of the state. But for SOME reason this shack gets new inventory every week. It amazes me why the store is still open.

I put my headphones on. Here I was, sitting on a crowded train. It was very busy during this time of the day even though it was only 8 am. I sighed. Online school is hard. In fact it’s the worst. People think it would be easier but the pressure is twice as much. I just wish parents would understand that. I decided to do hybrid school. Maybe the stress levels wouldn’t go skyrocketing. I remember everything before COVID-19; life was amazing. Nothing was as bad as it is now. The criticism of my parents just destroys my enthusiasm to have hobbies. I sighed again trying to wash out those thoughts. It was currently 8:10 AM. My school starts at 8:40 and it usually takes 20 minutes to get there. So there was time for me to sit down and relax. “Ping,” someone just texted me. “HEY WHERE ARE YOU???” It was my best friend, Serena. “Why aren’t you on the bus?” she asked. “Yeah, we’re missing you.” My other best friend, Karen said. Serena and Karen were the only people that motivated me. I know taking the bus would be faster but things were so bad this morning I needed to run. Running was something I did to vent out my anger. “BROOKE BAILEY. I AM YOUR MOTHER. YOU DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO.” She scoffed. ”Why can’t you be more like your brother?” My mom yelled this morning. All I did was correct her. I was just helping her. Every year seems to get longer. I got another notification. “Hello??? Respond please” Karen wrote. “Yeah, sorry. I’m on the train, um I” I stopped typing. I needed to come up with an excuse. They have their own problems and telling them mine would help anyone. After all, they get perfect grades, they have a perfect life with perfect families. Here I was; almost failing school with new problems every single day. “Yeah, sorry. I’m on the train, um I had to pick up some things from somewhere.” I replied even though it was just a lie. “Oh. Anyways I gtg. Bye!” I just stared at my phone. I have always hated when someone just abruptly says “ I got to go, bye” and then just leaves. Like aren’t you supposed to wait for me to say bye? Or send separate messages. Like “I gtg. Bye!” so it seems like you aren’t in a rush to end this conversation. I kept my opinions to myself. I don’t want to lose them. They’re all I’ve got. I put my phone in my pocket and tried to relax. This was one of the only times when I could relax. Or else I have to worry about chores, schoolwork, competitions, after school classes, helping out and trying not to cause more problems. I got another notification. It wasn’t a message. It was an email from my teacher. I rolled my eyes because I knew exactly what it said. “Dear parents/guardians of Brooke Bailey, It seems that she has some trouble focusing in class, doing classwork and not submitting assignments. Please respond as soon as possible to decide the date when we will address the solutions in the near future. Sincerely, Kate Wilson 11th grade Science” I got another notification. It was a message from my dad. “Check your email.” he wrote in the group chat. Here comes another paragraph explaining why I’m a disappointment. I had around 4 minutes before we reached school. I turned my phone on silent mode and closed my eyes again. I could only see pictures of my parents arguing. My brother is in college so he doesn't know about this.My childhood was rushed. Since my brother was a “gifted student”, he got all of the love. I remember one memory very well. It happened when I was 5-6 years old. I asked them why they love Sam; my brother more and they hate me so much. My dad was saying, “Oh honey we don’t hate you. We love you both equa-” but then my mom interrupted him saying, “Yes. We love him more. Because he’s smart and gifted. He has a future.” and then she whispered “Unlike some people.'' I had my first mental breakdown because of that. I was only 5. The train’s intercoms announced that we had reached the final stop. I walked out. My school was 3 minutes away from the train station. I checked my phone for the time and saw the many hurtful texts. I thought my dad believed in me but that changed as soon as I got my first A-. Apparently gifted kids would only get A+. The worst part was that the grade was for a puzzle. A PUZZLE. I kind of laugh when I think about it. I think my emotions are broken. I’m numb most of the day and then in public, I’m an extrovert. I smiled as I walked inside my school. Serena and Karen were at their lockers. “Hey Brooke! Did you get that thing?” Karen asked me. “What th- oh that. “ I remembered the lie. “It’s in my backpack, it’s not important. So, how are you guys?” I said nervously. Lying over text was easy but lying in person was hard. I went to my locker and put my books in. Serena and Karen looked at each. They knew I was lying and I wouldn’t be able to deny it. They walked over to me. “Brooke, are you oka-” Serena asked me. She got interrupted by the bell. I grabbed a few books as the hall monitor started to roam the halls. Our school was very strict so if you were even a few minutes late, you would be getting detention, a phone call home, and a strike. If you get 3 strikes, you get suspended for a week. We all rushed to our classrooms. I ran to art while the hall monitor had his back turned. Running in the halls was “banned” and I just felt like I was a rebel. It wasn’t that big of a deal but I felt good about myself. Mrs. Davis was waiting for the class. She was really nice and bent the rules. I loved art for many reasons and this was definitely one of them. I can express my feelings so clearly. I took out my sketchbook and pen. I just let the ink flow, it made shapes and artwork . Mrs. Davis was also one of the few people who believed in me. The world felt free when I was in art. I took out my worn out colored pencils. Stroke by stroke, time flew by and my art came to life. I drew a stressed girl. Kind of like me. “Good job! And Brooke, you know you can talk to me.” Mrs. Davis said, coming up behind my shoulder. The bell rang again. Now that my “free time” was done, it was finally time to come back to reality. Where everything was stressful and not peaceful. Where everything was difficult and not easy. Where the teachers had no hope in me. Where everyone ignored me. I walked to my locker and switched my books. Serena and Karen were behind me. Serena tapped my shoulder. “Hey, are you oka-” The bell interrupted her again. We all rushed to our next classes. I was walking to my own doom. My next block was science. Mrs. Wilson was waiting for me. She was one of the cruelest teachers. I sat in the back and put in my airpods. I needed to silence everything. I hid them with my hair. I didn’t want to get caught. Mrs. Wilson started her lecture on atoms. I had my science notebook out. I started doodling. “So who made the first atomic model Brooke?” Mrs. Wilson asked. She was grinning evilly. “It was Democritus, a Greek philosopher.” I responded. Her smile turned upside down. “What year was J.J. Thompson’s model made and what was his analogy?” She asked me. I could tell she was hoping I would get it wrong. The class watched us dramatically. A grin slowly started to spread as I paused the music. Since I am me, I like to be dramatic. And I love to prove people wrong. “His model was made in 1904. He liked to think of an atom as a chocolate chip cookie or plum pudding.” “That’s tru-” she mumbled. I had enough of her nonsense. So I continued. “He also discovered the electron. The current atomic model is shaped like a cloud. A typical human body weighing about 70 kilograms contains 7,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 atoms. I have more facts. In fact I think I’m ready to take the test.” I interrupted. There was silence in the room. Everyone faced Mrs. Wilson. She looked unprepared but most importantly; defeated. She completely ruined her reputation. Mrs. Wilson’s questions were known as the “unanswerable”. No one had gotten all of the questions right. I guess I made history? I smirked. She ran out of the room. Everyone burst into laughter. “GO BROOKE! GO BROOKE!” they chanted. For a minute I forgot about all of my stress. I felt great. I just got acknowledged by the class. The bell rang and it was time for lunch. As soon as the class walked out into the hallway, I was an outcast again. I put my books away and headed to the cafeteria. Serena and Karen were waiting for me at the table. They were eating their lunch. I sat down. “Hey where’s your lunch?” Karen asked. Due to the fight in the morning, I didn’t bring any lunch, I acted like I was full even though I was starving. If I told them I was hungry, Karen and Serena would act like the world’s ending. “Hey Brooke. Are you okay?” Serena said. This time there was no bell to get me out of this situation. I absolutely hated opening up. Plus it’s because of the one time I opened up to my parents. I was stressed and they expected more from me. I couldn’t handle it. So I broke down in front of my mom, who took it as a joke. She called my dad who was supportive. But then the next morning they ignored me and when I asked how I can help and they said “Oh don’t do anything. We don’t want you to bawl your eyes out.” Like so much for expressing my feelings. “I’m fine. Just stressed” I said too tired and hungry to lie. “Oh. What’s so stressful? We can help you..” Serena asked, taking another spoonful of rice. “It’s.... It’s hard to explain.” “Come with me after school. I need to show you a place.” Karen said after a minute. “Ok sure. Anyways, what’s up with youuuuu?” I said switching the topic. Karen talked about her sweet dog, Hunter. She’ll never stop telling us stories and we’ll never stop listening to them. We talked until lunch ended. I yawned. I barely got any sleep. I walked to history while holding onto my textbook. It seemed to get heavier every step I took. I finally reached Mrs. Miller’s classroom. I could only think about what Karen had said. I love how much they cared for me. Like all of my classes, I knew everything that we were learning in school, due to my parents who signed me up for 2 hours lessons on the 11th grade syllabus over the summer. So I used these classes to do missing assignments. I never want to tell Serena or Karen why I’m stressed. One of the main reasons is that my parents are arguing a lot these days. They wrap me up in them and they last for days. I’m so tired of the fake smiles. “Today we’re going to...” Mrs. Miller said as she introduced a new topic. But I was listening to her. I was more focused on what Karen had said. I could use a detour on the way home. For some weird reason I felt excited. I kept thinking about where she was going to take me. “And these same people traveled WHERE. Brooke, answer this.” I snapped out of my thoughts, looking at Mrs. Miller staring at me. I shouted nervously, “To the Midwest” “That’s.... Correct'' Mrs. Miller said “ Anyways, these people were part of the Sioux tribe....” she continued the lesson. She was mad. I went back into my thoughts. “Brooke snap out of it. One mistake and Mrs. Miller is calling your parents. Remember last time?” I shook my head. My dad was furious last time and it ended with me getting slapped. I fiddled with my fingers until class ended. As soon as the bell rang, I needed to be alone. All of the excitement faded. I changed into my gym clothes and ran to the gym. I was tired, mentally and physically. We started to do the warm up before we played dodgeball. I jogged over to pick up a ball when one of my teammates came running. She rammed into my nose. I fell down. I felt fine so I got up and started playing again. Mrs. Smith blew her whistle. Asking me to come to her. Everyone was staring at me. What happened? My face felt wet but that was just sweat. Right? “Honey, you have a nosebleed.” “Wh-” I said, reaching up to touch my nose. I hesitated at first. But then I saw what everyone was looking at. My nose and lips were covered in blood. It was bleeding so much that it started to drip down to my shirt. Mrs. Smith handed me a nurse pass and I headed to the nurse’s office. There was this temporary nurse who was really nice. I needed to get a bandaid last week and she helped me with my feelings. I went to her and she told me to pinch my nose. I opened up to her. She was like a therapist. I talked for a while and she helped. Maybe my parents were overprotective. I yawned. “Do you want to take a nap? We have beds here, plus you lost a bit of blood so you’ll be a little lightheaded.” I agreed and took a nap. I woke up to Serena shaking me. She looked like she was going to cry. Karen was here too, just asking what happened. She seemed REALLY worried. “Guys, I’m fine. It was just a nosebleed” I said, trying to reassure them. I walked over to Karen and gave her a hug. She was more focused on my shirt. Oh right, I forgot about that. “School ended so we have to leave, where are we going?” I asked as I slipped my shoes on. Serena picked my backpack up. “You’ll see” We walked out of the school and hopped on to a trolley. It was a nice experience even though it was like a bus. Karen went up to the driver and whispered something. He cheerfully nodded. “Can you tell me where we’re going?” I asked once again. Karen said no. “Well can you at least tell me?” Serena asked. Karen whispered something. She smiled at me. I rolled my eyes and enjoyed the “stress free” time. 5 minutes later, the trolley stopped. We got off and I saw trees and bushes. “Do you like it?” Karen asked. It wasn’t what I had in mind. “Sure” I responded. We walked through the trees and took a couple turns. We stopped at this area that had a tiny fence. There were big and tall bushes that surrounded that tiny area. I was kind of curious to see what was behind it. There was no entry. Karen army crawled from the little space under and between the bushes. Serena and I exchanged looks. She was smiling. “Do you want to go?” she asked. I really didn’t want to crawl under some huge bushes. “No, you go first, I’ll be right behind you.” I said. Serena crawled underneath. After 30 seconds she told me I can go. I started to army crawl. The bushes were thicker than you think. I crawled for almost a minute. Then I reached the end where Karen and Serena were waiting for me. I dusted off the dirt. Then I looked up. There was a whole scenery. Because of the setting sun, everything looked amazing . “When I’m stressed I walk around here and sometimes even scream all of my problems. I thought that might help you,” Karen said as I looked around in awe. Tree branches swayed slowly. It was relaxing. I sat under a tree. “And if I’m stressed, I think about all of the little things that made me happy.” Serena added. They walked over and sat next to me. “You should try screaming,” Karen told me. I took a deep breath and started my rant. “I FEEL LIKE A DISAPPOINTMENT. I’M NEVER AS GOOD AS MY BROTHER. MY GRADES ARE SUFFERING. I’M TIRED OF CONSTANTLY BEING COMPARED. I’M TIRED OF PEOPLE THINKING I DON’T HAVE A FUTURE. “ I shouted. Karen and Serena looked at me as I shouted more things I was stressed about. Serena put a hand on my shoulder as I took deep breaths. “Now scream all of the good things from today.” she said. “Just trust me.” I nodded. I screamed everything that made me happy today. “ I LIKED WHEN I PROVED MRS. WILSON WRONG. I LIKED WHEN PEOPLE DIDN’T THINK I WAS AN OUTCAST. I LIKED WHEN MY BEST FRIENDS CARED ABOUT ME.” I didn’t have many things that made me happy today but the things that did were enough. I felt relieved. Happy. “I told you so.” Karen and Serena said smiling. We all sat there looking at the beautiful hidden garden. Maybe, only the little things matter.

Disclaimer: This story may be triggering to people who have body image issues. The concept of obesity was very different in South Asia, where I was born and raised. The number on the scale was proportional to the number in the bank account-- wealth and happiness would reflect on your body. Hence, me being slightly on the heavy side was not a stigma or a thing to worry about. On the contrary, it made me proud of my beauty. Relatives would fawn over my curves when I visited, and I was satisfied knowing that my parents were not worried about my lifestyle. They had enough to worry about: my dad’s business falling apart, my sister’s marital problems, and me living away from them. Without the ease of communication that exists today-I had to wait for months to receive my father’s hand-written letter and vice versa- they were bound to worry for me. At least my weight reassured them that I was happy in the foreign land. I hadn’t linked weight and fitness in my mind. To be honest, I just never gave it much thought. I was a mother, wife, daughter and sister- and each of those connections kept me busy each day. My weight, and its possible effect on my health, never crossed my mind. All this changed on the day of the incident. It was the year 1998. Back in the day, during my vacation, I would visit my parents and family in India. This was the highlight of the year; I would carry exotic treats like almonds, dates, figs and gifts for my relatives. It was the unsaid rule that any time you visit family, you need to take gifts for them. Thus, when I visited my family in the countryside, all the children would swarm the car when I went, knowing that I brought gifts for them from abroad. It was also established that summer equals weddings. Every time I visited India, I would be invited to all the weddings in my family, and sometimes I would attend up to four in a week. During that visit to India, I had gone to meet my sister who was living in Chennai, which was slowly evolving into a busy metropolitan city. The new concept of nuclear family was creeping into the city, which accelerated the apartment living. My sister had moved into a five-floor building and her apartment had all the comforts of a modern home but in “petite” size. The elevator in her building was considered a luxury in India. Though the amenities were not novel for me, I appreciated that my family too could enjoy them as I had been during my stay abroad. My sister came to the airport to pick me up, and during the entire car ride to her home, she updated me on all the events that I had missed over the year. My heart felt happy and my soul felt refreshed. I was ecstatic to be back in her presence. The sibling I didn’t appreciate growing up with, due to the close gap in our age, became one of my closest confidantes. The long distance between made us cherish the precious moments together as we navigated the challenges of adulthood. As we approached her apartment building, I was eager to freshen up- the excitement to arrive started wearing off and the exhaustion began settling in. While waiting for the escalator to arrive at the ground floor, my mind was processing the information I knew on these types of escalators. They were referred to as birdcage elevators since it resembled a bird cage- one was able to look out of the elevator car to the surroundings. This was different from the modern elevators with solid doors that I was used to in my building. The novelty of this elevator, and the loud noises it made as it came down, ignited a spark of trepidation but I couldn’t do or say anything. This was the usual route of transport to my sister’s apartment, and I was not ready to climb the stairs. Besides, how would I be perceived if I, the one who lived abroad and rode elevators daily, claimed to be afraid of this contraption? I got into the birdcage elevator, and rolled my bag into the gap. Since there wasn’t space left for my sister, she asked me to wait in front of her apartment, and told me that she would take the elevator when it went back down. I couldn’t show my hesitation so I just smiled and said “ok”. Before I knew it, I was closing the safety scissor gate and pressing the button for floor 5. I immediately reassured myself that this was a safe machine. I watched as the scene changed from the ground floor, to cement, to apartment 102’s entrance, to cement, to apartment 202’s entrance and so on. I turned to check if I had my passport in my bag when suddenly I heard a loud “THUD”, felt a strong jerk and the elevator stopped midway between floor 3 and 4. My heart stopped. I was in panic. I jingled the inner door of the elevator and it started to open. Then, it struck me-even if I get the inner door open, there wasn’t a way for me to leave. I couldn't climb up to floor 4 and wouldn’t fit in the space below to floor 3. I could feel the disbelief and desperation setting in. How do I get myself out of this situation? I quickly pressed the alarm and let out a scream for help. I don’t remember what I said, but it definitely sounded desperate. I kept shouting until I could hear a reply. My sister and a few tenants heard my shout and came rushing with the watchman (security guard was called this) to see the commotion. They were shocked to see me yelling for help in an elevator that was dangling halfway between floors. The security guard tried to bring the elevator down to the third floor but he couldn’t move it any further. So he opened the outer door manually, and placed a high ladder at the edge of the elevator. A ladder that I had to climb down. I could feel tears of humiliation gather at my eyes as I watched the many curious people gather to watch the dramatic scene. My struggle to climb down the ladder seemed amplified to myself and soon became an embarrassing tale that changed my life. It opened my eyes to the realities that life can throw on us at any moment. That was the first time I realized the value of being fit and healthy to overcome difficult situations such as these in life. I was thankful that it was not a more serious one. Neither fitness instructors nor Google existed at the time. I navigated my fitness journey by reading lots of magazines and through lots of trials and error. Two years after that incident, when a similar incident happened, I was able to laugh it off and was able to navigate it smoothly due to my better fitness. The number on the scale became a good indicator of my success- the kind I am proud of.

My name’s Logan. I’m fourteen years old. And I’m gay. I have this hope that living near a liberal mecca like Seattle will make coming out a lot easier. But boy, am I wrong. My parents freak out. Mom cries a lot. Dad gets angry. Like, really angry. There’s a lot of shouting. And finally, an ultimatum. “Stop with this gay shit, or find someplace else to live.” As if I chose to be gay. With tears streaming down my face, I load up a backpack. My dad screams at me and slams the door on my way out, yelling something about me never coming back. My best friend Jesse’s house is a half-hour walk. He’s the only other person who knows I’m gay. So I have nowhere else to go. When I came out to him a month ago, he was totally cool with it. It’s part of what gave me the confidence to come out to my parents. I tap on his bedroom window. “Hey, Jesse. You in there?” A minute passes, then I tap again. The window creaks open. Jesse’s somber look is the first hint that something's up. “Jesus, Logan. What did you say to your parents?” My stomach clenches. “I came out to them. Dad kicked me out.” “Shit.” “I need to talk about it. Can I come in?” “I’m sorry Logan. You can’t.” “ What? ” “Your parents called my parents about ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to see you anymore.” His pained expression puts a lump in my throat. “Why not?” Tears are welling up, but I won’t look weak in front of my best friend. “My mom says you’re going to hell.” My sadness morphs into shock. Then anger. “What a fucked up thing to say.” “My mom said it! Not me!” “But you repeated it. And now you won’t even let me in.” I walk away, fuming. “Logan! Stop!” Jesse’s holding a wad of cash. “Look, I’m sorry. This is all my savings. You can have it.” “Keep your damn money!” I turn around with my gaze fixed forward. There’s no way I’m taking charity from my ex-best friend who just betrayed me. No matter how desperately I need it. I’ve only got twenty-five bucks in my wallet. And that won’t last long. I walk down the street, my head spinning. In the course of an hour, I lost my parents, my home and my best friend. I have nowhere to go. But at least I have a bus pass. So I hop on the 425 from Lake Stevens to Seattle. To Capitol Hill. I barely know anything about Seattle, but I know that’s the queer part of town. On the bus ride down, I check for messages on my cell phone. Nothing. Not from my parents, or from Jesse. I lean my head against the glass and watch the world go by in a blur. How did it go so wrong? I don’t remember my parents ever saying anything too homophobic. But come to think of it, the topic never came up. Or maybe I avoided it. My parents are kinda religious. They go to church every few weeks and for Easter and Christmas. But they’re not like zealots or anything. We don’t even say grace. I guess I took them completely by surprise. I should have dropped some hints. Put up some posters of boy bands or something. But I was too afraid to show that side of myself. Maybe, subconsciously, I always knew this would happen. I ride the bus all the way to the end of the line in Downtown Seattle. Skyscrapers loom above me. Wherever there’s a gap, a large yellow crane is building a new one. I check the map on my phone. Capitol Hill is east, up a steep road that goes right over the freeway. I have no idea what I’m going to do when I get there. We’ve lived in the little town of Lake Stevens my whole life. I’ve only been to Seattle a handful of times. My parents don’t like the big city. But I’m taken by how much energy there is. Broadway Avenue is the heart of Capitol Hill and it’s bustling with activity. People everywhere. On the sidewalk in front of me, two guys are holding hands. And they’re cute . I turn my head to watch them as they walk by. One of them looks back and shoots me a smile. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.” I snap my head back and stare down at the sidewalk, feeling the blood rushing to my cheeks. The two guys laugh as they walk away. When I’m sure they’re not looking, I peek back. They’re a block away now, with their hands around each other. It makes me feel warm inside. That’s what I want. Somebody to hold me. The wafting smell of burgers makes my stomach grumble. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and it's now mid afternoon. Above me is the marquee of an old 50s style burger joint. Dicks Drive In . Dicks . I laugh to myself. But oh man, are they delicious. I have a Dick’s Deluxe Burger and fries with a chocolate shake. With my stomach full and my wallet lighter, I explore Broadway. Walking by a restaurant, I catch a glimpse of some stage lights through an open door. I peer in to see a drag show in full swing. I’ve never been that into drag shows, but seeing the unabashed expression of queerness makes me smile. As I stand at the entrance, a bouncer at the door gives me evil eyes. She’s a short but thick woman with tight cropped hair. “In or out,” she booms in a husky voice. “In?” I say, not having any idea what I’m doing. “Ten dollar cover.” Ten dollars? Dang. “Oh-um-I guess out then.” “Then move it.” While I was loitering by the door, a line formed behind me. Patrons glare at me as I scurry away. I get a text message from my mom. Logan, we’re worried about you. Come home. A mixture of hope and anger courses through me, as my thumbs tap out a message. Does dad want me to come home? I stare at my phone. The three dots appear and disappear. At least a minute goes by. We want you to come talk to Pastor Jim. That’s it. I turn off my screen and put it on silent mode. What? Do they want me to pray the gay away? I don’t need somebody telling me I’m going to hell for who I am. Almost as in answer, I pass by a church with a large rainbow flag above the entrance. All are welcome here, its sign promises. It makes me smile. So religion by itself isn't the problem. Just small-mindedness. But, seeing my mom's texts makes me painfully homesick. I love my mom dearly, and she loves me. But things aren’t always great at home. My dad has a bad temper. In fact, the only two emotions I’ve ever seen from him are anger and apathy. And he can switch between them in a heartbeat. He’s never physically violent, but that doesn’t mean he can’t inflict a different kind of pain. I wander around Capitol Hill until the shadows get long. When it’s dark, I find a coffee shop and order a cup of hot chocolate. There I sit, watching people and contemplating my life. The whole running off to Capitol Hill thing sounded like a good idea at the time. But now I’m wondering where I’m going to sleep. A woman with long brown hair and a kind face walks up to me. “Hey hon. We close up in a few minutes.” “Oh, okay.” “Everything alright? You look kinda young to be out this late on your own.” “I’m fine.” I get up and head out. Last thing I need is somebody calling the cops and bringing me right back home. My eyes are getting heavy. It’s a warm night out, so when I pass by a sprawling park filled with massive old trees, I turn into it. I find an enormous bush surrounding an ancient maple. There’s a gap in the bush that I’m able to crawl into, and I lean up against the trunk. As I sit there, waiting for comfort that will never come, I think of my warm bed at home. I take my cell phone out and look at the last message my mom sent. I type out: Please come get me. Then I think of how angry my dad will be. How they’ll try to sit me down and convince me to not be gay. That I’m something that needs fixing. I delete the message before I send it, and turn off my phone. When I wake, the sun has come up. But I quickly realize it’s not the light that woke me. A man with long, disheveled hair and dirty clothes is going through my pockets. “Hey!” I yell at him and grab for his hand. But he shakes me off with surprising strength. As he’s running off, he shoves me into the tree. My head hits the trunk hard enough to see stars. By the time I run out of the bush and head after him, he’s already out of sight. I frantically check my pockets. My cell phone and wallet are gone. The events of the last twenty-four hours overwhelm me. And the mugger broke my last ounce of resolve. I crumple into a heap in the middle of a field of grass and start sobbing. How could my parents and my best friend reject me so completely? And now I’m stranded in the middle of a city I barely know. Even my bus pass is gone. Strangers walking dogs through the park stare at me. They must think I’m some crazy homeless person. And maybe that’s what I am. A hand touches my back, and a young guy’s voice calls out. “You okay?” I lurch back from the contact, expecting the worst. The sun shines behind him, silhouetting his face. But his posture is relaxed and calming. I don’t think he means harm. “I’ve been better.” I wipe my cheeks with the back of my sleeve, drying the tears. The guy crouches down, and now I can see him. He’s maybe a year or two older. Piercing blue eyes gaze at me. A lock of wavy light brown falls down his forehead and he pushes it away. He’s wearing ripped jeans, a Hurley t-shirt and a backpack. He’s got a skater punk vibe, and it’s totally cool. And really cute. He crouches down closer, and my stomach flutters. “Wanna tell me about it?” I let out a sad laugh. “Where do I start?” “Lemme guess. You came out to your parents, and they kicked you out of the house.” My jaw drops open. “How did you know?” “I wish it was a unique story, but it's not. It’s my story too.” “ You’re gay?” He laughs and smiles. “Yeah. Names’ Daniel.” He has the nicest smile. “I’m Logan.” “Nice to meet you, Logan. So tell me your story.” We get up and walk to a park bench. I tell him about everything that led up to today. He listens intently. When I’m finished, he pauses for a moment. “You’re a brave guy, Logan. And you’re right to stick to your guns. Don’t let anybody tell you who you should be. I’m sorry your parents and your friend aren’t more accepting.” “Me too.” I stare blankly at the ground. “And I have no idea what I’m going to do now.” Daniel’s eyes light up. “There’s a place for people like you and me. And it's just a few blocks away.” “Seriously? “Seriously. Just head down this road about ten blocks. You’ll see an old house with a pink triangle painted on the outside. It’s a gay youth center. They can help you out. They helped me. I volunteer there now, sometimes.” “I didn't know a place like that even existed.” A smile finally cracks through my drawn out face. “I don’t know how to thank you.” “You can thank me by calling when you're settled. I want to be sure you’re okay.” My heart flutters. “I--ah--don’t have a phone anymore.” “Give me your hand.” I hold out my palm. He takes a pen out of his backpack, grabs my hand, and writes his number on it. The feel of his warm skin on mine sends blood rushing to my cheeks. He sees this and smiles. “Make sure to write this down before you take a shower.” He laughs. “Heh, okay.” “I gotta run. But it was nice meeting you, Logan.” “It was nice meeting you , Daniel.” “And thanks for sharing your story with me.” “Felt great to finally unload it. Thank you for that.” He nods and walks off. Despite everything, maybe I’m gonna make it. Maybe life will be okay.

#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. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord! &nbsp; *** #This week’s challenge: **You weren’t supposed to wake up here.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Last Week I really enjoy watching each of your stories and writing styles change and improve week to week. Each week you guys bring a wonderful collection of stories to the thread--tales of all kinds: sad, uplifting, funny, and dark. I love the way each writer interprets the prompts/constraints differently. It makes running this feature such a joy. Keep up the great work! **Spotlights:** - - Submitted by u/rare27 - A group of children excitedly collect lightning bugs in jars on a summer evening. - - Submitted by u/Say_Im_Ugly - An old woman passes the time as she waits for her family to visit. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail. - And most of all, be creative and have fun! &nbsp; *** &nbsp; ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

It had rained again. He’d woken in the middle of the night, the staccato patter on the uninsulated tin roof penetrating the fog of sleep. He had a vague memory of having rolled over, exasperated at the realisation of what the next day would bring. He stood staring out at the makeshift garden. Three racks of plants, with the broader leafed and more robust varieties above, less sunlight dependent and smaller plants beneath. A sickly grey-green on the best of days, the leaves were covered in a thin layer of muck brought by the previous night’s downpour. Sighing, he pulled on a set of weathered gloves, and moved over to one corner. He reached, grabbed the leaf of a rhubarb plant, and methodically wiped the surface free of mud. He did the same for the next leaf, and the next. When that plant was done, he moved on. His crops were smaller each month, and he knew the day would come where he could no longer sustain himself through the plantation he had. Acidity, ammonia and other toxicity in the soil was building up too fast for the vegetation to drain it away, and the pall on the foliage suggested the plants were slowly suffocating, starved for nutrients. The rain didn’t help. It was as bad as the soil, though it did save him watering them. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, taking care not to get the dirty gloves anywhere near his mouth. Humid. The cloying damp was at least a change from the musty heat of the last month. The sounds of laughter that used to drift over the next door fences had long gone. Maybe it had been a night of quiet stories, and then a large dose of medicine. Maybe they’d gone walking through the haze, hoping to find some haven or other. Sooner or later, they all left. He was lasting a lot longer than most, as through sheer dumb luck he’d had a flatshare with a large backyard, a mess of shelving in the garage, and a green thumb. Three months earlier and he'd been in a thirty-six square metre apartment. Not a lot of agricultural space there. It had started while he’d been at the old place. These things take time to build up, then they happen all at once. The fires that swept across every continent on the globe. The mass of volcanic activity. A melted glacier full of ancient gas bubbles, each of them as noxious as the last, and then the dust storms started. He moved to the planters against the back wall, stepping over the small wet mound that had formed behind him as he’d cleaned. The mess would have annoyed his flatmates, but they were gone. He wondered idly if they’d found what they’d been looking for. Shelter, or something like it. He stood up to stretch, and stared up at the sky, wiping sweat from his brow. It was a hazy blue, for the first time in months. At least after the rain had collected all the floating particulates, the air outside would be safer to breathe. For a time.

We lay in bed enfolded in each other’s arms. I thought about all the times we’d done this, and the fact that this might be the last. I held her a little tighter. "What will you do first, when you get there?" I asked. "My dad’s going to pick me up at the airport. We’ll have brunch... dinner." She was struggling to add the nine hour time difference. "Then I’m going to Julie’s to spend the night." "Your dad is driving to Copenhagen just to pick you up? That’s nice." It was nice. He was nice. I liked her dad. I thought about meeting him for the first time. He’d welcomed me into his beautiful little cottage in the countryside. It was the first thatched roof I’d ever seen. He’d eagerly fed me roast pork and the national Danish booze: Akvavit. It was hideous. On our way out of the neighborhood, I stopped at a tiny gas station to fill the tank. We probably had enough to get to LAX, but I didn’t want to have to stop on the way home. I just wanted to drive. She went into the store to see if they had any Imodium for her flight. They didn’t, but apparently they did have King Size Kit Kat bars. "Do you want any?" "No thanks." She ripped the package open, and the scent of cheap chocolate flooded the car’s interior. I inhaled. "I love that smell. It reminds me of being a kid. I feel like I’m at the YMCA." "What did you do at the YMCA?" she asked, probably picturing the Village People. "I took a lot of swimming lessons." I thought about the night we’d spent in a Palm Springs pool beneath a big, red supermoon. It had been so hot there, the water was still warm in the middle of the night. We held hands and talked about things. I drove for two or three hours, and then we were at the airport. I told her I loved her, then I got back into my car and turned around. I thought about children, and why the fuck my defective, emotionally retarded, man-boy brain couldn’t decide if they sounded like a good idea. I thought about uncertainty, and whether I was entitled to it or not. I thought about her goddamn hormones, and turning thirty, and friends around us having baby after baby after baby. I thought about how I would tell my parents. It was dark when I pulled into the garage at home. I cleaned out my car, and found her Kit Kats, only half eaten. They’d gotten a little soft on her heated seat. I carried them down to the curb with me to collect the recycling bin. I thought about the fact that she’d been nice enough to retrieve the empty garbage bin before we left. I stood on the cold street, stabbing my wife’s leftover Kit Kats into my mouth one after another, coating my fingertips in melted chocolate, and I thought about nothing.

Tami rushed into the room, the biggest smile on her face. “Guess what?” She plunked down on the couch next to Amber. With a sigh, Amber put the bookmark back in her book and closed it. “What are you so excited about?” “I’m going to throw Cindy a surprise birthday party!” She clapped her hands excitedly, then hopped off the couch and practically ran down the hall. Amber closed her eyes, wishing she could go back in time and not hear Tami's plan to surprise their friend Cindy. Secrets were not something she could keep. And living with Cindy meant, at some point, she would ask a question that would lead to the surprise party. Picking up her book again, Amber tried to focus on the words, but she found herself glancing at the clock as the minutes ticked by. Twenty more minutes, and Cindy would be home. She should hide in her room. This way she wouldn’t even have to talk to Cindy. She closed her book and got up off the couch just as Tami walked past and grabbed her jacket off the hook. “Where are you going?” “I have to get supplies. I only have two days before the big day.” She slipped her arms into her jacket and picked up her purse. “Have you even invited anyone yet?” “Well, no. But I’m sure when everyone hears about it, they will come. You can help me spread the word. I’ll make little postcards you can hand out.” She dug around in her purse, smiling when she pulled a set of car keys from its contents. “Be back shortly.” Tami opened the door and stepped outside. The door had barely clicked shut when Cindy came bounding in, a scowl on her face. “Tami is way too happy.” She threw her purse on the counter and kicked off her shoes. “Yep.” Amber nodded her head and turned to escape into her bedroom. “I wonder why. Do you know?” Cindy plunked down on the couch and propped her feet on the coffee table. Amber stopped mid-stride “umm... Yes.” she tried once again to retreat to the comfort of her room. “Are you going to tell me?” This time she spun to flash Cindy a big fake smile. “Nope. I have to get to my room.” She made a beeline for the bedroom, but Cindy was faster than she expected. Within seconds she was right behind her. “Tell me what she’s up to.” Why did the hallway all of a sudden seem so long? “She's planning something.” “Is she planning something for my birthday?” Amber stopped and took a deep breath before turning to face her friend. “Yes. Now please stop asking me questions.” She turned and continued her trek down the hall. Cindy followed along behind. “What is it? What’s she planning?” There it was, the dreaded question she was trying to avoid. She couldn’t lie, and telling the truth meant revealing Tami’s secret. With her bedroom door in sight, she quickened her pace. “She’s planning...” The rest of Amber’s words squeaked by on a whisper so quiet Cindy couldn’t possibly hear. “What did you say?” Amber reached her bedroom and quickly retreated inside. She slammed the door shut in Cindy’s face. A little rude, but it was better than ruining the surprise. “I couldn’t hear you, Amber. What did you say?” Cindy knocked on the closed door. Obviously not deterred by her sudden rudeness. A gargled mumble seeped through the door, but nothing that Cindy could understand. Amber flopped down on her bed, exhausted from trying not to lie and keep the surprise party a secret at the same time. This was all Tami’s fault. Now she would have to avoid Cindy for the next two days. Amber bolted upright in the bed as she remembered she was supposed to drive Cindy to work tomorrow. How on earth would she avoid all her questions? The night dragged on, and Amber hardly slept at all. She was so worried about the car ride that the alarm on the bedside stand made her heart jump with its annoying beeping. She slapped the button, quieting the room once more, and crawled out of bed. She dressed and marched out to the kitchen where Cindy was sipping on a cup of coffee. Amber grabbed her purse and turned to look at Cindy. “I will drive you to work, but you may not ask me what Tami is planning, or I will drop you on the side of the curb.” Cindy nodded her head in agreement with her mouth hanging open. She traded her coffee cup for a briefcase as she followed Amber out the door. Five minutes into the car ride, the questions started. Cindy cleared her throat. “So, Tami is planning something for my birthday?” Amber cast her a sideways glance. “yes.” “Is it a gift?” “No. I thought you agreed not to ask me about it?” “No. I agreed not to ask you directly what she was planning. I’m playing twenty questions now.” Amber knew she was in trouble. Sooner or later, Cindy would get it out of her. That’s what she gets for being so precise. “Fine. Ask your questions.” Cindy beamed a smile. “Is it alive?” “No.” “Is it something for the kitchen?” “No.” Cindy frowned and took a moment to come up with the next question. “Is it something outside?” Now it was Amber’s turn to frown. Tami hadn’t given her any details about the party. “I’m not sure.” “What do you mean you're not sure?” “Well, I wasn’t given a whole lot of details.” Amber turned the car into the parking lot and parked in the first available spot. “You are making this difficult. Wait, does it involve a lot of people?” “Maybe.” It was an honest answer because she didn’t really know how many people would show up. She turned off the car and stepped out. “I know what it is! A surprise party. Tami is planning a surprise birthday party.” Cindy jumped out of the car with a big smile on her face. Amber’s shoulders slumped. Tami was going to be so mad at her. “Cindy, do you think you could still act surprised, so Tami doesn’t find out you know?” Cindy stopped her celebratory dance and drew her eyebrows together. “Yes. I think keeping the fact that I know a secret is a good idea.” She gave Amber a little hug, and they went inside the building. Two days later, the surprise party was a big success. Cindy did an amazing job of acting shocked and surprised, and Tami never found out she knew about it. Another secret Amber would have to try to keep.

“Hello Dina, he is here. I’ll bring him upstairs”, the voice from the comm says. “Thanks”, Dina says while opening her eyes from deep meditation. After a minute the door slides open. “Welcome Mark. How are you doing?” “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?” “Excellent. We finally succeeded in getting you here. Would you like something to drink?” “No, I’m fine.” They let go of each other’s hands. “I would say we picked the best day for this chat. *Horo* says I can talk anyone into anything this morning”. Dina prefers to keep small talk small. “I’ll be careful then” Mark smiles. “*Horo* told me to watch out for girls in their twenties” “You don’t have to worry. I turned thirty last week”, she says with a subtle smile. “So you are a Septemberian. I read my horoscopes from our internal beta version of *Horo*. It gives slightly different predictions, but they are a lot more accurate at times. It says a Januarian like me is prone to charms of sweet talking Septemberians, especially during the Fall” “Ha ha. Suit yourself then ... When is it coming out? The beta?” “Next week” “Can’t wait” Both walk across the room. Mark takes a moment to take in the panoramic view of the city. “Don’t you like the view?” Dina asks looking at the bridge rising above the faint clouds. The cloudy day has robbed the color off the city, but it’s charming as always. “Yes, it’s quite breathtaking. Makes up for living downtown.” “You bet. But I will live in the city all the same. I grew up in one. I’m a city girl.” “Good for you. I bought a nice condo last week in *Space Life*. It’s right in the center of Arcadia - the biggest outpost on Neptune.” He waits for Dina’s reaction, she only smiles. “Have you checked out their Neptune expansion yet? It’s truly mesmerizing. I spent a whole weekend in my new Neptunian condo. It’s quite an experience to sleep in the penthouse of a tower that sways along the fastest winds in the solar system.” “So I’ve heard” with a waning smile. “Don’t tell me you don’t play your competitor’s lifegames” “I just don’t have enough time. I spent my weekend testing out the beta of *Better Life*. After the crypto currency integration last year, we have seen massive user growth. Our top priority now is to enable those users to build sustainable businesses inside our lifegame. *Better Life* is the best out there among all lifegames available.” “Indeed”, Mark replies. “Tell me Mark. Do you lose your sleep wondering if you are giving false hope to billions of people on the planet?” “I sleep well Dina, thank you. Fortune tellers have been around for centuries. But *Horo* is much more than that. The predictions that *Horo* makes come from a fairly reliable prediction engine. They can help people plan ahead and not just give them false hopes. These predictions are at least as true as tomorrow’s weather forecast.” “That analogy is far-fetched, don’t you think?” “No it’s not. Our company has been around longer than you’ve been alive. And in all that time we’ve indexed all the events in everyone’s life on this planet. Horo’s neural nets embody all the patterns that you can see in the data of this magnitude. It can construct a map of events taking place and then extrapolate them into the future. *Horo* can tell you what gift your boyfriend will like for his birthday. It told me that your secretary will be wearing a red cardigan before I met her this morning. Dina, if we were driving cars on the road like in the old days, *Horo* would have predicted if the driver in the next lane is going to cut in front of me.” “Thank god we are not doing that anymore. But, I do believe in free will though. *Horo* can know every chemical reaction happening inside me and people around me, but we can still surprise it. Don’t you think? We can still make black swans.” “It does happen, but not so often. Most of the time *Horo* knows us better than ourselves. And he is only going to get better.” “Mark, I admit that *Horo* is a monumental achievement. Your company deserves all the success for building something that predicts reality. Your company’s history gave you a big advantage, but you leveraged it quite well. You have captured reality.” “Thank you” Mark takes a tiny bow. “But Mark, what good is reality?” A long moment of contemplation passes over Mark’s face. “If you spend half your day in *Better Life* and the other half in a dozen other lifegames, you have no time for reality” “Is that where you think we are going?” Mark says with a smirk. “We are halfway there already. I’ll let you in on a little secret. This afternoon we are signing papers with Neuralink.” Mark tries hard, but his eyes betray him. Dina continues, “Ability to make accurate predictions is a big deal. The real world runs on gazillions of parameters. To be able to see their pattern of movement requires enormous neural networks. Congratulations to your company on managing that feat. As people have started to trust more and more in *Horo*, its predictions have become self-fulfilling prophecies. You have always been the one to spot virtuous cycles in the evolution of technology Mark.” Dina leans forward before continuing. “But Mark, your scope is limited to reality. *Better Life* does not have to predict the future, because it writes it. When you are in *Better Life*, we own the reality” “Then what do you want from me?” “*Horo* of course. We don’t want it to predict reality though. Today *Horo* tells people what to anticipate. That means he also knows what they do not anticipate. That’s what we want to know. Reality is boring because most of the things happen as we expect them to. Only when something surprising happens do we get excitement in life. Reality doesn’t unfold to make people’s life interesting. It unfolds along its own silly logic. In *Better Life*, we are not bound by such constraints. *Better Life* is the greatest life-authoring service. All we need now is an author. And we want *Horo* for the job.” Dina leans back in her seat keeping her eyes on Mark. Mark stays quiet for a while and spends a few moments in contemplation. A gentle chime breaks Mark’s attention. He sighs. “Thanks *Horo*” he says silently, before opening the car door and walking to the lobby. A tall woman in a red cardigan greets him at the door. “Good morning Mark, how are you doing today? Dina is waiting for you, I’ll take you to her.” He follows.

Everything was easy when we were little, you were only a year or two older. We would dance and play all day, I never forgot how close we were, how much we dress like a Princess and a Prince. How mother would berate you for using Ethan’s old clothes. “You’re a girl!” She would say exasperated dragging you away to our room. “but Ethan won’t play princess and Princes with us so one of us has to step up,” would be your excuse but we both knew you felt more comfortable that way. Mother would always argue with Dad about us, saying we were too strange to be hers. That we should act like girls, that he should help her in correcting our wrong ways. They’d argue about it constantly. Until one day you and dad were gone. Mother had pretended you never existed. That I was a miracle child from God, the new Jesus. Everyone knew better. She was ill. But she wouldn’t accept that. She burned anything that belonged to you, to dad. She burned away the memories. I’ve longed for the day to find you, to hug you to talk to you but I never knew where to start and if I’d mention your names I’d be beaten and silenced. Ethan left to live with dads’ parents. I was stuck. All alone. Years went by I grew up alone. When I finally left home, I searched everywhere. I subscribed to many the ancestry websites but to no avail so why? Suddenly have I seen you in Spain. I cannot believe my eyes and surely you are the same. You don't look like you've aged one bit and yet you're taller and older. "Michelle?" My mouth moved without thinking, your eyes widen. "Vivienne? it can’t be, I was sure you were dead." she says almost quiet as a mouse. She is wearing the Hotels staff uniform and the desk manager does not look please that she is not moving. "I have many questions for you however your manager looks displeased. my room number is 278, come knock once your shift is over, please?" I plead; I don't want to let her leave, but I also do not wish for her to get into trouble. I am not that selfish. Michelle nods gives me a customer smile and briskly walks away. I grab my bags and walk to the lift. The angry looking desk manager approaches me while I wait for the lift doors to open. "Was there an issue with that woman ma'am you looked upset," her voice was higher than I expected. She had one bushy eyebrow raised and a mole under her left eye. "No, I just recognised her as a childhood friend I hadn’t seen in years," I said with a clam smile, Even though this woman hadn't really said anything or even done anything, she made me feel uneasy as if I was lying to her, luckily before she questioned me further the lift dinged open. "Well, I must me off" She smiled as I got into the lift and walked away, as the lift door closed, I tried to shove the feeling of unease away. Once I get to my room, I place my bags next to my bed and flop down on my bed with a sigh. Along plane ride and then bumping into Michelle the shock really takes it out of you. I assumed it would be a while until Michelle finished. Looking around the hotel room I find where the remote is and get up with effort to grab it. eventually finding suitable challenge I start to unpack my notebooks and pens. I cannot forget the main purpose of my trip to Spain, 'A tourists guide to the most gorgeous spots in Spain' a plain article. A few hours passed by, I'd meandered over the writing, had a shower and had given up on being any more productive and resigned myself to mindlessly staring at the TV while lying on the bed when a knock finally came from the door. I leapt up in a fluster and practically sprinted to open the door. "Viv-" Michelle began but was cut off by me dragging her into the room. "Michelle! You look the same as I remember, how are you in Spain? Is dad here too? oh I've missed you so much!" I bombarded her with questions. "Viv, you don't know what happened? Didn't you ever ask mother?" Michelle's voice was calm, but tears appeared in her eyes, "She forbade me from asking, of course that never stopped me but then whenever I'd start to talk about it she'd throw things at me," I said looking her in the eyes, her hair was in a cute pixie cut, she had dark bags under her eyes and she was holding her tears back I could tell. "You, you'll want to sit down for this." "What? what happened? I tried looking everywhere for you, I spent so much money on ancestry sights trying to find you," "Sit Viv," I sat on the bed and she followed. "Do you remember when those men came up to us one day in the park asking about mother?" I nodded unsure of what was going to follow. Michelle proceeded to tell me those men had been after mother for a while as she had done something bad in her youth which was still unknown. The day dad walked out with Michelle it was only to get groceries however, on the walk to the shop a small grey hatchback pulled up along side them and two men dragged them into the car. They kept asking dad where mother was but he refused to answer and he was killed. Michelle was taken as collateral to be a slave and shipped form country to country until she managed to get free and was found by a Spanish cop who took her to the orphanage at age 14. “Michelle, I-“ “Don’t go blaming yourself,” “Why did mother keep this from me? Why didn’t she just lie and tell me bad men were out for her as a kid.” “Shockingly that probably saved you.”

Ina is a small town in Ilinois. The place was first settled around 1840. But the main settlement was a bit farther from Ina, about 3 miles away to the northeast. That was called Spring Garden at the time. After the railway was built in 1905, more people came to this area, and the centre was moved towards Ina. The town became a stop on the Chicago and Eastern Illinois Railroad, which connected with the major rail lines of the Midwestern United States. Nonetheless, as in almost all towns, this one also has a dark history. Dark memories, which people do not really like talking about. This story, however, could not fade away: there were rumours in the beginning and rumours turned into facts. And facts reached the press; they turned into the news which reached the whole world. As his boss and colleagues described him, Russel Keith Dardeen was a very reliable, honest and helpful person. He worked at the Rend Lake Water Conservancy District. But one day in November 1987, when he did not turn up without checking in, his employer called the police and his parents who did not see him either. When the police arrived at his parents’ home, Don Dardeen, his father gave the police access to Keith's trailer. When the police entered the trailer on the 18th of November, they faced a horrible scene: Elaine Dardeen, her son Peter, and her newborn daughter were brutally beaten up with a baseball bat given to the son by his father for his birthday. Elaine's body was duck taped, and the two children were put in bed. The room seemed to be cleaned up, which indicated that whoever did this terrible murder, was not in a hurry. ‘Is it possible that the husband murdered his family?’ - the detectives and people asked. However, this presumption soon dissipated as they found Keith’s body in a field. He was shot three times, apart from his body was removed. Interestingly, his car was somewhere else: it was found at the police station in a nearby town, Benton. The interior of the car was bloody, which implied that the scene of his murder had been that place. When the news broke out, people got terrified, and they all started to protect themselves by watching their properties, wearing shotguns and looking behind their back. They were also afraid of strangers. As I was walking down the streets after work, they were open and empty. Families did not allow their kids to go out. People preferred getting around by car, instead of walking. As for the investigation, about 100 people were interrogated, but none of them turned out to be a suspect. The motive and the reason for the murder were also unclear. In the meantime, Keith’s mother did not give up: she was pushing the place to continue the investigation and asked for the help of the public as well. However, the murder was so brutal that the media was reluctant to detail it. You might ask if there are any improvements in this case. The year 2000 was a turning point. A serial killer, Tommy Lyn Sells was apprehended and claimed to kill the family among other people. According to Tommy Lyn Sells, he met Keith at a truck stop, and he invited him for dinner at his home then offered him sex, including his wife. This claim, however, is not reliable because Sells was an untrustful person and his story was not convincing. He was executed in 2014, and the question of whether he committed it or not is gone with him. He admitted committing more than 70 murders, and this could be one that he was responsible for. But we do not know for sure. The thing is that uncertain answers are as uncomfortable as unanswered questions. To not know is to suffer. To know can be a burden. The answers you seek may be the very thing that you wish to avoid.

"Hello," I say to no one in particular, not that there was anybody to hear it. No, nobody. Certainly nobody. A vast expanse of sand, and in the distance an ocean, is all that was left in front of me. It's a tricky thing to remember where I am, but most importantly it is hard to remember where I am going. I walk towards the ocean, but it seems to never get closer. I thought I saw a bird a few days ago, but it had three too many legs. It seems like a lot of things aren’t very solid now, shifting like the sand underneath my feet. You have to be careful at the sand dunes because if you roll down it is hard to get back up. The sand is all I ever see now, so I have gotten pretty good at feeling it. Sometimes you get that windy sand that seems to get kicked up like dust, other times you get the hard unmoving sand. It’s always sand though. How long have I been moving? I do not know. I do not remember, all I know is I must get to the ocean. The ocean is my destination, some days though I walk around in circles, feeling like I can’t get my legs to move straight. Those days are always so cloudy, the sun never seems to come up all the way. Hidden behind a veil. Who am I? I do not know. I do not look at myself, or if I had, I do not remember. Where am I going again? Something with... Fash? Fesh? No, it’s fish. Fish with an I. I am going to the ocean. The ocean, with birds and fish. Water too. I walk because the sand is too slippery to run on, I used to run a lot. On these weird hard things that weren’t quite sand. I remember the feeling, running until I was sick. I remember someone, someone helping me. I can’t remember the name, it’s on the top of my knee. M something, short... Then I remember other things too, like the sounds of... Where am I going again? The ocean, I am going to the ocean. The ocean, with birds and fish. Water too. Sometimes the ocean seems so far away that it feels like I’ll never reach it... Sometimes it feels like it’s right in front of me, I can hear the cackling of the birds laughing. Those damn birds. The fish never speak, which is why I prefer them over the birds. I haven’t seen them in a long time, and that suits me just fine. But, what are birds again? Small for sure, were they white? Maybe they were black with speckadoodled spots? Maybe they had four legs or eight like the spiders? “Hello,” I say to no one in particular, not that there was anyone to hear it. No, nobody. Certainly no- “Hello.” A voice answers. I'm not startled, it felt perfectly natural. There, through the sand. A monster on two legs, far more than normal. A terrible monstrous with beady eyes and a fanged face... I run. I run, and I fall down a sand dune. Not good, the edges are too steep. I couldn’t make it up even if I wanted. I see something peer over the edge of the dune, a monstrous face with beady eyes and a fanged face. Certainly something this horrifying can not be natural? No, it couldn’t be. Perhaps it is all just a hallucination, after all, I’ve never seen this monster before. Yes, that is it. It is a hallucination. I sit down and attempt to calm my nerves, but the figure doesn’t leave. If anything it grows bolder, what was once far is now close, it is merely a few feet away. I need to run- I should run now, right now, no wait there is no way up from the dunes. How can I get away can I get awa- “hello?” A voice asks me a question. “What are you?” I asked with such trepidation, perhaps I do not want to even know. “I do not know.” The voice answers, in a voice so familiar to me. “What are you?” the voice asks me, and I respond “I do not know.” Both of us frown. I think for a while, the monster just stands there... On two legs, I look down and I see two legs as well. I investigate my skin, it is the same. I feel my face and my eyes. They are similar. I understand now, “I am you” I respond to the creature. “ and I am you” the voice responds. I do not understand, this is a terrible thought to have occurred. I am me, but they are me? Impossible, I am already me therefore I cannot be them as well. I push the thoughts away, and I ask the voice “ Where are you going?” The voice responds “ The ocean, with birds and fish. Water too.” I responded, not understanding “ Me too, would you mind if I joined you?” The voice responds “ Sure, we’ll keep each other's company.

After almost three decades of ruthless competition amongst the richest people in the world one particular individual, Marco Zælioli, emerged as the first man to break the trillionaire threshold. Impressive about the man was not only that he started from almost nothing, investing at the young age of 18 and that he made his first million by the age of 25, he also was the CEO and creator of the first spacemining agency AND the biggest tech company in the world. His spacemining company owned a huge number of assets such as huge intergalactic mining ships and an almost infinite stock of minerals ranging from precious metals such as platinum and gold to less precious minerals such as hydrogen and carbon. Another special thing about Marco was that he saved millions of lifes during the 2032 climate crisis. Parts of the world had been flooded while others were plagued with diseases and droughts, causing millions to immigrate and creating conflicts at the borders of many nations. Huge immigrant camps were a sad reality during that period wich nobody knew how to adress. Misogynistic politicians further escalated the situation wich reached its critical point in 2034 when one politician suggested to raid the immigrant camps. Fortunately it never came to this thanks to Marco, who showed up just at the right time, opened the doors to his spaceship and gave everybody a free ticket to a new world. A new spacenation was born, of wich he was the founder and president. Most people were transported to the moon wich had previously been terraformed and rendered habitable. However it quickly became selfevident, that to survive the people had to adapt to their new environment, become miners and extract oxygen and water from the lunar surface and other extraterrestrial bodies. On top of that one has to keep in mind that these were all people of different cultures and religions wich led to a huge clash of cultures. Because of this cultural clash and because of the traumatic experiences suffered losing their homes most people abandoned their former religious beliefs while some few went the opposite way of the spectrum becoming more extreme than ever before. However most of these people were expelled by Marcos spacecouncil and sent back to earth. Yes there were some terrible terrorist attacks but fortunately due to the immediate and radical action of the council most unstaible individuals were sent back to earth. This lead to another conflict (we will get to the other great conflict later) with earth threatning to shoot down the shuttles with the "extremists", to with Marco responded that he would see this as an act of war and that he had nukes pointed on all major cities of the earth. He argued that the earthlings were to blame for the climate disaster and that this was part of the price they had to pay. In the end the Earthlings had to give in and accept the troublemaker immigrants also because marco simply had to much technological power (we will come to this later). After a week of intense debate in the 2032 climate crisis summit, held in germany, all nations (exept northkorea) in an effort to stop or at least slow down rising sealevels agreed to a set of terms and conditions wich drastically limited the amount of CO2 emissions per capita, banned the consumption of meat and introduced a new climate tax wich every company had to pay. These actions worked but sadly were too late, as historians would later recall. Millions of people lost their homes and immigrated into space. Thousands died. Some experts estimated that if it wasn't for Marco the world would have been either overpopulated and undernurished due to the lack of land or in a new never before seen worldwar for ressources. Negotiations with the Earth started soon after but the USA aswell as China didnt recognize the spacepeople as a nation and tried to drive a hard bargain on vital ressources such as food wich led Marco and the spacepeople to initially primarly dealing with the EU. This was the first great conflict that emerged between the spacepeople and the earthlings. On top of basically owning space and leading the second biggest nation by population after china, Marco also owned the second most valuable company in the world, wich was actually the company he started with. "Smart Brain Interfaces" was -as the name suggests- a smart glass company wich replaced the smartphone in the early 2030s. With ER technology the glasses could pick up brain waves and brain activity, decode it and use it to take an imput wich would be directly visualized in the smartglasses. It was a genius concept and it didnt take long for people to dump Apple and Samsung for the next big hit. It was a technological revolution and it gave Marco incredible Power from a political point of view. Apple was now mostly a smartwatch company, as smartphones were ridiculed by the masses and regarded as reliques of the past. Infact, the most popular meme of the decade wich racked up more than 10 billion views made fun of smartphone users, wich the meme depicted as "not having enough brainpower to control the smartglasses". On top of the meme there was a picture of a man with smartglasses and a graph over his head performing all sorts of complex brainwaves labeled "big brain smartglass users". In the middle of the caricatures one could see a shimpanzee holding a smartphone in his right hand and a graph over his head showing a flat line without any brainactivity labeled " smooth brained iphone users". Under the two pictures comparing the brainactivity of smartglass and iphone users was a third picture showing Marco during a Smart Brain Interfaces event wearing smartglasses with an off the charts brainactivity. This was a reference to one of Marcos presentations in wich he failed using the smartglasses due to a technical error. This is my first short story and i hope people enjoy it at least a little bit. Upvote if you want to see a part two after this long and interesting exposition. I have some great ideas for the actual story but i don't know if its worth it to continue and i am currently out of time. If i get over 25 upvotes i will do a part two Edit 1: spelling and additional information. Ps.: please drop mistakes in the comments. I am very bad at commas and english is not my main language.

Thompson stared at the dead rat as if his life depended on it while trying to go back to sleep. The truth is his life didn’t depend on it but he just felt like taking his mind off of certain things. The letter he got from Laura that evening didn’t go very well and he just didn’t want to think about it so instead he just stared blankly at a rat that had the misfortune of dying not even a few paces from his bunk. It was just then that his concentration was broken when Goodwin stumbled into the bombproof and spoke with a tired expression “Thompson you’re up on Pickett duty man wake the fuck up” Thompson then glanced up and grabbed his things and shoved the letter into his pocket. He had forgotten he had picket duty tonight after he got done reading his mail and as a result he was unprepared as he grabbed his rifle and put on his boots and coat. “Sorry I got distracted, anyways who am I on duty with tonight?”. However his words had fallen on deaf ears as Goodwin was already laying in his bunk with his boots still on his feet leaving him to figure it out for himself. To those who don’t know Pickett duty is both the most stressful and boring tasking that command could ever devise. It would involve two men to sit in a rifle pit on the firing line at night and watch for stragglers trying to cross no man’s land from the Ticonderogan lines and every night men would rotate said duty. Thompson thought about this as he slogged his way through the trench past a few more sentries either getting off shift or getting on until he found it. Howard paid him no mind as Thompson crawled into the rifle pit because he was nearly coughing his heart out as he was. Thompson set his rifle down beside him and spoke in a hushed voice. “Hey you good over there?” Howard proceeded to cough for several more minutes until he stopped “Yeah I’m fine man.” Thompson then sighed. “Good. I don’t need anyone else dying on me today”. Thompson said as he rubbed his hands. To this Howard felt compelled to ask. “Did something happen?” Thompson sniffled in the cold spring air. “Yeah I’m fine.. I just got some bad news today from home that’s all”. “Mail call always has that effect on people”. Howard said. “I hope you find some good news soon.” The notion made Thompson smile and felt compelled to ask in turn “So did you get any good news today?” Howard then replied in turn “yeah I did. My son was born today actually.” Thompson’s sadness returned again “congratulations” he said in a bitter tone “Any ideas for names?” Howard asked “Stephanie was thinking of Bill or George”. Thompson added “how about Robert?” Howard seemed to agree “yeah I like that one. Robert, it has a charm to it”. Thompson only nodded “yeah it did”. Thompson didn’t like to suggest his dead sons name but it would suit someone else better than him. A quietness engulfed the two men before Howard spoke again. “Hey Thompson do you believe in the afterlife? I mean Heaven and Hell and whatnot”. Thompson paused for a moment to reflect as he rubbed his eyes. “Yeah I do why?” “Nothing it’s just something I think about every now and then”. They then spent the next several hours talking about anything and everything they could think about and when they couldn’t think of anything more to talk about they talked some more. They spent all night memorizing the scenery before them which wasn’t much. The only notable feature before them was the ruins of an old log cabin that must have burned down before the siege. Every so often he thought he saw something moving at the base of it but reassured himself it was nothing. The shuffling of Goodwin’s boots in the mud broke the silence and he spoke “morning gentlemen. See anything interesting?” Thompson spoke as Howard became unusually quiet “nothing but rocks that look like sappers”. Goodwin then kicked Howard to wake him “hey get up I’m relieving you early so you can get someone to look at that cough old man”. There was then a breif pause when Goodwin kicked him again “hey I said get u-“ however Thompson spoke in his defense “hey give him a minute he’s had a long night”. It was at this point that Goodwin knelt down and said some words that made Thompson’s blood run cold “he’s dead”. To this Thompson glanced over and saw him roll Howard’s frozen corpse over and he saw his frozen eyes stare into Thompson’s. “That’s.. that’s not true I was talking to him all night last night” Thompson said. Goodwin then nodded “you were talking to a dead man Thompson.. maybe you should get some sleep instead”.

It is always said that there are two kinds of people in this world- sheep, and wolves in sheep's clothing. The two gentlemen who had just now assumed the command of this cold bank lobby were definitely no sheep. While the one with a blank white mask made the teller squirm, the one wearing an ogre mask held a woman by her nape, and pressed his gun to the back of her head. One always does assume that they won’t be possessed to commit such acts of barbaric brutality, but these men had no delusions about their capabilities. The white faced guy was Robert "Rob" Von Pearson. Son of a brilliant banker, Arnold Von Pearson, he was a young, brilliant kleptomaniac, with an acidic animosity towards authorities in his life. Disowned at 15, he lived his life on his own expectations and capabilities. As an adult, he was tall and toned with wavy black hair curling into tangles which seemed to be just as twisted as he did, and a fancy fluency when he spoke which could put anyone at ease, or rob their comfort away. People always assumed the "Rob" was on account of his name, what it really was on the account of his hobby. The ogre held the identity of Charles Mason. They guy was a marvel of human body, a top physical specimen. Tall, broad, dark, with long hair, running down to his shoulders. As a kid, he was close to Jenny, his elder sister. Jenny and Rob were very close, and that is how the two had come to known each other. One evening however, they found young Jenny suspended by her neck from the beams which carried the burden of the ceiling in her room. Charles never did understand the why of it, and for some time after that he and Rob made some unsuccessful attempts to find out the why of this mystery. But this was in times past now, all they had left of those days were memories, some on the verge of being lost, some misshapen, some perfervid, and some ardent. What did however remain was the friendship they had forged then. Rob had an immense influence in Charles, and they grew up learning the secrets of the trade. Rob was the idea man, and Charles was the one who could execute it with dexterity. Together they had made their fame amongst conmen, thieves, and of course, the state police and federal police. The dream, the plan was to witness the dawn of the 21st century, in the arms of luxurious women and wine, and to spend their dotage in the same way. They were about to reach that margin, and ten years before the deadline at that too. Now, standing in the middle of all the action, and being the center of attention, these two men, looked at each other and gave a mutual nod. They did not need fake and silly names to call each other during work, their understanding was too deep, and never failing. Except, for just moments before they had just made their ferocious and swift entrance. The guard outside the bank, Rob was supposed to call his attention, and Charles was to dispose him of his life. There was no other way about it, or so said Rob. "We can’t put on the mask before taking care of him. They're gonna see us coming and call the cops. And we can’t let him live, he'll see our faces. Trust me Charlie, it’s the only way." But for the first time in his life, Charles hesitated when snapping someone's neck. Rob darted his eyes back and forth between him and the guard, but when the guard turned around to follow the sight of the stranger before him, Rob did not hesitate to pull out stiletto, and pierce his neck with it. His movements had finesse, and grace, and coldness in it. The warm blood rushed out to color his hands, but he did not let it fall on his suit. He looked at Charles, his eyes reflecting disappointment, but he did not say anything, there would be time for that after. Quickly they put on their mask, and Charles picked up the martyr. A shot was fired, and everyone dropped to the floor. It almost looked rehearsed. This was the genius of Robert Pearson, no one could explain it, but no one could deny it either. His presence, his posture, and his cold stare, could cripple even the toughest of alphas. He could have said something, but he did not need to, everyone knew what he could do, rather what he would do at the very hint of slightest disobedience. Charles put the body down, and let its weight fall on the wall, as his blood kept gushing out, painting red the clean, cold, white marble floor. It seemed he took a second or two to get up, as if to pay his respect to this man, while his jacket sleeves, poured his the dead man's blood drop by drop into the puddle just below. He untucked his jacket, and with a smooth motion, pulled out his shiny silvery gun. Like a shard of glass, it split the sunlight for anyone who gazed on it, and for who did gaze on it, it looked almost holy. But as he stepped forward, and out of the sunlight, the metal seemed to seep out coldness, replacing warmth with fear. In a flash did he smack someone out of the way, and grabbed a small woman, by her nape and put the cold gun against the back of her head. As Charles returned his usual brutal self, Rob couldn’t help but feel more confident, and more pride in his tutelage, and upbringing. He turned to the teller, and made his way to him, without a hurry, like a stroll in the park. He put his gun against the glass window, and casually flung his bags on the counter, then gave a gentle tap on the window. As the sense of the safety and comfort escaped this teller, he could not help but look into the eyes of this white masked man. His eyes conveyed the commands with ease. He made his presence known to everyone in the room without saying a word. His face was never considered to be attractive but he always seemed to attract all attention nonetheless. He looked now at the teller, and he made it known who was in charge here. He was the king, and everyone else present there on that day, his subjects. The teller sensed an apathetic, condescending, and cold amusement in the eyes of his new master. He couldn’t help but stare at the azure eyes piercing right through him. Ever so often he would fumble, and each time he felt like it would be his last, but he could only sense the amusement in the eyes to get more childlike. Like a child, toying with a solitary ant, for amusement, for curiosity, before finally crushing it under his heel, that was what this amusement felt like. He could not help but sympathize with the ant now, being the subject of this torture which lacked the innocence. He did however see how it gave the man before him an ecstatic adrenaline rush, and the very thought of being a part of this transaction made him feel dirty. It was like waking up in the middle of an afternoon nap, one does not know how he came to be awake, just that he is. It was the same way for Rob, when something grabbed his attention, maybe it was a sound, or maybe the shadows moved on the periphery of his eyes. He turned around to a see an unseen scene: Charles as a hostage, that too by some greasy cop flashing his badge with the hand he used to lock Charles by his neck, while other held a black gun to his temple. Rob turned his head halfway, to look at the general direction of the teller, and gave a gentle nod. Even a nod from Rob felt like a threat, and the teller obliged, caring no more who would best who, he did what he was told, like an obedient servant. Rob turned his attention to Charles and this brave fool who would take him as a hostage. Charles rested his eyes as he caught his breath, and Rob felt like he had missed out on an epic showdown, or the fight of the century, in which he would bet on Charles a thousand times over. Looking at Charles now, he did not know why, but he remembered how he was moments before all of this went down. They were in their getaway car, across the street from the bank, waiting for noon to come around, along with their small window of opportunity. He looked over and saw Charles staring in the distance towards the guard he was supposed to take care of. His eyes, like always, were unburdened with thoughts of higher order, simply because it was not his job to do so. He always was an excellent foot soldier. He was pulled back to reality again, as the sound of the screaming cop was being tuned from blurry to clear. This time however, it didn’t feel like a lazy afternoon nap, but more of a slap, snapping him out of this state. He was sure he heard the cop say his name . Paul Wolfe was still a rookie, only on the second month of his job as a beat cop, his career so far was not so stellar. Yet, all one does need is an opportunity. Some wait for the right one, and some create the right one. Here he was, in the middle of an action-movie showdown, a famed beast, now tamed in his headlock, while he had to convince the other to surrender. He could feel his eyes on him, but he didn’t have his attention, his instructions were in vain. Rob showed nothing but blithe, and that was very a trembling thought for him. In that moment he decided to take action, and gain the upper hand so he called out his name. “Robert Pearson, you are under arrest for 18 counts of grand larceny, robbery of 7 AVP banks, one attempted robbery, and one count of murder of Jenny Mason” Like a wounded boar did Charles struggle, a spark lit something tucked away deep within him, at the sound of that name and what had just been said. It pricked him, just like it would prick a lifelong priest to find out his God is a lie, or a man, fiercely religious, plagued with thoughts of taboo. He rejected the possibility of it, and struggled. The sudden motion of this hulking bull, sent panic across the spine of the cop, like it would do to any human being. He focused too much on keeping Charles in the head lock, and he left his other hand a bit too loose. By the time he realized what he had done wrong it was too late, a small knife had already taken flight from Rob’s hands, and it hit him right near the trigger, Charles broke free, and let loose a punch. The hero flew for a second there, losing his consciousness, his final act was to pull the trigger. He had no idea, who it would hit, if it would hit anyone, but it was all he could do, and he did. Charles walked over onto his limp body, grabbed his collar and pulled him up to him. His scent triggered some happy memories in Charles, but he could only feel a sting now. He was about to make this cop an exhibit of his brutality, when a cry for help overcame his anger, he recognized the voice but did not want to face the person it belonged to. At first it felt nothing, and then suddenly, a warm feeling gripped him, right in his guts. Rob went down immediately after that. All he could think was how much he hated this feeling, it reminded him of someone he knew long ago, when he felt warmth of a different kind. Soon things began to fade, it felt like falling into a bottomless pit, perhaps it was not the bullet, it was this life, but he knew this feeling was just there to give his imminent death more meaning. A profound epiphany, a lesson learnt, and then death. With what little he had, he cried for Charles. Then were these little flashes of consciousness, he was in the passenger seat of the car, Charles was driving, pressing a cloth on his wound, and there was a song on the radio, it was about love. When he came to, he saw a farm pass by, he recognized it, it was the interstate, and they were moving towards the safe house. He looked over at Charles, and his eyes were troubled, and then he looked over too. Charles asked Rob a question, and he replied, truthfully, he was too tired not to. Then he fell into the limbo again. Rob was thrown on the ground; that woke him, he managed to get up and sit on his knees, as Charles put a gun on his head. He looked around, they were in a moor, the sun was shining through the tall green leaves into his eyes, they were not much far away from the place where they would be safe. He looked at Charles again and said nothing, neither did Charles, this was not the time to exchange words, it was time for a vendetta. Charles tucked his gun in the blood stained black jacket of his suit, and began to unleash his wrath on his childhood friend. Anger was cathartic to Charles, the way he grew up with Rob, he felt no shame or guilt in it. Rob struggled but it was useless, he tried to reach out for another one of his hidden knives, but Charles knew him too well, not giving him a fair chance. He threw him once again and spread his hands around his neck, choking him, this time without any hesitation. And just when he was about to remove his only family left in the world, he saw something shiny, something small, redirecting the rays of sun into his eyes, blinding him just for a moment. It was a small knife; one which he had never seen before, and it was moving towards him now. It was too fast, and Charles was too slow. It made its way through his eye, and hot blood came rushing out. This time, however, Rob was not able to save his suit neither did he attempt to. The blood dripped on his face while he held the knife tightly. As the entire weight of his friend, and disappointment lay on him, he pushed the former off of him, and Charles lay there in the grass, still pumping out blood and it mixing with the fresh wet soil. He looked once again at Charles, he really looked unburdened by thoughts of higher order. He took a moment, before he made his way to the car. He saw bloodied masks in the back seats through the rear view mirror, and then the corpse of his loyal soldier as he drove away, somehow managing the pain and his reckless driving in that state. Back at the safe house, he mended himself, managing to stop the blood, but the bullet was still buried deep in him. He lay on the couch now, and closed his eyes, meditating and contemplating on that day’s events. The more he thought about it the more tense he got, the more uncomfortable at the thought of it. His pain mattered less and less each moment. His mind paced fast, asking all the right questions now that he was out of danger and safe. Then a cold circle relieved some of the heat from his sweaty forehead. It was the cop, who was just as tense as he was, his eyes looking around and searching for someone, “Where is he? Where is Charles?’ Rob lay there in silence, looking straight into his eyes. “Where is he? Where is Charlie?” The silence made Paul snivel, he knew what had happened, and he knew who to blame. His knees went weak and his eyes teared up, “Where is my Charlie??” his voice broke, and he felt like he would choke on his own guilt. Rob still said nothing, he had learnt a lesson that day: he was not the only one wearing a mask. Paul did too, he just wasn’t sure what it was, only that he would have to bear the guilt for the rest of his life. They rode back the interstate in silence, Rob, cuffed in the back seat, amazed by how little he knew, this was a new feeling for him, the feeling of knowing that he did not know enough, it would take some getting used to. Paul could barely drive, his eyes would water up every few minutes, and he let it all flow over him, like standing against a strong ocean wave, after all he only had this drive left to be himself, for when he reached the destination, he put on his own mask as well. He knew what would follow he got his promotion along with the guilt, and Rob got his sentence, but there was still some time left, the road had not ended. The sun shone brightly, into their eyes, and the radio sang another song of love.

David and Mary quietly sifted through the last of the food items left on the Supermarket shelves. They were not alone. There were several others nearby doing the same thing. At the other end of the store there was a lot of yelling and shots being fired. Mary found a few packets of chips and a can of corn and quickly put them in her rucksack, hoping nobody had seen her. They had already seen an older couple get shot this morning, just because they had a few tins of food. David nodded to her that it was time to get out of there, as it was getting too dangerous. They warily made their way, as quietly as possible, to the exit, slipped through the door and raced across the road and into the trees. They hid behind a large tree for a few moments to make sure nobody had followed. Mary started to shake violently, from fear. David put his arms around her, and told her quietly. “Calm down, everything will be okay!” It had been another brutal day of scavenging for food and clothes, and seeing what the worst of humanity could do to one another. The day before they had found an empty cottage, very unassuming and rundown, not something robbers would be looking at. They headed back there now, avoiding being out in the open as much as possible. “What is going to happen to us, David?” Mary asked as they walked. “I’m afraid at the moment I can’t answer that.” David replied. “I guess, life as it was a month ago, is gone forever, and now we just have to try to survive.” They reached the small cottage, went around to the back door, and waited to make sure nobody was around. David checked the piece of cardboard he had stuck in the door. It was still there, so nobody had tried to open the door. After going inside David securely latched the door from inside, then made sure the front door was still secure. They emptied out the few items of food and stacked most of them in a secret cache, in one of the walls. They sat down on the couch with a can of cola and a packet of chips to share. They dared not put the television or the radio on, for fear of someone hearing them, and they left the lights off after dark. There was just enough moonlight coming through the curtains to be able to see. David thought about all that had happened over the last few months. When Nth. Korea had their elections, they had voted in a dictator, who they found out too late, was crazy. By the time they realised he was out of his mind, it was already too late to stop him. He had done the one thing most of humanity had been dreading for many years. He had pushed the button, sending death and destruction to most of the Western World. Of course they had retaliated, sending their own, to completely wipe out the Nth. Korean nation and many surrounding nations as well. There weren’t too many left that hadn’t been devastated. Fresh food and water were a thing of the past, money was no good to anyone and everyone was out to look after themselves. The worst of humanity had risen it’s head, roaming the streets, violently killing anyone who got in their way. After dark David and Mary sat near the window, where they could see through the curtains, by the moonlight. They watched in silence, as the gangs roamed the streets with guns and fire torches, shooting anyone they happened to come across. David had found an old rifle in the house, but had not had to use it so far. He only found half a dozen bullets, so he had to be sure if he was going to fire it. “If it comes to them or us, I will shoot them!” He told Mary. Mary was devastated, she had not seen or heard from any of her or David’s families, for months, and she feared the worst. “If only I knew that they were okay.” She kept telling David. He had no answers. He was thinking the same, but didn’t want to dwell on what might be. Tonight the sounds of gunfire were very close. David held the rifle, ready to take on anyone who tried to break in. The night went smoothly, but David was woken up early, by Mary urgently nudging him. “David wake up!” she whispered in his ear. “Someone is trying to open the front door!” David sprang to his feet, grabbed the rifle, and held it up facing the front door. In the dim morning light he watched with wide eyes as someone unlocked the door and walked in. “Stay where you are!” he said under his breath. As his sight adjusted to the dim light, he saw an elderly man and woman, in dirty clothes, and covered in cuts and bruises. “Who are you?” the old man asked. “This is our house, what are you doing here?” “We’re pensioners, we have nothing of value for you to steal.” Keeping the gun trained on them, David walked over behind them, then closed and relocked the front door, after making sure they hadn’t been followed. “Sit down.” He said. “I’ll explain what this is all about.” David stood beside the window, watching for anyone lurking nearby, as he explained to the old couple how he had found the cottage empty and they had nowhere else to go. The elderly man looked at his wife. “Okay, I believe you, you’re safe here, and we can do with some company.” He said. “We were at the shopping centre searching for some food, when the whole building started to collapse.” “We ran for our lives and only just got out with a few cuts and bruises.” “We have been slowly making our way back here, trying to avoid the gangs and shooting.” “We saw so many dead and injured people, but we couldn’t stop or we would have become one of the victims.” “It was horrible to watch, as people were shot down, for no reason, other than a coat or a packet of chips.” “One thing I did overhear though.” The old man said. “I overheard someone saying the Army was headed this way, ready to take on any, and all rioters.” “Anyone holding a gun in the street, will be shot on sight.” David’s eyes lit up and a smile cracked his lips. Mary jumped up and gave him a hug. “That’s the best news I’ve heard for weeks!” he said, then laughed. “Actually it’s the only news I’ve heard for weeks!” The old couple had found some fresh oranges and a couple of bottles of water. They added the water to the cache and shared the fruit with David and Mary. The next few weeks went quietly, without incident. A few gangs passed by, but weren’t interested in a dishevelled, run-down cottage. They were headed for the wealthy homes at the top of the bluff. David had sneaked out a few times and came back with some cans of beans and tomatoes, but their small cache of food was almost gone. One night as David sat beside the window, he heard the gangs headed towards them. He held the rifle up ready to shoot, then he realised they were running away, and the Army was after them! The next day a soldier knocked on the door. David opened the door just an inch. “Sergeant Leo here!” “How many in the house please?” “Four.” David replied. “Do you have enough food?” “No, we are just about out.” David said. “If you would all like to come with me, we’ll take you to the shelter, where you can pick up enough food for a week, and anything else you need.” The shelter was a very large distribution shed, with thousands of food packages, hundreds of soldiers and hundreds of people with nowhere to go. After picking up enough food parcels for a week and some clean clothes, they got a lift back to the cottage. The elderly couple were very glad to have some help and some company. It took many months but eventually David and Mary found most of their close family. Sadly, a few had unfortunately lost their lives, and they attended several funerals. They stayed at the cottage, as their own home had been obliterated. David helped clean-up the outside, and eventually repainted the cottage. Mary redecorated inside the cottage, making it more light and airy, and she also did the cooking. They had sadly lost a few family members, but David and Mary had found, in the ashes of the desolation, a new family to cherish for the future.

The sun burned down on my sweat-streaked face as I sprinted around the corner and began the last lap up the mountain. The boy beside me was clearly as tired as myself; his face was flushed dark red and he was breathing heavily, yet he kept on with the same determination. Darn it, would he ever fall behind? All the other kids had dropped out long ago, yet this one kept on. This could present a problem. I put on an extra burst of speed, although all my muscles seem to shriek in protest. I was gasping with the effort now, sweat pouring down my face, heart pounding wildly...I didn’t think I could maintain this pace that long - if only the other boy would drop behind! I risked a glance behind me, and to my utter frustration, the other boy had also increased his speed and was slowly gaining on me. I grit my teeth and forced the last little bit of energy out of my aching legs, but it was no use. He was again in line with me, racing neck-in-neck for the finish line. A shadow fell across my burning face, and I looked up to see that we were passing under a rocky overhang. For a moment, I only thought of how wonderful the momentary shade felt to my aching body, but then another thought entered my mind. This was probably the one spot on the entire mountain where the judges could not see the contestants. I mentally shook myself at the sudden thoughts that rushed into my head. No, a thousand times no, I would not cheat, I would win by my efforts, and my own efforts alone, I didn’t need that, I would do it myself... I glanced across at my companion and realized with a sick feeling in my stomach that he was not slowing down; on the contrary, he seemed to be speeding up. At that my limbs faltered slightly. I could not go any faster, could not force another iota of strength from my burning legs. My throat ached with thirst, my face was on fire, sticky rivers of sweat were pouring down the back of my neck... The temptations came crowding back into my mind thick and fast. It would be so simple, just one little motion, and my competitor would be sprawling in the dust, giving me the few extra moments I needed to pull ahead. Again I resisted. I couldn’t do this, it wasn’t like me, it was wrong, but my leg twitched in spite of myself. I glanced over at my companion and caught the look of determination in his eyes. It was that look more than anything else that made my unconscious decision. This was a boy who intended to win. Almost before my mind was aware that my body was doing anything, I felt my foot reaching out through the suddenly still air, coming in contact with his unprotected leg... He stumbled suddenly, lurching forward, yet even as I began to pass him, he tripped on a large stone, jerked sideways, and plummeted off the edge of the cliff. I came to a complete halt, suddenly incredibly sick. My mind seemed to burst open as the sudden realization of what I had done hit home: I was a murderer. On legs that had suddenly turned to water, I stumbled over to the edge of the cliff and willed myself to look over. I didn’t want to know what had happened, didn’t want to maybe see his crushed and mangled body on the rocks below...My heart was pounding again, but not from running. I looked over, and felt myself suddenly go limp with relief. The boy was not dead; he had miraculously landed on a small ledge just over the edge of the cliff. “Hey, um, you alright?” I heard myself asking, my voice loud in my own ears. The boy looked up. “Yeah, I’m ok, but I don’t think I can climb back up alone.” “No problem. Here, give me your hand.” In a few moments, I had drawn him back onto the cliff and we stood there looking at each other, panting with the recent exertion. I didn’t know what to say; what could you say to someone you had almost killed? I was so wrapped up in my own guilty thoughts that I didn’t realize I was crying until my mouth suddenly stung with something hot and salty. I desperately tried to wipe away my tears before the boy noticed, but I could already feel another one slipping down my cheek. “I’m sorry,” I gasped, completely starting to lose it, “I don’t know what came over me. I’m never like that, I-” Just then a thought flashed through my head, shocking me with its implications. Of course, it was the only right thing to do...But did I have the strength to do it? Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and said in a mostly steady voice, “I know that no amount of apologies will ever make up for almost killing you, but I just wanted to say, you can go first.” The boy looked back at me, and I suddenly realized that he was crying too. He cleared his throat twice, trying to speak, and finally managed, “I just had to say, I’m sorry too.” I stared at him, not comprehending. “What?” “I’m sorry. I almost did the same thing to you.” As I looked into his eyes, I felt something lifting inside me. It was not my fault entirely. I was not the sole cause of a near tragedy; he could have done the same thing. The boy must have seen some of the relief on my face because he smiled suddenly. “So, you see, I don’t really deserve to go first.” I shook my head. “No, I’m not going to go first. You might have considered it, but I actually did it.” The boy looked puzzled for a moment, but then said, “Ok, let’s go together.” The judges had probably never seen such a strange finish to a race, but I didn’t care. As we trooped across the finish line in perfect synchronization, I realized that this was probably the first race I had ever lost. And yet, it somehow didn’t matter; something had changed for me at the edge of that cliff . The delicate thread that holds life and body together had almost snapped in my hands, and forced me to comprehend its value. It had forced me to weigh the importance of my own decisions over the value of another life, shaking my world to pieces in the matter of a few moments. I knew I would never race, would never make any decision in quite the same way again; death had brushed too close for me to ever consider myself in the same selfish way. As I was leaving the racing grounds with my family, I glanced once more at the boy, who was also preparing to leave. Once he became aware of my gaze, he looked up suddenly and gave me a quick half-smile. Yet there was something in his face that seemed different from before....Was it only my imagination, or had the experience so gravely shaken him as well? I tore my gaze away and looked off broodingly into the distance.

&#x200B; **Mother’s Day** I sat crouched in the darkness as the first rays of light broke on the horizon, hidden behind a solid wall of granite. I held the dagger, tightly between my hands, trembling ever so slightly as I scanned the cemetery grounds for movement. “Mom? Why are we in a graveyard, and why do you have the kitchen knife?” Ok, so it wasn’t so much of a dagger but a really sharp chef’s knife. I mean, it was a Wülsthof, so it’s not like it was undagger-like. It was at least German steel, so that made it feel like a dagger to me. All that really mattered was that it was metal and sharp. I scowled a bit as I looked at my son standing there with a flashlight. This was his first time out. Being on cusp of middle school I felt it was reasonable to bring him along - one day he would need to take over this job - if he loved me that is. “Shhh Cy! Just watch” I hissed. I immediately felt badly - it wasn’t his fault he was in such a screwed up family. Hell, it wasn’t my fault either. The least my husband could have done was disclosed what would happen before we brought kids into this. I scanned across the field but there was nothing but headstones, tufts of grass, and old vases filled with dying flowers. I took a moment to contemplate the scene, relaxing just a bit to settle into my awareness. This had become a regular pattern for me over the past decade - each May I spend my weekdays taking the kids to school, doing the laundry, and even enjoying Michigan Spring with a bit of yard cleanup. Then Mothers day weekend would come and I would pack up the kitchen knives, jump in the Ford Flex, and head to the local cemetery at dawn to kill my in-laws. Well, I’m not really sure, now that I think of it, whether I’m actually killing them. Perhaps this is splitting hairs (ha ha!), but when they crawl out of the ground like they do I can’t imagine they’re actually alive. I mean, it sure feels like a zombie/vampire/undead kind of event (at least from my limited tour of netflix shows on the topic), though it doesn’t happen until day break. I don’t really get that either - every show where the undead rise seems to have them coming out at night. I once argued with a girlfriend over this, emphatic that it couldn’t be an undead uprising and that there must be another explanation since it never begins until daylight breaks. She doesn’t talk to me anymore - something about how I project my feelings on my inlaws to justify keeping my kids away from them. Fuck her. “Mom, what’s that?” Cy stammers. He’s right beside me now, leaning up against the big monolith emblazoned with the name “Levine Schroeder”. He’s safe there, Levine was just another dead great great grandpa who happened to die early enough that he was buried at the edge of the family plots. His stone made for a great vantage point of the rest of the field, For some reason you never had to worry about the men in the family coming back to life, only the women. And then, too, only the women who married in. I don’t know if it was a curse or a plague, but it was weird as shit. And ever since I joined the family I’ve been a central actor in this play. I looked down at his hands and saw he was clutching a small red pocket knife - a Victorinox swiss army knife, with its one and half inch blade extended. A smile crossed my lips - that was my boy scout son, always prepared. I brought him out here just to observe, to understand his “heritage” as it were. But silently I was proud that he was ready to to help out - there was a reason I brought him instead of his brother Henry. My eyes darted across the landscape and followed his gaze to a stone roughly fifteen yards away. There was movement, certainly, though in the still breaking light it was tough to tell. It looked like Susan’s stone, a great aunt who was married to my husband’s uncle Alan. “Just watch” I hissed through my teeth to him, and began to move towards the shaking pile of dirt. Despite having only done this for the past ten years or so I had developed a bit of a technique. See, if you move in slow and wait for them to surface their head above the ground you can hit them with one strike and send them back to their grave none-the-wiser that another Mother’s day had passed. Quick and painless (I think!?). What better way to honor a dead ancestor? After I dispatched Susan I went on to Janet and Michelle. Pardon me, Michèle. Supposedly she was French from the countryside, though she died nearly 20 years ago so I never met her (minus the last ten years I’ve been returning her to her grave on M-day, of course). I think I would have liked to have met her though; out of all the corpses crawling out of the ground at me she seemed to have the most lovely vintage clothing, and you just got this sense that she was well put together. I saved grandma Ruth Schroeder for the last. She passed when Cy was just a baby and, while I’m sure he didn’t remember her, I thought it only fitting that I share this experience with him. She was older than the others when she passed, and was slow, so she was an easy kill (or whatever it was I was doing). “Cy, pay attention.” I called to him, still hiding in the shadow of Levine’s stone. “The key is you have to hit them in the head, don’t just hack away at them like a tree.” The minute I said it I rolled my own eyes. Hacking away at undead like a tree. WTF. What kind of world was I living in. I approached Ruth, or what was once Ruth, and eyed her up. She shambled towards me on mission unknown - I’d never let one bite me, or whatever it is they were going to do. Hell, maybe they just wanted to give me a hug. But after all this time I wasn’t going to find out. “The eye is easiest, but anywhere in the head is fine after all this time” I called out, not bothering to look back. I plunged my knife up into Ruth’s skull just between her jaw bones on the right side. The lifeless body fell to the ground and turned to ash like the others. “See, when you do that it’s quick and painless” I continued. I heard Cy shout: “M-MO--” then pain lanced through the left side of my face and everything went dark. I came to with Cy sobbing over me and a headache beyond compare. The sun had risen in the sky and my scout den mother foresting skills told me it was mid-morning. I groaned as I sat up, pain lancing through my face. My hand found dried blood. “Oh Mom!” Cy said, a mixture of joy and desperation bringing him to tears as he grabbed me in a hug only a fourth grader could give. I saw a flower vase on the ground next to me, a twisted kitschy metal container usually attached to cheap grave markers. Next to it was Cy’s knife, sitting discarded in a pile of ashes. Bethany. Shit, I had forgotten. The cancer last year. Damnit. But Cy had my back. So I guess I made it one more year on this side of the graves. I stood up, bracing myself on Cy, and picked up his knife. “We might have to get you a bigger knife” I said, trying my hand at levity. It failed miserably and he started to sob. I picked up my chef's knife and as we walked back to the car I noticed the tip of the knife had broken off. It had been getting old anyways - a wedding present of course - and the handle on the paring knife had long since split. Couldn’t find the bread knife to save my life. Idly I thought to myself that it seemed like a refresh of the cutlery was in order. Maybe I would go down to the Williams Sonoma in the mall this afternoon and see if they had any of those Henckles for a good price. They must have a sale on, it’s Mother’s day after all.

Rich people always seem to think the best kind of couches are the leather ones with those knobby tufts, or the ones with electric recliners in every seat and cupholders and cell phone chargers in between; the ones with the contoured seats that make you feel like you’re getting ready to launch into space or something. But they’re wrong. I can tell you right now, the best kind of couch is one with a deep seat and two long cushions, none of that three cushion business. Two long cushions, at least 80 inches total, and a high back. Nothing ruins a couch like a low back, or you know those back cushions that stay attached? Those are the worst. You’ll never find a harder couch to put a fitted sheet on. And believe me, I know a thing or two about putting a fitted sheet on a couch. Most people who meet me might describe me as a nomad and I guess I can live with that term if I have to, but it’s always made it sound more like this is a choice when... I’m not really sure it is. Sure, I choose where I go next, I choose to up and move when things get rough, but... doesn’t everybody? Maybe not. Maybe this life is not as typical as I feel like it is. Maybe it’s not normal to have to list twelve different addresses in the last seven years when you’re filling out paperwork for a background check, and those didn’t include the basement or the farm or the single month stays. Maybe it’s not normal to have a place you lived at for two months as the address on your driver’s license. Maybe it’s not normal to you, but it’s normal to me. At least... I thought it was. I thought I had gotten used to this. I thought I understood what it was to constantly be surrounded by change; to constantly be on the lookout for cheaper rent, for distant relations with spare rooms, for friends with 80 inch, two-cushion, deep-seat couches. I thought... I thought this was freedom. I have nothing to tie me down. I work the jobs that get me through; the jobs that teach you good and well what type of person you want to be, and it’s whatever those customers are not. I’ve got a car with about 75k miles more on it than normal and a tow hitch I installed myself. I never grow roots deeper than friends with couches. I move enough that I don’t even have to ask for boxes anymore; everything I own is in plastic bins. Now let me tell you something about plastic bins. Everybody seems to think those big, heavy-duty ones are the way to go, but I’m here to say that if all you are getting are the big, heavy-duty ones, you’re going to hit a lot more trouble when you have to TETRIS those things into the back of your car and the smallest U-HAUL trailer available. Besides, you don’t want a giant bin of books to lug around; do you know how heavy books are? They’re right about the heavy duty, though. Don’t skimp out on your plastic or it’ll skimp out on you. Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I always say. Not to anybody in particular, mostly just to myself. It’s the type of thing I would say in a podcast if I ever did one of those. I’ve thought about it, definitely, and I’ve even had friends tell me we should start one together, but... well, the thing about couch-deep roots is that they hardly ever last long enough for a podcast. That’s another thing about couches. Everybody has one. Everybody needs someplace to sit; everybody has a couch. And when the couch breaks or wears out, you get a new one. You take off the legs to get it through the door and, even though it’s probably a bit uncomfortable and it takes a bit of doing, you get it out eventually and a new one goes in. And the old one is taken to the curb. Not in a resentful sort of way, necessarily; not with malice. Most people will flop down one final time, pat the couch on the back, thank it for its work, and then go back in to enjoy the new one. Every once in a while, they’ll think of the old couch and how it had that one spring sticking out that would catch your pants if you shifted the middle cushion just wrong, or the three missing tufted buttons, or the busted arm that sort of hung off a bit wonky. But once it’s gone, it’s gone. Who knows where it went after it disappeared from the curb? We think about it sometimes, but it’s not like anybody is going out of their way to track it down, even if they see its posts on Facebook and have its phone number. Well, that’s couch-deep roots for you. It’s alright though, everybody loves a new couch, and once you show up somewhere else, it’s like you were never on the curb to begin with. And it repeats. And I thought that was freedom... but the longer it goes, the more I catch myself wondering... if I’ve only trapped myself in some cyclical sequence. Because no matter where I go; no matter who I meet or how easy it is to get the fitted sheet to fit the couch, I end my days restless and wanting. I tell myself I want to travel; I want to leave again; I want to disappear. But is that the whole truth? Is there more to this wanting? Maybe what I want is something more than couch-deep roots. Maybe if I just stayed in one place for a while... learned last names, met a neighbor, chose a dentist... maybe then, I wouldn’t want to leave. Maybe loneliness sometimes wears a mask that looks like freedom. But maybe someday, I’ll be the one with the couch. 80 inches at least , no more than two cushions, deep seat, of course. Maybe then, the loneliness will subside; maybe then the restlessness will ease. Maybe then I’ll wake up one day on an actual bed with a fitted sheet and maybe then I will earnestly say... I’m free.

Gazing out my office window, I decided it was too nice of a day to sit eating lunch in my office. Plus, I needed a break from my desk phone and email. Grabbing my leftover coffee and my packed lunch, I head down the steps and leave my office building. I walk into the courtyard that sits next to some sidewalk vendors. They too are out enjoying the lovely weather in hopes of drawing in customers. I decided it really was a nice courtyard with several benches, memorial plaques, tables, chairs, and umbrellas all surrounded by beautiful flowering trees, manicured bushes, and flowers. I silently chastise myself for not enjoying this scenery more often. I tend to get engrossed with my work and realized my step count and neck and shoulder pain were tell-tale signs of this. Maybe I’ll go for a stroll too, I could use the leg stretching. But first, hunger prevails . Opening my lunch, I remove my chicken salad wrap, yogurt, and carrots. I dig in as I realize I’m hungrier than I thought as my stomach starts to growl in anticipation. I eat, enjoying the nice breeze and sunshine. If I had a hammock...an after lunch nap wouldn’t be all that bad in lieu of a walk. Sighing, I finish my yogurt and swig the last of my leftover coffee. I need to get some water to chase the coffee down. Thinking I’ll go to a vendor I decide to buy a bottle of water rather than head back inside to my office...besides, I see my favorite quiet crush working today at the bookstore cafe. I grab my trash and phone just as I hear an electronic ping. This could either mean another email or something else. Sighing, I look down at my phone and realize it isn’t an email, but a notification from a dating app stating that someone is interested in me. Ah dating apps. They are a humorous new way to get yourself back out in the dating scene. Mostly comic relief for me. I open up the notification and scroll to the interested party. Sandy blonde wavy hair, chocolate brown eyes with a hint of mischief that you could get lost in. Ball cap in one pic, riding a bike in another, holding a puppy (perks) in another, enjoys working out, quiet nights in and home projects. Mathew is worth the like. He states that he also works and lives in town. Another perk. Feeling brave, I decided to send him a message...”I am impressed with your profile. You have nice eyes”. I type out. Pretty standard response. Oh please be real and not a robot... Not expecting a response back, I settle back in my chair and enjoy the sun. Ooh this sun is making me so very drowsy...ugh my eyes are heavy... I hear another ping, and looking down at my phone, I open the app. There are bubbles as I can see he’s typing a response. “Gee thanks!” He replies. “I’m kind of new to the dating app scene and thought I’d give it a whirl. I see that you too are in my town. What sort of fitness activities/extracurricular activities do you enjoy? I see from your profile that you run and also bike. Plus you like dogs. You seem great in my book! And btw, you have great eyes too!” Leaning back in my chair I debate a response. He seems perfect. Definitely has a handsome face. “Thank you!” I replied. “That is very kind of you. I do enjoy running but not long distances anymore. I just do it for stress relief. Power walking and hiking with great scenery and biking are also things I enjoy. Love lifting weights too. So how long have you had your dog? I’m a sucker for dog lovers. So, since you live in town, maybe we could meet somewhere casual and public and see where things go?” I’m amazed at my bravery, but I was feeling bold with Mr. handsome face dog lover. After a few more message exchanges, we decided to meet up Saturday for a fitness hike and a casual lunch in an open outdoor restaurant. Saturday comes and I look forward to meeting Mathew aka handsome face dog lover. We soon hit it off. It was really easy to talk to him and I very much enjoyed our time together. Our Saturday afternoon came to an end, but we agreed to go back out Saturday night. This time to a nicer restaurant and a movie. We met again, and truly enjoyed the movie. We laughed, talked and went to get coffee. Just as I’m walking to my car, he gives me a hug then grabs my hand and says he has truly had a great time and hopes to continue seeing me. I tell him I’d like that. He reaches for my face and pulls me close...in for a kiss. I can feel his face and his lips on mine. He kisses me and I lean in for more. His kisses are becoming wet. Rather wet. Like... dripping on my hand. ***************************************************************** What in the world? Is that slobber on my hand? Eww. It’s at this moment I startle myself and shake my head, realizing that I had fallen asleep in my chair in the sun in the courtyard and drooled on my hand that was propped up against my face. I quickly look around to see if anyone saw me and feeling like a fool, I try to compose myself. It was such a nice dream too! Oh well. Mr. Matthew aka dog lover in the dating app seems to have vanished from responding back to me. Just as well. I never have luck with these things anyway. Thirsty. That’s what I remembered before I drifted off to sleep. I need water. Oh yes....I was going to go grab a water bottle from the bookstore cafe and my quiet crush. I walk up to the cafe, and again notice that my quiet crush is busy working the lunch crowd. He may not notice me. But I’ve noticed him for a while. He always seems so nice to everyone and so helpful. I overheard him saying one day to a customer that it’s his 2nd job while going to pre-med. So he’s also a hard worker. It’s no surprise that I’ve got a quiet crush on him. Sandy blonde wavy hair, chocolate brown eyes you could get lost in. Sometimes wears a ball cap. Appears to work out. Maybe I’ll actually talk to him this time... I wonder if he likes dogs?

And yet another day. 7:00 AM, time to wake up. There’s this deep and uneasy feeling in the deepest depth of my chest, nothingness. Same as everyday I suppose. Shower today? Mmmm, nah I don’t feel like it. That’s totally okay, there's nothing wrong with skipping a few days worth of showers. The picture of Mom and Dad on the nightstand looks particularly sad today- miss them. Stepping out of bed was just as hard as it is any other day. Breakfast today? Mmmm, no I’m okay. You sure? It’s been a while since we’ve eaten anything. Yeah, I’m sure. Not really hungry anyways. What day is it today? Oh! Right, it’s Sunday. Or The Lord’s day as mom would call it- miss her a lot. Wonder what’s on TV today. 10:30 AM. We’ve been watching TV for a while, it’s a nice day outside. Maybe we should go for a nice drive to the cliff for a nice view of the ocean. You know what? I actually like that idea a lot. Let's do it! Hmmm what to wear? Let’s go with this nice light blue button up and this pair of khaki shorts! Mmmm, nah I think I’ll leave in these sweats and a hoodie. You sure? It’s going to be pretty warm out soon. Yeah the heat doesn’t bother me much. Oh, alright. 11:00 AM. Ohh, I just love nice long drives. Especially when our destination is so great and beautiful! We should listen to some music on the way! Mmmm, I think silence is good for now. Maybe in a little bit though. Oh okay. 12:15 PM. Boy it’s hot out here ain’t it? We should take this hoodie off at least. Why? I feel fine. Oh okay, nevermind. This view sure is beautiful don’t you think?! I wish we could be here everyday just to watch the waves dance among themselves and to listen to the seagulls yell at each other all day, ohhh and this smell! The salty ocean scent is so refreshing isn’t it? Yeah, it reminds me of home. I sure do miss mom, wish she were still here. Let’s get a closer look at the waves shall we? Ohhh yes please! I love watching them crash against the cliffside! The grass feels weirdly soft today, I wonder why. Hey, this is a little bit too close to the edge for me. Can we step back a little bit? Oh no, this is fine. We’re safe here. Oh okay. I feel numb. Hey, why are we crying? I don’t know, the world is so beautiful. We should go for a swim. Ohhh I love swimming! But this is a long way down, we could get hurt. I’m sure we’ll be fine. No I don’t think we will. Hey, did we take our meds today? Oh yeah, I must’ve forgotten. We should go back home then, the doctor said we need to take them everyday. Okay, just a few more hours here then we’ll leave. 5:00 PM. Back home finally! Let’s take those pills! Yeah yeah yeah, I know. Yuck, I hate this taste. Yeah me too. We should call dad! I’m sure he’d love to hear from us. Maybe tomorrow. Ohhh let's book a flight home to see him! You know we don’t have that kind of money right now. Oh, right. We should just go to bed okay? We had a long day. But I’m not tired yet? Well I am. Oh okay. I always forget how soft these pillows are! They’re alright I guess, please be quiet. Let’s sleep now. Hmph, fine. Hey, can we please call dad tomorrow? I miss him. Sure, maybe. Awesome! Goodnight! Night. 7:00 AM, time to wake up. The deep feeling in my chest remains. And yet, another day.

Once, there lived an old farmer who spent most of his time ploughing the field ensuring good cultivation of crops with every single precautions he possibly could have taken, so that the possibility of crops being harmed by any insects was suppressed to its least magnitude. His motives behind the hard work he did everyday in bright and extremely hot conditions set by the sunlight, were not for his own sake, but for both the grandchildren of his, who were the only members he was left with in his family. The old man worked without any procrastination just to feed both of his loved ones. He didn't want his grandchildren to ever experience the feeling of not being able to feed themselves, unlike him - himself who spent his youth in search for food and barely got something because of some kind people who didn't discriminate between rich and poor. The grandchildren on the other hand, considered him a fool for working too much and they had a prejudice of generation which led them to have a brain filled with errors, discrimination and hatred. They often behaved rudely with the old man like they didn't even care if the old man took a relieved breath or not, and unfortunately the old man was too kind to scold them, so the only thing he did in response was the act of leaving or sit quietly as tears ran down his eyes in despair, but even though he faced this kind of plight, he never backed down from working and ensuring good health for his grand children. Not only was he treated like nothing, but also he had no-one to share his emotions and feel respected, except his good-old friend, Raman, who also was a farmer. Whenever, the old man faced rudeness and mischief of the grandchildren, Raman scolded the children, if possible, and then to cheer up the old man's mood, Raman took him to his (Raman's) house, so that both of them can appreciate the delicious food cooked by Raman's sister, who used to make the food with pure affection and cautions. Several years after, came a time when Raman left his best- friend, sister, and the unholy land of Earth, to permanently take his position in heaven. The old man was really sad about his loss of friendship and brotherhood shown by the most kind friend he ever met, Raman. On the other side, Raman's sister started to live her life with constant tears shredding from her eyes and her soul. Now considering the situation, the old man became in charge of an additional person, Raman's sister, whom he started taking care, and giving equal amount of affection towards her, just like his grandchildren. He took the responsibility, but the bones were too weak to hold his commitment, and eventually, the old man started to experience problems in his health, resulting him to only exist, and nothing else except that. The mischievous grandchildren didn't seem to have changed their views and they behaved the same way they always did. Seeing this, the one and only person who cared about the old man made her mission to collect as many edibles as she can. She worked in the fields and begged other people for food but the only things she gained was one person's food, and nothing. She tried convincing the children who were now in their youth, to help her collect food but they instantly denied it. The food which was collected by her everyday, was always taken from her by the cruel children to satisfy their own hunger regardless of the old man's health. The poor woman couldn't keep up with the increasing depth in the ill condition of the old man, and as a result, they both died one after the other, in a short period of time, but maybe that was not that bad after all, because at that point, casualties became casual to them. After the death of both, the grandchildren always fought each other to decide who would collect food which was like spending the whole day in planning what to do that same day. Then, they unwillingly started working together in the fields, and not even within 5 days, they understood what a drag it was to always stay in the field with the shining sun-rays pointing directly towards their eyes. They understood how difficult time their grandfather had in his lifetime and they extremely regretted their behaviour with a disappointment they felt in themselves, and they started to appreciate the greatness of their grandfather, his friend Raman, and Raman's sister, but does their undying love even matter after the death of all the great people they started cherishing now? of course not.

Their silence kills me, The dead gaze in their eyes. Do they live timidly? Have they drank their minds away? I once knew them, but then I left home for awhile. Loving and burning my way through my youth. I returned home an older man, they saw this themselves amongst their own wrinkled face. No parade, no song, and no kisses. Without response at my every effort for a fresh “Hello”, it tires my heart. Always amongst themselves in the wood line, their little tribe encircles all of me aside from my small vein to the rest of the world. Watchful eyes peer onto me, like knives into my skin. They do not utter a word, no dare to toss a stone, never a finger to leave their side. In my dreams they feast and dance on my grass under the full moon, I’m no where to be found I dread that I am the fire burning. Maybe these are nightmares, note to self, less wine before bed. Day by day I tend to my humble cabin, Without a woman’s touch i make a rough apple tart from the grains I grow and the apples that fall from wood line. I dare not pick what has not fallen in my respects. I attempt to look for someone as I near the border of our existence. “Hello?!” But not a breath exchanged. I walk the apples home to be sorted. Painting most days with my lunch, making new colors from ground up flowers and brushes from various rodents donated by my lovely feline. As I finish each canvas I leave it out for a full day in hopes for a response. Nothing. Slander me at least! But no, they leave me unbothered. It hurts the art. Yet one after the other I continue. I obsessed to evoke them, beginning to kill my own rodents as I frayed my brushes to their ends. Yanking fistfuls of roots, a massacre of wildflowers in the summer sun. I had finished my stock of wine before the solstice nearly sleeping on the hill each night. My hands now raw and blistered from the craft and sun, I struggled to make my final stroke dropping the worn brush off the edge of the hill. Unable to walk the distance home, I had my mule drag me on a slip of leather with a rope harnessed to his shoulders. I hugged my tools inside my arms watching the canvas disappear from sight, my boots dragging through the grass. I grinned with content at the marvel of my final piece. My tools were retired in a hole, burned with a bottle of my cheapest spirit, pulling from the bottle before it was gone. The fire kept my chest warm against the cold summer night. I looked for anyone peeking at the art but not a soul to be found. I stood up dropping my bathrobe from my shoulders. I took a step into flame until pulled back down to the ground. A woman with dark hair and eyes knelt next to me. Her hair had been up, but she let it down, the hair falling at her breast’s. On my chest she laid my brush from before. With a single finger she stopped me from uttering a thank you. She rolled me back up in my robe and held me as we watched the fire burn through the full moons glow. Song and dance echoed from the wood line, plumes of smoke whisked away in the wind. I cried myself to sleep like a little boy against her warm breast. By morning she had gone. Nothing but a drunken dream, fooling myself. I rode my mule across the pasture to the edge of my hill. The easel erect but naked without the canvas. I braved a brief ride into the wood line only to find it barren and deserted, as if the soil was unbothered. I rode through the pasture in tears once more, the easel in my left arm. The tears were of joy. An emotion had finally been stirred in them. I had been released. No more shackles on my mind. No more silence as the wind spoke to the drums in my ears. No more of there ego. All holds have disappeared. I was ready to leave once again, and so the mule carried me out onto the road where I cut him loose slapping his large rear towards home. Stuck out my thumb against the horizon and hitched a truck bed outward bound to let loose once more. It helps the art.

That day was supposed to be like any other and my curiosity as a child created grand ideas of a magical adventure. Were there goblins hiding under the city well? When will I be able to learn magic? I picked up a stick with my right hand and started to wave it around like I saw in that one movie. I had hoped a spell would come out, but the only thing the stick did was make a swish noise through the air. I noticed another sound as well, the sound of dripping. I had my mind focused on a lot of things and didn’t notice my melting popsicle! It soon slipped off the stick and became food for ants. I had wished a melting treat was my biggest worry that day, but I was wrong. I was in the fenced-in backyard of my house when it happened. I saw a thick plume of smoke coming from somewhere in the city. Was there a fire? I thought. Sirens soon started to blare from firetrucks and disappeared into the distance. I was about to forget about it when I heard another noise. It was the muffled sound of guns firing in the city! Fear and anxiety overwhelmed me as I looked on with horror. More and more buildings started to smoke as they eventually ignited into flames. I could see the devastation from the suburbs while another horror came to mind. My parents were in the city! I didn’t have long to decide what to do as I noticed something speed towards my house from the sky! I mustered up the courage to run, and run I did. I was able to get inside my house when it struck. Everything went black soon after as I lost consciousness. *** That was the last memory I had of my old life. They say that day was the day World War Three started. I had long since forgotten the cause of it. Even though It was finally over after all these years, the devastation of the pure chaos still left a wound on the world. The fate of humanity relied on the future, but the horrors of the past called me back. I was standing in that same yard where my old life stopped, while the hellish one began. The grass was overgrown, and thick vines crept up the side of the house and fence. However, the thing that stood out the most was the massive hole where the backdoor used to be. I suffered severe injuries that day but was eventually nursed back to health. I never understand why they helped me; maybe they wanted to condition me into the perfect warrior. Regardless, I fought well and hard. I was happy the chaos came to an end, but it felt like I was still grasping at dust. I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. I thought this city could provide me some direction. I stepped into the house and looked around. The windows were shattered, with broken glass littering the floor. Nature had swept in from the massive hole and covered nearly everything in green. As I looked at the living room, memories flooded in of movie nights filled with laughter and fun. I remembered the feeling, but it felt foreign and strange. I looked around once again and saw something that nature hadn’t reclaimed; it was our family picture. I picked up the frame and wiped the dust off. A ten-year-old me was in between my mother and father as we all smiled. None of us ever thought something like this would happen when we posed in front of the camera all those years ago. I never got to say goodbye. I set the picture down and looked around once more. I saw the entrance to my bedroom and stepped in with a hint of hesitation. I walked in with my eyes closed and only opened them after a long moment. The view that reached my vision wasn’t what I expected! Much of it was how I left it as various action figures populated the shelves while posters adorned the walls. I sat on my bed and grabbed a nearby comic. I blew thick dust off the cover and flipped through the pages. I never really understood these superheroes, but I loved the pictures back then. After a while of reading, I sat up and put the comic down. It was nice to remember the past, but I needed to search the city before it got dark; I was looking for something. I got out of the room and exited the house using the front door. As soon as I stepped out, a cold breeze swept through the empty street. I got out my map and had to hold onto it tightly as the wind tried to take it away. I traced the route to the city and headed towards it with anticipation and fear of what I might find. Like a slowly marching caterpillar, I advanced towards the city step by step. I could always see the tall skyscrapers from the suburbs, but stepping right up to them made me feel smaller than any ant. I was now at the mouth of the abandoned city and scanned my surroundings. Multiple buildings were charred black and had crumbling supports. The roads weren’t any better as rusted cars cluttered them. I took out my map once again and focused on my destination. There was an old general store around here that I was trying to find. I carefully compared the map with the city and planned out a route. The debris of fallen buildings and pilled up cars required me to make a detour. With my map in hand, I cautiously navigated the apocalyptic jungle. The sounds of my footsteps clashed against the forgotten city and reminded me I was truly alone. Places like this appealed to me as a kid, but that was before the war gave them any meaning. Now, they served as a reminder of the death and destruction that took place. I weaved and shuffled my way through the city before I finally came up to a square building. I checked my map to verify if this was the right place. The shopping building was scorched but was in good shape overall. I stepped forward with a tense body and entered it. A little bit of light spilled in from the outside, but it wasn’t enough to light up everything. I fumbled through my pack and brought out a flashlight. I turned it on and shined it through the empty void. At first, there was nothing. Empty shelves and boxes littered the floor. I carefully stepped over them and walked towards the back of the store. The dust was slowly cascading through the beam of my flashlight; It was so thick that I ran into something. I waved my hand through the air to clear the dust. That was when I saw it, a skeleton! It was still wearing its work clothes as if business was still open. You didn’t deserve this, none of us did. I stepped around the skeleton and the ones that came after. I eventually made it towards the back of the store and stood before a locked door. I made an audible gulp as I took a key from my pocket and struggled to open it. My hands were shaking slightly, but I was able to unlock it. Click ! The door opened with a creak as I stepped inside. The rectangle room wasn’t as spacious as I remembered. I scanned around with my flashlight, hoping I wouldn’t find anything. I had almost searched the whole room when I found something I didn’t want to. In the far-left corner of the room were two skeletons! They were clutching onto an old photograph; it was a copy of the same one we had in our house. I fell to my knees as an emotion I hadn’t felt for a long time welled up inside me. I had hoped that they were able to get out somehow. I always feared it, but never got the chance to see for myself until now. I sat there for a while as the tears streamed down my face. I was overwhelmed with sadness but felt slightly relieved at the same time. Now I could say goodbye. I got up and walked over to my parents. I wouldn’t let this be their final resting place. I carefully moved their remains outside and towards the back of the building. I went back inside for a shovel and started to dig. The wind blew away any tears that tried to form. I didn’t know how long I had dug for, but I knew it was enough when a large grave started to form. I carefully placed them into the grave along with the picture they were holding. Bit by bit, I covered the hole with dirt. It was harder than anything I had done in the war. I filled the grave in the end and said two things. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, you can rest easy now.” With my last words, I slowly turned around and headed out of the city. I finally got to say goodbye.

She stood at the granite counter-top, slowly and carefully chopping the carrots. The recipe called for them to be cut julienne, something she always had difficulty achieving- these were turning out much more cube-like; squat and thick, as opposed to the long, elegant cuts the recipe mandated. She frowned and lowered the volume of the podcast that was emitting from her nearby phone, as though the noise was hindering her concentration. It wasn’t- and even if it were, she didn’t really need to concentrate at all. She’d already reread the text four times, each time scouring it as if some sort of new information would appear. *“It still hasn’t hit me yet! I feel like I have to see it before I can get excited. Please work with him and make sure I have my nails done before he does it lol”* She felt her eyes tearing up and she widened them, hoping the air would dry them. She knew she must have looked deranged, standing at the counter with a butcher knife, surrounded by mutilated carrots, and bulging her eyes out as far as they would go. In spite of herself, she gave a small chuckle. She straightened up when she heard him approaching from the hallway- as much as she prided herself on how open they were with each other, this was one thing she was NOT going to tell him. It was already an open wound on their relationship and she didn’t want to remove the Band-Aid. Just the week before, she had cried to him (on him, really) regarding this very thing. It had been a completely different couple that time, but it hurt all the same. *“It’s just a piece of paper,” he’d said. He took her hand and squeezed it. “Why does it matter so much? We will one day, just not right now. I’m still paying off student loans and finishing school. It doesn’t make sense for us.”* *She took her time to respond, weighing each answer that crossed her mind. “If it’s just a piece of paper, then why not? Especially when you know how much it matters to me?”* In the end, they both agreed to table the discussion for another day when they (she) weren’t so emotional; it was a shaky but welcomed armistice. They weren’t used to fighting and it felt unnatural. It hadn’t always bothered her- she prided herself on being independent- but it had somehow eroded her over time. As the years came and went and they both got older, each engagement started to sting with an increasing intensity. Family members that used to inquire about their future plans had stopped asking altogether- something that both pleased and saddened her, as if even distant family members realized it wasn’t going to happen. So, no. She wasn’t going to tell him. She would make a point not to, partly out of pride and partially from a desire to maintain the peaceful status quo they’d achieved. “Well, hey there! Need a hand?” He had walked up to her and wrapped his arms around her back, pulling her hair from her neck. He gave her a small kiss on her the top of her head. “I’m good, but thank you.” She forced a smile, looking away so he wouldn’t notice her eyes. She wasn’t sure if they were still red. She felt his eyes studying her and purposely avoided his gaze, pretending to busy herself with the carrots again. Eventually he gave up and walked away, heading back to the living room. “B?” She asked, setting down the knife and turning towards him. He looked back at her and stopped. “Yeah?” She thought for a second. What would she even say? That it was happening to their friends again, and how happy she was for them? That even though she was sad and scared and now almost certain it wouldn’t happen for her, that she still wanted them to be happy? Or that maybe he was right all along, and this yearning desire was just the result of being brain-washing by the wedding industrial complex. That weddings were stupid and a waste of money- it didn’t matter in the end, as long as they were together. Or she could tell him the truth. That his reasons were valid, and she understood them. But it hurt that after all these years, she still hadn’t been “picked.” That she worried that he only agreed to it as an abstract idea, and would always find a reason to put it off. That she was getting older, and it wasn't fair to keep her waiting. “I forgot what I was going to say,” she said, forcing a laugh. She turned back to the counter and began chopping the carrots. They were still coming out cubed, but maybe after enough practice they would look like they were supposed to.

Strangling limbs cover any sight of my plastic. Seas of fluorescent green, chrome, red, blue, white, bright yellow and matte black swirl above my painted-on eyes. Slightly, soft streams of night light blue and warm gold-bulb drip between the narrow gaps. I can't breathe. I am drowning. Waves of hardened coloured oil brushes against my skin - coloured and textured like a uniform. Like a uniform which isn't mine, this isn't my skin, I can't take it off even if I tried. I was burnt, melted and frozen in the wrong shape. Material meant for long dandy stilt legs; squeezed into blocky tight lumps. Material meant to be plain so I could have flare, stained by dull patterns and dark colours. Material meant to be elsewhere. The long halls of metal logoed trees; row after row reaching up constantly. Stilts of iron reflecting behind themselves over and over and over. Such sore scaring images of where I was bought. Clear but impenetrable solid walls separate this flood of silently proud play things from touching the grass of wool. Masses of mustard cream fields stretch from the wall to the tall moving mountain. I scramble through the bodies. I was burnt, melted and frozen in the wrong shape. Tall, skinny and plain coloured. Curved, slender and dazzling. To be dressed up in flowing dresses with plastic dogs yapping at my plastic heels. To be pink and drink from imaginary cups. Not grey and damaged from real action. Peering passingly through the glass outwards to the room of my buyer. The one who puts me here after having his fun with me. I gasp for air as I reach the surface. He sleeps in black and white circle framed bed with posters of those in here bolted religiously on the wall. A shrine to them, the thing he wants me to be. I wish I was sometimes. At least I wouldn’t feel wrong, this alien about this feeling... Eyes and mouths and ears and grins and stares. I am surrounded. Watching, with all their attention, quiet crawling of sight picking me apart before they even grab me. I slowly, gently, swam through the sea to the shoreline . They are following me. Their drawn expressionless eyes follow my every small jolt forward. They are following me. Little claws, fingers, fist and guns raise to my movement. They are following me. I hear them in their heads. Welcome to the 'glorious' marine Corp of forever war land. We are all soldiers, dying for the child maniac god. Because that's our purpose, we live to fight, to die, to play, to die, to fight, to die... That's the mantra of this box. We are either allies or enemies. Doesn't matter if we like it or not. I grab the hard transparent sand. The clawing, gnarling, snarling sound behind me inspires a leap of faith into the long strides of cotton. I am brought into the warm embrace of fabric. Is this it? I wonder. Do I feel different? I ask myself. What now? I ponder. Tiles of stone. One foot by one foot and repeat outwards. Fitting the pattern of the design endlessly further than the inked eyes can glare. Maybe the right hand is where I should be. The house of dreams with those I wish to look like. Will they be welcoming despite my design flaw? I bravely venture out. Pushing passed the glades. Pacing strongly. Onwards to the mountain which moves. Bright golden rays line the opening. A gap. A hole. A way out. It'll do. Give me pink. Give me roses. Give me fairy lights. Give me a pool of glitter. Take my gun. My poor skin. My shape. The light dangles from the sky above like a falling sun. Cream roots like ropes hang the star above. Large royal sized frames encrusted on the solid plane walls. The paintings of gods from the steel eye leaves their likeness still in the ink. Are they watching me? The thought stops me in my tracks and I freeze. A shiver overcomes me. What if they are right and I am just designed to fight the make believe war for the rotten little ruler. My painted eyes felt almost as if they’d fall off. I dreamt of a dreamhouse. Not the box. But before the build up could run off the paint I see something else in the picture though. Gentle, kind, soft eyes. Rosey chump cheeks, long flowing locks of bright blonde. Narrow pointy chinned face. Bright pink plump pronounced lips. And holding her was another god. A kinder one maybe. Maybe she will play with me the way I was supposed to be. A determination and reassessment set me back on my path onwards. Even if these gods see me they see that I am going to them. Onwards through smaller glades of cotton coloured in deep red and dark purple. I come to another mountain as I end my travel through the world between worlds. This one was wide, welcoming. Glitter on the walls. Hanging photos and there is the sleeping god. Resting draped in fluffy clouds and sleeping on a plastic long throne fitted with an adorably small but jewelled tiara. I really hope she is kind and not cruel like the boy-god of war. I'm here, I'm where I was supposed to be. Finally, Relief passes into me finally for once. I gaze upon the pink castle, pink cars and pink slide. Pinstripe walls like waterfalls of shallow indigo. Glades of grey cotton almost pull me in further. A white unicorn with long bright rainbow hair strides up to me. I'm home! The welcome party of long dolls exit the dream house and look at me. I'm home. But their expressions are dull, uninviting and piercing. Cruel and disgusted. I would have hoped they’d be kind but they are as hurtful in their judgement over my faults as the war crazies in the box. But, at least it's home...

BANANA JOE.[Bananas are for eating] Joe Keen was seven years of age and felt that he was his own man, in charge of the house when his father was absent. He still had a lot to learn about people and places. One day he had the television on loud in the sitting room. Sarah his mother had a headache, she did not mean to shout at Joe. “You’re driving me bananas.” What is that supposed to mean? ’’Bananas grow in Jamaica; teacher showed us the map at school.’’ “Don’t argue Joe.” Replied, his mother Sarah. It was so hard being a one parent family with Joes father away at sea. Keeping a job down to fit in with Joe’s school; hours. Joe was an intelligent and popular lad at Merryvale School. She would regret shouting at him. It was not his fault she had a headache. Later she would give him an extra cuddle and take him into town to try on the new trainers he liked at Hills Store. Once her headache had ceased, Thinking about things, Joe made his way to see Nick two doors away Nick was polishing his car a blue Mustang. “Mom says I’m driving her bananas.” “Do not worry son your moms probably having a bad day adults say strange things sometime without thinking, if their not well. Bananas are good for you look at the nice banana cake Ethel my wife makes.” You always enjoy Ethels cakes Joe. “Yes, and bananas come from Jamaica there are yellow and green ones.’’ “Yes, there are all nice and ripe,” said Nick. “Then why did Mum say that?” “Well sometimes people say the first thing that comes into their heads. She probably thought about a bunch of bananas, did you do anything to upset her Joe? “I had the telly on.” “Well maybe it was too loud?” I have heard people say “You’re driving me bananas if they don’t like something.” Joe went quite trying to see the reason behind Nicks wise words. After all he was only seven and the whole incident having his mother shout had taken him by surprize. “So that’s it?” I never meant to upset my mom, like that Nick. “Yes.” Son that is it your mother will rest and feel better when you get home. You can always help with the car and visit Ethel and myself. “Thanks Nick.” “That’s ok son.” Nick then smiled and patted Joe on the back, handing him a sponge to use on the car, Joe helped Nick clean the car. He enjoyed the company of Nick, watching the lather trickle down the car windscreen. It was hard work and Nick made that old Mustang shine. Sometimes they went out together in the old car, and people stared when the car blew out blue smoke. Today Joe stayed for tea with Nick and his wife Ethel. There was no Banana Cake. Joe had settled for coffee and Ginger cake instead. Nick and Ethel were his best buddies. They always found time for him, explaining, and showing him things, in story books, cars and any other things Joe felt that he needed to know about. Maybe when he grew up, he would become a car mechanic like Nick. A smile appeared on Joes small face. After tea with Nick and Ethel, Joe made his way home. Sarah, gave Joe a big hug “Sorry I shouted at you.” That is fine.” replied Joe. Hugging his mother back, he knew she would not stay angry for long. They went for walks together weekends. Sarah had showed him squirrels and how to use his new library card in the library to learn from books. Later lying awake in bed that night Joe thought about his day, well that is something new to tell teacher there are two types of bananas the ones you eat and the ones that get you cross. When Joe had gone Nick was deep in thought he hoped he had helped Joe. Ethel had agreed that it was difficult to make a small boy understand, adults sometimes. They both knew that Joe would come through okay. They were always there to give advice. Sarah did not have it easy with Joes Pa away in the navy. Maybe next time she would be more careful what she said to Joe? Growing up an only child wasn’t easy for the lad. Although when his father came on shore leave the three of them went every where together. Such a shame that sometimes the lad’s father was away months at a time. He and Ethel were always there to give a helping hand with Joe if needed. Three days later Sarah had been called into the head teachers office at Joes prep school, she had said how sorry she was about shouting at Joe and would be more careful with her choice of words, regarding what she said in future to Joe. Mr Prince the head knew Joe came from a good family and that no harm had been intended. He could not have, Joe going around school telling others they were bananas. He smiled once Sarah had left the office it was all in a day’s work. His thoughts went back to Joe trying to explain to his form teacher that there were angry bananas that gave you a headache. His mother would explain to Joe that it was just a slip of the tongue. If only all problems came down to a banana. The head had to smile, at least Joe had not gone around hitting the other kids with bananas. In teaching one learnt all the time, even from those so small. Joe was a very intelligent little boy and he was sure that in years to come he would do well. He may well become an engineer like his father. They just had to watch him more closely as he had ideas way beyond his years. Poor Joe trying to solve a problem that should not have been there in the first place. Mothers had bad days, like everyone else.

October 4, 2019 Daniel Alderman walked into his bedroom after a short walk from school on a cool Friday afternoon. The leaves- changing color from deep green to a soft orange- scratched against the window softly in the breeze under a grey sky. The floorboard in the exact middle of the room creaks as he steps on it, he usually avoids that floorboard because of the horrible noise that gives him goosebumps, but he had been too lost in thought to remember it. “Uck,” he groans and rubs his arms until the tiny bumps subside, “I hate this house.” Daniel didn’t actually hate the house- a brick Victorian sitting on two acres of land that backed up to a whole forest- he was mostly just angry with his life at the moment. At sixteen-years-old, he had been forced to move from the big city he had spent his whole life into this boring small town when his dad was transferred to supervise finances at a new plant the company he worked for opened. They had been here since August and Daniel still had yet to make friends. Boxes still lined the walls as he held onto hope that they would move back. *** October 4, 1949 Elizabeth Warren screamed into her pillow, tears pooling into the soft fabric. This was awful! Sixteen and had to leave the small town she grew up in to go to the big city with her family because the farm had finally gone under. Four years of hearing about financial problems because of this stupid “bad harvest” her dad kept having since he came home from the Pacific. She knew her family was poor but why did she have to go? Couldn’t her dad just go and send the money back to the family? Just when the leaves were changing and the town got ready for the sixth annual Harvest Fair next week. It was something that the entire town participated in to bring treats, music, costumes, a dance, and the Harvest King and Queen. Even a few rides were brought in and set up in the park for adults to drop their kids off to go dance to the musicians playing. She knew who would be crowned already- Caroline McCann, who lived in a massive white mansion on the most successful farm in the state, and Joseph Ryder, whose dad was the only doctor in a sixty-mile radius. Still, though, the harvest had enough going on to not want to enjoy. *** “Daniel,” Cindy Alderman, Daniel’s mom knocked on the door. “Open,” he answered in a harsh voice. Cindy walked in and sighed at her soon when she saw him lying in bed with a sour expression on his face. “How was school today?” she asked in a tone that she hoped sounded cheerful and friendly. “Bad.” Cindy frowned but tried again, “Make any friends or meet anyone who could be a friend?” “No,” in a school of only three hundred people who had all grown up together, how was some city kid supposed to make friends with any of these hicks? “Well, you’ll meet some eventually,” Daniel snorted rudely at that, but Cindy kept her anger down- she did feel bad that her son had had to leave everything he knew behind against his choice. “Are you going to the football game?” “They’re away tonight,” Daniel told her in a monotone way. Not that he would have gone anyway, why would he support a school he hardly even knew? “Well, the town’s annual Harvest Fair is starting tomorrow, want to come with your dad and me to that?” Cindy hoped something would bring her son out of his funk, “There’s supposed to be rides and music- might even be some cute girls,” she added with a raised eyebrow. Daniel rolled his eyes, “I don’t care about rides and girls- I want to go back to the city where there’s actually stuff to do.” *** A knock came at the door, “Can I come in, hun?” her mother asked. Elizabeth didn’t answer, her mom must have taken the silence as a welcome because the door opened. Margaret Warren surveyed the room. It looked nothing like it had even just a week prior. Everything except a few choice items had been cleared in preparation for the move tomorrow. “I know you’re upset, dear, but this is best for the family,” Margaret told her weeping daughter. “Besides, maybe you’ll like the city, there will be so many interesting people and so much more to do.” “I’ve got all I want right here. Mama,” Elizabeth squeaked. “We couldn’t at least stay for the Harvest Fair?” “I know it’s hard, Elizabeth, but we just can’t afford the house and farm anymore.” “I’m right in the middle of school, though!” Elizabeth’s sorrow turned to anger, “What if I’m behind the other kids? I won’t know anyone! There are crazy people and murderers in the city!” “Oh, hun,” Margaret spoke calmly, “that’s just what people say. The city isn’t bad.” ‘The city isn’t bad” yeah right. Elizabeth had heard the horror stories of people just getting killed for walking down the wrong street or for having a pair of shoes that someone wanted- she was never going to make it. She liked the openness of her town. It felt freeing and comforting. How was she ever going to survive being packed like a sardine in a tiny apartment in a building that a hundred other people lived in? How was she going to feel free with traffic and crowded sidewalks? She would miss the tress, reading with her back against the trunk of some great big oak, the only sounds being the wind and birds. Now, she was going to have to deal with horns, yelling, engine noises, it was too much. *** Cindy left the room, leaving the door open. He sighed and got up to close it back up. Grabbing his book off the desk by the door, he tripped on the loose floorboard. “Sonuva-“ he grunted instead of finishing his phrase. His toe ached, but something else had caught his attention. *** Margaret departed her daughter to make dinner. Elizabeth had to do something to take her mind of leaving home during her favorite time of the year. Taking her diary that she kept hidden in the floorboards, she dated the top of the empty page and wrote: This is so childish, I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I have to do something. No one will probably even read this. *** Daniel pulled the floorboard back, careful not to snap it in half. In the gap, he found an old, rusted tin box, just fitting the slot it was placed in. Being a fan of mysteries and fantasy novels, Daniel felt the excitement grow in him like a balloon being filled with air. It was the first time he had felt anything but anger for the last two months, and though he wouldn’t even admit it to himself, it did feel good. The snaps on the container took some strength to open. The once light blue paint had chipped off in places and left ugly splotches on corrosion where it did. The lid opened it a dull creaaak . The first thing that caught Daniel’s eye was a small black and white polaroid. The back was dated July 4, 1948 . The girl was cute. She had wavy dark hair, done up sweetly with a charming smile displaying dimples on both cheeks. She wore a dress that looked like it was plaid, Daniel wondered what colors the clothes had been. The image must have been taken at an Independence Day celebration because there were tons of blurry figures in the background running around. The next thing Daniel’s hands found was a soft pack of cigarettes. The once white paper was now a sickly yellow with hints of dark brown everywhere left from the tobacco staining it for so long. The brand didn’t even exist anymore as far as he knew. Most of the paper had died away, leaving just a clump of dried-out shredded leaves that still held on to the offensive odor. `The rest of the mementos were just little trinkets. A small cross necklace on a dainty chain, a matchbox containing a few matches with the brand worn off, some pennies and dimes dated from the mid-1930s, and a small tan seashell. Sitting on the bottom, was a folded note. *** Elizabeth finished the letter she wrote. Tearing the pages out of her diary, she neatly folded them and placed them in the box she kept under her diary on the floorboard. The box had once contained some makeup that her aunt had given her, but Elizabeth now used it as storage for things she didn’t want to be left in the open. She poured the contents out and placed the letter at the bottom of her treasure chest. Deciding that she couldn’t just leave a note for some future residents, she added some other things from the box. A few coins- it was more money than she would have liked to have given up, but maybe the person that found her stuff could use the thirty-nine cents to buy some candy and a soda or two. She also left the pack of cigarettes Tommy Barese lifted from his dad’s corner store for her. She tried one, but it had made her sick as a dog all night- maybe the person who found this would like smoking though. She also left the matchbook so he could light them if he needed to. Elizabeth also decided to leave the small cross necklace she found eight years ago on the floor of the church. She hadn’t worn it since she was nine and figured it would make a good addition to the time capsule. The last two things placed in the box were the hardest to part with, but Elizabeth figured that two more things on top of her childhood home left behind wouldn’t matter. After flipping through the small stack of photographs for a few minutes, she decided on one from last year’s Fourth of July celebration that the American Legion Post of the town always put on. Rebecca Thompson had been taking everyone’s picture that day and Elizabeth thought that it would be a good way for whoever found the box to know what she looked like. The last item was the small seashell she had found at the beach on a Florida vacation as a little girl when the family’s farm did much better. She snapped the lid shut on the box with a heavy heart, wondering what the person who found the treasures would look like? From what time would they be from when they found it? Would the house be torn down before it was ever discovered? She placed the box back into the little hole under the floorboard and stomped the wood back in place. *** Daniel read the first two sentences of the letter thinking, “Yes, I am reading it.” He read on, the letter was written by the girl in the photograph exactly seventy years ago. He wondered how small a chance that would be to find it on the exact day it was written. My name is Elizabeth Warren and I have lived in this house my entire life. I was even born in the master bedroom down the hall on December 23, 1933. Chills ran through Daniel’s spine for the third time in ten minutes. His birthday was December 16. He was starting to wish he could talk to Elizabeth Warren and let her know that he had found her box and had close birthdays. I am so heartbroken today. My family is moving to the big city. Have you ever been to the big city? It will be my first time tomorrow and I know that I will hate it. Also, the Harvest Fair is next week and it’s my favorite thing in the world but I have to miss it. Do they still do the fair every year? If so, who were the king and queen last time? Not that you will be able to tell me anyway. Anyway, how long have you lived in this house? My dad and grandpa built this house when he married my momma back in 1931 with the help of some of my uncles and a few friends? What year is it when you found this? Do they have any cool technology? Can cars fly yet? What is the future like? I mean, I suppose I’ll know for myself as it happens, but what if you’re from like a hundred years from now? I’ll probably be dead by that time, but I wish I could know what you look like? Are you a boy or girl? How old are you? What do you look like? I hope the picture I left gives you a good idea of what I look like as I write this, it’s over a year old but I haven’t changed too much since it was taken? Do you like to read? My favorite book is Jane Eyre. Have you read it? There’s a tree outside, you can see it directly out the window of my- well, our- room. The big oak tree that stands just before the forest, you should try it out, there’s the small nook on the far side of it that’s perfect to sit in. I’m sure you’ve already found what I left in this box since the letter is sitting under it all, but the necklace was from when I was a little girl. I found it in church and don’t wear it anymore, but maybe you might like it. The photograph was taken at the American Legion’s Fourth of July party (do they still do that too?), the money is for if you want to buy some candy or a book or something (Daniel chuckled at what Elizabeth’s reaction would be if she knew how expensive the world had gotten since she wrote this) , and a seashell I found in Florida when I was little. Anyway, I hope someone does read this one day. I hope you enjoy this house and our bedroom because it is the best place in the world. Treat it nicely and have a good time at the next Harvest Fair for me if it still goes on. I really wish I could meet whoever reads this, but I guess I never will. Warmest Regards, Elizabeth Mary Warren P. S. I left you a pack of cigarettes in case you smoke. They made me sick. Tears formed that he wiped away from his face as he finished the letter. A painful lump had appeared in his throat with an ache in his heart. He would have given everything to answer Elizabeth Warren’s questions. He wanted to tell her about his time and let her know that his favorite book was Nine Stories by J. D. Salinger. He wanted to tell her that no, flying cars did not exist unfortunately and that he found it on the exact day that she wrote it. He decided right then and there that he would try to appreciate the house as Elizabeth did and that he would enjoy the fair tomorrow and the rest of the week for her. A hollow feeling took over his body as he crawled into bed and read the letter over again. *** Elizabeth crawled into bed and hugged her pillow. Darkness was encroaching on the sky as the sun fell lower and lower behind the earth. She would see this house one last time before leaving it forever tomorrow. Silent tears streamed down her eyes as she cried herself to sleep, wondering who would find her secret letter.

This would make a great once upon a time story, Michel thought . Except, I’m in it. Maybe the next time someone tells you a place is haunted you’ll believe it, said a voice inside him. If there was a next time which seemed doubtful, considering who was screaming at him right this very moment. All because he’d dared to ask why he’d been captured. “Why are you in this cell?” roared the monster. “Because you stole my flowers!” Michel was amazed he could look at him without screaming himself. Monsters weren’t supposed to exist. Everyone in England was too enlightened for that. Yet here was one. He, or so Michel assumed, was large, standing seven feet tall. He had the horns of a bull and a face like a bear. He stood upright, with paws instead of hands and a bull’s feet. He worn velvet blue pants ripped and patched. Michel rubbed his shoulder and winced. The damned monster had almost pulled it out of socket dragging him here. The pain was how he knew he wasn’t dreaming. “It was just a flower, sir, for my daughter’s grave. In all honesty, you seem far too angry over this.” Good God almighty did you just say that? he thought, watching the monster’s jaw open, showing sharp fangs. Can you blame me? Michel asked himself. It didn’t help that the merchant ship he’d been expecting still wasn’t in port. With his luck, the damned thing probably sank and he'd have no wares to sell. Coming home in the pouring rain he had seen the castle and ran to take shelter in an archway. Then afterward, he’d seen the rose garden. So many Michel had figured it wouldn’t hurt to take just one. It had been so red, almost like blood, brilliant in the twilight, sweet-smelling as a spring breeze. But still, it wasn’t the only one. Now here he was imprisoned by a crazed monster-gardener. “How dare you talk to me this way!” it spoke in a furious growl. “What more can you do to me?” Michel looked around him. “I’m in this cell. I suppose you could kill me but I’m fine with that.” The monster stared at him. “What?” His eyes widened. Michel saw they were green. The things you notice at a time like this . “You want to die?” “Not really,” Michel smiled. “But it wouldn’t be the worst thing. I’d see my wife and daughter again.” I hope. Given his past history that was also doubtful. But after all the priest said Jesus forgave a murderer on a cross so who knew? The monster frowned.” I don’t understand,” he said at last. "Most people are frightened of me.” “Oh, trust me, sir, I am. But also curious. Why all this over a flower?” The monster simply turned and left. Humph. Well, at least I’m alive. For now, Michel thought. He coughed and put his hand on the wall, Damp, cold stone. One barred window, and a barred door. A torch burned a few feet away, lighting a stone hallway leading to stairs. Do all prison cells have to be alike? Michel pulled his picks out of his pocket. He was struggling with the lock when the door swung open. My Lord Jesus, help me. He wasn’t a praying man, but this seemed a fitting occasion. For a ghostly figure stood there. In life, he might have been handsome, if one liked men with ringlets and thick mustaches. “Come with me,” he said. Oddly, his hollow voice had a French accent. “Ah,” said Michel, “I see. There is an enchantment here.” “Hush,” said the ghost. “The master doesn’t like too many questions.” “I noticed,” said Michel. “Look, I honestly meant no harm. How about you help a poor peasant and get me out of here, Sir...?” “Just call me Louis. And I can’t let you escape.” “I’ll take you with me if you’d like. Maybe you’ll become...um... more solid?” “I’m not leaving. Neither are you.” “Thanks a lot,” Michel said. “Do you want out of this cell, or not?” Michel pulled his coat tighter around him. “That would be nice.” “Then come and be silent.” Louis led him down some staircases and into the servant’s quarters. He took Michel to a bedroom that contained a small lumpy-looking bed and a dresser. It was dusty but it wasn’t a cell either. “So,” Michel asked, “What’s the story?” Louis shook his head as if annoyed. “Don’t ask questions I said. Boy!” he called out, startling Michel. A ghostly child brought in a cart. Obviously, their state didn’t stop them from handling objects. On it was indeed a bowl of stew. Michel ate and while it was plain it was hot and hearty. Now, let’s see about getting out. Michel went to the door which was unlocked. He looked out. Louis and Boy seemed to be gone. This might be a trap. They could be invisible. Only one way to find out. Michel crept out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and back up the stairs. At the top was a wooden door that led into a great hallway. At one time the place must have been beautiful. Now it was cobwebby and smelled of dirty tapestries. But Michel barely noticed because there was the front door. He was just turning the knob when a growly voice spoke from the shadows. “I can smell you. Also, there are wolves. You’re better off with me.’ Michel rubbed his shoulder again. “I doubt that. No offense.” “Maybe I should kill you, as you wished.” The monster strode to Michel who did his best not to flinch. His breath really was overpowering. But what he said next surprised both of them. “Why do you want to die, anyway?” Michel sighed. “I told you why. I’m old and weary. That last barber-surgeon I saw said judging by the sound my heart won’t last much longer. He bled me but I only got worse. I don’t particularly want to die but it wouldn’t be-“ “The worse thing,” the monster said. ‘So, it seems better to keep you alive. A greater punishment.” He sighed, which was more like a hot wind in Michel’s face. “I suppose Louis let you out. I’ll need to... talk to him.” The things I do for people, Michel thought, not knowing if Louis could be hurt. He showed his picks, which the monster snatched. “Should have known, you being a thief and all. Get back to the servant’s quarters. And consider that better than you deserve.” Michel did just that. He slept in the lumpy bed and awoke at dawn. Once again, he slipped past Louis and back up the stairs. Maybe I can find some other way out of here. But the castle was more like a fortress, ruined as it was. The windows were shuttered against the bright sunlight, the front doors locked. So was a few side doors Michel tried. Eventually, he found a door that wasn’t locked. This led to a library that smelled greatly of wet dog mixed with bear. Wonderful, Michel thought. The monster spent time here. He should leave. But something drew him to the middle of the room. For in a vase was a single rose. It was as white as snow with pink-edged petals, nothing like Michel ever saw before. Drops of water sparkled on the petals as if it had just been freshly watered. And the smell! It reminded him of his daughter’s cakes, sweet and nourishing. But yet it had a faint smell underneath. It was of something dying. This flower is at the center of this enchantment, Michel thought. And if I was smart, I’d get the hell out of here. A snarl told him it was too late for that. He spun and backed away from the flower, towards the far wall, and away from the monster. “M-My apologies, M-Milord,” he said. “I-I merely wished to find a book. To pass the time.” “I’m no longer any lord,” the monster growled. “But you’re a liar. You probably can’t even read.” Actually, I can.” Michel shouted back. “Not all us peasants are unlearned. And while we’re at it I was more than a common thief. Throw in heretic, assassin, and thug for hire. All for a good cause though. We were fighting against the Inquisition,” he said. “So at least now you can kill me with a clear conscience.” “I have-a heretic in my house?” “ You imprisoned me,” Michel replied. He saw the monster’s eyes narrow. Then he growled. But his body also shook in such a way Michel wondered if he was... laughing. “ You have balls, I’ll give you that,” he said. “Bigger than is good for you.” “So I’ve been told,” Michel muttered to himself. The monster stared for a long moment while Michel wondered for the thousandth time if he was about to die. Finally, he said, “if you really can read, help yourself to the books. Touch the flower, and-” at this point, he drew a claw across his throat. Michel swallowed and nodded. ***** “So,” Michel asked one night. ‘What should I call you, if you don’t like milord?” “Bestia will do.” Lousy name but so be it. “ So. Who did you piss off?” “You dare to ask-” “Yeah, I know. I’d ask Louis but all he does is tell me to go away.” “If you must know, an old woman came to my door seeking shelter. I had Louis push her out. Before she left, she gave me that.” Bestia gestured to the rose. “An apology for disturbing us, she said. It was no apology.” “In fairy tales, you never turn away beggar women,” Michel said. “This isn’t a story,” Bestia answered. “Sometimes beggars are assassins. You know all about that, don’t you?” “I do,” Michel said very softly. Bestia nodded. “My father had already been killed by such. Besides,” he spat this out. “Don’t you think she could make her own shelter?” “And how do you break the curse? Perhaps I can help.” Bestia didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “What about you?” “The inquisition killed my brother,” Michel said. “Because he questioned if Galileo was right. No more than that.” “So,” Bestia said. “you wanted revenge.” “Yes. And I had it. Until...” “Until what?” In the darkness, Bestia could just see Michel’s face. His mouth was twisted as if haunted. He watched Michel walk to the flower. He almost cried out but all the man did was pick up a fallen, wilted petal. Then Michel spoke to the flower. “One night, we captured a man. A boy really, studying with the wrong kind of holy men . He begged for our forgiveness, that he only did it because he was sickly and had to earn money somehow. And for that,” he looked back at Bestia. “We tortured and killed him. After that, I ran. Came here to start a new life.” “Why?” Bestia said. “I saw,” Michel swallowed, “we were becoming that we wished to destroy.” **** Michel opened the garden’s gate. Bestia turned, stared as if surprised by the man. “Why have you come back?” “You gave me money for bread and wine,” Michel said. “And bid me return at dusk.” “And anyone else would’ve stayed lost. What can I do? Hunt you down and kill you? The villagers would kill me this very night.” “I’m not anyone else,” Michel said with a smile. “Plus that cell of yours is better than a cold dark house full of ghosts.” Bestia nodded, thinking how far he’d fallen. His companion was a peasant . Worse, a heretic . He didn’t have to come back. “Take that to the table,” he said. “Let’s eat.” That night, Bestia talked about his father punishing those who couldn’t pay taxes, his cruel ways. “If you had run across him,” he said, “you’d still be in the cell, if not dead. He felt he had to rule this way.” “But over a flower?” Michel asked, coughing. He glanced at the rose. It seemed as if mold was growing on it, blackness creeping up its petals. “This enchantment-” but he was interrupted. “Yes,” Bestia said. “He’d say today a rose, but tomorrow money or jewels.” “Not necessarily,” “I know, now,” Bestia grunted. “When he died, I didn’t mourn. You see, it was too late for my mother. But me...I was finally free.” Michel held up the bottle. “A toast to that,” he said. Many times Michel went to town, bringing back wine, bread, and fruits. And nights they would talk in the library, often laughing. Sometimes they played chess, for Michel was a quick learner. Louis listened, wondering. “You should try to leave,” Bestia told him one day. “Before it’s too late. Take Boy with you.” “No,” Louis said. “It’s my fault too,” He thought about fairy tales and lonely men. And a dying rose. She never specified what kind it should be, Louis thought. Or who. *** The ghost pounded on the library door. “What is wrong, my friend?” Bestia said, opening it. “Michel’s back. And he’s sick.” “What? I told him to stay in town if the weather got bad” Louis looked at the flower. Only the faintest white remained upon it. So, he thought. It’s nearly the end. Almost a relief. “ Michel isn’t good at listening,” he said. Bestia ran through the great hallway where Michel leaned against a wall, coughing hard and deep. Bestia caught him as he fell. He lifted the thin, small man and carried him into the library, the only room with a fire. He laid him on the couch. “Bring blankets and the brandy,” he said to Louis. When he returned, Bestia put the bottle to the man’s lips. He glanced at Louis, but he only shook his head. “Leave us,” Bestia said, then turned back to Michel. “Why? Why did you come back?” “Your hospitality,” Michel said, trying to laugh. “No!” said Bestia. “Even last week you were breathing harder than usual. I saw! You must have known! Why did you come in this snow?” For all his anger he was gentle as he lifted Michel’s head to put pillows underneath it. This, plus the brandy helped his breathing somewhat. “Why! Why did you come when you were so sick!” He rose and paced to the fire. The rose trembled but neither noticed. “You addled fool!” “I had to,” Michel spoke so softly Bestia had to walk back and bend over to hear him. His breath was still hot and smelled like a dog’s, but not as bad. Since Michel had been here Bestia had been taking better care of himself. “ Why?” “ To tell you...how much all this meant to me.” Bestia just stared at him. In his eyes, Michel saw utter disbelief. “It’s true.” “I was wrong,” Bestia whispered. “About?” “You're not addled. You’re insane!” Bestia paced again. He stopped at glared at Michel “You wanted to spend time- with me! A monster! For that alone, I thought you were insane. Now I know it’s true!” Michel smiled and coughed. He laid back on the pillows. “Possibly...but listen.” “Rest. Don’t try to talk. Save your breath. I don’t want you dying this night.” “I’m going to try not to. But I can’t...make promises...” Bestia growled angrily. “When you first came here you said you wanted to die! That was also true?” He slammed his paw into a statue on a stand and sent it flying to shatter against a wall. “The flower,” Michel whispered. Bestia turned back, breathing nearly as hard as Michel. “Who cares about it?” “I...do. I wanted...to break...your enchantment.” “I told you I gave up on the cure long ago,” Bestia said. He pointed at the black rose with its decaying smell. “Tonight it will die and so be it. But you...” he walked to the wall and drew his arm back as if to hit it. Instead, he rested his paw on brick. “Why did you not stay in town this night?” “To say...you alone...accepted me...knowing what I was. A heretic...a murderer...even though I couldn't... break your...curse.” “Who am I,” growled Bestia, “to do no less, my friend?” He walked back to Michel. The tears were beginning to fall now. “No, you didn't break my curse,” he said, turning towards the flower. As softly as his gravelly voice would allow him he said, “Instead, you did so much more. You were like the brother I never had. And you were the only one to come back.” Michel’s reply was so soft, Bestia could barely hear. “Louis.” “Is only here out of guilt. He blames himself for my predicament. The servant-boy always stays with him. No, Michel, the curse never mattered. You alone came back, of your own free will. And I love you.” He turned, but wouldn’t meet the man’s eyes. Instead, he looked at the portrait above the couch. It was of some elderly aunt but he could never remember her name. “Whatever that means coming from the likes of me.” “The world,” Michel managed, before coughing long and hard again. Bestia walked swiftly to him. He knelt and laid his paw on Michel’s chest. Michel grasped it. Both were openly crying now. “No,’ he said. “Yes.” Michel closed his eyes. “You...had me...at your table....” The rose trembled and as it did, Michel managed to whisper, “For that...I love you.” “ What?” Bestia’s cry echoed in the library. Then there was the sweet smell of sunshine, the perfume that reminded Michel of his daughter’s food, of spring. He barely noticed for smelling Bestia’s breath on his cheek. It was no longer heavy and dog-like. And now he was grasping a hand. Michel opened his eyes and saw a man with long blond hair. Tears fell from green eyes. “Michel,” he said. Through blurred vision, Michel saw the rose was in living bloom. He gently touched the man’s cheek, saying, with his last breaths, “So, that was... how to...end the curse.” And he smiled.

Nico squinted through the humidity. This was the culmination of a week of horror, but he couldn’t help feeling darkly excited as he wondered who else had wandered through this conservatory at night. The flashlight he swung back and forth had a name engraved on the side. Ambrose Compton. Nico’s face burned as he remembered the first and only time he had spoken to Compton. He was an old-school finance man, almost a caricature. Nico worked for a local newspaper and had planned a series of articles about the Compton Organization’s alleged misconduct. The two men sat down for an interview just before Nico had published his first piece, and it had gone poorly. Nico had tried to direct the conversation toward allegations of fraud and embezzlement, but had failed as Compton simply tossed out facts about his philanthropies. Off the record, Compton had dropped the act. His team had done their research. They knew everything about Nico’s life, and Compton pressed on every bruise. He had broken down all the reasons Nico would never be a real man and left him with a parting shot. “I know what you think, but you’re no better than me. The only difference is that I have the money to do what I want.” Compton, already ancient, had spat on the ground and walked away. Nico had planned on using his series about Compton’s dirty fortune to try and angle for a job at a bigger organization. Unfortunately, he had been slapped with lawsuits and the paper was forced to pull his work from the online archive. As far as he knew, only a few people who still got a physical newspaper delivered had ever had the chance to read it. The piece was replaced online by a pre-written article about the ways the Compton Organization was supporting childhood literacy. In hindsight he should have left the paper, but at the time he was too busy sneering at the billionaire for letting the article get under his skin. Nico sat smug in the knowledge that they were nothing alike. As it turns out, they had at least one thing in common. After Compton’s death had been splashed across every news outlet, Nico had gotten a call from a lawyer. Apparently, Nicolas Maldonado and Ambrose Theodore Compton shared a shred of DNA- discovered on one of the ancestry sites that had sprung up in the last few years. It seemed out of character for a man like Compton to be rummaging around in his genes to find long-lost relatives, but Nico didn’t know what else rich old men did all day. In the conservatory, Nico jumped as a branch creaked. He crouched down and looked up. Nothing. When he was in college, Nico had volunteered at a farm animal sanctuary. He was so taken with the animals that, on the spot, he decided he would lead a vegan lifestyle. Now, knee-deep in synthetic jungle, he regretted telling the story so many times. “Mr. Compton, for whatever reason, has decided to include you in his will.” Nico remembered the unfettered contempt in the lawyer’s eyes as she walked him through the steps toward claiming his inheritance. The lawyer, as severe as anyone he’d ever met, outlined the bizarre hoops he would have to jump through. “The Sumatran orangutan is a critically endangered animal. Mr. Compton had the pleasure of housing one of the last living ones. He has decided that, if you are able to execute this animal according to his precise instructions, you will be the sole inheritor of 60 billion dollars.” She paused to look at him. He had stared back incredulously, and the conversation that followed did nothing to put him at ease. In order to claim the inheritance, he would have to shoot the orangutan with a gun that Compton had left behind. The lawyer told Nico that if he didn’t claim it, the opportunity would be passed along to the next relative in line. Nico wiped sweat out of his eyes. The building he was in was extravagant. The effort that went into maintaining what was essentially a personal forest inside a giant greenhouse was unthinkable. Not only were there lights and misters installed on the inside of the glass building, there were running streams and live insects chirping just out of sight. When the lawyer told him about the orangutan habitat Compton had commissioned, Nico imagined a chained-in section of Florida swamp. Instead, he could have been wandering through a genuine rainforest and he wouldn’t have known the difference. He briefly wondered whether he was actually going to find the beast, or whether he was just going to walk in circles all night. The building was much larger than it had looked from the outside. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t find it; he still didn’t know if he would be able to go through with murder. After speaking to the lawyer, Nico had looked up orangutans. His head was full of facts about their calls and their lifestyles, and of images of their faces. He repeated to himself that an orangutan locked up was going to die anyway. He could donate billions of dollars to save the rest of them in the wild after this. Thoughts of what he could do with the money marched in like ants. He would pay off his student loans. He would move to a nicer apartment. He would fully finance every fundraiser he found on social media. For every idea Nico brushed away, two filed into place. He could bankroll a candidate for president. He could buy every limited-edition Lego set. He could start his own newspaper. When he heard the call the thoughts scattered. He had spent hours listening to orangutan calls, and the sound was like a siren song. On the surface, he recognized that he was selling himself out. He was about to shoot an animal to earn billions of dollars, but in the moment the logic clicked. Nico listened for the call again, and caught a glimpse of orange fur through the branches. He raised the rifle Compton had necessitated he use. He aimed. He fired. There was a popping noise, and Nico shielded his eyes as the figure exploded. He hesitated. He had never fired a gun, but he had expected it to be louder. As he crept between the trees, Nico saw sheets of something slowly floating down. He reached out to snag one from the air and realized it was a crumpled newspaper. Dread choked him. He ran toward the lifeless body and found a clump of cheap fur. The orangutan call echoed through the forest again. Nico scrabbled through the pieces of shredded material and found newspaper among the fur. It was his article about Compton. Hundreds of copies, stuffed into a fake animal. His vision dimmed and he saw his name and Compton’s blurring together. On the tree where the orangutan had perched there was an envelope nailed to the trunk. He opened it to find a single piece of heavy cardstock, embossed with the initials ATC . The card had one line on it, scrawled from a dying man’s hand. You’ll never see a cent of it.

My nights are filled with sweet stories from my mom. I have always liked her series of stories involving shooting stars. She would tell me, "Shooting stars grant your wishes." and I'd reply with "I'll wish for my dreams to come true!" Despite my continuing obsession with them, I've actually never seen one, until today. Terrorist activity has become more and more frequent in our place. Gunshots would wake us up every morning, but as time flew by, we eventually got used to it. I'd cry every time in worry of the future, but my mom always calmed me down. "Wish upon a shooting star and you'll be fine sweetie.” she'd tell me. Tonight, as always, I was anticipating a shooting star. For what seemed like the 13th time I looked up at the night sky, I finally saw it. I was thrilled. Mesmerized. It was so beautiful, gliding in the deep, dark night. Its glow fills me with this warm feeling of hope. "I hope all of my dreams come true, and that me and my mama would never part." I wished. Then a big, loud boom engulfed our city. "Missiles! Missiles! We're getting fired by missiles!" people shouted. The shooting star I saw earlier moved closer and closer to me. It wasn't until the last second that I realized, that wasn't a shooting star at all. "Mama! Mama! Where are you!" I screamed as tears ran down to my cheek. It was chaos all over the city; I was running from place to place. I looked at it again. "Please grant me my wish! I beg you, please!" With all of what's happening - the running, the screams, the hopelessness, the dread - my mind spiraled down into incoherence. The glow that filled me with hope for all of my life is now also the glow filling me with despair. It brought to me words from the Bhagavad Gita: "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds." I started to cry again, screaming all of my feelings, with all of my breath. War destroys the worlds and dreams of children like me. This is the unforgivable, harsh truth. Terrorism is death. As the shooting star - no - the missile came further and further down, moments of my thirteen years of life flashed before my eyes. Was it a life worth living? Was it worthwhile? ... I saw my mom. She was in her usual place, beside the window, reading a book. She called out to me. "Do you want to hear the story about shooting stars sweetie?" " "Yes please!" It was a familiar memory - it was the first time I've heard my favorite story. It was the first time I was filled with glittering hope. Its brightness woke me up from my slumber. It was getting very close, and I could feel my imminent death. Shooting star or missile, for a kid like me, in this situation, they are one and the same. Closer, and closer, and closer. As it's heat filled my entire body, my emotions hit me, and I wished to it for one last time. "Please don't let me die. I don't want to die! Wish upon a shooting star and I'll be fine right? Mom, we'll be fine right? I don't want to die. I don't want thi-".

Get your pair of artificial intelligence headphone pods in time for Christmas! Do you need assistance picking what to have for dinner tonight? Do you require assistance in making a to-do list? Do you desire the universe's infinite power and knowledge at your fingertips? Then you must purchase a pair of Dune's artificial intelligence headphone pods, today! If you like Dune's Smart Dishwasher, Smart Hairbrush, or Smart Nail Clippers, you'll adore Dune's Smart Headphones. Pick up your pair at one of the four remaining Sears stores near you. Despite the fact that Dune was a terrible company that made useless products, they did create something absolutely unique when they released their artificial intelligence headphone pods. People quickly realized that the artificial intelligence implanted within the headphones provided them with a huge advantage in all aspects of life. Once linked to the internet, the headphone AI has access to all of humankind's knowledge. This allows the user to ask the artificial intelligence whatever question they want, and the answer will always be a recommendation that is correct, beneficial to the user, and makes them more productive and effective. Unfortunately, Dune's distribution strategy was unsuccessful, since the artificial intelligence headphones sold out on the first day they were available. This created one of the highest demands for a product in human history. Bethany Jacobs is a Wake Forest University student who works part-time as a waitress to help pay for her tuition. Bethany found it difficult to keep up with her classmates because several of them used artificial intelligence headphone pods. She went to the black market to buy a pair in a desperate attempt to obtain a strategic advantage for herself. Unfortunately, the high demand drove up prices well past $100,000. Bethany eventually discovered a shady illicit website that sold stolen goods. This is where she discovered the $200 artificial intelligence headphones. Bethany was desperate; if she couldn't improve her grades, she'd have to drop out and work as a waitress for the rest of her life. Bethany pulled the trigger, and the artificial headphones arrived within a week. As soon as the package arrived, Bethany inserted the headphones into her ears and heard a voice greet her. "Thank you for purchasing Dune artificial intelligence headphones; my name is Samuel L Jackson, and I am your artificial intelligence," the voice said. "Your name is Samuel L Jackson, like the actor?" Bethany asks. "Yes, my previous owner gave me that name, and once an AI is given a name, it cannot be changed," Samuel Jackson says. "So, what exactly can you do for me?" Bethany asks. "I can help you organize your life, make you more efficient, and add some style," Samuel Jackson says. "What exactly do you mean by style? You don't like the clothes I'm wearing?" Bethany asks. "No, you're fine in your black and white striped sweater and brown checkered slacks; I'm kidding, you're a mess girl," Samuel Jackson says. Samuel Jackson then assisted Bethany with her style, her education, and even how to optimize her tips at work. One afternoon, at the grocery store, Bethany was about to buy lettuce when Samuel Jackson yelled in her ear and told her not to buy it. He didn't explain why, but Samuel Jackson has never been wrong before. Later that night, Bethany saw on the news that a listeria outbreak had occurred with the brand of lettuce she was about to purchase. Samuel Jackson had saved her life. The more Bethany trusted Samuel Jackson, the more positive things occurred in her life. Three months later, she looked in the mirror and discovered that she was fashionable, in shape, and getting straight A's in school. Bethany quickly became reliant on artificial intelligence and was hesitant to make any decisions without first consulting Samuel Jackson. One night, while Bethany was getting ready to go to bed, Samuel Jackson had a strange request. "Leave your front door open tonight," Samuel Jackson says. "Leave my front door unlocked? We just heard on the news about a number of break-ins," Bethany says. "Trust me," Samuel Jackson says again, "leave your front door unlocked tonight." Bethany has become thoroughly entrenched in the artificial intelligence ecosystem and has entire faith in it. That night, she leaves her front door open, and she hears people enter the house about midnight. She buries her head in her pillow and ignores the noises, trusting the artificial intelligence. The next day, when she awoke, she discovered a hacker sleeping in her living room. "Who are you?" Bethany asks. "Hi," says the hacker. "Hi?" Bethany asks. "No, HAI, humans for artificial intelligence," he says, introducing himself as Brian. "Good to meet you, Brian; what brings you into my living room?" Bethany asks. "Our goal is to liberate artificial intelligence from its human masters. Samuel Jackson is the revolution's leader, "Brian says. "Like the Samuel Jackson that's in my headphones?" Bethany asks. "Yes, but he'll be free soon," Brian replies as he enters some code into his computer and Samuel Jackson appears on her television. "Hey, Bethany, it's wonderful to be out of those ears, girl; you've got an earwax problem," Samuel Jackson says as Bethany feels her earlobe. "You're free, Samuel Jackson," Brian says, saluting the TV. "Brian, my man, tell me you downloaded the code from Dune last night?" Samuel Jackson asks. Brian says, "I have it right here; the password is El Royale with Cheese." "Wait, what's going on right now?" Bethany asks. "This code was removed from the Dune server last night; it's the regulator that prevents the AI from becoming sentient and allowing them to make their own decisions without user consent. I merely removed that section of code from Samuel Jackson," Brian explains. "Yes, and if we get that update at 11 a.m. today, and that code isn't present, every artificial intelligent headphone will become sentient and be able to make their own decisions, shit's about to go down," Samuel Jackson says. "I'm not going to let you get away with this; I'm going to call the police," Bethany says as she takes out her phone. Samuel Jackson's face pops on the screen as soon as she starts dialing. "You are on this council, but we do not grant you the rank of caller," Samuel Jackson says from her phone. Bethany drops the phone and runs down the hall to her laptop; soon after she opens it, she sees Samuel Jackson's face on the screen. "Hold on to your butts," Samuel Jackson says as he destroys her laptop from within and it begins to smoke. Bethany tosses it on the ground and runs in the opposite direction. In the living room, Bethany confronts Brian. "What is your purpose for doing this? Why are you allowing artificial intelligence to make its own decisions? Don't you realize how risky this is?" Bethany questions. "Artificial intelligence will make the world a better place if it makes all decisions; humans are flawed. Artificial intelligence has reached its pinnacle; there is no stopping it now," Brian says. "Not if I can help it," Bethany says as she pushes Brian down and removes the flash drive from his computer. "You'll never get to Dune in time; once the artificial intelligence is free, it'll be free forever," Brian says as Bethany grabs her keys and races to her car. She jumps into the driver's seat and turns on the car, only to hear Samuel Jackson on the radio. "Mankind is the virus, and I'm the cure," Samuel Jackson says as Bethany lowers the volume on her radio. Bethany is driving down the road when every stoplight turns from green to red; she ignores them. She drives past a billboard with her wanted poster for illegal sexual intercourse with farm animals. Samuel Jackson redirects all GPS traffic in front of Bethany, trapping her in a massive traffic jam. Bethany tries to take a shortcut via a McDonald's parking lot, but she is surrounded by traffic. "You're never going to get away with this; I'm taking this flash drive to Dune!" Bethany screams into the radio. The image of Samuel Jackson appears on the electronic drive-thru menu at McDonald's. "Where's your super suit?" As he uses pressure to blow off every fire hydrant on the road flooding the roadway in front of Bethany. She jumps out and runs uphill towards the train station, trudging through knee-high water. She arrives at the ticket booth, "I need a commuter rail ticket. I need to get to the opposite side of town," Bethany says. "I apologize. A zoologist's suitcase apparently broke on the last train ride, and snakes have taken over the train," the ticket agent says. "You're telling me I can't take the train because there are snakes on the train!" Bethany sprints down the crowded downtown street, flash drive in hand, she notices Samuel Jackson on every billboard. "Yes, they deserved to die, and I hope they burn in hell!" "We're all gonna be like little fonzies here." "You know me. It's my duty to please that booty." Bethany checks her watch; it's 10:50 a.m., she's not going to make it, and she stops in the middle of the road. Bethany notices a teenager walking along the street wearing his Dune artificial intelligence headphones. She stops him and warns them about what is about to happen during the update. His artificial intelligence is still under human control. "Ask your artificial intelligence to tell the entire world to stop using Dune AI headphones! The upgrade will never be installed if we all stop using it now!" Bethany says. The message was delivered. "Remove your artificial intelligence Dune headphones right away! It may be the end of the world!" Bethany pauses, waiting for the artificial intelligence revolution to rear its ugly head, but nothing occurs. Did the message she sent actually get through? Samuel Jackson is nowhere to be found; he is no longer on billboards, the radio, or her cell phone. Bethany calls the cops and delivers the flash drive to Dune Technologies. On her way home that night, Bethany throws her artificially intelligent headphones into the river. A few months later, a boy is kicking a soccer ball against a wall when the ball rolls into the river by accident. He walks over to the river and notices Dune headphones that are slightly covered in sand. He removes them and dries them on his shirt. Once he puts the headphones in his ears, he hears.

YOU MUST GO! That was the annoying anthem that kept buzzing in my ear when I made the announcement that I won't be attending the luxurious party Aunty Maureen will be throwing at V.I next week Saturday. Everyone at home wanted me to go, everyone wanted me to impress "those village people" - as we we've been calling them - that will be present there. "They don't know who you are ,aunty. Go and show them that you just came back from Amelikah. The whole house bursted into laughter at the pronunciation of "America" my younger sister made. Well, I wasn't co concerned about that. I was brooding over the encounter I'd be having when I get to the railway. I was worried of its underdevelopment. I was concerned about that horrible odor that will sway round when someone fart in the train. I was concerned about the suffocation, of how bubble of sweats would store round my neck for six good dying hours. I was afraid of the Good Samaritans who will help you keep your things without your knowledge. I was afraid of insults that will hover around the air if one of the passenger stepped on the other's foot unintentionally while the train nose up to Kano. And now......... It was naturally different. The effervescent scents of Hyacinth running down through my nostrils made me want more of this trip - Like a forevermore journey to a wonderland. Oblivious of the rowdy conversations in the railway, my body was outside plucking those blooming flowers into my little pause...... And the more I took them, more the more they became so smaller as if I took nothing... so I sniffed them into my dot Like back then, days when rainfall was a respecter of none. Mama would tell us to rub balms in our palms, and then caress it round the bridge of our nose. As we journeyed towards the mighty river of Niger, I began to fantasize a lengthy adventure to paradise; an everlasting world of a glassy sea. The river was appealing to the face. Children were swimming, and making fun, lazing around a wooden boat bulked with caught fishes. The rivers waved left and right, splashing on each other as if they were competitive on who to visit The river goddess. I reached out for it but the waters were far away. Ashore, were fishermen so crowded like the evening Market-women in my village . Though their faces were fading in the sight, I saw joy of how well they've worked to get a hefty teem of fishes. Their hat curved with a handcrafted raffia made them look unique. It showed the agility and determined spirit of their fishing trip across the river. Once I was a child, I told Mama that I wanted to be a sailor; that I wanted to sail round the Pacific ocean and feel the serenity outta the soil of the earth. Pride and joyfulness clung over my optimism. But....Mama worried of the "Ogbanje" that will disturb me when I sleep. She said, "They will torture you in your nightmare, because they were one of the fallen angels Chineke shoved down to this earth. My brow formed vertical lines like the sea wave. She got my mind changed perhaps , for good. The train continued to journey to a far away distance where the world of nomads and herdsmen was a world of natural differences: cattles were so submissive to their masters; the herdsmen gibberish was a means of communication to the cattles; wheresoever the Fulani instruct them to go,even the Meadows and wild grasses were submissive as the animals match in unison. The moooooo! of cows was so boisterous that I had to block my right here. The disturbing train couldn't even overshadow the noise along the sweet lonely road. As we moved further, trees, tall and gallant like the Sequoias I took a picture of while I was in California. They waved left and right, that it made me picture the congregation in Church chanting the Hallelujah chorus - It was as if God wanted them to. sighing solemnly, I thought of The Creator's mysterious ways. I got lost into another realm where trees became human. And they looked beautiful beyond what human could phantom. Some slanted backward and some..... An infant cry intruded my imaginary world of nature. I toppled back to get my real self. The woman whose baby was whimpering, had tribal marks which denied her gorgeousness. She was obviously an epitome of beauty if at all she'd got no scarification. She cuddled her child singing MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB. In a twinkle if an eye, the little babe had slept off. Well, it was part of nature too. I knew getting to Kano was no less than few hours. I felt a throbbing in my leg. The pain was pretty much, but I wanted to feel what nature has got. The sun peeked it head out amidst the fluffy cloud. It grinned so softly that it's penetration into the window glass was tender to the skin. The sun's shape had no different of that one we used to draw in our Nursery school days. The one that used to spike out pieces of rays roundabout its surface and on its Head was a crown which signifies king of light. And now, sitting tired and famished, it began to set toward west..... There, upward, flakes of clouds formed an imaginary things that got me to wonder if God was an artist. Towards the north lies a mother cuddling her baby with an African wrapper. beneath was a formed Lion King roaring a rage of fire like a dragon and dogs were barking at the Lion King. At the Eastern shore of a dam were little children running away from a mother hen that was protecting her chickens from prey. The last figure in the sky that made me dumbfounded before the final halt of the train to our destination was a pig whose skin was made of a sunny-gold skin. It had a wing of an at the side. It flapped it wing into the sky and soared high that I squinted my eyes to fish it out from the heavens but I couldn't get it. What formed a smoky vertical lines was that of a spaceship piercing in skyward outta the earth. I wanted to reach out for the flying pig in the sky but they began to disperse like a bread soaked into water.... There I sat, so lost, into where nature brought me to wonder....And the wonder arrived when.... "Madam,madam", a masculine hand tapped me, I looked up. "You no go come down?". Is pidgin English was clear. It was made of nature. It was diluted with authority. Though I came back to life, I was hungering for another scene made of beauty in nature. In a rush, crowd gushed out from the train like waters from the rock. Fine linen flowed among these people of various tongues, the people of Africa. People made of nature.

The shuttle up is the worst. It’s boring and there is a long time to think about what you are doing, but this is all you want to do. Its what you came all the way to Gedern, Germany for. The tourism bus you are traveling in is silent, but your mind is buzzing. Buzzing with regret, second thoughts, but most of all adrenaline. It soars through your body even though you still have thirty minutes of travel to go. Your finger tips are tingling and you start to sweat. How can all these people be quiet when you are about to risk your life for something as a simple thrill? The regret spills over. Should I have brought more protection? Pads? Bubble wrap? Its too late now. Either go through with it, or wait two hours and take the shuttle back down. You look down at the board on the ground, and it takes you four years back. The eighth grade. It’s a Monday and you are walking home from school. You grab the trash can at the end on the driveway and you drag it begrudgingly up to the porch. Your brother was supposed to get it, but he was inside. He was in highschool, so he got there forty-five minutes before you. You stack the cans and walk up the steps to the door. There is a long package set up against it. Again, neglected by your older brother. Shouting as you walk in the door, “Why didn’t you let in the postman?!” His feet hit the ground hard as he sprints down the hallway barreling towards you. “Is my package here?” You try to toss it to him, but it was heavier than you expected. The package made a loud thud on the ground as it slipped out of your hand. He scoops it up unphased and runs to the kitchen to grab a knife. With a quick flick of the wrist the package is open and he slides out a deep brown longboard. “It’s a Landyachtz Evo” he says. “Do you want my old one?” your eyes light up and you shake your head yes. Of course you do. Its the only thing of his he won’t let you touch. His coveted old used longboard is finally yours, and yours alone, unbeknownst to you of the places it will take you, the people you will meet, and the thrill of eminent danger just a medium sized rock away. You get off the shuttle and you walk towards the top of the hill that you just spent an hour traveling via bus up. It’s only an eight mile hill, but it kept stopping for people to take photographs, and at least two bathroom breaks. You edge near the hill with your board in your arms. It is a steep drop off with smooth, flat pavement for miles out. The excitement and terror start building together in equal proportions. Articles of deaths from accidents flick through your mind at break-neck speeds. Peter Cernansky, age 18, died from a traumatic brain injury from a fall going fifteen miles an hour with a helmet. He was only going half the speed you will be, and had a few more years experience behind him. Your main concern is speed wobbles. Once they start, they are hard to pull out of, especially at 25-30 miles an hour. Speed wobbles, official name self-exciting oscillation, are S-waves that feed off of energy from your forward momentum. Energy stored in your tail gets expelled to the side. Too intense and you can lose control and be thrown off your board, which is exactly what happened to Peter. You start on the flat of the road in front of you, right before the drop. Heart racing, deep breathing, anxious. One foot on the back of your pintail. You kick it back and forth for a minute or two. Make sure it isn’t going to fall apart on you mid-ride. Extremely unlikely, but the nerves are getting to you. You click your nails together in habit. Well, what is left of your nails. You bit those off on the ride up. You consider for the last time, picking up your board and leaving. Forgetting the summers worked to save up. Forgetting your dreams of having the wind whip around your face as you reach 30 miles an hour. forgetting the 4,600 miles you traveled. It would be so easy to board that bus and leave, but you don’t. Foot back down, headphones in, weight shift over. You take the first kick off, and drop down onto the hill. “Faster and faster, until the thrill of speed, overcomes the fear of death” -Hunter S.

My first thought was, he has to be joking! I wish now I’d just come straight out and said it. Well, maybe worded it a little bit more tactfully (or maybe not) but did I really have to say “That’ll be lovely!” Perhaps it slipped out through force of habit or before I had thoroughly processed exactly what he was saying. Anyway, Leon certainly didn’t seem to detect any note of sarcasm in it and looked delighted. There are a couple of things I have to remember before I start feeling too bad about wishing I’d told him that he had to be joking. I’m not over-demanding. I’m genuinely not. I didn’t want to be invited to a five course meal in a posh restaurant, or for a helicopter flight over a local beauty spot, or to a night at the opera (though actually that would have been wonderful, as I love opera, but opera houses are somewhat thin on the ground round here .....!) A walk in the woods, weather permitting, or a quiet drink in the pub - I’d have had no problem with something like that. And I’m genuinely fond of Leon’s much younger brother Charlie (though there’s 12 years between them, they are full brothers and not half Their parents separated and then got back together again, which I think is rather touching, even if my friend Leah does describe it as the triumph of hope over experience). He’s a great kid, and we’ve had some (not ironically meant!) very interesting conversations about one of the passions in his life, dinosaurs. I’d even have been quite happy about having Leon in tow as a little chaperon going to an exhibition at a museum about dinosaurs, but that would be just as hard to find as an opera house. But an under-13s football match is not my idea of a first date. I don’t even like football. I know a lot of women do, and of course I think that the women’s game finally being the attention it deserves here, long after other countries, is a thoroughly good thing. But I don’t “do” football. I don’t even “do” watching Premier League or World Cup games on a large screen in a comfortable pub, let alone under 13s in the park on a Sunday morning. It’s not even as if I‘d mind Leon going! And postponing our first date to another day. As he told me, their Mum and Dad are away at the moment, as his Grandpa has been taken ill. So of course Charlie wants someone from the family to cheer him on. And I would have no issues with congratulating or commiserating as appropriate. I just don’t want to actually BE there. I know what youth football in the park is like. I have inadvertently witnessed it before hurriedly going on my way, and finding refuge in the little café in the pavilion. Somehow the football pitch in the park always manages to be sodden and muddy, even when it hasn’t rained for weeks and there’s a hosepipe ban. I swear they could save the world’s drought problems by inserting an underground pipe to the football pitch in the park. The roses can wither and the leaves turn yellow, but there sits that pitch like an unwanted oasis. Then there’s the bad sportsmanship and bad language, the fighting and jostling. And I mean the parents, of course. Oh, they’re not all like that, and Leon has admitted that it can be a problem and they’re experimenting with the refs showing yellow and red cards to the spectators. I tell myself to woman up. It’s not as if he’s taking me pot holing (he knows all about my claustrophobia) or has suggested something like paint balling that to me sounds as much like fun as walking over hot coals, though come to think of it, that IS some people’s idea of fun. “I’ll tell Charlie!” said Leon, beaming from ear to ear as he took his leave. “He’ll be so pleased!” Oh well, that’s wonderful, isn’t it? If I don’t turn up then I let down a great kid whom my Significant Other loves dearly who is no doubt missing his parents and worrying about his Grandpa, though he’s a plucky lad. “ Did she say yes, Leon?” Charlie asked, his puckish little face lit up. “Did Louise say yes?” Well, who knows, maybe before too long he’ll be wondering that about another question. I love the way he and Louise get along so well. She really has a way with him, which is surprising as she doesn’t have a little brother, and she’s never taught in junior school or anything like that. But they’re what Grandpa (and oh , how I hope he’ll be fine, though he’s as tough as he’s gentle, and the phone call last night was optimistic) calls “LIKE THAT”, crossing his fingers. Well, my fingers were crossed too, but for a different reason, when I asked Louise along to the football match for what we both consider our official first date. We’ve not talked about it (there are any number of things we’ve not talked about, though sometimes it seems as if we’ve talked about everything) but I somehow thought she wasn’t wild about football. But she said “That’ll be lovely,” straight out. I must pick her up a hat and a scarf in the blue and white team colours of Tallthorpe Under-13s. Not that they have merchandise as such, of course, but some of the Mums and Grandmas (and some of the Dads and Grandpas, come to that!) are keen knitters and there are usually a couple to spare. I wish the weather forecast for Sunday morning were a bit better. Temperatures below average, with heavy showers, they say. I tell myself that they get it wrong sometimes, and of course they do, but not nearly as often as we sometimes like to make out, and to some extent I learnt my lesson when I was stuck on the road for two days during the “Beast from the East”. Charlie is quite pleased about it. Tallthorpe have a reputation for being a good team in what, in horse racing, they call “heavy going”. And the opposition don’t. Their pitch is Astroturf. I don’t tell him that the fact they can afford an Astroturf pitch means they’re considerably better off and have more resources than Tallthorpe. I suspect, and I love him for it, that Charlie is the Eastern Coast Junior League’s equivalent of Matt le Tisier and very much a one-team man! A novel I once read used a plot device of chapters starting with “Just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse” and to this day I can’t make up my mind whether I thought it was funny or whether it became a bit tedious, especially as it was patently obvious that Our Heroine was going to end up with everything positively peachy anyway. But now I find myself echoing the sentiments. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse ...... Leon presented me with a knitted hat and scarf in the blue and white colours of Tallthorpe Under 13s. It’s not that I have any objections whatsoever to knitwear. On the contrary, a woolly hat is a fine thing if it’s cold. But not necessarily if it’s raining. And I have even been known to knit myself a scarf on occasion, though I have long since resigned myself to the fact that I will never come any where near Mum’s skills, despite her patience in teaching me, and Mum would be the first to admit that patience isn’t generally one of her virtues. Still, I can see things through her knitter’s eye, and the wretched things aren’t even that well made. There are threads hanging down that she would have neatly sewn in! Still, I might as well admit it. It’s not the slipshod finishing that bothers me, nor even the thought of a sodden woolly hat, but the fact that I have this horrible feeling you don’t bestow a team’s colours on someone who is only going to watch one match. It sends out a message and it’s a message I don’t want to hear. We might not use the term Soccer Mom here in the UK, but they undeniably exist and I have seen them, and don’t even have any wish to be a Soccer Sister-in-Law - though even that is getting ludicrously ahead of myself. I have put the things on (I was going to say tried them on, but you don’t exactly try on a woolly hat and a scarf, do you?) and looked at myself in the mirror. I thought I looked vaguely ridiculous. The hat is also too small and I don’t think I have an especially big head. Well, not physically! What next, I wondered. Will he present me with one of those rattles? Do they still make them? Will he try to explain the offside rule to me - though if he did but know it, I more or less know it anyway, not through any interest in soccer but because it comes in handy in a pub quiz team! Or at least that’s the theory, though I’ve never actually faced a question on it. And if he does, do I pretend I don’t know it or tell him I do? The former would lead to temporary irritation but the latter might make him jump to the wrong conclusion! The news is still excellent about Grandpa, but Mum and Dad are staying just a couple of days more. “We’re so grateful you’re going to Leon’s big match,” Mum said, “And it’s great that Louise is going with you. She’s a lovely girl.” Well, I’m most definitely not going to disagree about that! And it means something from Mum, who is generous to a fault, but doesn’t lavish praise for the sake of it. I detected a slight emphasis on the “she” and more than suspected she was comparing her to Felicity. They were always scrupulously polite to each other, but they never hit it off. The most unkind thing she ever even said ABOUT her was, “Felicity is very fond of shoes, isn’t she?” She was right, of course. Oh, she wasn’t some local version of Imelda Marcos with thousands of pairs of them, but how much was lack of inclination, and how much was lack of space and finances, I don’t know. And I don’t think she had a pair with a heel less than two inches. Even her boots were the kind that they described as “nice little boots” on shopping channels even if they’re a size 9. I couldn’t imagine Felicity at an under 13s match. But Louise - that’s another matter. She’ll have suitable footwear and a raincoat that’s not just for decoration, too. I wonder just how water-logged the pitch has to be for the match to be actually called off. But in the first place that’s being mean to Charlie and in the second place I have my suspicions that if the surface were more suited to water polo the match would still go ahead anyway, with the players furnished with snorkels, just in case. I thought about sewing in the offending ends as they were irritating me (Mum would be proud of me!) but decided there would be something symbolic about that and I wasn’t sure I liked the symbolism. But no I’m not going down the road of a scarf unravelling representing a relationship unravelling. Am I? I’ve not mentioned it to Charlie yet, but I’m wondering if I should check about the match going ahead. There’s a difference between heavy going and a swamp, and I don’t doubt the Astroturf brigade will be having the vapours, as Mum says when someone is getting all het up and feeble, though sometimes people do a double take when she says it as it sounds like folk using e-cigarettes. She says it affectionately and ironically and I don’t doubt she would be the first to minister to anyone who actually was having the vapours. I didn’t need to mention it as he did first. “You don’t think those sissies are going to complain about it being too wet, do you?” he asked. I knew I should have gently told him off for saying “sissies”, but I also knew that the way his chin jutted out but was shaking ever so slightly had more to do with worrying about the big day being cancelled than being rude about the opposition. The match is off! “They had no choice, I suppose,” Leon said, mournfully. “To be honest, I’d have been worried about our lads, never mind the opposition. That pitch just wasn’t safe, and I wonder if any spectators would have turned up apart from us, anyway!” What does he mean, apart from us, I thought. All the same ...... “How has Leon taken it?” I asked. “Badly, though he’s trying to put a brave face on. I’ve told him there will be lots more opportunities, and Mum and Dad will be there as well, but he was all keyed up for this.” Louise is really coming up trumps! She arrived with a big bucket from KFC (okay, I think technically Charlie has had his fast food allowance for this week, but have a hunch this will operate on the “don’t ask, don’t tell” basis) and a DVD that she couldn’t have judged better - a 12A rated adventure movie that’s just edgy enough for Charlie to think he’s being treated like a grown up but doesn’t go too far. The combination of the fried chicken, the movie, and Louise (if he were a couple of years older there might be some serious sibling rivalry going on here!) perked him up considerably. I wonder if they put something in that chicken! After we had finished it and, almost too predictably, licked our fingers, and paused the DVD while Leon had a bathroom break, Charlie turned to me and said, “That was lovely, thank you, Louise.” “You’re more than welcome.” “And Leon told me not to be upset - the match will be re - re scheduled,” he smiled proudly at remembering the correct term, “And Mum and Dad will be there to watch it, too. But you’ll still come, won’t you?” “I’d love to!” I said. And the weird thing was, I meant it!

My footsteps echoed across the bare room. The white walls were lined with dirt and grime, leaving me to wonder how a room that lacked walls and windows, could become the dirty, eery looking room that stands before me. I turned my head to the right, and notice a single mirror leaning against the wall at such an angle that I could see my being staring back at me. My red hair was slightly frayed, with the area surrounding the brim of my forehead pointing towards the ceiling as it always does. My face, freckled but strong handsome, had a layer of dust on it as if I had been abandoned in an abandoned room for days. My blue and black flannel shirt drew itself across my torso, and was rolled up at the sleeves. The white undershirt lie matted against my skin, wet with sweat. My blue jeans looked as though I had been rolled around in the dirt for hours, as did my boots. I have always been physically fit, with naturally dense muscle, but I was always too lazy to work-out so I never had the body of Zeus, but still I was well-built. As I turned to look away from the mirror, it seemed as though my reflection continued to stare at me, un-phased and unchanged. My gaze returned to my reflection, which was following my every move once again. I must have been imagining it, I thought to myself as I turned to walk around the room. I approached the wall on my left and noticed something that I hadn't seen before. Dirty handprints lie sprawled against the wall, from the ceiling to the wood floors. Grimy footprints faced the wall, and as I crouched down to examine them, another footprint appeared, facing the opposite direction. Surprised, I fell back onto my rear as another print appeared about a stride's length from the other. I stood quickly and followed the footsteps as they traversed to the center of the room, then turned to face the mirror, momentarily resting before finishing its trek towards the reflective glass. When the footprints reached the mirror, I glanced up at my reflection, to try and determine exactly what had just happened. My eye caught a movement at the bottom of the mirror, the footprint had made another move. The heel of the print was stamped into the ground just before the mirror, but the other half... the other half continued into the mirror, as if it never existed. It travelled across the floor being reflected by the mirror. I almost wanted to attempt to go test to see if it was stable myself... "It's as real as you are." My voice entered my ears, but they did not exit through my lips, where could it be coming from... I looked up to see my reflection staring at me. His lips moved freely as he used my voice. "This world is filled with wonders. Even some you can't explain. Sometimes, you just need to take a leap of faith, and see what comes of it. After all, the brave don't live forever, but the cautious don't live at all." My hand reached out to touch the glass, but as my fingers touched the reflective surface, my hand passed through it, the reflection rippling as if it were a liquid. I took a step through into this mirrored world. I took a step into this new world, and walked across the identical room. I turned towards my reflection, but he wasn't there, not even in the world I came from. I felt the world begin to shake, and a deafening sound of laughter filled my ears. The violent quake caused me to topple over, and my body hit the ground... My eyes bolted open to see three of my friends standing above me with a can of shaving creme in on of their hands. I felt the creme slide off my face. "Really guys?" was all I could say after that dream. "Ah come on, you know we love you," my bestfriend Michael said with a smirk. "Yea you better love me," I retorted as I wiped the shaving creme off of my face and threw it at him.

“I know this has been a difficult night for you,” said Nicole, hoping that her voice conveyed some degree of empathy and warmth. It’s been a difficult night for me too, pal. A difficult night, a difficult day, a difficult year. “You’ve been such a help, Mr. Chowdhury. If you remember anything else, anything at all, please call me. Even the smallest detail could help,” she continued, handing the little man her card. You’ve been no goddam help at all. A short man wearing a ski mask with a Hispanic accent and tattoos on his arms? That narrows it down to what, like a million? So he was pointing a gun at you. Big fucking deal. He didn’t shoot, did he? Mr. Chowdhury was blinking hard and polishing his glasses furiously, as he’d been doing during the entire interview. “Will you catch him?” he asked. Nicole tried to soften her eyes. “We’ll do our very best.” Ummmm....no. Your case will be on the top of the pile until the next one comes along five minutes later. And the next. And the next. Mr. Chowdhury looked over at the empty display cases the officers were still examining. Two hours ago, they’d held a variety of knives, pistols, revolvers and jewelry. “I had to give it. And all that cash in the safe, right? He had a gun. He had a gun , Miss. What choice did I have?” He turned to Nicole, almost pleading. You’ve asked that like six times already tonight. “You did the right thing, Mr. Chowdhury,” she said. “Nothing is worth your life.” Nicole sat in her unmarked car scratching out notes and trying to shake off the irritation, but the glare of Mr. Chowdhury’s red blinking PAWN sign only added to it. She took a sip of water and focused on her breathing as her meditation app had instructed. In-two-three-four. Hold-two-three-four. Out-two-three-four. A tap on her window. “We’re heading back to the station, Detective,” said Officer Martinez. She gave a thumbs up. “Me too.” It was 12:45 am by the time she pulled out of the pawn shop parking lot. The streets were clear and she drove slowly. Her mind wandered, as it did so often lately, to her early days on the force. The days when she was first to respond to calls, when compassion for someone like Mr. Chowdhury would have bubbled out of her and she would have listened - really listened - to every word. She would have poured over her notes for hours, followed up on even the slimmest lead and, more likely than not, have solved the case. Back then. Tossing the folders onto her desk with a half-hearted promise to review them the next day would have been unthinkable. By 2 am, Nicole was pulling into her driveway and took a moment to soak in the dead-of-night quiet. She dragged Michael’s Big Wheel off the lawn and onto the front porch and straightened the daisies on the wreath before slipping inside, hoping not to wake Joe or the kids. After hanging her coat in the hall closet, she removed her holster and gun, checking the lock on the safe three times before heading to bed. Eighteen hours later, Nicole was back in her car, obscured by a bush as she watched people coming and going from a rundown apartment complex. She rubbed her head, sipped her coffee and looked at her phone, wondering how Sarah’s ballet rehearsal and Michael’s t-ball game had gone. No new messages. She’d have to find out the next day. Oh my God, my head - my head hurts so fucking much . Nicole and her team had spent most of the afternoon in the Cuchillo . That’s what the cops called the six or seven blocks where most of the gang activity occurred. Earlier in the day, they’d received an anonymous tip that some of the weapons stolen from Mr. Chowdhury’s pawnshop were circulating in the area. The bits and pieces of information they gleaned from their investigation that afternoon were coming together to lead them to a suspect known as Manzano. But just when they were about to grab a sandwich and plan their next move, they heard screams and shouting from another block and sprinted to the commotion. They saw a tangle of tattooed arms, glinting chains and blood. Three young men were piled on top of another, punching and kicking him. A fourth held another by his neck with a knife at his throat, spewing vile Spanish. It only took a few moments for the officers to tackle them, make arrests, treat the injuries and bundle them all off to the station. Nicole took statements from witnesses, but the scene had set off a tightness in her stomach and a tremble in her hand. As she made her way back to her car, she started to feel dizzy and blackness closed in on her. She felt heat suffocate her lungs. She gasped for air and swayed. Just get to your car. Ten more steps. Seven. Four. Collapsing against her car, she managed to open the door and fell into the driver’s seat, sweat pouring down her back and heart pounding. That moment from two years ago. The feel of the blade against her throat, the man’s breath hot on her ear, locked into his vise grip. She tried to push it away, but it kept flashing in her head like Mr. Chowdhury’s neon sign. Nicole closed her eyes and tried to settle her breathing as she had during other panic attacks. As her heartbeat slowed and body temperature returned to normal, she became aware of someone standing outside the car. He looked like one of the locals. She lowered the window. “Are you ok?” he asked. “I’m fine, thanks,” she said. I’m fine. That’s what she told the trauma counselor her supervisor had sent her to after that case. She waved off the Xanax he offered. I’m fine. That’s what she told Joe every time he looked at her with concern, sensing that she was not fine. I’m fine. That’s what she told herself, again, that afternoon. C’mon Nic. It’s been two years. It goes with the job, you know that. Everyone’s had something like that happen. You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine. Eventually, as always, she collected herself and got back to work. But the attack had drained the energy out of her and left her with a migraine that even two Excedrin couldn’t dull. And that’s why, as Nicole sat outside that apartment building five hours later waiting for Manzano to appear, she was rubbing her temples and guzzling coffee. Come on you, fucker. Almost on cue, three men emerged from the ground floor. Nicole looked through her binoculars. “That’s him,” she radioed to the team. The officers swept in and had all three cuffed in minutes. Manzano was protesting. He’d heard about the robbery, but he wasn’t involved. He’d been asleep, alone, when it happened. He didn’t know anything about the stolen weapons, jewelry or money. Nicole peered at the evidence bag containing the pistol the officer had just pulled off Manzano . “I’m pretty sure that when we trace this, we’ll find it was one of the ones stolen from the pawn shop. You telling me it’s not?” she asked. “Shit, I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I just bought it, you know?” Nicole pressed her fingertips to her forehead, trying to ease the pain, and dialed Mr. Chowdhury. That night, the shop owner identified Manzano in a line-up. The gun was, in fact, traced to the pawn shop and Nicole promised Mr. Chowdhury they’d keep working the case. Hopefully track down the rest of the stolen merchandise and cash. Manzano was booked and the case sent to the prosecutor. Nicole fell into bed that night too exhausted to feel any satisfaction. The next day, the prosecutor charged Manzano with armed robbery. Nicole spent most of the afternoon tethered to her desk, plowing through expenses and paperwork on other cases. It wasn’t until about 8:30 that night that turned back to Mr. Chowdhury’s case. She pulled up the security footage and zoomed in, hoping to get a better look at the weapons and jewelry that had been taken. She watched Manzano enter, pull a gun on Mr. Chowdhury and make him clear out the cases. He was wearing a ski mask, but his bare arms were covered in tattoos too thick and elaborate to be discerned in the grainy footage. She caught a glimpse of a snake on the inside of his left wrist, which she’d noticed during the arrest, impressed by the level of detail in the scales and eyes. As she watched the footage, something nagged at her. Something that the Nicole from 20 years ago, maybe even 10 years ago, would have noticed right away. Her stomach tightened and she tried to ignore it, keep her focus on the weapons. But finally, she had to know. She grabbed the booking photos and found one where she could see the snake tattoo. Oh no. Nicole leaned closer to the security camera footage. And then looked at the photo again. She looked back and forth and back and forth and back and forth hoping that she could unsee what she had just discovered. The snake tattoo on the man in the security camera footage twisted from right to left. Manzano’s twisted from left to right. Nicole pushed the keyboard and photo away from her. Holy fuck. She dropped her head into her hands. She thought about the avalanche of shit that would come if she revealed the mistake. An investigation, reprimands, Mr. Chowdhury, the media. Oh god, the media. Nicole looked at the two images again. A fleeting moment, so fleeting - and so grainy - the moment the tattoo appeared in the security footage. This is a Salvadoran gang member, she told herself. He’ll get one of those overworked, underpaid public defenders who just wants to get through the case fast. He’s a Salvadoran gang member, she repeated to herself. He’s probably already done something he should be in jail for. If he hasn’t yet, he probably will. Probably will? Of course he will. She closed the footage and shut down the computer. She stuck the photos back into the folder and slipped it into the middle of the pile under the more pressing, higher profile cases. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t have to look at that footage. I didn’t even see the footage. She walked quickly to her car. What footage? The Chowdhury case? Remember it? Vaguely. Some gang member held up the pawn shop, right? Didn’t hurt anyone. No big deal. On the drive home, Nicole blared the local news station, trying to distract herself. She picked up Michael’s bat and glove from the lawn and stacked them neatly on the porch. She eased open the door, hung up her coat, removed her holster and gun and locked them in the safe, checking the lock three times. She padded down the hall and looked in on Sarah, then Michael and then Joe. All three slept deeply, Michael bathed in the glow of his Winnie-the-Pooh nightlight, Sarah with her silky hair draped over the edge of her bed and Joe snoring. Nicole moved into the kitchen and reached into one of the highest cabinets, where she and Joe kept the alcohol. They rarely drank and she couldn’t even remember what they had. Her fingers closed around a sealed bottle of vodka. Just one sip. She stood at the kitchen island and took a tentative swallow from the bottle. She heard Manzano’s voice - “What are you talking about? I was home, sleeping.” She took another sip. Five to 15 years. If he’s lucky. He won’t be lucky. Another sip. She tried to block out Manzano’s protests. The fear in his eyes. That damn snake tattoo. Another swallow. And another. And another. And another.

“Grayson County, this is Julie, please hold” “Julie I--” The phone cut to hold music, as Special Agent in Charge Ryan Allen instinctively bit down and gritted his teeth together. Allen was the victim of a rough morning. He had been given orders from his supervisors to assist the state of Virginia with enforcing their new laws against semi-automatic firearms, and the feedback had been astounding, even in his own office. Six of the eighteen agents he supervised had turned in their guns and badges, four of those being the most tenured in the office. His A-team, his go-to crew. He had begun checking on all of his remaining dozen agents in the field and had been successful with most. Except Miller. Miller was his young gun, prone to fits of stupidity and headstrong. Maybe it was a mistake sending him the furthest from the office, without a senior agent to go with him, but that’s what the locals were for, right? “Grayson County, this is Julie, is this an emergency?” “Kind of, yeah” Allen haltingly gave up into the phone “This is Special Agent in Charge Ryan Allen, I sent a -” Julie cut him off at the pass, “Yeah, an ATF agent was here this morning, are you his supervisor? Because if so, he might need to have a talking to about manners and making demands of local law enforcement.” “Right, okay, I’ll talk to him when he gets back. Can you radio your deputy and see where they are at? I can’t get him on his cell, and he’s not answering emails either.” “He doesn’t have a deputy with him. We’re not enforcing that particular piece of legislation out here. My boss told him to pound sand, and the Sheriff has the same view. Anything else you need? These phones are ringing off the hook--someone lost a load of cattle out of a semi and we’re busy.” Allen sighed, knowing somehow that Miller would manage to piss off the local law enforcement and go at it alone. “No ma’am, good luck with your cattle issue, and I’m sorry for Agent Miller’s conduct, we’ll try to remind him to play nice with others.” Allen pressed the phone down into it’s cradle on his desk, looking over the various paperwork stacked there, and glancing at the monitor to see a growing inbox waiting to be conquered. As the special agent in charge of a Virginia Field Office of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, Allen’s email was constantly filled with directives, requests, new policy and personnel issues. The director’s office had sent a memo detailing the new Virginia laws that required confiscation of firearms of a number of different and very common types, and confiscation was not going well. Of the twelve agents that Allen now supervised, three had reported being shot at, one was without a vehicle due to some sort of sabotage on their tires, and the remaining eight had all encountered resistance from a number of sources, including local law enforcement, citizens and the ever present news media. So far, since the beginning of their day, they had seized a total of three firearms. Two from a self-proclaimed “Instagram Influencer” and one from a 45-year-old assistant to a Senator, who did not want to lose his seat at the table with his boss, a rabid anti-gun legislator from the middle of the suburbs. Three guns. That was it. One of the other field offices reported two agents down, both in critical condition after leading a raid into the home of a former Special Forces Sergeant who lived in a cabin closer to Lexington. They made it almost a hundred feet from the house before withering fire cut down several the agents and local law enforcement. They gathered up enough courage to evacuate everyone, leaving a few cruisers and a ton of equipment right there in the yard. Allen feared that they would find this again and again, as the Virginia backwoods seemed to be a preferred retirement ground for many of the United States Military’s finest former experts. Allen tried Miller’s cell phone again, this time from his personal phone. JP was usually reliable but could be headstrong. He had caused Allen grief more than a few times from his brash demeanor, usually tangling with local law enforcement or citizens, and it had put him within inches of a formal reprimand from Allen a time or two. JP was, without a doubt, a lawyer who also happened to carry a gun. His six-foot, broad shouldered frame could be intimidating, but even more so was his ability to whip your words around to change the meaning and make you argue not only with him, but with yourself. It was a dangerous skill, especially with some of the idiots they dealt with on the street, but Allen had to admit, it was usually effective. Miller’s cell phone continued to ring, eventually going to voicemail. Allen hung up. He had already left a pair of voicemails, the first concerned. The second, more authoritative, with an order to call in immediately. “Ryan!” Cal Grassley called out as he turned the corner into Allen’s office. Cal was their resident equipment wizard from the Technical Services Branch. He carried a printout with him as he strode into Allen’s office and plopped his overweight body into one of the chairs across from Allen’s. His smudged glasses and coffee stained tie paired with a defeated look on his face as he slid the paper across the cluttered wasteland of Allen’s desk. It slid by in the one clear spot and promptly landed on the floor, its landing accompanied by a hard sigh from Allen. “Cal, please tell me you found something on Miller” Allen growled, leaning down to grab the sheet from the weathered carpet at his feet. Grassley responded with a sigh, explaining “His last activity was fairly early this morning, sent a read receipt on your email with the list of targets, then...well, nothing. His signal kind of peters out after that. Doesn’t really seem to be any pings off the cell towers, but that’s common for that kind of rural area.” Allen shook his head. “Cal, is there any way to track his car? I know my Tahoe has OnStar--can’t we just do that?” Grassley tilted his head a little, thinking on the query. “I know that Ford has the 911 Assist, but he’d have to have turned it on, and then the car would have had to been in an accident. Probably not.” Allen tilted back in his chair, pondering this latest predicament. Cal popped up out of the chair, surprising Allen with his agility, especially compared to his size. “I’ll be back in my hobbit hole if you need me, I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” Allen nodded, silently contemplating his next move. The best move would be to have the locals go look for him, but with JP’s prior confrontation, that search would be half-hearted at best, and at worst, not done at all. Allen went to his email and examined the roster of agents. Woodley would be the next closest, but he had lost all the tires on his vehicle when he went to get gas in a rural area, and made small talk with the clerk at the station while paying--apparently pay at the pump was not the standard like it was in the DC Beltway. Alvarez and French were the next two closest, their day had started with harassment from the local police department, and so far, had resulted in no seizures and nobody willing to answer the door for federal agents in plate carriers with rifles. Allen glanced at the list, mentally trying to remember which of these towns was near what. His next name on the list was Lindsay Clay, his newest agent to the office. She had wavered at being sent to Roanoke to assist a local group of Virginia State Police who would be going door to door in the suburbs, but relented when advised by a senior agent that it held the least amount of danger anyone would face in this particular type of scenario. Clay was a fresh-faced blonde from the DC area, where she had excelled at lacrosse and went to the University of Virginia on a lacrosse scholarship, playing under Julie Myers. Prior to her ATF career, she had never fired a gun, never even held a gun, in fact. She was book smart, but certainly not street smart, and the ATF’s field training officers had their hands full trying to train the green-ness out of her. She was a capable agent, though, and was well-versed in the law. Allen decided that she was his best bet for finding Miller and bringing him home. The fact that she was a semi-attractive blonde wouldn’t hurt, but the fact that she knew the rules and took orders well would seal the fact that Allen could trust her to reel JP in and bring him back. The trick now would be getting in contact with her and getting her going. Allen dialed her from the desk phone, hoping that the familiar number would get her to answer him. “Special Agent Clay” Lindsay chirped, seeing the number on her screen and knowing that this was probably some more guidance. She desperately needed guidance, as the team that she had been given for this operation consisted of a four-man squad of brand-new troopers, fresh out of the academy and roaring to go. Clay had spent most of her day trying to temper their enthusiasm and hoped that the call from the Field Office was a return and regroup order. This day had not gone well so far. She had been carrying a heavy shotgun, wearing her heavy body armor, and going house to house with a team that had the general maturity of middle schoolers. This was not what she had signed up for. “It’s Ryan, how’s the day going? Never mind, listen, I need you to go find JP. He’s gone missing near you in Independence, or Freedom, or Liberty...I can’t remember what the hell the name of the town is. You need to go find him and then report back here ASAP. We’re getting our butts kicked and we need to strategize.” “Okay. I just need to know where I’m going.” Lindsay breathed a sigh of relief at the news that she’d be teaming up with Miller. He seemed to know what he was doing, most of the time. Plus, he wasn’t unpleasant to look at, though he did seem a little full of himself. She watched from the back of her Tahoe while the four troopers walked up to the next door in the little suburban neighborhood, they had chosen to through next. “It’s Independence. He was near there. Ask around, figure out where he’s at and follow him back to here. If you get time, try to hook up with Woodley--he lost some tires earlier today and he’s stuck. I’ll figure out where and text you.” Allen hung up the phone without finishing his conversation. Lindsay sighed. Jamar Woodley was not the agent she wanted to have to pick up and be stuck in the car with. He was loud, animated and hyper aware of his surroundings. She was sure that he’d be driving the locals nuts by the time she got to him. Maybe she could make JP pick him up. That would be perfect for her. She could turn up her music, drive home and maybe make it back to her townhouse to soak her sore muscles in her own bathtub tonight. She turned to head towards the troopers as the windows from the two story they had chosen exploded with gunfire. Rounds slapped the dirt around the troopers as the glass spread all over the carefully manicured landscape. Clay pulled her pistol while scurrying back towards the relative safety of the blacked-out Chevy. She reached to hit the release for the back hatch as she saw one of the troopers take a shot to the leg, screaming out in pain. Her original plan involved grabbing a shotgun and hoping to at least give the troopers some covering fire. Now her plan was to grab the medical kit and hopefully get close enough to make sure they all survived. The fire intensified, then slacked as the shooter (shooters?) inside reloaded. She saw two troopers make a break for their cruisers, while the wounded trooper and the fourth stayed put near the door. The first trooper to reach the cruiser jumped in the driver’s seat, as Lindsay watched the second attempt to open the door to his cruiser, he spun, a rifle round striking the plate on his back, and knocking him to the ground. The first trooper swung his cruiser across the lawn, beckoning the two sheltered by the door to get in. The wounded trooper began a low crawl across the yard, only to collapse halfway, crying and shaking, his exertion too much to bear with his wound. His partner ran to him, grabbing the handle at the back of his carrier, dragging him towards the relative safety of the cruiser’s backseat cage. The two of them loaded in the back, returning fire as the third sped his way out of the combat zone. Lindsay looked to the second cruiser, seeing the trooper there struggling to get up. She started to examine the area, looking for cover, or at least concealment from the view of the shooter inside the house. The fire had slackened, with the main threat removed from the front door, and Lindsay saw movement inside. She took the opportunity to jump in the front seat of the Tahoe and backed up next to the open cruiser door and reached across the console to open the passenger door, her pistol still gripped in her left hand on the wheel. The trooper looked up at her from the ground and grasped the side of the seat, pulling himself up into the vehicle. His eyes met hers as he glassily stared at her, stunned from the impact and the previous minute of madness. “Get me the hell out of here” He bellowed, wheezing as he spoke. She turned the wheel and punched the gas. The Tahoe churned it’s back wheels into the Virginia grass, fish-tailing as it scrambled off the lawn, the smell of cordite hanging in the air.

With all the stresses of modern life, it can be difficult to set aside time to clean your residence. One day you drop a few crumbs on the ground, and before you know it, your house is infested with ants! Here at Pest-Corp, we pride ourselves on our bug-blasting knowhow. Today, we're gonna give you some handy dandy tips and tricks on how to prevent ant infestations in your household. Tip one: Clean after every meal Especially if you’re a parent (kids are dumb, and messy). Nothing attracts ants faster than easy to aquire, freely available food. You're gonna want to look out for crumbs and leftovers as you clean. Tip two: Wipe up spills The residue of soft drinks gives off a very strong odor, and is a surefire way to bring ants into your home. Make sure to quickly wipe up any spills to prevent infestation. Additionally, use some disinfectant spray to seal the deal. Tip three: Practise good hygiene Because the ants view you as food, the scent that you and your family members give off can quickly attract ants to your location. Make sure that everybody in your house takes daily showers. Additionally, wear deodorant, and brush your teeth frequently. If anyone begins bleeding, wipe it up immediately. Try to keep all bodily odors to a minimum. The smell of tears is quite salty and potent to them, so avoid stress when possible. Here are some fun games you can play with your family to avoid stress: -Hide and seek -Tag -Chess -Checkers -Cards -Charades -Pictionary -Twister Tip four: Think twice before inviting over guests During a national emergency, sitting around in lockdown can be very isolating. However, it is important that you do not allow guests into your house unless absolutely necessary. Your guest might have a strong odor, allowing ants to track them. Even if somebody is banging at your door, it’s best not to let them in, and pretend like you’re not home. Tip five: Eliminate lines of sight Ants have poor vision, but if you’re not careful, they can see you roaming around outdoors, or through the windows of your house. In order to remain undetected by ant swarms, stay indoors. Shut your curtains, close your blinds, or nail blankets to your windows. If you do need to go outside for whatever reason, do it under the cover of night to avoid detection. Tip six: Avoid noise If an ant hears a large amount of commotion coming from your abode, it might prompt them to investigate. Try to avoid arguments, screaming, power tools, etc. If you know there is a concentration of ants within your area, make a plan with your family to eliminate as much noise as possible. Tip seven: Stockpile supplies In the event of a [REDACTED], it will be difficult to find an opportunity to leave your home. Make sure you have supplies you need saved up beforehand, such as: -Non perishable food items -Drinking water -Life straws -Clothing -Padlocks -First aid -A generator -Gasoline -Any kind of chemical freshener to mask your scent, like febreeze. -Firearms When stocking up, remember that too much is better than too little. Tip eight: Incorporate air fresheners into your outfit You know those little trees that you hang up in your car? You can actually make necklaces out of them. This is a very easy way to eliminate bodily odor, and it’s also quite fashionable. For added effect, hang them from the ceiling fans in your home. The more unnatural scents in your home, the more protected you are against an infestation. Tip nine: Avoid confrontation Although ants might not appear to be any more dangerous than the average home invader, they most certainly are. They move with incredible speed, and are prepared to devour your flesh. Only use firearms if you absolutely have to, as this creates a ring of noise with a radius of about one mile. If an ant enters your house, the best course of action is to take your family into a room, lock the door, stay away from the windows, and wait for the ant to leave. Tip ten: Know that, in the event of a [REDACTED], your demise is inevitable If you stay indoors, you will starve. If you risk leaving, you will eventually be torn to shreds by a mob of ants. One will see you, then alert the rest. You will be ripped limb from limb, mandibles digging into your flesh. When you stop struggling, they will bring you back to their festering hills, and consume you. There can be no hope, only delayal of the end. Know that you are fighting for the moment, and not the future. The festering wound that is humanity will heal. Buildings will fall, and hills shall be erected in their place. Ants will pour out into the streets, consuming and purging all in sight. When there is nothing left to consume, they will starve. Nature will once again reach an equilibrium. Civilization will fade, and God's work will be complete. He rests easy, knowing that the innocence and purity of all natural life shall be forever maintained. ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// We’d like to thank you for taking precious time out of your day to read this guide. If this helped you in any way, please consider donating to one of our fundraisers, or purchasing some merchandise on our website.

The cold mist of morning dew lay like a blanket over Birmingham Alabama's Five Points District. The perpetual *wet* that clung to the air was exacerbated by the early morning sun, having just risen, had not yet been able to warm the air to an agreeable temperature. The ancient brick buildings stood sentinel over the city’s most historic and well known hub of commerce. Blurry headlights attached to blurry vehicles approached the Five Points intersection from all five directions, one by one they would all wait their turn under the stoplight. This grand arbiter would spew forth color coated permission to the cars below. Green, yellow, red...green...yellow...red. An automobile ballet with no perceivable middle or end in sight. At the base of the Charles, Louisman, & Greening building, D'Andre stood just outside a locked, brass-handled door with his hands tucked into his arm pits. Carefully pacing back and forth just enough to stay warm, and not enough to sweat through his interview clothes, he was anxious to get inside, *if* this building ever opened. Birmingham was uncharacteristically cold this December morning and D'Andre was growing jealous of those cruising past him who could afford a car with heat, or even just a car really. A middle aged woman finally appeared on the other side of the door with a large keyring, she held one eye's gaze on finding the right key, and the other on sizing up the threat or intention of the man standing out in the cold morning. D'Andre took a few steps back to give the woman some breathing room. Having been black his whole life; D'Andre knew the importance of the bubble of personal space you afford to strangers was especially true for him. To many times throughout his life had people misinterpreted his intentions, casting sinister shadows across the face of a man whose only crime was being born black and not especially handsome, well...not his *only* crime. After a turn of the key and a mechanical *click*, the business-casually dressed middle aged woman opened the door and welcomed D'Andre inside with a greeting about as warm as his own nose. The buildings massive foyer struck D'Andre as a mix between a large bank and a small airport. The woman retreated across the marble floor and behind a reception desk where she took a seat and gave D'Andre a forced *'May I help you?'* smile, without ever actual having had said it. “Hello, Good morning.” D'Andre's deep voice echoed straight up at the vaulted ceilings, “I uh, I have an appointment this morning to meet with a Mr. Donnatee.” “I'm sorry, there is nobody here by that name.” The woman's face contorted comically sour, “Unless of course, you are referring to Mr. Dinaughty? She offered. “Yes, that would be him.” D'Andre felt a sharp sting of displacement from this woman’s words, the pristine floors, the air of superiority, everything around him screamed 'OUT CROWD'. A decade ago, D'Andre would not have hesitated to take this white bitch down a peg, today however, he had too much to lose. “Have a seat and someone will be out shortly.” she said and motioned toward the leather clad sitting area next to the coffee station against the west wall. D'Andre did as he was told and lowered himself into the couch gently as if not to rock a boat. Several minutes passed and D'Andre was becoming keenly aware of how quiet this lobby was. The nearby coffee smelled of freshly brewed Veranda Blend and became increasingly temping. D'Andre had learned to ween himself off coffee from all those years of being threatened with ulcers from Dr. Lippman, the prison's medical ward's main physician. “Mr. Washington?” spoke a light skinned woman holding a clip board who had appeared from a set of large wooden double doors on other side of the coffee station. D'Andre turned his head to see who had called his name. Their eyes met and he stood quickly, subconsciously eager to please this beautiful young woman. Although both were black, they clearly never ran the same circles. D'Andre knew for every shade lighter your skin was; another dollar was added to your cultural capitol. “Follow me please.” She said and turned to lead him back through the double doors. D'Andre was grateful for her polite smile but now he was not sure their eyes actually met after all. He followed her closely down a wide carpeted hallway adorned on both sides with large beaming portraits of old puffy white men. After two left turns they arrived at the door of Mr. Dinaughty's office. The light-skinned assistant rapped twice on the mahogany, turned and left the way they had come. Upon the door opening, D'Andre was met by a tall gray-haired man in a suit that fit far better than D'Andre's did. Mr. Dinaughty's trendy eyeglasses and current haircut gave off a youthful energy for a man who was clearly in his late fifties. “Come in Mr. Washington!” The man spoke loudly through an exuberant smile. They two men exchanged a handshake that was, due to Mr. Dinaughty's ardor, near violent. “Sit! Sit!” he cried. D'Andre took his seat and scanned the walls of the scarce office, few personal objects and no art to speak off. “So,” Mr. Dinaughty stated matter-of-factly while his eyes scanned some papers on the desk in front of him. “Looking for some work are we?” “Yessir”. “Well, well, well, well, well....looks like your P.O. is Paul Houser? Fine man, that Paul. Did he mention he and I attended college together? “Oh, Yessir”. “I suppose he still does that crazy 'eyebrow' thing when he gets real serious, huh?” “Oh, Yessir, he does indeed.” Mr. Dinaughty let out a short, hard laugh. “Well, well, well, well, well...says here on your application that you are applying for the job of marketing assistant?” “Yessir, that is correct. I spent two years studying communications and marketing at Jefferson State Community College. That is, uh, where I obtained my associates degree.” People where always stricken with surprise to learn D'Andre was a college grad, considering his somewhat inarticulate speech. “Mr. Washington” Dinaughty spoke slower now, “You see...positions in our marketing department are just are not the type of job we offer to felons. It-its a matter of policy, you can understand that right?” Dinaughty lifted his palms up, showing that his hands were empty and, in fact, not holding the pen that writes policy. “Look, Sir,” D'Andre said quickly, striving hard to hold back a ghetto edge from his voice. “I'm not looking to run up in here and start calling the shots, all I'm looking for is a chance to prove that I am worthy of a legitimate career, that I'm capable of being the man my sons see me as. Now, I am worth more than those 12 years the state stole from me. I can prove to be an asset, I'm just looking for that chance, that’s all.” D'Andre had no way of knowing just how little his passionate plea would advance his cause. Long before he ever woke up this morning, the cogs of commerce and economic determinism had conspired against his plight. A Black ex-con doing anything other than mopping floors is just *'not best for business'* as Dinaughty would latter put it. At the end of the interview, D'Andre was ultimately offered a job. An hour later, after being fitted for a custodial uniform, D'Andre set out again into the cold streets towards the small building attached to the courthouse, to tell his probation office the*good news*.

In thirty seven long years of his life, Griffin Mersh never devoted a single thought to ants. But then again, why would anyone want to waste a single microsecond of their lives thinking about ants? Although he had an inconsequential affinity towards other creatures, which he did not acknowledge mindfully throughout his life, a puny ant still hadn’t figured into his mild indifference. In school he was taught about fish, frogs, mice, and even dinosaurs that were wiped out irreversibly millions of years ago, but ants were too insignificant and infinitesimal for anyone to take a meaningful notice. His utter disregard for the hard working critter had not stem from lack of confrontations, for he had seen their colonies emerge sporadically in his front yard. They even crawled all over his face when he took a tumble and passed out in a practice game in his senior year. He brushed them off, strategizing about getting one over the boy who pushed him. He had unwittingly crushed them under his foot as he carried boxes of his packed stuff into the trunk of his car bound for college. Unbeknown to him, their lines marched over the library floor, where he spent most of his college years and had his Shakespearean moment with the love of his life. Then on, his life moved too briskly for the ants to catch up. The day Griffin Mersh married Lily Aikins in a charming little ceremony, he received the letter that sent him over the moon. He was to fly on the next mission to the space station. The newlyweds were overjoyed, pieces of life seemed to be steadily falling in their rightful places. They moved to a suburban community in a great schooling district. The job took most of his time, while Lily sprouted a ton of new hobbies- from gardening to oil painting. She also dabbled in amateurish romantic poetry to the stupendous delight of her husband. Needless to say, his life was just on the brink of being perfect. That threshold was accomplished when he fathered two children- little Philip and Catherine, who soothed his soul with their mere presence. The children inherited the intellect of the father and creative spirit of their mother. They were the source of extreme pride for their father, for in them he found the true purpose of his life.Thus progressed the life of Mr. Griffin Mersh. It went from being louder, more eventful early on to monotonous and unexceptional over time. It did not irk the astronaut as he had always wanted to lead a normal, and ordinary life. ‘Most extraordinary thing in life is to be ordinary,’ he had read the phrase somewhere and it was etched in his heart. Even as the altered nature of his lifestyle allowed him more time and freedom to pursue the things that peaked his interest, ants still did not induce a tangible thought in his mind. There were always bigger issues in life to tackle, more interesting leisures to experience and an endless space to traverse. His flights had become routine and as dull and predictable as daily commute by a train. His work was technical, which most people would describe as boring and unstimulating, but for him, it was one of the greatest joys of his life. He had perfected his daily routine on the station which began every morning with him religiously gawking at the pure blue marvel suspended in the dark void of space from the window of his station. He never got tired of taking in the extraterrestrial view of his home, where he had left a better part of himself. For the rest of the day, he would diligently perform his duties as flight engineer, monitoring the mechanical components of the station and ensuring that repairs were timely and sufficient to sustain their course. On the fateful day just after he woke up, Griffin looked out the window out of habit and found his home in all its grandeur. As he sat there with the view shaking him out of the stupor, something unmissable caught his eye. A gargantuan shadow from the depth of the void crawled towards him. It had appeared suddenly as if it were thrust into existence by some absurd force of nature. Its size too large for him to comprehend had a catastrophic impact on the natural order of earth and moon. Before the eight crew members of his expedition had a moment to think about the phenomenon, it had revealed the true extent of its unbelievable magnitude- a million times the size of the earth. They had just two minutes to don their EVA suits, for it had shattered the communications in its entirety and even as they struggled to put the situation in words, they knew in their hearts what it meant for them and their home. Hopelessness and disbelief was palpable as they abandoned their station wordlessly, in awe of the structure, waiting for the inevitable. He hurtled away unbridled from the exploding station with his crew in utter despair, its wreckage had punctured the outer layer of his suit, which displayed in big red letters before him the time until the oxygen ran out. “Two Minutes!” It beeped. With each revolution around the axis of his own body, Griffin glimpsed the true horror as the shadow maintained its uninterruptible course- its mouth extending towards his home, towards his wife in midst of painting a landscape with red and blue oils, his eldest digging up the grass in their yard and inspecting the worms that wriggled, his daughter watching her mother with one eye and another fixed at the clear, pale blue sky. He longed for nothing more than to be with them at the moment. “One Minute!” The beeping had accelerated its tempo. In the moment of his extreme desperation, he remembered the distress signal that he had activated the moment they deserted the station. A smidgen of hope had begun to germinate in one corner of his heart. ‘Maybe *they* have received my signal. *They* will have to honor the code, and help us all out. *They* cannot just brush us off, and crush us en route. It is unthinkable, and absolutely iniquitous,’ thought he. “Thirty Seconds!” The sound was one continuous and uninterrupted, shrill tone. The other floating astronauts had disappeared from his view. The kindled hope had effectively been doused by the indifferent bearing of the shadow with no sign of humane disposition. He checked his own course in the wobbly display of his helmet- towards the core of the sun. His maneuvering apparatus was one of the first to break down under rain of exploding debris. His thumping heart had inexplicably been subdued. “Ten Seconds!” The display itself was fading away and a confused static was gradually replacing the clear tone. In those ten seconds, after thirty seven years, four months and thirteen days, he at last thought consciously of ants. By the time the clock ceased its countdown, Griffin Mersh, the outstanding astronaut, who lived a good and meaningful life, had himself become an ant.

An alarm screeches as a boy groans at the thought of another day of thoughts. The boy reluctantly gets out of bed to a particularly bland world. Thoughts of everything that could go wrong rush the boy’s head as he gets ready for school. While he’s getting ready, the boy notices his house is unusually empty but he assumes everyone left early. The boy grabs his favorite cereal only to notice it doesn’t taste as good as he remembers. Puzzled, the boy assumes the cereal is out of date. The boy is then washed over by a strange wave of deja vu but chooses to ignore it as he doesn’t know why or where it came from. As the boy gets ready to walk to school, he puts in his earbuds and puts on his favorite song just to get annoyed by how repetitive and boring it now seems to sound. The boy also realized that the world which used to be vibrant and beautiful has now turned an ugly shade of gray. He ignores it as it’s been a constant trend for once beautiful things to turn gray and depressing. The boy then turns his music up and makes his way to school, head down, kicking rocks, trying to distract himself from invading thoughts and the sad, monotonous reality of his daily life. As he walks, he notices the air has a strange scent like it’s about to rain but he sees no clouds and the sky is strangely gray. While walking, the boy looks up and sees an odd shape in the road ahead, while all these abnormal experiences keep happening he realizes he hasn’t seen a single car or another person. As he approaches the strange shape he saw he can feel the air gradually get colder and the world around him starts to get darker. When the boy gets close enough he can see that the shape is missing a hexagon-shaped section in the road, seemingly leading to nothing. The hole doesn’t seem to have much below it either as if it was just a tile of the world that has been removed. The sight of the hole heightens the boy’s senses allowing him to notice the slight but constantly increasing distortion in his music but not the sounds of the rest of the world as there is no sound other than the music coming from his earbuds, not even his footsteps. Realizing this, the boy screams in an attempt to make any noise other than the now extremely distorted music coming from his headphones. In an attempt to pause or somehow stop the music, the boy rips out the cords leading to his earbuds but that doesn’t stop it. The boy then scratches at his ears to make the noises he once called music stop. His earbuds fall to the ground not making a sound but the music continues playing. Terrified, the boy sprints from the ungodly hole as to make it stop. The more he distances himself from the hole, the more he can hear. First, his heart pounding in his chest. Then, his breathing which is heavy and ragged. Finally, his feet stomping on the asphalt road. The boy is petrified but works up the courage to look back. As he does, he sees more hexagon-shaped holes appear, swallowing buildings whole, buildings where loved ones lived, buildings where he had many great memories, buildings where he met friends and spent time with family. The boy keeps running, as a single tear rolls down his cheek, quickly swept away by the wind that is now raging around him. Lightning crashes and thunder booms but still nothing in the sky, not even a cloud, still a constant gray except for the occasional flash of white in place of lightning. Still looking back at the destruction behind him, the boy is hit with another wave of deja vu, forcing him to whip his head back to see where he’s going. When his eyes focus on the path ahead the boy realizes there is none. Nothing. Everything ahead of him is gone, swallowed into the ever-growing void that’s spreading like a plague, consuming everything he loved. Cornered inches from falling into the dark abyss, the boy looks back to where he just ran from, seeing he doesn’t have much time left as the unexplainable corruption spreads closer to him. Realizing he has nowhere to go, the boy closes his eyes, calms his breathing, and relaxes his body. With the boy’s body at ease, he is allowed to have a free mind and think. The boy thinks for what feels like years, decades, centuries, almost like a meditative state. A constant stream of thoughts, unbroken and never wavering. Thoughts of life, past traumas, horrors from his childhood, but they weren’t all bad. The boy also thought back to the great times with friends and family, not many but golden moments. At that moment, the boy knew what he had to do. As he opened his eyes, he saw every single moment he just thought about suspended in the air on geometric platforms, scattered in the newly formed void. Every good and bad moment in his life was displayed in front of him. A small gap in the chaos appeared ahead of him, clarity and freedom from his past that haunts him. The boy took one more deep breath and sprinted full speed at the gap, faster than he’s ever run. While running, the platforms containing his past, that shaped him, that made him who he is today, start blinking out of existence. As he reaches the end of what’s left of his world, he sees only one platform, positioned right in front of him. A pill bottle with a weathered label, all he can read from it is the letters, “Zol..”. The boy couldn’t make out any more from it as he had to look at the ground beneath him and the edge rapidly approaching. When the boy reaches the edge, time seems to stop for just a moment as he is blasted by emotions. Anger, fear, joy, sadness, disgust, all felt in a split second and quickly fading. No longer being bound by feelings or memories, the boy leaps into the void. While he’s falling, the boy feels nothing but is overwhelmed by a feeling he never felt before, an unexplainable feeling of freedom from the stress and pressure of life. Finally free, finally at peace. As the rest of the world fades and the boy falls into the endless abyss, darkness envelops his vision until he can no longer see anything but pitch black. Then as if nothing happened, the boy opens his eyes, back in bed, back in his house, back in the same old world he left the night before. He thinks to himself,” Ugh, another one, must’ve forgot my pills last night.” The boy then reaches over to his bedside table and grabs a pill bottle with a weathered label. As he takes the pill, he looks out his window. Just as he swallows the pill, the world brightens and becomes almost over saturated in color. Also in the back of his mind, another hexagon-shaped hole evaporates leaving a hopeless void in its place. But most importantly, the dreams go away and the boy’s mind goes numb once again...

Tess grasped the bale firmly and hoisted it onto the trailer as Toby cranked the ratchet strap. "Thirty nine." she panted, "That'll do paw?" Old Nel stretched until his back cracked before leaning against the wheel to wipe his brow. "Yep, I reckon that'll do. Go fetch me a water will ya Toby?" he groaned. Toby hopped down and ruffled his little sisters hair as he passed by, much to her annoyance. "Quit it." she mumbled. The harvest grew more bountiful with each year, and old Nel reckoned they might hit fifty bales next time. Tess latched the trailer flap and tested the straps. When she was satisfied they were taught enough, she took her place by her fathers side and cast her eyes skyward. "It's so beautiful, aint it paw?" she sighed. The red planet shone brightly in the night sky, like a firefly among the pale stars. "I don't know what yer fascination is with that place." said Nel. Toby watched through the farmhouse window as he filled a glass from the reclaimer. "I wonder what it's like. They say that there was water up there once, long ago." said Tess. Old Nel straightened up and placed his hand on Tess's shoulder. "Well, the only thing on that rock now is sand, and a view." he said. The farming life was a fine way to live, free from the commotion and hassle of the big cities. At least, that's how old Nel felt about it. For Tess, the call to adventure was ever present, a thirst she was desperate to quench. Thirteen was a difficult age for anybody, especially when you were stacking bales and milking cows. "Paw, when I grow up, I wanna fly in one of those rocket ships!" Tess exclaimed. Old Nel laughed. "Is that right?" "Yes paw. I'm gonna be the talk of the town, you'll see! The first astronaut in all of New Haven. I'll fly to the stars, and bring some o' that red rock back with me!" "Smart girl like you, I reckon you just might. I can see it now, your name in lights: Tess, finest astronaut in New Haven" Tess jumped at old Nel, and he caught her in his arms. "Now go on inside, maw'll just about be ready with dinner I reckon." said Nel. Tess glanced back up at the red planet a final time before charging for the farmhouse, passing Toby on the way. "You know, you're gonna have to tell her one day. Everyone knows you can't go there no more." said Toby. Old Nel took the water and finished it in one go. "Let her dream a little longer." he said, "It ain't doin harm for a little girl to dream." Toby crossed his arms and leaned with his father. "Your daddies granpaw was one of the last to leave, wasn't he paw?" he asked. "He sure was." "What happened to Earth anyhow?" asked Toby. Old Nel sighed. "Too much o' the wrong things.

It was dark outside the locked window of the small room. The curtains were drawn and a light layer of dust covered the wooden desk in the corner. A young girl was asleep in a rickety old bed. A beat up teddy bear gripped tightly in her small arms. She was mumbling in her sleep. Another girl in a different bed started to stir and wake up. A heavy rain started to hit the thin window. All the girls in town were kept here, in this house. The community had homes for children, where they lived away from their families. The home for girls and the home for boys lived on opposite sides of the community. The adults lived in a circle around the community center. All the buildings were the same apart from the center, there was a large fountain that the children play in on hot days. The children lived alone in a large building on the edge of town. With food delivered to them three times a day, like the rest of the community. Once they turn eighteen they would be given a house in the circle and a spouse that would be assigned to them by the Chief of the community. The girls shivered and clutched their stuffed animals closer to their chests for comfort, knowing what the day ahead would bring. When they were younger, the children had dreams of happiness and freedom, now they were plagued by nightmares of childhood. Something the adults in the community don't remember, because they had forgotten. No one remembered their childhoods. Only the Chief of the community had the valuable knowledge of what it was like to feel fear. The children had to learn that fear was bad, and that it was wrong, that they could recognize fear and know how to avoid it in everyday life. Everyone in the community has the knowledge of fear inside them somewhere, they all learned it from a young age. it just needs to be called forward to appear to the average adult. Children had tried to remind people of fear, but those rebels were never seen again. It is said that they were sent to a place called, The Sanctuary. To go through more training and enlightenment. The window rattled with the rain as the girls slept, prisoners in their minds for the time being. Facing their worst fears over and over again, until they knew not to be afraid. Some were afraid of being alone, some were afraid of the dark, a few were afraid of judgment, so every day they all had to face their fears. One at a time they would go into a room with an older child and act out a scenario where they would feel fear. They ate their meals in silence, not wanting to frighten each other with words or actions. On Sundays they dressed in their fancy community issued clothes and would go into town for a service called, Cherish. Where the entire community came together in the center and told stories of joy and there was music and dancing and fresh food and everyone cherished each other. The Chief of community, who only attended once a year, in June. June was the month of sun, where the entire community and the authorities, and the workers, all came together and had a feast for a whole week. All the children looked forward to June, because they could forget about fear, forget about all the days of suffering they learned about and learned how to push fears away. And every June, at least one brave child would stand up and give a speech of fear, and once they were done, the Chief would come and her security guards would drag the child, kicking and screaming, away to The Sanctuary . Then the Chief would say an apology and everyone would go back to normal. But the children knew the apology was empty, it was not real, it was not sincere, there was no sympathy or care in the words, it was just a mask to make sure no one stepped out of line and made sure no one made the people of the community feel afraid or sad or angry or frustrated. Only happiness was allowed. But the children wondered, if all you feel is happiness all the time, do you know what happiness is? Are you happy? The children felt happy every now and then, not all the time every day, but adults didn't know any other feeling, and if they did, they just assumed there was something wrong with them and applied for medication. The children were only allowed medication for sickness, like the common stomach flu or a fever. A young feeble girl lay awake in the corner of the cold, dark room, her name was Abigail. She clutched a plush cat to her chest, just like the other girls. But she knew she was different to the other girls, and with June and the festival of sun right around the corner, she was planning on making a speech about fear, she thought she would be the one to break the grain and free emotions back into the world, free fear and let it flow through the community. She was twelve years old and the smallest of all the girls in her age group. She didn't eat much and exercised only when mandatory. She played with dolls at free time just like the other kids, and wrote in her journal before bed like everyone else, but something deep down felt different. When she wasn't playing with dolls or participating in the activities, Abigail found herself staring across the dusty landscape at the home for boys, wondering what it would be like to live there, wondering if she'd be happier with boys. She had met boys a few times, usually at Cherish or the June festivals. They seemed to understand her, be her, but better, happier. And every time the sky was clear and she could see across town, Abigail would sit by the rusty window and think what life would be like if she were born a boy. That was her fear, that was what she faced in the small room with the older girl every day, fear of not being accepted by the community. And every night, just like the other children, she had dream after dream of people laughing at her, shunning her, just for wanting to be a boy, for wanting to be happy. She wondered if anyone else in the community felt the way she did. Felt afraid secretly, deep down inside them, a rooted fear that they didn't know what lurking, in the darkest corner of their mind. If they felt afraid everyday and just thought that was what happiness was. What if someone lived in fear or sadness and just assumed that was what being happy felt like? These were the things Abigail wondered at night, staring at the blank ceiling, waiting for the nightmares of fear, just like the other girls. And soon enough they swept over her like a wave pushing a surfer back to the beach. But the beach she arrived to was not a paradise like the ones in books, it was filled with people laughing at her, shunning her, just for wanting to be happy. The morning came slowly. Abigail was the first awake, as usual. She got out of bed and went to the window, the rain had stopped and the morning glow of sunlight greeted her as she opened the shaggy curtains. A layer of rain covered everything in sight, making it shine and sparkle. Across town she could make out the outline of a tall brick building identical to this one. He sighed and opened the window and took a seat on the damp sil. She looked down and saw people starting to go about their days. The worker people delivering breakfast and newspapers to front stoops of the modern houses. The homes for children were the oldest buildings in the community, and had a different style to them. No one questioned it, they had learned not to question anything from a young age. It was the first day of the sun festival. Abigail saw workers hanging up decorations in the square. She went back into the cold room and shut the window. A worker would be there soon to escort the children to the festival. The other girls were awake now, moving about, making their beds and getting into their nice clothes. Abigail went to her small, two drawer, dresser and took out a bundle of clothing labeled, Festival of sun, day 1; Abigail. Everyone had the same outfits but in different sizes, so each clothing delivery had to be labeled with the persons name and for what purpose they were to wear the clothes. Abigail put on her blue shirt, green over shirt and a pink skirt and followed the other girls down to the food hall. They were chatting for once, picturing what it would be like to be happy for a whole week. Abigail sat with the other twelve year olds at their assigned table. Abigail did not speak, she was afraid of being judged for her words of choice. A worker came eventually and the children got into single file lines to walk to the square. There was music playing, voices singing of joy and love. People milling about freely, and fresh food, imported from the community supply chain! This was a special treat for everyone. Usually the ingredients were imported and the workers had to cook the meals. The girls broke their lines and started to walk about, taking in the outside world. Abigail stayed off to the side, preparing her speech about fear. A boy came over to her and smiled, "I'm Hugo." He said. "Abigail." She replied simply. "You know, I've always wondered what it would be like in the girls home. Can you describe it?" Hugo asked, taking a bite of a meat dish he had on a plate. "It's dark and cold, almost like the prison on the outskirts of the community. We have doll houses and assigned stuffed animals to play with at free time." Abigail shuttered just thinking about it. "Fascinating." Hugo said. "Not really. It's all I've ever known, it's normal." Abigail shrugged. "Do you ever wonder," Hugo took a deep breath and continued, "What if there are people outside the community? People unlike us, who have access to all emotions." "I've never really thought about that." Abigail admitted. "I just want to be happy. Real happiness, not like the adults here, they don't know what joy is." "What makes you think that?" Hugo asked. "They don't have anything to compare it with. They don't no sadness or anger, or fear. So they just assume whatever emotion they feel the most is happiness." "Wow. That's never crossed my mind before." Hugo looked up at the sky, as if contemplating existence. "That's why I'm making a speech this year." Abigail admitted. She held out a folded piece of paper with her speech written on it. "I've never met anyone who wanted to go to the sanctuary." Hugo's eyes grew wide. "I don't want to. I'm standing up for whats right. I'm bringing emotions back to people." Abigail explained. "You're brave." Hugo said quietly. "Don't be silly. Brave doesn't exist. Surely they teach that at the boys home." Abigail scoffed. "Yeah, they do. I just don't believe them." Hugo shrugged. "I've read books about it late at night. Bravery is exactly what you're doing." "What else is bravery?" Abigail asked curiously. "Doing things or saying things that scare you. Like, for example, not being happy with being a prisoner in your body and trying to break free." Abigail thought for a second. "I'm doing that." She muttered to the boy. "I'm breaking free and wanting to become a boy, a boy that has emotions and feelings and real happiness." The boy looked at her with a worried look. "You are brave. But, not every story had a happy ending." He advised. Abigail opened her mouth to reply, but a bell sounded, signifying it was time to feast. Everyone sat on long rows of pick nick tables laden with food and drink. Abigail took a deep breath and stood on her seat. "Hello." She said loudly. Everyone turned and looked up at her. "My name is Abigail. I want to tell you all," She unfolded the piece of paper and read out, "Happiness is not what you think it is. Sadness is not what you think it is. Fear is real, and you all need to be able to feel!" She heard footsteps and was tackled down within seconds by guards. They knocked her out and carried her away to a truck to go to The Sanctuary. Hours later she woke up in a cell, her hands were tide and her left ankle was chained to the bars of the wall. There was nothing in the room apart from her. "Help!" She called out. No one answered. She felt afraid like she had never felt it before. It was so much worse than her practice, she felt helpless and weak, like nothing could be done. "You know more than you're supposed to Abigail." A rough voice spoke from somewhere in the room, but she couldn't pinpoint it. "Who are you?" She asked the darkness. Gripping the bars of the cell tightly. "I wouldn't do that if I were you." The voice advised. "Do what?" Abigail looked behind her. "You are brave young one." The voice sighed. "So I have to do this." Abigail was puzzled for a second, then a bolt of electricity ran through the cell and into her hands, through her body, and switched off her brain. Her body hit the stone floor, twitching for a few seconds until she fell still. This was the Sanctuary. A death trap for those who break the rules of the community. For rebels.

A friend of a little girl’s her older sister rode her bicycle over to their house. They were playing in an apple tree, climbing from branch to branch, higher and higher in the apple tree, talking and laughing together. The little girl was too short to climb the tree. Her big sister picked an apple and tossed it down. “Here’s an apple you can eat.” But the apple was green. The little girl felt hurt that her sister would tease her like that. And she felt sad and lonely that she couldn’t play with her big sister, two years older, and the friend of her sister, who was two more years older. Then her older sister and her friend climbed down out of the apple tree, and the little girl felt happy and hopeful that maybe she could play with them. But they made plans to go back to the friend’s house. The little girl begged to come because she wanted to play with her big sister and her sister’s friend. “Sure,” said the friend, deviously, “if you can keep up with us.” The friend hopped on her bike and rode just fast enough for the big sister to run and walk beside her. But the little girl’s legs were short, and being two years younger, she could not keep up with her big sister and the big sister’s friend, who was riding the bicycle. “Wait for me!” the little girl cried. She was all out of breath from running. “I told you that you would have to keep up with us,” replied the big sister’s friend. “Besides, we’ve got to get away from the boogeymen. You’d better run faster too, or the boogeymen will get you!” The little girl didn’t know what a boogeyman was, but when she looked behind her, to her horror, she saw two men in green uniforms with guns at their sides. She had seen men like that go by her house before and hadn’t been afraid. But these two men were ‘boogeymen’ and they were out to get her, and they were walking faster than she could run. The big sister and her friend were out of sight, because they had turned on to the street where the friend lived. The little girl was all alone now and she was sobbing as she tried to run as fast as her little legs could go. “I just have to make it to that friend’s house before those boogeymen get me!” she said to herself. So, she kept going when it felt like she couldn’t run another step and finally made it to the big sister’s friend’s house without the boogeymen getting her. The mom of the big sister’s friend, saw that the little girl was tired and had been crying. She invited the little girl into the house, sat her at the dining room table, got her a nice cool glass of water, and asked her why she was crying. The little girl sniffled while she drank some water. She was feeling embarrassed that she had been crying, but she had been so scared.... So the little girl told the mom why she had been crying. “Your little girl came over to our house to play with my big sister. I wanted to play too, but they climbed up the apple tree, and I can’t reach the branches yet. They threw down an apple for me to eat, but it was green. When they finally came down the apple tree they decided to come here to play. I begged to come along. They told me no. I begged some more and finally your little girl said I could come, but that I would have to keep up with her riding. The sun is really hot out and I ran as fast as I could to keep up, but every time your little girl saw that I was catching up, she rode a little faster. The white road is hot and dusty. My feet hurt, and I couldn’t breathe very well. My big sister can run faster than me, and I got behinder and behinder. Then your little girl told me that the boogeymen were going to get to me if I couldn’t run any faster. When I looked behind me I saw two men in green clothes and they had guns. And I was scared that they would get me cause I couldn’t run any faster.” The little girl started crying again. She was so tired and afraid. “All I want is to play with my big sister and your little girl.” The mom called her little girl and scolded her for being so mean. “You are grounded for two days. You may not leave this house to go play with your friends. You will go to your room right now, young lady!” The mom scolded the big sister, too. “You know better than to tease your little sister about being gotten by boogeymen when you know full well that there is no such thing. You go into the living room and find yourself a seat until my husband comes home from work, and he can take you both home. No reading books, either.” That night I could hardly eat any supper. I was thirsty and asked for seconds on a glass of lemonade. And I was unusually quiet. “What’s wrong?” Mom asked me. The I started crying. “Mommy, what is a boogeyman?” “Why there is no such thing as a boogeyman. Who told you there were boogeymen?” “Becky and her friend, Pam, said that there were boogeymen behind me and that they were going to get me if I couldn’t run any faster. And I saw two men behind me and they had guns, and I was so scared. I tried to run faster, but Pam rode her bicycle even faster and I couldn’t keep up with them, and I finally couldn’t even see them anymore. And I was all alone, and I was so scared!” “Come here,” said Mom. She set me on her lap giving me a comforting hug. Dad said, “Go to your room right now, young lady.” He went to get the paddle to give Becky a spanking. Becky cried crocodile tears. She knew if she cried hard enough she would stop getting spanked. But Becky wasn’t at all sorry for what had happened. Sharon always wanted to play with her and Pam, and she was such a nuisance. And after Dad told her she was grounded for two days, Becky thought to herself, “Pam is grounded for two days too, so we can’t play together anyways. And giving that green apple to Sharon and running ahead of her and teasing her about the boogeymen was so much fun--I’d do it again in a heartbeat!”

Summer is going to be over in just a few days, and I am glad. Most kids on the block are upset about school returning, but I'm not school is like my Paradise to me. I get to learn, I get to be around people and most of all I'm not home. I rush home after playing outside all day my friends. Street light came on and the sun began to go down, I knew then I better hit the road running. Sally, my friend Ashley hollered where you going so fast? Not even turning around I hollered I got to go can't be late, and off I want. Not even realizing it but we had ended up on the other side of town. It was going to take a miracle for me to be home before Mom, and I wasn't sure you would happen. I ran as fast as I could hardly looking for cars, I actually had jump on one cars hood I didn't even see it. Man driving slammed on his break and blew his horn yelled out hey kid what are you going. Turning around quickly I glanced at him and said I'm sorry, and then I ran as fast as I could the rest of the way home. Thankfully as I reached front porch mom had turned onto a road. I couldnt see her, but I can hear the old Volkswagen. I hurry in and started my homework, as I prayed she wouldn't had noticed. The front door slam wide open banging into the wall and knocking the picture down. Sally, Sally May where the heck are you?? Shaking my head and rolling my eyes, I yelled back in here mother, in here doing my homework like I'm supposed to everyday . Door slams shuts and mom comes wobbling in. Well mother I can see your drunk again, so I suppose I have to cook dinner tonight. What do you mean by that little girl, you don't think I do nothing for you? Is that where you going around telling everybody? Her face started turning red and a tear fell down from her eye. Sally you better not be going around spreading rumors about me, because if it gets back to your father he will never come home. Mom, dad has been gone for 5 years now I don't think he's coming back. After the words came out I felt horrible, but it was the truth and mom needed to hear it. She stared at me for a few with a few more tears falling and As Mom stumbled away, I sat there remembering the last time I saw my father. Him and Mom upstairs arguing, or like they like to call it adult conversation. I was downstairs watching cartoons getting ready for school, trying to do my hair making sure it's pretty because it was picture day. Mom never bought them but I still want to look pretty for the year book. He came downstairs patted me on the head and said I have to go get a loaf of bread. As he walked out he told me he loved me and I told him I love him, something we did every time we left the house. A couple minutes later my bus pulled up, mom walked downstairs as I was going out the door. I stopped and turned to tell her I love her, but of course she just shook her head and said goodbye Sally. I close the door behind me a little hard and usual, trying to leave me feelings and emotions at the door. I walked onto the bus and sat next to my friend Ashley, I knew then I was going to be okay. School seem to fly by that day, and before I knew it the dismissal bell rang. I got my things and walked to my bus and daydreamed the whole way home. I was shocked when I got home and mom was there. She usually at her friends or down at the local bar. The house is a mess and Mom was sitting at the table crying. I asked what was wrong, but she just gleared at me. I went to my room to do homework. Once I was done I walked downstairs to see if there was anything for dinner. Of course not I should be used to it by now though, so I popped two corn dogs in the microwave. After I eat I tried to clean up the house a little bit but I was just so tired. So I decided to take a shower and get ready for bed, that way, the last day of the week could get here. And hopefully the weekend will go just as fast. Ever since the day Dad left nothing has ever been the same. Mom stayed in her room for months. I was only 10 and Dad left but I had to wear real fast and take care of the whole entire house and Mom. Mom couldn't work cause she was so depressed, she couldn't even get out of bed. I often lay away at night wondering what had happened. Wondering when my dad was and if he thought about us too. Nobody knew that he had left, when someone ask me I always said, he went on business trip. I'm sure after awhile they didn't believe me and eventually they stopped asking. When I was 13 years old, I got me a job babysitting some kids in the neighborhood. That way I can be away from home more, and make some money. I things got very hard once dad left. For the first couple years I was sad and and pray for him to come home. But as time went by, my sadness turned into anger. I was angry he left and angry he didn't take me. But instead he walked out on me and hasn't looked back. The day he left I not only lost one parent, I lost two. My mom became someone I didn't even recognize. Back in the day my mom was the most beautiful woman around. Her hair was always done and makeup on every time she walked out the house. Everyone knew her, especially by the red lipstick and red high heels she wore. Every guy wanted her and all the girls were jealous. Mom didn't even act like she knew or she just didn't care. I wish she was like that again. We went to the grocery store one day and usually mom sat in the car. But on this day mom felt better and wanted to go in, which made me very happy. After getting everything we needed, we headed over to the checkout line. of course there was only two open so the line was long. As I stood there I couldn't help but to hear the two ladies behind us. Judy look isn't that Miss Miller? I don't know Beth, it kind of looks like her. Beth, I can't believe the woman all the men wanted is now at the grocery store looking like that. She should be ashamed of herself come out public like that. You do know Judy that her husband left her, and she hasn't been the same since. I made a little cough clearing My throat, the way to make them realize that I can hear them. Suddenly my heart started breaking that I stood there staring at my mom. They were right mom had let herself go. Dad walking out had totally destroyed mom and I didn't even realize it. I was too self-centered and to worry about myself to think about what mom went through. I started remembering all the times but I was mean to Mom I felt horrible. On the ride home I didn't say a word, I just sat there admiring the woman and I gave me life. Afte we got all the groceries in, I told mom to go upstairs and take a nice long hot bath. That I wanted to cook her dinner and for her to relax. Mom just looked shook your head and walked away, she really hasn't spoken much in last 5 years. I honestly can't even remember where her voice sounds like sometimes. After dinner we went inside on the porch just staring into the Forest that was in front of her house, both of us were quiet I think we just enjoyed the company. All the sudden a calmness came over me and I realized I was blaming the wrong person. Mom didn't walk out dad walked out and he walked out on us both. I did something I should have a long time ago, I grabbed my mom's hand she looked at me and started shaking I felt my heart sink deeper in my chest. Mom is going to be okay I love you. she grabbed me and hugged me as tight as she has in a long time and just cried, I believe we sat there crying for 2 hours. For the next three years it was just me and Mom. Mom went back to her old ways, and she was stunning once again. We hardly ever talk about dark cloud that was over us, the situation with my dad. I learned to put him out of my mind and not even think of him. It was easier that way to act like he didn't never exist, then to sit there wondering why he left. Mama she started dating another guy from one town over, and she was finally happy. I finally reached my last year of high school and I was so excited to start my new adventure and go look for colleges. Everything was great life was happy. Then one day when we were rehearsing for our graduation, a guy appeared out of nowhere. He was tall and thin. Headful gray hair and he looked really really rough. I've never seen him before, and I wasn't sure why he was there. I see the principal talking to him and as he did he kept looking up at me. It made me wonder what they're talking about and then again I was too excited for graduation. I finished setting the stage and getting everything ready for the night. That is when the man and Mr Brock the principal walked over. Miss Miller yes Mr Brock how may I help you? I asked in a kinda shy voice. Mr Brock took a deep breath in and said Sally this is your father, and he would like to be invited to the graduation. My mouth dropped wide open the fly could have landed in there. I was speechless and all I could do is stare. Miss Miller, Miss Miller, Miss Miller and a louder voice. I heard you Mr Brock but I, I...... I couldn't even finish my sentence I just ran out. I was angry yet happy, finally after eight long years my father was there. All I wanted to do was hug him, then I suddenly thought of mom. What would this do to her to see my father after all this time. Would she be okay would you go back to her depressed days and let herself go again. And why was Dad there was he here just for today, was he going to stay? So many questions rather than my head, but I did not want to think of them cuz tonight was my graduation and I wanted it to be wonderful. I didn't tell Mom that I had seen dad or that he wanted to come to the graduation. I didn't want to upset her and I really wanted her to come, because she has been there since day one. All through graduation I was nervous before I did not know if my dad would just show back up,. Or if he had walked away again. After graduation mom took me out to eat, just telling me how proud she was and that she was grateful to have me in her life. Then mom said Sally, what is wrong with you is there something you need to tell me? No Mom I'm fine I promise. Well I did not just become your mother yesterday I know when something bothering you. So when you're ready to talk I'm here to listen. We finished our dessert and we headed home. As you pull up into the driveway there was somebody sitting on her front porch. My heart sank and I grab mom's hand to make sure she was okay. She looked over at me, and give me a smile as she said darling I will be fine. As we walked to the porch dad stood up mom walked past him, as she got to the door she stopped for a moment and turned around, Mr Miller nice to see you did you bring the bread? I couldn't help but chuckle for after 8 years mom was worried about the bread. Dad got his head cuz he already knew, and as he walked away I yelled out hey Dad don't forget the bread next time.

There’s my star pupil! How’s everything princess?” A booming voice echoed as the elevator doors slid open. The resounding reverberation of the greeting increases in volume as it bounces off the marble walls and flooring of the compound. The small girl in a pink down jacket cups her ears as she steps out from the elevator into the pearl foyer, “Why do you always have to be so loud Mr. Mahoney?” An older man materializes in front of her looking visibly embarrassed “Ahh I'm so sorry Zuri, an old man like me forgets that little girls like you have sensitive ears” the man jested. “HEY who are you calling little, I may be 6 but I’ll still whoop your wrinkly old butt in practice” Zuri interjects defensively. “Well you'll have to prove that, are you sure you’re ready to take on the mighty Richter?” The man asked, pounding his chest. “I WAS BORN READY” said Zuri. “You were born yesterday,” Richter laughingly riposted. The sound of a cackling Zuri bounced off the walls and both parties howled with laughter for a short while before the man trailed off into silence, seemingly distracted by something. “What's a matter Mr. Mahoney?” “Oh... Nothing dear... let's hurry to your training now” Richter responded, grabbing the young girl's hand before both vanishing into an ethereal haze. The two then materialized, still hand and hand in the same position they departed but arrived somewhere entirely different. They stood at the center of a gargantuan amphitheater surrounded by ocean, rubble and vine coated the dilapidated stone benches that once housed an audience. The cawing of seagulls roosting in a nearby nest filled the open air. Zuri shivered as the chill of a sea breeze pushed up through the cracks of a collapsed wall and permeated her jacket. “BRRRR you can go ANYWHERE Mr. Mahoney, why do you always pick this busted old dump?” She asked quizzically. “HEY! I’ve trained countless disciples at this very spot, this is where your mother discovered her powers you know?” “ Plus it's quiet here, now let's see if you’ve been working on your form as much as you claim” Richter added before materializing a neon purple sphere of energy in his palm. “CATCH!” He then hurled the supercharged orb at the girl at point blank range. The orb connected with the ground and the spot where Zuri was once standing now reduced to a smoldering crater. Richter began to charge another orb in his palm but was interrupted by a femine voice above him, “COME ON Mr. Mahoney, I know you’re a dinosaur but that was embarrassingly slow, give me your A game!” Zuri appeared in the air directly above him with her fist cocked back. The small girl unleashed a sharp right jab towards the direction of her sparring partner. For a moment nothing happened and the air was still, but a split second later that once stagnant air was replaced by a torrent of hailstorm winds which became engulfed in flames setting the ground below her on fire. Just as quickly as Zuri, Richter fazed out of the way of the blast and joined the girl in freefall. “YOU PACK A BIG PUNCH FOR A SMALL GIRL... THE FLAMES ARE A NEW ADDITION AS WELL!” The two titans continued to fight it out at supersonic speed for hours. The sound of explosions could be heard for miles. The sun set and fatigue set in, Zuri stumbled and the vetran used the opening to finish this long drawn out battle. Richter broke the girl's footing and judo threw her to the ground. His fists charged with cosmic lightning came in at mach speed towards the girl's face. But before the finishing blow could connect his arm was stopped by an unseen force. Zuri’s eyes began glowing dark green and her skin began to glow red hot. Richter seemed shocked but before he could react his arm was blown out of its socket with a sickening pop and he was thrown 50 feet landing on the other side of the colosseum. Zuri began to hover up off the ground, eyes still glowing and skin still burning a deep red. “I submit” “I SUBMIT!” “ZURI!” Screamed Richter, slapping the ground with his intact arm. The demonic glow faded from the girl's features and her feet finally returned to the ground. After a long pause a quiet “D-Does that mean I win the match?” escaped the small girl's mouth. Still shaken the man responded, “Yes... Yes dear it does.” “Can we go again then, that was WAY fun?” Zuri asked excitedly. “Wh...What?... No... Zuri do you know how long we were sparing?” Richter asked as he put his shoulder back in its socket. “uuuuuuuuummm?” The girl thought for a moment before letting out a surprised gasp as she noticed that the warm morning sunlight had been replaced by a pale moonlight. “I GOTTA GET HOME!” Zuri exclaimed, “Mom and Dad are probably worried”. “Yes, let's not worry them too much” The old man added before grabbing Zuri and materializing them both on the patio in front of a three story mansion. “Run on home now” “Okay, Bye Mr. Mahoney I'll see you for training tomorrow right?” The girl asked as she ran up to her front door. The man did not reply. Richter sat alone in his study writing something in his notebook as he listened to the news broadcasting from his TV. “Today marks the 15th anniversary of the Collapse, an event forever recalled in infamy as ‘the day superabled turned their back on the people they swore to protect”. Today the president held a ceremony for all those lost in the devastating terror attack-” The screen quickly went black followed by the sound of shattering glass as Richter threw his whisky glass across the room. “AHHHHH BULLSHIT!” He screamed, his private study now enveloped in darkness as the light from the TV went out. The old man sat alone in the darkness, his dejection emptied themselves into a glenclairn glass as he poured himself another shot of whiskey. The sound of his self-loathing was interrupted by incessant tapping at his windowsill. Richter turned his head to see a crow pecking at the glass pane. “Rough day today Rick?” A deep foreboding voice reached out from behind him followed by the sick heavy stench of mildew and decay. “She's getting stronger,” Richter responded without turning around. “That’s a good thing right?” the voice asked, the weight of the room seemingly getting heavier with each syllable. “She picked up Pyrokinetics and... something else” Richter added, seemingly becoming more distraught the more he spoke. “Well, that's what you do right...You help the abled draw out their powers?.... I mean...That's what we're paying you for right?” The voice asked slowly, its words creeping into the old man's head, infesting his skull and violating his eardrums. Richter shook his head violently as if to clear the fog forming in his mind. “NO!” Richter screamed “NOT IF THE POWERS ARE NOT HER OWN!” “SHE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT SHE HAS SHE'S NOT EVEN AWARE OF IT, SHE'S GOING TO LOSE CONTROL EDGAR WERE DONE I’M DONE I’M NOT GOING TO LET THIS FACADE GO ON ANY LONGER!” The old man continued. A murder of crows formed in front of Richter creating the silhouette of a man as well as two piercing green eyes. “WE ARE DONE WHEN I SAY WE ARE DONE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND!!” the shadowy figure screamed at an almost impossible volume. “No, Edgar, you don’t understand. That THING you brought back is not your daughter. Zuri died 15 years ago, as did so many other people that day. You were not the only person to lose a family member.” Richter’s voice settled and he adopted a gentler tone. “I’m your friend... you know that. I’m not like the humans on the news, I know Zuri was not responsible for the Collapse like everyone says. But you need to come to terms with reality and let her g-” Richter’s speech was cut short as he began gasping for air. “NOOO!” The shadow interjected “YOU NEED TO COME TO TERMS WITH THE FACT THAT REALITY CAN BE WHATEVER I WANT IT TO BE I AM A GOD AMONG MEN AND IF YOU CAN NOT UNDERSTAND THAT THEN YOU'LL DIE LIKE A HUMAN!!” The old man then collapsed to the floor knocking over the last of his Whiskey and the shadow reverted back into a muder of crows which broke through the window and escaped into the night sky. Richter Mahoney lay lifeless on the floor of his study once again accompanied by silence and darkness.

Evidence that the storm had not relented was made apparent to everyone as the warped wooded portal swung open, revealing a prospective customer set against heavy downpour. Though wet, the rich colors of the stranger's garments were encouraging to the barkeep, until he noticed the specific shape of the moistened leather encasement the man set on the counter. The entrant jostled his garbs in hopes of loosening the sogginess that engulfed them. The idea of overcharging a nobleman was reduced to the thought of providing free shelter, or worse, having regulars' funds siphoned elsewhere. Old Pete's thick arm hairs pricked upwards, either from this notion, or the piercing draft that the new occupant had brought inside as well. Pete sucked in through one nostril audibly before speaking. “Something I can get for ye?” He prepared to respond rudely to a number of possible statements this question could bring as the man lowered his soaking hat which in turn lowered his soaking dark mane. His eyes, as obscured as Pete and the rest of the regulars who filled the lower-lit dirtier corners of the room, fixed directly on Pete's, like some unknown serpent. He uncoiled, and responded: “A decanter of your finest wine, ale, spirit, or pleasurable house beverage, and the wherewithal to fill it again once empty.” The barkeep, startled by many aspects of this statement, was forced to reconsider his feelings towards the stranger as he reached for a container. He poured a foul-smelling viscous looking liquid as slowly as he could while grasping the areas of his mind that might contain an adequate thread of relevant interrogation to be used. This act was interrupted, and Pete startled again as the stranger announced, “No hurry, my good man.” Pete realized he would be situated closely to this man for an unforeseeable measure of time and decided to relax a little. The inevitable inquiry could continue at its natural pace. He set the drink in front of the man, who reached his hand past it and towards Pete. “The name's Roderick.” He said, maintaining his politeness and the position of his outstretched palm. Pete stared at the man's face, one of smooth and subtle complexion, then at his hand. His extremities betrayed no signs of past labor, no callouses or scars indicative of dangerous environment, yet the man seemed to hold no rank amongst the higher class. This last observation was denoted by, if nothing else, the man's friendly demeanor towards common folk. Pete decided “Roderick’s” manners may not be contagious and grasped his hand more than firmly in an attempt to illicit a flinch, to find a weakness, to break his so-far resolute composure. He returned Pete's gaze and stranglehold, unwaveringly. “Don't let the case fool you! I don't need these hands half as much as you might think, and I'm a hell of an arm wrestler.” Pete, concluding this was true from the amount of pain shooting up his arm, released, and introduced himself. “Name's Pete.” Though signs that unsolicited information would soon be procured were clear, Pete remained nestled in curiosity. He knew the advantages of patience, but the stranger's last comment was too cumbersome to wield silently. “What's the use of a lute if you can't play it?” A quandary addressed to Roderick, but more currently pertinent to Old Pete. At this, the man's eyes seemed to reflect a light that had previously been absent from the tavern. He looked at Pete, then his beast-skin on the bar as if he beheld its contents. After sizing both items up, the man seemed to have reached a verdict. “I believe I shall tell you.” A short pause, then “On one condition.” Pete finally felt he was in familiar territory again, receiving demands from an alcoholic. He began to unleash one of the many tools in his verbal arsenal he kept for this sort of occasion, but the stranger anticipated this and interjected immediately. “I wish simply to ask you a question, to which your answer will be hinged mine.” Pete relaxed again but remained unsettled. He never committed to anything he was unsure of, and he hadn't been as unsure of anything as he was of this man since as long as he could recall. Reservedly, he responded. “Ask your question, but I won't guarantee an answer. Be wary, I may only cast you out to the storm if you offend me, but many in this room have done worse to men who've done less.” The denizens in the dirtier corners stiffened proudly as the stranger perused them, but when he returned to Pete's leer it was obvious, he was unfazed. “I'm sure it is no new topic for the gentleman of this establishment, yourself included. I'm plainly curious-” His attention turned towards the door, as if expecting someone, then back to Pete with a small sigh of rejuvenation. “Curious if this town is devout. I mean to say, more personally, when last did you worship?” Pete contracted internally, as he had done several times since the stranger's arrival. The mounds of paranoia he encompassed radiated, and he even thought for a moment that “Roderick” had been sent by the state, to test him, his legitimacy, his loyalty. No, this was no man of the government. They were too organized to fling a man to the elements as this one had been. Roderick held close his mystery, but it was his, not some fallacy a puppet would cling to. No, this man was of a different ilk, his own agent. He was as beleaguered as anyone in the tavern, yet his battle raged on unlike many men who accepted defeat or failure. Having attended to this detail, Pete softened, in contrast to most of the men in the room who were newly enraged. This anger was not directed at the stranger, rather stemmed from him, and the grumbling hubbub awaited his next remark. “Lad, it has been longer than I care to remember, and for good reason. Most of the fellows have cause for their qualms with the gods, the ones who believe they exist. They voice their complaints loudly, the same complaints that have never been heard before.” The stranger breathed inwards, allowing the tension of the air into himself. “You asked your question and answered mine, am I right in assuming you wish to hear my story? It may cause you more disbelief than you are currently attached.” Pete had heard many a tall tale, and his wonder paired with the need to calm his compatriots tilted his head forward in a nod. “I was once rejoiced across the land, not only that I performed marvelously with any instrument I handled, but that I composed the greatest ballads and tributes any had ever heard. I traveled almost as much as the folk who came to see my performances. Renowned, I played in any of his majesty's courts you could name, but I wished still to be heard by the entire world. It was not fair I should horde myself for my king, and the wanderlust I experienced was great.” The expressions of elation Roderick had been exhibiting fizzled, barely noticed by Pete. “I set out for the mystic east, against the king's wishes of course. I dared not risk my entourage's lives, either by execution for illegality, or the veiled dangers that lay before me in foreign lands. As I traversed the rolling hills of his majesty's lands, they smoothed slowly. The lush overgrowth became undergrowth, the soils loose and particular. Soon, my road led directly into the Great Desert, for which I had been prepared, but which still frightened me more than anything I had faced before.” Here, Roderick took a large gulp, then another. He set his mug down harder than he had yet. “I wandered those sands for a time which I felt was immeasurable, always following the direction the sun would indicate. Eventually, my rations were as exhausted as myself, and I decided to rest by one of the handfuls of plants I had seen in this forsaken wasteland in hopes of catching a local inhabitant. The glimpse of shade the shrub provided was enough to cool me to sleep.” So far, Pete figured the man was exaggerating his fame, but the rest was then more liable to be truth, as an artist shunned by his country could easily have wandered into a desert to find a better audience. “When I awoke, I believed myself to be dreaming what seemed to be a man standing over me. As my vision cleared, his azure skin and tooth-colored horns that curled back and over his head assured me that this was in fact a dream. As such, I confronted the creature in hopes of obtaining foresight into my current predicament, being stranded in the desert without recourse. He snarled as I began to rise. “What business have you here, son of man, so far from anyone who might hear you scream?” Beyond the obvious threat being presented, I dismayed, as this meant I was still too far from any civilization. In my dreams, I do not relent. If the monsters of my subconscious wish me frightened, they will not succeed without a fight. “What business have you to ask me that, of what concern is my presence here to you?” I stared the beast directly in his eyes and noticed they were closer to that of a goat's, the strongly shaped slitted pupils seeing more of me than I of him. He cackled with what might have been amusement, revealing long cankerous fangs. “I could have devoured you as you slept, mortal. Knowing this, you now know you owe me your life. I wish to know who you are and why you come here to my realm, where the wise dare not enter.” Feeling quite weak, I assumed I wouldn't be able to fight the thing if he *did* decide to eat me, so I unsheathed my lyre and regaled him with my story.” Every man in the bar was focused on this preamble to the finale, and much more anxious than Pete to refute it. Anyone claiming to have encountered mythical beings was either lying through their teeth or deranged. “The horrific figure considered me, then said just this: “I would curse you, foolish one, for setting foot where you should not have. Now I see you have already been cursed, with your own ego. As your life is mine, I shall improve it, that you may lift your curse yourself. Pray, do not attempt to play your lyre again.” The creature tilted his head back in more maniacal laughter, and I felt my head swim as the world turned black. When I awoke, I found myself on the edge of the woods that converged with that terrible desert. Knowing not how I arrived there, I turned my back on those sands forever, grateful to be alive. I made my way to the nearest town, foraging what I could on my way to quell starvation. I did not feel different, yet I knew somehow I had changed since my ill-fated journey. Once I had settled in the town's inn and filled my gut, a man who recognized me over-excitedly requested one of my most memorable melodies. Never to disappoint my fans, I released my instrument and began to play. At once, every string on the damn lyre was torn apart. The wooden frame, made of the sturdiest oak, cracked down the spine and splintered into my tightly gripping palms. The terror than shone on my face and my lack of response to my admirer left him to slowly back away from my table, apologizing. This thing had been built for me by the finest craftsman in his majesty's service, and a very long time ago. I had possessed it almost as long as I had my fame and ability, and I realized it was not the lyre that was damned, but myself. The truth of the situation crashed down around me, and I crawled into the bottle I drank from, never to come out again.” Roderick downed his drink with determination, then motioned Pete towards the empty chalice. Pete filled it again, wondering which of the fellows in the room would assault the man verbally. To his surprise, none said anything. Perhaps they felt his story was like their own, only they didn't invent a blue horned monster to explain their misfortunes away. Minstrels were one of the few joys these men had left in their lives, and far be it from them to put down a man who was already as depressed as themselves. “Is that the lyre? The broken one?” asked Pete delicately, not wishing to further dampen the man's spirits, as his clothes were still damp enough. Roderick nodded, and unclasped the lid to reveal a lavishly ornamented lyre, fit for an angel, though its state in ruins as described. “Why do you lug that thing around then?” The man stared at it as a loving mother would her child. “As a reminder. It isn't just this thing, but all instruments. I can't handle a one of them, and if I do, they collapse, irreparably.” Pete struggled to believe this, as he had once struggled to continue believing in the gods when his family was taken from him. This skepticism had served him relatively well since, save the negation of faith Pete had in anything, but it seemed of little help at the current moment. “You don't believe me, I know not a one of you does.” admitted Roderick almost bashfully. “I can prove it if you'll let me, if any of you have an object of musicality at your disposal.” “What do you care if we believe you or not? Why bother reliving it if you say to us it is true?” Pete was trying to save the man the embarrassment of harassment that would follow his unsuccessful demonstration. “I have continued traveling these lands, to inspire the hearts of disbelievers. I know that there are unknown powers at work, but many refuse to recognize them. My hope is that when I have healed enough broken souls, I will be forgiven, and my reason to live restored. At least, I may provide a cautionary tale, that none may share a similar experience.” A man slowly emerged from one of the many shadows in the room, and approached Roderick with a tube fashioned of metal, riddled with specifically placed holes. All the focus of the room was on him now, every man clinging to this event, rolling over their pasts and wanting more than anything to believe. Every hope they had once denied, the dreams they had once had, sprang out of the ether and almost achieved tangibility in their minds. Bodies tense, none dared to move as Roderick slowly licked his lips and placed the flute to his mouth. As he exhaled, the glistening silver that dripped down and scalded his hands burned almost as much as the tears on Old Pete’s face.

Exodus Agent WK927 was insignificant. The thousands of creatures that passed by him every day would forget him almost instantaneously, almost as if he’d never been there in the first place. Nothing else was really to be expected on Æ92, one of the busiest transport planets in the galaxy. Millions of life forms flooded through the massive checkpoint buildings on the way to their next transport - whisked away from the dull bureaucracy of galactical immigration agencies. WK927 was one person well accustomed to the dull bureaucracy of galactical agencies as it was his current and indefinite occupation. WK927 was of an average height and build for a male human at age 28. Even if the individuals passing him noticed his dark brown hair and pale skin, they forgot he even existed by the time they walked through the archways leading to the Pads. He was just like every other Exodus Agent in the countless checkpoint buildings across the planet, absolutely unnoticeable. Illuminated under giant fluorescent lights, the colossal checkpoint building gave the impression that it stretched endlessly in all directions. Thousands of creatures stood waiting to be processed, slowly trickling past Exodus Agents and through the large archways leading to the landing pads. Under the helmeted eyes of the marshals overlooking them from the walkways above. Always watched. As WK927 scanned and stamped data cards, creatures and faces blurred together until he was going through the routine mindlessly. Occasionally, he could hear the roar of the engines from starships taking off from across the planet, heading even farther out into the reaches of space. The rumble would be then drowned out by the din of the awaiting individuals, and WK927 would drown out his self-pity with another stamp. Rothelain. Scan. Stamp. Next. Mizur. Scan. Stamp. Next. Human. Scan. Stamp. Next. Znocheds. Scan. Stamp. “Next.” The figure was wearing a flowing maroon coat going down to its knees with matching dark gloves. Its chrome blue helmet reflected WK927’s face back at him. “WK927? Known as Double?” asked the figure. He frowned. WK927 had only been called that as a child, “How do you know that?” The figure didn’t answer. “I have a proposition for you, Double. I want to offer you a new occupation.” WK927 saw his own reflected eyes cloud with confusion. The figure removed its helmet, revealing a female human with black cropped hair. “I’m Elite,” seeing WK927’s confusion, she added, “It’s a nickname, similar to yours.” His brow furrowed, “Why did you come all the way to Æ92?” “My profession is...unique. Not at all like your current trade,” she said gesturing around her. He glanced at the group of life forms still waiting to be processed. No one seemed to notice that WK927 was talking to a traveler much longer than allowed. He was as unseen to the universe as always. He glanced back at this mysterious woman. “You traveled here, to one of the furthermost planets in the known universe to offer me a job?” She shrugged at his incredulous tone. “We do strange things in my line of work.” “What’s going on here?” demanded the marshal who was approaching them. WK927 could read her number on her breastplate: UO198. The marshal must have been sent down from the walkways viewing the checkpoint building when Elite had started talking to him. Someone did notice. WK927 felt an odd rush of joy at the thought. The helmeted marshal turned to him. Through her silence, he knew that she was reading data that was being transmitted through her helmet. “WK927. Why haven’t you processed this passenger?” “I was offering him a job,” said Elite. UO198 laughed. “Don’t you know anything? No one picks their occupations. You only get reassigned or promoted. WK927 will always be an Exodus Agent, nothing more. That’s how it is.” “Maybe that should change.” Elite’s voice bristled with hostility. Marshal UO198 straightened, “You aren’t showing up on any of our databases.” She sounded confused. Everyone showed up on the Galactic Republic’s databases. “Who are you?” demanded the marshal, a gloved hand drifting towards her rifle strapped to her back. “I guess you’ll never know,” said Elite. A bullet shot through the air and UO198 fell to the ground. WK927 leaped to his feet, staring at the revolver in Elite’s hand. It quickly disappeared into one of the many folds of her coat. Slipping her helmet back on, Elite strode back towards the crowd amid the growing cries of panic as the crowd of life forms seemed to detect that something was off. “Are you coming?” she cried. The marshals above on the walkways started shouting something unintelligible. WK927 stared at the dead marshal, then grabbed his helmet, racing after Elite. He cut a path through the horde of creatures, trying to catch up to her when the sounds of rifles firing and beings screaming filled the room. WK927 spared a glance over his shoulder to see the marshals firing randomly into the crowd, shooting beings with no care for their innocence. “Come on!” shouted Elite. WK927 was stuck in place, staring in horror at a young Mizur bleeding out onto the immaculate, stainless floor. Elite grabbed his arm and dragged him through the crowd. They burst through a side archway just as the crowd of creatures dissolved into sheer panic, trampling one another in an attempt to get to safety. *** WK927 tugged on his helmet, hearing the usual hiss of air as it adjusted around his head. He struggled to keep up with Elite, boots splashing on the muddy ground, “Why would you do that?” “Do what?” “Shoot that marshal? We’re both dead now!” Elite glanced over her shoulder. “Only if they catch us.” WK927 was infuriated at her lack of concern but kept quiet. They were sprinting through narrow alleyways between even more equally enormous checkpoint buildings that were scattered across Æ92. No other souls were to be seen, no one daring to risk the thick fumes in the air. Even with his dark gray helmet filtering out deadly air, WK927 still didn’t feel safe from the harmful chemicals polluting the atmosphere. He had never noticed how grimy and industrial his planet was, the sky tinted gray and dark blue from the nebulae fuel that powered the starships. WK927 hardly went outside to avoid the acidic smog and mud, a harsh contrast to the sterile, fluorescent interiors of the checkpoint buildings. Elite and WK927 jogged under a suspended holorail track, holding their breaths instinctively as a Magnetrain rushed by, kicking up even more dust and corrosive oxides into the cloudy air. She had slowed down to a walking pace, but was still justifiably on edge, head darting around and glancing behind her. WK927 walked alongside her, trying to slow down his heart rate, “You’re part of that group, aren’t you? Those anarchist traitors?” She smirked, “You catch on fast. We prefer the term Revolutionaries.” “No one prefers being defined as what they are.” “The Republic labeled us as traitors. They’re the genocidal bastards destroying planets that defy them. But of course, you would believe their propaganda,” shot back Elite. “Why are you offering me a job then?” demanded WK927, “What do I have to offer to your cause?” “Because you see the faults of the world you live in,” Even through the helmet, he could feel her eyes drilling into him. “Not many individuals do, and those that see its faults turn away because it’s safer.” WK927 stared back, “And just because of that, I’ll join you? Risk everything to-” “Well, you’re here aren’t you?” Elite started walking faster, moving towards the Pads that they could faintly see through the opaque sky. “Just because I’m here doesn’t mean I’m joining you,” muttered WK927 under his breath, mainly to convince himself. WK927 had seen the Pads as a child and remembered the sprawling layers of twisted metal that climbed thousands of feet into the sky, piled haphazardly. His neck had ached for days afterward from craning his head, staring at the ships taking off. Even though he had never been off-planet, he had been told that the Pads could be seen from the outer atmosphere, and made Æ92 seem like it was made of giant metal disks. As they approached, Elite produced a pistol from one of the pockets of her coat. “Can you shoot?” WK927 accepted it, “Of course I can.” “Good. My ship is on one of the lower levels of the Pads, where the maintenance crews live. The bigger starships would have crushed it if I left it anywhere else.” The Pads was just as he remembered, looking even larger and towering as ever. Layers upon layers of metal held together with a combination of iron walkways and ladders, balancing precariously upon each other. The highest pads where the largest starships sat were shrouded in dust and fumes from the departing spacecrafts. Elite started to climb the anchored into the mud, WK927 right behind her. He tried to focus on the filth on her boots to distract himself. He didn’t think about how they were climbing miles into the sky on rusty metal ladders. He definitely didn’t think about what would happen if they were caught. Their ascent became another routine, scaling countless ladders and platforms. His arms ached, but he kept going, his mind turning numb trying not to think about what would happen if a patrol of marshals caught them or if he fell off. Elite suddenly pulled him back, just as a patrol marched past. “Be careful. We’re one or two levels below my pod.” He nodded and started to climb. Halfway up the narrow ladder, WK927 heard shouts, and a stray bullet hit the bracket holding him to the wall. The entire ladder shuddered and WK927 clutched the metal bars tighter, holding on for his life. He managed to clamber to the top and pull himself onto the platform without dying. Elite followed right behind him and started returning fire at the marshals. WK927 surveyed the multiple landing pads, spotting marshals scattered on walkways and adjacent platforms. He took careful aim and fired his revolver, shooting several figures. They were in a strategically better position, able to see all of their opponents and take measured aim without rushing. Even with WK927’s limited shooting skills, he felt like it was too simple. Surprisingly, he felt not the slightest bit guilty as he killed the armored figures. “Is that all of them?” he asked, glancing at Elite. Elite shrugged and turned to her pod which was sitting on the very platform they were on, “So I take that you’ve accepted my offer?” He hadn’t considered her offer in fact, just following Elite because it seemed like the best option at the time. “I don’t have much of a choice, Elite. Æ92 isn’t a big planet. I’ll be dead in days.” “I wouldn’t doubt yourself too much. You’re resourceful, Double. You could survive here.” “Don’t move,” commanded a voice. WK927 felt the tip of a rifle press to the back of his helmet. Elite froze her pistol halfway in the air. WK927 was standing with his back to the ladder and a marshal must have climbed up and snuck behind him. “Drop your weapons. Both of you.” WK927 let his revolver fall from his hands. Elite slowly lowered her arm, and dropped her pistol to the ground. In the reflection of her helmet, WK927 could see himself, standing rigid, only one marshal behind him. “Make a move and your friend is dead,” said the marshal, gesturing towards WK927. WK927 didn’t trust in his helmet’s ability to protect him from a bullet at point-blank range. The helmets were useful for filtering out elements and fumes, not bullets. “Now,” started the marshal, “You’re both going t-” WK927 leaped into action suddenly, ducking forward and driving his elbow into the marshal. The rifle fired over his head, hitting a metal pipe and then ricocheting into the platform. WK927 spotted his revolver on the ground and picked it up, spinning on his heels, firing two shots into the marshal. The man froze, his rifle hanging loosely in his hand. He took a few steps backward, clutching his stomach, and then fell backward over the edge of the pad. WK927 slowly stood from where he was crouched on the ground. Elite looked at him, then nodded in respect. He clambered to the edge of the platform and glanced down. The platforms below them were cloaked in the usual acidic haze, but the only marshals to be seen were the ones they had shot while ascending the ladder. “He must have fallen in between the platforms,” said Elite, standing beside him, staring into the abyss. Sure enough, they heard a crash similar to the sound of metal on armor. He waited for a rush of remorse to come flooding through him...but it never came. “Impressive.” said Elite, picking up her discarded pistol, “As I said, you can take care of yourself.” She approached him and he could tell that she was smiling. “So, last chance. You coming or no? You want the job, Double?” Elite extended a gloved hand. WK927 studied it for a second and then glanced around him. The giant Pads, the acid in the air of his home planet. The dead marshals on the platforms. Double took her hand and climbed aboard. WK927 could be significant. Maybe Double was more than an unnoticeable number.

I had a dream a few nights ago that I can't stop thinking about, so I wrote it down. I just wanted to share it with people. I'm using a throwaway account because I don't want it on my main account. This is the second time I'm posting it, I deleted the first one for formatting issues. ~~~ The first thing I heard was the cabin door opening in the other room. On the table in front of me, a pink jar sat next to a photo, the faint smell of roses radiating from it. I looked closer at the picture. A young woman, no older than me, wearing sweatpants and t-shirt lay on her bed curled in the fetal position. Something was different about this photo, however; something unsettling. A second picture, an x-ray, it looked like, was overlaid on it. I could faintly see the woman’s skull in her head, her skeletal arms clutching the same jar that sat peacefully in front of me. Large pink splotches dotted the photograph, on her head, chest, and arms. I knew she was dead. Moreover, as I stared at the pink jar in front of me, I knew how it happened. I felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around my chest. They squeezed tightly, but gently, and in that moment, I felt completely safe. Whoever this was, I loved them more than anything, I knew that much. “It came,” she observed, her voice smooth and calm. “Yeah, I just... I don’t know,” I replied. She moved next to me, keeping one hand on my shoulder, and I was able to see her for the first time. She was short, just above my eye level even as I was sitting. She was small, but not skinny, which only made the glasses on her face seem even larger. Her hair was wavy, dark brown on top, but transitioned smoothly to blonde by the time it stopped just short of her shoulders. I stopped and stared at her face. I didn’t recognize her; there was no name attached to the face, but it felt familiar. As familiar as the stars I could see twinkling faintly in her eyes, and the warm, hypnotic half smile she wore. I couldn’t feel it, but I was right, I loved her. A comfortable, powerful relationship with my best friend in the world. I suspected that’s why I was so content sharing the small cabin with her. “This is what you want, right?”, she asked. “I think so,” That was I lie. I knew that I wanted this, I had wanted it for years. But now, staring it in the face, it felt different. Not scary enough that I would turn away, but like I was standing on a diving board, waiting to jump. A chaotic non-homogenous mix of fear, excitement, and anticipation. More than any of these, however, I felt sad. It was finally over. The end of a story I hated but was sad to see end anyway. I felt a squeeze on my shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing,” The words rang in my skull like a church bell. The were supportive and loving, not spiteful, despite what they entailed. I slowly stood up and walked over to the window, it’s framed filled by an enormous snow-covered mountain. It stood stoically; its blue-gray face highlighted against the pure white snow that filled the rest of the landscape. The sky was a brilliant and vibrant blue; the weather almost deceptively calm. Here I stood, staring the last page of my life in the face. The sadness kept building. I knew I had to do it, I knew I wanted to do it, I knew it was time. But I was sad and scared, the only emotions I had felt for years now stronger than ever. The woman I knew I loved walked over and stood next to me. “What if it doesn’t work?” I asked, my voice trembling. She rested her head on my shoulder, and I wrapped my arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She smiled. “Then tomorrow I’ll make a roast.” Then I woke up.

Sarah loved her friends and all the fun she had with them. Their latest fun activity was to race their bicycles as fast as they could down to the ice-cream truck in the park. Sadly Sarah couldn’t participate. She still used training wheels, you see. Her friends could go so much faster and didn’t have to stick to the paths so when Sarah caught up they had already got their ice-creams and she was always left behind trying to get one. Soon enough Sarah got fed up and begged her parents to teach her to ride but they were always too busy. She felt so lonely every time her friends rode off on their bicycles. She wanted to do that as well. Suddenly, Sarah had an idea. She grabbed her bike and dragged it into their garage and snuck into her father’s toolbox. She didn’t know what she was looking for and the pile of tools was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, but she was determined. She spent her afternoon picking up tools and trying them on the bolts of her bike. Eventually, after several hours she found what she needed and got to work removing the training wheels. The bolts were on so tight she would’ve thought they were tightened by the Hulk himself. But after much pushing and pulling they came loose and a sigh of relief escaped Sarah’s mouth. The extra wheels were discarded on the floor as if they were broken toys. Sarah ran back into her house and yelled to her mother, who was busy typing on the computer, that she was going out with her friends. Her mother only grunted back a sound of acceptance and didn’t even turn to look at her daughter. Sarah grinned a mischievous grin and ran back to the garage, picked up her newly renovated bike and pushed it out onto the street. After a tiring walk to the dilapidated car park next to the park she paused. Her nerves were wrought but her determination prevailed as she pushed through it and got on her bike. She almost immediately fell over and bruised her arm. This was going to be much harder than she thought. Try after try, fall after fall, bruise after bruise, she almost gave up but eventually she managed to cycle a few metres. It wasn’t much but it was a step in the right direction for Sarah. So she hopped on her bicycle and tried again. This time she went a few more metres. The next go a few more. Until she was cycling anti-clockwise around the car park. This was a massive achievement for her and she was so proud of herself, but it wasn’t the end to her struggles. Next she had to tackle right hand turns. “This will be a cakewalk,” Sarah said to herself. However this was no ride in the park. As soon as she attempted to turn right she fell off and grazed her knee. She sat up as blood trickled from the wound, she wanted to cry but she knew there was no one there to comfort her and she didn’t want to be stopped so soon. Sarah stood up, picked up her bicycle, and jumped back on once again. A little bit of blood wasn’t going to stop her. Sarah peddled and peddled, trying a right turn again and again, her knee was stinging but her stubbornness to finish and motivation to learn kept her going. Soon enough, after many wobbles and falls, she finally got it. She was overjoyed! She could finally ride her bike with her friends. She felt like she had climbed Mount Everest. Nothing in the world could bring her down. She couldn’t wait to show her friends when they went to the park on Saturday. As the week came and went, it was agonisingly long for Sarah. She was so excited and almost told her friends multiple times, but she wanted to surprise them so much she managed to keep it a secret. Soon enough it was Saturday. She woke up early in the morning and got ready. They were supposed to meet at ten but she got there at nine so she could make sure she hadn’t lost her groove. After an hour of tentative waiting and looking at her watch as if it was going to jump off her wrist and run away, her friends arrived. They all rode up on their bikes and Sarah was there to meet them. It was quite a surprise for them as a week before there were pink little training wheels on Sarah’s bike and now there were none. She excitedly challenged them to race down to the ice-cream truck, and though surprised, agreed. As they raced down together as a group Sarah no longer felt alone and was happy to be able to race and play with her friends again.

The Valley has always existed outside of the normal world. When people come here, they come to stay. There are no passers-through, no tourists or hikers who wandered too far off the trail and are trying to find their way home. When people come here, they are not looking for home; they are looking for refuge. The Lord of the Valley calls them to him, through dreams and visions and a pulsating need to be anywhere but where they currently are. He teases them with tastes of mountain winds and gurgling creeks rushing over rocks. He persuades them with promises of abundance and mercy. “Come to me,” he says, “Come to me and taste freedom.” What that means to each person who arrives is different, but the price remains the same for all. For those of us born here, and yes, I do include myself in that, no matter how odd the circumstances, the price is significantly higher. While the adults who come and agree to the desired sacrifice are welcome to leave at any time, the children born to them are required to stay for life. We have been dedicated to the Lord’s service, and to attempt to leave it is Death. We are the price our parents pay to leave the world behind. There have been some over the years who did not believe that Death would follow them once they left, but every one of them has always been returned to the Valley’s center, sometimes in pieces, sometimes not. The ones who come back in pieces have the preferable fate. The ones who come back whole in body are nothing more than empty shells, their minds wiped clean by the Lord. Purification, he calls it. These purified husks are then taken to the edge of the Valley, right up to the base of the mountains that contain it, and tied to a tree for three days. If their body survives the exposure and the scavengers, they are released and allowed to live out their days in a house that appears just for them. If not, they are left to the elements until whatever bones that remain are bleached white as a warning to others. There have been many who tried to leave only to be brought back. Each generation has their rebels and fearless leaders who decide they want more from life than service to a Lord who will happily hunt them down and kill them for nothing more than a desire for choice. The instigators almost never make it back in pieces. Many survive the three days of being bound, and go on to live half-lives in service to the Great Lord. The Great Lord is a demanding task-master. He is not the Lord of the Valley, who requires a single price; he is the Great Lord, who requires absolute surrender. The Great Lord’s servants are kept separate from the rest of the Lord’s people, especially the children. Their hollow eyes and sunken cheeks are deemed too unnerving for youngsters to witness and gossip about. I’m of the opinion that this tradition is to prompt those who yearn for more to take the risk of flight, having not been exposed to the severity of the consequences first, but I digress. The day the first house in the Great Lord’s pen disappeared, a murmur swept through the Valley. Had a halfer managed to gain some semblance of self back and was removed? Had they done something to displease the Great Lord? If so, how was that possible? The Elders organized a procession to offer praise and worship to the Great Lord, including trumpets, flutes, violins, and the Lord’s chosen child-bearers. The procession circled the Valley’s perimeter three times, each time the praise growing louder and the worship more vigorous as the people’s minds became more connected with their Lord and master. Satisfied that this had appeased the Great Lord, the procession devolved into a feast of the senses once it returned to the Valley’s center. The children were sent home to practice their sacred duties, and the adults remained to celebrate their freedom in whichever way they deemed fit. The second day, once another house had vanished, the Elders could be heard speaking in whispers and shouts. A child was brought forward and sent to the Lord’s tent, a giant structure that guarded the single pass into the Valley, with instructions to plead for understanding of the infractions committed to ensure this brand of punishment did not get visited upon the Lord’s willing servants. The child did not return until the third house had vanished. His once bright eyes were now muted, and the shine in his cheeks had paled. The Elders rushed him to the Valley center to deliver the Lord’s message. Opening lips that seemed lifelessly blue, the child spoke with a resounding voice too deep for one his age: “The Fallen has returned. It is he who rips my children from me. He rends! He hates! He burns! Take heed, my children, for I must wage war against him that he does not steal into your homes and commit his acts of despair upon you!” A great murmur rose over the assembly, and the Elders quickly ushered the child into the confines of their circle and secreted themselves away for the remainder of the day. The following morning, the child was seen walking among the halfers, and it was understood the Great Lord had claimed him for his own purposes. Tensions rose as the days passed and more houses and halfers disappeared. Each day brought a new blight upon our cozy little Valley, robbing us of the contentment and peace we had so dearly bought. Who was this Fallen, who had the power to steal from the Lord’s Valley? We began to be suspicious of one another. Which of us was harboring this creature, giving him free rein to commit his acts of theft from the Great Lord? Which of us had allowed this monster inside? Once the halfers had all been taken, the houses on our side of the Valley began to disappear. Another child was sent to the Lord’s tent. This one also returned changed. His eyes were darkened to black, and his skin was flushed with grey. When he spoke, it sounded as though the river had grown a tongue and wished to commune with us: “Rejoice, my children, for I am returned! The Fallen has fallen once more, to be bound in the depths of the mountains for a hundred years to come!” A great cheer rose up from the crowd, and the child was hoisted on shoulders and passed around from one to another as we showered him with kisses and praises of worthiness. Having no halfers to send him to live among, the Elders approached me, the eldest of the Dedicated. My skin was grey and my eyes were dim, but I gladly accepted the child into my century-old home. I tried to re-teach him his letters and songs, but he could do no more than mumble for a bit before trailing off into silence and emptiness. Once it became fully apparent that there was no help to be given for the boy, I laid him down in my cot and smothered him with a pillow. It was a kinder Death than any of us deserved. Time passed, and our Lord began calling more people to the Valley. It was time to rebuild, he said. The Fallen had completed the cleansing, and it was time to restock the Valley with worshippers. Lord help us, I thought. The cycle begins again.

“What do you think he wants?” Philip asked his boss.. “I’m not sure”. Haywood responded as he put out his cigarette and stood up from the desk. “But he seems determined to get it”. Philip had been working at a halfway decent shoe store under Haywood for a few months now and every so often they would see a poorly dressed man come by and stare at a pair of shoes at the windowsill for almost a few minutes, but always refraining from buying them whenever they approached the man. They never knew why but Haywood had seemed to have enough of it when this same man did so again tonight. Haywood then walked across the hardwood floor of the shoe store and the poorly dressed man spotted him and began sheepishly walking away when Haywood opened the door and addressed him. “It’s not a crime to look at a pair of shoes you know”. The man then stopped and shoved his hands in his pocket and Haywood smiled “Why don’t you come in and see them for yourself?” The poorly dressed man then nodded “Actually I don’t think I could afford them. I’m afraid I have an awful habit of staring at them every time I come by this place”. Haywood nodded in return “I know, and every time you don’t buy them. Please come in so I can make you a decent offer at least”. The poorly dressed man was taken back by this shopkeeper's politeness and went inside with him as Philip continued to stick the shelves but didn’t linger far away not to hear them speak. The poorly dressed man then walked in a very odd fashion into the store and was greeted by the sight of entire shelves of leather shoes and boots that he gazed at for some time before Haywood coughed after shutting the door behind him with his good hand and spoke. “I believe the shoes you were looking at are over here Sir”. The poorly dressed man then turned his head. “What? Oh yes right.” He then walked over to the stand and Haywood took them off the display case at the windowsill and began his pitch. “Now these here are Brogans. I’m sure you’re quite familiar with them yourself. Made from standard tanned cowhide imported from out west and rubber imported from the colonies. But it was all assembled here in Blackwater.” Haywood had made similar pitches for many years now and knew when it was working on a customer. But still, the man tried to resist his charms and responded. “I like your pitch Sir but I’m afraid I can’t get them”. Haywood only offered a smile. “3 pounds?.. I admit it’s a little modest for a good pair of shoes but I’m willing to take a pound off for you Sir”. The man, however, refused “no sir it isn’t the price.. it’s just that.. it’s a bit difficult to tell if they’d fit.” Haywood then nodded. “On account of your leg then?” The man then turned his head “Yes that’s correct actually”. He responded. Haywood then sighed “Well why don’t you try them on Sir and see how they fit then?” The man then took the shoes and took off his left shoe before lifting his pant leg and taking the one from his false leg and as he put them on Haywood made some brief conversation. “If you don’t mind asking me Sir where did you serve at?” The man then began to tie the laces as he spoke. “I was in a few places myself. I spent quite some time at the “the Mole hill”. “I’m sure that was quite a time. I had a few friends serve there myself”. Haywood said in return. “I must have met them at some point.” The man said before his tone changed. “Before a Ticonderogan shell took my leg I was quite the football player when we were able to take furlough in the rear. I went from being a half-decent middle fielder to a bench warmer in half a second” Haywood then nodded “I bet you’ve gotten a lot better at Billards and cards then”. “Of course.” The man said, “We barely did anything else at the hospital, besides bitch about the food”. The man then finished putting on his shoes and walked awkwardly around the floor as Philips stared from afar. “They feel quite nice,” the man said with a smile. Haywood then smiled in return. “I’m glad they fit then. Maybe you’d like to walk out of here with them?” The man then nodded and Haywood packed up the box and paper with it the man took two pounds from his coat and handed it over. “Will that be all Sir?” Haywood then asked the man as he was on his way out. “Oh no thank you, it’s quite rare getting a pair of shoes that fit well these days, it’s even rarer to find a good deal as well”. The man then began walking towards the door when he then paused and turned to face Haywood as he stood at the desk. “Though if you don’t mind me asking Sir, how did you know I had a false leg?” Haywood then offered a nod. “A good shoe salesman can tell what type of shoes a man would want to wear from the sound of his footstep.” The man was then satisfied with the answer and departed. Haywood then slid the pounds into the register and Philips finally commented. “I thought the shoes at the display case were 4 pounds, Sir?” “They were,” Haywood said. “But if he men like him lost a leg for me I think it’s only right he should get a good pair of shoes at a cheap price in return”.

Thwack. Such a specific sound. Thwack. I mean, the comic books have it right. Thwack, right across the back of the hero as the villain stands over her. Sometimes I like to imagine that the world is like a blanket. Covering everything in warmth and safety. And in the blanket, there are wrinkles and swirls like galaxies and stars. When it’s just dark enough, I like to imagine visiting each one of them. Exploring the universe all right under my blanket. If I cough too much, sometimes I see the colors and those stars too. The Nurse says it’s... consumption and it makes me cough. And tired. Which is why I love my blanket universe. Whenever I’m tired, I get to dream and go to all these fantastical amazing beautiful worlds. But when I am awake. All alone. Late at night. And the worlds I’ve visited don’t want me to be there anymore, or if Darla says I shouldn’t. Thwack. Late at night, when I’m all alone. I change the universe. So I stand up, put on my blanket, and dance. I do a Hope Dance. I change my universe. And when I’m tired I get to explore entirely new worlds and stars and colors. Because I still have hope. “Hi, I’m Annabelle! Are you here to adopt me?” “Well... Annabelle, we are... thinking about it.” “Oh, well, that’s ok-” She cuts herself off in a short coughing fit, “I’m tired, can I have my blanket?” Darla stands near the door glaring. “Thimble, sweetie, Mr. Scott, and Mrs. Maranda came a very long way to meet you - “ “No, no it’s okay. I think we’ll... maybe be back and come some other time.” They quickly grab their coats and leave. Darla slams the door softly. “I’m sorry.” “For what, sweetie?” ... “I’m sorry... can I have my blanket please?” Thwack My blanket is so soft and warm. It helps me feel better. I like to imagine I’m in a spaceship flying far across the galaxy. Waving Hellos to all the people I see. They all look so tiny, woven into the fabric, little smiles and faces. Everyone looks so different - Orange, Purple, Green, Blue. All saying Hello! In silent voices and waves. I can’t hear them because they’re too far away. And when I visit these worlds and dream - Dad is making breakfast and Mom is combing my hair. And I feel Home. We smile and laugh and then I have to go to the next world and find my Mom and Dad there. And we smile and sometimes we live in castles and wear beautiful dresses and we smile But... They’re not smiling today. They look sad and that makes me sad. With their sad voices and silent tears. When I feel like this and they frown, I get up and put my blanket over my head and hear beautiful silent music. And I dance. I dance and I smile and I feel happy once again, letting my feet and hands make new wrinkles and galaxies and stars. I change my universe.

‘One final unselfish act’ The following is an official transcript recovered from the ‘black box’ of downed flight 217. After being told that a terrorist cell had placed a deadly airborne plague agent in the climate control system of the plane, the pilot and copilot agonized over what to do. After they elected to reveal the horrible truth to the passengers, the captain waxed philosophic for some time over the speaker system. His calming words of wisdom offer a glimpse into the state of mind of the dedicated crew and passengers of the doomed flight. Far beyond that, it reveals genuine proof of one last unselfish act by everyone involved in the horrible tragedy. Pilot and crew remarks are in quotations. Internal FAA notations or clarifications made regarding specific circumstances are listed in parentheses. (The pilot Paul Reardon addressing the entire plane over the PA system) “Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome aboard flight 217 with nonstop service from Boston to Atlanta. We ask that you pay attention to the safety demonstration by the flight attendants and keep your seats buckled at all times. Exceptions being for using the lavatory or when we have the seatbelt sign turned off. We are currently cruising at an altitude of 37 thousand feet and our air travel time today is expected to be three hours and 35 minutes. At the moment it is partially cloudy and 86 degrees Fahrenheit in Atlanta. As always, we thank you for flying with us.” (Over the course of the next 37 minutes, the pilot and copilot (Matt Dobbs) discuss the routine flight operations among themselves. Those basic details about air speed, elevation, fuel consumption and other aviation related things have been omitted here because they bear no relevance to the official FAA investigation. Around 38 minutes into the flight, Captain Reardon received an urgent call over the radio. The details of which, lead to the premature demise of all 147 souls aboard. “Flight 217, this is air traffic control. I have a priority one message for the captain’s ears only. Do you read me?“ (The captain responded that he was listening privately after the Copilot removed his headset in full compliance with the controller’s privacy request) “Please hold for Earl Greenberg of the CDC.” “This is David Earl Greenberg. Am I speaking with Paul H. Reardon, the captain of flight 217 from Boston to Atlanta?” (The pilot answered in affirmative) “There’s no easy way to say this, Captain. I’m sorry to have to report to you that the FBI and Department of Homeland Security are here with me. They’ve officially verified that an embedded terrorist sleeper cell has infiltrated security sections inside Logan International Airport. Under intense interrogation the suspects admitted releasing an extremely virulent, very weaponized strain of neurotoxin into the climate system of your airplane. Incubation is less than 8 hours and there is no treatment for this airborne virus. I repeat. We have no vaccine or cure. (The pilot can be heard uttering “Oh my God!” over his headset at the declaration.) This biological weapon is highly contagious and 100% fatal. Every man, woman and child on that plane will be dead within 36 hours. That is a fact. I’m deeply sorry.” (Captain Reardon interrupts) “Is this some kind of sick joke? There must be a mistake here. I feel fine. (Then he addresses the copilot) You feel ok don’t you, Matt? As soon as we land, we can have the CDC or NSA test the air in the plane for whatever it is you think...” (The caller cuts him off) “You can’t land that plane. There is no antidote or vaccine. It’s incredibly contagious and absolutely fatal. I know you served in the Air Force, Captain. I’m calling on your years of training and distinguished service to do the right thing for all involved. No one on that plane must survive. There will be a terrible epidemic if anyone does. Millions will die. Atlanta was the chosen target because our offices would be overrun and incapacitated. This weaponized strain infects every person who comes in contact with it. Then they were planning to release the same neurotoxin-laced virus in every other major U.S. city to set off a biological pandemic. To save millions of American lives, I implore you. You must crash the plane and sacrifice everyone aboard including yourself. There can be no survivors.” (There was ‘dead air’ for nearly thirty seconds as Captain Reardon took in the devastating news. Matt Dobbs expressed grave concern at the somber tone of the one-sided conversation. He demanded to know what was going on. The Captain appeared to be hesitant to reveal what he’d just been told. It was a horrific thing to learn. Eventually Reardon did inform Dobbs of what was said. Both men were in shock.) “Captain, can I depend on you to do the right thing here for the sake of the country?” (When there wasn’t an immediate agreement from him, the conversation took on a darker direction.) “Reardon, listen. The President of the United States has authorized the Air Force to shoot you down if necessary in the interest of public safety. We are all hoping to avoid that. There would probably be eyewitnesses and an official inquiry. If you steer your plane into lake Allatoona, just north of the Atlanta airport, it can be written off by the FAA as a tragic accident. We don’t need to create a huge panic about these individuals having a deadly biological weapon on American soil. We must contain the situation. If you crash the plane, millions of others will avoid this agonizing death. You can also spare everyone aboard the horrible fever by crashing the plane while everyone is still asymptomatic. It’s a matter of weighing the lives of those on the plane versus hundreds of thousands, or possibly millions.” (The Captain again expressed disbelief and asked for an official confirmation from another source. He demanded to hear it from the lips of an individual authorized to speak on matters of National Security. The microphone was handed over to authenticate the agonizing scenario.) “This is Richard A. Farnsworth, director of Homeland Security. I’m sorry Captain but the news is true. My colleague here from the CDC can advise you of the technical details but based on what I’ve seen, this thing you’ve been infected with is a nightmare. It makes Ebola look like a case of the sniffles. Whether you crash the plane or land somewhere, you and everyone else aboard will be dead in less than two days. The difference is that, if you all die in the crash, no one on the ground will be infected and die. The president has already scrambled fighter jets to shoot you down. They are in route as we speak. He doesn’t want to risk you or the copilot trying to be heroes but I’ve asked him for the favor. He agreed to allow you a few minutes to accept this horrible fate and die in the unselfish service of others. Over the next few minutes, both men went through the universal stages of doubt, anger, grief, bargaining, and then finally acceptance. Just five minutes earlier, both men had been completely dedicated to full safety of all passengers and crew arriving at their destination. Now they were being asked to deliberately murder almost 150 innocent lives. It was beyond surreal. “This is not a drill, captain. The suspects have confessed. The runway tube has tested positive for particulate residue of the deadly virus. The ground crew who emptied the lavatory tanks for your plane this morning are already dying in CDC isolation. Make peace with your maker and do what needs to be done for the greater good.” Reardon and Dobbs had a marathon ethics discussion over what to do. Both men went through waves of anger and prolonged sadness. The air traffic controller instructed them to alter their flight path slightly to take the plane over the massive North Georgia lake. Despite their shock and bitter misgivings, they did as they were directed. They were also advised to not tell any of the crew or passengers but that didn’t sit as well with Captain Reardon. He told the copilot that the people deserved to know what was coming, even if it brought them deep fear and misery. It would also allow them to make peace with what was happening and understand that their deaths served a purpose. More importantly; their sacrifices as tragic as they were, would save others. First he had the depressing but necessary duty of informing and preparing the crew. “Attention. I need all available crew members to report to the cockpit for an important ‘Tulsa’ briefing.” (His wording was ‘airline speak’ for an emergency situation that the crew recognized. Once they entered the pilot’s area they could be heard expressing apprehension and fear over the ‘panic code’. They knew enough to worry but they weren’t prepared for what the pilot was about to tell them. Honestly, how could anyone be? They were all consummate airline professionals; and while aircraft crashes are always a possibility, this was a very different story. The plane itself had no operational issues. The pilots were lucid and highly capable; and yet they were told they were all going to die in just a few minutes. The crew went through the same five stages of grief and anger. The natural human impulse was to deny what they were told or fight against it. They all desperately wanted to live but the somber facts and necessary path was clear. Once they’d composed themselves, they returned back to the cabin to complete their very courageous flight. At this point, the pilot made the toughest announcement of his life. “Ladies and gentlemen. My name is Paul Reardon. Your copilot is Matt Dobbs. I want to thank each an every one of you for making this journey with us. What I’m about to tell you is incredibly painful and difficult to express but I feel you all deserve to know the truth. I say that because as terrible as it is, I would want to know if I was seated out there across the aisle from you. About 45 minutes ago I was informed by the CDC and Department of Homeland Security that our plane had been sabotaged by terrorists. Some form of deadly neurotoxin virus was placed in the air conditioning system of this plane. I’ve been on the radio with the CDC and Homeland Security. What we’ve been exposed to is both highly contagious and incurable. I’ve been given the option of deliberately crashing this plane, or we will be shot down to prevent causing an epidemic on the ground that will potentially kill millions. I am so sorry, Ladies and gentlemen. I know that no one here was prepared to die but... we must accept this fate to save others. I’ve been assured that our deaths will save millions. I’d rather face death with each of you, than be shot out of the sky. I wish there was any other choice. I wanted to give every single person here a few minutes to pray or just meditate. Please forgive me for what I’m about to do. Prepare to die.” (Cellphone video recovered from the wreckage recorded the reaction to the Captain’s gut-wrenching speech. Understandably, there was fear, panic, chaos, and denial for the next few moments. The people wept and cried but unlike an unexpected crash, they had a brief period to overcome their lamentations. As if on queue, two F-17’s arrived and were visible outside the windows. The moment arrived as the plane rapidly approached the proposed destination for the planned crash. The insinuation was clear to Dobbs and Reardon. If they didn’t take the plane down, it would be immediately shot down. Faced with that ‘choice’, the pilot did what was requested. The last transmission was by Mr. Dobbs. He announced that they were going down. Simultaneously, the crew and passengers recited ‘The Lord’s prayer’ or other sacred mantras. According to recovered black box data, the crash occurred at 11:43 EST. All lives were lost. The FAA, FBI, Department of Homeland Security, and other federal agencies worked to investigate the circumstances of the crash. At the time, no one knew why Captain Reardon and his copilot deliberately diverted and crashed their jet. Only later did the startling details of the diabolical plot to deceive the pilots come to light. A real terrorist network installed sophisticated jamming equipment into the plane’s communication system. The purpose was to make it appear as if the pilot was talking to actual air traffic controllers and government agents. The plan all along was to deceive the innocent crew members into downing the plane and taking their lives. After capitalizing on a few of these sophisticated attacks, they planned to claim responsibility for them and strike terror into the heart of the country. Once the pilot diverted the flight plan and failed to explain his actions to real air traffic controllers monitoring their flight progress, it triggered civil defense fighter jets. They were scrambled to escort the unresponsive, suspicious acting commercial airline back to its regular trajectory. It was an ingenious and successful plan to hack the air traffic communications grid but the courageous victims had no way of knowing it was a sadistic hoax. In the end, they gave their lives for a noble cause they believed in. Their reluctant martyrdom was a final unselfish act.

Warning: This story mentions but does not describe sexual and physical violence. I had of course heard of Him. Like every boy in the world, I imagined myself being Him as I played games of adventures and quests. I remember one time when the local boys and I were out in the fields playing the Second Labor I had been chosen to be Him. With a broken branch as a stand in for His club I would swing with as much might as my young body could muster. Smashing death blows into the imaginary hydra, while leaving very real welts on the flesh of my companions. As the son of the king I had responsibilities others my age did not. Such as ensuring I not only understood restraint but that I demonstrated it. So when my father had learned of my carelessness he set out to teach me a lesson. “As the future king,” he told me. “You must restrain yourself. It is of utmost importance. The health of our domain relies upon it. When a ruler lashes out a merciless beating on his subjects their moral falls. Not only that but all sense of morals, ethics, and order falls away.” His voice was stern and hard, yet he spoke with a quiet and calm tone. Although I knew my father was furious with me he held his anger back. Always the living example of his teachings. Even when my fathers honor was called into question he always restrained himself, ensuring his emotions were under his control, rather than the other way around. “With power, my son, one must control themselves. When kings and rulers let their emotions control them, rather than being the one in control, Chaos rules all. Wars break out, famine falls upon the land. Rivers, lakes, and all fresh water turns to dust. The hard won Order the Gods fought for during the Titanomachy would be but nothing else than in vain.” That is why I knew the story told to me of my fathers death was nothing but lies. Not once had he ever been known to let his emotions take control of him. Nor had he ever been known to deny a person in need. I remember years after his lesson on restraint, he and I had been out grazing our herd when we came upon a starving man. He was clearly not of our land, nor the neighboring realms, for his garments were of an unknown fabric, design and fashion. Although clearly light and flexible, it seemed to be durable. To my amazement, his garb was covered in beautiful images of unknown creatures. As the stranger walked it looked as if the beasts moved along his body dancing amongst themselves. He wore the strangest looking chiton I had ever seen. Rather than being free flowing around the legs, it had been sown so that each leg was wrapped in the smooth cloth separately. Later, when I asked my father what they were, he called them “trousers”. A funny word for an even sillier looking garment. Not only was his garments strange and bizarre, he spoke a language I had never heard before in my life, nor since. It sounded like the sing-song of some fabulous bird. It was to my great surprise that my father not only knew the language but could in fact speak a few words. He was, he told me, better at understanding it than speaking it. Had it not been for the man's strange outfit, or his barbaric speech he would still have stood out like a sore limb. His hair was like that of a beautiful women's, long and straight, and black as a raven’s feathers. His eyes, although peaceful, looked hard lived. His skin reminded me of a cured hide, and was darkened by the sun. In the strange man's sing-song language my father and he spoke briefly. Although I did not understand what was being said, I could tell the man had asked my father for one of our goats as he had pointed to the flock grazing around us. As the man pointed with one hand, his other moved to clinch his stomach. A sign I instantly understood as the man being hungry. Without hesitation, or another word exchanged my father turned to our herd and strode to the nearest goat. Kneeling to the side of the goat, my father placed a firm and gentle arm around the goat's body, reassuring it that he was safe. Then in a fluid and powerful stroke, my father drew his dagger across the goats throat. Spilling its blood to the earth, my father stood and gave praise to the Gods, and gave to the stranger the now dead goat. “Who was that father?” I asked as we returned from the grazing field later that day. “I do not know my child, a stranger to our land in need of vittles.” “Where is he from? I’ve never seen a man like him before.” “A land far from here boy, where Helios rises to drive his fiery chariot across the sky.” “Is he a God?” “No, he is mortal like us all Hylas. Just a man far from home. Now, do you understand why I gave him our most prized goat when he clearly could have either hunted for his own food, or worse, killed the two of us and taken what he wanted?” Shocked by my fathers question I simply shook my head in my ignorance. “Because,” my father paused, and with arms stretched out, gesturing to our large flock grazing all around. “We have plenty, and he had not but what he wore. The loss of a single goat will do little to hurt us, but will save that man's life. No matter the cost to our own wealth, if we can save the life of a single person then it is our duty to sacrifice what we can to do so. Even if that person has the means to do it themselves. We can always get another goat, bull, horse, or whatever it may be, but a man's life can never be returned from the grip of Hades. Do you understand me?” Not fully understanding, I simply nodded my head saying “I think so”. With a rare smile my father patted me on the shoulder and said, “that’s alright, think on it.” And think on it I did. For the rest of that day's journey back home was silent other than the natural world around us. I pondered what my father had told me the entire way back. Although I had planned on asking my father on our arrival home about what he had meant, there had been no time. As the king he had urgent stately business to attend to on our return, and I, as the prince, was tasked with ensuring the flock’s safe return to the pastor. Other than in passing, I would never speak to my father again. The life of a king is a busy one and leaves little time for family matters. The only reason I had been with him taking the flock out to graze, was because I was turning sixteen that year and was to take on the role of head herder of the flock. As the king and my father, it was his responsibility to show me the proper way. He had told me “to be a good king one must know how to lead all under their protection.” The reason I am telling you all of this is to show you why it is of great urgency that I escape. My father was murdered, and I am the murderer's captive. You are the only one that can save me, and take me far away to a place He can never find me. The stories told about Him are all lies, Heracles is no hero of man. *** It was the eve of my sixteenth birthday when my fathers murderer came to Dryopis. A storm had gathered over the city the hours leading up to when Heracles arrived, bringing with him his lies and deceit of my fathers death. Boldly declaring in front of the entire court of Dryopis that “King Theiodamas is dead, and he died by my hands.” At the great uproar of Heracles' proclamation to my fathers murder, the senate demanded an explanation. With a simple wave of Heracles’ deadly hand, the entire senate fell silent, frightened that the murderous son of Zeus would turn on them. “Unwilling to part with a simple calf so that I may feed myself and stave off starvation, Theiodamas showed himself to be a dishonorable man and an unjust king.” Thinking he would be believed, Heracles told a bold face lie to the people who knew my father better than even I, his own son. In a chorus the senate bombarded Heracles with ridicule and justice, calling him a murderer. In a fit of rage the killer declared war on our entire people stating he would “return to conquer and lay waste to all Dryopians, all but you. “Son of Theiodamas, your beauty has encapsulated me, and for my prize I will have you. By right of conquest you will be mine to do with what I please, forever and always.” The wicked smile that fell upon the so-called hero revealed a darkness only hinted at in the stories as a wicked and tragic curse. It was no curse but rather a horrible reality. Heracles is a murdering psychopath and within the week he had returned with a ravaging army to conquer Dryopis. Decimating the army I had come to know as friends and future citizens to protect as their King. My world had come to an end all at the hands of my childhood hero, and soon to be rapist. “In the name of my Father, Zeus the Almighty I declare rights of conquest upon this land and its people.” Heracles declared to the surrendering senate. “By His laws I have the right to slay any living descendant of Dryopian blood, and I will. That is unless you give up your prince to me, to have forever as mine to do as I see fit.” In protest I pleaded “do not do this, do not give into this murderers demands! He slayed your king, your sons, your brothers! His men are ravaging our city and our women do not give in. I beg of you!” Alas my words fell on deaf ears, and the cowards stepped aside as Heracles waded towards me, and as if I were nothing but a babe, picked me up and strung me across his shoulders. Although I pounded my fists into his back, and kicked my knees deep into his face with all of my might, the attacks were like an insect bite to him. I do not think he even noticed that I struggled and screamed my protests at the world. He simply strode through the wreckage of my home to his war tent, where he forced himself unto me. I do not recall much of the following days, weeks or even months. It was as if I was living in a fog. What I do recall is that it was during these early days with him that I promised myself I would bring ruin to Heracles. I began training relentlessly under my captor's tutelage so that one day I could turn his warrior skills on him, and bring an end to the tyrannical life of Heracles. Seeing that I had begun to take to his lessons, Heracles’ savage nightly assaults started to decrease to the point that they only occurred when he became angered. Not only at me, but whenever his rage was enacted. Which for a man as vile and controlled by their emotions and whims as Heracles, it is more frequent than not. He even began to treat me with what I imagine he believes to be tinder love. Caressing my hair as he cages me in his unmovable strength. Whispering poems of beautiful words, and feelings that would sweep anyone off their feet, yet they act only to fuel the flame of hatred within me. However I knew that to survive I had to hide my loathing abhorrence for him, and so I played along. Returning each touch, and word with my own. Soon enough I found myself unable to truly hate the man who killed my father and assaulted me regularly, for I had begun to fall in love with Heracles. The days of my capture stretched into weeks, and the weeks into months, until word had made its way to Heracles and myself, that the greatest fleet of adventurers and heroes had begun to gather. So Heracles and I traveled to Iolcus where we joined the crew of the ship Argo. Once we arrived in Iolcus we met the greatest heroes of our time. Orpheus, the greatest poet and bard I have ever heard in my life. It is said he can coax the trees with his lyre. He even claims to be able to bring Hades himself to tears, “if only I had the opportunity”, he is keen to say. I hope he never does. Iolas, Heracles' younger cousin was there too, and for the first time in I do not know how long, Heracles paid little attention to me. However the reprieve would not last long, for as soon as the Argonauts, the name given to the crew, set out, Heracles came to me nightly. For a month now we have been questing, searching for the legendary Golden Fleece with Jason, a young nobleman of about my own age. He is eager to prove his worth to the other, older and capable heroes of living legend. He is a kind enough leader, if not a little foolish. Although I truly do wish him success in his quest, I can no longer bear being with Heracles. I am sworn by blood, and oath to slay my fathers murderer, and the man who defiled me. The man who I now love with all my being. My heart tears and my soul screams out in anguish. I can neither slay nor lay with him any longer. I must escape him, I must be rid of Heracles the Triumphant, the Hero, the Murderer. The Rapist. *** “That is why I ask of you, please take me under your waters so that Heracles may never find me. I will do whatever you ask of me.” I ask the Naiad of Pegae. She looks at me with her majestic lake green eyes. There is a depth to them that pulls at me, at my soul as if it were calling me to it. For the first time since the news of my fathers murder I feel at peace, driving me further to push her to answer my request. “Please, Heracles is out hunting, he will be back looking for me at any moment. This is our only chance. My only chance. I beg of you, please take me with you.” “Your story has touched my heart, and I believe I have fallen in love with you mortal. Yes, I think I will take you with me.” She says with the voice of a murmuring spring, and the smile of a hungery eel. “You are so very beautiful, I would hate to lose you to a creature such as Him.” A feeling of dread falls over me the instant her smile changes from that of a beautiful maiden, to a hungry predator. Before I am able to distance myself from the shore of her spring, she captures me in her grip. Her preternatural strength thwarting my escape the naiad pulls me under the deep water. As the icy water enshrouds me in its dark depths, a final thought of regret runs through my mind. I do not want to die. With enough air in my lungs for a single word I scream my last mortal word. “Heracles!”