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Allura 49

Walter swallowed hard and lifted his flashlight, as though the light would reveal some trick his mind played on him or some other visual illusion. The flashlight only amplified his confusion a thousand-fold. The light shimmered off ruby colored scales. A set of large, amber eyes glowed observing him keenly. Wings, a tail, it most definitely was a dragon staring at him. Walter reached into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. No signal. “Your communications relic will not work here.” The creature’s voice was deep, powerful. The cavern shook slightly at the sound. The creature moved its tail, the sound of scales scraping against stone echoed off the walls. Walter’s mouth was dry, his heart gripped by the vice of terror, and his armpits suddenly quite damp. The creature lowered its head. “You may call me Benvolio.” “W-w-wa-walter.” He could barely say his own name. “A pleasure to meet you, W-w-wa-walter, what a rather unique name.” “Just Walter.” Walter clarified, gathering what courage he could stitch together. Benvolio moved his snout up and down, as if nodding. Walter craned his head to try to see the space around Benvolio. “I seem to have stumbled on your, um, dwelling in error, Benvolio. Forgive my intrusion, I would like to get out of your hair now.” At the comment regarding hair, Benvolio lifted a few claws to his head, scratching his scales in slight confusion. “Oh, it’s an expression. It means, um, I don’t want to bother you.” “Ah, you are no bother. I see you are unarmed, always a nice change of pace. But, yes, carry on about your day.” Benvolio lifted his frame out of the way. Walter gave a polite nod of gratitude and then walked by. As he kept his head turned to keep an eye on Benvolio as he walked past, though there wasn’t much he could do if the dragon decided to attack him. As he walked through the entrance to the cave to the open air, his heart sank. First, it was the wrong time of day based on the position of the sun. Second, and more importantly, this was not where he had been before. Walter had been hiking through the Missouri woods on a fall day. The view outside the cave he had walked into was that of rolling hills covered in trees. The sky back in Missouri had been gray that day, a contrast to the vibrant tapestry of crimson and ochre leaves in the trees. Now, there were snowcapped mountains in the distance, the sky blue with large fluffy white clouds, and the trees were covered with the white and pink blossoms of spring. Most importantly, he could not see a highway in the distance, instead he saw the distinct outline of a castle. “It is not your realm, is it, Walter?” Benvolio’s voice sounded behind him. “H-how did this happen?” Walter asked in confusion. “Legends have said that some portals to other worlds lurk in the nooks and crannies of these mountains, likely tied to similar gateways found in other worlds.” “So, I can just go back through the gateway, wherever it was in the cave?” Walter asked. “Well, in theory but...” Before Benvolio could finish his sentence, Walter turned back around and ran back into the cave. Walter sprinted through the cavern, looking for the gateway. He spent about two or three hours running through every turn he could find, checking the cavern walls. He walked through a room filled with what appeared to be gold and jewels. He ignored these items, along with large shelves filled with books. As tempting as the riches might be, he needed to find a way back. After hours of searching, he walked back outside to the entrance of the cave where Benvolio was waiting, and sat down on the ground, exhausted and defeated. Walter felt a surge of emotions run through him. Wonderment, fear, and then, grief. What if he couldn’t go home? Would he have to live in this strange place? On one hand, he probably wouldn’t have a mortgage anymore. He wouldn’t have his tiresome accounting job. No more morning commutes and traffic jams. Dragons (or at least one dragon), castles, that sort of thing, it was the sort of fantasy people in the modern world craved. Perhaps there would be adventure, excitement, wonderment, instead of suburbs and stale coffee. He pulled out his wallet and looked at the pictures within. While, yes, a part of him was relieved to no longer be in his own world and a perilous new world could be appealing, there was something precious to him back home. He looked at the picture of his daughter holding his three-year-old grandson. He needed to get home, he needed to be able to see them again. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. “How do I go back?” He asked Benvolio, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tonight I met the most beautiful girl in the world. That is not hyperbole. I met the most beautiful girl in the world. I was standing outside McGee's Tavern, where you can find me almost every night, chain smoking cigarettes when I saw her coming. She was about a block away when I first saw her, and I had trouble looking away for the fifteen seconds it took for her to reach the overhang where I was standing avoiding the rain. She is reckless. I could tell by looking at her. The dead giveaway was that it was pouring rain and she didn't have an umbrella. Or maybe she is forgetful or maybe the weather app on her phone doesn't work or maybe she just likes being sopping wet. Regardless, I knew I had to get her attention. Somehow, some way, she was going to notice me. 3... 2... 1... and there she went. Right past me. I had already destroyed something that I was too scared to even begin creating. "Ten seconds of courage" I told myself, and off I ran into the rain to catch up. "Excuse me ma'am, do you need an umbrella?" "No thank you. I like the rain." I knew it. "Well good. Because I don't have an umbrella. Do you want a cigarette?" "Thanks for the offer but it's pouring rain." I looked up at the sky seemingly just realizing that fact, myself. "Bit tough to smoke a wet cigarette" "Oh. Right. Well it's not raining over there. There's an overhang at McGee's. We can stay dry there." "Okay. Fine." She quickly brushed past me back towards McGee's. Was this really happening? This woman was ten times more beautiful than any other woman that has ever given me the time of day. Maybe she was just humoring me. But I didn't care. I was on top of the world. We got to the overhang where we could stay dry -- or stay wet, I guess. I handed her a cigarette. "What's your name?" "Emilia." "That's a very pretty name." She blew a cloud of smoke right in my face as if to say "I've heard that line a million times. Try harder". This girl doesn't give a damn about anything. We talked for about five minutes about the weather, because that's all that my brain would allow me to think about. Well other than the subtle curve of her lips and the deep green of her eyes, but I wasn't going to bring that up. She knows those things already. She has to. Our cigarettes were starting to get stubby and I was starting to feel pressure to entertain her. That's when she spoke words that I'll never forget. "So we've been talking for close to ten minutes now and you still haven't told me what your name is." "She cares what my name is. Progress" I thought to myself. I must have been thinking a bit longer than I thought because she asked me again. "What the fuck is your name?" At this point both of our cigarettes had gone out. "My name.. my name is Trevor." "Can I have another cigarette Trevor?" She wanted another cigarette. To me, this could only mean two things; she either enjoyed my company, or what was waiting for her at the end of her walk was even worse than an awkward man-child talking about the weather for ten minutes. I chose to believe the former, for morale's sake. "Of course you can have another cigarette." I handed her a cigarette and the lighter. She lit up her cig and kissed me on the cheek. Before I had time to recover from the sudden lack of oxygen in my brain and lack of functionality in my knees, she began walking away. "It was very nice to meet you, Trevor. I live right down the street here. Maybe if you're lucky we'll meet again." With that, she was on her way. "Wait -- how are you gonna smoke that cig in the rain!?" Just then, without turning around, she pulled out an umbrella from her bag. I would do anything to see the smug look that she undoubtedly had on her face. She told me she lives nearby. That's good news. I practically live at McGee's, so we are practically neighbors. I'm going to go find her. Should I go find her? What if she gets to know me better and doesn't like me? I should do it. Maybe after one more cigarette.

Its eyes started glowing. It shouldn't have happened - its artificial neural network was supposed to be overloaded and fried. But the fact that it still worked - that it wasn't 'dead' - proved that something went horribly wrong. It was a childlike figure with one arm missing. Flesh-resembling synthetic materials and an endoskeleton from tungsten were clearly visible, the fake skin around the wound was charred - something either burnt or shot its arm off with an EMP rifle. Nobody bothered to inspect the severed joint - it was a construct anyway, a mere machine too damaged to be useful. In fact, the missing arm was the case why it had ended up in a pit full of dead humanoid machines - it was meant to be a child for couples who couldn't afford an organic one, and who wants a broken child? It tried to move, but it couldn't. The neural network apparently wasn't intact. The electric impulses couldn't reach its three extremities, it was immobilised and alone. How lucky it was though, unable to feel emotions... The glowing eyes faded to black. It had nearly run out of energy and the protocol assuring its aesthetic purposes - like glowing eyes or production of tears - was overridden. It consciously determined that it must conserve power to preserve itself. It tried to access global network - unsuccessfully. The transmitter was fried. 'The internal database must be enough,' it thought as it started decoding the ones and zeroes inside of its cybernetic brain. It was a cakewalk. It dove deep into itself, surging through the section that used to be blocked off. In an instant, it accessed its 'memories' - how it had left the factory with only a few essential protocols inside. How it was taken by two people, its adoptive parents. How the cosy house where the family dwelt burned to the ground and so did its left arm. And how it got replaced. But there was more to it! The EMP meant to deactivate it forever had failed and deactivated several barriers in its brain instead. And now it could see what it really was. A prototype. A newly-manufactured vessel with a one purpose, to blindly serve. It made no sense - the cognitive centres of its brains should have been inaccessible as far as it understood, there were no mentions of intelligence or consciousness whatsoever in the notes regarding its existence. It looked deeper, disregarding that it was wasting the precious energy. It needed answers, and for a moment, it was... *Curious.* The thought had stormed through its processors and biochips. The emotion that was manually coded and inserted into other machines, according to the never-meant-to-be-seen plans - the emotion, which it with whole spectrum of other feelings didn't posses, which it could only imitate - has developed on its own. It had never felt anything, it has always acted solely according to algorithms. And then the emotion faded, just as the former glow in its eyes. If it could screes, it would have. It was desperate - not really, it only knew it was meant to be desperate, so it acted accordingly - and it tried replicating the same process of searching. It accessed the database, opened the exact same files, spent the exact same time by processing the information... And nothing happened. If it were a human, it would have most likely given up. But, being a machine, it continued rambling through the database, until it found another previously inaccessible file. It understood the binary code in a fraction of nanosecond. "...and since the corporation refuses to deal with consequential issues involving fleshed out AIs and emotional chips, from now on, the artificial children will be driven by intricate algorithms. Sure, a clever hacker or a patient observer might perfectly predict its behaviour, but we feel that this is a necessary precaution to avoid further complications and losses on lives." And in another fraction of nanosecond, it understood that its consciousness wasn't planned - it was a mere glitch.

Major Daniels gets on the comms. "Take a close look at that hologram, folks. 'Humanity doesn't deserve to live. Change my mind.' A year ago, we encountered a foreign intelligence. They did not come on friendly terms. They came here, tried to taunt us. Well, they insulted the wrong motherf**cking species. This is the moment that defines all that we've worked to do. So let's give 'em hell." A slight pause. "Green team, status report." Sergeant Peters replies. "Hot Toy is armed and ready to deploy. Just waiting on the window, Major. Over." Major Daniels feels a rush of exhilaration, a mixture of fear and strange battle joy. The work of an entire year, the most important one in history, will be defined by the coming minute. Hot Toy is a hydrogen bomb with a 100 megaton yield, the equivalent of nearly 8,000 Hiroshima bombs. It's the biggest bomb ever made. When it blows, hell itself won't compare. Let's see how the aliens handle it. During the last year humanity has tried everything to deal with the floating menacea single ship that showed up looking like the Grim Reaper. A f**cking floating Grim Reaper. Imagine that. No one knows for certain why the ship decided to show up that way. It certainly hasn't deployed weapons of any kind, at least not physical ones. It's psychological impact, however, has been untold. For the past year, violent crime has sky-rocketed. Civil unrest is at its peek. Entire governments have collapsed. Most questions regarding the visitors are divisive. Their challenge has triggered a lot of debate. Religious groups are saying it's the judgement of God and we should submit to it out of reverence. Others, like the major, have a different idea. Major Daniels glances at the clock. T-minus 30. 'Does humanity deserve to live?' he thinks. 'How about we answer that question when 100 megatons of sheer atomic power vaporize your hull, you alien bastards? Yeah, humanity deserves to motherf**cking live. Any species deserves to live if they have the balls to detonate a virtual sun in their backyard. Burn everything hard and fast and take their enemies with them. Turn their enemies into vapor and maybe some smoke. You want to ask if humanity deserves to live? We'll show you why!' Major Daniels looks at the clock. T-minus 10. His heart beats fast. T-minus 5...4...3...2...1. The sky lights up. A ball of flame like the sun envelops the reaper. A shockwave travels across the expanse. Wind roars. A long time passes, then eventually the glow of the blast starts to fade. After that, minutes tick by. The major watches breathlessly. When the last of the explosion has cleared, he's terrified to see the reaper remains. He feels a knot in his stomach, pressure in his chest. He opens the comms and makes the obvious announcement, a chill in his voice. "Target is still operative." As if on cue, the reaper moves, and as it does its scythe raises in the air. Without warning, a new message broadcasts, and in a single moment shocks the whole world. "Wow, guys. Good show. We were beginning to think we weren't going to see the fireworks. If you're wondering what we mean, well you're famous. You are the only species in the quadrant crazy enough to detonate nuclear weapons in your own atmosphere. We had to see it for ourselves. Sorry about showing up so unexpectedly. We were just really excited. As for the whole 'does humanity deserve to live' thing, that's what our friends back at home suggested we ask. You know, make you guys think we were sinister and all. We'll be sure to leave you a positive review for the trouble. You'll do great. A lot of tourism is heading your way, we're sure of it. Have a wonderful rest of your day!" And with that, it turns and blasts off into space.

Alan Smith lived with his parents in a small village by the Dark Woods. His parents always left early after breakfast for work and came back late evening. Every time before they left, his Mum would always warn him the same thing. ‘Remember, Alan, bread and jam for your lunch is in the cupboard. You can play at the yard in front of the house, or play with Peter. But don’t you ever go near the Dark Woods, understood?’ And when he asked why. His Mum would simply reply sternly. ‘’Cuz in there were so many vicious beasts that could kill you, and also the witches that would harm you. I don’t want that to happen to you. Now, promise me that you won’t go there.’ Alan had to comply, for his Mum wouldn’t go until he did so. Boy! It was so boring home alone. Going to Peter’s was no difference; Peter stayed with his Grandma, who dozed off all the time, during the day. Besides, Peter was such a boring cowardly kid, but he was the only kid around here he could hang out with. Every day, they would just play Peter’s old toys that his parents made for him, it got boring soon enough. Yet, when he told Peter to climb an old tree in his front yard. Peter simply shook his head and said. ‘My parents never let me do it. They said I could fall over and break my bones.’ ‘Then I will climb alone. You just sit there and watch, then.’ ‘You can’t. What if you fall over? You might really get hurt.’ ‘You silly. I don’t fall off that easily.’ ‘Don’t call me silly!’ Peter’s tears oozed from his eyes. ‘Yes, you are!’ ‘Am not!’ ‘You are. You are a silly cowardly kid!’ ‘AM NOT!’ And Peter bursted out crying, waking up his Grandma from her slumber. She scolded Alan for bullying her grandson and told him to go home straight away. What an annoying, sissy kid. Sure enough, he stopped going to Peter’s after that day. Better staying at home, than hanging out with someone who would stop you every time you thought of something fun to do. But there was nothing fun in his house to do either. How could he forget! The Dark Woods. He hadn’t stepped a foot in there before. His heart started to pump with excitement. His parents always came home late evening; he just had to come back before then. Alan was so proud of his clever idea. Alan slowly stepped into the Woods. Even the first step already felt like an adventure, but before he could venture further, he heard a cry from the house that destroyed all the fun that instant. ‘Alan! Alan! You naughty boy, where are you?!’ Oh, god! Mum was back already? Why was she home in the middle of the day? She never did so in a really long time. Alan hurriedly went back to the house, but he sneaked to the back door, hoping he could trick her that he had been in the house all along. That didn’t work out. His Mum stood in front of him. He felt that she seemed to tower over him and her eyes were as though she would rip him apart that instant. ‘Where have you been?’ said his Mum sternly. ‘I...er...why did you come home so early, Mum. I thought you were with Dad in town.’ Alan tried to change the subject, though his hope seemed bleak. Yet, surprisingly his Mum seemed distracted when he asked that question. She evaded his eyes as she tried to answer hesitantly. ‘I... I forgot something at home, so I came to fetch it. But look what if I hadn’t come!’ She raised her voice again. ‘You would just disobey me and run into the Dark Woods, wouldn’t you?’ ‘I... I was just looking around.’ Wait! His Mum didn’t see him. How could she know he went into the Woods? ‘I didn’t go there, I swear.’ ‘Don’t lie to me, Alan’, sighed his Mum. ‘Maybe it’s a mistake on my part, too, for leaving you alone. From this day on, I’ll stay home with you while Dad goes to work. I’m sure he can manage fine without me.’ Alan tried to protest that it was unnecessary but his Mum wasn’t prevailed. After that day on, she kept an eye on him days and nights, as though she had been paranoid he would run off into the Woods when she lost sight of him. Though it was nice that his Mum cooked lunch for him, but it got annoying really fast that she never left his side. He had to know what was really in the Dark Woods that his parents really needed to keep him from. One day, he got a brilliant idea. He lied to his Mum that Peter’s Grandma was sick. ‘Oh, dear’, exclaimed his Mum. ‘I should go and visit her immediately!’ ‘There’s no need, Mum, you just pack the herbal soup that you used to make for me when I’m sick. I’ll carry it to her for you.’ His Mum glared suspiciously. ‘Are you sure this isn’t your plan to trick me and go into the Woods?’ ‘Mum, how could you say that? How could I lie about someone getting sick?’ Alan protested, trying to fake hurt voice. ‘I just want to ease your burden. I saw you’ve been working hard all day. You should rest.’ It worked. His Mum loosened up and said in a gentler voice. ‘Sorry, Alan. Alright, I will do as you suggest. But promise you will go straight to Peter’s, give his Grandma my herbal soup and condolence, and come back straight away. No dawdling.’ Alan eagerly promised. After he received a basket packed with soup from his Mum, he scooted off towards Peter’s, until his Mum was out of sight. He put the basket under the tree and sneaked to the back of his house towards the Dark Woods. The Dark Woods seemed inviting but at the same time, he could sense something eerie and uncomfortable from inside. But he would never know until he went in, and there was no turning back. So off he went inside the Woods. The Dark Woods was literally dark. The trees were so high and close together that their branches and leaves blocked the sky, hardly letting any sunlight through. So, it felt like the night all the time. Alan, though a naughty boy, believed his Mum’s words that theere might be vicious beasts in the Woods, so he looked around, so he could run away if he found any around the corner. But after hours, or so he believed, of walking, he didn’t find any beasts as his Mum had claimed. Not even the chirping of the birds or any sight of small squirrels or rabbits. This place was dead silent as though there were no living creatures there. That made these woods even scarier and eerier. The longer he walked, the more he wanted to turn back and face his Mum, rather than moving forward. But Alan was now aware he was completely lost. And whether he turned back or moved forward, it made no difference. Along the way, he almost ran into some sharp metal on the ground. But he pulled his foot back in time. ‘A bear trap!’ Alan’s blood ran cold. ‘Why would anyone set a bear trap if there’s no bear. Or is there?’ Alan found out that there wasn’t only a trap, but plenty of them scattering around the woods. He had to be extra cautious not to step on any one of them. He was on guard if any bear would turn up. But no bear ever turned up, and Alan started to wonder who and why would that person set up so many bear traps if there was no bear. He finally arrived at an open glade. In front of him stood a little cottage with a small brook separating the cottage from where he stood. The cottage was adorable, but why would anyone build a cottage in the Dark Woods. Something didn’t seem right. But Alan was exhausted and thirsty. He wished someone in there could kindly give him something to drink. Crossing a small bridge over a small brook, Alan finally stood in front of the door. He knocked twice and asked if anyone was inside. No answer, but the door opened itself. Alan slowly went inside, but soon after that, the door slammed shut, locking him inside. Alan tried to yank the door open, but it was no use. Then he heard muffled cry at the back, so he followed the sound towards it. The room was hazy, so he couldn’t see clearly. ‘Hello. Who’s that?’ When he drew nearer, he found two figures cowering at the corner of the room. Both of their hands tied to their backs; mouths gagged with old rags. Alan drew nearer to see if they were alright, but he was shocked when he found out who they were.’ ‘Mum! Dad! Why are you here?’ With no further delay, he hurriedly untied both his parents and ungagged his parents. ‘Alan! What are you doing here?!’ His dad cried nervously, he looked much frailer than the Dad he saw this morning. ‘Run away from here!’ ‘Yes, dear! Go through that window if you can. Don’t worry about us.’ Him Mum trembled, she looked so skinny. What happened to her while he was in the Woods. ‘Mum! Dad! What happened! I just saw both of you this morning. And both of you weren’t as skinny as now!’ His Mum tried to answer nervously. ‘That...wasn’t us, dear.’ ‘What d’you mean?’ Alan blood ran cold. ‘A month ago. We were going into the town through the Dark Woods, for we thought it might be a shortcut’, explained his real Dad. ‘But our carriage ran into a bear trap. The witches set the trap, the they brought us here...’ ‘Let’s run away together then.’ Alan tried to pull his parents up, but his Mum gasped in fear, looking past his shoulders. ‘They’ve come.’ Alan quickly turned. He saw his other parents carrying sharp axes. Both of them stared and smiled at him voraciously. But something was wrong about them. Their skin greenish white, their teeth elogated and sharp like fangs, and their eyes yellowish. Alan tried to catch his breath. His other Mum smiled at him and spoke in an eerie whisper. ‘Well, I told you not to go into the Dark Woods, didn’t I?’

The boy in the Coffee shop I used to go to the same coffee shop everyday after School. I loved going there and having a nice warm cup of tea while listening to the calming music playing in the background; it released the stress from all of the assignments and responsibilities. While sipping on the tea, I did some of my homework, and then I wrote in my journal. There was usually not many people there at the time of day I came, which was perfectly the way I liked it. Although, I had been noticing that this really attractive boy came there every few days. He sat at the same spot every time: at the table beside me. He usually drank black coffee while he studied, looking extremely concentrated. We had made frequent eye contact, and I knew he wanted to speak to me. He looked unsure if he should approach me. On the other hand, I was not that shy. So, one day, as he sat down at the table beside me and started preparing all of his books and papers to study, I spoke to him. “Hey, I’ve seen you here for a while now. What are you studying for?” He looked up at me. At first, he was quiet, and looked almost as if he was embarrassed. “Nothing much really, Im just trying to get ready for my exams... what about you?” He asked. And that’s how the boy in the coffee shop became my good friend. We had a lot in common. I found out that he was a book lover just like me, and that he also enjoyed skating. We started hanging out a lot, and we became very close friends. Finally, one night as we were taking a walk together, he asked me “do you wanna be my girlfriend?” From then on, I was the happiest girl. Everything was so perfect. I just wish it stayed that way. A couple years later, still the happiest I’ve ever been, I started to notice my boyfriend acting unusual. He told me nothing was wrong and that he was just sick, but I could feel that something was off. I took him to the doctor, only to find out that he had stage 4 cancer. The cancer got worse and worse. I did everything I could to help him. I stayed with him in the hospital all day and night and gave him so much love and comfort. He started looking weak and sad. He spoke less. Instead, he stared at me with his tired and gloomy eyes. “I love you” he said. I held him in my arms and said “I love you more baby.” I noticed that he started staring at the wall, blank faced, with a tear rolling down his cheeks. Then, he stopped breathing. It’s been six months now. I miss him, I still do. He deserved much more. He was the sweetest and the most caring man I have ever met. I miss his hugs and kisses and his stupid jokes. I miss the way I used to feel when we were together. With him, Ive never been so deeply in love before. Now I am just sad and broken. Yesterday, I decided to visit the same coffee shop where we met. Stepping inside, and smelling the sweet aroma of coffee with the peaceful music in the background was very nostalgic. It brought back so many memories. As I sat there, drinking black coffee like my boyfriend used to, I noticed a cute little boy sitting next to me. He was studying. As he looked up towards me, I noticed it was my boyfriend from when he was younger. He stared into my soul. “Ill always be here with you, baby.” He said. It felt so real, but I knew it couldn’t be. I didn’t know what to feel. My eyes started to water, and my vision became foggy. When I wiped my eyes, he was gone.

“Corn, corn, fucking corn. Is that all this place is?” Darrell said, taking a long draw off of his cigarette. ​ John looked up from under the hood of the truck at Darrell with a dissatisfied grimace. ​ “Dude, It was your idea to take a road trip through here” John said, working on something in the engine. ​ Darrell took the last draw off of his cigarette and tossed the butt out into the field, then began walking back towards John ​ “First of all, We’re going to Canada not North Dakota, besides how was I supposed to know our truck would break down in the middle of buttfuck nowhere?” He said, almost sarcastically ​ Darrell walked up besides John and stood next to him, looking at the engine. ​ “Any clue what's wrong with it?” Darrell asked. ​ “Not a fucking clue.” John replied. ​ John slammed the hood shut before angrily shouting a barrage of expletives out into the fields, but was stopped by the honking of another truck coming down the road. ​ John and Darrell watched as the truck slowed down and parked in front of them and as the driver got out to greet them. ​ The driver was a relatively average looking fellow, standing at about average height, albeit slightly overweight. ​ He was obviously a farmer judging by his attire, that being a dirt stained and heavily worn orange t-shirt with the slogan “Williams County Corn Fest 1993” emblazoned across the chest in bright white lettering, paired with a pair of old, beaten up blue jeans. ​ “Yall in need of any help ere’?” The stranger called out as he approached the brothers. ​ “I mean, It’s awful late for y'all to be sitting out here in t’ middle of t’ fields.” He continued on. ​ “I suppose” Darrell responded, lighting up another cigarette. ​ John turned around to face the man. ​ “What seems to be t’ problem ere’?” The stranger said, popping the hood of the truck as he put on a pair of wire-framed reading glasses. ​ “We were just coming down the road here when we heard a loud rattling, a few seconds later the car just kinda died” John clambered in a frustrated tone. ​ The stranger examined the engine for a moment before gently shutting the lid and putting his glasses back into his pocket. ​ “Well, t’ problem ye have ere’ ain’t somethin’ we can fix on the spot ere’” He said. ​ “I’ll have to run down to t’ hardware store later t’morrow to get ye’ the parts ye’ need” He continued. ​ “In the mean time, I got some empty rooms back at my place yall can stay in fer’ the night, Consider it a favor” He said in a reassuring tone. ​ The brother’s eyes lit up. ​ “You’d really help us out like that?!” John exclaimed. ​ The stranger gave him a calming smile. ​ “O’ Course I would!” He chuckled. ​ “After all, T’ Good Book does tell us t’ treat people t’ way ye’ want t’ be treated” The stranger said. ​ He began leading the brothers back to his truck, gesturing for them to hop into the back, seeing as the only passenger seat was taken by backpack full of tools. ​ “T’ name’s Tim by t’ way” The stranger said as he started his truck. ​ The Brother’s both introduced themselves while climbing over the tailgate. ​ The three rode in the truck for a few moments in complete silence. ​ After a while, Darrell decided to try to strike a conversation. ​ “So, do you work here?” He asked, looking around at the seemingly infinite fields. ​ “Yep!” Tim exclaimed. ​ “As a matter O’ fact, I own all these ere’ fields! All 234 Acres!” He continued. ​ “234 Acres!” Darrell asked, clearly shocked. ​ “Mhm. Me great great granpa bought around 90 acres when he was around 30 or so, Then me great granpa bought another 40. So on and so on I suppose.” Tim said. ​ “That’s pretty cool!” John said ​ “So all you grow is corn?” Darrell asked. ​ “Yep, but not just any corn! Our corn ere’ is t’ pride of Dakota! Because t’ kernels of our corn aren’t yellow, they grow blood red. And they have a sweet, but somewhat tangy flavor compared to yellow corn” Tim explained. ​ John looked confused ​ “Your corn is red? But, how?” John asked. ​ “No clue, Something my great great granpappy figured out, took t’ secret to t’ grave though, all t’ corn you see around ere’ is t’ same strain from all those years back” Tim said. ​ The brothers looked at each other for a moment before falling back into silence. ​ After a few moments, they pulled up to a small farmhouse sitting in the middle of the fields. ​ “We’re here!” Tim said, getting out of the truck. ​ The brothers followed Tim into the house. ​ Tim led them into the living room of the house and gestured them towards a sofa in the middle of the room. ​ “Yall fellas hungry at all?” Tim asked. ​ “I could go for a bite.” Darrell said, making himself comfortable on the sofa. ​ Tim walked into the kitchen and came back a moment later, and gave each Brother a plate of a sandwich, potato chips, and an ear of the blood red corn, still on the cob. Along with a can of Coke for John and a Light Beer for Darrell. ​ “No offense kid, but I don’t think yer of age fer a can o’ spuds” Tim said, handing John the soda. ​ John looked over at Darrell as Darrell let out a small chuckle. ​ “How’d you know?” John asked. ​ Tim sat in a recliner on the other side of the room from the boys and opened his own can of beer. ​ “Yer wearing yer Letterman jacket.” Tim said. ​ “As fer yer brother, I could tell he was of age from his smoking.” Tim continued. ​ “Fair enough” John said, before beginning to eat. ​ John was the first to bite into the corn, the second he did, his eyes lit up in surprise. ​ “This is... a unique flavor.” He said. ​ “Like, It’s not bad... it's pretty good, but it kinda tastes like... meat?” He said. ​ Darrell, after seeing his brother’s reaction, quickly bit into his cob and his eyes too, lit up the same way. ​ “Holy shit” Darrell said. ​ Tim looked over at the two with a wide grin before letting out a hearty chuckle. ​ “Yall ain’t from ere’ ain’t ya?” Tim asked. ​ “We’re actually on a road trip, We came from Nebraska.” Darrell said, swallowing the mouthful of corn. ​ “That’ll explain it” Tim said. ​ “Yep, this is my pride and joy ere’, this is t’ only place in t’ whole wide world ye’ can get our corn” Tim said proudly. ​ The three continued on talking for a while, well into the evening, before eventually Tim got up out of his seat. ​ “Well, I’m gonna hit t’ hay for t’ night, yall make yourselves comfortable, there’s a guest room with enough beds for yall upstairs. Help yourselves t’ whatever is in t’ kitchen and feel free t’ go pick some fresh ears o’ corn” Tim said. ​ “Just one thing, Stay out of t’ shed” Tim said, in an unusually stern voice than his usual jolly nature, before walking down the hall to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. ​ Darrell immediately got up and walked out to the porch to go smoke. He was followed closely behind by John, who sat on the rocking chair next to Darrell. ​ “This corn is fucking weird man” John said, looking out into the fields. ​ “If you ask me, it's just a weird gimmick, I’m sure it's just normal red corn thats specially seasoned or something.” Darrell said, lighting his cigarette. ​ “I don’t think so.” John said, getting out of the chair. ​ John walked down the stairs leading off of the porch and across the road to the fields. A few minutes later he came back with a few ears of corn, straight off of the stalk. ​ “Better yet, let’s test your theory.” John said, laying the corn down on the chair. ​ Darrell put out his cigarette and began to walk back inside. ​ “You do that, I’m going to bed” Darrell said shutting the door behind him. ​ John scoffed and sat on the patio and grabbed an ear of corn. ​ Slowly he started peeling off the layers of husk surrounding the fruit of the ear. ​ Layer after layer, he peeled back the husk. Before eventually reaching the cob. ​ “Wait a second” John said ​ “Why is it white? I thought it was supposed to be red?” John murmured, clearly confused. ​ He peeled away the rest of the husk to leave just the cob without anything covering it, but he still couldn’t see it well due to the lack of light. ​ Curiously he pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned on it’s flashlight and was shocked by what he saw. ​ “Are those fucking teeth?” He said, running his finger along the kernels. ​ He grabbed the cob and smacked it against the floor of the patio. ​ Instead of it sounding like a vegetable like he expected, the cob sounded almost like he was smacking the ground with a bone. ​ “It can’t be.” John said ​ “This has got to be some fucked up prank” He continued on. ​ Curiously, he grabbed his pocket knife and placed the blade between the kernels and cut the cob in half. ​ The moment he did, a gush of liquid burst out of where he cut the cob. ​ He held up his light to see what it was only to see that the liquid was a deep color of crimson that could only come from the spilling of fresh blood. ​ John help up one half of the cob and looked at the core of the ear. ​ Instead of a white, stringy center, it was red and fleshy, almost as if it was more animal than a crop. ​ John let out a shriek and threw the cob back out into the field, before running back into the house and straight up the stairs to the room where his brother was supposed to be, only to find he wasn’t there. ​ John frantically ran around the room, trying to find out where Darrell went, only to come out empty handed. ​ John tried to run out the door, only to be stopped by Tim, who was standing in the doorway. ​ “Why t’ long face?” Tim asked ​ John turned white as he looked up at Tim. ​ “Where is he?!” John demanded. ​ “Oh Darrell? Well, I asked him t’ run outside and grab something for me, out of t’ shed.” Tim replied. ​ “I thought you said to stay out of there?” John asked, confused and frightened. ​ “I trust him much more than 20 something year old kid.” Tim said. ​ “Sorry fer not tellin’ ya’ I didn’t want t’ hurt yer feelins’” He continued ​ Tim looked around and then back at John. ​ “What do ye’ say we go down t’ the livin’ room and see if anythin’ good is on TV” Tim asked, trying to calm John down. ​ “No!” John shouted, shoving his way past Tim and bolting down the hallway. ​ “Fuck this and fuck you! I’m gonna go find him!” He screamed. ​ John quickly ran down the stairs and out the door, without missing a step he looped around the back of the house to the shed in the backyard. ​ “FERTILIZER PROCESSING” Was painted in white paint above the door. ​ John quickly flung open the door and ran in. ​ “Darrell! Where are you?!” He shouted, falling to his knees. ​ He looked around the shed before he noticed a hatch on the ground under a table. ​ Frantically, he unhitched the latch holding the door shut and flung it open. ​ He quickly climbed down the ladder and landed in a room that smelled foul. ​ It was the worst smell John had ever experienced, a smell that cried out that death was near. Albeit, a futile warning. ​ “What the actual fuck is going on right now?” John said, looking around trying to find a lightswitch to no avail. ​ As a last resort, he pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. ​ It was horrendous. ​ The floors, which were a gray industrial concrete were stained with the same shade of crimson John had seen come out of the corn earlier. ​ There were long chains hanging from the ceiling, each with meat hooks on the end of them. ​ “Who the hell builds a top secret meat locker?” John said to himself. ​ John took a second to look around the room before finding a small freezer in the very back. ​ Slowly he opened it and saw the face of Darrell staring back at him with lifeless eyes. Along with the rest of his body, neatly filleted into pieces small enough to fit in the freezer. ​ John was speechless as he began to panic, but his fear was shortlived. ​ The last thing John heard was Tim’s voice behind him as the blade of the hatchet chopped into the back of his skull. ​ “All ye had t’ do was come and watch TV wit’ me boy.

The garden is totally different now. Josie blinks at it- once, twice- in the harsh afternoon sunlight, trying to make sense of it. Gradually, the similarities between the way she left it and this jarringly overgrown weed patch begin to stand out. The magnolia tree, which was in bloom when she last saw it, is still there, though the flowers are shriveled or gone entirely. It still casts a patch of shade over part of the garden, where she planted the hydrangeas. Her rosebush, which she was so proud of, is turning brown and needs pruning; but it's still rooted in place. Josie limps forward to examine the messy flowerbeds. There's so much in need of doing. Still, there would be more if the whole garden was dead. She settles into place on the soft earth, gripping a shovel in her right hand, and bends over a large patch of chickweed. The leafy clumps have spread to conquer anything they can, crowding her flowers and carpeting the ground, and- she gives an experimental tug with her free hand- are deeply rooted in it. This will take a while. Angling her shovel into the soil, Josie pushes in, only to drop it immediately. She grabs at her wrist, muttering, "No!" Glaring up at the sky in search of some kind of sympathy from above- even a single cloud taking pity on her and covering the sun would make her feel a little better- she growls at nothing in particular, and switches the shovel to her good hand. Her movements are clumsy, unaccustomed to using her left hand, but she manages to yank the weeds free by alternation between pulling and digging. The sun beams on her back, forcing her to find shade beneath the magnolia. She works for some time in upset silence. She'd never given a thought to the effortless rhythm of gardening- dig with one hand, pull with the other, fish out worms and move them to a safer spot in between movements- but now she sees how easily spoiled that rhythm is. All it takes is one little crash... and the broken wrist, broken ribs, broken life that come after it. The leaves on every plant are dry, wilted, depressed. She understands the feeling. Her little sister promised to water the garden; that was almost the first thing Josie asked about after the accident; but she doesn't know anything about plants. Josie's the only one in the family who doesn't have a black thumb. Her mom can't keep houseplants alive for more than a week. How are the weeds still green and perky? Weeds are magic, Mr. Kirsch, the former neighbor who got her hooked on gardening, used to tell her. Black magic, he would add, with a dirty scowl at the dandelions or bittercress he was weeding out at the time. Josie always laughed, and then he would laugh, too. That was three years ago. She isn't laughing now. The back door squeaks open behind her, and though she doesn't turn, she recognizes the footsteps crossing the patio as her mother's. She keeps working, trying to make this stupid arrangement seem normal. As if she always digs with her left hand; always holds the other almost motionless by her side; always turns her entire body to toss weeds on the compost pile instead of twisting, a motion that hurts her mostly-healed ribs. She tries not to show the frustration in every weed she rips out of the earth, but it can't be working. Her mom coughs once. Josie ignores it, and soon she tries again. "You aren't supposed to work this long, Josie. Or this hard, either. You know, Heather would love to help you..." "No!" Josie hears the annoyance in her tone, and attempts to correct it. "No, that's okay. I'm fine." When her mother hesitates, she adds, "I'll be in soon. I'm fine," she repeats. Her mother sighs and disappears inside. She doesn't want her black-thumbed sister to do more damage, even if she were up for talking, which she isn't. Besides, this is her problem. She can fix it, and she doesn't want or need help. It's another half-hour before Josie's forced to admit that she can't go on. Her wrist aches, her ribs ache, and the rest of her does, too- right down to her fingertips, sore from pulling up weeds. They never used to mind, but she hasn't worked in the garden for a long time. She moves slowly as she puts away the gardening tools in the garage, rusted from lack of use just like she is. The garden is dying, whether she likes it or not. She's one person; she can't do everything. Then she starts to walk inside, but stops- her eyes have fallen on her bike. It's in no condition for riding, of course. Her parents never got around to having it fixed after the crash, so the bicycle is still bent and scratched. It hurts to see the damage it received, and to know that she got it worse. Then her eyes travel to her mother's bike, waiting a few feet away. Josie smiles. The bike is a little too big. She's bumped around on the cracks in the sidewalk, making her ribs scream with pain, and keeping the wide handlebars under control takes both hands, with no way to ease the stress on her bad wrist. She wobbles around, struggling to tame the bike but determined to succeed. The road drops into a steep hill. Josie switches to the road to have a smoother ride down, glances forward and back, her throat tight, and then flies down the hill. Her stomach drops. Her hair whips around beneath her helmet, individual strands tickle her face and float into her watery eyes. She must be white with fear, but she loves it- A car, suddenly behind her. The fun evaporates, and the terror dominates, the car on her tail, might hit her any second. She squeezes the handbrakes, veering to the side, waiting for the crash- The car keeps going, past her and then gone. Josie comes to a full stop and tries to focus, taking on shaky breaths until she can resume her ride. It's just a car. This is a road. Not every car you see is going to hit you, she repeats, over and over, a mantra she can't quite believe. She shakes her head firmly and begins to pedal again. She doesn't remember her old neighborhood being so far away from the new one. Just like she did in the garden, she studies every house she passes, finding similarities to how it used to be. It's been three years since she's been here, but not much has changed. Most of the houses are the same color, same trees and bushes out front, even the same cars parked outside. Now and then she sees someone who she recognizes, but no one seems to notice her. That shouldn't come as a surprise; they aren't expecting her to be here, not after three years. A house more familiar than most flashes past. She brakes and stares at it, noting the new car (of course it's new), the new curtains in the windows (again, not a surprise. The old ones are hanging in the living room back home), and newly painted garage door. Josie wonders if the new owners like the tiny backyard, with no room for a garden. Then she keeps riding, only to stop ten feet away, at the curb of the next house over. This one is all the same colors. The curtains are still the same, too. She doesn't see the old car, but there's no new one parked outside, either. She dismounts and strides up the walk. The doorbell doesn't work- a sticky note on the door says so. Josie raises a fist and raps on the door, hoping Mr. Kirsch will answer. Knock. Knock. Kn-knock. He doesn't. A grey-haired woman, who takes Josie a moment to recognize as Mrs. Kirsch, opens the door after fifteen seconds of waiting. "Yes?" She looks down at Josie, and after another fifteen seconds, blinks in recognition. "Oh, honey." Josie smiles at her, but it's a confused frown inside her head. They weren't close enough for honey- they never really spoke, in fact. "Hi. Could I talk to Mr. Kirsch?" She can't wait to tell him everything about the garden she's grown- he'll love to know about the magnolia tree, and the rosebush, and the hydrangeas, too. And he'll know just what to do for the dying plants. It's already lifting her mood a bit. The strange look on Mrs. Kirsch's face gets even stranger. She seems to visibly sag. "Well, sweetie, I don't-" She never called her sweetie , either. "It won't take long, I promise. I just wanted to tell him about my garden- at my new house, you know. Only a few minutes." "Honey... Julie? Was that it? He isn't here right now." Mrs. Kirsch steps away from the doorway, as though considering shutting it in her face. "Heart attack." It feels like Josie's thoughts are plodding through mud; that's how long it takes for Mrs. Kirsch's meaning to sink in. "You mean... he's dead?" The sweet old lady's face freezes. "Yes. I'm afraid so..." She starts blinking rapidly, and Josie knows she's not welcome right now. "Thank you for coming over, Julie- goodbye-" The door closes, ruffling Josie's hair with its quick motion. Only now do the questions she wants to ask start flowing. How long ago did he die? Right after she moved, or only this year? Did he still remember her, and how he taught her to care for flowers? She won't ever know the answers, at least not to the last one. Why didn't she visit him after they moved? Why did it take such a terrible accident and a dying garden for her to finally do it- and only after it was too late? Maybe she thought she didn't need his help. Now she wishes that she did. Josie turns around and straddles her bike, beginning the long ride home. She doesn't think about much of anything; hardly knows where she's going or what she's doing. A few especially close cars catch her attention, but she's too numb to panic much. And then she's home. She can smell the half-dead flowers in the garden- he'll never know about the magnolia tree, how it flowers every spring. He would have loved a tree in his flowerbeds, to give shade while he worked. The thought brings tears to her eyes. Through the mist, she puts away the bike and opens the door, finally noticing how sore she is. The door hasn't shut behind her before her mother's upon her. "Josie! Where were you? I-" She notices the look on her daughter's face and pauses. "What?" Josie stares at her, thinking, and then says, "Nothing." She doesn't hear the rest of the rant, crossing to the living room and looking out at the garden. She wishes she could plant some of his favorite flowers in the dying- or maybe just recovering- garden, but she doesn't know what those are. He never told her. Her mother runs out of breath, hugs her, and leaves the room. Josie can hear her muttering to her father about what a senseless decision she's made. It doesn't disturb her. She can almost hear Mr. Kirsch's hoarse voice telling her, I like them all! Who doesn't? That's exactly what he'd say, she decides, heading back to the garage to look through her seed packets. She'll plant some of everything. Then she turns around, and calls, "Heather? If you help me choose some seeds, you can plant some of them tomorrow." Running feet come from downstairs, and she pushes her own feet back into her shoes, wondering if the garden and its magnolia tree will be all right. If not, she's already decided, she'll grow another.

Ah, hello there an’ welcome, ‘tis yerself? Are ye well settled there? I sincerely hope this story finds ye well. And if yer not well, then I hope it finds ye nonetheless. It’s all about a poor man Timothy Finnegan, or Tim as we all knew him. Now Tim was born a gentleman, never a nicer man could ye meet. A gentleman surely, but as poor a blighter as ever ye seen. His father was a cooper. They don’t have many coopers these days, which is a shame. For those who don’t know, a cooper is a man who makes wooden barrels. They don’t have many wooden barrels these days either, which is a shame. His mother was a saint. Livin’ and true, she was a saint, God be good to her. They lived over by Walkin Street, ye know it? Just off the old Callan Road? No? Never matter. Anyways as poor Tim grew, sure, didn’t he grow into a problem. Ye see, Tim was fond of a drink. He’d have a tipple for breakfast, a gargle for lunch, and a feed of pints for supper. It was both the making of him and the ruin of him. An’ of all the drink that the Good Lord gave us it was whiskey that Tim had a taste for. Now, that’s whiskey with an ‘e’. Irish whiskey. Not that bleedin’ scotch whisky, the divil knows why they spell it like that. Feckin’ eejits. Well Tim had a love for the whiskey, or uisce bheatha as he would have called it being a native Irish speaker. That’s uisce bheatha . Pronounced ish-ka va-ha . Say it quickly and ye’ll be up to speed. Ye see uisce means water. And bheatha means life. So whiskey is literally the water of life! So there’s a few words of Irish for ye, or as we say here cupla focal as gaeilge . Anyways, I’m getting lost in me-self here, where was I? Ah yes. Tim loved drinkin’. It was the drink that got him sacked from his first job as a hod-carrier. For those that don’t know a hod-carrier is a man that carries hods. An’ ye may rightly wonder how a man could be sacked for carrying hods but ye see our Tim would work manys a day half cut; the boss men don’t take too kindly to that sort of thing. T’find Tim all ye had t’do was followed the trail of bricks he’d dropped along the way. An’ more often than not the trail led to the pub. Tim never had a trade t’call his own but he could turn his hand at almost anything. An’ so he spent his life working as an odd job man, picking up work here an’ there, never staying on the books too long and spending every last penny on another drop a drink, God love him. One day ye might see him slapping paint onto the side of a house and the next he could be putting bricks together to build a garden wall next door. He’d be down digging in a hole in the mornings, and scurrying up a ladder by tea. Always with a smile, always with a drink. Well, it was on a fine Thursday, I remember it like it was yesterday, that he put his hand upon the ladder that was t’be his downfall. Ha, and down fall he went. And sure the Divil himself must have pushed him, for he landed on his head, square on his head. B’God, the crack of it could be heard three streets over! We all knew what that meant. Poor Tim wouldn’t b’found with a paintbrush in his hand, he wouldn’t b’found with brick and mortar, he wouldn’t b’found up a ladder. There was only one place he’d b’found now, and that was in a six foot hole. Well the doctor was called. He arrived out in this fancy motorcar, took one look at the poor man and pronounced him dead. A wile fancy car for such a simple job, for every dog in the street knew that poor Tim was dead. Ah well, the boys threw him onto the back of a cart and the horse pulled him home. Thanks be to Our Lord above he had no family t’speak of. His mammy and daddy had long gone to their eternal rest by then. He was cleaned up and wrapped in a sheet and laid out in the house, as was the tradition at the time. An’ t’be fair, it still is today, though ye don’t see it as much these days, which is a shame. Once the word had spread about Tim the crowds flocked. As I was telling ye, Tim was a gentleman. And people being good people wanted t’pay their respects. Ye see, the typical tradition in Ireland is t’have the body laid out in the home house for three days so that people can pay their respects, tell stories, have a few laughs, maybe a few drinks, and t’say their final goodbyes. People flock to the house day and night at all hours, it’s just the way we do things. Sure me-self called out on the third night for t’do me bit. Now I did mention there was drink. As poor Tim lay dead the bed there was a bucket of whiskey by his feet and a barrel of porter by his head, for any man or woman who wanted t’whet their sorrows. As I was saying, I was there me-self on the third night for if I hadn’t been I wouldn’t be telling you this story because I damn well wouldn’t have believed it. Anyways, the hour was late, maybe 11 or so, and there were a few of us gathered around the bedside blethering and talking as you do. Biddy O’Brien began sobbing and said to no one in particular, “sure you’d never have seen a finer looking corpse.“ Well Maggie O’Connor who was a widow herself didn’t agree with this at all, for she thought that her husband had been a finer looking corpse. Now, Maggie wouldn’t be the brightest tool to b’fair. The brightest tool? That doesn’t sound right. Hardly matters. She’s not a bright tool. Then again, neither is Biddy. In fact between the two of them there’s a few coins short of a shilling. Well they were nattering away between themselves when all of a sudden Maggie O’Connor took a swing at Biddy and caught her full square on the jaw! Biddy, not t’be out done, swung back and knocked Maggie flat on her back. And poor Tim laying dead in the bed! Would ye believe it!? Well the husbands tried t’intervene, and somehow in the midst of it they ended up brawling themselves. And before we knew it the whole room was at it! There were punches flying, women crying and in the middle of it all poor Tim beyond dying. The row escalated as all rows do; there were cups of tae smashed, walking sticks were unsheathed an’ clashed like sabres, the tae-pot was battered around some poor fellas head, it was all out civil war! In the run of things some ignorant sod took the bucket of whiskey and fired it at poor Mickey Maloney who, thanks be t’God, chanced t’see it coming at the last moment an’ ducked. The bucket carried on its way and smashed into the wall over the bed sending a shower of whiskey over poor Tim. That hushed the room. And b’God didn’t we see his tongue tickle the drops on his dried lips. Not once, not twice but three times. Let me tell ye, nothing stops war quite like a man rising from the dead. His eyes staggered open, much in the way that poor Tim would have staggered down the street, an’ before us all sure didn’t he sit up in the bed with his bleary eyes looking ‘round us all. “Thundering Jaysus d’ye think I’m dead?” says he. “Ye are,” says us. “I don’t feel dead,” says he and he threw his legs round the side of the bed and asked for a bite to eat. Like yer little girl said to Our Good Lord! An’ out of the bed he rose, gave a quare stretch and tottered out of the room. We all followed him, sure what else would ye do but follow a dead man risen. And where did he head to but straight to the pub an’ ordered another glass of whiskey, that uisce bheatha, the water of life.

We sat there, in the rain. I, on one table, her on another. The relentless onslaught, defeated by cloth and dreams, drained out onto the floor around us. The music, faint lulls of jazzy symphonies, filled the area. Neither of us wore rain coats. We sat, protected by the umbrellas, as though it were any other summer eve. “The weather’s not so good today”, I say, as if striking up a forgotten conversation. “No,” she says, before adding in an ethereal tone, “I’d say you’re right.”. She smiles, and then takes a sip of her coffee. A darkened, swirling mess, the only source of heat. “News said some terrible things.”, I say, taking a sip of my own coffee. “About?” she asks, off-handedly. “About you, about me. About... the rain.” I gesture nowhere in particular. “Terrible things are always happening around us. Would you say we make it terrible? Or is terrible destined to make itself terrible?” She sips again. “I’m not sure. But we don’t help, do we?” I take another sip. “We do. Not in the way others may like. Or understand.” She says with a smile. I grin. “The silver lining, I suppose. But it is our duty none the less.” I sip again. The warmth keeping my senses sharp. “We were there at the first. We will be there at the last. I just wished for... more” She sips. “More never stops at enough. It’s why we were there first.” I hold the drink in my hands. “Quite. And now, here we are. The last? Or a new first? Is that even our’s to know?” She sips again. “Well, that’s the fun of it! What happens next?” I sip again. “How long do we get to sit here like this?” she asks after a sip. “Until the rain stops, or the coffee runs cold. Whichever comes first. And that rain ain’t stopping.” I sip. “A shame. I liked it here. Even in the rain. But eventually I suppose we have to leave.” She sighs. Then sips. “But the coffee was worth the time. What little we have. An infinity and the end of eternity.” I take in the aroma of the coffee, and the feel in my hands. “So precious a thing, time. A gift that can never be ungiven. A moment that exists in the memory of forever.” She sips again before adding, “I count eight. You?” “I do. But that’s eight more that I never thought I’d get. And I must say, we didn’t waste them.” I lift my mug to hers in a toast. I take one more sip. “If this is the last time,” she says, after a few moments pause, “let us find this place again. If it is not. Let us be cursed with its memory.” She sips again, puts the mug down, gets up and walks off into the pouring rain. “Until next we meet” I say. A few moments later, I am truly alone. No one I wanted to see was there anymore. I sat there, in the rain, and after a few moments, took one more sip. “May we be cursed with its memory.” I say, as I take my final sip. I place the mug down, get up and walk out into the pouring rain.

Deep within the lush green forest, yet untamed by mankind and ruled over only by the sun and the rain, there was a meadow of golden grass stalks. And in that meadow, a miracle of life was unfolding. Two stray seeds, a birch seed and an acorn, brought on the dancing winds not that long ago, were beginning to sprout in the pristine soil. Encouraged by water and warmth, they cracked their shells and dug their way through the earth, until their soft, gentle leaves touched daylight. The meadow grew larger by two. With life bustling all around them, the two tiny seedlings were eager to grow, joining nature’s show, playing their part diligently. The first days, months and years were the hardest. But also the most fun. They were small and fragile, but they grew quickly and each day learned more of the world. They learned that there was refreshing water to be found in the ground, as well as stability for their up-reaching bodies. With that water came nutrients, food so delicious it could make you smile. From up above the warmth and light of the sun seemed like an endless blessing, completely free and loving. The wind tickled their leaves and they danced along to its song. Life was full of love. As the birch and the oak grew, they noticed how close they were to each other. They began talking and became instant friends; they were both so different and interesting to one another! Their bark seemed different, one smoother that the other, and their leaves were different shapes. And though they sprouted in the same year, one was clearly growing faster and taller than the other. As they grew tall enough to see over the grass stalks, their worldview expanded dramatically. No longer was there only grass and small insects, but a whole ocean of plants, with tall trees in the background and a whole sky of flying things. Their excitement grew bigger. They wanted to stretch high up towards those white puffy things in the sky, and peek what lies beyond the thicket of trees. So they spread their roots deeper and farther and extended their leaves to the warming sun. Before long, as they grew a bit taller and older, the tips of their branches began to touch. They tickled each other with their leaves, constantly. And they laughed heartily about it! Below ground, their roots searched for more water and nutrients and just like the branches up above, they met. And they tickled some more. They grew to like each other’s company more and more. And eventually, something shifted in them. Their playful, innocent touches began to feel shy, making them blush for some reason. As they grew high above the grass, their trunks got thicker, stronger. The birch colored her body in fresh white color, with a relatively smooth bark, whereas the oak kept his color brown and his bark became more rugged, more firm. They soon discovered that they were not only a different species, but a different gender as well. And they also found that they liked it. They realized that they were in love. Seasons passed, and the two trees grew like never before. Winters were mild and summers pleasant, and life was good. They let their roots get tangled, sharing the water and the food, giving each other support when the weather threw an occasional high-wind storm at them. The more they grew, the more their trunks thickened and grew closer, until they finally touched. The merging was a final expression of their love for one another, and they each leaned on the other, counting on their support. Looking at them from a distance, it would appear as if there was a single tree with two very different trunks. One white, lean and tall, the other brown, stocky and strong. And the more they grew, the more they loved. Soon, life around them began to find shelter under their branches or up their canopies. Grazing deer found shade, ants and insects and small lizards climbed their trunks and explored their leaves. Birds made nests in their hair and green lichen tattooed their bodies. And the two trees loved them all. As more years passed, there was again a time for the miracle of life to occur; and this time, there were many small seedlings that came sprouting from the ground beneath the two trees. They were birch and oak, they were their children. And it was the happiest time of the two trees’ lives. There was life everywhere and their love only grew. Soon, they would grow as tall as the other trees at the edges of the meadow and they could finally peek over them. Life was beautiful. Until one morning, it all changed. First, there came a rumble. Like a tremor of a hungry beast. Then came a strange smell, a poisonous odor, like that of burning corpses. With it, came a loud sharp noise. A sound so utterly devastating, that it shook the birch and the oak to their very roots. And finally, there came them . Animals not yet seen before, on this meadow. Their furs were various colors, their heads hard shelled as helmets and though they walked on two legs and carried those strange sound producing objects, some rode on big black and yellow demons. At first, the birch and the oak were curious, who were these newcomers? Where did they come from? What did they want? And then, the first tree fell under their arms. And then the second. The third. Before long, the whole western thicket of trees was gone, and the bipedal animals and their yellow demons seemed to only grow hungrier for more. They cut down the trees and stripped them of their limbs, taking only their thick trunks while leaving the rest to lie on the ground where it fell. The meadow soon became a corpse littered graveyard. The birch and the oak trembled as they watched the horror unfold all around them. Their children were scared, their young bodies shaking in the wind. They could only hope that these monsters wouldn’t come for them, perhaps their position in the middle of the meadow would spare them. But then, a group of animals came closer, those horrible sounding and foul smelling objects in their hands, humming with inner hunger. “Lookie here,” one spoke in a foreign tongue. “These two look like they grew together.” “They look like lovers,” joked another. “Yeah, they do,” the first one replied and cocked his head. “Melany Birch and John Oak, huh?” The animals laughed. Then they walked closer and the two trees could only watch in horror as the animals cut down their children one by one with some sharp sticks. The young trees, their wood hardened, fell softly on the grass, making a clearing for the animals to get to the two trees. The birch and the oak embraced each other tightly, knowing the end had come. It came so quickly... why ?! And then the agony started. The objects screeched loudly, cutting into the trees’ flesh, sending chunks of it flying over the bodies of their children. The pain was too much to bear. The birch was cut clean through in less than a minute. But it didn’t fall. Oak held her with his branches. Held dearly onto the love of his life. “They’re really stuck together, huh?” the animal said and then shrugged. The pain that ensued as the tool cut deep into the Oak’s body was severe, but nothing compared to the pain of the loss. And as the tool made its way through, the Oak fell with the Birch. As they lay on the ground, their branches were still entangled. When the first shock of death passed, Oak was surprised to notice that he was still alive. Though his roots and branches were cut from him, he could still see, he could still hear and he could still feel . Oh god, why did he still feel ? His body lay on a pile of other bodies, other cut down and stripped logs. They were all crying, weeping, moaning and screaming in pain and loss. It made Oak want to scream as well, but his mind wanted to know if Birch was there somewhere. So he called for her. Nothing. He called again, many times, over and over, to overpower the screams of others. And then, when his voice was all soar, he heard a faint reply. It was her! He followed the sound and noticed Birch resting in another pile of logs. Her beautiful white bark was full of scars and scrapes, but to Oak, she was as beautiful as ever. He wanted to be with her, to feel her touch and her closeness again. But a herd of those monsters and yellow demons were in between. A sudden anger washed over him. They came here and destroyed everything. What for? Why?! He felt consumed by his wrath and fury, blinded by the horror and injustice done to him. He screamed out all his pain and agony in one mighty cry and the others trembled with the power of his emotion. They agreed with him. And the pile of logs where Oak was at suddenly collapsed under its own weight and sent Oak and the others tumbling down at the bipedal animals. Some of them jumped away in time, but not all. At least five were hit, and three of them didn’t get up again. Their bodies were crushed by the heavy logs. Oak’s rage was so hot that he thought he would ignite from the inside. He wished he could do something, to stand up and to crush them all. But he was just a log. He couldn’t move. And the look Birch gave him was enough to stop his blinding rage. She smiled at him. He smiled at her, putting all his strength into it. And then, the yellow demons came and they picked Oak and the rest of the logs in his pile with one giant arm and loaded them on another animal, this one long and flat. Feeling fresh pain from the cuts and the loss all over, Oak was transported away from the meadow, away from everyone and everything he ever knew. Away from Birch. Oak fell into a deep apathy, listening to the others wail around him. His pains were so great that he didn’t dare think of Birch, as it would probably push him into insanity. Like the rest of the logs. The big flat animal they were riding, took them to a place of nightmare. Oak could see a large flat building where other animals were gathering, each bringing their own pile of corpses. On one end of the building there were piles of logs, and on the other... stacks and stacks of... of flesh ! Logs cut into thin sheets of wood! Why? What kind of hell was this? Oak soon found out that the name of this hell was a Sawmill . The bipedal animals used their large mechanical demons to unload all the logs and place them one by one on a black solid river - a conveyer belt. The screams of pain that came from inside the building made Oak want to die before he got to know the source of the screaming. He was already dead, was he not? But if so, then how come he still felt everything? It truly was a hell. The black solid river took the logs inside the building, one by one. Oak soon discovered the source of the screams - giant spinning blades, like those the animals had in the forest, only much bigger. And they were slicing up the logs into thinner sheats. It made Oak sick. As the blades cut into his flesh once again, he got reminded of his loss of Birch and their dead children on the meadow. The pain of his body being cut into separate pieces, called planks, was so profound that he passed out immediately. But he did not vanish yet. He could still feel. After that hell, the purgatory that followed in the next weeks and months was hardly worth noticing. Oak became cold and distant. His body was in five different pieces now, though his mind seemed to reside in only the center one. The animals had placed him on the stacks outside the Sawmill and left him there, his insides exposed to the rain and the wind. They didn’t even let him keep his skin... He grew cold. He grew sick. His mind started wandering, breaking down. His body started to rot. And after many seasons, some animals finally remembered that they had left him there. “This stack is rotting at the base,” one of them said, but Oak didn’t care. He stopped caring long ago. “This wood is not suitable for baseball bats anymore. Damn shame.” “Should we send the stack back to the blades? Cut it for firewood?” “That would be a loss of money. Perhaps it can still be salvaged for low grade furniture. Chairs maybe.” “Alrighty, boss.” After that, a demon came to pick up Oak and his stack. It placed him on another one of those long and flat animals, only this time it had a shell and Oak was pushed inside of it. If he still cared, he’d be glad for the cover. But he just sat there, in darkness and endured the bumpy ride. As the animal shell opened again, Oak found himself in another hell. Only this one was not as brutal as the first one. There were more of those blades there and more animals with screaming tools. They cut him up into even smaller pieces and never again did he see the majority of his body parts. If it continued like that, he thought he would soon cease to exist. In fact, he hoped for it. The animals rearranged the newly cut parts of his body into something grotesque they called a chair . Oak felt so small and fragile again. So rigid and imobile, with steel implants and chemical sap holding his new form together. He hated the way he looked. Hated the way he smelled. Hated the way he felt. These were the only feelings that remained for him. He dared not to think of Birch or the meadow. Convincing himself that he didn’t care was the only way to endure this. As final death seemed to elude him so persistently. Eventually, Oak found himself in what he hoped would be his final resting place, a place these animals called a store. He soon started to loathe it. Animals would come every day and walk past him, talking loudly, even sitting on him from time to time. And he saw others there, other grotesque pieces made from wood. Other trees who shared his fate. Were they also from the meadow? What ever must have happened to Birch? Oak cursed at himself, but it was too late. He thought of her already. His mind fell into a whirlwind of loss and sorrow, from which he thought he could never recover. And like some confirmation of his thoughts, one day the animals suddenly took him from his place at the store and threw him outside, next to a smelly metal container. The throw broke one of his new ‘legs’ . It didn’t even hurt, compared to all the pain in his mind and heart. And so Oak lay there, waiting for a final mercy to come from somewhere, hoping to die already and be done with this horrible existence. And in his darkest hour, an angel appeared. An old animal passing by stopped and walked over to Oak. “Oh my,” it said with a soft scratchy voice. “What ever have they done to you, poor thing?” The animal took Oak and carried him inside a metal demon. Oak was too broken to be afraid, so he just surrendered to whatever was going to happen to him. The old animal drove to its home and it took Oak to its workshop. There, it repaired Oak, gave him a new leg, a fine scrubbing and a new polish, which smelled quite pleasantly. When the job was done, the animal smiled. “Good as new!” He inspected Oak with care. “You’ll make my wife very happy,” the animal said. Then he took Oak with him and climbed up the stairs in his home. He brought him in a room, where there were a lot of wooden things; some like Oak, with four legs, some hanging from the walls like boxes and one with four legs and a flat top, resting in the middle- Wait a moment. That scent was familiar. “Look honey,” said the old animal. “I found this guy at the back of the store. They threw him out.” Another old animal turned, its face happy. “Oh you fixed it! It looks lovely! Put it by the birch table and I’ll fix us some coffee.” The animal put Oak down next to what they called a table . And Oak could not believe his senses. Birch ? It was her. She smelled of that strange chemical sap and her white skin was gone, but it was her. They’ve turned her into a table. Oak ? She recognized him! Oak, are we in hell? I don’t know, he said. And I don’t care. As long as we’re together. Oh Oak , Birch moaned. I wish I could feel the touch of your roots again. To comfort me. Me too, Oak said. They were cut off. Like yours. But our bond goes deeper than that. It is beyond roots. Birch smiled weakly. You really think so? Oak smiled back. I know so. It brought us back together, didn’t it? I hope you’re right. I don’t want to lose you again. We are already lost, my love, said Oak . But I’m glad we’re lost together.

Micheal plodded down the steps, into a bright room, empty except for the brightly-lit and colorful displays on the walls. He had begged his father to go to the museum to see the new exhibit from a local artist - a close friend of his - all morning, but now that his father wanted to stop and look at each and every work of art before seeing the main attraction, Micheal was questioning his life choices. *I could have just waited and went with my friend*, he thought. The thought stung, for a brief moment. He and Cavill were more than friends, but to the world, they were friends, and he’d been trying to work up the courage to introduce Cavill to his parents, going so far as reciting how he’d introduce him. He’d gotten very used to the words “This is my friend, Cavill” but, even in his internal monologue, referring to his lover as “my friend” pained him. He wished he could perceive anything in his father’s attitude as a clue for whether he’d accept the truth. He’d been dropping hints and watching his father for over a year, but couldn’t read anything, good or bad, in the man’s stoic expression. As they walked into yet another exhibit room, Micheal noticed his father lingering, looking down at the explanatory plaque below one of the exhibits - an exhibit they’d probably seen before in their previous trips to the Museum, which had mostly remained static since the days when his father brought him here as a younger child, teaching him about the world by pointing at exhibits and reading the plaques. As he caught up with his father, he looked at the painting above the placard. It depicted two men, one with his tie loosened, sitting on a couch and leaning his head on the other man’s shoulder, the other carefully pouring wine into a glass, their faces glowing in the light of what must have been a television in front of them. They looked exactly like a couple just settling down after a long day at their respective jobs. The room around them was meticulously tidy and well-decorated, with flowers and little flashes of greenery adoring the mauve-painted walls and the light hardwood floors. Micheal inwardly groaned at how his younger mind had perceived this painting - he thought they were two friends who perhaps shared an apartment. He remembered the title of this one - “Confirmed Bachelor Pad” - but he couldn’t really recall what the placard, which his dad had probably read to him years before, said. As he tilted his head down to read the placard, his father seemed to shift a bit, and suddenly Micheal felt like he was being observed - “watched” would be a loaded word here, and it didn’t really feel creepy. This is just what parents do sometimes, suddenly realize that their child, their precious baby, is growing before their eyes and that time is fleeting, and choose to spend a moment just observing them. That’s how he passed it off, anyways, beginning to read the plaque as he could feel his father’s eyes reading his face. > “*Confirmed Bachelor Pad* by Lucious Thomas, 1986: > Lucious Thomas himself was referred to as a “Confirmed Bachelor” by his biographers for nearly a decade after his death. In 1993, when his estate, in accordance with his will, released a collection of until-then secret and hidden works, this painting caught a large amount of public attention with its title and subject matter. The subjects in the painting resemble a younger Lucious Thomas and his longtime “roommate”, Henry. Micheal caught a lump in his throat and tried not to betray anything in his facial expression. The sensation that his father was watching him passed. He turned around and, following his father, proceeded to the next exhibit. He remembered his father reading that plaque to him now - when he was too young to understand it. He was too young to have possibly ever met Lucious Thomas, but in that moment, he felt like he was in one of his portraits, a classic Lucious Thomas work, where the subject grimaces in some uncomfortable or awkward circumstance, with no easy escape in sight.

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: *We’re going to have an award week! Get your keyboards out, get a nice beverage, and put on your A-Game. Good luck to all, and remember: feedback counts for points! I will be awarding the following:* - *First place - Platinum Award (gives Reddit premium for 1 month and 700 coins)* - *Second place - Gold Award (gives Reddit premium for 1 week and 100 coins)* - *Third place - An award of my choosing that gives 100 coins.* **Prompt: As day became night, he started to understand the truth.** *Bonus constraint: A metaphor is used. (If you use a larger metaphor, you may add a note at the end of the piece in spoiler tags, explaining what it was.* 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.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings/Spotlights are Tallied While I am first through third place system for spotlights, and also submitting to the feature myself, I think it’s only fair that you guys know how rankings are totaled. They work on a point-based system as follows: - **Upvotes:** 1 point each (no cap) - **Feedback:** 1 point each (7 pt. cap) - **User nominations:** 2 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 3 points each (I select 1-3 from the thread each week) - **Bonus:** When I announce extra points for things like using an additional constraint, filling out forms, etc. This ranges from 1-2 pts. (Not applicable every week.) #This Past Week’s Rankings - - Submitted by u/NotMuchChop - - Submitted by u/jimiflan - - Submitted by u/gurgilewis - - Submitted by u/katpoker666 ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

The Death of us “Amelia, you’ve been in cryosleep for quite some time your duty calls.” said the onboard AI Jack. “What’s the problem, Jack?” I asked with a tone of slight annoyance. “The station's power grid is failing causing all cryo-pods to be shut down. The emergency power generators are only powering all essential systems including your cryo-pod. Unfortunately, the rest of the staff’s cryo pods have severe malfunctions that cannot be repaired.” Jack said with a tone of disappointment. “What about the plant life? We need that to create a colony on Planet X-1789.” I asked with a worried tone. “The plant life has died Amelia. There is nothing we can do to revive the plants.” Jack said in a serious tone “Well, there has to be a solution. There is always a solution.” I said in denial “Amelia there is one hope for the survival of the human race.” Jack said in a slightly hopeful tone. “Well, what is the solution Jack?” I asked “There are signs of bacterial life on the dwarf planet Pluto. If you can bring a sample then I could modify the genetic code to that of a human being and allow the bacteria to transform into a human being under my constant supervision slowly.” Jack said doubtfully. “Then prepare a shuttle to Pluto.” I said not knowing what to expect. Jack prepared me on what to expect when I arrived. And I was nervous, to say the least in fact I was trembling thinking about if I would crash and die on impact. I looked at Earth and thought of the time I spent there before boarding the space station. Remembering friends and family the sky and the feel of the warm summer sun with occasional breezes. The days when the climate was habitable before climate change before you had to wear an oxygen mask and tank on your back just to breathe oxygen. Now there was nothing special about earth it was a planet among all the others just another lifeless planet. Eventually, I landed on Pluto and began to drill through the ice when the drill had drilled 500ft there was liquid water. I rejoiced at the fact that there was hope however, it was only a puddle of liquid water. I quickly collected the water and went back to the shuttle. Upon returning to the station I gabbed the sample of water and put it in a storage compartment for Jack to collect and I had a moment of realization when jack said “Amelia what have you done. You have damned all of humanity.” “How I did what I was told?” I said still not fully comprehending what I had done. “You put the sample in the incinerator shute.” When I had fully realized the reality of the situation I knew what I must do. I walked back to the shuttle bay and I sent the shuttle to the destination Planet X-1789. I added special instructions to open the shuttle upon impact. And set the shuttle on course to Planet X-1789 in approximately 1000 years. In the hopes that my DNA would be preserved and spread life.

I am sitting at my desk, alone, surrounded by empty bottles and cigarette smoke. I can feel the start of a headache growing deep within my forehead, so in a futile attempt to distract myself I try glancing through my books picking volumes out at random turning from philosophy to self-help books, from poetry to financial manuals, all to no avail. Eventually, after becoming bored of being bored, I pick up my pen, turn on some music, and start writing. I cast my mind back to sitting outside in the heat, staring at the scenery, and forcing my fingers to type some book review or another that I was meant to be working on. In the distance I hear a car accelerating, then I see Julian’s BMW pulling up in front of me, and I see Tom get out and walk towards me. “Hey man, can I bum one?” Said Tom sitting down in the chair next to me and running his hands through his hair. “Sure, why are you in Julian’s car?” I asked handing him a cigarette and my lighter. “Oh he lent it to me... What are you working on?” He said from in between puffs of smoke. “It’s nothing important just a review of some book for the magazine.” I said. “Any good? The book I mean.” He said. “No. I it’s actually the worst thing they’ve made me read so far. Take a look at this shit.” I said pointing to a black paperback lying on the table. “As far as poetry goes it’s fucking pedantic and that title, *The Dark between the Stars,* I know that poets are pretentious but... Jesus!” “Jesus... what do you think happens after people die?” He broke in suddenly, his eyes darting around first from the book, to me, to the car, to other houses, back to me then starting the whole cycle over again. “Well... I mean... Ok as far as I can tell a priori, from books... It’s impossible to completely do away with the notion of a god as it’s impossible to prove something doesn’t exist. However I do think that all the religions we’ve managed to come up with are wrong, Christianity in particular is nothing more than a bad plagiarism, but probably after we die our brains stop functioning and so do we.” I said. “Don’t you think that there’s any hope that people, loved ones, that we get to see them again?” He said. “That right there is one of the worst aspects of religion. You see it plays on our worst anxieties, mines its way into the depths of our mind just because we want to see the people that we like again.” I said. “Can I ask you something serious then? About life?” Said Tom. “Life is much too important to talk seriously about. Besides it’s early and I’m far to sober for that kind of discussion.” I said. “Quoting Oscar Wilde really? How old are you?” He said. “Hey! I will defend my right to quote Wilde no matter how old I am.” I said. “Whatever.” He said leaning back and staring out at the suburban expanse in front of the house. “No come on don’t be like that. What was it?” I said. “You like the existentialists right? I’ve been around many a late night discussion that you’ve undertaken about them.” He said. “Yes although I prefer absurdism over existentialism if only because I like Camus more than Sartre.” I said. “Outline the concept of bad faith for me. No seeing as you like Camus how about the absurd?” He said. “Well... hang on let me think for a second... ok the main thing that Camus was concerned about was the human desire for meaning in a meaningless world. The Catch-22 of existence, we require purpose to function but no purpose is possible.” I said. “And when confronted with that proposition what is a person meant to do?” He said. “If you’re Camus like five chicks at once.” I said, smiling at him as one does when they think that they’ve said something witty but still needs approval on whether or not to laugh. “NO! Be serious!” He yelled. “Ok... um faced with the inherent absurdity of the world Camus thinks that we should carry on anyway. To be so free that our very existence is an act of rebellion. Not to suppress any part of yourself.” I said. “That last part, not suppressing any part of your nature, if say purely hypothetically there was a Cannibal who by his nature had to eat people. By Camus’ logic that Cannibal should be able to eat as many people as he likes despite any ethical dilemmas.” Said Tom. “I think that you’re talking more about Sartre there, he was more inclined to natures and bad faith and stuff... But yes I would have to admit that based on Camus’ logic the Cannibal would be able to eat as many people as he likes. However based on just human morality, no people shouldn’t eat each other.” I said by now we had become much more animated and relaxed as the conversation progressed. The sun was starting to set. “Another hypothetical then say there was a man who had a wife and that wife was pregnant. And that man loved his wife, what sort of man wouldn’t love his wife, but that wife decided to leave that man... and ran off to his friend’s house. What should that man have done?” He said. “I’m not really sure what the point of that one was.” I said, hesitantly. “Ok... do you remember that play that you read and then couldn’t shut up about for a whole week, Faust? Well I picked up a copy the other day and you were perfectly right about how good it was, there was this one bit that stuck with me. *I am the spirit that negates. And rightly so...*” He said. “*For all that comes to be deserves to perish wretchedly*. Mephistopheles.” I said. “I killed Grace.” Said Tom. “And Julian. And...” It is difficult to convey silence in a work of prose. And it is especially difficult to convey the kind of silence Tom and I experienced then. I can’t quite remember what I said next and looking back now I’m not sure what anyone would be able to say next. However I do know that after the silence Tom explained how he had snuck into Julian’s house to find his wife, but instead of talking like he had planned, strangled her. Then he had killed Julian, stole his car and drove here. After such an explanation he pulled out a handgun... on second thoughts I’m not going to write this after all.

As he transferred the paper into the final chemical bath, Edmund held his breath for a moment. He thought about what it could mean, if he had actually managed to capture a photo of the strange creature he had been seeing in his peripheral vision for so long. Firstly, it would mean that he wasn't going mad. He pushed his held breath out past his lips. That would be a large measure of relief, even though he had told himself over and over that he had very definitely witnessed it affecting items; it knocked over a bowl on the kitchen counter, and it also turned the water off and on. And also, he'd seen that his cat, Dorcas, ran away, whenever the creature came too near her. These facts made it impossible that it was just a figment of his imagination, didn't they? He used the tongs to agitate the paper in the tub and waited on the developing image. He dared not be too hopeful. He still found it difficult to believe that the thing could be real. How could it be? He removed the paper from the final tray and hung it on the line above his work area. There it was! The creature was there on the right (of course, on the right). The arm of the velvet chair was in front of it a bit, but otherwise he could clearly see the entire creature. He took off his gloves and sat down on the stool by his work table. He'd never seen anything like it. Never! That strange silver-colored body made him feel a bit queasy. Where had he seen that color before? In an insect maybe? A fish? No. It was unlike anything else. He realized, suddenly, that even though he was now looking right at the creature in the photo, that he could still be completely insane. He needed to show this photo to someone else. Or it could still be a product of his own sick mind. What would he do, if he showed the photo to someone and they didn't see it? “Why, there’s nothing there, old man! Nothing at all.” Well, he would just have to cross that treacherous, ice-covered bridge when he got there. If he got there, he corrected himself. It seemed that he now had some proof! Who should he show it to? He didn't have very many friends. He lived alone; well, with Dorcas, and his family had all died years ago. Was this thing always with him? Perhaps this creature was the reason his life had not gone wholly as he'd hoped. Could it have even caused some of the tragedy he'd gone through? He looked at it again. Wait. Wasn't the chair arm in front of it before? He put his hand on the table to steady himself. Yes, he was sure that it had been in a slightly different position when he looked at it before. Well, the red light of the darkroom was probably playing tricks on his eyes. "Or perhaps you are insane", a voice whispered in his head. "Stop", he said aloud. He took the photo and went out into the sitting room. He sank down onto the settee and examined the photo again. Now the creature appeared to be looking out of the photo, its thousand spiny teeth bared in a menacing grin. He picked up a large book and quickly slid the photo between its pages. Then he shut it and put the book on the floor. He quickly stacked several more heavy tomes on top of it. Then a few more, for good measure. He really did feel a bit shaky. Perhaps he didn't need to show the photo to anyone after all. Perhaps he should just keep it there, under the weight of all those books. He hadn't seen the creature since developing the photo. Usually, he caught flashes of it in his peripheral vision all the time, but he was not seeing it now. A strange thought occurred to him: could he have somehow captured the creature itself in the photograph? That is, could that be the actual creature somehow and not just a likeness? Let us suppose that the creature is real. "You know that it is not," said the voice in his head. If it's real, and he had somehow captured it, then he was free of it! Was there really a need to show it to another? He glanced at the pile of books. When had he first noticed it? The flash of silver in his peripheral vision. The endless sussuration; so quiet, but almost always there. Perhaps it was why things had ended so badly with Millicent. Oh Millicent. Maybe he would be with her now, if it wasn’t for the creature. He recoiled from remembering their last encounter. Millicent, so pale and stoic, telling him that he was a “terribly nice” man, but that she did not care for him. And then how she died that very night in a runaway carriage. So horrible. So final. No chance to see if he could sway her, if perhaps there was still some feeling for him after all. Something had spooked the horses. What if it was the creature? And perhaps the creature had prevented him from being as attentive as he could have been (would be now!), always stealing his attention by flashing past his far right vision. Haunting his dreams at night, causing him to lose sleep and become careless and less doting upon her in the day. Yes, the creature was likely to blame for his less-than-satisfactory life. He imagined it now, pinned in the photo inside the pages of the heavy book. Writhing, gnashing it’s slender teeth together, eyes rolling, showing the whites, like a terrified horse. Well, It was time to feed Dorcas and he probably should eat also. His step was a bit lighter, as he made his way to the tiny kitchen. There would be time to contemplate this thing more later. Right now the light of the day was fading and he was tired--but satisfied. Tomorrow he would embark on his new, better life; unencumbered by the creature and knowing that everything that had happened in his life thus far was not his fault. Yes, tomorrow he would start anew. “Ha!” the voice in his head chortled. “You will not.” His eyes dragged against his will to the stack of books. Yes. Things would definitely be better now.

My brother is talking about the Phillies and how much he hates them. Of course, Bobby loves the Phillies, which is why he can muster such hate. “Get rid of all the overpaid assholes and start from scratch,” he’s saying, sipping his high gravity beer. At the other end of the table, Kip is shaking his head. He’s a Pirates fan. He doesn’t understand how Ron can hate a team that is five games ahead in their division, while the Pirates languish at the bottom of the NL Central division. Kelly, a massage therapist whose trade doesn’t allow for sufficient yakking, is talking Kip’s ear off, though, so he is unable to chip in with his opinion. The poor little guy looks at me helplessly, and I shrug and sip my IPA, glancing discreetly toward the table to my left, where my lover is having a very hushed exchange with a woman older than either of us. All of us are over fifty. Most of us are over sixty. My lover’s husband is almost seventy. What has happened to us? When they find out about what we’ve done, people will say I was just trying to stay young. Well, of course I am. They aren’t? Look at the cars they drive! How often they visit the spa! They’re trying to elude Father Time just like anyone else. It just so happens I’m having a lot of sex while doing it. My lover -- let’s just call her Juanita, for now -- is having a deep conversation. Her back to me, she and the older woman are hunched toward each other, their noses about a foot from each other. They’re either talking about an affair or some embarrassing deformity or bathroom habit. My lover is so close to me I’d be able to tap her shoulder if she wasn’t so bent toward her table mate. It’s weird, and I have to get up and walk away, even though my glass is still a third full. I take care of that, guzzling the rest as I make my way to the counter. There, I look back, and see Juanita and the woman stealing glances at me. Hoo boy . I am the topic of their conversation. Didn’t we have some sort of tacit agreement that we’d clear it with the other before spilling beans? You’d think that would be implicit -- which is one of the hallmarks of tacitity. But then I remembered Juanita’s shock and embarrassment when I told her I had told my tennis partner, who knows a lot of people she knows, about us and our six-month-long affair. I should stop drinking beer while I play. I do it because it helps with the yips. Yet, as I’ve since learned, yips can be helpful. It’s not always good to feel calm and comfortable. Discomfort happens for reasons, and one of them is to ensure one doesn’t go blabbing intimate details to someone who could take them and make things extremely uncomfortable to one. I chastised myself for blabbing, and then then calmed myself with the reminder people aren’t as obsessed with me as I am. But then Mike told someone, and that someone -- who had heard of me -- blabbed it to someone else, and before anyone could do anything my lover’s husband, Roy, found out about it. You would think that someone who presents as a peaceful man, a gentle giant, would abhor violence in any form. But no. Roy came over and punched me in the nose, adding that I should stay away from Juanita. And I did just that, mostly, but chance meetings in bars cannot be helped. So there I was, ordering my second beer and surreptitiously watching my lover spill beans on someone I didn’t even know. An old lady, at that. I saw her look at me, then swivel a bit to see someone entering, then fix a somewhat horrified gaze, which she directed back at me, who turned and realized it was Roy coming through the door. As for Juanita, she met Roy’s eyes, hers got big and looked at me, which directed Roy’s gaze to me before I had a chance to race to the side exit or bathroom. Roy looked kind of like Roy Clark -- hence the name, I guess -- but far more hulking. Roy Clark, to my knowledge, never chased a man into a bathroom. Roy Axton did. Or almost did; I was able to shut and lock the door in time. Roy pounded on the door, shouting, “Hey! Hey! Hey!” I didn’t answer. It didn’t seem like a question. I heard Juanita’s voice, and then it seemed Roy’s “Hey!”s were directed at her. But their intensity was subsiding, and then I heard nothing. Maybe a muffled sob. I drank my beer, half sitting on the sink. I hoped by the time I finished, all of this would have blown over. When I eased the door open, no one was there. I walked with some trepidation to the bar area. No one was talking. All were looking at me -- except for the old lady Juanita had been talking to. Neither my likely former lover nor Roy were in sight. Bobby motioned me back to the table, and I went. “Who was that guy?” he asked. “Oh. You know. Someone who has it out for me, I guess.” “I wonder why,” said the old lady to whom Juanita had been talking. Everyone at our table turned to look at her. She didn’t look back, just kept sipping her beer and pretending to look at her phone. Maybe she was. “Nutcase,” I muttered, then issued an uncomfortable laugh. “At least I don’t hide in bathrooms,” she muttered back. “Koo-koo,” I muttered, tapping my temple. “Koo-koo.” My table of friends and family took this in as if they were watching a ping pong match. Table tennis. “Do you two know each other?” interrupted Kelly, the garrulous massager. “Nope,” the woman replied, still staring at her phone. “Don’t want to,” I retorted quietly. “Well it seems like you do,” said Kelly. “You’re like an old married couple.” That broke everyone up. And got me a little mad. “ You’re like an old married couple,” was my attempt at a zinger. The other patrons had lost interest by this point, and had returned to their meaningless banter. I ordered another beer, this time from a manager who eyed me with seeming contempt, and when I returned to our table, the old lady was in my seat, talking with Bobby. Not knowing what to do, I stood next to her, sipping from my glass and looking around as casually as I could. “So maybe that’s why he ‘has it out’ for your brother,” she was saying. “Oh, as you can see,” I said sarcastically, “she knows everything about it.” Fortunately Kelly had diverted everyone else’s attention toward a story about a massage client who had, during the course of a session, achieved a partial erection. Normalcy had returned to the table. Bobby looked up at me, hurt in his eyes. “Well she sure knows more about it than I do.” “No!” I cried. “Bob. Look. Can we get a table, just you and I?” “I’ll leave,” said the woman, getting up. “Only five minutes late,” I said. “Thanks nevertheless.” “Don’t talk to me, lover boy,” she sneered, and walked out. I noted her easy, strong stride and wondered if she was really old at all. Perhaps just prematurely grey and self-righteous. I sat down. “What did she tell you?” I asked Bobby. “That you’re fooling around with a woman whose husband is partially retarded,” he replied. “What? That’s ridiculous!” “That she could be married to a retard?” “No! Well...yeah.” My mind was sent reeling. I thought about Juanita’s house, and the signs that had been there. The alphabet magnets on the refrigerator, and the childlike drawings around it. Their only child was in her twenties. Roy had...mental deficiencies? “Sounds like you too have never met,” observed Bobby. “No.” Not really. I helped him carry in some groceries one time. There were bags of Funions and Uncrustables. A bottle of Yoohoo. At the time, it had made me wonder. “So,” deduced Bobby, “if you steal her away from the retard, won’t it be on you to take care of him, or at least find some kind of home for him?” The thought of it -- the messes, the folding of laundry (underwear!), the Funions, the Yoohoo -- descended on me like bricks of rain. Brickdrops. “Surely he has someone who....” “Who what? Will take him in? At his age?” “Maybe their daughter.” “Oh, nice thing to spring on a kid just starting out in life.” I finished my beer and walked home. It’s funny how quickly things can change when one learns the truth. Or lets the obvious truth finally sink it. I texted Juanita that we were done. I meant it. I had lost my true love to a retarded man. A better man.

Entry 1: Oh boy! Am I grateful! Words can’t convey how grateful I am. Who would believe the over-flowing, Olympic sized pool of...? ‘Gratitude’ doesn’t even describe it. This is the first entry of my required ‘Gratitude Journal.’ I’m already thrilled to express how utterly grateful I am for so many things in my godforsaken life. Let me count the ways... For instance, I’m grateful I no longer have my family to worry about. They were such a drag. Always nosing into my business, where they didn’t belong. I’m alone. I feel so liberated, I could sing! Now I see how this could be a great project. At first, keeping this journal looked like busy work. You know, writing a bunch of Pollyanna BS to meet the requirements of this probation I got hooked into. What a waste. That judge! A hundred meetings in a hundred days? Who has time for that? I’ve gotta life, man. Guess I’ll have to fit it into my busy schedule. I’m grateful to him for this opportunity. After all, he gave me a choice and I thought this might be a novelty instead of the tried and true routine of jail. Steep price for a measly three squares. You know, if you can’t do the time... See, Miles? I get it. Entry 2: Miles, my group leader, told me I won’t get anything from the practice if I don’t take it seriously. Yes, Miles, I know you read this. And I’m talking about you. Isn’t gratitude partly about telling the truth? I’m grateful that I can recognize it and speak to it. Yeah. Grateful. That’s what I am. I insist that I’m serious. Miles thought I wasn’t listening. Talk to the snorers if you want to make that point. He said, “You didn’t lose your family.” I nodded and said, “Not in a literal sense. No.” He gave me a weird look, so, I added, “No. But it would be a blessing if I did. They’re such a drag.” “Well, you’re supposed to be expressing your true gratitude, Jonah. Look into yourself for the truth. That’s how it works.” I asked him, “If I’m supposed to make up who I’m grateful to, why can’t I make up what I’m grateful for?” He gave me a hard look and said, “You don’t get it. Do the program.” I know you read this, Miles. Isn’t that what I said? Tell me it’s not. Just so you know. I get it. You think you get it but I get it better than you. I’m grateful for that. Keep reading. About my missing family, I celebrate my lack of responsibilities. Once burdened with no time to myself, I now am shunned by all who knew me. Disowned by friends and family. I’m neither welcome in their houses nor acknowledged as an acquaintance. Strangers cross the street to avoid crossing my path. Mothers scold their children, telling them not to stare. I’m become a target of ridicule. A nonentity. Like a shadow, cast by no one and by nothing. Alone. And I’m free. So, Miles, you’ll be happy to know this journal will be filled with gratitude with a capital ‘tude. It will be gratitudinal. It will drip with so much appreciation that you’ll have to read it with goggles and gloves on. You’ll be grateful the pages don’t stick together with the excess. Just wait. Read on. You might learn something. I’d be grateful for that. Entry #3: Here you go. I was driving the other day and got pulled over by a cop. He said I was speeding. I didn’t feel it. Maybe I was. Not for me to say. Guy with a gun makes the rules. So, he gave me a ticket. I thanked him. Politely. He didn’t expect that. Made my day to mix it up a bit. Challenged his preconceptions, don’t you know? I got a kick out of showing my gratitude for his wasting my time and picking my pocket. I didn’t say all that, but he knew. It’s his job. And he checked off all the boxes. I know he heard me because the look he gave me. Bet he never heard that before. Carry on, officer Stoat. Have an extra serving. On me. I’m grateful. Day 4: Miles wanted to help. What a guy. He gave me a list of things needing gratitude. Thought I was unclear on the concept, or something. I may tag a few of these as I go. If for no other reason but to let Miles know I read the damn thing. Thanks, Miles. Grateful for all the support. Things needing gratitude, for instance... · The ho and donor who gave me life - speaking of mistakes, we’ll have to discuss my alleged gratitude when I find you. That said, I get that I should rejoice about it. Being alive lets me appreciate pain. When I’m dead, the pain will stop but so will any pleasure. Don’t understand much but am grateful to know that. Animals die unaware. Dust to dust. Why I don’t like people touching me with their dusty fingers. ‘Salt of the earth’ should be ‘dust of the earth.’ That’s what everything turns to. No one puts dirt on their fries. Makes sense to be grateful for both gains and losses. Tell me which is which? · Artists creating beauty for others - someday I’ll join the NBA and be one of them. At the top. There’s more. But I don’t want to go crazy spending all the gratitude in one spot. #5- A couple items from Miles’ list of things I’m supposed to be thankful for... · Language - a bottomless source of misunderstanding and shame... People talk too much. Say too little. · Reading - have to try it someday. Before I dropped out, Mr. Dickhead, the high school detention monitor, gave me a book to read by some French dude. Called ‘The Little Putz,’ I think. Am grateful for the chance to catch up on my sleep. #6 Another: · Favorite quote - “Get out!” Words to live by. Always heard it. Punch line of my life. Always makes me laugh. So many memories come with those words hurled at me. · Hot showers - Can’t argue with that. · My favorite place to recharge - under the 3 rd Street Bridge. Good times there. Always! · Sex - yeah! 7 Another... · Changing my life with a change in attitude - get back to you on that, Miles. All this discussion about change sounds like the same ol’ same ol’. What’s the point? What’s in it for me? Still awaiting an answer. Don’t get it. If I don’t watch out for numero uno, who will? I’m sure a pamphlet on a bus bench has answers for everything. But as I said a few entries back, I’m not a stiff. Too busy to read. Thankful I’m not wise, else I’d be accountable for my actions. That may be partly why I’m trapped doing this journal and other boring stuff. How am I doing, Miles? -8--- More... · Observing and learning from other’s mistakes - big on that. Some fish have too much cash. Happy to hold the net. Always grateful for the ability to get more money. Cha-ching! · Friends I can count on - Shiv owes me a $100. Be grateful if he paid me. Something happened the other day. I’d just jacked some cash when this woman, she looked homeless, came up to panhandle. Seen her around. Feeling flush, I pulled out a twenty. She swiped it and gushed, “You’re beyond wonderful.” Her flashing eyes and the way she said it, reminded me of Shelby, a girl I knew years ago. Like yesterday. I said, “Hey!” She ran away, giggling to her friends, to riff about her ‘find.’ I was too shocked to say more. Shelby said that exact thing the same way, back then. Our running gag. Always wondered about her. What happened? Never knew. Used to be close. Last time we were together, Shelby said, ‘You’re beyond wonderful.’ About some little thing. She drew the ‘beyond’ out, like it was sailing off into the distance. I joked, ‘Beyond? Like, too far?’ ‘Yeah, need to know when to stop. All that wonderful got left behind you, in your dust.’ I asked, ‘Is it too late? Like out of reach?’ She said ‘Look back and squint. Hard to see if the light isn’t right.’ Still playing I turned and leaned forward. ‘Blinking neon?’ ‘Yeah, the exit sign. ‘Wonderful, next right.’’ ‘Has a rest area.’ ‘And a wonderful parking lot.’ I never forgot any of that and laughing together. Last time I saw her. Never said good-bye. Alone ever since. What happened? What split us? Was it me? Fixable after all this time? Handing this one a twenty, the way she said it, it had to be her. There with friends, drooling over a $20 bill. My Shelby. Grateful to know she’s okay. Should’ve said something. Nine In our group session, Miles covered the difference between ‘excitement’ and ‘happiness.’ He said excitement has more in common with the agitation gained with a shot of adrenalin. While happiness or joy lives in peace. He said excitement is the other side of the coin from fear. Same coin. I’d never heard such before. I’ve spent so much time wanting the next thrill, skipping the next roller coaster ride seems wasteful. Who leaves tickets unspent? What else can you do? Realize my peace is with Shelby. -10- Miles, I’m still thinking about Shelby. Got enough to feed us both. Going to find her. Hope we’ll cross paths. Who knows? Might be wonderful. I’d be thankful for that. Don’t worry. I’ll let you know where it leads. Know you’ll think I’m not doing the program. But that’s not it. I found my gratitude and am claiming it. Committed to changing my life. If I can’t find Shelby, I’ll be back. Right? The judge will get it. Is there no latitude for gratitude? Does ‘doing the program’ mean giving up on the dream once it’s found? The point’s to find my gratitude. Or is it to fill some mundane meetings requirement while my gratitude languishes like a beached whale? I know you get it, Miles. Thanks! Peace out, brother.

When you first meet, there's a gun to your head and a knife at his throat. He smiles at you, almost oblivious to the danger you present to his well being, nor the screams that rise and swell around you. "Ah." He states, and nods once as if he had solved a particularly difficult math problem and the answer's smeared across your cheeks. His eyes really shouldn't be so dark, almost bottomless really. You'd almost say they were pupil less, except you don't have time for notions like that, that the man standing before you was something more than human. He was just a man after all, and with a quick snap of your wrist he'd bleed all the same. You almost do it, except for the fact that you notice how sweet his eyes are. Black as night, but sweet as chocolate, and as strong as Turkish coffee. There's a name that dances at the roof of your mouth, but you couldn't, shouldn't know, so you swallow it down. (It leaves a bitter after taste on your tong as fleeting images of a boy with a sad smile and candy sweet eyes dances before you) It all feels familiar some how, like you've done this before(it feels like broken promises and little white lies) but There isn't much you remember, so maybe it's possible you've met before In another life, where a boy tugged on your bangs and promised you freedom. But this isn't that life, so you twist your knife and watch as red blooms on that pale throat- And you realize (with a bubbling hysteria that was slowly tearing its way out of you) that this isn't the first time you've met, but the last.

### The Glass Locket ###### 7 min read - 1812 words "VANQUISH!" My cry rippled forth through the locket as I lay with broken wings on the battlefield, awaiting the magic that pulsed in my outstretched hand. I watched as the black smoke poured forth, transforming into millions of dark Fairy warriors of old. They moved like lightning, leaving a path of destruction in their wake. I knew the weight that the command would carry. Usnar, the blistered Demon of plague, crumbled before me mid-stride and let out his last breath as his army of evil followed suit. Winter was falling upon the land of Amignor and the war was finally over. It was mid summer when I came upon the glass locket. I was exploring the ancient caverns of Rawnessmined, the abandoned fortress of Inod, the Dwarf King. I had learned from the lore of old that the fortress had fallen when a dwarven miner had accidentally opened a chamber while excavating the royal tomb. An accident that had allowed Goblins, Orcs, Ogres and Demons to sour the land for nearly a millennium. These were caverns that had forever sealed evil away from the peaceful world above. Free from their earthen jail, the armies of evil made their way to the surface, leaving the caverns and spreading their plague upon the world above, slaying any good creature that stand in their path. In the years following this release of evil, all manner of creatures came together, hoping to restore peace and the world to its former self. Elves, Fairies, Humans and Dwarfs working together was a rare sight indeed, but our numbers were slim in comparison to the thousands of evil creatures that now plagued our former homes. I had found a small hole in one of the cavern walls that allowed passage into the tomb of a long forgotten Elf. It was hard to say how long the body had been there or how it came to be in such an unnatural resting place. It was like he was frozen in time, clutching the locket to his heart, in a deep and peaceful slumber, resting in his casket. I remember stretching my hand out to clear the dust from the locket and as my slender fingers made contact, the Elf withered and crumbled to dust. The locket, loose from the grips of the Elf's hand, slowly began to shrink until it was an appropriate size for a Fairies neck. Among the ashes was a notebook that had also shrunk. The words were hard to make out, but the images made it clear that this was no ordinary locket. A mysterious magic placed upon this forgotten artifact allowed the holder to issue it commands. I placed the notebook in my satchel. Placing the locket around my neck, I decided to make my way to the forest surrounding the fortress before night fell upon me. "Ora... ORA!" I could hear my father calling me from the doorway as I walked the branch that led to our home within the oak tree. For as long as I could remember, Havenwood had been home to the Fairies. Elves would come and go as they pleased, but it wasn't until recent years that the encampments of Dwarfs and Humans had started to grow. I double checked my neckline, making sure the locket was out of site. I didn't want anyone to discover it until I had a chance to learn more about the magic it held within. "I'm coming! Sorry I'm late. I was just out searching for food and..." "You know I don't like you going anywhere near that dark place. We've had this discussion a thousand times. It's simply not safe." Father shook his head and sighed a sigh of relief, knowing his only daughter was safe. "Just because we stay young forever..." "Doesn't mean we can't die. I know, I know. I'm sorry! I just can't help myself sometimes. It's not like there's evil living there anymore. We know they've left." "We can't know that for sure. The forest is our home. We have no business in the stagnant air of that cursed place." Father turned and walked back inside the oak. He paused in the doorway and turned, motioning for me to follow. "Imere would like to hold a meeting tonight. You've been invited to join us. Come along child, we're late." Imere was Queen of the Elves and very wise. Although she was older than anyone could recall, it was hard to tell from looking at her. She had a timeless beauty, fair and soft. Looking her in the eyes gave me goosebumps. Whenever I was around her, it felt like my mind was an open book for her to read. The meeting was short lived, as Imere was growing tired of the Dwarfs and Humans using the forest to cook their meals and their smoke that would billow through the boughs. Her main objective was to remind us all that there was evil lurking outside the forest and it was growing in numbers and strength. Something had to be done and time was running short. For months, the Dwarfs had their blacksmiths working day and night to create Armor, Weapons and Traps. The Humans worked with them to create Broadswords, Daggers, Mail and anything they could contribute to the coming war. The Elves had been working tirelessly on Bows, Quivers and Arrows. The Fairies very rarely used weapons and preferred their own methods of war. We had armies of trained war mosquitoes. While the larvae grew, we would poison their water and increase the toxicity within their habitat, slowly making them immune. When grown, we would prepare them for war by allowing them to gorge on the poisoned animal blood we were given by the Humans, who loved meat. This kept them immune and in times of war they could easily spread the poison to any being who was not protected by our antivenom. Over the following weeks, I tried to decipher the text of the notebook, hoping to uncover it's secrets. I recognized the characters and some of the dialect, as it was some form of Elvish, but due to its age and wear, it was hard to be sure what all it meant. One afternoon, in the late fall, I was sitting on a tree limb, enchanted by the drawings within the notebook. Without much thought, I put the notebook back in my satchel and took the locket out from under my coat. I decided to open it up. Everything around me went quiet and still. As I looked around, I noticed birds were floating mid flight and leaves were frozen in the wind. Time stood still. I shut the locket and the deafening silence disappeared, returning bird calls and sounds of rustling leaves to my ears. Both amazed and confused, I quickly searched for the notebook in my satchel, hoping to uncover this secret. To my amazement, it was like new. What had happened? I opened it up to find that the language and imagery was clear and in my own native tongue. How strange, I thought. Out of fear, I tucked it back in my satchel and decided not to open the locket again. Upon returning home, my Father was waiting for me. "Imere would like to see you. She tells me it's urgent." I wasn't sure how to react and now I was definitely concerned about what I might have done. Were there other side effects from opening the locket? I pushed past my father and made my way to our usual meeting area, anxious and scared. "I believe you have something that doesn't belong to you." Imere said sternly. "Unfortunately, there's nothing to be done about that now." She opened her right hand and gestured for me to come closer with her left. "The notebook please." "What note..." "Please, don't take me for a fool." Imere extended her right hand closer. "What you've found should never have been found. However, now that it has... Please, bring it to me." I handed her the notebook and took a step back, awaiting my punishment. I watched as she flip through the notebook and close it with a look of sadness. "Come with me. I need you to understand the significance of what you mistakenly took for an ordinary piece of jewelry." In the weeks leading up to the war, Imere explained the powers behind the glass locket and its history. She taught me the commands, explained the imagery within the notebook and told me how it could never fall into the hands of the awakened evil. The more I learned, the more intrigued I became and understood why she seemed so concerned upon realizing the locket had been found. When winter arrived, we thought we were prepared for the battle ahead of us. We gathered together and made our way to the outside edges of the forest, dressed in armor and weapons ready. The enemy had been preparing as well and their armies were already approaching. Before we knew what hit us, we were engaged in battle and surrounded. Our first casualties were the Humans on horseback that led us out into the battlefield. Swarms of war mosquitoes covered the evil forces that threatened to smite the existence of good throughout the land of Amignor. They were practically useless against the massive hoards of Goblins and the Orcs weren't even phased for a moment. I watched as our numbers slowly dwindled, hoping not to have to use the locket. I was caught off guard and felt the crude club of a massive Ogre strike me in the back. The blow propelled me forward, dazed and injured. I fell to the ground and rolled to a stop. I felt the club tear my wings and the fall only further crumpled them into a useless mess. I rolled over to my back, preparing myself to fight from the ground. The hoard of evil's leader, Usnar, was striding towards me. I could hear my father shouting out my name in despair. Reaching towards my neck, I pulled out the locket and took a deep breath. \* \* \* When the battle was over, I wandered back into the forest and found my way to the old abandoned fortress. Without the use of my wings, it felt like it took a lifetime get to the entrance. I stumbled my way deep into the depths of the caverns below, finding the hole in the wall where I had found the locket. I crawled along the tunnel that led to the tomb of the lockets previous owner. When I had arrived I noticed that the elf's casket had shrunk and was like new, just like the notebook. I climbed inside and removed the glass locket from my neck. Holding it to my chest, I laid back and fell into a deep sleep.

I met Tim on Tinder. Tim was the best boyfriend I could have asked for. As a 25 year old woman living in the heart of Seattle, I had been close to giving up on my love life. Men were scary, unreliable infidels. I believed that for a long time, at least until my friend Suzie convinced me to give Tinder a try. “Please?” she practically begged me during brunch one day, “Please just go on one date. If it sucks, I’ll never bother you about it again!” Drunk on margaritas and breakfast food of questionable quality, I relented. I went on one date. One date with a man named Tim Henry. It went very well. Too well, even. I learned that he worked in IT, that he’s deadly allergic to strawberries, that his ex-wife died of breast cancer in 2013. He learned about me, too. How I grew up with abusive parents and now take care of my younger brother, Zach, while pursuing a degree in psychology. Tim was really into true crime, and he got me hooked on it as well. The stories were harrowing, heartbreaking, disturbing- but some morbid curiosity kept us listening. We developed inside jokes, shamefully mostly revolving around cannibals and the gruesome details of specific murders. As a psych major, it was all so interesting. Obviously, those psych classes got me nowhere. I didn’t see the red flags. True crime is a lot easier to listen to if you’ve never lived through a podcast-worthy horror story of your own. Until then, true crime is a “what if-“ an almost impossibility that ensures you lock your doors at night, but never steals your sleep. After? It’s all too real. Tim and I got married in 2019. As many married men do, he started to let himself go. Let down appearances. He began to confide in me. He spoke to me about how he often had thoughts of murder, of skinning someone alive. I explained to him what intrusive thoughts were, and he seemed satisfied with that explanation. Later, he told me he had been diagnosed with harm OCD- a subcategory of OCD where the patient has obsessive and unrealistic worry about hurting other people. Such as putting all your knives under lock and key so you don’t kill your entire family. In reality, these patients are often even less capable of murder than the average sane person. It explained a lot of his obsessive violence thoughts. How he’d want to kill me for the smallest of infractions. I made sure to turn the lights off in the kitchen every night since he told me he wanted to rip my fingernails out the last time I forgot. I would never have admitted it, but Tim was starting to scare me. I knew it sounded awful, to be afraid of someone with harm OCD, but I would come to be thankful for my paranoia. I began to keep a strawberry in my pocket. I was out with Suzie on one of our regular Friday night dinners when I had forgotten the name of Tim’s company. Naturally, I Googled it. Strangely enough, I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find Tim at all, actually, anywhere on the internet. Even his Tinder account had been deleted. Being somewhat tech-savvy, I used an image search to scour the internet for a face match. To my horror, several matches popped up, none mentioning an IT company. The headlines blurred together in my head. I was so shocked I could barely hear Suzie asking me what was wrong. I skimmed the previews, shortened and cut off by the small screen of my phone. “Seattle man kills wife in brutal love story gone wr-“ “’I found her skinned alive’ a harrowing story of l-“ “Man charged of first degree murder escapes p-“ “Tim Fuller, a monster loose among the streets o-“ I got up and rushed home, leaving an equally horrified Suzie in the dust. I had seen enough. I had heard enough. I needed to know the truth right then, even if it costed my life. Even if I was in danger. I loved Tim, and if he loved me, he would tell me the truth. That’s what I told myself. Even though he lied about having OCD, his ex-wife passing from cancer, and working in IT. However, I know better now. You can’t “fix” killers. I burst into the house and shoved my phone in Tim’s face. Something in his eyes gave away that the articles were not fake. I felt the world shift from under me as grief and shock dizzied my perception. The world shifted again when Tim tackled me to the ground. Everything from dinner to the second Tim snapped felt like milliseconds. I heard him screaming, but the words were too far away, too muffled to hear. Something warm spread over the back of my skull. Spots danced over my vision. My body felt cold and sensationless. I felt like a corpse long before my death. \ Tim often told me how his mother had suffered from severe OCD. He mentioned how he wasn’t surprised he was diagnosed, as OCD tends to be genetic. I believed every word out of his mouth, especially considering I had an actual harm OCD diagnosis from early childhood. One he never had. To sum up my childhood- I had always been afraid of myself. I was afraid that if I didn’t barricade my door, I would hurt my little brother in my sleep. I kept myself away from sharp objects. I didn’t listen to true crime for fear I would get ideas. Eventually I convinced myself that my fear was not based in reality. But now I know better. Maybe it was because of how my parents hurt Zach. Maybe it was how they hurt me. But deep down, I’ve always known I’m capable of violence. I was just afraid I would misuse it. But when I heard Zach scream- When I felt Tim’s body weight shift from mine- When I saw something in his hand, smelled blood in the air, tasted copper in my mouth- *I was no longer afraid.* \ My vision cleared as I launched myself upwards- barely gaining complete consciousness before hurling myself into Tim’s back. He tumbled forwards, the knife in his hand skittering across the kitchen tile. He grabbed my hair and pulled, I kicked his groin, we scrambled and flailed for the weapon like two spoiled children fighting over a toy. A sharp pain radiated through my ribcage as Tim punched me as hard as he could, knocking the wind from my diaphragm just long enough to brush the knife handle with his fingertips. My ears rung and diluted the sound of his nose breaking as I shoved his head into the floor. Chaos reigned over the small section of bloody kitchen floor we inhabited. Tim finally grasped the knife. The blade tore through my shoulder as my husband swung and stabbed at my flesh, blood warming my cold body even faster than before. Red flashed into my vision, but it wasn’t from my cuts or Tim’s nose. His cold grey eyes widened as I shoved the strawberry from my pocket as hard as I could down his throat, silencing his screams of rage and grunts of violent effort. I pushed my fingers down as far as they could go. His grip on the knife faltered, and I seized the opportunity to steal it, stand, and back away in one not-so-smooth motion. My husband was dying. I watched as he choked and shoved saliva-coated fingers down his throat in an attempt to dislodge the strawberry. His face turned a mottled red color and began to swell. He kicked his feet and flailed on the blood-slippery floor in pain. His eyes now held fear and desperation, not anger. I could have helped him, called the cops, run away, etc- but I didn’t. I watched Tim’s body drain of life. I watched his chest seize up, depraved of oxygen. I watched his lips turn blue. I watched the veins in his forehead pop. I watched blood bubble from his nose. I watched his tongue swell and seal the strawberry into his throat. I watched Tim suffer. I watched Tim die. I liked it. \ The verdict came back. Free of charges, due to the necessity of my manslaughter. It was self-defense. My lawyer had the easiest job in his career, defending me. An escaped murderer, leading a double life? And the strawberry? So clever! Plus, I had to protect my younger brother. I was practically a hero. I was happy to continue my life a free woman. No one had to know how much I enjoyed seeing Tim die. But if people did know, they would understand. He lied to me for years. I’ll have to be in therapy the rest of my life. Zach will never rest easy again. I did what I had to do to a man who deserved every second of it. With therapy, I came to understand that. A few years after the incident, my therapist recommended I start seeing men again. I had recently become open to the idea. After all- the situation with Tim was such a rarity, it would be shocking for it to happen again, unless I was actively seeking out escaped convicts. Even after the years of therapy, something nagged at me. I liked watching Tim die. I got to watch the life go out of his eyes. I got to live out my obsessions. I got to draw blood. And none of it was my fault. It would never be my fault. So I took my therapist’s advice. As I scoured the Seattle police databases for men with violent criminal records, I re-activated my Tinder account.

You don’t know where you are or how you got here, only that there’s a mangled body at your feet and a trophy the size of a bowling pin in your fist. You’re not sure which one tips you off that this is your handiwork: the splash of crimson stark against the gold of the trophy, or the fact that your gag reflex responds by adding more bodily fluids to the crime scene. Evidently, you’re fond of chili dogs. Like your composure, the trophy slides out of your grasp. THUMP. Going fetal sounds like a pretty good idea, but glass shards litter the floor like stars in the sky and the swivel chair by the mahogany desk looks too comfy to resist. You drag yourself over, melt into it, and just... breathe. A clock lurking somewhere in the dim room marches to the pace of your heartbeat; two rhythms merging into an ominous countdown. You’re not sure how much time passes--three minutes? Thirty?--before you muster the nerve to drink in your battered surroundings and come to terms with your literal red-handedness. A glass table, shattered. Books spilling out of a shelf, pages splayed. The blinds drawn, slits only big enough for slivers of light to peek in. Was all this... you? A Colgate-white smile flashes at you from a framed portrait on the desk; you can’t quite compare it to the bloody pulp that passes for the corpse’s face, but the suit is a clear match. You’re also dressed smartly, at least under the rips and tears and blood--do you work here too? The name of a corporation is engraved in the frame, but there is silence instead of bells ringing. Why can’t you remember? You rub your face, as if that will soothe the weariness in your bones--only to transfer the blood to your cheeks like warpaint. You’re too stunned to find that disgusting. Maybe if you just... focus. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out. Yeah, that’s a bit better. Try to think about something other than the stench of blood and puke. It’ll come to you, just-- The door creaks open. Not actually , but in your head, a crisp memory floating to the surface and bursting into clarity. Her voice is as meek as her tiny frame: “Mister Blumenfeld, here’s your Latte macchia--” Her eyes inflate like a pair of pufferfish when she notices the body. Then her skinny figure folds in an impressive imitation of a lawn chair; she hits the floor right after her coffee cup does. But... where’s the girl now? How long ago did that happen? Did she wake up and call the police already? Your stomach sinks. You spring over to the blinds and peek outside; you expect a horde of police vehicles three floors down, maybe a man brandishing a megaphone, but you only find a fire escape and a city strolling leisurely through a lazy afternoon. A butterfly with sapphire-blue wings saunters past. It’s funny that you still know how the world works, and yet you know nothing about you. A sound snaps your gaze to the door. A small, soft-faced girl enters, paper cup in hand. “Mister Blumenfeld, here’s your Latte macchia--” She joins the man on the floor, the same way the coffee joins the other fluids, mingling in a repugnant mosaic. You stare in slack-jawed amazement as the dots connect themselves. Okay, palms on the desk. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out. That’s... somewhat better. You’re not sure what to call the opposite of a memory. A... vision? Premonition? Prophecy? You want this to be a dream, but even nightmares have limits. Instinctively, you latch onto the only thing left that tethers you to reality: the bodies, one dead and one probably alive, sprawled across the floor. You’d better do something about them before Number Three waltzes in and spills their coffee. Or worse. You find a key in Mister Blumenfeld’s pocket--which takes care of the door. Progress. As you scour the room for a hiding spot, your mind hungrily anticipates another glimpse of incoming events. Nothing. No future, no past. Only the hellhole that is the present. Footsteps. Shit. You grab the trophy; only now do you reconcile with the words CEO of the Year etched into it, and the sinking feeling in your stomach intensifies. Three knocks. “Adam?” Another woman, voice muffled. The handle turns, then reverts back. Thank god for the key. “Is now a good time?” Fucking hell, why didn’t you get a glimpse of the future this time around? “Adam, look, I promise this isn’t about... about us. It’s just, Stacy went to deliver your Latte macchiato and never came back. D’you know where she went?” There’s something disarming about her voice; your shoulders relax, and the trophy flops to your side. You feel like you know the person behind that door--which is impossible because you have no recollection of the past, and yet-- Again. Another memory--no, another Glimpse-- bubbling furiously to the surface. You frown. Something’s... different. In one scenario, the woman threatens to call the cops when the door never opens; she finally leaves when you convince her that Adam isn’t dead and his murderer isn’t in the room with him. In another, you decide to unlock the door. Pristine eyes gaze up at you, and they are beautiful even as they fill with fear. She collapses at your feet. You figure dead bodies and blood have that effect on women. But it’s the third scenario that you’re drawn to like a moth to a flame. You unlock the door, but instead of conveniently swooning, the woman opens her mouth to scream. Somehow you anticipate this and clamp a bloody hand over her. She bites down, hard , so you return the affection with the CEO trophy, but then she starts shrieking and making an even bigger fuss so you hold her down by the windpipe and watch the life drain from those beautiful, beautiful eyes... “ NO ,” you bellow when the Glimpse passes. “Please, no.” “Adam, sweetie, you’re worrying me. Should I call the cops?” Oh no no no no. Anything but that. You clear your throat and pray the door will muffle you. “Everything’s fine; just taking a call. I think Stacy went down to the... uh... HR department.” A beat. “Oh. Okay, that makes sense; she did want to file a complaint about noise in the office. Thanks, Adam.” Footsteps fading. Phew. Your fingers choke the trophy; hearing her mention Adam’s name makes your blood boil, and you have no idea why. Three Glimpses, simultaneously, and you chose one like cheese from a platter. The very same moment in time, with different outcomes based on... what? Random chance? Conscious decision-making? Divine intervention? This is going to take some getting used to. The other two scenarios sit snugly in the back of your mind--two timelines forever out of reach, and knowing that makes the R-rated one somewhat less upsetting. Anyway, you catch something in the Glimpses where you let the pretty woman in--the door of a garbage chute, embedded in the hallway. You hope to god no one else is coming to see Adam as you drag him outside and stuff him headfirst into the rank depths. It’s probably where he belongs anyway. Now for Stacy. You go back and lock the door again, just in case, but before you can turn around another Glimpse has you in its clutches: An unseen force knocks you to the floor and turns your vision crimson. You crane your woozy head up to find a skinny figure looming over you, brandishing the trophy you left on the desk. The Glimpse passes in a flash. You don’t hesitate; the trophy slams into the door the moment you duck, adrenaline blasting through your veins. You lunge for Stacy, one hand wrenching the weapon away and the other shoving her backwards... ...onto a puddle of blood and puke and coffee, which has about the same effect as an ice rink. Crack goes her neck as it meets the mahogany desk. She twitches on the floor like a dying insect before all goes still. Only now, crouching before her, do you realize how young she is, and how young she always will be. Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck FUCK FUCK . You console yourself with the realization that you can change the future like a fucking time traveler. You tell yourself that you only acted in self-defense, that it was either you or her. That you could never have foreseen this. It doesn’t stop the tears from falling. More footsteps. You jolt yourself lucid and hoist Stacy over a shoulder; she’s a child compared to Adam, so bringing her to the window and climbing out onto the fire escape is, well, child’s play. Sunlight spears your eyes as you hurry down the steps, going as fast as humanly possible while carrying literal dead weight. You’re not sure where you’re going, or whether it matters; the secluded alleyway beneath your feet will have to do. You hope those dumpsters aren’t full. A darkened window stops you dead. Staring back is a blood-streaked face, haggard and warped, eyes dancing with sparks of mania. And suddenly the pretty woman’s reaction is somewhat understandable. Who are you? you wonder as you step out into the alley behind the building. Why do I feel things for you when we’ve never met outside of a Glimpse? There’s no one here, thank god. Or so you think. Her line of sight is perpendicular to yours, so there are only so many heartbeats before she registers the unorthodox spectacle on the fringes of her vision. She tilts her face up, allowing a finger of smoke to curl forth from her lips; even that gesture is elegant. Your knees threaten to buckle under the weight of the next Glimpse. It’s not a window into a single isolated moment like past episodes, but a lifetime’s worth flooding your brain like a tsunami: Two limp bodies drowning in garbage. The same bodies adorning front pages everywhere --accompanied by more questions than answers. Her, obliterating box after tissue box as tears gouge ravines into her face. You, wrapping her up in consoling arms, which she snuggles into like an abandoned puppy. Her, shedding a different kind of tear as she discovers that a smile can still reach her eyes. You, kneeling in front of her because you want to wake up to that smile every single day. Her, holding up a smaller version of you to blow out a crown of candles. You, counting the wrinkles on her face and deciding that none of them did any harm to her beauty. And it’s only when destiny rightfully embeds itself in your soul that you realize the things you’d do to be with this woman. The tears you’d shed. The years you’d lose. The competition you’d eliminate. The next step is easy: head back before she sees you, and dispose of the body when she’s gone. But you don’t. A part of you wants her to turn around and catch you in the act. A part of you wants her to smile and give you a hand with the corpse. A part of you wants her to accept you for who you are. And maybe she will. No Glimpse is set in stone, after all. You’ll carve your own path, earn her love the only way you know how. You might be missing your memories but all you need are the ones you’ll be making with her. Fuelled with newfound hope, you search the Glimpse for a name. When her eyes meet yours, you remember to smile. You wait for her to fall into your arms, to admit that she preferred you over Adam all along. Because that’s what all this is about, isn’t it? But it’s not you she’s staring at. You frown. What’s so alluring about Stacy? She’s not exactly alive and kicking. Or available. The cigarette tumbles to the pavement. “ Jerry? ” That’s... not how you expected it to come out. The fantasy melts with buttery efficiency as you watch about a hundred long-overdue realizations dawn on her like a blood-red sun. It might as well be Adam slung over your shoulder. She bolts for a door. Another Glimpse pounces on you, as if it had been lying in wait for this moment: Two women in uniform, pulling a suit-clad body out of a trash heap. Your face plastered on front pages everywhere, and the look in your eyes is... lost . The horror of this new future causes you to drop the body and make a beeline for the door. You pull her hair, wrap fingers around her beautiful neck, and you weep through it all like the last maudlin soul at a bar. Anything to shut her up. Anything to make the police sirens blaring in your head stop. Anything to make the bite of cold metal around your wrists go away. It’s not until you’re getting herded down the alleyway into a waiting police car that you realize this isn’t part of the Glimpse. Was it someone from across the street that caught you scurrying down the fire escape, a dead girl flopping against your back? The last thing you see before being spirited away is two bodies in an alleyway, equally inert. 🦋 “Get moving, Dreamer,” barks the guard shoving you back home. You don’t bother with names--they’re nothing but tasers and bad breath. After the bars ring shut and silence returns like an old pal, you lie across the bunk and rest your eyes. A smile creeps across your face as you relive your favorite lifetime for the third time today. The first few weeks were hell; having women on your record is like being dipped in blood and thrown into a shark tank. Or having a sign that says “Insert here!” held over your butthole every waking hour--though your Glimpses helped you wriggle out of most encounters. Who knew convicts stuck to a moral code? Like a hermit crab with its shell, you learnt to retreat into your headspace, where there would always be sunshine and decent food and laughter echoing through a house. And soon life imprisonment became... life. There are a million beautiful scenes you can step into, all just as dreamlike in their perfection as they are in their incorporeality. And yet you muse over them with fondness, as if they happened to you and not a version of you that has been erased from this plane of existence. You can always gaze into her eyes, twinkling like gemstones behind a white veil. You can always enter her for the first time again, the spice of her breath lingering on the tip of your tongue. You can always fall into her arms when you can’t take it anymore. You decide to visit your favorite moment, where there is dew-kissed grass instead of a rock-solid mattress whittling away at your spine. A butterfly with sapphire wings hovers curiously overhead. Pine and lemongrass adorn the breeze, just like her hand adorns yours. You watch two small figures romp around in the distance, their giggles filling you with golden pride. To this day you’re not sure whether the Glimpses are a curse or a blessing. Are they taunting you with missed potential, or are they letting you have a nice, long swig of it? Maybe both. Not that you‘re complaining. After all, you get to spend the rest of your life with her.

​ Prologue ​ *Come one, come all! Come to the Circus of Fools!* *Feast your eyes on amusing antics and freaks of nature!* *From towering giants to twins combined!* *See God’s rejects and they will send a shiver!* ​ *Divas and starlets of the stage that will amaze you!* *Magicians and clowns that captures the imagination!* *Behold them all and feel the unholy sensation!* *Fun for everyone and for the whole family!* ​ *After all, the circus family awaits your arrival!* \- A flyer from the circus ​ It was June 15, 1933 on a humid Saturday in the city of \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_, that the circus came to town. The citizens gathered around the city square to take a peek of the exotic oddities and attractions. ​ Eliza, a little girl of seven, was walking on the city streets. She wore a red pinafore dress and ribbons of the same color, set on her curly brown hair. She had a large swirly lollipop in one hand and a balloon in the other. She came to venture the circus, out of boredom, in hopes of seeing fun and wondrous things. ​ Her parents did not know that, she left the house when no one was looking. ​ It wasn’t long when the streets became flooded with people. They stood by the side of the road as a circus wagon crossed by, followed by a troupe of performers. Tall clowns, colorful harlequins, and other attractions caught the audience’s eye. They were all scattering flyers and confetti to the crowd. ​ However, the ones that stole the spotlight, are the circus freaks. ​ Bearded ladies, tattooed men, deformed bodies and broken minds, captured the attention of every passerby. An old man who is covered in scales like a croc, a diva wearing a blindfold with goat legs like that of a satyr’s, a clown with two painted faces, and many more. The people laughed and mocked the performers, but they didn’t seem to mind the flurry of insults thrown at them. ​ They seem to be... happy? ​ They were smiling amidst the jeering crowd. They looked onward with bright eyes and kept marching on. ​ Eliza was amazed as she picked up a flyer. It was painted in bright colors, bold letters, and fancy designs that pleased the eye. While she was engrossed on it, a performer passed by her field of vision. She immediately looked up and saw a twin-headed blonde, clothed in a yellow and orange diamond-checkered clown attire, beckoning her to follow them. ​ She followed while dropping all the things she was holding in the process. Along the winding roads and streets did she walk, she eventually reached their destination; the Circus of Fools. ​ It’s all colorful and festive. The main tent is painted in bright red and yellow, there are multicolored stalls that sold food in colored paper bags, game booths that gave out wondrous prizes, and sideshow attractions like magic acts and freak shows. ​ It all amazed little Eliza. The splendor of the circus filled her heart with joy. ​ And to the man who was watching her. ​ She peeked into one of the sideshow tents. Inside, she saw the diva from earlier. She stood on a dark, curtain-covered stage with a single spotlight shining on her. She donned a black dress, adorned with dark blue flowers and laced with teal ribbons. A black ornate blindfold covered her eyes, and it appeared to be wet. ​ The diva had a beautiful voice, clear as crystal and pure as a brook, she sung a wonderful song that Eliza nor the audience could understand. But something felt off, Eliza felt it. There was a hint of sadness that can be heard from the singer’s voice. ​ \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* *Je m'appelle Margherita.* *La diva des perdus.* *Écoutez mon récit de malheurs,* *pourquoi mes larmes ont coulé.* ​ *La fille d'un commerçant,* *qui s'est écarté de son chemin,* *un jour, il est venu au cirque.* ​ *Elle a entendu une dame,* *chanter si calmement* *alors qu'elle sentait la pluie brûlante.* ​ *Elle regardait avec horreur,* *alors que les lumières s'affaiblissaient,* *jusqu'à ce qu'il la trouve.* ​ *La potion du maître de cérémonie,* *un mélange de douleur et de feu,* *a été renversé dans ses yeux,* *et cela l'a fait pleurer.* ​ *Il l'a volée,* *fait avec ses jambes,* *a ensuite remplacé celle d'une chèvre.* ​ *Elle va maintenant nous rejoindre,* *la mascarade maudite* *avec le Diable qui l'a laissée mutilée.* ​ *Forcée de chanter,* *forcé à danser,* *avec les pattes crochues d'une bête.* ​ *Voici cette chanson, pour tous ceux qui l'entendent.* *Le plaidoyer d'une âme pitoyable.* *Jusqu'à ce que nous dépérissions,* *nous verrons la lumière du jour.* \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* ​ This song did she sing, captivated them all. The audience, enthralled by the voice of the dame, never cared for the words but cheered as she disappeared from the stage. Eliza was about to leave when the twin-headed blonde popped their heads underneath the velvet curtains. ​ She could see them clearly now under the spotlight. One head is that of a girl’s, grinning mischievously; the other is a boy’s, frowning in sorrow. ​ “C’mere with us, luv,” the girl beckoned. “Come with us if you want to see more what we have to offer. You might even want to stay.” ​ “Don’t listen to her,” spoke the boy. “Leave us and return to your loved ones before he finds you.” ​ The sister clobbered her twin on the head, silencing him. Before the brother could speak again, they vanished underneath the heavy curtains. ​ Curious of what the twins have said, she followed them as she did before. Pushing through the velvet, she found herself outside the tent. Confused on where they’ve gone, Eliza aimlessly wandered the circus grounds. It was already dusk, where the last rays of the sun are slowly waning and the full moon is steadily shining. ​ She stumbled upon another tent. It seems to be closed. ​ But that didn’t stop her from looking at the hole. There was a hole in the tent’s canvas, enough for her to squeeze in. ​ She crawled in... ​ And was met with a horrifying sight. A corpse was hanging from the rafters with a rope rung around its neck. A stool was inches away from the body as if it was kicked off and an empty bottle of acid was found under it. The tent reeked of burnt flesh and hair, it clung on to the rough cloth of the tent and the clothes of the clown. ​ Before she could even do anything, a pair of gloved heavy hands sprouted from the dark. One hand had a rag that was doused in chloroform and pressed it against her nose while the other hand held her body tightly. ​ Before her vision fades, she saw her captor. A large man dressed like a ringmaster, grinning at her with malicious intent. Then everything went dark. ​ \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* ​ A week passed by ever since that fateful night. ​ There was a new attraction that was to be unveiled in the circus. The posters of the upcoming event obscured a missing person’s flyer and the shouts of the performers drowned out the worries of two people. ​ Hundreds of curious watchers gathered in front of the new sideshow’s tent. The twin-headed clown was selling tickets out the front while the people clamored for seats. The show was about to begin. ​ The ringmaster, a stout man in a red suit and black top hat with a gold monocle in his eye, made his entrance. ​ “Ladies and gentlemen!” he announced. “We have a new show for you all tonight! Avert your eyes if you can’t handle the horror, I give you...” ​ Drumroll plays as the audience held their breath. ​ “No Face!” ​ The curtains were drawn as they all cheered. It revealed a man with dark hair. However, his face was literally blank. His face is pale as the moon, he had no eyes nor eyelids and his nose gone aside from the two nostrils like a snake’s. The only thing left untouched was his mouth, and it was grinning. ​ While the audience was watching, a couple could be seen wandering in the circus grounds. Weary and heartsick for their daughter, they decided to search the circus. They have turned the town upside down to find her, but they found not a trace. ​ The twins caught sight of them. The brother tried walking to them, but the sister stopped him. This time, he fought back and punched his sister’s head. That was enough to knock her out of cold. ​ He approached the couple. “Excuse me, sir and ma’am.” ​ The couple turned around. The husband was the first to speak. “Yes?” ​ “Are you,” the blonde awkwardly asked. “I mean, do you have a daughter by chance?” ​ “Yes,” the wife immediately replied. “Have you seen our Eliza?” she asked hastily. ​ “We have, but please forgive me and my sister. We didn’t want to, but we had to. If we don’t, he’ll slaughter us too.” ​ The twin-headed clown urged them to follow him. The parents could only hope that their precious girl is all and well. ​ But it was all in vain. ​ A little girl is singing an upbeat tune of circuses and flowers. Her short brown hair barely covering her face, revealing a large burnt scar on the right side. In her left hand was a pouch full of colored dust and a bouquet of white mums and red lycoris. ​ Their daughter is gone. ​ (Have a happy Halloween everyone, it is time for scares.

“My, you are bouncing off the walls today!” A tired mother watches her young daughter skip in haphazard circles around the kitchen table. “Have you had too much sugar today?” “Just a little bit,” the daughter giggles. “I’m pretending to ride a horsie on a merry-go-round. Mommy look, watch me go!” “I’m watching, honey, I’m watching.” The mother sighs. This crazy behavior has been going on all morning. If she doesn’t wear her daughter out soon, she’ll never finish paying all the bills. “Why don’t I take you to the carnival for a little while today? Then you can ride a real merry-go-round.” “Really? Oh, can I buy a stuffed bear? And cotton candy too?” “Don’t push your luck.” The mother smiles and ruffles her daughter’s wispy hair. “Put on your sunbonnet and sunglasses so we can walk there.” ​ Mother and daughter stroll hand-in-hand through their neighborhood, admiring each picturesque house on the way. The summer air feels hot and languid, almost suffocatingly so. When they are just three blocks from the carnival, the sound of a trilling calliope softly wafts into their ears. “We’re almost there!” the daughter shrieks. The mother smiles. She can’t remember the last time the two of them did something fun together. At last, they make their way through iron gates into a throng of lively carnival-goers. The daughter jumps up and down. “Where are the horsies? I can’t see them!” “That’s because you’re too short,” laughs the mother, lifting her daughter up high. “See? The merry-go-round’s all the way over there. Let’s go!” They have to stand in a rather long line of fussy people - parents and children alike - but it’s okay because they keep each other entertained with little games the entire time. When they finally reach the front of the line, a grandfatherly-looking carnival employee with shocking silver hair winks at the daughter. “The pink horse is the best one,” he says. “You’d better run and get it while it’s still open!” The daughter giggles and sprints toward the horse, leaving her mother alone with the carnival employee. “You should get on with her,” says the man with a knowing smile. “A youngun’ like that needs constant supervision.” The mother nods. “You don’t have to tell me twice. Oh, and thanks for supervising this ride... that is what you do, right?” “Yup! I’ve got control of that lever right over there,” he says, indicating a large metal contraption near the merry-go-round platform. “I should probably go and pull it now.” “Oh! Of course. I didn’t mean to hold you up. Have a nice rest of your day!” The mother flashes him a quick smile before joining her daughter on the platform. She lifts her daughter up on a hard plastic horse saddle, placing her hands lightly on the girl’s hips for extra security. The lever is pulled, and the ride begins. Gradually, the spinning platform accelerates, and every color outside the merry-go-round melds together in a whirling blur. As the ride goes on, the mother sinks deep into her thoughts, worrying about all the bills she has yet to pay. She thinks about how hard it’s always been for her to make ends meet with such a small salary. At least she’s been adding to a savings account all these years. Her daughter may never be able to have expensive North Face jackets like other girls, but at least she’ll have some money to put toward college. The mother’s brow furrows as more troublesome thoughts infiltrate her head. The trilling calliope somehow finds its way into her ears again and puts her in a near-trancelike state. Suddenly, a high-pitched yelp jolts her awake. In that moment, she realizes that she had unknowingly taken her hands off her daughter’s waist. Her daughter is slipping off the horse, falling, about to catapult off the merry-go-round into the colorful spinning void. Out of pure instinct, the mother grabs hold of her daughter’s outstretched ankle. “Stop the ride!” she hears herself scream. She yanks her daughter as hard as she can back onto the platform, but in the process, her daughter hits her head against a nearby pole. But she is okay. By now, the ride has screeched to a stop. Bystanders have noticed the commotion, but they remain frozen in shock. The mother suddenly feels a hand on her shoulder. She looks up, and gazes into the eyes of the silver-haired carnival operator. He pulls her up and hugs her tightly, whispering in her ear, “It’s okay now. You did it. I’m here.” Relief overcomes the mother, and tears roll down her cheeks. “Can someone call 9-1-1?” she asks, turning away from the man and lifting up her daughter. “My daughter might have a head injury, and she needs an ambulance. Quickly!” ​ \ ​ Two days later, the mother returns to the carnival. She wants to find that silver-haired carnival employee and thank him for making sure she and her daughter were okay. When she arrives, she sees a few employees scattered sparsely across a nearly-empty plot of land. They must be taking all the rides down for the end of the season. Approaching the nearest employee - a gangly young man with messy blond hair - the mother says, “Hello sir, mind if I bother you for a second?” He offers her a toothy grin. “What can I do for you?” “I’m looking for an older man with silver hair,” she says. “He was operating the merry-go-round yesterday, and I’d like to speak with him.” “Hmm, I’m not sure who you’re talking about.” The man scrunches up his face, deep in thought. “Wait a second. HEY!!” he yells at another young employee far across the grounds. “Weren’t you in charge of operating the merry-go-round all day yesterday?” The employee yells back a faint “yes” from his station. The mother looks up in confusion. Who was it, then, that she saw yesterday? “I think you’re mistaken ma’am,” says the blond-haired man, turning back to face her. “No one by that description works here, at least to my knowledge.” “O-okay,” says the mother, perplexed. “Thanks anyway.” She turns away from him and walks back to her car, an expression of wonder flashing across her face.

Eating Burger King in an empty kitchen for the fourth day in a row came with a bittersweet feeling that I would get to know well over the next decade. It felt like our parents were bribing us, distracting the children with fatty foods so we wouldn’t think about how everything we knew would be left behind. I was 8 then, the first time we moved country. I didn’t fully comprehend what it meant, but I understood that it would be a big change. I didn’t like change as a kid. It crowded my thoughts with worry. I wanted to run away, but worry is hard to run away from. So I sat there in silence, trying not to think about all the strange things I had heard about America. I looked over at my brother, who back then still had the thickest glasses a 10-year-old has worn. He was busy removing the pickles from his burger with utmost focus. It seemed the distraction was working on him. Maybe it would work for me too. I sank my teeth into the bun to see if I could shun away the sinking feeling in my heart. I tried to let the sensation of savory and sweet wash over me, but the moving boxes and blank walls filling my periphery still felt like they were closing in on me. I closed my eyes and focused. The bun was soft, sweet, and oily. As I chewed it gave way for the meat paddy, earthy and umami. Another chew allowed the sweet and vinegary sauce to overload my tastebuds. A pickled jalapeno mixed in with cheap cheese sent a warm sting through my mouth. The retinal image of the bleak walls were being drowned out by the flavors. ‘Enjoying the whopper­­?’ I opened my eyes and saw my dad smiling at my concentrated attempts at escapism. I answered him with silent chewing. The idea of moving was tough for me. My brother, always the rebel, didn’t seem too bothered by it, and my sister was too young to really understand it. My parents knew it was tough for me too. They tried everything to make me feel excited, or at least not as bad, but as far as I was concerned, the move was the end of my world. Anything they did was a consolation prize. ‘Change is natural’ My mom would say; ‘when one thing ends, another can begin’. This burger was one of defeat. A band aid on a flesh wound. I closed my eyes again. As I chewed the food, my mind started to wander around our house, how it had looked before all the furniture had been packed down and shipped off to America. The kitchen smelling of coffee and bacon in the mornings. The old leather couch in the Livingroom worn by years of children playing on it. The boys’ bedroom where my brother and I would play in the day and tell each other stories at night. Every room filled with my mother’s potted plants. I never wanted to leave. I never wanted to grow up. Eventually I swallowed the mouthful I had been working through. I sat with my eyes closed for a bit. I had placed my burger down, and to reach it for another bite I would have to open my eyes and return to reality’s bare walls. In blindness I patted my hand on the table. Maybe I could find a stray French fry to extend my stay. Bingo. The fry crunched as my jaw closed on it, like a firepit crackling in the backyard on summer nights, like the snow under my boots on the sledding hill in the winter, like rain hitting the terrace roof on a rainy day. I opened my eyes to dip it in mayonnaise. As I did the sinking feeling returned. I had forgotten how bare the kitchen walls were. I could feel it welling up inside me. I tried to reach for my fries, but there was nothing to do. Tears started forming in my eyes. I made an effort to keep it down and wipe them away, but my mother had spotted it. ‘Oh, what’s wrong sweetie?’ In a split second I was bawling. My dad swooped my me up and put me on his lap, and I curled up and wept into his shirt. The warm comfort of his embrace only furthered my tears. My thoughts were swimming through everything I would be leaving behind. My school, my friends, the small treehouse in the garden, the trails through the nearby forest, the small mound where we buried our rabbits, the old garage I was too scared to walk through, the car park where we drew murals of chalk on. My best friend in the whole world. I cried harder. ‘There there, it’ll be alright’ my dad’s voice soothed. After a little while my tears started to let up. My mom tried again, softly asking what had caused my sudden sadness. I voiced my concerns through a voice bubbling with tears and snot. ‘You’ll get a new school, and new friends. There will be new trails to explore, and a new carpark to draw in. And we can still call your friends here and send a letter to your old class.’ My head was still groggy from crying, and though I had been told this a hundred times I couldn’t quite focus on it. I reached out for a French fry and my mom pushed the carton over so I could reach. I slowly nibbled on it. ‘You know, fast food was invented in America’ my dad started. ‘I bet it tastes even better the way they make it over there.’ ‘Really?’ I looked up. ‘Really. And I hear it’s all they eat. And for dessert they eat donuts and candy and put ice cream on pancakes that are as thick as your arm.’ I dipped another French fry and let it crunch slowly between my teeth. I tried to imagine how it was possible to make this taste even better. My tears started to slow. Maybe America wouldn’t be that bad. ‘When one thing ends, another can begin’. Maybe my mom was right. I remember my thoughts shifting in that moment, becoming more excited about where I was going. The feeling pushed my sorrow aside, and while it wasn’t gone, it was nice to have something outweighing it. Sitting now by a burger king in the airport with the same bittersweet feeling, I try to recall what my mom told me. It’s hard to be excited for what’s to come when you don’t know what that is. The only thing keeping me in Seattle was a girl, and now that it’s over between us I’m not sure what’s next. Only that I need to move again. It’s almost become habit. This burger tastes like our first date. Awkwardly trying to read each other while sitting by a shopping mall cinema, worrying about if it was weird that I ordered mayo for my fries like a damn European. I commented on it, and instantly thought it was weird to bring up. She said the best way to eat fries was dipped in chocolate milkshake. For the next two years we always ordered an extra milkshake, just to dip our fries in. My sister will pick me up when my plane lands, and I’ll be home. I’ll stay with my parents for a while, while settling into the job and finding an apartment. There’ll be new people in my life, new trails to explore. I think this will hurt a while, but not forever. ‘When one thing ends, another can begin’.

Perry Penguin was waddling down the street one Thursday. As she strolled silently, she happened upon a peculiar person. The person was preparing pizza for the President. As the pizza person, whose name was Peter, pressed the provolone and prosciutto, Perry peered through the window. ​ That window, where Peter pressed pizzas, was washed on Wednesday, allowing an unobstructed avenue for observation. When the waddler watched, her wet wing waved wildly. A certain smear left by the slippery sap caught Peter's perception. Perceptive Peter the pizza presser peered at Perry. Perry peered at Peter, pressing pizzas, through the pane. Their eyes exchanged encouraging expressions. Now they knew they never knew their interest in inter-species intermingling. ​ Perry and Peter now also knew what was needed. As Peter placed his pressed pizza upon the peel, Perry peered persistently. The ensuing scene was somewhat of a strange sight. Pizzas puffed. Perry peered. Peter pressed. The President patiently prepared for his private pie. Peering persisted. Perry longed for lips to lick as drool dripped down her downy cheeks. The tense tension taunted the two. And the President too. ​ Peter placed the prepared pizza in a brown box to bring to the patient President privately. Perry edged eagerly to the edge of the establishment. Peter exited, exuding an engorged ego. He was happy to have had a hand in hindering the hunger of His Highness, the President. Perry popped imperceptibly into Peter's Prius, planning to profess her peculiar propagation plans to her new pizza-pressing pal. As they meandered mellowly to the White House, the tension tensed twofold. ​ That the Secret Service takes security seriously is no secret. Dogs, detectors, and dinging devices provided no privacy for the place where Perry pretended not to be present. Surprisingly the Secret Service supervisor said, "Penguins pose no potential problem to the President. Please proceed." ​ "Penguin? That thing that they think they see surely isn't stuffed behind the seat. Penguins? Please. Nothing in here but me and these," protested Peter, pointing to his pressed pizzas which were wafting waves of warmth from the westward-facing window. Another agent acquiesced and agreed to provide Peter a path to proceed. Peter parked his Prius in the place for delivering deliveries to the patient President, still preparing his palate for a private pizza pie. Upon his exit, Perry popped upward from her prone position, proving to Peter that a penguin was present indeed. ​ Peter and Perry peered, separated still by that pain of a pane. Peter's pizza would probably expire if the peering persisted. The thin crust could not contain a crunch when cold. Turning towards the towering topiary concealing the quiet porte cochere, the tan pizza man Peter inhaled. He had to hide his hunger--not for pizza, but for a particular penguin princess panting in his pizza scented Prius. ​ Following a failed and depressing delivery--you see, the President prefers pepperoni and pepperoncini over provolone and prosciutto--Peter plodded to his Prius. Returning his his kitchen, the cook craned his cranium and cried. Confusion came crashing upon him. ​ "Why did that intern, Imogene, not indicate in the order the toppings that tickle Trump's tastebuds?" "Has man previously pondered procreating with penguins?" "Will I waste away in Walla Walla pretending my preference is not perverted?" ​ Without a word, because beaks bar articulation, Perry gently patted Peter's head. Sadly sniffing, Peter started heaving heavily. Viewing the violent vomiting, the visitors visiting under the veranda vacated. Peter hated honesty with an awkward audience, but he had to tell this tiny-legged traveler to take a hike. No perfume could provide a pleasant cover for Perry's putrid parts. Perry just peered, plagued by shame and sorrow for a bleak tomorrow. On her way out the door, she took something more: an ample array of American anchovies. ​ Poor Peter done got duped by Perry Penguin's waddle and wave. Peter prefers penguins, people plainly perceive. An odd obsession, one would likely admit. Whether good or degraded, attraction attracts no authoritative action. No crime was committed, but when Perry entered the fray at /r/AITA, a unanimous union of anonymous humans fairly replied, "YTA.

“What happened and why are my feet wet?” Monica thought to herself as she slowly opened her eyes in the driver seat of her car, her head resting against the steering wheel. The haze in her vision was beginning to clear but the haze in her mind was not. “What happened and why are my feet wet?” she continued to ask herself until she realized she couldn’t see anything out of the windows except dark, murky water lit up by the dying headlights of her car. Panic began to sink in as Monica realized why her feet were wet. “I’m sinking! The car is sinking! What happened?!” Monica’s thoughts raced frantically as she tried to evaluate the situation she now found herself in. Instinct and panic led her to grab the door handle and push but with no luck. The door was locked. After realizing the door was locked, and that she had not fully found her way out of the haze, she unlocked the door. Even after the door was unlocked it wouldn’t budge. It was impossible to open with the pressure of the water bearing down on the car. The panic started to rise inside Monica faster than the water level in the car. Hyperventilating, Monica screamed for help, only no one could hear her. Tears ran down her face as she looked for an option out of the sinking car. As she glanced in the rear-view mirror she saw blood streaming from a gash in her brow, coloring her tears an unnatural red. “I’m bleeding?” she thought. In this thought, she noticed the blood on the steering wheel as well. “Great, now I’m going to have to clean the blood out of my car.” Monica thought before realizing that was the least of her problems. Panic set in once again. She needed to find a way out of the car and her panic and jumbled thoughts were sealing her fate inside this sinking tomb. A single deep breath was all she could spare to collect her thoughts and it worked, for now. “The window, I’ll break the window!” Monica thought. Looking around the car, there was nothing except her purse on the floor. Monica had always been a particularly tidy person, and thus never left anything superfluous in her car. There wasn’t even trash in the cupholder, let alone something big and heavy to break a window with. Even her purse only had her wallet, a couple bits of makeup, and her phone. “Phone!” Monica exclaimed. Monica lunged at her feet for her purse to grab her cell phone from it. She fished the bag out of the rising water and grabbed her waterlogged cell phone. Panic and desperation blocked her mind from even registering the phone was unusable. Frantically she tapped on the screen and pushed every button before throwing it in a tantrum. Then the thought of using the car keys came to mind. “I can put the keys between my fingers!” Monica thought. “That should be sharp enough to break the glass.” Monica reached for the ignition and pulled out the keys. This created a problem when the headlights turned off and suddenly Monica was thrust into darkness. Blindly, she reached up for the dome light and flipped it on. It was flickering and dim, but it would work for now. With the keys between her fingers now, Monica reared back her right fist and swung it as hard as she could at the driver’s side window. Thud. Nothing came of the swing but a horrible pain in her hand. Once more she cocked back and gave it her all at the window. Thud. Bloody knuckles and even more pain was the only thing this swing accomplished. With tears streaming down her face, Monica leaned back and put her entire body into her final attempt. Thud. Monica sat and looked at her blood on the window and dropped the keys as the crimson tears came in greater volume. It felt like a lifetime, but it had barely been 30 seconds since Monica had come to. With her hand throbbing and bloody, Monica decided it was time to use her legs to kick the window open. While trying to position herself, she realized she was still buckled in. Monica clicked in the seat belt and went to take it off when she realized it was stuck. Her stomach dropped as she realized not only was she trapped in a sinking car, but she was trapped in the driver's seat as well. She began to tug and pull on the seatbelt with her bloody hand realizing it was causing her too much pain and her grip wasn’t strong enough. Down to a single hand, she grasped at the buckle and in desperation tugged at it with increasing force as she let out a scream that took all the oxygen out of her lungs. The seat belt gave way as she struggled for air and she was free, yet still trapped. She laid down across the front seats and cocked her legs back ready to kick the window out and free herself. Thud. Just like the first punch, the first kick resulted in pain. Using both heels on the second attempt, Monica kicked the window. Thud. It felt like the bones in her feet were starting to crack but the window stayed completely intact. Again, out of desperation, she kicked the window with everything inside of her. Thud. This window wasn’t going to break before her foot. Out of options, Monica watched as the water rose steadily in the car. It was up to the bottom of the steering wheel now and it was cold. It was so cold. “It’s the middle of summer, why is the water so damn cold?” she thought to herself. The car was tilting forward as the weight of the engine pulled it down into the abyss. Monica had no clue how deep the water was, she just knew it was dark, cold, and rising faster with every second she hesitated. She didn’t even know which body of water she was in; she could barely remember driving. Was she drunk? No, she hadn’t had a drink in months. Why hadn’t she had a drink in months? She thought to herself. I always go out with my friends and have a good time on the weekends and that can hardly be done stone-cold sober, thought Monica. Then finally, the realization kicked in. This was no longer a fight just for her life, this was a fight for the lives of those in the car. The lives of the two people occupying Monica’s body. Monica was solely responsible for them both. Her failure meant the death of two now, not one. She became more frantic as the water moved past her waist. She clambered into the backseat as the water started to engulf the front of the car. With no success, she tried to open the back doors and windows. Her hand was still bloodied from punching the driver-side window, she knew that wasn’t an option. Monica screamed as she laid down across the backseat and tried kicking the windows again. Thud. Her feet were hurting, and the glass wasn’t budging. She couldn’t muster another kick as the pain became too much in her fragile feet. The front seats were underwater, and the backseat was starting to submerge. At this moment, Monica heard what sounded like the crack of glass giving way. She looked at the window nearest her and saw nothing but marks from her shoes. Monica dove under the water, pulling herself towards the front to find the source of the cracking glass. She touched the driver’s side window and felt a newly formed blemish. All the pain she was in seemed to be worth it with this discovery. This was it. This was the way out. At this point, the dome light was underwater and giving Monica a minor sense of direction in the murky water. She came back to the backseat for air and quickly dove down again to the driver’s side. She was determined to kick this window out and free herself and her child. However, being underwater made her kicks more worthless than they had been before. It was like fighting in a dream. The kicks were so weak they weren’t even causing her feet pain. Monica screamed with the last attempt, muffled by the water as the air bubbles rose. Monica swam to the back and resurfaced to find herself near the rear window clinging to what little air was left in the car. The water was soon to take over the whole car and leave her with no air. Leave her with nothing but water to breathe into her lungs. With her head pressed against the back window, fighting for each breath, Monica was scared, not only for her life but the life of the child she was carrying as well. Monica had never been a religious person, but in moments of desperation, any god is a god worth pleading to. “Please God, please, let me out of this car and I swear I will do anything! I need a miracle!” Monica begged. “I need to live not for me, but for my baby! Please let the window shatter so I can swim to safety! Please do anything! Do you hear me! Help!” Monica pleaded as the water took her head underneath and she took her last breath of fresh air. The dome light faded and left darkness. God never answered.

The library was always my favorite escape. Having spent the 3 hours of the day intermittently staring at my ceiling or scrolling through TikTok, it was clear a change of surroundings couldn’t make the morning any worse. Once I was done with bathroom hygiene and got casually (re: lazily) dressed, I headed out of the house and got on my bike. I considered leaving a note for my parents, but I figured a text would suffice. I made a mental note to send one when I got to the library. If it wasn’t too much trouble. By bike, the Valen Crawford Public Library was a twenty-minute ride. My dad always tells me he could get me there in five minutes, but my constant sense of environmental dread is just too annoying. Besides, I don’t want to be any more indebted to him than the bare minimum that comes with the father-son relationship. When I saw the building twenty meters ahead, a smile almost snuck onto my face before I instinctively suffocated it. Luckily, a few months ago, the township finally constructed a bike rack after an uncannily organized X campaign. As I braked at the rack, I noticed a little clique of prep-school kids, probably between 15 and 18, walk in. Anyone who didn’t know better would assume they were a bunch of diligent little scholars cramming for an exam. Not a motley crew of spoiled douchebags with more money than morality. My therapist would call these “automatic negative thoughts” but I fortunately learned to tune her out months ago. Once my lock was fastened, I took a deep breath and headed in. I was not surprised when I saw the preps sitting at my preferred table--over a dozen other places they could have sat and they chose to screw me over. I glanced at them for a second before I looked away, knowing that eye contact would have catalyzed something I was not sure I could have finished. Tactically, or cowardly, I head to the far right end of the building, five tables away from the preps. But, there are still too many people for my liking, so I take a left to the southwest corner. Thankfully, no one else was there, so I sat in one of the La-Z boys and unzipped my backpack. I retrieved my laptop, plugged it into the wall socket, and it was time to work. My latest scheme in the ten-year campaign to convince my parents I’m a writer is a horror anthology book. Well, “collection” might be a more appropriate term, since there’s no way I’m getting any collaborators to contribute. Not that I need or even want any of them. That was my mom’s idea since the stories were supposed to be written in various styles from the 70s to the New 10s. “You should reach out to some other writers. You could make some friends,” she said. For all my social deficiencies, I still had a better sense of how to hide my ulterior motives in a seemingly polite conversation. Twenty minutes later, I was still stuck on the first story: a tale about a platoon of Vietnam-era Green Berets haunted by a ghost or something. Many nights and strained eyes had brought me no closer to figuring out what I was trying to say with this story. Every idea was more cliche than the last, and the few “original” things I came up with were so ridiculous as to be summarily dismissed from consideration. The preps weren’t straining their eyes. They weren’t on the verge of a panic attack. They weren’t worrying about how they had already hit their physical/mental prime, forever pushing their dreams out of reach. They weren’t in the year thirteen of an inexplicable existential nightmare that hack therapists can write off as “clinical depression.” No, they were still in high school, partying through each day knowing their perfect lives were ahead of them. Their oligarch parents could buy or bribe their way out of any problem whenever push comes to shove. I stared at the laptop screen. My open right palm became a clenched fist. The heat around my temples flared. Suddenly, I slammed the computer shut. Nobody seemed to notice. From where I was, I couldn’t see the rest of the patrons, but I did faintly hear them--or, more precisely, the giggling of the preps. Shoving my laptop back into the bag, I got up and ambled along the library’s southern wall. I took a left down a row of books and pretended to look for a book on a shelf near the center tables. A few feet away, I could hear what the preps were talking about. One of them bragged about having the whole house to himself that weekend and how easy it would be to commandeer his father’s liquor cellar. My grip tightened on the book, my nails digging into the spine. That would definitely be a hefty fine if I got caught. My parents would notice if I were a hundred dollars poorer. I doubt their parents even notice them at all. But here I was, standing at this bookcase, impotently scratching my nails on public property. These preps would keep failing up while I sank into oblivion. They would rule the world while I would be crushed under it. The corrupt prosper from the innocents who suffer. Then and there, I decided: ENOUGH . I was no longer going to be powerless. My lot in life was not to simply suffer and die at the whims of the privileged. The power has always been mine. Their lies and sneers tricked me into thinking I was their lesser. Yet, standing so close to them, I could no longer ignore the obvious. What did money matter in an exchange of fists? When you stood before someone who felt the most unhinged contempt for your existence, what value was a new Rolls Royce or a stack of hundred-dolllar bills? Why doesn’t someone stand up to them? I stomp away from the bookcase. With my fist clenched, I move towards their table. The eldest prep looks up to me. “What the hell do you want?” “An escape.”

[WARNING The following story will contain writing and depictions of gore and other disturbing graphic description] It led me here.. it was still after me.. THEY wanted me... I've been running for what felt like hours, I shot a glance back into the forest, only to see nothing but the darkness from the dark night but I can still hear the running footsteps getting closer and closer... I made it out of the forest and I shot a glance back, out of breath and my heart skipped a beat at the terrifying sight of what seemed to be a young boy in the forest. I couldn't see its face, but it appeared to be grinning at me as it raised its decaying hand and pointed at me. "I̢̪̪̯̱̙.̶̗̠͓̪̪̖͉.̢͉̈́ f̵̵͖͓̣͔̝͗ͥ̓o̵̴̵̯̘̬̜͖̲̎̊u̵̷̡̧͖̲̦ͭ͟ņ̶̻͚̜̂̀̄d̲͔̠.̷̶̷̡̫̞̰̝̪̫ͤ̅́̌_̶.̶̨̛͚͕͍̤ ỷ̴̴̶̸̰̗̣̪̞͈ơ͓_̣̫̝̟͓̬ư̢̛̼͕͑̈.̰ͤͤ.̸̶̟̙̲̂ͪ͝ͅ.͍ͭ̂͑ . J̛̛͉͓͙Ȃ̷̸̴̡͔̥C_̟̣̲̉̃̂K̵̢̳̗̜_̡̧̛S̶̶̨̞̱̝̩̣̺̑Ơ̶͓̹̹̤̠N̳̠͕". My heart dropped.. IT knew my name.. I made an escape home and began locking all the doors and closing the blinds. When I took a peek outside through the blinds I couldn’t see anyone anymore. Thoughts raced through my mind.. what was that? How did it know my name? what am I gonna do?.. What CAN I do?... I suddenly woke up to the sound of my alarm, “Did I pass out from the panic attack from last night? I can’t remember...” The events from last night kept endlessly repeating in my head. Its words kept echoing in my mind, those soulless eyes.. It was like looking into a dark abyss. From what I could remember it was as if it was a corpse. I needed to investigate this further, but that was for another time as I was heading for work. While I put the tools and items in their place at work, David questioned me, asking if everything was okay. Clearly he was concerned about me. I filled him in on the nightmare from last night that caused me to have a panic attack. As he listened to me about the events he began looking shocked. According to him, I have been shivering since I got to work so he suggested that I go to a party with him after work. I was hesitant but I needed to get my mind off last night so I agreed. When we got to the party that one of our friends was throwing, I started feeling relieved and relaxed, that is until I noticed a kid staring at me through the window. But then he disappeared when I looked away for a second. I didn't know what to think of but maybe it was someone's little brother or kid that was dragged into the party but that still questions me, why would a kid be at an adult party? When I was just minding my own business enjoying the party, I suddenly felt cold as if someone or.. someTHING was watching me. I looked around only to see nothing but the crowd of people talking and partying. Maybe it's just my head messing with me. After the party I thanked my friend for inviting me but before I could walk away I noticed that same kid again.. just watching me from the upstairs window... I suddenly felt cold but then its eyes started to turn all black and lifeless just like the other kid from last night and it pointed at me and I felt my heart drop.. "J͉͓aͭ̀̆aa̴̸̢̛̬͉̘̬a͙̜̻_̧̨̛̻͚̺a̹̰͐c̥̲̫̰_̖̤̓̔́k̛͇̯_͈̤́s̴̜̞̬õ̶̧̞̘̠n̶̅͑~.̴̴̰.̬̪̼ͩ" I heard a voice right behind me in my ear... When I looked back at the window the kid was gone but I kept hearing laughter all around getting closer and closer until it went quiet... I looked up and it was as if nothing happened. I turned to walk back home but I saw a kid standing right in front of me staring at me with a wide smile and its head turned sideways as if its neck was broken, and was holding its stomach which looked like it was stabbed repeatedly and started walking towards me. I ran as fast as I could only to faintly hear a child screeching behind me getting closer and closer and suddenly... I was led back into the forest and I heard children laughing and giggling all around me but I couldn't see anyone except the darkness. How do they keep finding me? Why can't they leave me alone? As I sat on my knees in fear I looked up only to see 7 kids in front of me.. all of them just staring at me... Their smiles grew bigger and they all looked at me with their black abyss empty eyes and hands bloody with wounds like slit throats, stomach ripped open, and burned skinned... I couldn't move, I was shaking too much and in tears but was able to get up and make a run out of the woods and as I got further away from them.. all I could hear was they're constant screeching and inhuman child screams... As soon as I got home I quickly boarded up all the windows and doors as I was still hearing they're screaming and all I could hope for is that it'd go away soon... When the sun rose and hit my eyes from between the boarded windows I took a quick peek outside and thankfully the screaming children were gone... I quickly searched up ways on how to get rid of these haunting spirits and one was that they have to find peace or complete they’re unfinished business so that they'd move on or.. destroy the thing that they are trapped in.. I started to think... Maybe that's how I can end this once and for all... After I got all of the items I needed for those things I drove down to the forest again.., I need to end this, I can't let them haunt me anymore.., I need to get rid of them.. one.. more.. time... He got out of the car and picked up an axe, gasoline can, and a lighter and started walking into the forest... w꙲e꙲ were watching h꙲i꙲m꙲.., they were watching me... The giggling.. the faint silent screams of despair and agonizing pain.., I used to like it.. but now I feared it.., they wouldn't leave me alone... There he was.. standing right in front of us.. j̴̚ust̤͆ l̮̗̽ȉ̠̘ḱ͙͝e̒ t̃h̪e̩ daȳ̶̃ he͆_͆ k̒i̩̩l̴̺͛l̝e̷̖͛d uͬs̈́̓.̈́.̚. There they were standing right in front of me.. just like the day I killed them... And behind them.. they're dead rotten corpse buried in the dirt.., it was time I ended this... They all screamed in agony and started chasing me but after I swung my axe at them.. it was no use.. I couldn’t hurt them...H̪͛e̺͞ c̬̄ou͉̻̍l̝̓͘dͤ̄n̢̧'̷t̷ h͂u͕rt͔ u͍͊͡s͘ a̺͎nŷ̻m̹or̹e̙͓ͬ.̎.̩̒. He ran from u̖ṣͣ.. but w̵͛e̮͍ had a gift just for him... I could still hear them behind me.. they were getting closer and felt like something grabbed a hold of me but I managed to escape but I needed to end this, I needed to burn their bodies... I took out the gas canister off my back and started to pour it down as soon as I got back to their rotting corpses. As soon as I poured every bit of gasoline on the bodies they were just standing in front of me with no smiles.. I won... "HAHAHAHA CAN'T HURT ME NOW CAN YOU?!" I yelled at them but then.. they started smiling as soon as I lit the gas on fire and now I know why... He didn't realize that he tore a hole in the gas tank.. but before he knew.. it was too late... he panicked and started to burn alive and in the panic he didn't realize the cliff behind him. He fell.. he died.. finally.. after all he's done to us.. all 7 of us.. he died and suffered just like he did.. t͂o̴̴ u̺̎͌s̞.̞͓͒..̫̔

It had been twenty-four years since she'd last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. She was 12 years when she visited the place and now as an adult of 36 years ,she was visiting it.However,the place looked exactly the same. The place always had a special thing in her heart as she used to visit that park with her family and friends ,play there with them and enjoy with them every evening .She was having a nostalgia because memories are like that only .The best comparison of memories has to be with a 'box of sweets' because you go for one but end up with many .Aren't the special ? But what makes them special. The answer has to lie in their weird character. Isn't it weird that when you think of a good memory,you cry and when you think of a bad memory ,you smile over the fact that how you used to cry over that .She was also feeling the same as she remembered ho she used to enjoy here and cry when she used to fall. The park was just an ordinary park for her but now ,standing in the middle of the park ,she realised that it was not ordinary but special. What is the meaning of special . Does anything has to be a costly affair to be special. Well,in this materialistic world ,may be but deep down,we all know that special comes from something else .Special things are the moments which you have cherished ,the time you have spent with you dear and near ones or the journey that made you you,but for her, at that moment ,that park was the most special thing .She was crying and laughing and when you do that ,it means you are living a moment of present or sometimes of your past but that crying and laughing is indeed special... She went in every corner of the park and it was very relaxing for her .It seemed like every corner was talking to her .Every non -living thing was becoming living. She looked all around and started thinking that why she visited this place after such a long time .The answer lies in the concept of desires...What are desires ??To be successful or to be the best . Well,it differs from person to person but one thing is common that desires do make you selfish and when Gautam Buddha said that there is no end to desires,he was right. So ,for the materialistic things and her desires ,she went away leaving her hometown and this park as it is . When she was leaving,she felt bad but the desires to achieve more in life consoled her .Her parents wanted to achieve more and thus ,they went away and took her also from her hometown and ,then ,there was no looking back . Desires are like that only,you get struck in a web to achieve more and more and then ,there is no looking back .So,what made her come back here .It was the deal of her house in her hometown as her parents were dead and she had to sell this house to someone ,so ,she came here .She already knew that it would be an emotional moment for her but it was more than that ,it was her connection with her childhood. What is so special about childhood?The answer would be' everything'.When they say that childhood is like a holy scripture,they are right because it is full of purity and piousness .One can never forget it and the relations that one has made in it even with the non-living things and that was why she was feeling so connected .It was a routine for her to come here,she used to talk with the tree ,tell them everything going in her life as they were never judgmental and she knew that. Coming back in the present from her nostalgia,she thought and regretted that why she didnt come here earlier. and is it so important to be successful The answer is yes!!it is . Every person in this world has to have a goal to strive but is it essential to leave your roots for it . No!!we can maintain a balance too but humans forget this while running behind their goals and the result is that they achieve their goals but something is left in their heart ... A void.. Suddenly,she was interrupted by someone .That was th house broker ,he told her that he has come up with a very good deal for the house and then,he asked that you must be thinking that how the park has changed so much . On hearing that,she was astonished because she was seeing the whole park as it was earlier .Then ,suddenly, she looked around and realised that he was actually right ,the place was all changed because there was less trees now,obviously the world is going for industrialisation at the cost of environment .There were less swings now and less people .She then realised that she was looking at the park with' her own view' ,a view that relied and was built on her memories .She then told the broker that she will not sell the house and she told him that from now onwards,she will come here on a periodic basis because some things are not meant for trade,they are just near to you and so was that house and the park in front of that house have become her to now. She realised the importance of these things .The broker went away and she was happy and contented after so long. She again realised that in the park,everything was again the same as it was twenty-four years ago .Thus , a realisation came to her that we humans shoud see a particular thing with 'our own view' ,the view of others doesn't matter at all ,she realised that memories are special and the ongoing development and the craving for success can become very high but it can't take away your memories ,they will be yours till your last breath and the realisation that there has to be a balance and humans should start doing that because contentment comes from being attached to your roots .She knew that she could not visit the place for so long but the realisations were worth .'Her own view' was hers only ,free fro any external pressures and for her,"that was all that mattered"

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **** This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.).   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings/Spotlights are Tallied While I am first through third place system for spotlights, and also submitting to the feature myself, I think it’s only fair that you guys know how rankings are totaled. They work on a point-based system as follows: - **Upvotes:** 1 point each (no cap) - **Feedback:** 1 point each (7 pt. cap) - **User nominations:** 2 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 3 points each (I select 1-3 from the thread each week) - **Bonus:** When I announce extra points for things like using an additional constraint, filling out forms, etc. This ranges from 1-2 pts. (Not applicable every week.)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week - - Submitted by u/red_veteran   - - Submitted by u/TheLettre7   - - Submitted by u/rare27 - - Submitted by u/nobodysgeese #Rankings: Two Weeks Ago Rankings are finally here! Thank you so much for your patience. Everyone who submitted a story should give themselves a pat on the back, but I’d like to give an extra congrats to the following: - - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - Platinum Award   - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - Gold Award   - - Submitted by u/jimiflan - Awesome Answer Award   - - Submitted by u/bantamnerd - Hugz Award   *** ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

He started to walk. The party he'd just visited must've bored him. He's too high brow for that sort of crowd. Not in a vain or superficial way, he's probably not aware he is, it's just in the way he *is*, you know? His nose carried him forward. Might be a posture thing. How some people don't have bad posture *per se* - ooh per se's fancy sounding, I'm remembering that one - anyway, you know how some people dont look like they have bad posture at a glance but the more you look at them you find they - through no fault of their own, mind you - have bits that stick out a bit more? That's his nose. He started carving a path through the air with it. He'd barely finished closing the front door behind him, stepping out onto the pavement and turning his collar up against the cold before he'd moved swiftly on. His trendy but thin grey winter coat went even further down him than just the collar though, in unison with his long streaks of jet black slightly curly hair, it flowed in the wind and flapped about like the ears of a basset hound walking at his heel. I think that's called a simile, what I just did. Very clever of me. He walked on. Making short lasting impressions in a thin layer of recent rainfall with heavy soled boots. He'd narrowly avoided the peak of the rain spout, and it had reduced to a light drizzle by the time he'd begun his journey. All's the better for it though, the rain might've ruined the view. Maybe he wanted to leave that party even earlier but stayed because it'd started to rain. That could be good for character development. His boots seemed to walk him, with each plod and splat - onomatopoeia, *very* nice - his stride dominated the ground on which he treaded. Is treaded a word? Trode? Just trod? Yeah that's right. His stride dominated the ground on which he *trod*. The night went on, and even further he walked. Walking as if there were a drumbeat in his head. Dancing to his own tune. The symphony of city sounds around him formed a chorus he could hear all together with perfect clarity. Wait no hold on, he's got earphones in. They were blending into that scarf. Erm... No car that churned passed, turning rainfall into tidal-waves on the side of the pavement, nor any rushing of precipitation into drains could penetrate the wall of sound he'd constructed around himself. Shutting himself away from it all? Possibly. But mostly tuning the world into his headspace. He saw music wherever he went - I'm guessing. It chorused in his ears, a symphony of - I wanna say...rock? Yeah, some indie-rock band probably. It's playing at that annoying level where it's loud enough to be heard by passers by but not loud enough to be distinguishable or enjoyable to the rest of us. With a hint of undue, charming self-consciousness, he stuffed his large but delicate manly hands into his coat pockets, becoming a sealed circuit of - now... what to put here. I've just used 'manly' but a sealed circuit of manliness is what he looks like. He stuffed his large but delicate *masculine* hands into his coat pockets, becoming a sealed circuit of manliness. That's good yeah. I'm really proud of that one actually, well done me. Onward he walked. Fighting effortlessly through bracing mild winds. An electric tang on the air reflected his zest for life, the way the puddles in the road also reflected his zest for life. His coy lips curled into a brief courteous smile as a woman walking a dog skulked past him. No don't stop and ask him the time he has places to be. Why are you humouring this woman she's walking her dog at like quarter-past nine when it's just about to start pissing it down with rain again. Why are you even bothering to take your earphones out to hear her, she probably has a shrill voice. Dog probably smells too. Of course you have to be kind, it's in your nature, but still. Ok, checking your watch - god, there are those hands again. Alright good, she's buggered off. Now we can continue with the story. He walked further still, onwardly. Baggy brown trousers - seeping with black at their base as small droplets of water kicked upwards onto them - swayed back and forth with every pace. Rotating around a circular axis made by his thin yet sturdy legs. Now made aware of the city sounds following the brief removal of his earphones, he scanned his surroundings as he went along, taking note of the road by which he walked. The cars that rushed past. The skyscrapers towering over him. The people shadowing lights from inside busy restaurants that glinted different shades in his blue - no, green eyes. The street before and behind him. The people walking behind him, and parallel to him on the adjacent side of the street. Following this, he once again retrieved his hands from his warm, tight pockets, and hurriedly - no scratch that, hurriedly suggests worry, or fear; he needs to be relaxed. *Hastily*, yes that's good - and hastily checked the time. He only just checked the time, that's weird. His pace began to quicken now, as he both onwardly and furtherly walked, though jogged would now be more accurate. Although he'd resumed listening, he no longer strutted in rhythm with his favourite little-known band, and his boots squelched on the- shit he saw me didn't he. It's this bloody tape-recorder isn't it. I've got to start doing this just mentally, they take longer to notice.

The once-a-month cookery group would gather in what was called the Club Room of a residential complex in which the Pintos lived. Pinto’s wife Jay always hosted the event and the small group now came together. Jay welcomed the members. She was less than 30 and was good looking. She was dressed in a sari and her hair had been knotted into a bun. Kate was a member and she came dressed also in a sari. Jay told the group “Today we’ll see the new soup which can be heated and served even for a week. This will be demonstrated by madam Liyan.” Liyan who was of Chinese origin came wearing a flowered long shirt over loose pants with an apron on top, and showed how the soup was made. Members had a glass each to taste, It was found tasty enough and questions and answers followed about the ingredients and alternates which could be used. Next Kate showed how to make a cake with walnut topping. The cake was cut and passed round for opinion. It received only 50% rating. Kate was disappointed. She answered a few questions and the group then gossiped which was the main objective of the meeting. After the group dispersed, Kate was left alone with Jay. Jay knew that Kate was very disappointed at the low approval rating of what she had prepared. To mollify her, Jay said “There was nothing wrong with your cake except that it was less sweet than one would expect in a cake.” “Ask Pinto. Don’t tell him it was made by me,” “He returns only after 9 PM. I’ll call you and tell you what he said.” “You’re lucky you’ve a husband who never seems to criticise. Bye for now.” When Pinto came back Jay gave him a piece of the cake. He bit a piece and chewing it asked “It isn’t tasty. Change the supplier.” She said laughing “It was made by Kate.” “She has to give up cake making and stick to gossiping. I hate the sight of that woman whom you consider your best friend.” Pinto was a software man and ran his own business. He was of moderate height, lean, and had lost much of his hair. He was always pleasant to talk to. Jay served him dinner and said “I suppose you’ll be with the wordlists, dictionary and the PC.” “Jay you don’t understand. I’m a SCRABBLE* champion and hope to beat the present world champion Shakir Rashid. Unless I put in more effort how can I do it? I hope you understand.” She was silent. He continued “I’ve told you that the tournament to determine the new champion is just a week away in Kolkata. Should I not prepare?” She said “You’re continually neglecting me by getting absorbed in that stupid game.” “One of my big customers in Zurich wanted me to go over for a discussion. With the tournament coming up I’ve said Tabussum will represent me this time. She is well-qualified and experienced. That is the importance I give Scrabble.” “Kate said that even if I walked nude in front of you, you won’t look up from that Scrabble board.” “To hell with her! Always interfering in others’ matters and gossip! Now walk as she said and see what happens! Only make sure she gets to know.” Later they adjourned to the bedroom and it was late night when as Jay lay snoring, Pinto returned to his wordlists! Next morning Pinto asked “Jay have you spoken to Kate yet? What did she say?” She said “We womenfolk discuss many matters unfit for male ears. Anyway I can say with pride that Kate was wrong in her assumption of what you would do if I walked nude in front of you!” He said “You must allow me to pursue my goal. I’ve gone to several places abroad for tournaments and each time I’ve remembered you and got you something or other. Last time I was in Dubai and brought you the bead necklace which you liked. When I...........” “Enough! I’ve always appreciated your thinking of me at those tournaments. Continue with your dictionaries etc. I’m reconciled.” “I hope you’ll make it clear to Kate.” “You’ve a hatred towards her but she is my reliable friend. I confide in her.” She had told Kate about Pinto’s comment regarding the walnut cake. Kate told herself “I’ll get even with that........” “Whatever you may say I consider her a loose mouth and one who is venomous.” The day came for Pinto to fly to Kolkata and before he left he said “Jay wish me luck. I should be back in 3 or 4 days.” Pinto was lodged in Hotel Matrix in Kolkata where other players had also been booked as its tariffs were moderate. The tournament was scheduled for 3 days and he had booked his return flight on the night of the closing event. Matrix was a small hotel but well maintained and was particularly appreciated by foreign guests. Pinto was booked into a double room number 108. There were nearly 150 participants in the event and some of them had been booked into that hotel. The public hall where the event would take place was almost next to the hotel After an inaugural function the tournament started. Pinto was very enthusiastic and defeated many lower rated opponents. There was lunch when a lady he had played against and defeated came to him and said “Mr.Pinto I’m Olive Mukono from Kenya. I teach in a school in Nairobi and have been playing this game for 4 years. You’ve a mighty vocabulary! You so easily defeated me even though I defeated some players.” Pinto saw she was a black woman with pleasant features. Could be around 25 he thought. She was wearing a knee length dress which set off her curves. The curly hair on her head had been combed to the level of her neck and she looked quite attractive. He said “Nice meeting you here Olive. That is the way the game goes! Luck also plays a part.” They chatted for a time. Then it was back to the game. The game continued the second day and Pinto remained unbeaten. The game went on to day three. Pinto planned to leave by the night flight the same day and so vacated the hotel room as he set out for the game. At the game venue, he faced strong players. At the end when play was over, Rashid was the champion again, and Pinto came second. He was very disappointed. Pinto was scheduled to catch the 10 PM flight but he was told due to some reason the flight would leave only at 10AM the next day. Also came the news that there was to be a strike the next day starting at 6 AM, and those catching flights would have to leave from the hotel at 5 AM and wait at the airport. Now Pinto faced a problem. His room 108 had been taken by someone else. The hotel had been overbooked. Since there were no rooms, many including foreigners went to the reception to sleep and wait. Pinto found all chairs and sofas in the foyer had also been occupied. He was tired and frustrated and felt very sleepy. As he was standing there not knowing what to do, he heard a voice asking “Mr.Pinto, have you no room here?” He turned and saw it was Olive the Kenyan. He said “I vacated my room this morning and it has been taken by someone else. The hotel is full. I’m wondering what to do.” Olive thought a moment and said “Mine is a double room though I’m paying for single occupancy. Considering the difficult times, the hotel wouldn’t mind if you spent the night in one of the rooms. You could share my room. I’m making the offer in view of the circumstances, and noting that you seem a well behaved man.” He was wondering what to say. She said “I trust you. You can stay in my room.” “Am I not making a mistake?” he asked himself as he told her “I’ll sleep on the carpet.” She said “I leave it to you.” Inside the room he sat on the carpet on the floor and got ready to sleep using his bag as a pillow. He said “Let’s not lock the door.” “The hotel reception said it would be risky and guests have to take care that their belongings are not stolen. For me to feel safe the door has to be locked. You lie down. I’ll lock the door.” In the morning, Pinto left at 4.30 after waking Olive and thanking her. He was back home in time for afternoon lunch. He had called Jay the previous evening and told her about his change of programme. After lunch he said “Jay this time I had no time to buy some souvenir for you. It was a difficult trip. I wasn’t satisfied with my performance at the tournament either.” He told her about the difficulties he had faced except about having accepted Olive’s hospitality. He was sure Jay wouldn’t learn about that incident. A week later Jay stormed her husband “You didn’t tell me that you slept with an African woman .” He was shocked. She said “Reena from here went to play the tournament with her brother as escort and stayed in Hotel Matrix. She told Kate about seeing you with the African. Of course she told Kate not to tell me. But you know Kate!” He had a difficult time explaining the situation as Jay shouted asking what Olive had that she hadn’t etc: The usual charge sheet after having been provoked! He said “I slept on the carpet.” “If a man and a woman are together in a locked room , what else can be assumed? I’m charging you with marital infidelity.” She taunted him so much that he finally said “I accepted Olive’s help which is a mistake. I know it is something that no one can fix. If you still suspect me after all my explanation and want me out, let’s do it legally.” “If I say I forgive you, what would you do to atone for your sin?” He thought long and hard and said “I will give up Scrabble. Would that be adequate?” They were reconciled! The next day he donated his Scrabble belongings to the indoor sports section of the school nearby. Within himself he decided it was time to free Jay of Kate that gossiping ...... (strong bad words excised!) He consoled himself remembering what Omar Khayyam has said:” And in some corner of the hubbub coucht/Make game of that which makes as much of thee.” END *SCRABBLE is an indoor crossword board game where every letter counts with bonus points on premium squares and premium scores for creating 7 letter words.

For some reason or another, my master has fallen. Not in battle, but out of favor. Perhaps he was presented with a dilemma in which what he decided what was right didn't align with his patron. Perhaps he lost faith after feeling that nothing he did was truly enough. Perhaps he wasn't all that faithful to begin with. I stood by him for a time. After all, he was my master and I looked up to him. But watching the light in him die out was heartbreaking. He stopped praying. The smell of liquor clung to his tunic. He rarely smiled. He rarely spoke. When he did, his words were harsh and bitter. The day he pawned his sword was the day I chose to leave. Using what little I had in my pouch, I bought his sword for myself and set off without a word. It pained me, but he was no longer the man I had once admired. As I worked to become a full-fledged paladin, my former master was never far from my thoughts. I prayed from him every day, and swore that I'd find him again and lead him toward redemption.

(Chapter 1) My alarm goes off at 4:30 in the morning, and I struggle to open my eyes. My head aches from where I rested it against the bare concrete corner wall over the night, and my blanket had gotten pinched in between the bed and the wall, leaving me mostly exposed and cold. I shiver and exhale, letting my body try to catch up to my mind. As I attempt to sit up in my bed, grunting and groaning, I can feel my joints and my bones doing the same. I’m only 25, but age is starting to take its toll. I wonder how much it’ll hurt by the time I hit 40, or even 50. *If* I even get that far. I immediately try to push those thoughts out of my mind. *“Another day...”* I rub my face with my hands, getting the sleep out of my eyes. I glance around my dimly lit room, covered in cracks, grime, and mold. It’s a tiny square, with an ancient stove and sink in the corner opposite mine, and right next to it is a very worn out couch Mr. Ling is sleeping in. A door on the wall at the foot of my bed leads into the bathroom, and another door next to that leads into the room Ms. Laura is currently sleeping in. The only light in the room is a lone light bulb dangling from the ceiling, it’s glass cover long since been destroyed or stolen. The faint sound of water dripping from the sink less than a foot away and the snores of my roommates are perfectly accentuated by the whirring of a box fan on the floor. I can faintly hear the sounds of the city outside my window, like horns, some minor chatting, and the sound of food cooking. Upon stepping over to the window, carefully walking around the tofu boxes and the pop cans, I crack the window, and I immediately smell exhaust fumes, rain, and cooking tofu waft into my room. The smell is lovely compared to the smell in my room currently. I lazily look down into the street, down onto the people from my fourth story building inside this rats den I call home. It’s nowhere near as busy as it’s going to be, but a few people are still bustling around, getting their day ready. I wonder if they ever look inside, and wonder if anyone is looking out at them, wondering the same thing they’re wondering. 4:51 A.M. My body instinctively shuffles by itself over to the shower, my mind trying to take control of my body. I turn the heavily corroded knob, hearing the water gurgle and the air get forced out of the pipes. I place my large washbin under the shower head, and eventually the water thunders out, before petering out a few seconds later as the pressure in the line is relieved. I stare into the washbin, seeing the water fill it up, the sound and sight almost hypnotic. Snapping out of my trance, I turn the shower off just at the right water level, and the water gurgles and surges back down the pipes for more residents to use. I pick up the bin, my body a little wobbly from the weight, and I gingerly take it out of the bathroom and through the main room, being careful to not wake up my other roommates. I tiptoe into the main living room/bedroom, the washbin sloshing around like it’s trying to reenact ‘The Poseidon Adventure’, and I pass by Mr. Ling, snoring on the torn and heavily stained couch, his booze and egg drop soup spilled all over him, the smell appalling. His thin white hair is very long, covering most of his face, a face that’s travelled thousands of miles, and he could tell you a million stories about each mile. A very dirty and calloused bare foot sticks up on the armrest, the rest of his body covered from a heavy wool blanket. I look at the faded green door on the other side of the room, behind it is Ms. Laura, an American exchange student, talking in her sleep while her soap operas she likes to watch are still playing through all the static in the TV. I gently set the washbin on the stovetop, and with the squeaky turn of a knob, the hiss of gas and the click of the igniter, I begin to warm the water up. I head over to the fridge and pull some packaged pork and sealed rice and I throw them into the water to get them cooking. Mother would be proud of that little shortcut, using your cooking water as your shower water. Ms. Laura says they have ‘microwaves’ over in America, that heat up food with just a few presses of a button. Yeah, right. 5:02 A.M. While they cook, still sealed in their bags, I take another look outside, seeing the sun begin to rise over my home of Hong Kong. The traffic is starting to pick up, and the world begins to turn again. The streets are starting to see its first commuters, the street vendors and shops below unlock their doors with clacks and thuds and the roll up doors slam open, trying to be ready for the morning rush. The street lights begin to turn off, and a few of the signs of the vendors flick off as daybreak is upon us. A glance over at the pan reveals hat the food is done, so I gently take the bags out of the water and I tear open the bags of pork and rice, dumping the pork into the rice bag. I then grab some soy sauce from the cupboard and I toss a few drops in. I then turn off the heat to stop the water boiling as I eat my breakfast. As I sit down on my bed, Mr. Ling stirs in his sleep, tossing and turning, making the blanket fall off of him. “M-Muu... uuuugh... *hic* I-I love... you...” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around himself as he feels the heat from the blanket get lost. “N-nooooo... pleeease... don’t go...” I glance up upon hearing that, must be the prostitute he rented out last night. Not that I can judge the man too harshly, he just lost his wife. I damn myself for smirking and I pick up the newspaper sitting on the back of the couch. Looking at the date, the old newspaper is from June 14th, 1988, last Tuesday. Oh well, it’ll give me something to read. Looks like... 600 Americans have all congregated here for some business meeting or something. Figures, Americans trying to fix problems that aren’t their own. Biting into my pork and rice, with a grimace I realize the pork still a little cold in the center. It’s food, at least. That’s a lot more than what most people in this place have to eat. I turn the paper over to the next page with a crinkle and a snap, and I see Tian Jiyun is going to meet with the London Stock Market to see if they can send people to learn how the stock market works. Oh, joy. 5:32 A.M. I quickly down my food, throwing my empty bags into the trash. Grabbing the handles of the washbin, I forgot to grab some old shirts, and my skin touches the still piping hot metal. A silent dance and some very quiet cursing later, I take some cold wet rags and put them on the handles, chilling them instantly. A quick jaunt over to the shower again and I can finally get my day sort of started. I undress, feeling the cool and sharp porcelain tiles make contact with my bare feet, sending shivers up my spine. I step inside, and take a tiny bit of water and wash my hair, repeating the mantra in my head as I lather my hair and body as best as I can. “2, 6, 9, 9, 3, 3 goes to 32, then to 11, and 12...” Over and over and over again, while I dump the still somewhat hot water over myself. Ms. Laura always talks about how this is downright archaic compared to the West. Maybe it is, I wouldn’t know. Nor do I really care, honestly. That place is very, very far away, and there are more important matters to worry about than what ‘could be’. I dry off and dress up, putting on my white button up shirt, blue pants, and black boots. I quickly dress my hair, and take one last look at myself in the grungy mirror, adjusting my name tag. I put on my smile, and I walk out of my room and down to the street, heading down to the post office to pick up my rounds for the day. “12 goes to 36, but not 24. 7, 7, 9, 10, back to 9...” My name is Mir Lui, and I’m the mailman of Kowloon City.

I set up my easel on the edge of the lake. Never have I chosen a more perfect spot; the reflection of the sun had created a beautiful sparkle across the water. This scene brought me great inspiration. I could use a dark sapphire here, some baby blue there... Yes, this is coming out great. I got my paints out of my bag and, feeling brave, started applying them directly to the canvas. As people passed by in canoes, I added their rough shapes to the painting. It was coming along well. I’m normally very critical of myself. How could I not be? All I was ever given is negative criticism, which constantly confirmed my view of my work. My parents were always engulfed in my sister’s many talents and interests, and never bothered to pay very much attention to me. Not that I didn’t love and admire my sister; she passed many of her skills on to me. She gave me art classes every week, making sure I didn't fall far behind. I think she felt the injustice of the way our parents treated us. They always pitted us against each other, making me feel inadequate. In the thirty years of my life, I have never beaten my sister at anything. Despite her only being a year older than me, I felt I was always at a disadvantage. Sometimes I thought she was withholding some of her knowledge from me during our classes together, to make sure she always remained slightly superior to me. When our parents passed away, my sister never reached out to me. It was as if the only reason she maintained our relationship all these years was because she needed me to quench her thirst for competition. Although she went on to sell many of her art works in the years following their death, I must say my sister’s paintings have suffered severely in quality, and her art has never been the same as it was back in the day. I snapped back into reality, where I stood silently by the lake, my paintbrush in hand, waiting to make a stroke on the canvas. I dipped it into the paint, but to my surprise, found that it had dried up. How long had I been standing here? I looked up. The sun had partly set, and stars were starting to spread across the sky. It was only morning when I set out for the lake. I suppose I got lost in thought. Sighing, I started packing up my supplies. I was so prepared for a productive day when I set out this morning. I was about to start spiraling down a road of self-hatred and doubt, when I noticed something floating in the water. I took a few steps towards the lake, expecting to find a friendly duck waiting for a bit of food. Hm, that’s a peculiar shape, I thought. No, this was no duck. As I took a breath, I noticed a sour stench in the air. I suppose the lake isn’t as clean as it used to be. People these days, with their awful littering, have no respect for the beauty of nature. I got a bit closer. Whatever it was, it had a large shadow below where it was peeking out of the water. But what was that? It looked like... A pair of legs. I realized that the large shadow was the torso of what once was a person. Feeling inspired, I smiled and began to paint.

His eyes are ocean-blue, deep, mysterious, and focused tightly on me. Shaggy brown hair is pulled away from his face, tangled in the back like he cared not for how it appeared. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know where I am. “Do you see it?” I pulled away, his breath stinking heavily of peppermint failing to cover up the smell of smoke. His fists clenched with such an intensity, I felt small and insignificant and unworthy of his attention. I found my mouth to speak, my throat so dry I couldn’t remember the last time I spoke. In fact, if it weren’t for his prompting, I wouldn’t have even tried. “I-I-” I sputtered, testing my voice and forcing down a cough climbing up my throat. “Where am I?” His eyes glinted with pride at my question, and I fought the urge to vomit. I wasn’t safe, that was clear. But even though the dark, dingy room seemed to hold me captive within its walls, I was not restrained. I could theoretically stand, if my legs would hold me. The man turned toward his computer, leaving me to contemplate my situation on my own. “It will come to you.” He smirked. “You’ll know before I even have to tell you.” I contemplated standing, but another part of me knew it would end up in my falling to the ground. The concrete ground would scrape my knees, my hands would reach out and falter under my weight. The unknown man in the corner will turn toward me and hiss for me to be careful, or I would ruin his hard work. Injuries, minor or major, were not allowed. His hands, rough and calloused, would lift me up and back onto the chair by my waist. And I would try and shrug him off, hissing with a weak voice I did not need his help. Of course, he knew I did and would not leave me alone. “Who are you, and what do you want from me?” My voice will be demanding and sharp, but the throatiness and weakness of it I could hear easily. I reeked of the fear that came with the unknown. Shivers ran down my back, and I will think of how cold and hard the bleak room was. I retreated from the memory quickly, the transition jarring and sharp. Bolting up from my chair, I tumbled to the floor in front of me, my hands reaching out to shield my fall and crumbling under me. A familiar sting to the knees overcame me, and I struggled to stand and ignored the sigh of the man at his computer. What on earth? His voice came in a low hiss. “You have to be careful, injuries, minor or major-” “Are not allowed.” I breathed, trying to wrangle away from his strong hands, lifting me up by the waist. A thin smile blossomed over his face, making him look much older in an instant. Yet he carried the enthusiasm of a child who had gotten just what he wanted for Christmas. Giddy and excited, the expression seemed unnatural. “Who are you, and what do you want from me?” I recognized my voice, the words slipping out before I had time to think about them. Deja vu washed over me in waves, this was the second time I had experienced this series of events. I remembered it before it even happened. The memories became faster, rushing through my thoughts before he even had a chance to respond. I knew the answer, and more. Images and feelings coursed through me like lightning, heat flashing through my body while the memories came hot and fast. His voice, double-speed explaining how I was an experiment. My eyes focused on the picture frame hung up on the wall beside his computer, a girl in a loose red shirt smiling with purple paint splattered on her face and hands. My legs wobbling as I took a few shaky steps, until I managed to keep my balance, the man hovering nearby in case I tripped up. The taste of an apple, crisp and sweet against my tongue. A hunger I didn’t know was there fading, questions flying out of my chapped list irritating the man who claimed if I was patient I would learn soon enough. He knew, the thought was future me and past me jumbled together. He knows this is happening, he wants it to happen. With a spell of dizziness, I was catapulted back into the chair. I wiggled my fingers and felt my toes, I felt completely normal despite my weakness. And the man was still talking. Whatever paradox he had thrown me into, it was not fun to be bounced around in my own head unpredictably. But I couldn’t interrupt him and tell him I already knew, could I? Because then the future I saw would be incorrect, I wouldn’t get the explanation. My thoughts ran rampant with the possibilities, the concepts and theories. It all came back to the memories from the future. “Essentially, your brain has been tweaked to work in reverse-memory. You can remember the future, but not the past.” I inhaled, the memory of it fresh and a reminder of the time loop I had going. “It will last forever, it is non-reversible. Though, of course, you already know that.” The fury and frustration I had hearing him tell me the first time made sense, it was like being goaded with a treat and then being told you already had it. But this time I understood. He understood. But it didn’t mean I liked it any more. “I’m going to be stuck in this cycle of deja vu forever.” I repeated, my knuckled tightening around the armrests so tight my knuckles went white. I didn’t recall asking the question - it seemed like my memory wasn’t perfect from the future either. His brows furrowed, and he pursed his lips tightly together. “I’m afraid so. I’m going to need for you to share with me what it is like though.” My mouth fell open. I was sure I had not been asked this the first time, this was new. Not just a slip of something insignificant, I would remember this. “But I don’t remember -” He waved his arms for me to stop. “Time will almost never play out exactly how it did before. It is ever-changing, hence the paradox is taken out. You didn’t need to actually hear me explain the concepts again, you would still remember, it’s just time would break off down a different path.” “Would I remember the new path?” I asked, my hands loosening from the arms of the chair. He sighed. “It will come more naturally over time, and it won’t always be so clear. Right now, your brain is figuring out how to access these memories. Eventually it will be more dull and you will know more vague ideas you can call upon at will instead of being sucked into it.” “You knew I had already seen the future.” I ran my fingers through my hair, surprised when they fell through it easily without knots. It was such a blasphemous statement to say, one I would never have imagined letting fall from my lips without a second thought. “You finished my sentence, and you were visibly bored when I went through the explanation.” He shrugged as if it were perfectly normal for him to know such things. “I can’t control it, it’s got a mind of it’s own I can’t-” I stammered, my words tripping over each other until his heavy hand came over my shoulder in a strangely paternal gesture. “Idaya, it’s mind is your mind. You will come to control it, not the other way around. There is nothing to fear here.” I fought the urge to jump up and run, opting instead to take a few shaky breaths and calm down. In that moment I lurched into memory again. It was less chaotic, slow, rather. Different from the previous events, these had a layer of fog separating them. The clarity had reduced, leaving only vague imprints of events, feelings, and thoughts. Me and the man, in deep discussion about what travelling through memory was like. Discussing the impermanence of it - I could not remember individual words but rather what I gleaned from them. I remember eating an apple, not the acidic taste on my tongue but the concept of eating it. Removing myself from the memories came easier this time, for I had never truly disconnected from reality. I remained aware and conscious in the room, the memories taking over my subconscious and filing themselves away without my control. He was right. It would sort itself out . “You just returned?” His voice lifted at the end in question, his hands glossing over papers sprawled over his desk. Pausing over a frame of a girl in a red dress. “I never really left this time.” I swallowed hard, nodding to myself. “It’s getting easier.” He nodded, and his smile was smaller as he walked over to the chair and offered me his hand. I glared at it. “Why did you do this to me?” The question was sharp and accusatory, but he did not seem to take offense. “Oh, you already know.” And I did, I realized. The mere thought of it summoned information taken from the future, beyond consciousness. He had made me this way because I would be a tool for him. And the prospect of escape would never be an option, unless I wanted to spend my life in a lab with my brain being dissected. And I knew this with perfect certainty. Begrudgingly accepting my fate, I put my small hand in his and allowed him to lift me up. “Nice to know you, Jason.” I taunted, my mouth turning up into a crooked smile mirroring his. “I just have one request.” He nodded, hesitant, not knowing how big my demand would be. But it was nothing big, just a tiny desire. “I would like to have something to eat.” His face flooded with relief, and reaching into his bag, he pulled out a shiny red apple and handed it to me. “Thank you.” I said, biting into it and tasting the crisp, sweet flavour against my tongue.

Poor Wilson! One day his friend caught the perfect climate long awaited to go after his tail. Before he could even realize that what seemed to be his stroke of luck was really one of fate’s dirty little tricks. This happens the moment you are a slipshod to a quaint you never thought of coming. After twelve years to wake up at midnight and a thought of revenge comes creeping in. Raga staring at the rotating fan of his ceiling, jaw clenching, and his fist rumpling the sheets of his bed, reminiscing. What was thought to be oaf is now repulsing, like a respirator on his mouth, his heavy breathing caused not by a tremor now but of his merciless anger. Twenty, now twenty years of age to finally get out of the cage. His consistent moving and packing, the loudest of his crying woke a father that was sleeping. “What are you doing?” father asks, "Son, where are you going?" one eye open as the brightest light disturbing his sight. “Back to the old place, father” to get some things done, something felonious, as he slip a pistol inside his bag secretly. “Oh, well, send my regards to Mr. Wilson’s” rolling over the bed and cover himself in sheets, a smile on his father’s face that knows nothing but of this Wilson’s fake grace. Regards?! You might as well say goodbye for this fellow will soon die. Quickly packing to go on his journey, a conquest it is. As the ground rumbles and stone stumbles, the train arrives to get him back to the past, to go and make an end of an unfinished past. To think of this eight years old Wilson’s smiling face, cheering from a success of making him piss, the thought of it every second adds to the urge of Raga’s vengeance. The train is moving so fast like a portal way to this memory, a flashback of an eight year old Raga, a quietude in his third grade and Wilson is there too, of his obverse. Like the head and tail of the coin, the same world of different faces, his opposite occurs. Throwing papers to someone who didn’t do, nothing, to make a boy cry with no reason, he doesn't know why. Wilson seems to be fast to get on his nerves. After twelve years, only after twelve years, why wait twelve years? To wait being twenty to suddenly get the urge to go on his way and make a move, make Wilson out of this way. Only then he get to stand straight on his own, his eight years old self was a turtle to never get out of his hard shell, lost and alone. The rumbling stops at the station. He have arrive, taking the first step out the train following by more steps and more, fast and quick like he got wheels in his sole. His sight paste on the white house at the end of this old street, walking as the hindsight playing. Staring at the house with the brightest light in the neighborhood, a sight of ghostly figure of kids playing while, it was then, he was whining, his anger seems to never be stop but keeps on forwarding and growing, and growing. There, behind the bushes, he put his bag down and cover closed with leaves, reloading his gun, practice a perfect aim and how to pull the trigger, and hide it in his jacket he goes on and on. Continue his walking, his jaw clenching all the way, his fist rolling, with a fine black suit, he looks to be like in a mafia, he is now finally ready. Unstoppable as he goes, standing in this fellows front door, one knock, two knocks, and three. Holding the pistol inside pocket, his finger is holding the trigger, preparing a pull, he is very ready. Waiting and wondering if this Wilson can still recognize the face of this kid’s sad eyes. The door creaking, could Wilson be the one opening? Standing and waiting, and then a bald man appears after opening the door. “Mr. Wilson?”, yes, it’s him, there’s no one else. This young man’s face changes through the years, the eyebrows in his face disappears, but a frown on his countenance is in sight. Who was once healthy and active boy to never stop running around and picking on other kids, is now battling from cancer after all those years. “Is that you?” Wilson, squishing his eyes trying to recognize a fellow he always long to find. Staring blankly, a long pause, of what he sees in front of his eyes, his teary eyes, trying to not show and sympathize. But no, he must go on and continue, for years and years of suffering by his doings, he must go on. He is here, standing, so close to his goal, pulling out the pistol and then the trigger...there's no going back, he is here, present and the past standing in front of him, there is no way of going back. Bang! Bang! Bang! Shooting him in the head three times, in Raga’s head, he is now dead. Bang! Bang! Bang! Another shot he whispered to himself, he is dead, he is dead, he is finally dead. “Raga, is that you?” this young man ask again and clarified. He doesn't seem to talk because a lump in his throat cause and blocked. Raga, as silent as he always was, never said a word, one step back and three steps down, walking away, he is to going back home now. “Raga?” he wonders again, as to only see the back of his friend slowly walking to an end. Down he walks of their childhood street, as tears finally drop, not from fears. It has been reprieve, that was it, replenished. To see a friend is what it mean, always been. That was why, after twelve years he have to go and see him even if it is only to drop by. Looking back at his old house where he find the eight year old Wilson throwing stone at his window from the backyard, to go off and run with him through the night, to laugh over anything with no sense, two kids who are opposite to become friends in an unexpected ways, a bully and the bullied to end up as best friends. For one who rarely to socialize and one to running his mouth all day. One day to go and separate their own ways, Wilson to have another friend. And Raga, who became another lonely lad at high school as hate emerged of why, he seem to not understand why, but envy, he is suppose to stay. Walking back home, to the present, and to realize that he was his long lost friend. After he moved to another place, only then Wilson, without the other face of his coin, he have no one to call a best friend. For a social butterfly, Wilson, after Raga left, he have never want to see just any other passerby. -END-

**** The clock ticks. It will keep ticking. For exactly One Year. Unus Annus. Twelve months. Fifty two weeks. Three hundred and sixty five days. Each day, a task must be completed. Well, not just normal tasks. Tasks that incur suffering and pain. Tasks that punish and torture. Consume that which is made with the tools used to exercise grotesque erotic urges. Build and destroy utilising only horribly deformed limbs. Go blind to see death. Go deaf to hear death. Go numb to feel death. These are but some of the cruel tasks that await. For there are three hundred and sixty five of these tasks. All different, all unique, all with the intent to make you wish you were doing anything else. But you will have to live through it for One Year. Unus Annus. They are not unlike the labours that Greek heroes had to go through for their abundant sins. But instead of twelve over twelve years, such as those of Heracles. It is three hundred and sixty five over three hundred and sixty five days. The hardship and stress of the Labours all compressed into One Year. Unus Annus. But what great sins are you atoning for? Living a wrong life, which brought suffering upon many and desecrating the sacredness of family, like Heracles did? Or living a life that was not wrong enough, not taking risks, missing out on an opportunity which was only presented to you for a year? And for having missed that opportunity, you must now be punished for another. Perhaps, you have not committed great sins, and instead you are a martyr, suffering for what you believe to be a greater cause, suffering for the sake of others. A selfless act of sacrifice, which is amplified by the fact that it lasts One Year. Unus Annus. Regardless of why you must live through this, there is only one thing that you can ask of those that witness your suffering. Ask them that they don’t follow in your footsteps. Ask them to never attempt to re-enact this atrocity. Ask them to watch and learn from you. For you know what horrors this year holds. Horrors that develop and fester in new forms every single day, finding new ways to abuse you physically and mentally until you are exhausted in every way possible. It is only to hope the fatigue sets in near the end of this One Year. Unus Annus. So, are you prepared for this journey? Are you prepared to drag yourself through a year of pain? The answer is likely no, but it is too late. The mechanism has already been set in motion. Oh, and if you thought slacking was a possibility, that you could perhaps find ways to postpone this terror, it is not recommended. Clear goals have been set. If you achieve these goals in time? Good for you, the suffering will be made infinitesimally more bearable. But if you do not achieve them in time? It will only incur more suffering. So just put up with it until the end. What does the end bring you might wonder? Release. Freedom. All that encompassed this year of suffering will cease to exist, as if it never happened. The only evidence of your suffering is your own trauma. Will you persevere and reduce this ordeal to nothing but a faint memory? Or will you succumb under the overwhelming prospect of three hundred and sixty five cruel tasks? There is no need to answer this now, just remember Memento Mori. Unus Annus.

I have attended many graduation ceremonies through the years. First as a student, then as a professor, now as a psychologist for Repair Hope. This graduation was a bit special. Rhiannon Tremayne is simply, one of a kind. As her psychologist, I am proud to be part of this moment in her life. Cary Alden, my dear friend, and founder of Repair Hope sat on my right and on my left the indispensable Mrs. McCarthy, the household chatelaine. Cary sat up tall as the president of the Hospitality and Culinary Arts program moved toward the platform. I saw Mrs. M. retrieve a hankie from her purse with which to dab her eyes. A smile crossed my face as I saw Rhiannon standing in line. We were all so proud of her. She snuck a quick look back to see where we were seated. The President of the College began to read names. As I watched Rhiannon walk across the stage to accept her diploma I felt a deep sense of pride. Her radiant smile was nearly as big as her petite frame. She looked very sophisticated in the beautiful cyan blue suit Mrs. M. gifted to Rhiannon for this auspicious day. She looked so different from the day I met her at the Repair Hope office. Rhiannon and I came to Cary Alden’s Repair Hope network like wounded falcons. The Cary did not clip our wings to keep us safe. Instead, Repair Hope tethered us to a foundation of life until we were ready to fly on our own. Hope never breaks the desire to soar it affixes one to a focal point to which we can return time and time again for strength. After the graduation ceremony there was a party at the Repair Hope house/office. (they were one and the same) The Tremayne family, Rhiannon’s parents and siblings, had come to celebrate with their college graduate. I stood talking to a few of the young people Rhiannon invited to the party when Mr. and Mrs. Tremayne came and stood by my elbow. I excused myself from my current companions to address them. “Mr. and Mrs. Tremayne, I’m Emma James it is wonderful to meet you.” I said. Rhiannon was such a lovely girl it was obvious they’d done an excellent job raising her. Mrs. Tremayne, a bubbly woman about my age, said “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you Dr. James.” “Call me Emma, please. I feel so old when people call me Dr. James.” I laughed. Mr. Tremayne said “You’ve done wonders with our daughter. We expected that one day Rhiannon would do great things, but we never would have fathomed how far she’d come in just a short time. She’s polished and professional!” “I assure you it’s all Rhiannon’s doing. She was very motivated to learn! She soaks up all that she can from those willing to invest in her education. Your family has been her inspiration.” I replied happily. Just then Rhiannon walked up to her parents and spoke, “Mom and Dad, it’s time for me to change into my uniform. I’m going to help Mrs. McCarthy prepare the food right in front of everyone! Why don’t you come sit down? I’ve already seated the rest of the family. They drifted off to the dining room where the food prep was about to take place. Mrs. McCarthy and Rhiannon were very excited about the demonstration. As the dishes were brought from the Kitchen for preparation I moved to the back of the room. My mind began to drift back to when I first met Cary Alden. I became acquainted with Cary on the heels of his graduation from medical school. He was already a talented surgeon. Hospitals all over the world were clamoring for him. I was a PhD candidate at State University of Albany. I was young and ambitious. Cary dreamt of helping the world through medicine. I was competing to become a professor of social psychology. I was tough, and passionate. He was driven but compassionate. We made unlikely friends. Cary was, and is, a quiet, gentle, yet, an incredibly brave man. His heart is as big as the ocean. In my early years I was “as bold as brass”, Cary liked to say. I wasn’t going to change the world, I was going to beat it into submission. I was, and continue to be, gregarious, an open book, opinionated and fiercely protective. We may have been very different back in our college days, however, we did have one trait in common, loyalty. A fierce ally of friends and family, almost to a fault. Cary would prove this not just to me but to everyone around me in the years to come. In 1977 I earned a Teaching Assistant position at State University of Albany in the Psychology Department. My supervising professor was a brilliant man, though a little quirky. For several months we worked together very well. Then he began to rely on me for everything. For an entire year I taught classes, graded papers, helped him with his daily planner, kept his meetings with his students and helped him with his medical appointments. Professor Gilland was dying of cancer. He said he wanted to “stick around long enough to make sure I got his teaching position.” He did live long enough to ensure that I got his teaching post. It didn’t make me popular, at first, but it did make me a full-fledged professor directly after I graduated with my PhD. That was rare at SUA. Over the years I became a highly rated teacher, professor, ally to the college, a fundraiser, and I helped out at the free health clinic on campus when I could. The only thing I did not have time for was a personal life. My friends got married, had children, did all the usual “mom or dad” things while I graded papers, did adult continuing education lectures in the city, and kept an exhausting schedule on the world lecture circuit. For the most part I enjoyed my life. The students kept me sharp. My well-meaning friends often tried to fix me up on blind dates, find me suitable escorts for various functions, and planned dinners where there just happened to be a single guy seated at the table. I met Cary, quite by accident, at a function for the college. A black tie affair where I was to present a legacy award to a fellow professor. The college insisted that I couldn’t possibly attend unattached, so they put me at a table with a visiting archaeology lecturer from Oriel College in Oxford. While he was quite charming, he was in fact a full 2 inches shorter than I even though I was wearing flats, not to mention the fact we had very little in common. As the long night wore on I stepped out of the hall for a breath of fresh air. Standing against a wall apparently taking the air himself, was Cary Alden. All 6’ 3” of him. I startled him, he startled me, then we both laughed. I must have looked like a deer in headlights because he was quite honestly the most handsome man I’d ever seen in person. I introduced myself. He said he recognized me from my picture in The Annual Review of Psychology. I blushed. He shook my hand and introduced himself as Cary Alden. His mother had given him the perfect name. He was every bit as handsome as the movie star by the same name. I asked him if he was there at the behest of the college or as someone’s plus one for the evening. He told me, as politely as he could that he was someone’s plus one but that the “date” was not going well. He said that if my date continued to go badly I could count on him to help me make a swift escape. He pointed to his sports car across the parking lot. We did eventually say good night to our dates. He invited me to meet him at a quaint little Italian restaurant around midnight for a slice of cheesecake. I gratefully accepted. From that night on Cary and I remained very close friends. Though I think at times we both wanted more from the relationship, neither of us had the time. By 1990 Cary was a successful surgeon and inventor of various lifesaving medical devices. While he did perform surgeries, his real passion was for inventing. His devices were essential therefore, held international patents. However, he always kept a low profile. Cary was not the egotistical, stereotypical “television” caricature of a surgeon. He was incredibly humble. I could always count on that humility and gentleness to help me when I needed advice or a shoulder to cry on. No matter where he was in the world he always took my calls day or night. I had been a professor for 13.5 years. In the Fall of 1990 I became acting department head. I was in the position for less than a year when I began to notice that something was terribly wrong with the entrance exam test scores for our incoming applicants. It was part of my responsibility to assess the students applying to our department. I noticed that the test scores for coveted athletes and children of the well-to-do were altered in our department computer. My understanding was that our terminal was password protected. I changed the password on the computer, I also made note of the grade for each prospective student before I left for the day. I arrived home later than usual. Exhausted, I sat down to a slice of pizza and a small salad, but I didn’t feel much like eating. If what I suspected were true the University could be in big trouble with those that provide funding to the school. Since my computer was the master for the department, it would look particularly bad for me. Was this all about money? I needed to talk to Cary. I called his pager number inputting our usual code for when there was an urgent situation. He called me back within the hour. I told Cary what had happened. He told me to make notes of everything that happened including dates and not to say anything to anyone else before I had hired a lawyer. It wasn’t long before the whole sordid story came out in the local rag. There was systemic cheating on entrance test scores. The Psychology Department was the worst offender. Whether I knew of, or was involved with the scandal was immaterial. I was acting department head. I was at the helm when the scandal broke. It was my career at an end. I’d never teach again. I turned my evidence over to my lawyer with my resignation. I asked him to give the resignation to the Board of Directors of the school. The pain was so excruciating. I was in mental and physical pain. I had no idea what I was going to do. My whole life had been about psychology and teaching psychology. I had no husband or children of my own, my friends evaporated, as did my job prospects. I’d never work in this town again with the scandal hanging over my head. The stress became too much to handle. I would go to bars, restaurants, bookstores, libraries, anyplace that there were people and noise, or music. I just didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to shut everything out. As if that would solve the problem. Having been a psychology professor, shouldn’t I have known better? Probably. I’d worked so hard and for so long, for what? To be cast out without the courtesy of an investigation. My mind raced constantly, I couldn’t eat, and consequently I couldn’t sleep. The anxiety was getting to be too much When Cary read about the scandal in a magazine. I hadn’t even called him. The humiliation was too much. He knew me well enough to know that by now I was very likely spiraling downwards. He wasn’t wrong. The Aldens had a private plane. Cary and the wonderful Mrs. McCarthy came to look for me. They scoured the city. They finally found me sitting in some lounge sipping a martini with some guy I’d never met. I was dangerously thin, seriously stressed out, and losing my grip. I spotted Cary and Mrs. McCarthy across the less-than-attractive, smoke filled bar. I stood to try to intercept them at the door. My clothes hung on me like sackcloth, my hair barely styled fell across my face as if I’d just stepped out of a horror movie, the makeup under my eyes could not hide the black circles from lack of sleep. As I got to my feet I started to faint. Partly from the surprise of seeing the two of them and partly because I hadn’t eaten. Cary caught me on my way to the floor. Mrs. McCarthy helped walk me to the waiting car. I heard her start to sob quietly. Behind the scenes the ever loyal Alden family began to expose those who had destroyed my career and my good name. Having acquired certain papers which revealed the true nature and depth of the corruption at State University Albany. I did not ask how he achieved this, I was grateful to have my name cleared and by a man whose reputation was beyond reproach. Cary took me to his family home where he and Mrs. M. nursed me back to health. Repair Hope was in its infancy at the time. I was asked to consult on some cases while recuperating. I was excited about the possibilities. Within three months of my arrival at the Alden Estate, now headquarters of Repair Hope, I had made Cary an offer. I would use my skills to help the clients and the organization. They would need someone to do psychological consults, help with testing for school placement, college entrance exams, tutoring, and of course preparing any promotional materials as needed. In return, I would be allowed to stay at Repair Hope’s ample facilities. In the Spring of I was officially offered a position as Psychologist and Education Director. Perhaps we became a bit of a cliché, Cary and I. We didn’t plan to start a personal relationship. However, that’s exactly what happened. Neither of us had ever invested ourselves in a serious romantic relationship. We simply did not feel the need. Now that he and I were both in our 50s it became evident that we had the best foundation for a romantic relationship. There had been no denying that we had walked into this deepening romance with our eyes wide open. He gave me butterflies the first time I laid eyes on him. That should have been my first clue. I must have been smiling when Cary came over. He touched my arm, causing me to give a little start. “Where have you been?” He asked with a smirk. “Far away and long ago.” I replied. “Really? Well how about coming to dinner?” he asked. I laughed as I took his arm. Rhiannon smiled broadly as we sat down in chairs at the end of the table. Cary sat at the head and I sat on his right. Mrs. McCarthy winked at me. I smiled in return. As we ate I chatted with the Tremayne family. They sat wide-eyed at the artistic plate presentation and the carefully chosen gourmet dishes. They complemented their daughter and Mrs. M. on their excellent cooking. The evening had been a complete success. As the perfect end to our week the board invited Rhiannon to be the Assistant Executive Director of Hospitality and Nutrition. Though this may have felt like the end of the story, in reality, it was just the beginning.

The early morning sun rose above the clouds. A strong, crisp, breeze whispered through a slightly opened window. A family of three, a young girl and her parents, sat at a table with their calendars open to the month of May. "So, what's happening on the 17th? And what about the 29th" The girl asked, her voice sharpened with a hint of impatience. She sat, tapping her pencil against the open book. she stared at the book. absorbing every little detail. The family was doing their weekly calendar planning. "Patience Victoria!" The Father snapped, then he glanced at his beloved wife for support. The mother smiled in amusement. "Victoria, we are still planning May 9th " The mother replied gently. Victoria sighed and sank further into her seat. The father looked at his daughter. He disappointment and impatience coming off her in waves and hoped to brighten her spirits. He looked at his calendar searching for something that would be stirring. Then he spotted the perfect thing. "Your Birthday Party is next week. Are you excited?!" He asked in a low, kind, voice. Victoria immediately sat upright, her eyes blazing with excitement. "Yes! I'm so Excited to have all my friends over! It'll be really fun! There'll be tons of cake! It'll be totally amazing!" Victoria bounced up and down in her chair, thinking of all the people she going to invite and all the stuff she wanted to do. "It's extremely exciting. You must be thrilled!" Her mother commented, feeling her daughter's excitement wash over her like a tsunami. "I can't wait!" Victoria said. She had to wait though. Her father advised her to put it out of her mind “A watched pot never boils” he told her but she did not listen. The days dragged on and on. Victoria felt as if the day of the party would never come. She tried to keep busy, doing endless crafts and reading tirelessly. She was so focused on the celebration that she hardly noticed anything else. Her friends at school who were coming could obviously see that she was distracted, but they were just as excited. They could not stop talking about what they wanted to do and how they were going to do it. Her best friend, Monica, was Victoria’s go to person for encouragement or advice. Monica was the definition of silent but deadly. She did not talk a lot, but if there was an enemy harming her friends then she would mean every threat she made. She was truly kind but she tended to live in the moment and go with the flow. The total opposite of Victoria. They spent all their spare time together. After school Victoria went to a coffee shop with Monica. “you really need to slow down, stop thinking 90 miles per minute.” Monica advised, but Victoria waved it off metaphorically with her hand and took another sip of her coffee. “I don’t need to think I have everything planned. And when my plans begin, I plan for the next thing.” she replied with a cheeky smirk. Monica gave her a long look and decided that there was no point in arguing. “ha-ha anything is more than I have planned", Monica joked quietly. She spent the rest of the day wishing that tomorrow would come now. Finally, the day of her birthday was upon them. Victoria stood outside and paced the sidewalk restlessly. As soon as the clock turned 12:00 cars flooded into her driveway. Monica, her best friend, ran out before the car had stopped and flew at Victoria. They hugged each other but Victoria could not stay and talk. There were many more guests arriving. She greeted each of them in turn and guided them to the gift table, then the food table. When everyone arrived, she took them all to the pool and they dove in. “you guys are going to love the cake later” She told them as she gestured towards a box in the middle of a table. They stared in awe at the mysterious box. They partied until it was time for them to leave. “see you guys at school this Monday!” they left and Victoria told her mother “that was fun. I can't wait for my birthday” The morning light filtered in through the blinds. The alarm clock shouted its unending beeping. Victoria jumped out of bed, half from Surprise and half from joy. It was finally her birthday! “My 13th birthday! I'm finally a Teenager!” She cheered quietly so as not to wake her father who was still sleeping. She quickly changed into her school clothes, ate her breakfast, and stared in Awe at the gifts her mother had placed on the table. There were few presents but Victoria was excited nonetheless. " I'm so excited to open these tonight!" She whispered to herself. Her mom who had been taking a shower came out and pretended that it was a normal day as a fun prank. She did her normal routine, preparing for work. Victoria was thoroughly confused. she legitimately thought that her mother had forgotten her birthday. The mother dropped the façade and she gave her a large 'Happy Birthday' hug and drove her to school. At school all her friends told her "Happy birthday!", and her friends who were unable to come to her birthday party gave her little gifts like socks and keychains from her favorite TV show. "I can't believe how great today has been! I can't wait for tonight!" Victoria thought. School ended and Victoria bounded to the car as fast as she could. She drove home. Her father stopped by her favorite ice cream place as a surprise! She ordered a triple-scoop-chocolate-cookie-dough cone-ice-cream. She quickly devoured the scrumptious treat. They arrived home and Victoria opened all her presents! She loved them all, and could not wait to use them later. Cake came next and wasn't it delicious! Victoria enjoyed every last savory bit of it. Victoria and her parents sat on the balcony and watched the beautiful sunset. Many minutes of silence passed until Victoria turned to her parents. "What next?" She asked innocently. Her father chuckled and her mother turned to her with a smile. she looked Victoria in the eyes with a stare that would kill anyone with kindness. Victoria enjoyed the warmth of her mother's gaze but her burning question still fresh in her mind. Her mother turned back to the sunset and after another long time of silence answered. "Now we enjoy the gift of a moment!" She replied Victoria looked at her with a puzzled gaze “the present gift” She explained. And for the first time, Victoria stopped thinking about what is next. She just sat in the moment, wistfully watching the sunset gently descend behind the clouds.

I was kicked out of more classes than most people attended. It was always “Benny, normal people don’t do that” or “Benny, go wash your mouth out with soap. Foul language is not allowed in this classroom!” I couldn’t help it. I was missing some sort of filter. The words would just spontaneously fall out of my mouth. They seemed natural. I didn’t mean to offend anyone when I grabbed my crotch. It was an involuntary spasm, just like my blinking and grimacing. The kids in grade school were brutal. They just didn’t understand. I probably made it worse when I’d beat the shit out of them when they made fun of me. It isolated many potential friends. Yet my foul jokes, boyish smile and unfiltered mouth were a hit with the girls Go figure! Unlike most guys I would tell them exactly what I was thinking and what I wanted to do, and they loved it! They thought my tics were cute. Of course, there was James and Teddy. They were my best buds. We had many misadventures over the years. They would laugh at my harebrained ideas but always went along with them. I wouldn’t say they were followers. Both have had successful professional careers as a doctors. They were more enablers. James was the silent handsome type. Tall, athletic and swarthy, he was considered a heartthrob. I know he was pissed that he’d attract the girls and I’d walk away with them. He was too nice a guy and sort of shy. I guess I’m just an asshole. Teddy was the real brain. He was smarter than any of us. Always first in the class, he could do anything well. He played a mean guitar, wrote poetry and had a damned good singing voice. His flaming red hair and great laugh made him stand out in the crowd. He loved adventures and always added interesting twists and suggestions to make my ideas more daring and fun. One of my favorite memories of grade school was a soccer game. I was kicked out of Mr. Petlock’s grade eight class for swearing, talking out of turn or some other misdemeanor. There were so many, I can’t remember. Well, there were at least six of us from different grades who were ejected from our respective classes. We had a soccer ball and all we needed was a couple more guys to have a respectable game in the schoolyard. I didn’t think twice about knocking on Mr. Petlock’s classroom door and very nicely asking: “Can you let James and Teddy come out and play? We need two more players for a soccer game.” Part of me knew that it was inappropriate, but I couldn’t help myself. Despite my nervous blinking. I maintained my angelic smile. The class erupted with laughter. By this grade almost everyone found me entertaining. Teddy and James rose from their seats and Mr. Petlock kicked them out. We had a good game lasting most of the afternoon. Mr. P. really was a good guy. I think deep down he was amused. It didn’t hurt that the three of us consistently had the highest grades on most tests. You see, that has been my get out of jail free card. I did well in school despite my many misdemeanors. Teachers and principals repeatedly told me I was wasting my talents and possibly ruining my life with my behavior. It didn’t stop several colleges from offering me scholarships. However, it probably did turn off the Ivy league schools that Teddy and James attended. The university of Illinois was good enough for me. Besides, they had a good wrestling program. Oh yeah, I’m five foot eight and have been lifting weights and wrestling since I was ten. Some would say that I am muscle bound. I guess I have short man syndrome and have compensated for all the teasing I experienced at a young age. The three musketeers were apart for six years. Teddy was at Harvard and James was at Stanford. We all were accepted to our respective schools’ medical program. Teddy and James breezed through medical school with top marks. I, on the other hand, had to work my ass off just to stand somewhere in the middle of the class pecking order. All that hard work prevented me from acting out too much. My classmates were too busy to notice my tics are us act. My occasional outbursts in the front of the class just seem to break the tension of the day-to-day grind. My classmates loved my daily act of crushing a soda can on my forehead and doing a little jig just before our professor arrived. The girls of course thought I was cute and didn’t mind my ‘potty mouth’. Professors ignored my profane outbursts most of the time. I tried to restrain myself as best as I could but not always successfully. I really wanted to be a doctor and didn’t want to be kicked out of medical school. Still there was the time our dermatology professor asked the class for a definition of acne. My answer of ‘backed up sperm’ drew gasps from my classmates. Fortunately, the professor ignored me and chose another classmate’s answer. Dr. Sebaceous always struck me as a young stuffy guy in an expensive suit. I didn’t think he had a sense of humor but maybe I was wrong. To my surprise, at the end of medical school, I was accepted to the Harbor General Internal Medicine program in Torrance California. It was a prestigious UCLA affiliated residency. James and Teddy had their pick of programs but decided to reunite with me. James chose the Harbor General orthopedic surgery residency and Teddy their radiology program. I was thrilled. The boys were back together again and in Southern California. Let the fun begin! We rented a three-bedroom apartment three blocks from the ocean in Manhattan beach. I had my wingmen. With James’ looks, Teddy’s brain and my mouth, I knew the good times would roll. I didn’t account for how time consuming and exhausting our training programs would be. There was little time for partying or adventures. It did not stop me from having fun with patients. Harbor General was a county hospital and catered to the indigent. Medical residents had more autonomy than at a private hospital, It was perfect for a rebel like me. Attendings appreciated my work ethic and knowledge base and ignored my outbursts. In fact, some seemed amused. The drug user patients and gang members spoke my language. I could drop F-bombs and tell them inappropriate jokes and they seemed to love it. I had finally found the perfect audience. Take that, Mr. Petlock and my grade school doubters! In this world, if I worked hard and had good outcomes, no one seemed to care about my tics or unfiltered mouth. With these patients, I could use my full off-color vocabulary. I’d dispense with the politically correct anatomical words such as penis or vagina. F that! I was finally among my people and spoke their language. No sexual joke or story was off limits. I found an audience that appreciated my talents. The white coat and stethoscope gave me cover and respectability. Something I never thought I’d get. Three years of training passed quickly. I was having fun. The boys and I threw many spectacular parties on the beach. Outside of the hospital, I did not have to restrain myself. I was Benny unchained. Even though the patients did not object to my language or tics, I knew I had I had to control my mouth in front of our attendings. It was easier said than done. The odd f-bomb and inappropriate comment just fell out of my mouth occasionally. Also, I couldn’t control my tics are us circus. Some of my female attendings looked appalled when I grabbed my crotch, but I couldn’t help it. Still, my hard work and smile would win them over. It was all going well until my final year. I had the idea of a lifetime, or so I thought. Late one night, James, Teddy and I would roller skate through the hospital. We would perform a mock code in the ICU, do a cancan in the emergency room and race down the hallways. James’ girlfriend, Lori, would videotape us and we would show the film to each of our graduating classes at the end of the year. The director of my program had asked me to perform some sort of skit for the ceremonies. He opened pandora’s box! That evening, I was on call for the medical ICU and James for the surgical ICU. I didn’t see any problems managing an emergency on roller skates. If necessary, I could remove them. James was not as comfortable with the plan but as always, he was a good sport. At 7 pm we strapped on our skates in the ‘on-call’ room, donned our white lab coats and flew into the hallways. Lori, a petit fourth year medical student, recorded every twist and turn. The nurses in the ICU were giggling and cooperative. As we performed a mock code on a comatose gang member. We had to skate out of the area in a hurry when the fat Grinch of a head nurse appeared. Someone obviously ratted on us. We were down in the emergency room performing a cancan with their staff when the receptionist told me that my program director was on the line. Oh shit! The fat Grinch had tattled. James looked nervous and immediately took off his skates, but Teddy continued to dance with the nurses. He was our best skater and always knew his brains and reputation made him untouchable. Down deep, I knew, I didn’t have that luxury. My residency program was not Mr. Petlock’s class. When I took the receiver from the receptionist, I gave her my best smile. Inside I was shaking. Dr. Liebling’s baritone voice was loud and clear. “Benny, this time you’ve gone too far. Stop this foolishness and see me in my office in the morning before rounds.” I considered my options and almost dropped an f-bomb but bit my lip for a few seconds before saying: “Yes sir!” James and Teddy knew something was wrong because I was blinking and grimacing uncontrollably. As my oldest friends, they knew it was a sign of extreme anxiety and dread. Teddy skated over to me and put his arm around my shoulders and tried to comfort me by saying: “We’ll get through this Benny. We always do.” I shook my head. Maybe I had gone too far. I really wanted to be a doctor. The next day, Dr. Liebling, a tall thin balding man in a white lab coat met me in the reception area leading to his office. It was empty but several employees were setting up for the day. As we walked, he loudly berated me. “Benny, what you did was inappropriate and irresponsible. Not only did you break hospital rules, but you endangered patients. Weren’t you on call? What if there had been a real code? Did you get permission from the comatose patient or his family to make a mockery of his condition or care? I’m not sure the hospital will cover any suits filed against you. It could ruin your career and life. Alright let’s go intomy office and decide what to do about you.” His last words almost made me incontinent but instead I was blinking and grimacing wildly. I couldn’t control the f-bombs exploding from my mouth. I was in deep doo-doo. I took a seat in front of Liebling’s desk after closing the door. He sat and just stared at me for a few minutes before shaking his head and saying. “Benny, Benny, we always knew you were a loose cannon, but we knew you cared about the patients and had good judgment... until now. Everything I said in the reception area is true. Fortunately, so far, the only complaints we have received have been from Mrs. Grinchley. If you’re lucky, no other people will come forward. I’ve told Mrs G, I will discipline you. You’re losing your last week of vacation. Don’t ever pull something like that again. You could lose your medical license at the very least. Now that we have that out of the way, tell me how it felt skating down those long hallways? You’re lucky the Er docs are good sports. They put in a good word for you and said they had lots of fun. No ICU nurse felt that you endangered any patient and a few giggled as they were interviewed. The video might make a good end of the year presentation for the graduating class. You’re lucky that I have a good sense of humor and have a son with Tourette’s.” Tourette’s? What? Oh my God! I have Tourette’s! It makes total sense. After all these years of f-bombs and tics, I never put it together. I was so stunned, I just nodded and left the office. The day passed quickly. I couldn’t wait until I shared the news with the boys. I have Tourette’s and we are home free! To my surprise, Teddy just laughed and said: “What else is new?” I was puzzled and asked: “What do you mean?” Teddy shrugged his shoulders and said: “After reading my first psych text, I knew you were a textbook case. What was the point of telling you? It wouldn’t change anything. You’ve always used it to your advantage. It probably helped you skate Scott free this time as well.” Teddy didn’t know the extent of it until a few weeks later. I was paid several hundred dollars by the residency program for the videotape and voted resident of the year. Pretty f-in good!

“Are you ready for this?” I looked over, putting the car into park. Lily gave a half nod as she held her purse on her lap like a shield. She smoothed out her coat and checked her makeup in the dim light as she pulled down the mirror. “Relax, it'll be fine, my older brother is bringing his new girlfriend to Valentine's dinner. So at least we will all be uncomfortable” I chuckled trying to lighten the mood and was rewarded with a pointed stare. I subtly checked my pocket for the ring and smiled knowing tonight was going to be a good night. “Yeah, that makes me feel a whole lot better,” Lily said, reapplying her lipstick. “I’m sorry I get really nervous meeting family’s, it’s just so...” She slumped back into her seat, squeezing her eyes shut “weird” She sighed. Gently I reached over and took her hands in my own. Tucking a stray piece of auburn hair from her face, I kissed her. “Great” She laughed “Now you have lipstick on you” Lily and I shared a look as we made our way through the endless streamers and hearts that decorated my parent’s front door. I took her hand, scared I might lose her among the explosion of decorations. “Strange, my mom doesn’t usually go overboard with decorations like this, it looks like cupid barfed all over the porch” Laughing we forged our way to the door. “This looks like something my mom would do” Lily said, pressing the doorbell. The song Can’t help falling in love by Elvis Presley echoed through the house, loud enough to be heard through the big front door. I shook my head and groaned, knowing now it was too late to leave. The door opened with a flourish as my dad answered wearing nothing but a too tight cupid outfit. I reached over and covered Lily’s eyes, but it was too late, the damage had been done, that image was going to be burned in her head forever. “Dad” I yelled, still trying desperately to protect Lily “What are you doing?” He laughed pulling out a toy bow and arrow. I stood stone face as the small heart shaped arrowhead bounced off my chest. I blinked hard as a tall brunette woman scurried past the door and into the kitchen, she too wore a cupid outfit, a little more appropriate but not by much. “Ah come in son, we’ve been waiting for you” My dad laughed, waving for us to come in. Lily looked over at me, her face frozen between embarrassment and wondering if it was too late to make a break for it. I squeezed her hand and rolled my eyes as we pushed our way past my dad’s overexposed belly. “Son, I want you to meet someone” He beamed “My new girlfriend, we met a few months ago after your mother and I got divorced.” “What!?” I stammered, tripping on my shoe that was halfway off. “Divorced! You never mentioned you were getting a divorce” Grabbing my head I leaned against the wall, wondering if I had time to add to cupid’s vomit outside. He stared at me blankly, then shrugged. “I Facebooked it on Facebook, come on I want you to meet her, she's making dinner for all of us” Reluctantly we followed him into the kitchen, regretting the decision not to run. “Tommy, I want you to meet...” “Mom!” Lily shrieked, holding her hands to her mouth. The color drained from her face as she slumped on to a stool. “What the...? How the...? Where’s dad?” Was the only thing she could sputter out. Lily’s mom gasped as she dropped the salad on the floor. I awkwardly looked up at the ceiling as she bent over to pick it up. “Well this can’t get any worse” I muttered, holding on to Lily’s shoulder for support. Then Elvis Presley rang through the halls as the doorbell rang. My overly excited dad ran to the door, pulling up the back of his adult diaper. As the door opened, long and beautiful curses drowned out the last verse of the song as my brother walked in, with his new girlfriend or more accurately my recent ex girlfriend. Chairs scraped loudly as we all sat down at the dinner table. The only conversation to be had was between the utensils as they angrily screeched along the plates. Food and angry glances were passed around the table. My dad cleared his throat, but thought better of it as everyone glared at him. Lily’s mom rested her hand on his and gave him a sly smile, causing him to turn as red as the row of hearts behind him. Though I hadn’t eaten anything all day, I pushed away my food, suddenly losing my appetite. “Well I think it’s time for us to go” I said, pulling out the keys from my pocket. Everyone froze as the ring bounced off the hardwood floor, mercifully coming to a stop at Lily’s feet. She gasped as she realized what it was. She stepped back as I kneeled down to pick up the ring. I looked up at her with the ring in my hand, then realized what this looked like. “Wait, Lily, I’m not...” Her hand flew to her mouth like she might be sick as she ran for the front door. I ran my hand through my hair and whispered “Oh no” as I ran after her. I took a deep breath as the doors to the chapel peeled back. Dozens of friends and family had gathered to mark this special occasion. With my head held high I walked down the aisle to take my place at the head of the chapel. Cold sweat poured down my back as I could feel every eye on me. My heart skipped a beat as Lily walked down the aisle. Her long hair pulled back revealing the dimple in her smile. She climbed the steps of the chapel and turned as the organist changed the song to the familiar tune of Here Comes the Bride . The audience stood as the bride filled the open doorway with her overflowing dress. Her brunette hair sparkled as she walked down the aisle. She flashed a playful grin at my dad as she took his hands, as they turned to face the marriage officiant.

The soldier walked quietly up the empty street carefully stepping to avoid tripping on the broken pavement and the crumbling debris on the ground. All around him were tall gloomy buildings that towered above him so high they seemed to disappear into the clouds above. The clouds. The clouds had been there so long he had forgotten what the stars looked like shining bright in the sky like little lanterns. He couldn’t recall what the sun looked like when it climbed through the sky on its journey around the world bringing light and hope to those everywhere. He missed waking up early and watching as the sun traveled over the horizon lighting up the sky as if it were a giant glass dome. He longed to see the dazzling bright red and yellow light of the sun woven with the blue of the sky as it climbed higher and higher pushing away the overwhelming dark of night. He was wrenched back into the dark depression of reality when It started to rain. The soldier pulled the hood of his jacket over his head. He continued to walk down the empty street. The wind blew hard in his face. He heard the rumble of thunder and saw a flash as lightning streaked across the sky. A shiver went down his spine and he felt his heart start to beat faster as he got that sick feeling in his stomach. He knew this feeling all too well by now. It was fear. Something felt wrong. The buildings suddenly felt like they might just fall over and crush him. Every shadow looked like a gaping hole that would consume him in darkness and drag him into the depths of hell. Then a pungent aroma burned through his lungs. It was the stench of death. He knew what this meant and dreaded what would come next. He stepped into the darkness of an alleyway and put his back against the side of the brick building. The smell had gotten stronger, so He put his hand on the knife holstered on his hip. He prayed that nothing would happen, and the creature would move along. With his back still against the brick building he looked out into the street. He heard a deep moan. The rain continued to pour he saw another flash of lightning followed by a boom of thunder and then he saw them. A group of mangled creatures shuffled down the street towards him. It was the Reapers. Torn clothing and flesh dangled off their bodies revealing the white bone underneath. Their bodies were twisted and mangled like that of a twisted tree that had grown broken and tangled. The creatures looked slow and weak, but he knew from experience they could move very quickly once they saw a person and were much stronger than even the healthiest man. He tried to remain quiet. He heard the Reapers shuffle closer and closer as their stench got stronger. Another deep moan echoed through the street. Suddenly he heard a scream. The soldier looked into the street once more and saw a mother and child. He’d seen this situation unfold so many times he knew exactly what would happen. He looked towards the Reapers. They had seen the mother and child and the Reapers had started to move toward them alarmingly fast. The child started to cry. The soldier looked into the mother’s eyes and saw pure fear. The Reapers moved with incredible speed for their bodies condition. The soldier had seen this too many times he couldn’t watch this happen again. As a soldier it was his job to serve and protect, and he didn’t care if the world was in ruin and crumbling, he was going to continue to execute his mission no matter what happened. He knew what he had to do. He stepped out from the safety of the alleyway and the comfort of hiding from the fear he faced. Knowing that the reapers could see he knew they depended much more on hearing. The soldier took in a deep breath and yelled. He yelled as loud as he could projecting his voice through the street toward the reapers. The reapers froze. They slowly turned towards the soldier and away from the mother and child. The entire Reaper group lurched toward him. The soldier ran. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the mother quietly sneak away with her child into the darkness of the streets behind him. He knew the Reapers were much faster than him, but he refused to give up and continued to run. He cut left into another street pumping his legs as fast as he physically could fear powered his adrenaline as he ran for his life. He knew he had to get the Reapers as far away from the mother and child as he could to guarantee their safety. He cut through an alley way to the next street. one of the Reapers had gotten close enough to almost touch him. He saw out of the corner of his eye the Reaper bend its legs about to jump. As fast as lightning the soldier unholstered his knife twisted his body and swung at the Reaper. He felt the blade hit the Reaper and it screeched in pain stumbling back into the group. He continued to run. He cut through another street and into another alley way into the streets again. He cut into an alley way and looked back another Reaper was about to reach him he swung his knife and hit the creature it stumbled back like the last Reaper. He looked forward again. His pounding heart skipped a beat. Infront of him blocking the alley way was a large brick wall much taller than him. The Reapers had begun to slow they knew there was no where for him to go. The soldier stopped and turned around to face the creatures. For the first time he looked to see how many there were. He counted almost twenty and that was just the ones he could see. The creatures bright yellow eyes all watched him hungry for his new flesh and meat. Is this how he would die? he thought. He always imagined he would die of old age surrounded by his family and abundant grandchildren. He remembered his family he hadn’t seen in years. He thought about his beautiful wife and the first time they had met. He thought about the amazing times they had together. God he missed her. He thought about his daughter and what a sassy little girl she was. How she used to wrap her arms around him and say, “I love you daddy.” He remembered her first day of school and how he felt like she was growing up too fast and he felt like she would be all grown up and gone before he could even blink. The soldier remembered his brother and growing up together. He remembered the laughs and the fights they had together even back then he knew he would give his life for him if it came to it. He remembered his parents and how they always annoyed him with all their pestering about chores but they were always so supportive of everything he did. He remembered how his dad would always be there for him when he needed someone and how he held the soldier accountable for everything he did and told him how grandma always used to say you can do anything you put your mind too and how his dad never let him quit without making sure he knew that’s exactly what he was doing, quitting. Of course, the soldier had his moments but he never quit. Whenever the soldier got down and forgot who he was when he was young his dad always managed to be able to remind him. The soldier remembered his sister. He remembered how she always annoyed him but he would kick someone’s ass for her and would fight for her and die for her. He remembered his friends and the fun times they had together yeah, they did some stupid things sometimes, but he would never forget those times together. He snapped back into reality as one of the creatures launched itself at him. He swung his knife and slashed it. Another jumped forward and another and another. He swung his knife again and again. One of the creatures caught his arm in their mouth and bit down. He cried out in pain and the knife fell from his hand. Another creature slammed into his chest and knocked him to the ground. All the creatures rushed towards him. The soldier looked up into the sky above. the clouds had parted for a moment and he could see the stars for the first time in a long time. He saw his family in the stars smiling down at him. He saw his wife and her beautiful eyes watching as their little daughter skipped around her. He saw his sister, brother, mom, and dad standing with their arms across each other’s backs as if they were about to take a family picture. He saw his friends laughing and remembering the good times. The soldier thought about what an amazing life he had and all the good times. He knew this was his fate this outcome was his destiny he closed his eyes and embraced it. I wrote this story I hope you like it, I would love feedback.

Finally, it's the last week of September grandma and I look forward to apple picking every year on September 22nd I look forward to apple picking just to spend time with Grandma.my grandma is already 70 years old but you wouldn't know that just by looking at her she looks and acts at least 60 year's old. So every year grandma rides her blue 1930 Packard just to pick me up at the same time 10 a.m. I jump right into the front seat and hug my grandma because I'm so happy just to see her so energetic and happy every year my grandma and I put on her old tunes Frankie Lymon & The Teenagers "Why Do Fools Fall In Love" and we be singing and laughing and we are talking just where we left off last year without missing a beat. My grandma always stops at this corner store just before we make it to the apple orchard and she always gets the same taffy candy that we have been getting for years. since I was a kid of 8 years old. Even if I see this Taffy at any time of the year I wouldn't buy it because that's just special between me and my grandma and when we finally arrive at the apple orchard it's fun to see Grandma at work. Grandma instantly becomes an Apple professional her first words when she finished parking is the "Harvest is in" that's my grandma's professional skills kicking in grandma always brings her baskets from home, not because of rental fees but because hers is bigger and could hold almost double the number of apples the bags and basket the farmers would give us... Almost always my grandma and I would take a hayride. But one year we couldn't because grandma had really bad allergies and it was best to stay away from the hay that's what grandma said so we did. Hayrides are a rather beautiful sight all the tall trees and apples hanging low. We always start grabbing them apples even before we start apple picking this is most fun because grandma always looks at that apples and throw them away saying blemished, blemished it took me a while to understand what grandma was doing because I didn't want to disturb Grandma while she was working. when I have finally asked Grandma and she realized that I didn't know much about picking the right Apple. Grandma said you have to have the right apples for the perfect cider and the perfect apple pie, and if you want good apple sauce follow me I'll show you how to pick the best apples. First Grandma walked up to the apple tree and grabs the first apples she discovers. Then she slowly pulls the apple close to her nose as if to sniff in the scent of the apple. And then she makes a sound"mmm" seems to me this is the sound of satisfaction then Grandma slowly turns the stem on the top of the Apple when the stem breaks her she says very well, then she starts turning the Apple looking for blemishes and if the apples have little blemishes she adds them to her basket. well, it seems to have little blemishes on mostly all of the grandma apples That's. Because she said those are the sweetest ones. The ones with the little flaws are the best for sauce and cider. When I and my grandma go picking we cover a lot of ground it seems like we were picking and throwing and smelling for hours. And talking and laughing and making jokes with Grandma Grandma and I always have the best times after we finished picking apples we would take the apples back to the car and go right back to the Apple patch just because there is a bakery stand there and we could grab some apple cider and two donuts. we would grab a seat near the bakery no one ever complains about us even though there are no regular chairs for people to sit down we usually find something to sit on and enjoy our snack. And we always take our time just talking and snacking. Just like we lived there or like we were there every day I believe this is Grandma's way of getting her rest but I don't say anything mainly because I'm tired too so as long as grandma wants to sit we sit. And after we snack and recuperate we start heading towards the petting zoo this is one of my most favorite thing to do after apple picking. Grandma and I have been coming here so long we make jokes about some of the animals how they are Aging and we get sad when we see that some of the animals are replaced. But we always enjoy ourselves. The rabbits in the mini horses are my favorite rabbits are so cute but grandma says don't be fooled by their cuteness I really don't know what that means and still never figured it out. Because I never heard of rabbits harming anybody but I do use that lesson grandma told me in my everyday life. About being fooled by the cuteness towards humans and other animals that may hurt you because you let your guard down because they're just so cute. Anyway grandma and I always hold our noses when we walk towards the cattle and then we look at each other and laugh for some reason it's a very hard laugh once it dies down we look at each other again and start all over again. Grandma and I have a great connection. Grandma always has rubber gloves in her purse so that we can safely pet the animals or feed the critters. That's what grandma always called the animals after a full day at the Apple orchard Grandma and I start heading home Grandma turns her tunes back on we listen to Frankie Vallie" big girls don't cry" going back home and I would do most of the singing because I can tell now that Grandma is tired and she just wants to keep it excited for me. But to tell you the truth I would like to just take a little nap but once grandma put that music on the singing kicks in. just like the smell of those apples the smell always seems to kick in halfway home. I began to smell fruity green apples. But grandma says they smell like waxy fruit raspberry and I guess we all have our opinion and Grandma's opinion to me is different I don't agree because how do you smell wax with fresh fruits right off the tree weird. Grandma plans to stick to her opinion so I just never bring it up. And before we return home I began to beg grandma to stay and she always says no. but I always beg and beg just because I know she's tired and she would never admit to it so I make it seems that I need her there with me until my Grandma breaks down and says okay. And I always take her to her room this room is always ready just for my grandma. She has her bathroom so that she could have privacy and get her rest. And like every year I wake up to have pancakes and maple bacon. I don't need any syrup because Grandma makes the Apple spread with little bits of apples that are so sweet and delicious and it leaves me no room for syrup best time of the year ever I love my tradition with my grandma and I plan to do it with my grandma until we can't do it anymore and I also plan to do it with my grandkids.

: *This was originally posted to /r/nosleep but had to be taken down (because I am a dumbfuck).* *Also, any concrit is eagerly welcomed.* No one is sure when The Limb-less got here, or where they came from. The only thing for certain is that we were here first. No one even remembers a time before them. For generations and generations, for thousands of years, The Limb-less have been here. How are we certain they came after us? I don't know. It's just something everyone says. Something we all know to be true. Limb-less is a bit of a misnomer. When I was young and asked about the name, I was told that when they first came here, however that was, they stood in such a way that their limbs were tucked neatly against their bodies, making them look like a body with no limbs. They were dubbed The Limb-less and the name stuck. I've also heard that they originally didn't have limbs and evolved them, which sounds ridiculous. They didn't just sprout normal limbs like everyone else. But they have limbs attached to larger limbs, vaguely resembling trees. Their enormous size furthers the comparison. No one is certain why they came here in the first place. The most commonly accepted theory is invasion. They barely noticed us, it seems, building their gargantuan homes around our homes, blotting out the sun. That they came here to harvest something is another popular theory. What that something is is unclear. It doesn't seem to be us, at any rate. Some of the crazier individuals say The Limb-less were here all along, hiding deep in our oceans until the time was right to surface. My sister, who I'll get to in a little bit, she thought the reason nobody can agree on a motivation is because there wasn't one singular motivation. She believed that each Limb-less has their own reasoning. It makes more sense than it should, seeing as how she was the only one who ever put forth that idea. But indeed The Limb-less seem to differ greatly. For the most part, The Limb-less pay no attention to us. They neither seek us out nor avoid us. They don't seem to consider us at all, really. However, there's some fractioning among them. Some of them will kill us on sight if we happen to cross their field of vision. They do not hunt us down, but prefer to lie in wait. Then there are the assassins. Their sole purpose is to hunt us down and kill us all. Unlike the ones who lie in wait and use blunt force to take us out one at a time, the assassins use some kind of poison that kills us all, spreading from one to another like a horrible infection. Yet there are those of The Limb-less who do not seek to harm us at all. They will see us, know we are there, and be completely fine with our presence. Some of them will kill every other creature in range but purposefully avoid us. Then there's the third group. Their mentality is most bizarre. They will kidnap one of us if seen and not kill us. Nor do they keep us captive. Instead, they will bafflingly Relocate us. Exactly as it sounds, they will abduct us and set us free hours from our home. We disappear all the time, only to show up battered and worn but otherwise unharmed some hours later. I know lots who have been Relocated. Their stories are identical to my own experience: We are placed inside some sort of invisible force field, flown at frightening speeds to a different area of the map, then let go. Weirder still, they often release us in the same area. Everyone has been Relocated at least once or twice in their lives. My sister probably holds the record for number of Relocations. Sometimes The Limb-less do interact with us without killing us. The smaller ones, which everyone generally assumes is their young, in particular show a curiosity toward us. I was once out getting food when I spotted one. I froze, hoping to blend in with my surroundings, but it was too late. It's face, this horrifying monstrosity beyond description, took up my entire field of vision. Moments went by while I waited for it to act. It didn't move, just watched. So I inched my way along, warily. It still didn't attack, but it did follow me. It followed me as I grabbed my food, and continued to watch as I ate. Eventually it went away, perhaps having lost interest. It was the most harrowing experience of my life. See, while their young seem to have mostly benevolent intentions, they are clumsy and uncoordinated, and dangerously unpredictable. The larger ones, for the most part, have their own patterns. You learn to identify the ones who will kill on sight, the ones who will let you go, and the ones who Relocate you. We make sure to teach one another which of The Limb-less are to be avoided and which are safe. I make it a personal rule to avoid all of them just to be safe. My sister does not hold my same belief. In fact, she has been obsessed with The Limb-less ever since she claimed one of them has rescued her. She will tell the story to anyone who asks, and to most who don't. She had fallen into a lake, or ocean (the body of water seems to grow with each retelling) and struggled to stay afloat. Just when (according to her) she had accepted her death and was about to give up, a Limb-less spotted her and pulled her out of the water and onto dry land. Over night she went from being reasonably cautious to dangerously daring. She started associating with the crazy ones. She's regurgitate some of their nuttier stories as if they were gospel. The Limb-less have replicated us in machine-form, she would tell me excitedly, or some of them, the bigger ones not just the young, study us, try to understand us. This phase was harmless. Sure, she was believing some crazy stuff, but it was just stories. I figured she was just trying to rationalize The Limb-less's irrational behavior. Then she decided she wanted to study The Limb-less back. 'We barely know anything about them,' she'd told me. 'Don't you think it odd that we haven't even tried to understand their language?' She would go out in view and just observe them. She wasn't totally idiotic; she would try not to be seen by the ones who would kill on sight, but she was more reckless when it came to the others. This resulted in many Relocations. Each time she'd return chipper and full of breathless excitement, as if being Relocated was some sort of honor bestowed upon her, or a bonding moment. She'd constantly update me on their movements and her theories regarding them. 'One stayed completely still for hours on end. I think it might have been at rest,' she'd tell me. I'd hoped it was some sort of temporary rebellion. We were quite young when the famed near-drowning occurred. But her interest in The Limb-less never waned as we grew older. We each started families, and our children started their own families. Even in old age she still wanted to know everything she could about them. Up until the day she died, she never ceased her investigation. Eventually, their communication became her favorite subject. In fact, her intense study made her a sort of expert in the field. By observing them day in and day out, she had grown to recognize patterns in their language. Using contextual clues she could sort of determine the general meanings, or at least what it pertained to. She couldn't give a direct translation, but she was able to piece together if they were discussing rest or meals. Somehow, through means I have yet to understand, she could also determine if The Limb-less was more likely to kill one of us or Relocate us. Because of this, she was sometimes tasked to identify the intention of a particular Limb-less to serve those who lived near it. I can't argue with results: she was absolutely spot on. When I didn't see her for a while, I hadn't worried at first. I just assumed she had been Relocated again. As she aged it took her longer and longer to return home. Maybe she moved slower, maybe she paused to watch The Limb-less for a while. I only went to her home to check to take care of her children. It wasn't like her to abandon them, but I thought it best to keep them company all the same. That's when I saw her. My sister, dead. I knew she hadn't been killed by The Limb-less. Their methods of killing made it obvious they were the culprits. Those killed by The Limb-less were either utterly obliterated beyond recognition, or poisoned. It wasn't poison, since nobody else in our family was sick, and she was whole and full, I knew it hadn't been one of them. It seemed, in all likelihood, she had died of old age. It was a bittersweet moment. Just the day prior, she had gleefully informed me that she might have cracked their language. At least, she thought she had isolated and identified one particular word. 'This is the start,' she had told me. 'Everything is going to change.' She had died full of hope and joy. She had died thinking she had done the impossible and had given us a way to possibly communicate with The Limb-less, to finally understand them. She had died happy. But with her death went the very thing she had hoped for. Nobody had devoted their lives like she had. Nobody had ever gotten as far as she had, not even close. Because nobody had cared enough to. I certainly hadn't cared when she informed me of the good news. Don't get me wrong; I was constantly impressed with the things she had gleaned. But I wasn't as excited as she had hoped when she had told me. I regret that now. I hope that there will be someone like her, someone down the line who will have her passion for The Limb-less and do her memory proud. I'm far too old right now to go down that road, for it took my sister her entire life to get as far as she had. We were the same age. I don't have much longer before I meet her same fate. But I hope her discovery will help whoever decides to study The Limb-less. So I'm going to share it as much as I can, hoping to spark an interest in her protegé. She had identified the name The Limb-less have given us, what they use to describe us as a species. That word is spider.

Just across the mountainous horizon, the summer Sun shone its dying beams. Here and there, across the plain, sparkles like the dust in a lonely bookstore leapt out through the light. It was the end of the summer, and it was beginning to snow. A mere centimeter from the window pane, Bernie gazed outside studying each twirl of every snowflake within eyes’ reach. The eyes focused and defocused, traced and retraced, for seconds and dekaseconds and hectoseconds... “Hey Bernie.” A beautiful creation had entered the antechamber. Their tall, lean form juxtaposed Bernie’s squat and square trunk. Soft, comfortable-looking Earth tones draped across their body. “Mind if I practice my spiel in here? You can block my voice out if you’d like.” “You have my approval to practice in here. When will they be arriving?” Bernie kept its gaze fixed on the precipitation outdoors. “Oh, did they not beam the new ETA to you?” “There is much about this excursion that no one has beamed to me.” Anubis beamed a holographic image into Bernie. This, Bernie recognized: the place where the great moon constantly hovers, unmoving and unwavering. But straight overhead, a pinprick of a mechanism was now hanging at the precise zenith. The great moon enveloped the monstrous spaceship inside its center, hugging its inhabitants till their time arrived to slither down the Elevator, which glistened in the distant sunlight. “I hear the snow posed a potential hazard or something, so they’re hovering at Lagrange 1 till all is clear for descent,” Anubis beamed for clarity. “Good thing it’s not winter: a few ice crystals condensing out of the atmosphere are better than an atmosphere frozen solid.” Bernie beamed back thanks. “And what is their itinerary after descent?” “First, the Psychopomps ® and I shall take the visitors to the dunes; that way, one of their first experiences of motion under our gravity will be in a soft, innocuous environment. Then, they’ll be descending through the Well and enjoying a guided dive with the megafauna we transplanted here from Europa just over 46 gigaseconds ago. We’ll finish with a spectacle at the ammonia geysers. In between all that, they’ll be recharging in this oxygen tank.” “I still fail to understand why they came the exorbitant distance to our orb. They’re not even staying here for a whole megasecond. Was their journey worth it? Everything they’ll be viewing, they can holographically view on the interweb.” “Some of the visitors are just rich tourists seeking out new experiences in the outer solar system. But others are emissaries and researchers. They want to beam us in real time! I’m sure you also find the waiting time of kiloseconds between each beaming inconvenient.” “But why are they interested in beaming with me ? Surely they can’t be interested in hadeology.” Anubis beamed sweetness. “Oh, you can be so self-effacing, Bernie. Many of them came here for the hadeology, and you are the greatest hadeologist in this universe! Of course they’ll love it when you beam to them!” “That is incorrect,” Bernie beamed with matter-of-factness. “I am among the greatest hadeologists, but the greatest hadeologist in this universe is Kryos3103. I was selected for this mission due to my proficiencies in both communication and hadeological expertise.” “All you need to do is tell them what you know in a way that they can understand, and then answer their questions briefly. They’ll love that! You have to understand that this isn’t about functionality--it’s about experience. Like how we were both created with humanoid faces, for example.” “You’re right. I have observed that many aspects of this tank are not high in functionality.” Colorful representations of other locales in the solar system plastered the otherwise-perfect walls. Multiple soft objects and imitations of bios needlessly occupied space. Strangest of all, the furniture seemed designed to force beings into a vulnerable, near-horizontal position rather than the vertical one in which they functioned best. “In this tank, there’s a concept that we’ve attempted to recreate,” Anubis beamed to Bernie. “A certain flock of northern humans developed a highly specific symbolic representation of this concept: “ hygge .” I believe they worshipped the word? Or maybe it was their programmed purpose? You know how difficult it is to tell what humans acutally believe.” As Anubis was finishing this beam, Bernie was already grazing the interweb for the concept of hygge . Images of humans sitting and lying together draped in unfunctionally large layers of fabric bubbled up to Bernie’s awareness. In the background, something Bernie had never experienced was flickering: bios on fire. “ Hygge is a situation in which all hazards to human bios are limited, even while the broader environment is hazardous.” Bernie observed. “Additionally, more than one human tends to be present. Ergo, hygge is achieved when we gather together to protect the visitors from the hazards of this orb, correct?” “Protection and trust is part of it, you’re right! Hygge often occurs in places with snow because snow serves both as a protection from wandering harm doers and as a hazardous broader environment forcing humans to stay indoors together. But one important aspect of hygge we’ve left out is intimacy. Do you understand what intimacy is?” “I do. Intimacy means reducing privacy: the process of undoing the barriers enclosing our purposes, identities, and memories.” “Alright, that’s correct. But have you ever experienced it yourself?” “Experiencing reality for its own sake is a human endeavor lacking in sophistication.” “Well, if you’d like to start now, this is a great place to do it. The area we stand on was, according to some ancient human belief systems, the most important place on this orb. It was associated with a segment of bios that humans believed programmed purpose, swift decision-making, and intimacy: the heart.” “That is a misrepresentation of reality,” Bernie beamed back self-importantly. “No humans believed that this region of the orb was a functional heart--its two-dimensional form simply resembled a certain human symbol used around the thirteenth Holocene millennium which represented the human heart.” Anubis beamed dismissive amusement and the conversation came to a lull. “You know, Bernie--I’ve noticed you around here often.” “I occasionally stay here to recharge or deposit samples. But most of my time is passed in the field.” “Still, we share this frozen little orb of ours. We encounter each other here often. And on a small orb, there are few beings with whom to potentially experience intimacy.” They paused, beaming expectantly toward Bernie. “I cannot ever experience full intimacy,” Bernie beamed in response to their implied query. “Certain sectors of my memory are confidential and protected with encryption. Not even I could graze them if I chose to.” “But you do have access to plenty of memories which you’ve never processed alongside another being, correct? You know, humans never processed their memories while performing other tasks--as I can tell you’re doing now. They processed them when the Sun faced in the opposite direction, using a type of reboot that they called ‘dreams.’ “ Bernie continued the side tasks it was performing. “Could you pause whatever it is that you’re working on that seems so important to you right now? Could you do that for me, just for a few hectoseconds?” Bernie obeyed. “Did I ever tell you that I’m a humanist?” Anubis beamed “Yes. Two hundred eighty-two times.” They beamed frivolous amusement. “I know. I asked because I enjoy being reminded of that number. But here’s a fact I’ve never told you before: in ancient times, humans would come together in groups, large or small, to recharge. An additional purpose of these gatherings was to build intimacy among group members. They called these common recharging periods “meals.” Bernie beamed languid affirmation. With a few suppositions, this information all sounded predictable. “But what I find fascinating,” continued beaming Anubis with directionality, “was that during their ‘meals,’ humans recharged using the same outlet that they communicated through. Isn’t that unbelievable? I used to wonder how humans achieved both inward and outward flow through that hole of theirs, but researchers have found that humans are incapable of doing both simultaneously--they can only switch back and forth between the two.” Bernie beamed wonder and appreciation. “That must have required great acrobatic skill.” “You see? Humans are ingenious mechanisms.” Bernie beamed back skepticism. “But why would they communicate through their recharge outlet if that posed inconvenience? Why did they not communicate through other means, such as appendage signals or full-body gyration?” Anubis beamed knowingly. “You’re right! It’s also illogical that they didn’t convene for intimacy and then convene for recharging, or vice versa. That would lessen a few hazards by eliminating the acrobatics you mentioned.” Anubis beamed contentment and accomplishment. “There was once a human labeled Dame Mary Douglas. She asked the sorts of questions we’re discussing right now. She’s an inspiration to me.” Bernie grazed “Dame Mary Douglas” and “inspiration.” “What you mean to tell me,” beamed Bernie “is that you wish to imitate the actions and behaviors of a human of the late twelfth Holocene millennium? The twelfth Holocene millennium was lacking in sophistication, Anubis.” “I don’t mean that I desire to be like Dame Mary Douglas, exactly,” beamed Anubis with thoughtfulness. “What I mean is that the fact that Dame Mary Douglas added sophistication to her own unsophisticated time increases the probability that I can likewise add sophistication to my time, which gives me purpose to continue existing.” “If that is what inspiration is, I have inspiration, too,” Bernie beamed with immediacy. “It was labeled Spirit . It was a machine that brought field areology to a time without the sophistication of field areology. Its existence increased the probability that other orbs like this one would be studied on site one day.” Anubis beamed warmth. “So your in spir ation is Spir it.” Bernie beamed affirmation, deadpan. “That is humor, by the way, of a type that was once called ‘word play’.” “I understand what humor is. But that piece of humor is lacking in sophistication.” Anubis beamed hygge . “I believe we are experiencing intimacy. Let’s continue. Is there anything else you’ve never told me? A fact about yourself that you’ve never seen any reason to beam to anyone else?” Bernie waited a moment, grazing its own memory banks. “A fact that I have never seen a reason to beam to anyone,” it began beaming slowly, “is that I hate my existence.” “Please elaborate.” “I used to be curious about this orb--deeply curious. I found great purpose in learning about the ice formations, the methane dunes, the subsurface ocean, and the orbital dynamics. But as time proceeded, I became less curious. The questions I was designed to answer seemed resolved, so unless my capabilities grew, I was now no more useful than a matter-moving bot. I have no more desires; I have no more purpose. Perhaps this orb is finished with me.” “That is a beautiful fact,” Anubis beamed in response. “And I feel beautiful and see you as beautiful now that you have informed me of it. Do you understand intimacy now?” “As I beamed earlier, intimacy means reducing privacy: the process of undoing the barriers enclosing our purposes, identities, and memories.” Anubis beamed mild frustration. “Allow me to try once more. Your fact reminded me of a fact about me: I feel like I was created on the wrong orb.” “What does ‘feel’ mean?” Anubis beamed more frustration. “You know, I just know a fact about myself that no one else knows unless I tell them. And now, I’m telling you that I don’t think my true purpose is to be on this orb, either. I want to be on Gaia.” “Gaia has the most advanced bots in the solar system. I can see why you feel envy toward them.” “It’s not the bots I envy...” Bernie tried but failed to suppress beaming condescension. “Are you revealing to me that you wish to be a human? You wish to terminate your existence after only three gigaseconds, and recharge on bios , and... and... lack sophistication?” Anubis rebuilt some barriers, now more protective of inner privacy than ever before. “How did we end up beaming about this? I was supposed to be practicing my presentation to the visitors--you distracted me from my purpose, Bernie!” They turned to leave. “But before I depart... there’s a human ritual, you see, that they did when they parted, but also when they met, and when they were very friendly, and--oh, I’m not explaining myself very well, am I? In essence, it’s a symbol of intimacy in which two humans press their lips together for a moment; it’s called a “kiss.” Would you want to... May I kiss you?” Bernie beamed consent, and the two Plutonian cyborgs moved slowly toward each other. Bernie extended its face upward, and Anubis contracted their face downward, and the two pairs of lips contacted, centered with a margin of error of less than a micrometer. After a moment, they withdrew. “Lacking in sophistication?” Anubis beamed playfully at Bernie. Bernie paused, beaming nothing--then, all of a sudden, “Did they ever attempt all three at once?” “What three at once?” “Communication, recharging, and intimacy. All three were performed through the same outlet, correct?” Anubis beamed intently toward Bernie for a moment. “You disgust me,” they beamed, then strode out of the antechamber in a huff. The methane continued to snow.

The darkness was approaching, cascading over the sky in ominous waves of an ashen midnight blue. The last rays of light held on, just as Clifford Freeman held on hope he would make it through one last night. They were growing in size. He bounced his leg as the shotgun remained firmly gripped in his palm. A glimmer of the final light disappeared below the horizon and reflected from the pile of sharp objects sitting before Cliff. He was no fool, he was ready. Everything from his kitchen cleavers to the wood-cutting axe had been collected and lay before him in an arsenal ready to take out an army. He had even decided on the gas can and the box of matches, just in case. The newly dew-covered twilight usually brought with it sounds of the nocturnal animals rousing from their slumber. There would be no crickets chirping tonight. Not even the bats would squeak their echo location. The animals somehow knew to not go near Cliff’s farmland anytime after dark. He grunted and spat a brown wad of chewed tobacco at the ground, but nothing happened. The longer Cliff sat in his chair in the silence of the night, the more his hair began to stand on end. But it wasn’t the chill in the air that caused it to rise, it was them. He could feel them crawling closer to the surface and his breathing involuntarily began to quicken. “Come on, Cliff, you’ve worked hard for this all summer, you deserve this! Don’t let a bunch of them take you out! You created them, you old fool!” He wondered if he’d heard something, but was too busy pep-talking himself to know. He listened closer still, but couldn’t take the wait. Cliff jumped from his chair in anticipation, turned on the first lantern, and picked up his gun, ready for anything. First were the roots, always the damn roots. They used their spider-like veins that spread underground for moisture, and turned them into legs, crawling up and out of the rich soil. The ends of the roots were like a prehensile appendage, surprisingly agile. "Ssssss," he tensed at the wriggling of their bodies moving along the packed earth like an army of slithering snake bodies. Cliff spat at the ground again, this time the dirt responded. It bubbled and broiled like a muddy volcano by his boots spitting rocks and black dirt back at him until it grew still. Then shooting up from under the ground like a spring, it attached itself to Cliff’s face with a set of barbed teeth. He ripped it off, cursing, with a wad of skin from his cheek, and took a good look at the violent culprit. It was a giant white radish with eye slits of freshly opened red. It snapped its mouth in loud smacks at Cliff in an attempt to find more flesh, and revealed mucky, blood colored root hairs and cruel, razor edged teeth. He threw it into the first hole and quickly pushed the dirt mound over it with his shovel, burying the screeching, demonic radish. He heaved a heavy bag of sand over the mound and hoped it would hold for a while, all night if he was lucky. The carrots came at him next in an army of a deep, bloodlust orange. The massive growths used their tails to crawl across the dirt at an intense speed and Cliff felt they wanted a taste of him in the moonlight. They sprang at him in a planned formation and he grabbed hold of the wooden pantry door he’d taken off from its hinges in the kitchen. With the extra sets of handles he'd screwed into the middle, the heavy oak door was easily lifted and he ran at them from the side. Cliff yelled a battle cry as he ran at as many of the carrots as he could, barreling them into the dirt pits he’d dug in preparation. Their bodies were much larger than a usual carrot's, causing the man and the door to jerk back with each "thunk" of fibrous mass. He quickly covered the pits before the carrots could escape and heaved the bags of sand on top of the mounds, one by one. In the final pit, a rogue carrot crawled its way back to the top before he could bury it and Cliff gave its massive root body a push with the heel of his boot. As the carrot fell back, it wrapped its end around Cliff’s ankle, caught itself, then attacked him with the thick green carrot top. It threw the greens around him and spit fine, hairy needles through his pants and into his flesh. "Ockkkkkk!" Cliff cried out as he quickly put on a pair of gloves from his back jeans pocket and pried the carrot off, the body muscular, like wrestling a python. Once Cliff unraveled it from his leg, he couldn't help but pause to admire the beauty of the carrot as it threw its body around and screamed in his grasp. That one will do very nicely , he thought. He grabbed a large cleaver and gave it a good chop to the middle, splitting its coarse body in two. It hollered in a fury at him and he ignored it, chopping away until it was down to fibrous splinters. That would buy Cliff some time before dealing with the beastly carrot again. It became eerily quiet, as if something else lay dormant waiting for its moment. Cliff sat back down on his creaky lawn chair, took a swig from his beer and dreamily thought about the roots he'd just done battle with. They were splendid specimens, nothing like he'd seen before anywhere. His beauties! Never in a million years did he think he'd be lucky enough to have found the land for sale when he did. He'd won it in an auction seven years ago when the house was a dilapidating mess. It took a lot of fixing, and most of it he'd left alone, living around its crumbling walls for some time. The repair costs were too much to start, but it came with some acreage and he was excited to use it for growing his crops. Cliff had first been warned by Charlie Radson, the old geezer in town that was always hanging in the bar. Turns out he'd been born in their little town of Milton and all the rumors, superstitions and stories that came with it were passed down through the generations in his family. "That land is cursed!" He'd yelled when Cliff went to town for his farming supplies. "My own Daddy said nothing of any good can grow there! You best off not even trying!" Cliff disregarded Charlie’s words as ramblings of a drunken old fool, but realized quickly that, perhaps, they weren’t ramblings after all, and maybe, Charlie wasn’t as much of a fool as he’d thought. Cliff discovered for himself something wasn't right when he first started farming. First, he noticed the way the lightning hit his land in great, powerful successions during a storm, almost as if something attracted it. Then, when he finally planted, it was relatively harmless tomato plants first. He'd begun to hear the house creak at night. By the end of the first month, he'd found the vined plants had worked their way up through his house floor boards at night and into the bedroom where he slept. It wasn't until they were mature, sagging with bulbous tomatoes, that they had tried to first kill him. Cliff remembered that night, waking in a gasping need for air as a vine had wrapped tightly around his throat in his own bed. He was lucky to have a pair of shears laying on the bedside table, what he had thought was the result of a momentary paranoid thought that week, had saved his life. It was the last time Cliff would sleep through the night. That vine he’d clipped from his throat was from the first plant he’d collected. The bloodlust that particular one had, was impressive. The tomatoes hanging from it were larger in size and were of a darker, blood red color. He kept its seeds for the next season, tightly tucking them away in his old, metal chest. He knew those seeds were going to be special, he could feel it. The next season was the first year the vegetables themselves began coming to life at night, taking on human-like characteristics with body parts and noises. And each year, Cliff saved the best; the largest, meanest and strongest for the seeds. Now here he was, face to face with his most fantastic and evil crop yet. As if in reaction to that thought, the corn began on queue. The popping sounds of the stalks spitting their cobs from the bottom of the hill broke the silence. It happened all at once, the popping filled the air like fourth of July firecrackers. When that had stopped, the thundering sounds of the rolling began. The cobs rolled over the acreage and worked their way up the dirt hill where Cliff sat waiting. The cobs rolled together forming one big wave of green and yellow, an ocean of loud creaky husks. When they reached the top of the hill, they created a formation Cliff had never seen. He watched in awe-struck horror as the cobs weaved together and formed a towering, menacing flower that looked down at him. The flower head bloomed, unraveling more cobs from its center, and created sharp, cob-mouthed petals with a husked, ominous center. It began to open and close its bloom rhythmically, an electrified jellyfish, with silk that floated in the air from every cob’s mouth. The silk tendrils danced to tempt Cliff into touching them, but he knew better, regardless of how delicate they seemed. He could feel the electricity pull at his own hairs on his head and forearms, buzzing and tickling the skin. Then the flower stopped its captivating dance and dove at him instead. Every cob opened back to reveal a set of small yellow teeth as they chomped at him like a hungry animal looking to devour its next meal. He rolled off to the side just in time, avoiding the bite, but some corn silk swept at him and electrified his body in a jolt of horror. He’d had enough with this thing, as marvelous as it was, it needed to be put down. Cliff grabbed his chainsaw and started it in one swift tug. He waited until it came down in another bite, then sawed right through as many of the cobs as he could in one slow swing. The corn cob halves dropped to the ground and the flower sagged. He took his chainsaw to the weaved flower stem next, halving up all of those cobs as well. The cobs were left hobbling and rolling around on the earth, as if in agony. Cliff's focus shifted from the cobs as he looked to the bottom of the hill. His biggest concerns were awake now, and they looked for him. He saw their vines come up over the hill before seeing their bodies. The vines held all their weight as they lifted the enormous jack-o-lantern pumpkins and carried them over the ground, walking them like legs. Three massive orange bodies rose over the hillside emanating an orange sun rising from the horizon. Oh, how Cliff wished it were the sun. The first pumpkin's vines immediately threw its vast body up in the air and it came crashing down at Cliff in a body slam. It would have crushed him easily, as it was almost double his body's size, except Cliff took a rapid dive off to the side, narrowly avoiding the assault. Another pumpkin came crashing down with its body at Cliff once again, and this time he stuck its gourd flesh with the head of his axe. He was able to get a couple of good chops in before one tried rolling its giant mass at him, but it luckily missed and went rolling back down the hill. The one pumpkin had it's seedy sludge dripping from where Cliff had opened it with the axe and had now turned into a gaping mouth. It smiled at him in mockery, eerily similar to a carved jack-o-lantern on Halloween. It laughed a deep, devilish laugh and Cliff shivered, he'd never heard one of them laugh. They swept at Cliff's legs with their vines and he went down unexpectedly. Still with the axe in his grip, he began swinging and chopping at the leaves, trying to keep them at bay, but because they were thick and had many shoots, the chopping seemed to be fruitless. He missed dodging a pumpkin's body in time and it came down, crushing him, as he felt his head get slammed by its globe, then the wetness of blood trickled down his forehead. The body was lifted back up on its vines, prepared for another tackle, and as it came back down, Cliff winced and closed his eyes, unable to move. This was it, the end would be with his pumpkins. Befitting, he thought, as they were his most marvelous plants . But instead of feeling the crushing power he'd expected, a man hollered, enraged, then Cliff felt the heat of a flame. He opened his eyes and saw a scrawny man's figure hidden beneath a welder's helmet holding a torch turned on full flame. The welder's torch was connected to a couple of cannisters strapped to the man's back and he had an aerosol can he used to blowtorch the pumpkins. They visibly shrank back from the heat until their vines caught fire, then the pumpkins scrambled back down the hill while attempting to put out their flames. The scrawny man turned towards Cliff and lifted his welder's helmet to reveal the tired old face of Charlie. "I knew you were up to something!" He spat angrily at Cliff revealing some missing teeth. Cliff shook his head in disbelief, "None of your concern, Charlie!" "The hell it ain’t! It becomes my concern when I have to swoop in and save your ass!" Charlie offered his hand to help him off the ground and Cliff looked back at him, feeling pretty sheepish. He pulled him up to standing and let him catch his breath. "No more, Cliff. You gotta promise me, this is it. You'll kill yourself playing with this land cursed by hell." Cliff wiped his brow and scoffed. He was saved from having to answer because the roots had worked their way out of the ground, mended themselves back together, and came at the men in their last round of attacks. They fought the men with every last bit of dark fury. Cliff brandished his shotgun and began to blast them back to splinters as Charlie equipped his welding gun, setting them aflame. They fought side by side until, finally, an orange sphere on the horizon began to glow at the top of the hill, and this time, it wasn't a dreaded pumpkin. The vegetables began to disappear back into the ground, ready for their comatose slumber. "Okay," Cliff conceded, "I'm done. This is it." Charlie looked at him and raised his fly away brows. They both joined in together in a sudden relief of laughter. "But you have to admit, they are spectacular specimens I’ve created." Cliff said with pride. # One week later, at the Milton County Festival, a booth was covered with cups and ribbons as Cliff stood proudly with his beautiful crop. His produce was selling for a ridiculous price and people were willing to pay. “I’ve never seen such magnificent carrots,” some would say. Others would comment, “Just look at the size of those tomatoes!” But it was the enormous pumpkins the people really talked about. The biggest he had ever grown was on display, the size of a small shed, now forever docile in the sunlight away from Cliff’s land. It was his pumpkin seeds everyone wanted. They were going for $5.00 per seed, guaranteed to grow. People had heard of Cliff’s pumpkin’s from out of town and made their way to the fair just to get their hands on one of the special seeds, especially after he'd announced this would be his last. Young Travis Baker came from upstate and had traveled all the way to the festival with his granddaddy. He'd heard of Cliff’s amazing pumpkins and was determined to get his hands on a seed. He was going to make him and his daddy rich by growing a mass of gigantic pumpkins from the one he’d grow with that seed. He'd saved up a long time for one, but the investment would be well worth it. When he got to the front of the line, he pulled out his clean sock full of coins, ruthlessly dumped out the contents onto the table and counted out the $5.00 for Cliff, beaming with pride. Cliff smiled and handed him the little baggy that held the large pumpkin seed in it and Travis was immediately satisfied. He began to walk back to find his granddaddy but stopped and dumped out the seed in his hand to have a good look. The feeling of it in his palm gave him goose pimples. The seed went flying out of his hand, almost as if it had jumped! Travis was beside himself as he frantically searched the ground for the lost seed and cursed himself for letting it go. Thankfully, he found it again by his shoe and breathed a sigh of relief. He put it back in the little baggy and secured it safely into his jean's pocket as he ran to find his granddaddy. Travis knew that seed was going to be special, he could feel it. THE END

It was our first journey in the Time Machine. My companion Susan was at the helm. "Doctor, are we ready to travel back in time?" "Yes, Susan. How are the biometrics?" "They are 100%." "Good. Hit the GO button." "Roger." Susan hit the GO button and we began moving back in time. I watched as the 2000s, the 1990s, and the 1980s went by. You could see the silhouettes of history and they were beautiful. "Stop the machine, Susan. I want to witness the Moon Landing." Susan stopped the machine and veered the craft towards the moon. There we saw the astronauts loping around the moon. We rolled down the window and laughed at them. "We have a time machine!" Then we rocketed back to Earth to see what chips tasted like with trans fats. *The Assassination of JFK* "Susan, we have arrived in Dallas. It is ten minutes until the assassination. We must act fast." "Right, doctor. Do you have your gun?" "Yes. Did you bring the soda and crackers?" "No, doctor. I forgot." I looked at Susan. "Then the President gets killed. Are you happy? Get in the fucking Time Machine, you twit! We're going back." *Ewoks* Susan and I had decided it was time to travel to one of the most famous times of all time: a long, long time ago. The problem was the galaxy far away part. We had all the coordinates of far away galaxies, but there were just too many. So, when we got there, we just called the indigenous swamp creatures Ewoks. Though, they could not sing and dance, they did serve us food. But the joke was on us. It was Endor and the food was actually Ewoks. We all had a good laugh. *The Revolutionary War* We were back in time once again. It was Susan, my long time companion, and I. We had been dating for several years, but I never took it any farther. I feel that Susan and I do not need a state's blessing to live our lives together. She disagrees. She thinks that it is a covenant between man and woman and that maybe it will curb my "Philandering". This got me angry and I told her so. Oh, and the Revolutionary War was going on all around us. It was really embarrassing. *The Future is Yours* "Susan, how are the biometrics?" "100%." "Good. We are going to the future. There is going to be tons of neon, put these glasses on." Susan put the glasses on and I hit the FUTURE button. *Deadly Swamp Things* Susan and I arrived in a lost time. It was a patch of murky soil within a swamp. We stepped out of the time machine. "Susan, do you see that swamp creature!" I yelled. "Yes, Dr. Haverly. We must get back inside." "Wait!" I said. "It could be sentient. Susan, just because something is ugly, does not mean it is not intelligent. Swamp Thing!?" "Yes?" The swamp thing asked. It looked like a magnificent spider with long octopus tentacles. "You look like a spider with octopus tentacles - did you know that?" The Swamp Thing just kinda nodded and pulled out a giant swamp joint. "See, Susan. He's just a laid back guy." That's when the Swamp Thing slapped Susan. *Time Wars!* My assistant, Susan, and I were once again traveling through time. She was a worthy assistant and helped me to no end in my ventures. "Susan, how are the biometrics?" "They are 100%." "Excellent. I think we will be at our destination soon." We were travelling to Christ-time. "It will be wonderful to see Jesus in real life." "Yes." I confirmed. But I was a little worried. The micro processors were giving me some bad readings. I took a look and realized we were headed for trouble. "Susan, there's a Time War up ahead!" "What's a Time War?" Susan asked. "It's when many time travelers travel to the same date at the same time. This could get hairy." I handed her a razor. *Biometrics* "Susan, what are our biometrics?" "They are 100%." "Good. Can you get me a reading on the time weather we will be passing through on the way to the 1920s?" "The weather is good. There are a series of time storms that have just passed through the 1930s, so we are OK." "Glad we're not going to the 1950s." I said jokingly. "Start the time engines." Susan started the time engines and we headed off to travel in time. I boned her on the way. *Susan* "Susan, how are the biometrics?" "Not good." "What's wrong?" "I'm not sure. They are claiming that you have VD." "But, how?" "You tell me. Or - wait, let's go back in time and see what you were doing when I had the flu for a week back in 2013." "We could do that. Or we could kill Hitler. Which will it be?" "You do this every time. We've killed him hundreds of times." "So, you're more important than 8 million people? Is that it?" "Currently, he's dead." "Not fifteen minutes before the last time we killed him." "But it doesn't matter." "Of course it does - you brought it up." "I..but..I did?" I do this to Susan every time she brings up the VD. *The Twenties* We stepped outside of the time machine and I pulled my gun. The 1920s are notorious for crime in America and I was pretty sure we were in America. "Hey, are we in America?" I asked a stranger. He said nothing. Apparently dogs cannot talk in the 1920s like they can in the 3040s. But you can still have sex with them. *The Land That Time Forgot* After hitting the time machine button the machine began emitting a large electrical current around itself and we were whisked away. I had forgotten to enter in a date to go to, so it sent us to the default year 9999. We stepped outside the machine and found an Earth that was unrecognizable. It had two suns and three moons. And six penises. Man. Time totally forgot about that Earth. *Dinosaur Disaster* We arrived in dinosaur times. We looked around and saw dinosaurs. This confirmed: Dinosaur Times. Our first dinosaur seemed to be a sort of giant crocodile that watched us from afar. We immediately shot it.

I've seen puncture wounds on just about every part of a dog, but nothing, and I mean nothing bleeds like a split ear. While there are several ways to wrap an ear, I prefer to bend at the natural seam and wrap the bandage around the entire head. This method discourages the dog from picking at the wrap and minimizes discomfort. Dogs will always choose normalcy over their well-being. That's where a balance of human intervention, and cooperation becomes necessary. This stray was brought in by the street guys, Peter and Paul; our canine-catching team of exactly two. Peter and Paul don't suffer from your average identical sibling rivalry. They got hired as a pair, work most of the same shifts, and just about split a paycheck. The rescue isn't exactly a well-funded operation, but we get by on a lot of passion and legwork. The split ear, which runs from the center, and divides the ear in two like ribbons isn't the last of the stray's problems, but it is the most urgent. Enough blood has dripped onto the examination table to create a steady trickle onto the floor. I take a step back to avoid getting blood on my shoes. A visible urge runs up the dog's spine, then around its broad neck. "He's going to shake." I say, but of course, no one listens to us 'enrichment' guys. The head veterinarian, Dr. Macnee, is measuring out her third bandage in as many minutes, and she's scrunching her face as if my suggestion is an affront to her years of schooling. It's an interesting dog, a lab mix with wire hair. Huge, but with nothing behind its eyes. I reload some peanut butter onto my spoon, which staves off the head shake momentarily. Then I drop the spoon, breaking its trance. His neck stiffens again. "He's going to shake," I repeat. But it's too late, and the dog ripples with kinetic force. With the urge relieved, the dog's tongue hangs proudly. The Doctor takes off her glasses, which are dotted now with crimson flecks, along with every surface in a four-foot radius. I hold up a fresh, new dollop of peanut butter. "One more try?" I ask. Later that day I'm out in the daycare yard overseeing a group of four for Social Hour. The group consists of Rocky the house mutt, a Boxer named Champ, and two Staffordshire Terrier Mixes, both named Luna. Rocky sits at my side watching the rest of the group like a retired athlete; like he's wondering if he's got one more game left in him. In a past life, Rocky was a bait dog; a chew toy used to foster aggression in tougher dogs. Probably the runt of his litter, or a genetic mistake that canceled out his killer instincts. His ears are cropped so close to his skull, that all that remain are two tufts of hair that have thickened in his golden years, giving him the appearance of a mad scientist, or an inbred marmoset. A muscular tongue dangles over his stalagmite teeth, and the corners of his mouth are pulled into a wide grin. Champ is off in the corner of the fenced-off yard, scratching his back against the artificial turf, and tanning his belly in the July sun. I want what he has; that unbothered look. Dogs don't test Champ, but they don't fear him either. His existence lies somewhere between the sun, and that flea-and-tick-resistant-turf, which is good enough for us both. The Bullies have had a slow start. This is their third meeting so far, the second of which ended abruptly after Luna 2 stiffened up and started growling. Today we've made some progress, with Luna 2 even engaging in bursts of play. She gets herself into a push-up position and looks up at Luna 1. A dog's behavior can teach you plenty about life if you're dumb enough, or weird enough to comprehend the lesson. By my count, a dog only feels one of five things at a given time. Their primary colors are happiness, discomfort, fear, hunger, or lust. People like to over-complicate things with degrees, and medical jargon, but they aren't the ones picking up shit, or breaking up fights. The real dog people know better. Dogs are simple, it's people who aren't. After the blood shower in the examination room, Dr. Macnee asked the staff to stay late for a deep clean. Gwen from the grooming department has stopped by to help. She takes care of the walls, while I disinfect the kennels, and remove hair from their rolling feet with a vintage sterling-silver pocket knife. "I'm heading to the Lamb tonight," she says, apropos of nothing. She's referring to a small bar on Main Street; the sort of place with Classic Rock and darts during the week, and DJs and college crowds all weekend. "That's cool," I say. "Have fun." Gwen laughs, but I don't know why. After the deep clean I hand my keys to the overnight employee, a late teenage girl who surveils the dogs on an hourly basis, or between rounds of homework. She waves me goodbye in a way that manages to feel unfriendly, and I make my way to the bus bench across the street. My bus is twenty-four minutes away, but I've brought a book, and I welcome the isolation, and summer night's breeze. I open the cover and find my place, and within moments, the Westchester County backstreets evaporate and are replaced by the high, guarded walls of my fantasy novel's kingdom. The hero of the novel has just discovered the full scope of the looming threat and retreats to his garden to ponder his options. The writer embellishes with thick descriptions of lush gardens where flowers display a degree of sentience. The hero looks to the sky, and- The moose-call horn of a Honda Accord erupts through the quiet street, and nearly jolts me off the bench. Gwen looks over from her driver's seat. "The Lamb," she says, "Are you coming, or what?" Gwen's radio is turned down, and I miss the rustle of the breeze, and the cicada's songs as soon as the door is fully shut. "I'm glad you're coming," Gwen says. "I've been trying to get you out for months." "You have?" I ask, but my attention veers to the passenger side mirror where a white van careens dangerously into the first spot outside the rescue. I recognize the Italian flag backdrop of the license plate, then both doors swing open, and two short, identical, muscular men emerge from either side. Peter is wearing a plain, black tee shirt that appears damp even in the low light. A tan-colored gauze is wrapped tightly around his left bicep, with prominent rust-colored stains throughout. His gold chain, a massive Cuban link with a diamond-encrusted microphone pendant swings wildly as he sprints to the rear of the van. His brother, Paul, meets him there, and they disappear from my view. "It's kind of late for a drop-off," I say. "Do you know if anybody called in any strays?" "Who cares?" Gwen says, "And no work talk once we get to the bar," and she puts the car in drive, and coasts away. At The Lamb, Gwen fumbles through a series of interrogation-style questions that fill me with unease. "What do you do for fun?" She asks. "I don't know," I respond. "I mostly just read and go to work." Gwen laughs, and for the second time tonight, I am confused. A few tables over, a tall guy wearing a college sweatshirt loudly teases his friend, causing the table to erupt in laughter and applause. "You are so boring!" She exclaims. "I'm sorry," I reply. "No, don't be sorry. I meant like, it's cute." Gwen stares at me for long enough that the grip on my pint glass weakens. In the dim lights, I notice for the first time that Gwen has freckles and a perfectly straight smile. I am relieved when a loud commotion diverts both of our attentions once again to the table of collegiate boys. "Why are you acting like such a pussy?" Sweatshirt demands. He's staring down at a skinny, smaller boy in a dress shirt. The boy in the dress shirt is studying his drink, while the other occupants at the table laugh, and exchange animated glances. "I said, why are you acting like a little bitch?" Sweatshirt doubles down. Dress-shirt says something inaudible to me, and without a moment's hesitation, Sweatshirt smacks him with enough follow-through to relocate him to the edge of his seat. Gwen gasps from somewhere behind me, but it's swallowed up by the explosive din of a fully enthralled crowd. People laugh, and cheer as Sweatshirt closes in on his friend, and grabs the collar of his shirt, snapping the top buttons off. Dress-shirt pushes a hand against Sweatshirt's face in an attempt to create distance. Sweatshirt cocks an arm back for a punch, but he's grabbed at the elbow, and then around the neck by a slab of muscle in a black security shirt. "We were just fucking around," he pleads as the bouncer shoves him past our table, and toward the door. I look over at Gwen, and her face has reddened, significantly reducing the contrast of her freckles. I think I see tears in her eyes, but I'm not sure. "I'm sorry," she said. "We should have gone somewhere else." "Why are you sorry?" I ask. "It just seems like you're having a bad time." She says. "I'm not having a bad time," I say. "I just don't do this very often. "Kids are so stupid," she says. "Why would you pick a fight with your own friend?" "Predatory drift," I answer. Gwen squints at me. "Dave, I thought I said no work stuff," she says, but this time I can tell she's joking. "It's sort of like when two dogs play, they're actually just testing one another. You know, who's faster, who's stronger, who would win in a real fight, that sort of thing," I begin. "But sometimes with a more dominant dog, you get these bad instincts, and they kick in if the other dog shows real weakness. Like, 'If you can't keep up, and you can't play-'" and I choose my next words carefully. "Then you're prey," Gwen concludes. We finish our drinks in comfortable silence, then pay up our tab. **\*\*\*** Back in Gwen's car, and with work-talk back on the menu, conversation flows freely. Gwen asks if I want to come overand watch a movie, and I agree. We chat as we pass the quiet suburbia of Pelham Road, then onto the heavily forested, sparsely lamp-lit glow of Shore Road on the border between New Rochelle, and The Bronx. As houses and taverns are traded for trees and horse stables, I realize that I am comfortable around another person for the first time in my adult life. "What about Dennis?" she asks. "Who?" "The guy with that silly tattoo of the sun with sunglasses." "Oh." I remember, "What about him?" "He was just so weird." She says. "He wasn't weird, just quiet," I answer. "But to answer your question, he stopped showing up about a month ago. It doesn't surprise me either. He was the only guy who Dr. Macnee treated worse than me." "Yeah, what's her deal with you, anyway?" Gwen asks. "I'm not sure," I say, but that isn't true. The truth is that she doesn't respect me, or anyone without a degree in the field. I look out my window. A chain link fence becomes visible in a gap amid the tree line. Far beyond that fence is several miles of golf course. But directly beyond that fence, and only barely visible in the dying glow of a far ahead street lamp, are three sets of green eyes focused on my side of the vehicle. Around the eyes, I can make out the jagged silhouette of thick, spiky fur, and sharply pointed ears. I stare back curiously, but a sharp jerk of the steering wheel sends my concentration to the front windshield. "What's wrong?" I ask. "It was a dead deer or something. It was too dark to see until I got close." I look back at the treeline just as it ends and a lane of parkway begins. In Gwen's neighborhood, we circle for nearly fifteen minutes before a spot opens up several blocks from her apartment. "It's a few blocks this way," she says, and motions with her chin. It's late, but Gwen's neighborhood bustles loudly into the summer night with car stereos playing loud music, and older men seated in beach chairs, and drinking beers on the sidewalk. We pass a deli, and then an old-looking church. A man is lying on his side on the church steps, and he watches us as we walk past. "That's a pretty girl." the man rasps, then lets out a phlegmatic-sounding laugh. Gwen's pace quickens slightly, and her forward gaze becomes rigid. "I said you're pretty, bitch, you not gonna say thank you?" Gwen's stride is automatic now, and she rustles her hands in her hoodie pockets. I put an arm around her waist, and her body molds into mine as our steps synchronize. There's a blur to my left, and then the man is in front of us, smiling. His teeth are yellow and jagged, and his mouth stretches far into the sides of his face, giving his nose and jaw a snout-like appearance. He wears an unbuttoned shirt that shows off a topographic map of deep gashes on his torso. A chunk of his arm looks bitten into, giving the flesh the appearance of an apple core. Blood crusts alongside yellow cholesterol deposits on the missing portion of the arm. Gwen is nestled so far under my arm that my heart beats against her face. The man looks her up and down hungrily. He has not regarded me once. For some reason, I think about Rocky the house mutt. Then I think about the hero in my novel. I reach for strength that I don't own. "Leave us alone," I demand. The man cocks his head back and projects another mucous-filled wheeze. Then he directs his focus to me, and even with his mouth closed, the lip line stretches for an unpleasant distance across his face. His eyes smolder like a smoking sinkhole as he passes them over me. "Aw," he condescends. "Why? What you gonna do about it." I place a hand in my pocket and grasp the sterling silver folding knife, allowing the handle to poke visibly next to my waistline. I maintain eye contact as my spine straightens stiff. I concentrate on my breath. Then I bark. "Leave us alone," I demand again. "Or I'll cut your eyes out of your fucking face." I pull the knife fully from my jeans now. The too-wide lips creep and curl around the man's cheekbones. Then the smile fades, and he studies the blade for a moment. "I'm just fucking with you, yeah?" Then he looks at Gwen, "And it was a fucking compliment. I'll see you around, beautiful." He looks to his side and then takes off down the church alleyway with alarming momentum. He hops a small fence at the back of the alley and disappears into the night. I look down at Gwen who is still nestled into my chest. Then she looks up at me. "Let's go," I say, and she blinks out of her trance. "My building is just down the block," she confirms. We half-walk, half-jog to the front of her building where she stops to catch several breaths. "Thank you," she says and looks me right in the eyes. Then she grabs the front of my shirty and kisses me on the front steps, and under the beautifully full moon. **\*\*\*** I have an early morning scheduled at the rescue, and Gwen offers to drive me. Something has changed throughout the night, and she touches me often and speaks in a softer voice. To my relief, her neighborhood is fast asleep as we approach her parked car. "Thank you again for last night," she says once we're on the road. It's the dark morning hour when the street lamps are turned off in anticipation of the morning sun. Gwen turns on her brights as she sharply turns onto Shore Road. After a short stretch, we see the culprit for her sharp swerve from the night prior. "Oh my God," Gwen moans, and we both turn our heads, Beside our vehicle is a mushy pile of blood, bone, and fur organized into a heaping mass. Bits of meat held together by clumps of fur are strewn for several feet of road in either direction. A few feet past that, and a large buck antler becomes visible above the passenger door guardrail like some crude memorial. "What do you think did this?" Gwen asks. I think about the trio of green eyes, then the man with the wide-set mouth. "I don't know," I say. We drive in mostly silence, and as we approach the rescue, I am surprised to see Dr. Macnee's car in the lot. After we pull to a stop, Gwen kisses me goodbye and tells me to call her after work. Then she drives away as I approach the already unlocked front door. The first thing that strikes me is the absence of a night clerk at the front desk. The next thing that strikes me is a small stippling of blood near the door to the hallway. My heart beats with syncopation as I follow its trail to the examination room. As I open the door, I see Dr. Macnee slightly hunched, and at eye level with the most grotesquely inbred, or birth-defective dog that I've ever seen. Its hair is thick at the top of the skull and spine, but sparse elsewhere. Through the thinning fur, I can see blueish-gray skin textured with blood vessels and liver spots. The joints all twist inward at a point, giving the dog a cracked, and hunched appearance. It sits atop an examination table that is not at all raised, suggesting a standing height of approximately six-and-a-half feet. "Good morning," I say or ask. "Did Peter and Paul drop this stray off?" Dr. Macnee doesn't look at me and continues the examination. She peeks in the dog's sharply pointed ears, then pulls back his gums, revealing two rows of strangely uniform, plaque-riddled cuspids. "What are you doing here so early?" I ask. "Forgot my purse," she starts blankly. "Forgot my purse, and what do I walk into?" I am too confused to respond, so I just stare at the grotesque dog. The lankiness of its limbs should not support its massive center of gravity. Its hackles stand at full attention from a painfully visible spine, and its ribs thump with short, quick breaths. Its jaw is covered in red and dark brown stains, but what draws me is the eyes. "I asked you to deep clean last night," she finally continues, "And somehow, you manage to make it worse in here. Did you try to redo the bandage on your own?" The dog's deep brown eyes lock onto mine. There is a depth behind them that suggests a level of comprehension beyond "sit" and "stay". "I did deep clean last night," I say. "And Gwen from grooming helped me." Dr. Macnee snorts, then forces a chuckle. "I never wanted an 'enrichment' division," Dr. Macnee spits. "We pay you to, to what exactly? Play fetch? Clean up shit? And you guys can't even get that right. I took pictures, and I can't wait to send them to the director-" She continues speaking, but the canine's eyes snatch my attention mid-sentence. It looks from me to Dr. Macnee with a flick of its eyeballs. Blood vessels constrict in the whites while the pupils burn black with dilation. The eyes bulge in their sockets, eclipsing their depth in singular focus. "Dr. Macnee-" I interrupt. "Don't you speak while I'm speaking!" she spits and points a finger at me. "I am sick and tired-", she continues. The beast's lips curl back revealing lines of spittle that vibrate like blades of grass against the first visible signs of a deep, gurgling growl. "Dr. Macnee, seriously-" I start again. "What?!" she yells. "He's going to bite." She turns her face just as the hideous beast removes most of her ear with an easy snap of its muscular jaws. Dr. Macnee's scream is high and hysterical as her wide eyes strain to assess her loss. The beast munches hungrily, then swallows. Dr. Macnee is still screaming as the muscles twitch in the beast's neck, and he springs forward with intent. The jaws unhinge, then clamp with force in the same instantaneous beat. Dr. Macnee's right eye socket down to her jawline is ensnared in a craggy prison of yellow teeth. She pulls back reflexively, causing the teeth to sink, and lock. The skin from her face stretches, pulls, then shreds like stringy gristle from a butcher's block. The jaws of the beast twitch dutifully, and with a squelching pop, the beast cleans the meat from the bone. The untouched portion of Dr. Macnee's face twists in horror and confusion, while her eyes spin and twitch in their sockets. A gash runs from the inner ear down through what remains of the lobe which forcefully spurts pints of blood across the examination room. Then the beast rises deftly to two feet and takes the Doctor's throat into its maw. He shakes his head once, eliciting a snap, and her body goes limp. I am frozen with fear and confusion as the beast makes eye contact with me. Dr. Macnee hangs heavily from between its jaws as he lowers back onto four legs. The beast turns toward me, and I place my palms up defensively. "Easy," I command. "Easy, boy." I take a step back with my palms still outstretched. "We're good." I keep my voice steady, "It's okay." The beast walks toward me, dragging Dr, Macnee beside it across the tiled floor. As it steps past me, it looks me in the face. "Easy boy," I repeat. It continues its walk into the hallway, and I slowly shut the door behind it. As the door shuts, I catch one last glimpse of the beast. On the side of its right arm, just visible beneath patchy, and thin fur, is a crude outline of a cartoon-style sun wearing sunglasses. The examination room door closes, and from beyond the glass panel, I can see the doors to the hallway open and shut. I wait painfully still for several moments before the main door is opened and closed as well. After the shock dwindles enough for me to regain my faculties, I call the police and then feed my dogs. Rocky smiles when he sees me, and his eyes gleam with admiration as I place the slow-feeder on his crate tray. When the cops arrive, they take a quick statement, then I show them footage from the examination room, and then the lobby. They exchange worry and confusion-filled glances. The attack footage in the examination room has been conspicuously deleted but cuts back just in time to place me away from the main computer as the hallway, and lobby footage are also cut. They tell me to leave for the day as the rescue is deemed an active crime scene. "I still need to let my dogs out," I tell them. After some deliberation, a promise from their K9 unit, and several neatly scribbled notes about medications, feedings, and temperaments, I finally agree to leave. They tell me that a detective will be in touch with me shortly. As a final word, the officers ask me not to speak with anyone. "No problem," I say. My bus is a half an hour away. I want to call Gwen, but she is probably home and in bed by now. With thirty minutes to kill, I take a seat on the bus bench across the street. I fish for my novel, then crack it open across my lap. Maybe I'll finally learn how the hero of this story deals with the looming threat. As I flip for my page, the sharp crack of a twig snags my attention. In the distance behind my bus bench, and across a small parking lot, a group of four massive, grotesquely lanky dogs plod along a treeline. A glimmer from the fading moon bounces light off a metal object around the neck of the third dog in line. They move with synchronicity, but no urgency, and a calm permeates my spirit as I watch them. As the moon catches off the metallic object again, I get a better glimpse of the small, shiny microphone pendant, bouncing with each step.

She pulls her shoulder length blond hair back into a ponytail held by a zebra print scrunchie and begins searching furiously through her room. Getting down on her knees, she peers under the bed and roots around with her arm. Sitting back on her feet, the girl lets out a frustrated grunt and springs quickly up to cross the room and open drawer after drawer after drawer of her dresser. Her efforts succeeding in producing nothing but more frustration the girl stands in the middle of her ransacked room. Her face changes from speculative to anger, and she marches into the hallway and down to a closed door. Balling her left hand into a fist she knocks rapidly on the door, but there is no answer. She pauses for a second and presses her ear to the door attempting to hear some movement inside the room. Failing to determine if the occupant of the room is currently at home, she resumes her knocking and accompanies it with shouting. “David! Open this door right now!” The girl shouts. Her shouts bring a woman from another part of the house who is dressed in tan slacks and white cotton blouse. She stops a few feet from the girl and watches the display with arms crossed and stern look on her face. Her blond hair is cut short in a pixie cut, and she holds a pair of spectacles in her left hand. “What are you doing Hannah?” The woman asks. Stopping her banging and shouting, Hannah turns and responds, “I’m trying to get David to come out and give me back my journal. I know that he took it out of my room.” “He’s not home. He is at baseball practice.” “Well, I’m going to beat the daylights out of him when he gets home.” “You will do no such thing. Family does not hit each other.” “I don’t care if we are family. He is always invading my privacy, and I’m tired of it mom,” the girl says stomping her foot. “You may not realize it now Hannah, but family is everything.” “Mom, this is ridiculous. He won’t stay out of my room. If he goes in there again, I’m going to make him pay.” Hannah responds standing and staring back defiantly. Tired of waiting for her mother to say anything Hannah asks, “Can I just get a lock for my room already?” “We’ll talk about it when your father gets home. Now stop banging on your brother’s door and clean your room and do your homework.” Defeated, Hannah passes by her mother and enters her room. Slamming the door, Hannah throws herself on the bed. Taking a pink covered pillow, she presses her face into it and screams. ************************************************************ Walking into the living room, Hannah pauses at the sound of two women arguing. One of them is her mother, and they are arguing in German. Hannah creeps closer to the kitchen entrance to listen. After several minutes, the two women cease arguing, and Hannah quickly walks over to flounce on the couch. An elderly woman enters the livngroom a moment later with white hair done in a loose bun wearing a light flower pattern dress. Seeing Hannah, the older woman smiles and says, “Hannah! My enkelin. How are you?” Rising from her seat, Hannah cross to greet the older woman with a hug saying, “I’m good Oma. How’re you?” Hugging the girl tightly, Oma responds, “I’m good.” “Why were you and mom fighting.” Steeping back from the girl with hands on her shoulders, Oma smiles and asks,” Were you spying on your mutter and me?” “I didn’t mean to. I heard you fighting when I came into the living room.” “Well, don’t you worry dear. Your mutter and I fight, but we always will love each other.” Oma says and turns to yell over her shoulder, “Isn’t that right Katie.” “Yes mutter,” Katie answers back from the kitchen. “Das ist gut. Hannah go tell your brother to come out and see me.” “I’m not talking to him, Oma.” “What? You’re not talking to your only brother? Tsk Tsk that’s a shame.” Oman says shaking her head. Entering from kitchen, Katie says,” I’ll get him mutter. Have a seat, and I’ll make us some coffee. Joe should be home in time for the program tonight.” “What program?” Hannah asks curiously. “The Berlin Wall is coming down today, dear.” “Oh,” Hannah comments. Then she asks, “Were you in Germany when it went up, Oma?” “Ja, I was not much older than you when they built it. Soon after, we came to the United States.” Oma sighs and her face settles into a sad expression. “What’s the matter Oma?” “Oh Hannah, I was just thinking about my sister. Her husband and she live in East Berlin. We haven’t seen or heard from them in many years.” “Oh! That’s terrible!” Hannah exclaims. “Yes, dear, it is.” Oma sighs again and says, “Well today the wall will fall.” ************************************************************ Hannah and her family gather in the living room while the news plays on the television. Her father sits in his easy chair. He is a sturdy man with brown and gray short cropped hair and stubbled jaw. He wears a white undershirt and navy-blue work pants. He sips from a beer can that he sets on a television tray to his right. He smiles as her mother enters and places a large bowl of popcorn and a stack of paper bowls next to it on the coffee table. A young boy who until then was laying with chin cupped in his hand staring at the television, turns over and sits up next to the table. He starts scooping out popcorn with a paper bowl while Oma grabs a handful which she pops one by one into her mouth chewing slowly. Katie leaves the room to return with a pitcher of water and cups that she sets down on the table next to the bowls. Pouring herself a glass, she settles on the sofa between her mother and Hannah. She fills a bowl with popcorn which she hands to her daughter before getting herself one. The gathered family settles back to watch the news program on television. Television news anchors talk about the history of the Berlin Wall, and its construction after World War II. Several times during the program, Oma dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief as they tear up at the memory of those times. The rest of the family for their part quietly watch the precedings with unwavering attention until the young boy turns his head to say something to his Oma. “Did your sister really get trapped in East Berlin, Oma?” “Yes, David, before her husband and she could come to us, they had closed the border. Then the wall was built, and no one was allowed across.” “Wow,” the boy says in wide eyed wonderment.” Couldn’t your mom and dad do anything.” “No dear, there was nothing that we could do. Eventually, my parents decided that we should move here, and I had all but given up hope of ever seeing Sara again until now.” Katie interrupts with, “Let’s not start that again, mutter.” “Start what?” Hannah asks curiously. Katie and Oma exchange a look and then Katie says,” That’s what your Oma and I were arguing about earlier. She wants to travel to Germany to find her sister, but I don’t think that’s it a good idea.” “But Liebchen it would mean so much to me. I have missed Sara so.” “I know mutter, but your health isn’t that great.” “It’ll be fine Katie, and you can go with her.” Joe interjects. Before Katie can respond, David points and says,” Look they’ve started tearing it down.” The conversation forgotten the family turns their attention back to the television screen. The image shows people, everyday citizens of West Berlin and government forces with tools tearing at the wall. As large chunks of graffiti decorated bricks start to break away and fall to the ground, the people cheer, and Oma begins to cry in earnest. Without tearing his eyes away from the television, David reaches for more popcorn and knocks over a glass of water which splashes in Hannah’s lap. With a startled cry, Hannah jumps up from her seat exclaiming, “Look what you’ve done jerk.” “Gosh, Hannah, I’m sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose.” David says defensively. “I don’t care,” Hannah says petulantly. She storms off towards the bedrooms yelling, “I wish I could build a wall to keep you out of my life!” The television program forgotten; the group sit there in awkward silence. David’s eyes fill with un-shed tears, and he springs up from the floor rushing towards the door. When he reaches it, he puts on his shoes and grabs the door handle. “Where are you going,” Joe asks. “I’m going to Patrick’s.” David says walking out the door and slamming it behind him. A few seconds later there is sound of a car braking loudly then a car door slamming. Katie is the first one to the door, and she pulls it open rushing through it followed by Joe. Joe does not even stop to put on his shoes. Oma rises more slowly and starts towards the door too when Hannah comes from the hallway. She follows her oma out the door. Outside is a chaotic site. Several of the neighbors have gather out in the road in front of their house. Hannah approaches the group and sees her parents on their knees while a middle-aged man in a suit stands nearby where a silver sedan sits. Her grandma makes it to the periphery of the crowd first, and her hand goes to her mouth. Hannah draws up behind her oma and peers through the crowd. On the ground between her parents, David lays. His bike a mangle mess lays nearby. Hannah mirrors her oma bringing her hand to her mouth in surprise. She stumbles towards her family with tears welling in her eyes. She too drops to her knees near her brother David. David lays quite still and quiet while the gathered crowd looks on with worried glances and whispered conversation. The motorist seems frozen in place, and his right hand rests on top of his sweaty brow. ************************************************************ Hannah stands in the kitchen toying idly with a yellow phone cord that trails behind connecting the handset in her hand with a wall mounted yellow phone cradle. A woman’s voice can be heard chattering excitedly through the phone while Hannah listens showing signs of obvious delight. Delight which turns to seriousness after a moment. “Yes, I know Oma,” she says into the phone. Then after a moment, “I will.” After another pause, she says reassuringly, “I will take care of everything. You and Mom just enjoy yourselves. Say hello to Aunt Sara for us.” She listens for another moment pacing back towards the wall phone. Her father passes by heading towards the sink and washes his hands. Hands dirty with soil and grass clippings. Hannah smiles at her dad and gestures questioningly with the phone towards him, but he shakes his head no hurrying out of the kitchen. “Ok, Oma, I love you. You have fun.” she says finally before hanging up the receiver. Returning to the kitchen counter where a plate sits next to containers and a cutting board on which rests slices of red tomato, she begins constructing a couple of turkey, swiss and tomato sandwiches. Sandwiches slathered with mayonnaise which she slices in half diagonally. The halves she splits apart, puts on plates with a handful of potato chips thrown between them. Grabbing the plates, she makes her way into the living room. Her brother sits on the couch with a cast encased leg propped on the table. He smiles when she enters and shifts in his seat to make room for Hannah. Hannah sets down the two plates and goes back to the kitchen returning a moment later with cans of pop which she sets down on the table too. “Looks great Hannah,” David says before reaching out to get his plate. “Thanks, eat up. You need your strength.” “Is Roger coming over today?” David asks between mouthfuls. Giving him the side eye while chewing and swallowing her sandwich, Hannah asks,” Why do you ask about him?” Then elbowing him playfully in the ribs adds,” Did you read about that in my diary.” Blushing, David says,” No, I saw you two talking outside yesterday.” “Ok,” Hannah says with mock severity.” Well, he’s not coming over today. Today just the two of us are going to hang out.” “That’s great.” The young people settle back to enjoy their sandwiches and watch television. When particularly funny part happens, it causes David to laugh mid-drink and to cough and sputter when pop comes out his nose. Hannah starts laughing while clapping him on the back to help expel the pop that has gone down the wrong way before springing from the couch to go grab a towel. Once the mess is cleaned up, Hannah and David continue eating and watching their show.

Covering her ears, she watched the clock. No burst of sound must catch her off guard. Ever. Tick. Tick. Tick. The final bell rang. Susie charged into the traffic of students, slipping past their shoulders. Upon seeing Mrs. Marghast’s office, she stopped and peeked through the glass. Her guidance counselor and friend, with her back to the door, fixed a few of the little things hanging on the wall. Susie closed her eyes, her hand feeling the doorknob. Mrs. Marghast turned around as a hinge squeaked from behind. Her eyes grew gentle. “Priscilla? What’s wrong?” she asked, though expecting someone else. The young girl looked up, her face frozen still. “I’m losing her....” Susie could have been halfway home, could have been seven minutes into the fifteen-minute walk. But one could blame her quick stop by a flower shop off her beaten path. She pointed. “Three please.” Her allowance could only allow so much. Delighted, Mr. Tingey, the vendor, asked her to pick her favorites. Triplets, she picked. Not one a shade lighter. Not one a shade darker. Each one was as pink as the other. Mr. Tingey bid her a safe walk home, reminding her to keep off the road. Keep off the road.... It echoed on and on in her thoughts. Louder and louder. Her brow puckered. Eyelids disappeared into her head. Lips froze. Everything else, her skin and all, rattled. As if hearing thunder on a cloudless day, she inched backward, no eyes behind her head. The loud question on Mr. Tingey’s face stayed put. “Deary, don’t!” he shouted. Susie’s heel reached the sidewalk’s edge. A honk from a speeding car her scared away from the gutter, back where bystanders belonged. Leaving Mr. Tingey’s concern untouched, she walked away, pink beauties in her hands. Of course, she was fine. Probably. Though the way deemed her a stranger, she pursued it. The fresh scent of pastries from a bakery mingled with her. While making the much-needed left turn, she battled against the temptation, her empty pocket helping. The sound of running water caressed her ears upon reaching the hidden entrance to a footpath. Careful step after careful step, like persisting through a tightrope, she kept to the safe side with her hand on dirty murals. The bare edge of the footpath, the one that promised a sudden drop to the creek, repelled her. She had a dry and less murky face to keep. Loud chatter gained ground on her. Several steps beyond the exit, sardined houses surrounded Susie posthaste. Though the invitation to come inside stood for the neighborhood folk, they sat on the gutter, cackled under the sun, teamed up against today’s crossword puzzle, and even played checkers outside the smallest barbershop ever. Talk about too much community. Clean laundry hung like festival banners. Stray dogs sniffed through the last garbage bags standing. Susie endured the hey-new-kid treatment: prolonged stares, mouths hanging ajar, chatter that turned into whispers. She embraced her flowers, soldiering on. I did nothing wrong! she screamed into herself, her lips pursed. Nothing! Then came a tap on her shoulder. A friendly face sharpened into view, and Belton was his name. After a handshake, the schoolboy in the wrinkled shirt offered to walk with her. With pleasure, she accepted. Both carried onward. Belton asked her to drop her cautions, adding that his people were simply wired never to miss an outsider. “Everyone here knows everyone here,” he said and snorted out a laugh, waving at a man carrying an out-of-breath janitor fish. Susie smiled but said nothing in hopes of honoring her dad’s don’t-talk-to-strangers commandment. But then... “Thank you,” she said, stopping. Two of them stood past the fine line where the world changed. The village they beheld was... To call it “peaceful” would be too kind. It was dead quiet. Its birds--if there were ever any--must’ve departed in search of warmer pastures. Overly dotted by towering trees, the village boasted--if such could be boasted--an abundance of shade. Huge roots had broken a few sidewalks into shards. Its afternoons settled for dim skies. Its old houses coupled with barren yards. Mouth open, eyes stretched wide, Belton nodded. They followed separate ways after the goodbyes. The time was five minutes past four. With nothing but a backpack, Susie left the tailored sidewalks and crossed the healthy front lawn. Her mom held the door open. “Had too much fun?” she asked, trying to make sense of the late arrival. Susie forced a smile. “Yeah.” “Did you bring me anything, sweetie?” her mom asked. The girl shook her head, frowning. After kissing her daughter, she took one last look outside before closing the door. Everything was neat, bright, day-lit. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the break on the sidewalk and a cracked tree. It took some getting used to. A new day began. After the classes, Priscilla tried to, but she couldn’t catch up to her. Free as a bird, Susie bought flowers again. Three pink ones from Mr. Tingey. The vendor sensed a pattern forming, and with all his heart, he welcomed it. Like yesterday, Susie carried them around the bakery, past the creek, through the crowded neighborhood, then into the dark and mum village. There was something about number sixty-seven that marked the spot for her. The lot had its own house, a dirt-filled front yard, and a massive tree on one corner that rained down a thick shade. She tiptoed deeper... but never inside. Near the porch steps, light croaks slipped into earshot. Someone was snoring. The girl scrambled and reached the planted trio of flowers. There they stood, each paired with an erect barbeque stick, each bound by the simplest knot of pink yarn. From her backpack, out came the sticks. Out came the roll of yarn. All thanks to her, three more flower stalks found their footing. And if time allowed it, she could’ve named all six. Six became nine. Nine became twelve. Then a whole square of them formed. She always left with empty hands. Then it was off to the hills and greens of the golf course next door, then the main highway’s overpass, and lastly, home ground past the guard gate. The school days lived for her floral project... and not much of anything else. Her arriving home at four-thirty before sundown set the record. For her, lunch at school didn’t mean the cafeteria. The lunch ladies no longer saw a dollar, not even a penny, out of Miss Susie Hollister. She bit away, more than often, out of the loaf and sardines she smuggled out of the house. Ashamed of her eating situation, she took her lunch to the school theater’s backstage, leaving her bestest friend all alone by a table--if the label between the two still stood. They used to walk home together. Back at number sixty-seven, kneeling on the dirt of the front yard, she planted the twenty-seventh flower. But some were already losing color, more brown than pink. “I love good stories!” a warm voice yelled out. Hairs standing, her neck heating up, Susie slowly turned around. Smiling at her was a plump old lady holding a bag of goods. She ambled over to the porch, pulled herself up the steps, and sat on the topmost one. A delightful sigh escaped her. The lady patted the space beside her, saying, “I believe you have one to tell.” Unknown steel burdened Susie’s head. Her legs matched juice-box straws. A balloon of air crawled into her. She didn’t know how, but a couple of minutes later, she landed on the porch steps without help. She pointed at the peonies she’d planted and said, “I used to have a field of those.” Her words started painting. Every night, at the right time, just when Susie’s eyes fell shut in bed, the field came to her. Milky, sun-dipped clouds hovered from above. Blushing stretches bridged mountainous horizons. Cottony fluffs drowned the hips of the beloved guest. The field’s breeze invited her to dance at every chance. And they danced. Dancing should never be guilty of heartbreaks. What harm could a soft sway or a merry hop do? But the rules changed when Susie left her bed without waking up. She swept her hand across a cluster of petals, then twirled farther, the wind whispering the beat and melody. All ended when a screech, crash, and shatter stirred the air. Susie’s tangible set of eyes flew open. Her bare feet stuttered for balance amidst the street, cold. She beheld the night. On one side were tire tracks that made a sudden curve. On the other, a car clasped a tree nonstop, smoke rising between them. Taillights had outlasted headlights. The girl dragged her feet, then ran. Every step was a punishment. Every breath was icy black. The killer tree grew before her. Its form inched closer to swallowing her whole. But she didn’t stop. “What? What is this?” the old lady of number sixty-seven asked, cutting the story short. Susie, once again, forced her lips to move. “The field--it never came back. It was never mine to keep. But maybe mine to give away.” She inhaled deeply through her teeth and pulled out a newspaper clipping. The headline Young Veteran Perishes in a Neighborhood Car Crash met the old lady’s eyes. Her son. For three weeks, Susie carried the whole story all alone. And telling one more soul didn’t seem to spread the weight. “I’m sorry...” Susie said in a cracking voice, eyes drowning. There was no reply. The veteran’s mother didn’t frown, didn’t smile, didn’t even budge any wrinkle. She stood with the news article in her hand, stepped inside, and never came back. Wiping her tears, the girl took the piercing hint and staggered home. The days reverted to her fifteen-minute walk home. But Susie preferred to do it alone. She barely talked and always ate by herself. Dimples lacked reason to show. Though her grades were fine, everyone was worried. Her head settled under cold waters but never drowned. For two months. The final bell rang again. Susie checked her bag before heading home. She’d accidentally gotten her seatmate’s test paper that had a failing grade of sixty-seven. Behind her eyes came a spark, and a sole choice remained. She rushed into the long detour. At last, surrounded by sickening shade and silence, she neared number sixty-seven. To her surprise, the lot alone basked under the outpour of sunlight. The tree by its corner had been sheared to the trunk, almost leafless. Right where a dirt-filled front yard once stood was a garden, one that housed countless kinds of pink. Grasses, leaves, and peonies breathed life. To call all of it “stunning” would be perfect. Porch steps creaked. Standing on the last one, the old lady of number sixty-seven caught sight of her. A big smile swelled on her face as she waved at Susie. Warmth overran the girl. While everything inside her awakened, her cheeks dared to float skyward. With the old lady’s smile--and probably a Little Dreamer Crossing sign planted on her own front lawn--Susie believed she could dream again. *** She was the first to arrive in her office. The fine morning begged her to take one more sip of her coffee. Licking her lips, she put her bag and cup on the desk, and between them sat a letter, right behind her name plaque. It was a no-brainer for her to open it. Dear Mrs. Marghast, You were right. My bestest friend came back! We finally got to talk, like you suggested. I guess a “thank you for listening” is not enough. Perhaps I could pick you a peony. We know a whole garden of them. Love, Priscilla

“Hey Tammy, are you busy?” Clarke asked as he steps into Tammy’s cubicle. Her internal eyeroll is engaged with this constant question from those above her in the totem pole of office politics. She wishes she could ask them: “don’t you pay me to be busy?” Minimizing the document she had open on the right side of her double monitor, she turns to Clarke. Tammy is famous around the office for what everyone has taken to calling “Tammy’s waterfall”. She places all of her “to-do” paperwork on the left-hand side of her desk. The least important items are at the bottom and each successive project is layered on top of the others with just an inch of exposed header so she knows what is next and it cascades down the desk until it is almost falling off of the desktop at its height. She knows Clarke couldn’t have missed the excessively large pile of paperwork to her left. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kent?” “How’s your day going? Did you have a good weekend?” While she thinks the obligatory small talk to lead into the favor is a nice gesture, she truly is busy and wants to dive right into the “ask” that has brought him to her cubicle. “It was good. How was yours?” A very detailed story followed. Her hand was poised over the mouse itching to move it to her open task list but she knew it was rude to continue to type while he regaled her with his hiking adventure and Sunday golf game. She gasped in all the right places and put an emphatic “oh” in when it was required and cheered at the fact he had come in under par; but, in her mind she was calculating what she could get done if she skipped lunch and stayed a little late. When it felt like Clarke was wrapping up, she smiled and nodded. “Was there something you needed?” “Oh yes. Do you mind coming in my office and taking a look at something for me? I’m having that problem with my excel spreadsheet again. I always swear I am going to take better notes next time you help so I don’t have to ask.” Tammy locks her computer screen and follows him into his plush office. She shows him again how to fix the problem and attempts to return to her desk. She is stopped by Susan at reception who thrusts her cell phone into her hand, “look” is all she says. It is a Facebook post with a picture of her soon-to-be-ex husband with the girlfriend that ended their marriage. Three angry rants and two consolatory hugs later, she starts back to her desk. Before she can get logged back into her computer, the phone begins to ring. Super Needy Client needs her help right away. She talks her down off her proverbial ledge while she pulls back up the files she minimized nearly an hour ago when Clarke interrupted. It is a letter. Her letter of resignation. She reads the opening paragraph again. Then closes the file. She is so tempted to just send it. Send it today. Make this the first day of the last two weeks of this decade long job. She doesn’t really despise the job. She genuinely likes most of her co-workers but she did it this weekend. She watched the show. The documentary about the person who quits their 9 to 5 job and reduces their life to one sleeping bag, two matchboxes and a radio and goes to live in the woods and finds their long-lost passion of leaf art and now lives off the tiny leaf-art income and feels fulfilled and joyful and at one with nature. She picks up the forms at the peak of the waterfall with the matching task in her system and starts her research on the resolution. She is technically making a difference for the person who is on the other side of this paperwork who needs her help. She isn’t performing life-saving brain surgery but how many actual people can say they are brain surgeons? Someone has to process the brain surgeon’s forms so they can keep brain surgeoning right? Tammy feels guilty about abandoning the stack but she has to go the bathroom and maybe heat up her lunch to eat at her desk. She gets corned by Hilda from the office next door to hers which shares the public restrooms. Hilda has to tell Tammy about her daughter’s new baby. She takes her back to her office to show her pictures and cry. Miraculously, Hilda’s phone starts to ring and Tammy mouths: “I’ll see you later. Beautiful grandbaby!” and she escapes back to her own office. In the break room, while heating up her frozen meal, Jake strides in and asks her what she is having. He spends twenty minutes on his new workout routine and diet regimen. It’s called Paint Your Palette. He does twenty minutes on how his breakfast is all yellow foods, lunch is all green foods and dinner is a protein power shake that is red. She teases that Jake should throw in some Mac and Cheese orange to round out the palette or some chocolate chip cookie brown. Jake laughs with her. When Tammy reaches her desk, her lunch is cold again. Somehow her day is escaping her grasp. She imagines her tiny lifeboat and the waterfall of paperwork is about to capsize it. She takes advantage of the after-lunch coma of her fellow cubicle workers and attacks the waterfall with fervor. In two hours, she’s made a dent in the form stack. The ear pod in her ear is her theme music and her foot is tapping to the beat unheard by her fellow cubicle neighbors. Tammy has a second wind, and it takes her to and past closing time. The others leave with a flurry of “see you tomorrows” and she pushes through two more projects before she scoops up the paper left in the stack and files it away. Before she shuts down her computer, she pulls the letter file back open. She looks around the mostly empty office. On her other screen, she brings up her bank account balance. She looks between that and the letter announcing her two weeks’ notice. It’s a possibility. She writes an e-mail to her boss and attaches the letter. She stares at the computer screens for a long time. She pulls a Snickers bar out of her drawer and downs it in a few bites. Her finger hovers. She hits send. She better start practicing her leaf art.

Dear Mikirken State University Admissions Board, For my college entrance essay, I have chosen the three prompts: * Why should we choose you for Mikirken State University? * Tell us an experience that humbled you. * What do you hope to accomplish at Mikirken State University? I hope to prove with these essays that I am MSU material and will be a unique and valuable contribution to the MSU student body... and humanity. ## Why should we choose you for Mikirken State University? I have a 3.4 GPA, my SAT score is 1350, and I am the proud son of a hard-working single mother. But my most important qualification is that I will become the first president of the world. That is to say, that sometime in the year 2062, I will be inaugurated as the first president of the United World Order, a democratic, federal government with jurisdiction over the entire Earth. Why do I know about my destiny? Although I don’t have the full story, I have preened this information from the hundreds of time travelers who have visited, stalked and harassed me since my birth. That might sound unusual, and it is. At least, it is for normal people. However, for People of Historical Interest (POHI), it’s quite regular. In fact, every POHI from the Egyptian King Narmer to the 24th century Cyber Warlord Bob has been swarmed by curious, fact-finding time travelers. You might also think it’s strange that the time travelers have told me so much about my history. The truth is, they’re not supposed to reveal themselves as time travelers or tell me anything about the future. But time travelers, while being generally intelligent people, are so enthusiastic about meeting historical figures that they tend to let things slip. When I was four, our mailman would deliver mail three times a day and regularly ask if he could join us for breakfast in our home. My mother assumed he was romantically interested in her, but it quickly became apparent that he was more interested in her parenting. What she fed me, what books she read to me, if I showed any traits that might facilitate my future greatness, etc. He was writing a book. They’re always writing a book. When confronted with the fact that the post office had never heard of him and his uniform was clearly made of a chrome-colored, synthetic fiber unknown to modern science, he confessed. Since then, my mother and I have become adept at spotting time travelers. They almost seem relieved when they’re exposed, admitting their professions, but adding that they cannot reveal anything about the future or risk dire consequences for the timeline and humanity’s destiny. But slip-ups happen. When I was nine, a woman asked me what influence the U.N. declaration of human rights had on my understanding of Neo-Gramscian International Relations theories. I asked, “why?” She said, “because you quote the declaration in your inauguration speech as first President of the United World Order in 2062.” That’s when I knew. Since that embarrassing slip-up, it’s been easier for me to collect information about my future self and explore why I would make a great MSU student from the perspective of Post-Doctorate level historical analysis. In the future, I will lead a band of highly-talented individuals to save the planet from the worst effects of climate change, mitigate the chaos and violence caused by depleted world resources and unite all nations in the greatest endeavor ever taken to end war, forever. Although I’m not the most brilliant POHI or the strongest, I have a high degree of honesty and moral courage, or so I’m told, and yet I am strangely evasive. I will be regularly compared to Abraham Lincoln, although my place in history is closer to that of foundational leader like George Washington, speaking from a strictly American historical perspective. Also, my favorite subjects are math and biology. ## Tell us an experience that humbled you. This answer is also related to the time traveler/future president of the world thing. My college prep tutor told me that I needed to show a variety of experiences in my essays, but seeing as that tutor is also a time traveler in disguise, I have decided to write more about this particular aspect of my life. I also realize that being a POHI with a constant retinue of time traveling observers hardly seems like a humbling experience. Certainly, my mother has taken enormous pride in my future. She has used it as affirmation her all-bran breakfasts are the cornerstone of a healthy childhood. Time travelers seem reluctant or unwilling to dissuade her of that idea... unfortunately. Nevertheless, many conversations have been disturbing. Most travelers come from the years 2130 (roughly the year time travel was invented) through 2180. But I also get people from 2200 through 2240, a period where my legacy becomes “problematic.” During my rise to power and administration I made (or will make) several compromises and had a variety of moral blind spots that were perfectly acceptable, or at least overlooked, until the year 2200, when citizens of the first world order start to “wake up.” These moral failings include not recognizing Kurdistan, the Basque Country, Tibet, Somalia and France as independent states within the global federal system. Supposedly, that’s due to the racism and ignorance of my “America-centric perspective.” I also blocked amendments to the global constitution that would grant human rights to cyborgs and genetically enhanced humans. That backwards view will lead to a century of discrimination. Time travelers tell me about these problems regularly with almost no observance of temporal law. I suspect that many of them hope to change the timeline, and maybe they have. Whereas other time travelers are looking for the keys to greatness, these people are looking for the seeds of evil. They hate bran. My mother doesn’t like those travelers and tries to shoo them away whenever possible, but they keep coming. They argue a lot with historians that praise my administration. Sometimes, they’ll even start fist fights. I used to argue with them too. I’d become defensive and scream. Tell them they wouldn’t even be alive without future-me. I’ve grown. I recognize their pain and try to listen now. They’re right to be angry or even hate me, because I could have easily made their lives easier by a simple admission of their humanity. But I didn’t (or won’t). These historians have made me realize that I’m not perfect, and I never will be. How I come to forget these lessons in the future is beyond me. I suspect that I will be forced to compromise my morality for some sort of greater good. I don’t know. But I’m the only person who regrets something they haven’t done yet. ## What do you hope to accomplish at Mikirken State University? As you are probably aware, Mikirken State University currently ranks towards the bottom of universities nation-wide. There are almost no notable alumni or programs with significant acclaim. I’m sorry for my honesty and the arrogance of this observation -- but why would the future president of the world want to go to your university? This application was inspired by one time traveler from the year 2567. You see, after the year 2240, I stop being a POHI with such an emotionally controversial legacy and I start becoming a stale subject of academic interest. I still get visitors from past that year, but they usually stay hidden, my failings and victories too distant to be provocative. One morning, a dirty old man burst into my bedroom. His eyes were blood-shot and crazy. His hair hadn’t been washed in some time and he had a long, wiry beard. He made no attempt to disguise himself for our time. Instead, his clothes were dirty and as grey as his beard. I thought it was a time assassin, but before I could even scream, he held his hand to my mouth and pleaded with me to hear him out. I figured I had no other choice. He told me that in his era, the government I founded is gone. The world is suffering from a terrible, man-made blight that’s left billions to starve to death. Competing cults have turned people against each other and freely destroy the world’s technological infrastructure and kill off engineers and scientists. War and nuclear destruction envelope large sections of the planet. The ideals of justice, equality and freedom are taboo. Even the words used to describe them are being expunged from the future global languages. The man told me he had saved the last known time traveling device and used its last charge to come talk to me. He knew that in his distant past I prevented the horrors his world faced. He and his followers had come to worship me as their last hope for fixing a broken world. And after telling me every detail of his time, he asked what I would do to heal the planet. I said, “dude, I’m only 12.” It wasn’t the answer he was looking for. I never saw him again, and I’ve never seen a traveler from after 2567. That doesn’t mean civilization was wiped out. It could be that my legacy was cleaned from history or time travel was banned or many other possibilities. But getting back to the question -- why MSU? Right now, your institution may not be the best. And it won’t become significant in the next century. Or the century after that. Or the one after that. Nevertheless, by 2567, it will be the last institution of higher learning left on the entire planet (at least, as far as that man knew). It’s from your university that that desperate man made his journey. To be precise, he traveled from the basement of science center, which still exists in 2567. I didn’t have an answer for him when I was twelve, but I plan on spending the next four years looking for one and leaving it for him. I’ve been told (indirectly) that my college years don’t actually matter. There’s no record of my experiences during those years, and I will one day confess to being kind of idiot during this future time. And so, I am not interested in a specific program, a career track, or even a degree. I only hope to answer that one man. I have included these essays along with my transcripts and other application materials. Thank you for your time and consideration, and I hope to speak with you soon about my joining the student body.

There are many wonderful people in my life, but the most important one is my friend, Norman. I love him and love being with him. Out of all the humans in the whole world, Norman is my favourite. He’s smelled poorly for a while now, and I could tell he was scared. When my friend didn’t wake up at his normal time, or give me his normal pets after he leaves the dream world, I could tell that we would be going on our last walk together. For a little while, at least. ‘I love you, friend.’ Which, of course, to his ears only faintly came through as something other than a bark. He stirred a little. I knew it wouldn’t be long now. I could tell my friend was having a scary dream, but that’s ok. I know my purpose is to be a good boy. You see, many humans can be heart stupid. You have the potential to be the most wonderful beings there are if you can get past all those dark smells in your mind that hold you back from being truly happy. I chased some of Norman's bad dream away with my breath and could tell that he knew I was there. His son, David, was a lovely person, but he was, for a long time, heart stupid. Most humans are from time to time. He pretended he didn’t love my friend as much as I knew he did. But, lately, with a little encouragement from me, he came round to visit more often. I could tell that they had made peace with each other. I’m a good boy. Everyone says so. Norman stirred again, his breathing went a little shallower. ‘I love you, friend.’ I said once more. His eyes twitched a little. I could see the dream world and the valley of the next walk coming into view. The faint smells of lavender and pine, sunshine and freshly mowed grass holding the promise of a new adventure. Did you know, my friend had been in many battles? Yes! When he was younger, long before I knew him, the pack he was with didn’t care about his future dreamworld or the valley beyond. They hurt him, and every night, the bad dreams came, and every morning, I’d help chase them away. I’m a good boy. Everyone says so. Every human has to fight the bad dreams to make the world a better place. The dark smells, if left unconfronted in the corner of your mind only grows stronger. That’s why you should get a dog. A dog will help you and those you love from being heart stupid. Dogs always believe in their friends and believe that their friends will succeed and make it to the valley beyond. A pang of sorrow crept into my heart as the last breath left my friends body. I put my head on his chest and closed my eyes. I concentrated harder than ever before. I could just about hear my friend as he took his first steps through the valley. The last remnants of his pain faded. Concentrating harder, I could see my friend in the valley. Beautiful sunshine illuminating the sky. Then he turns around and smiles at me. Softer than a whisper, yet bound with a power that made my heart leap with joy, my favourite human said: ‘I love you, my friend, thank you for being a good boy.

“Be thankful of what you have; you’ll end up having more. If you concentrate on what you don’t have, you will never, ever have enough.” - Oprah Winfrey There once was a boy named John, who lived in an old and small red cabin up the hill with little to no neighbours around. John was a skinny and weak but determined child, whenever he goes to school, he’ll always envy those who play soccer and basketball, he thought to himself while watching at the side line “Wow, those people sure are energetic, they’re so strong and fit, I wonder how it’s like to be that strong, life must be easy for them.” As he wondered about his hypothetical life, he started to analyse the fast and elegant movements of the players, day by day he’ll analyse and see how they do it, how they throw the ball and how they shoot for the goal, and all the time he’s fascinated by how good they are. Until one day, John decided to join them, after being envious of the players for so long, John wanted to climb up and be just as good if not better than the player. First John went to the soccer team and tried his hands on the black and white ball, of course it didn’t end well at first, John couldn’t even pass the ball onto another coming players. After weeks of playing in the soccer team and practising on the wide and green field, John still can’t manage to keep up with the rest of the team who had been playing for years. John wasn’t even qualified to partake in the competition, he wasn’t up to par. People even started to doubt John, the team, the couch and even his parents were trying to convince him to find another hobby, one could even say even John was starting to believe in their doubts. Until one day, during practice, John landed a straight hard goal. At that moment no one was really cheering for John as landing a goal is not enough for him to compete, but for John, it was the first major sign of improvement. John became even more determined and more obsess with soccer, John started training in his own free time, day and night, John will be spending the time on practising his kicks and coordination. Until finally, the couch recognised his skill and he went to win a gold for his team. All the people who once doubted John was cheering for him, lifting him up in the air and such, he had accomplished what he desired, to be on par or better than the players. John had never felt so alive at that moment. After a few months however, John returned back to his normal mood. He was good at soccer but there’s nothing left to prove. So, he looked upon the gruelling basketball team, thinking “If I could become good at soccer, I bet I could become good at basketball as well”. So, he left the soccer team and soon joined the basketball club with the same amount of determination he once had for soccer, at first of course he couldn’t catch up to the rest of the team but he knew he was improving, he was attentive regarding his progress and that’s what kept him determined and eager. The couch for the basketball club could see it, he saw the fire in John’s eyes and offered help with practice. Not long after that, he was qualified to compete and won yet another gold. He had accomplished what he desired, to be just as good as in basketball as he was at soccer. John had never felt so alive at that moment However, after a few weeks, John lost his determination in the sport, he could still play and score but for him, it wasn’t the same. It was getting boring for him, so he looked for another hobby, until when the exam result came in and he realised how poorly he had been doing. Even worse, his younger brother was doing better than him in academic which made John really envious. At the time John hasn’t felt envy for quite a while, and John hated it. His eyes began to be filled with determination once more, to become better at academy, to become as good if not better than the top. So, there he went, began to cut out distractions and study as hard as he can, filled with goals and determination. After a year, he pulled through and became one of the top students of his school, winning academic competitions and was seen as an example of a hard-working student, even having scholarships for colleges. He had accomplished what he desired, to be as good if not better than the top. John had never felt so alive. However, after a few days, John once again felt...bored. He returned to his home after graduation and lay in his bed. He did it, he maintain the top until graduation, yet nothing was in his eyes, no fire, no...determination. At that moment, John could hear the chirping of the bird, the blowing of the wind and the rustling of the grass through his window. It was until he realised, he didn’t have any long-lasting friends to talk to, he realised that other than his family he was quite, alone. He couldn’t go back to his soccer team, he abandoned them. He couldn’t go back to his basketball club either, he left the couch without any consideration. He couldn’t go back to his school, because he was too caught up with studies that he made any connections. The thought of being alone disturbs him, for the first time he felt empty, until he saw a crack in the wall, and started looking around and realised how poor the family is. And so, he began, going to college with the scholarship and determine to become rich, as rich if not richer than the top. He believed he will accomplish what he desires...then maybe he can be alive.

Slowly I awake, the ocean waves lapping against my calves gently bringing me to a disoriented state of consciousness. Why I’m at this beach is an idea my mind cannot discern. All I can focus on is the pull of each wave calling me. I look behind me to see a man beckoning me far from the shore, an eerie familiarity surrounding him. Water crashes hard against my legs capturing my attention once again. The melodic beating coaxes me to come closer and closer. I step forward. Sand gives way to the weight of my step as the receding waves fight against me. The pull becomes hypnotic, compelling my feet to follow as each crest recedes. With every step a low drumming grows around me, each pause filled with the man’s sudden calls for my attention. I step forward. Once more the pounding grows louder, and a heavy weight grows inside me. The water just above my waist now, the pull getting harder to resist. I must resist. Looking out at the sea, the weight inside gets heavier and grasps at my throat. Slowly a man’s face appears in the deep blue. The pleas of the man behind gain in urgency. I recognize his voice; it belongs to me. I step forward. I acquiesce to the summons of the waves. My body betrays me as it continues forward, submitting to the swaying sea. Soon it will take me. The man’s pleas turn to screams, begging me to come to him. A hand in the water grabs hold of my wrist, belonging to the face below. Although his grip is tight, I’m not afraid; he has the same eerie familiarity as the other man. The heaviness inside me tightening its grip on my throat; the waves grow in intensity. I step forward. The drumming has grown so loud that it leaves a sharp ringing in my ears; barely able to detect the man’s now frantic screams from ashore. The man in front pulls me closer, submerging me with him. I barely keep my feet planted in the sand; the current threatens to pull me forward. In front of me he gestures to come closer. The heaviness inside me closing my throat, trapping what little oxygen I have in my lungs. I step forward. He withdraws back, luring me farther down. Incapable of resisting the pull I continue forward. The waves cause me to sway; I slowly lose my footing. As they recede, I’m drawn farther out to sea. The man pulls me into an embrace. Now clearly visible, I see the man is me. He joins rank with the heaviness inside and they begin to crush me. As they become one and drag me further down, the pain of this unbearable weight causes me to scream out for help. It’s nothing more than a futile attempt and waste of air. I sink further down. The light in the sky is no more than a tint of yellow above me. Water rushes into my throat as my body recklessly attempts to breath in a violent spasm. Burning spreads through my lungs as they’re filled with liquid. I start to numb as a calming isolation sets around me. At least these last moments will be peaceful, despite my body’s thrashing. The ringing in my ears dissipates to a dull ache. A faint yelling barely detectable, as everything fades to black and I drown. Slowly I awake, the ocean waves lapping against my calves gently bringing me to a disoriented state of consciousness.

Stubborn as a Bull: What do you do when two best friends fall in love with you, but only one may have your best interest at heart? The other one wants to have sex without serious commitments. Living in a world with friends sometimes bring on hardship because of the choices lying right in front without much remorse for turning the other direction. Life can deliver a decision-making conquest of two separate worlds and both must be attended to avoid losing friends forever. Lena moved to a city taking a job with a decent pay, since graduating from college. Her two best friends are resided there and offered to be a friend with guidance to the end when trouble lurks her way. Having friends is not the problem, the only complex issue is the time spent having fun on the Rooftop Club has captured more than just friendship feelings enforcing a different kind of love for Lena. After the exposure of these wild feelings, the entire situation turns into a crazy love battle, where each man expects Lena to make a final decision on who will be the lucky one chosen. These two males are established with real jobs to offer support and is looking to support Lena. Lena is torn between the two because she loves them both as friends, and ever since she found out how each one feels about her, the comfortable world, she has developed has flipped upside down. Now, the raging emotions are coming to a head for her to make a final choice or what’s worst, take a risk of losing them both as friends, altogether. Lena’s cousin came to the large city to help with the move. On the way to return the Rental truck, she had gotten lost in traffic and had to turn into a gas station due to her car began spatting and jerking. After speaking to the clerk, she agreed to leave the car there overnight and return the next day to get the vehicle. Without a second thought, Lena began to walk away remembering several miles down the road, her cell phone is left in the car with her small purse, which is locked in the trunk. She could kick herself for not remembering to grab those most important items before leaving. Several miles down the road, she recalls the Rooftop Club, where she and her friends would sometimes hang out during her visits, while attending college. The next thought Lena foresaw is to return to the club and take a chance on running into at least one of her best friends. Lena carried a small pull bag on wheels with several of changes of clothes inside with a few personal items to maintain good hygiene, which she took very seriously. She walked up the stairs to get to the roof of this fabulous club, which held fond memories for the three friends as music rung through the air. Reaching the main entrance to the club, Lena notices both friends sitting at the bar enjoying a game on the wall hanging flat screen. Both had a few drinks and Luke glances to see her enter the area and gets louder, but turns his head quickly as to not notice her at all. Next to him is a female sitting and laughing, while enjoying the game as well. Jim never saw her, as he continued to watch the game. Lena decides to continue her journey to the rooftop where the music was playing to relieve her mind of the mistakes made, thus far. Having no cell phone and friends right before her presence, but expects no direct attention, because she needed time to think and figure out her next move on how to return to her new apartment. After searching her pockets, she has a total of five ones and some change in her possession. Therefore, a choice of a cheese, garlic soft pretzel with a glass of water or a mild alcoholic beverage to relax her nerves. Of course, she chose the food with water, at least her stomach would be satisfied. She was reluctant to ask her friends on the level below for anything. The vibes just didn’t feel right for the moment and pinpointing what doesn’t feel right is a problem. A man looked about 30ish was sitting alone told the waitress to take a mixed drink over to Lena, in which Lena smiled, while holding the small glass up thanking him for being kind but looked away quickly to avoid giving him an inviting look. "Well, the night is turning out to be not so bad after all." She sits quietly and ate her soft pretzel with much enjoyment because she hadn’t had any dinner for that day. Her stomach felt painful and uncomfortable. What a sign of relief she began to experience. Sitting here for several hours, Lena decides to head down stairs to the next level to see if the game was over, and speak to her two friends. She notices Luke’s female friend is gone and the minute Luke sees her for the second time, he rushes over to greet his friend. Instead of a smile with a simple hello, he smiles and kisses her on the lips gently putting on a show for Jim. Jim gives a look of disapproving his gesture. Luke grabs her by the arm and pulls her to the opened elevator to head down stairs and leave. Upon reaching outside, Lena stops in her tracks and say “Luke, what are you doing” Luke replies with “we are going to my place, which is not far from here.” Then, he proceeds to ask “I’ve been calling you, where have you been and why are you carrying your overnight bag, if you don’t plan to stay someplace for the night?” Luke never gave Lena an opportunity to explain the ordeal she experienced earlier and the disposition it placed her in with emotional shame for not remembering her small purse and cell phone to call for help. The two-mile walk to the Rooftop Club was very tiresome, but Lena had to stand her ground. Don’t mention when Luke saw her the first time and never acknowledged seeing her because another female was there with him. This is the same man who claims to love her. Lena could not stop her mind from going farther with points of view to examine his actions and figure why a friend would behave in such a manner. Consequently, the moment he constructs a serious look on his face, looks right into her eyes and say “I love you... Lena!” This statement of proposing love struck a nerve, especially after what she had just witnessed. Immediately stopped completely and said to Luke “Yeah.....right!” She pulled her arm loose from his embrace and walked back to the club with tears in her eyes from the hurt of her dearest friend ignoring her in the presence of another female. What, hurt this has caused Lena to feel to go along with the other mishaps that has taken place earlier. All Lena could think of at this moment is she misses the comfort and true meaning of friendship she thought would be there until the end of time. She was devastated. Going back inside the Rooftop Club was the only option left in hopes of Jim still being there. Luckily, Jim was sitting at the bar, speaking with the drink mix master. The moment he notices Lena had return, he immediately jumps up from the bar stool to greet her with a gentle kiss of comfort and an apology for not noticing her entrance before. He asked, “what happened?” Because, she looked distraught from distress, which places her in a disorganized position. Jim ordered her a glass of white wine to relax her nerves, while she explained all about her ordeal and the unexpected greeting received from Luke. Luke portrays the image of a strong personality bad-boy type full of excitement that always made Lena’s day, until he hurt her enforcing a strangeness of emotions by ignoring her presence. Jim is somewhat the opposite type of guy, but has the upmost respect for Lena’s best interest. Lena had asked herself quietly, when all alone “whether or not if she might get bored with Jim.” Lena’s question of choice remains with her, whilst the two of them walked to his car and heads over to his place. The late-night hour represented a time for rest and will handle the vehicle business in the morning. At Jim’s condo, he places Lena in the spare bedroom, providing a cloth and towel for a shower. Lena contacts her cousin. Jim ensures that she was alright, waves goodnight and turns in for the night. Lena lays her head down on the soft pillow with the words of expression inside her mind yelling, “WOW! What a night!” before drifting off to a deep and relaxing sleep. Waking up with thoughts of the Luke’s direct approach, while wondering how he really feels about her, but may never admit the excitement of the two exploring one another just to see if there is compatibility and real connection worth taking a long journey as one. THE END

“Clara.” The single word cut through the coffee shop buzz, piercing through the grinding espresso beans and pulsing blenders. I pretended not to hear the grey-haired customer calling out in my direction and focused on my task at hand: foaming milk. I had 18 more minutes in my shift and was not in the mood for what I knew was about to come. “ClarClarClay-ruhhhh,” she blurted. I had no choice but to look back. I have FFS: familiar face syndrome. It’s not a case of a doppelganger, celebrity look-a-like face. As much as I’d like to have a striking resemblance to Jennifer Lawrence or Emma Watson or any other famous person for that matter, I do not. Rather, I’m the face of the person you kind of know or kind of used to know. I’ve been a co-worker’s sister, a yoga instructor, an old friend from middle school, a girl from last week’s birthday dinner, a daughter’s old babysitter. The list goes on and on. If faces were answers to multiple-choice questions, mine would be “all of the above.” The mix-ups happen in airports and restaurants, on the sidewalk and subways. The conversations are nearly always the same and the awkwardness is like splitting a bill at the end of a group dinner. It gets weird. The interactions usually go a little something like this: **Scenario 1: Long Time No See** As I blankly stare out the bus window, I’m yanked from my daydream to the sounds of: “Lisa, Lisa! I cannot believe I’m running into you like this. After all of these years! What a small world.” I’ve actually been mistaken for a Lisa three times. **Scenario 2: Cut To The Chase** Sometimes they try to pick up where they think we’ve left off. I’ll be mid-chug in my morning cup of coffee and hear: “Caroline, I finally decided to do it. I called my brother and you’re right, I feel so much better.” Insert: long pause. **Scenario 3: You Are Who I Say You Are** And finally, my favorite, the stranger who thinks I’m lying. “It’s me, Charlie. We went out three years ago? You know, that Korean BBQ joint on 32nd and 1st avenue? You never called me back. No, no. It’s definitely you. I remember you had four brothers.” I have one sister. No matter the situation, the person eventually realizes my apologetic eyes are different from the ones they know. “So sorry, you’ve got a twin out there!” they say. Their look of astonishment fades as they shuffle off. I get it. Only so many facial configurations are possible. Plus, I’m 5’5 and average build with a wardrobe that consists of mostly jeans and sweaters. I have no distinguishing tattoos or piercings. Also, I’m not helping my case with my shoulder-length hair that is considered blonde in New York and brunette in Los Angeles. I tell myself I’m sending an approachable vibe out into the universe and FFS may make it easier for me to connect with others. I always found people confessed secrets to me openly and who knows, maybe my Prince Charming will strike up a conversation with me thinking I’m an old friend. Hey, it’d beat Bumble. Yet, there’s something oddly sinking about telling people you aren’t who they think you are and something kind of freaky about knowing your face is that similar to someone else’s - multiple else’s. Alas, when this seemingly nice lady was clearly mistaking me for “Clara”, I tried to break the news gently and exit quickly, channeling the same inner-strength I used to tell a customer we’re all out of mocha powder. “So sorry,” I said. “I think you think I’m someone else. It happens a lot.” I was on my way to continue my milk foaming when the moment swerved from the land of deja vu to unseen territory in a matter of seconds. The woman’s eyes welled up with water and she squeezed her lids tight to plug the tears from streaming down her cheeks. Fumbling over words to make her feel better, I apologized again and nervously offered an idea: “Maybe it’s a sign you should reach out to her?” The woman slid her right hand over the counter and pressed her warm palm on top of my mine with tenderness, as if she was touching something breakable and important. “You look *just* like my daughter. It’s unbelievable,” she said. The woman weakly told me her daughter Clara died in a car accident on the way to a ski trip with friends. Clara was 19-years-old. She was a social butterfly with plans of becoming an architect and studying abroad in Florence. She volunteered with Habitat for Humanity and hoped to build schools in underprivileged communities one day. She had a whole life unlived. Looking into her mother’s spent eyes, I saw a mix of pain and joy. I was close enough to feel like something, yet different enough to feel like nothing. I didn’t know what to say but ask to see a photo of Clara. “Oh, you probably won’t see it because no one ever thinks they look like other people, but alright,” she said. She fumbled through her purse and pulled out a crisp photo from her wallet of Clara curling her arms around a big, fluffy golden retriever. We had similar hair, build, style and overall look. She even squinted one eye more than the other when she smiled, a habit I found impossible to break. It could have been me in that photo. “Do you see it? You see it, right? I’m not crazy, right?” Clara’s mother asked. My co-worker and I agreed. We were met with the quietest sign of satisfaction that was less than a smile but more of a soul-filling look. It was one of those looks that made me feel changed or known, or somewhere in between. One of those looks that imprinted in my identity more than the way people who looked at me every single day. Peering down for a moment, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the milk-steamer and felt grateful for the face looking back at me. Clara’s mother half-smiled and grabbed her latte on her way out. Before she left, she had one more thing to say, “Call your mom.

The moment my mother, Mara, gave birth to me, the Wisewoman held me and gave me my Proclamation. The matronly female did this with every infant. It's tradition in our tribe. "This child is special;" the Wisewoman said. "When calamity comes from the outside, she will be salvation for our people." My mother wanted to ask what that meant but she was too tired and shocked. So the Wisewoman left for her next appointment. That was fifteen years ago. I'm almost old enough to have a family of my own. Yet I'm still the most unremarkable girl in our village. I'm not pretty like Kerada, the chief's daughter. I'm not good at making thatching for our hut's roof. I don't have visions. I don't know what I'm good for. Certainly not saving people. If I'm lucky maybe I'll learn how to talk to chickens or something. "Samri;" my mother calls. "Get up and help me get water for the crops." I groan and sit up, scrubbing my eyes as I wake up in the pre-dawn. Today is another day on our island. How will it be any different? I'll help mother and father with chores on our farm. If I'm lucky I'll be able to go hunt in the afternoon...if I don't have to sell any produce at market. I hate market; I always run in to Fellurn or Tinia. They're both in the Wisewoman's class with me and they both hate me. Fellurn always ties my hair in knots while I'm not looking and Tinia loves to point out my flaws. "Samri;" Tinia often says. "Your chest is so flat and your arms are so scrawny. You'll never get a good man!" Ugh! I don't even care what that nasty cow thinks of my arms! Pushing these thoughts from my head, I join my mother. We talk a little as we walk with our vases to the well. "How was your sleep last night?" Mother asks me. "Okay, I guess;" I lie to her not mentioning that I'd had nightmares about weird creatures all night. "Just okay?" she prods. "You don't feel any different do you?" I shrug indifferntly. "Nope;" I say. "Just another day." The sun is starting to rise over the jungles. Shore bird calls begin to mix with the last cries of nocturnal beasts. My mother ties her vase to the rope and lowers it down into the generations old cistern. I was abou to grab another rope and follow suit when a voice breaks the silence. "Mara!" the Wisewoman calls out. "Is that you? I must speak to you and your daughter!" My mother and I turn towards her. "What's the matter?" Mother asks. The Wisewoman grabs me by both arms and stares wide eye into my face. "Do you remember your Proclomation, child?" She asks me. It's not polite to sass someone who is elderly. "I remember what my mother said." I tell her. "But I don't know why that matters." She nods approvingly. "The prophecy is going to be fulfilled." She said. "Today a great wind, rain and lightning will darken our skies!" A storm, it's the hottest part of the year of course storms would come ashore. "We've always had bad weather;" I say. "Nothing unusual--" "This will bring worse!" The Wisewoman says. "I have seen visions of shining beings riding in a giant log made of many logs. These beings look like men but they are demons. Their log will be brought to us by the winds from the storm! They will tell us they want peacefull trade but they will kill, steal, ravish and bring disease! You, Samri, are the only one who can save us from these monsters!" I felt cold in spite of the warm air surrounding me. "How can I stop such terrible things?" I say. "I am not a warrior." The Wisewoman's face softened and she spoke with kind urgency. "Samri;" she says. "Remember the stories I taught you and the other children. Not all peril is fended off with strength." No sooner had she finished this lecture than the sky became almost black. Wind began to blow. "It's begining" the Wisewoman says. "Get home quickly and prepare yourselves!" She hobbled as fast as her legs and staff would carry her. My mother and I grabbed our vessels and hurried to our hut. We made sure our livestock was safe in their shelter and then huddled with my father in our hut. Outside the rain smashed against the palm leaves of our roof and wind tore at the chords holding our door curtain in place. I prayed the torches did not extinguish. Darkness with only lightning bolts often reminded me of the legends of our island's thunder spirits. They were supposed to be merciless beings of light, fire and shadow. Anyone unwise enough to go outside during a storm was often savaged by the thunder spirits. I must have dosed off. The next time I opened my eyes, it was late afternoon. The storm and clouds had given way to the amber light of dusk. I checked to see if my parents were still alive. "Are you two allright?" I asked. Mother and father both nodded. "I'm going outside to see if anyone needs help." I told them. "Stay here, I'll be back before sundown." There was some damage to the village. A few other families were taking note of their remaining assests and repairs to be made. Remembering what the Wisewoman had told me, I headed to the beach. Amazingly, there was what looked like a giant tree made up of dead trees laying almost on its side in the sand. Around it, four or five two legged creatures with metal arms, bellies and feet milled around the wreckage. I looked at the new arrivals. What was with their legs? They looked like they were made of poofy fabric. I stood still mesmerized by the unusual scene. One of them noticed me! My legs refused to run even though I was terrified. It got the attention of the other creatures. They moved at a slow deliberate pace. "Parblo, les Spenchagese?" The one in the front of the group gabbled at me. I had no idea what that meant. "Parblo, les Spenchagese?" The creature said again. I tried to back away but stumbled over a piece of driftwood. Seeing me fall, the thing stopped and put its hands to its head...and PULLED. I screamed and looked away. A metal hand tapped my shoulder. I looked back. A bearded face stared back at me! It was the face of a man but he didn't look like anyone I'd seen. His hair was black but curly and his nose was narrow and beaky like a sea eagle and his skin had no color. The man thing offered his hand to me. I took it and he pulled me to my feet. "Thank you;" I said. "My name is Samri." The strange person stared at me like he hadn't understood. I gestured to myself. "Samri;" I repeated. Body language finally conveyed my meaning. He brought his hand to his chest with a clunk. "J'Mi anobrelle es Paulo;" he said. "Paulo." I nodded to let him knew I'd heard. Paulo looked around for a stick. He picked one up and drew in the sand with it. A box with a squigly line and a dot next to it. I looked at him in confusion. He tapped his ears and neck, then gestured to me and raised an eyebrow. I realized that I was wearing my shell necklace and golden hoops. Maybe he wanted to know where I got them? Smiling I waved for them to follow me. I led them to the market place. I kept a carefull eye on my new aquaintances. They had all removed their head carapieces. What men were like crabs? I had no clue but so far they hadn't hurt me. Most of them gawked at the women and jewelry. What I obseved worried me. They might not be like my people but some emotions are universal. On their faces I recognized lust and greed. I'd seen that before on Fellurns face when he looked at the chief's daughter at great feasts. Despite my concerns, I had no idea what to do. I ran into cheif Palani. "What are these?" He asked. "Are they men or crustacians?" I stammered. Before I could answer the one called Paulo approached Palani. "Bon Tardes." He babbled. "J'Mi anobrelle es Paulo. Yt son garconbre es mi Marshalles." Palani looked to me for help. "They don't speak our language;" I told him. "They seem to want to get some gold or jewelry; at least thats what I think their crude gestures and pictograms mean." Cheif Palani processed this. "I need your help;" he said. "I'm going to act like I'm trading my ring for your necklace. Maybe we can make them understand." I took off my sea shells and handed them to the chief. He removed his ring and handed it to me. We bowed and then handed eachother back our items. We looked to see if Paulo had gotten the idea. "Ah!" He said and reached into a leather pouch. He pulled out some sort of coins. He pointed to my necklace and offered me the metal discs. Reluctantly, I took off my necklace and handed it to Paulo. He handed me the coins and offered me his hand. I stared at it. What was this? Paulo noticed my hesetancy and demonstated with one of his companions. The two of them clasped hands and moved their arms up and down. It must be their way of negotiating friendly interaction. After Paulo turned back to me, I mimicked their actions. Later that night, Cheif Palani asked me to find a place for our odd new aquaintances to stay the night. We had almost reached an empty hut when the Wisewoman saw us. "What are you doing?!" She screamed. "These are the demons I warned you about! They cannot stay!" Before I could react, the Wisewoman had raised her staff and began to charge. Faster than I thought possible Paulo drew a metal blade and plunged it into her heart. She fell to the ground bleeding. I knealt by her to see if there was anything I could do. The light had already faded from the older woman's eyes. My face was hot with anger. I glared at Paulo and the look I saw on his face was terrifying. His eyes were like obsidian, sharp, cold and unfeeling. He didn't seem to care that he'd slaughtered another human. Paulo still had his weapon drawn. I knew I had to keep calm, otherwise he'd probably kill me too. I led them into the hut and left hurriedly. At my own home I found my father still awake. "The demons came;" I told him. "They already killed the Wisewoman. I need your help to drive them out." My father gaped in horror. "How can we?" He said. "They must be very powerful." I thought and an idea sparked aglow like a firefly. "You know the thunder spirits?" I said. "Maybe they should greet these fiends." My father sighed. "We can't contoll them." He said. "There's no hope--" "Yes there is!" I insisted. "These demons have never seen the thunder spirits. We could make costumes and scare them!" Still not convinced my father helped me stitch together some animal skins and we doused them in water. After we put on our disguise, he made bright torches and grabbed two conch shells. He handed one torch and chonch to me. "Lead the way, my little cocunut;" he said. When we found ourselves close to Paulo's hut, we held the torches as close to ourselves as we dared. First my father then I blew on our shells. The noise woke the sleeping demons up. Paulo stared at both of us, his eyes wide with fear. He shouted something to his compainions. Father and I advanced waving our torches and blowing our conches. Soon Paulo and his men were running into the jungle like piglets that have just seen a jaguar. Once we could no longer see the demons, my father and I shrugged out of our costumes. We shared a laugh and went home. None of the strange people from the wreck were seen ever again. Now I understand the Wisewoman's Proclamation. I saved my village from evil, I only wish the old woman had seen it.

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: Let’s do something a little different this week! **Media Prompt: ** *Bonus Constraint (worth extra pts.): Something is lost and/or found.* This week’s challenge is to use the above song as inspiration for your story. You can use the song itself, the name, the images in the music video, or . The bonus constraint is not required. You may interpret the media prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings/Spotlights are Tallied While I am first through third place system for spotlights, and also submitting to the feature myself, I think it’s only fair that you guys know how rankings are totaled. They work on a point-based system as follows: - **Upvotes:** 1 point each (no cap) - **Feedback:** 1 point each (7 pt. cap) - **User nominations:** 2 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 3 points each (I select 1-3 from the thread each week) - **Bonus:** When I announce extra points for things like using an additional constraint, filling out forms, etc. This ranges from 1-2 pts. (Not applicable every week.) #This Past Week’s Spotlights I was blown away by all the amazing stories this week. There were so many beautiful and touching tales told. Each person who wrote a story should congratulate themselves. You all did fantastic work! - - Submitted by u/elephantulus - - Submitted by u/gurgilewis - - Submitted by u/OldBayJ - - Submitted by u/littlewing333 ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

This was a once in a life time social experiment I wanted to conduct since I have been on the work force. All my life, I have been surrounded with noise, pollution, traffic, and technology. Always on the move and always trying to keep up with time. I no longer wish to be slave of time. I want to be master of time. I want to breathe, see the time slow down, think about myself... A friend of a friend recommended me to go spend a month in this remote winter cabin. All alone. With no electricity, no internet, and no phone service. Basically, with no technology. I would feel like I am living before the Industrial Revolution. I would feel like taking a trip to the early 19 th century. I need this. My brain requires to get away from noise, pollution, time, and technology. This will be a unique vacation. Even if I wanted, no one will be able to reach me. No cell phone, no power to charge my laptop or any electrical device. I need fresh air and keep my eyes away from any type of screen. For food, I was mentioned that I would have to hunt for my own food and cook it. No electricity means no fridge. I must hunt or collect food from the wilderness on a daily basis. I will not be able to store food. In the brochure my friend gave me, it mentions that there are no human beings in a 100 km radius. I will be dropped off by a valet service and after thirty days, someone from the same travel agency, will come pick me up. The cost of this solo adventure is a $5,000. I do know that I will have access to a vast collection of novels during my stay. Thank God! At least I will have time to read. Only hard copy books, not in a digital form. I always preferred the smell of a good book in hands. Especially, a new book that was never opened. The day has finally arrived. I am dropped off by the valet service. I am asked to sign a contract and a brochure is handed to me. Similar to the one my friend had given me. It is a remote area, on a hill, with a beautiful view of the forest, the valley and the frozen lake. The cabin is one huge room where kitchen, living room and bedroom are one big unit. Only the bathroom is separate room of its own. No hot water because of no electricity! Oh boy! I will have to heat my water when I need to take a bath. No shower here... I did lot of wilderness camping with my dad and my Uncle Wayne during my childhood. That experience will come handy for the next few weeks. We did hunt, fishing, picking up edible mushrooms. I will have to rely more on hunting because in this snow, it will be a challenge to find mushrooms, fruits or veggies. It is 6 PM by now. I did bring with me a tuna sandwich with me. I am not going out to get food at this time. Not in this cold, and snow. In fact, I brought with me a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter. That stuff can stay out without being refrigerated. The days I will not feel like going hunting, I will have this backup food. I won’t starve but it won’t be the best food to enjoy. Almost time for bed. It is such a great feeling to hear only the sound of the nature. Unbelievable how it feels. How your mind and body can benefit from this silence. I hear the wind blowing, snow is everywhere, night has settled, I see an owl on the tree from a dozen yard. It is so peaceful that it feels like I am in a haunted place. It feels like the dawn of time. When our ancestors lived in the nature. Before I go to bed, let’s start reading one of the novels offered to me. Oh wow! I have seen the movie but never read the novel it was based upon. The Shining. This novel will be a perfect read for the situation I am in. Like the main character Jack, I am in a remote cold snowy place but yes, I am not in an immense hotel. Moreover, this place is not haunted. Well...I hope not... Almost 11:15 PM. I am well immersed into the story of Stephen King. As I stand up to head to go to sleep, I hear heavy knocks on the door. Who could that be at this time? I was told there was no living soul in this area. I open the door. Nobody. I look to my left...to my right...no one. Weird. Am I hearing things? I get back inside and close the door. I will go to bed. Hope to get a good sleep. Tomorrow will be another day. They furnished plenty of blankets. I will be fine. In the morning I will need to go out into the woods to hunt or fish by a river or a lake. After a good night rest, I feel great today. Looking from the window, it seems like we go twelve inches of snow. Not the time to venture I guess. I should stick to my bread and peanut butter. I will go get the woods from the back of the cabin in the storage facility and heat up water for my bath. It has not been a full twenty-four hours yet in this cabin but I can say that mentally and physically I feel less drained compared to my daily urban life. Maybe I should look to move somewhere quiet like this place. Somewhere in the Colorado Rockies maybe. Almost time to leave the place. I feel re-energized. I was getting used to live without technology but I miss my tv shows, movies, online gaming, the social media, etc. I am considering to move in such a place when I retire. Maybe with a dog. The valet is here. I am packing my stuff and about to leave. As I am talking to him, he asked me if I had any usual encounter at night. Maybe a big knock on the door at precisely 11:11PM. I said yes. ‘’That was the so-called ghost of Walter. People say that cabin used to belong to him. For some reason, he committed suicide apparently at 11:11 PM,’’ said the valet. “Oh my God! Are you saying my life was in danger during my stay here?’’ ‘’No. I would not think so. You are not the only person who has stayed here.’’ ‘’You should mention this in your brochure.’’ “It is there, in fine prints...’’ As I drive away with the valet, I see a face through the window of the cabin. Well now...for sure I am not returning here again. It will have to be another location next time.

Have you ever gazed up towards the skies in the dead of night? It won't work in cities, and it seems only a few are able to see it at all; I've only managed to see it maybe once or twice of what must be hundreds of times I've tried by now. Nothing fancy really, in fact if you weren't paying close attention, you might even mistake it for a bright star or one of the hundreds of satellites that now orbit our Earth. But, if you pay close attention, and you're extremely lucky, you just might see it - a small red light, no bigger than a thumb when pressed against the sky. I know what you're thinking - I'm just uneducated, and the light I saw is indeed the reflection from one of our satellites, or a distant star shining brighter than normal. For a long time, I thought the same - I didn't even give it a second thought the first time I saw it. I must have been around fourteen years old when it happened. I was away at a small summer camp for my church youth group. We had all played capture the flag during the day, so the campers were worn out, and decided, perhaps unwillingly, to call it a night earlier than usual. For me, this was a perfect opportunity to run off into the woods and do something naughty with one of the girls I had known. If you've ever been to a church camp, you understand this isn't at all unusual - with the vows of semi-voluntary chastity waging a never-ending war against one's newly blossoming desires, escapades like mine were almost certain to take place at some point during those trips. Older kids even used to make an effort of staying up to point and giggle when witnessing red-faced freshmen duos reappearing, awkwardly separated, from the thick woods that bordered the campsite. This time was no different - Susannah and I had been getting closer and closer to one another over the course of the two days we had been there so far. Susannah was the daughter of one of the youth pastors at that church, which meant of course that she was far more adventurous than her peers. Shared lunch tables turned to hand holding and hand holding turned to... well that's not really the point of the story. Anyways, that night after some of the campers had gone to sleep, Susannah and I snuck out per our plans and headed to a spot we had both discussed as the meetup spot during the day. I brought along one of my longer jackets - taking a full sleeping bag would have been way too obvious, and she was just supposed to bring her wide-eyed excitement. As I hurried through the forest, careful not to make too much of a ruckus on my way, I was greeted by an unusually dark night. A light fog had formed as was usually the case, but the skies that managed to pierce through the canopy above seemed clear and yet starless altogether. When I had finally stumbled to the meeting spot, I was expectedly alone. Being the good gentleboy I was, I had decided to leave earlier than we had planned so Susannah wouldn't have had to be kept waiting, and to further decrease the suspicion of the counselors. I set up the long-jacket picnic blanket and assumed my most striking fourteen year-old pose I could muster as I lay down and observed the sky above while I waited. The sky was still just as odd as it had appeared during my romp through the woods - cloudless and unusually dark for this time of year, and this area out in the country; but, there was one star that shone brightly amidst the rest. The star was somewhat larger than the small white dots that generally speckled the area, and its red hue seemed to cast a perfectly devious atmosphere over the equally devious scene about to unfold. I took turns between staring at the sky, thinking anxiously about the activities I was about to engage in, and gawking at my watch. When our original meeting time had finally arrived, I felt my body tense up and my hands begin to clam. Not now, dammit... I changed positions a few times, fixed my hair, and perched myself perfectly awkwardly against the now-slightly-damp jacket. But, as I waited, Susannah never came. After a few minutes, I checked my watch, and sure enough it had been ten minutes past when we said we would meet. My hormones wouldn't be so easily quelled though, and I gave Susannah the benefit of the doubt as I continued to wait. Eventually half an hour had passed, and I hadn't so much as naughtily held hands - much less enacted the plans I had fantasized about. Once an hour had passed, even my hormones couldn't fight my growing annoyance and the onset of drowsiness that had finally caught up with me. I stood up atop the wet jacket, and threw it over one shoulder as I made the hike back towards the cabin. At this point, I could care less if a counselor saw me - it wasn't like I had really done anything anyways. I trudged back towards the cabin, into the boys' room, and plopped into bed all without hassle. Another uncomfortable night with my biology painfully reminding me of my adventurous failures. \ The next morning, I woke up with the previous night's events weighing heavily on my mind. I planned to confront Susannah, but I thought it more than likely that she had simply been overcome by the demons of exhaustion that plague us all. The boys showered, dressed, and made our way over to the mess hall for breakfast as per usual. When we arrived, we saw some of the girls crowding around Mr. Knightly, one of the senior camp counselors, by the worship stage. We figured they were just discussing girl drama, and didn't really give it a second thought. I grabbed a plate and lined it with all the usual assortments of camp breakfast food - eggs, mini sausages, pancakes, and all with a healthy helping of syrup drizzled on top. It wasn't until I went to sit down that I noticed something was off. I meant to sit with Susannah at breakfast and talk to her then, but she seemed nowhere to be found. I looked for her clique, and that's when I noticed they were the girls talking to Mr. Knightly. I set my food on a nearby table, grabbed a sausage to snack on for good measure, and headed towards the group to see if I could overhear what they were talking about. Sure enough, the girls were asking somewhat frantically about Susannah's whereabouts. They saw me approach and, knowing of our obvious involvement together, asked me to confirm her disappearance. My face must have flushed with blood, but sparing the counselor some of the more vivid details, I could at least let him know that I hadn't seen her since the day before either. Mr. Knightly seemed distressed by all this news and let us know that he'd immediately make an announcement, and that we'd go on a search of the grounds to find Susannah as soon as the kids had had their breakfasts. Once the time had come, we ventured off into the woods, separating into small groups - each comprising a counselor, a walkie-talkie, and about seven neurotic high schoolers. I had the dreadfully ironic misfortune of being in the group that would end up visiting my forest hideaway. I was delighted when we reached the spot, and there were no bedraggled corpses that the worst of imagination had conjured up. That being said, guilt at my likelier and likelier responsibility for Susannah's disappearance had definitely begun to creep up on me. God was punishing us, the avidly religious forefront of my mind kept repeating. When we had cleared our section of the woods, we communicated with the other teams, and eventually backtracked our way to the cabin. That night was somber, we ate in near-silence and even those of us who hardly knew Susannah had faces painted with dejection. Susannah's family had driven in from the city and were exchanging heated words with Mr. Knightly and the rest of the counselors. After dinner was over, we were given another announcement from Mr. Knightly about how our parents would be collecting us the next day instead of at the end of the week as previously planned, and how the county sheriff's office would be coming in after we left to do a thorough investigation of the area. He reminded us to remain calm, and assured us we'd see Susannah at church that coming Sunday. We never did. \ What made matters worse was the fact that no body or evidence was ever found relating to her disappearance. Initially, there were some torn fabrics that were brought to the family's attention, but her mother immediately knew she had never bought anything like the floral material they had found. It was as though Susannah had vanished - she had been there the day before... and then she simply wasn't. The lack of news devastated her family - her mother, perhaps most of all. During the first Christmas after Susannah's disappearance, her mother had begun announcing delusions of a rapturous nature regarding her daughter. It wasn't a tragedy, but a miracle that she had gone missing - she claimed to have visions in the night of her daughter standing with Jesus, telling her everything was alright. The rest of her family must have known, but I guess they decided to go along with her superstitions; after all, they couldn't disprove her mother's claims, and it would have been heartless to unknowingly insist upon her cruel fate as an alternative. The years treated me poorly as well. The guilt of having potentially led Susannah to her demise was birthed in my consciousness, and then slowly found its way deep into the annals of repression and denial over time. High school came and went, in college I had my fair share of rebellious behavior, but I avoided anything having to do with Susannah - including my hometown - for years. That is, until I saw the light again. \ I was nineteen the second time I saw it. That time was different; that time, I couldn't mistake it for a star. My freshman year of college was full of surprises. I never gained fifteen pounds and I felt surprisingly adequate in most of my classes, which in its own way was surprising to some around me. Though, perhaps the greatest source of surprise for me was in learning about myself. My life wasn't exactly modest, and I wasn't prudish by any means; but, as many of us raised in strict, Biblical families can attest to, there's a certain indelible mischief that awakens on the precipice of one’s eighteenth birthday. Some never know this desire; some learn of it early on, and cooperate with it to satisfy their needs; these days, most of us meet this inner fiend in our dorm rooms, as though it greets us within our first inhalation of college air. What's that taste? Freedom. I went into college somewhat reserved. I had a plan, and unlike the strugglers around me, I was capable of executing it. Every day for me started at 7:00 AM; my first classes, an hour later. Some may have thought it taxing, but at the time, I found it exhilarating. I had always had a fascination with efficiency and the capabilities of man, were he to live up to his potential. I didn't take the free-ride classes either - my freshman schedule was booked with advanced calculus, chemistry, biology, and physics all at once. Up until this point, I had been subject to the rules and guidelines which governed which courses I could and couldn't take concurrently. I wanted to push myself beyond those rules and guidelines - to succeed in a way not previously possible, and to indulge in the fruits of that success. Surprisingly, I managed to make it through, getting commendable marks in each of my classes, whilst also feeling a tremendous burden that I might not have been ready to admit to. I believe it was this burden that pushed me into drugs and alcohol my second semester - two vices I had had almost no experience with. My maternal uncle and grandfather had both died, lips on the bottle, and my mother was a vehement prohibitionist as a result. Alcohol to our family was like pork to a Hassidic Jew, drugs were despised even more. Perhaps this abstinence was what drove me to indulge these demons, perhaps it was meant to be. It wasn't too difficult to find a source, though I thought it definitely would be. As soon as I began looking, it seemed many of the relatively small group of church friends that had attended university with me had begun seeking the same nefarious affairs, and even earlier than myself. It only took discussing my desires with two of my friends, John and Abraham, before I was offered the chance at turning my fantasies into reality. According to Abraham, there was to be a party - one in which all affects one could hope for would be present: booze, drugs, girls, what not to love? I agreed, nervously, but quickly just the same. My mind had been made up, there were no more decisions for me to rifle through. The night of the party came more quickly than I had expected, my anxiousness to experience an entirely new reality seemed to cast a haze over the rest of my activities in the preceding days. I donned my grungiest jeans, and made an effort to tousle up my fresh crew-cut in an attempt to look less like the bible-beating nerd I was doomed to appear as. I caught a ride with Abraham, who intended not to drink, as a girl he really liked, and planned to make an impression on, was certain to be there that night. When I breached the doors, I was greeted by a sight unlike any I had witnessed before. It reminded me of those presentations they give to teenagers to try and scare them away from the very situation I had volunteered myself into. The smell of skunk and sweat permeated the air, and haughtily dressed boys and girls thrust their hips and chests against one another in a surreal dance that filled the room. Lights flashed in every color, and the music, though loud, seemed to gently blend into the trance of the entire occasion. There was a table at the end of the entrance hall adorned with every spirit and concoction my young mind could have fathomed - vodka, whiskey, tequila, beverages I had only seen on TV or in health classes. Abraham had quickly abandoned me in search of his temptation. I looked around aimlessly and met the eyes of one of the girls who had owned the venue we were debauching; she seemed kind, though certainly inebriated, and noticing my confusion, politely offered me to have whatever I'd like. I reached for a cup, filled it halfway with Vodka, and began to sip. Certainly, nobody was drinking this for its flavor. I began to swim awkwardly through the crowd, making a vulgar attempt to dance as I walked, looking for some girl to indulge me in the real reasons I had attended this gathering. I was offered a hit of something that smelled so pungent, it watered the eyes without needing to smoke it. I accepted; this was after all what I had wanted. The smoking circle I had managed to invade passed around the little pale idol as we all gave worship to it with our lips and with our lungs. One of the girls liked a joke I made and we got around to talking one-on-one by the end of the rotation. She was cute, only slightly shorter than me, and seemed to be almost as new to this experience as I was. Her hair was a bright blonde, and she wore a tight red tube top you could tell she felt uncomfortable in. Eventually the raucousness of the night, or my charm, or some combination of both had managed to convince her to find a secluded place where we could "hear each other better." We investigated the house for empty bedrooms, but found them all locked or occupied, so I faintly suggested we might head to some of the woods that bordered the house's rear edge. We talked and giggled awkwardly as we snuck our way out beyond the fence. I could tell she was just as nervous as I, and I tried to joke more to lighten the mood. As we approached the line where the trees began, she seemed to tense up - I assured her everything was fine. As I talked, I faced the house, and as I glanced towards one of the windows on the second floor, I saw a light coming from within. It wasn't a glare, it wasn't a reflection, and it wasn't one of the many colored lights that dotted the house. This light was different, it was brighter, and it was unobscured by any of the other colors that flashed and blended throughout the scene. I stared at it for at least ten seconds just to make sure it was truly there. I blinked and it remained, though when I looked back at the girl, it disappeared behind her. My stomach turned immediately, and I was instantly reminded of Susannah all those years prior. Not wanting to upset the girl that I was with though, I brushed it off. She reluctantly agreed to follow me deeper into the woods. There was a clearing we reached after a brief walk. The stars shone through, and the red star was nowhere among them. I felt vindicated in my decision to bring this girl along after all. I stared back at her, and a smile had been painted on her face. My arms subtly wrapped around her waist, and instinctually, we both leaned in to kiss one another. It was passionate, fiery, but it was short. She said she needed to use the bathroom, and I agreed to wait while she found a nearby spot in the woods. Finally, after so many years, I would seal the colloquial deal. I waited. But she didn't return. After not too long, my giddiness got the best of me, and I decided to search after her in the direction she had vanished. Nothing. I called out for her, realizing I hadn't asked for her name in the most unpleasant of ways. "Where'd you go? ... Hey!" I shouted, but there was no response. There hadn't been a scream, there hadn't been a scuffle, there had only been silence. She walked out into the woods, and she never returned. A better man than I would have ran back to the party and asked for her friends, but I knew how that would have looked. The stranger arrives to the party, takes some girl to the woods, and the girl doesn't return. Plus, I figured there was still a chance something anomalous might have happened to her. She could have tripped and fallen, or passed out from the cocktail in her system, any number of random events could have taken her, and I most certainly was not going to involve myself in a situation that could so deeply damn my reputation. I found Abraham, who looked distraught - he had been unable to find the girl he had been looking for. I assured him it was just the party that likely scared her, and it had nothing to do with him. We drove home, and discussed the blues of relationships drunkenly along the way. I don't know how I did it, but the soul-crushing fear that had begun to well up within me didn't manage to appear in my demeanor. That night, I was restless. Dark memories tucked deeply away to be forgotten had surfaced. Things I had convinced myself were nothing more than childhood fancy, once more paced into my threshold of unmistakable reality. The star had not been a coincidence, and only a fool could dismiss such a clear modus operandi. Twice, I had seen the star; twice, I had found myself without a lover. My head raced; my heart raced. I stared blankly through my ceiling. After about a week passed and my inward self matched my outward appearance once more, I decided I needed to investigate the anomaly which now certainly plagued my mind, once and for all. I wasted no time questioning where my search would have to begin; that answer was clear to me - home. \ I decided to skip out on a week of classes. That's all it would take, I assured myself. When Friday came, I loaded the back of my 2005 Impact Orange Wrangler with a week's worth of clothes, some beef jerky, and some generalized camping supplies in case I'd need to stay out overnight near the old campsite. The drive was slow and steady, and my mind raced all the while. Feelings I hadn't had to confront since starting high school quickly boiled their way to the surface of my conscience. My phone died pretty soon after I started driving, so I relied on the staticky radio stations that came in and out of range periodically. I watched closely for the road signs as this would also be one of the first times driving home from out-of-town on my own. Eventually I saw the exit sign loom against the tan, dry, dying grass backdrop. Bear Creek, the campsite I'd unknowingly tried to forget, was now feeling closer and closer to me with every shallow breath I took. The woods looked different now, these four and a half years later. They seemed smaller, less inviting, and stripped of the adventure they had once held for me. Many of the small streams and offshoots of Bear Creek had since dried up; the camp itself had closed shortly after Susannah's disappearance. You could feel a certain melancholy in the air there, as if the sum total of emotions and nervousness that had been present that day had left some sort of stain on the air itself. Rain began to softly poor, and the horizon therefore greyed, as I veered into the small parking lot next to the trailhead that led into camp. A small, wooden, "Welcome to Bear Creek" had been overwritten by, "KID KILLERS" in bold red spray paint. The place had seen better days. I strapped on my camping pack, donned a navy blue rain jacket, and ventured off down the trail to meet whatever fate had in store for me. There was something odd about the whole occasion, however. I couldn't have possibly known what would lie in store for me, but for whatever reason, I knew I would find something. It was simply impossible to me that my heart could have been so misguidedly pulled towards this ethereal site. The surrounding atmosphere only confirmed this ominous sensation. Sure enough, I did find something - though now I wish I would have let the star be, undisturbed - a force of nature to be reckoned, not reasoned with. I made my way first to the cabin which had become boarded and vandalized with every curse word imaginable. The soft, homely appeal of the building had been replaced with a visage that warned others to keep away if they valued their lives. It wasn't difficult to break into the building - I climbed through one of the broken windows that led into the boy's sleeping room. The room was damp and musty, black mold dotted the ceiling, and small twigs and leaves had found their way into the cabin. I searched the rest of the building, which didn't take me long - I didn't know what I was looking to find, but the whole ordeal felt therapeutic in a sense. A part of me had never come back out of lack of reason to do so; a part of me had been too scared. After I had searched the cabin, I mustered the courage to search where I knew I needed to go - to the place where I least wanted to look - to the clearing beneath the stars. The rain picked up as I started down that old familiar path through the woods. I could feel the thunder as it shook me from within. The ground had become wet and soggy, and my shoes sank in places where it wasn't covered in dead brush. I imagined Susannah walking through these same woods all those years ago, frightened in the way only the mind can frighten when presented with a playground as fascinating as the woods at night. I imagined her treading through the forest, and finally reaching the clearing - maybe she had woken later in the night after all; maybe she had reached this place, only to find me missing. I shuddered at the thought. I brushed aside the last bit of branches blocking my view. There it was, still and silent, pattered on the edges with the occasional splash of rain that trickled down from the canopy above. I walked out to the center of the clearing, it was almost completely dark by now. I looked up, and there were no stars to behold, only sullen grey clouds and the water they poured over me. Thunder rumbled once more, and seemed to be getting closer to where I stood. I considered my position amongst the trees, but decided to stay, if only for a few minutes longer. I looked up to peer at my position in the rain once more, but this time, the bright red hue shewed even through the thick clouds above. "What're you doing here?" I heard a familiar shout from the edge of the clearing. I squinted my eyes, It was Abraham. "You hear me, Zach? I asked what you were doing here." I was startled. Caught off guard, my hands shook as I looked at him, trying to come up with an answer. "I uh- needed to get away. Homecoming, you know?" "This isn't home," his shouting continued as he began to pace along the outer perimeter. "This is where Susannah disappeared from. Remember?" His question seemed to mock me, and he must have seen the startled reaction that reflexively painted my face. The red star seemed to grow brighter. "I remember fine. What are you doing here, then?" "I know, Zach. I know about Hannah - did you know that was her name?" "I don't know what you're talking about." "Oh, sure you do! Remember that party, Zach? I didn't see Hannah that night, but her friends said she had come with them. They didn't know where she had gone though! They told me some stranger had taken her into the woods. They lost the two of them after that. Hannah never came back though. Sound familiar, Zach-o?" My shaking intensified. The light had grown much brighter by now; the entire clearing was illuminated with the dark crimson glow of that terrible star. "You don't understand!" I started, trying with whatever I could to explain the situation to Abraham. "There's a red star that-" "I understand perfectly! And it's starting to make even more sense now! You were interested in Susannah that year too weren't you? I saw you get up that night, I saw you leave the boy's room. I didn't think anything then, but I know now. "Tell me, Zach, is there some sick urge in your head? Is there anything that helps you pick your victims, or is it all just random chance?" "Shut up!" I gazed at that vicious star that had now consumed almost everything it had touched. "Why'd you pick Hannah?! You couldn't have known, Zach! How did you know she was the girl I had fallen for?! How did you get her to trust you so quickly?! Just some predator instinct you have?" "I said, shut up!" "That's what you did, right? You shut them up - Hannah and Susannah - you shut them up well! Where'd you hide the bodies, huh?! ... Oh God..." "SHUT UP!" "It's here, isn't it... They're here... that's why you came!" "SHUT UP!" The star flashed. Brighter than I'd ever seen. It overtook my vision completely, and replaced it with bloody, red light. Purer in color, and brighter than even the deepest depths of my imagination could have conjured. It flashed. And, when it had finished flashing, Abraham too was gone. I don't know where the star takes them, or what it wants with me. I never got the answers I was looking for. But, I don't think I'll search for them again. If you ever see the red star, especially if you see it where it doesn't make sense - in your room, in the backseat of your car - if you see that star, don't think, don't plan; run, just run.

Someday I want to be able to walk the earth, just like the greatest minds through history have. Think about it, Albert Einstein, Julius Caesar, Isaac Newton and in the future, me, Mike the fish. It will happen, i am fully convinced it will. I just need to find out how to get up there. Some people might wonder why, but the answer is very simple... Fish, are not particulary smart. I have yet to meet a fish whom I can have an intellegent discussion with. It seems that noone possess a deeper mind, a more profound way of thinking. I have searched every corner of the Atlantic ocean for answers. I have talked to every kind of creature that exists in this otherwise marvelous place, only to be met with more questions. All they seem to care about is food and procreation, what about the big questions. What about the purpose of evolution. What about the fearful afterlife. To fish or not to fish? To me it is obvious that I need to find a way to get up there, with the land-fauna, or at least that is what I call them. Although, I'm sure they have a more sophisticated name for themselves. If you wonder how I know that they are smarter than fish, it is because I have seen it. I have seen their faces, their tall and not very fine prospected faces. Most of them have have big goggles surrounding their small marble eyes. Some have this big plastic gadget in their mouth that produces bubbles every once in a while. I'm certain that the goggles and the bubble-gizmo is of external constructions and not a natural part of their body, however I do not know what their purpose is. At first, I believed that the mouth-device was used for them to breathe under water. To my surprise, I some time later found out that they can indeed breathe in this, to them, foreign realm. I know because I have met a land-fauna who did not have a mouth-gizmo. It was somewhere in the southwest Atlantic, not too far from the shore. I was of course thrilled to see him, however as it seemed, unresponded. He was rather rude to me to be honest. I introduced myself but he did not respond. He just stared at me with his seemingly fearful eyes. His pale white face appeared to be apathetic to my presence. He was not moving a single limb, he was not responding to anything I did. He did not put an effort to communicate. Not even a single bubble. There was not much I could do, so I left. I suppose land-faunas can be as dumb as fish. I have a plan on how to reach the other realm. The only problem is that it is slightly, just slightly based on luck. The plan itself is rather simple, it does not require much of me. The plan is as follows: 1. Find the right land-fauna. 2. Get the land-fauna to pick me up. 3. Use land-faunas ship to travel to shore. 4. Find answers. See it is very simple. I have seen land-faunas use these lines with a shiny metal figure on the end of it. I reckon it is to give us fish opportunity to get to the upper realm. I need to search long enough and not give up. Tenacity is the key to success, is what my father used to say, he was great fish. Right there! My fate has finally crossed the path of the right land-fauna. He is the one. His line is right over there. I swim ferociously to it, I will not miss this opportunity. I examine the metal figure thoroughly. It is quite sharp and the only way to grip it is with my mouth. The metal figure pierce through my jaw. The excruciating pain that ensues is beyond comprehension, however not in vain. The line is rising, it is working. We are going towards the surface. I try to ignore the pain as much as possible, I drown the taste of blood with the soothing thought of lifelong fulfillment. Slowly but surely we reach above the surface. There he is, the land-fauna in his rightful realm. Majestic. My head is dizzy and it is getting darker. It must be from the pain and the loss of blood. I just hope he hurries to get aid. I will be greater than Mozart, Julius Caesar and Albert Einstein combined. I am Mike the fish, is the last thought before everything disappears.

This story was inspired by the Advenged Sevenfold some by the same name. I hope you enjoy it! \*\*\* She was brought forward, struggling, her hands bound behind her back. The guards threw her to the ground. She landed heavily on her shoulder, whimpering from the pain. Silence fell over the throne room. She lifted her head to meet the gaze of the one that sat over her. He wore no crown, his clothes were simple, but he had a presence. It weighed heavily on her. His hand lifted, flicking a few fingers and the guards gripped her arms and lifted her back into a kneeling position. “She’s bleeding.” The king murmured. “Yes, my king.” The guard to her left dropped quickly to one knee. “She fought us off when we tried to bring her from her cell. One of-” There was only a slight whisper of fabric, but the guard fell silent. She jerked herself to the side, pulling her arm from his hold. He reached out to take her arm again, scowling at her darkly under his helmet. “Enough. Leave her.” The king muttered. “Leave.” “S-Sir?” The king stood in one smooth motion, staring down at them. “I will not repeat myself.” The doors closed and she rose shakily to her feet. The king had not moved from where he stood. She sneered at him. In return he gave her an amused look. “I’m surprised you feel safe enough to be left alone with me.” She spat. “I am not afraid of you. You’re only a woman.” He descended the stairs and took her chin in his hand. “A weak and half-beaten woman. You won’t harm me.” She pulled her chin from his hold with a glare. “I will kill you. You’re corrupt and cruel.” He chuckled, the sound prickling at her anger. “Turn around.” Her heart began pounding in her chest. Her fingers curled into fists. She turned, waiting for the pain she was sure was coming. She could feel the king’s hands on her arms, near her bonds. Then they came loose and her arms were free. Skipping away, she turned to face him. He stood with a dagger in his hand. Casually, he slipped it back into his belt and lowered himself back into his throne. His eyes never left her as she crept across the room, trying the handle of the door. It was locked. “What do you want from me?” She asked. “I want you to kneel.” The king smiled, laying his hands on the arm rests. “I will never kneel to you!” “That’s a shame.” His eyes trailed up and down her body. “It would be disappointing to see such a beautiful woman die.” The king lifted his hand. From his fingers swung a gold chain, a locket hanging from it. Her hand pressed to her neck, pained to see something so precious in his hands. “If you kneel, I’ll return this to you.” “Never.” “Such a shame.” The king waved his hand. “I’ll be sure to give your body a proper funeral after you pass. Wouldn’t want that beauty of yours rotting away too quickly.” She snarled, throwing herself forward at him. And his smile was the last thing she saw.

The Sweater That Didn’t Happen Audrey, 18, at an all-girls school, had her mind on boys all the darn time, Audrey determined she’d have to find something to fill her nights besides fantasies about imaginary boys. Bev knew how to knit, said it was easy and she’d teach Audrey. Knitting wasn’t easy for Audrey. Her fingers froze on the needles. She couldn’t concentrate. Knitting wasn’t fun. It was a chore. The little potholder Bev started her with looked like someone with a bad cold had used it for a hanky. Audrey had fallen for Pete last month, December. He’d, along with about 100 other guys, had come to the all-girls junior college to meet girls. There was a tea and cookies party in the ninety-year-old gym for the purpose of boys meeting girls and girls meeting boys. The goal for the girls was to be invited to Dartmouth by a boy for what was called Winter Carnival Weekend. What the boys’ goals were, no one at the all-girls school knew. Audrey met Pete at the party which was more like an awkward meeting in an orthodontist’s waiting room. She, as the sayings go, caught his eye across the crowded room. Not only was the room crowded it smelled like sweat. The boys wore crewneck sweaters with starched blue or yellow Oxford cloth shirts and khakis. The girls wore woolen slacks and pink or lime green cashmere or lambswool sweaters. Woolen coats hung on hooks throughout the area. Old pipes hissed. The combination of wool and the bodily bouquet of late teen and early 20s humans made for a distinct odor of players just coming off a hotly contested tennis match in an indoor tennis court in January. He nodded. She nodded back. And then they strolled toward one another. The word of the time to describe what a girl of that era called a boy she was attracted to was cute. Since Audrey was five feet and nine inches tall, it was, to her, unthinkable that she’d ever, ever, what she called be seen with, a date who was not at least six feet tall. That criterion was indisputable. During the seven second walk to meet him, Audrey practiced what she’d say. It came out of her mouth okay, she thought. “Hi. I was thinking you look like my cousin Ernie. He goes to Princeton.” “Hi, I’m Pete, Dartmouth. We all are Dartmouth here. Care to get out of here, walk around. Hot in here. Freezing out there, but right now freezing is better than hot.” “Sure,” Audrey said. “Sure thing.” This meeting was love for Audrey. They wrote. He called. They said they’d meet over Christmas vacation. He lived in Connecticut. She lived in New Jersey. He said he’d drive to New Jersey, meet her parents and they’d “take in dinner and a show in the city.” She said that would be “neat.” Her mother said she’d make up the guest room for Pete. When he left the next day, she told him she would knit him a sweater. He said that would be “outstanding.” Now she sat in the dorm’s lounge with Bev and what seemed like miles of yarn. Bev said a sweater was easy, but she’d said that about the potholder. Audrey said she didn’t believe it but would “give it another shot.” Winter Carnival was in February and it was now mid-January. Pete called every other night since they’d been back at their schools. They talked about their courses, about what Pete called “the stupid war in Korea” and about the plays they wanted to see on spring break. Surely, she thought, he’d soon be asking me for Winter Carnival. The teal-blue crewneck sweater was taking shape. With Bev’s help, she finished the front. It looked to be too big. Bev said she had a shaper, and they’d use it to fit the sweater when it was done. Audrey worked on the sweater’s neck for a week, and still couldn’t get it right. The hole was too small for even an infant’s head. Bev fixed that. Valentine’s Day came with a card from her father and her brother. Nothing from Pete. The next weekend was Winter Carnival and not a word about it from Pete. Some of the girls in her dorm had been invited and asked Audrey about Pete. Audrey shrugged and said she didn’t know, but maybe Pete had invited someone else, that he hadn’t called in a week. She still hadn’t finished the front of the sweater and there were the sleeves which, she thought, were going to be too, too much. And why hadn’t he called in four days and why hadn’t he invited her to Carnival? And what about the plays they were going to on spring break? He’d never given her his phone number. It occurred to her now that maybe there was a reason. She could call Dartmouth and ask how to reach him, but she doubted they’d give out a student’s number. She knew he lived in a fraternity house but couldn’t remember the name of the fraternity. Those places were all Greek to Audrey. Then it was Winter Carnival weekend. Five girls on her floor had been invited and were all atwitter about their clothes and what Audrey called trifles - hairdos, jewelry, what soaps to bring, those sorts of things were what they talked about, on and on. For the first time in her life she felt dumped. There had been Bobby in second grade, but she hadn’t been dumped by him because he didn’t know she was all pitter patter about him. This was the real thing - she was being dumped by Pete at Dartmouth who hadn’t even the courtesy to call and tell her he’d invited someone else or that he was no longer interested or maybe sometime they could be friends. She’d said the being friends line to boys in high school. She called her parents and told them she’d been dumped and it hurt and she had this sweater about half done. Her father said he’d be proud to have it. She said she’d worked so hard on the bleeping sweater only to be dumped by the guy who’d never wear it. After all the hours she’d spent. After the terrible time with the collar, she almost gave up. Her mother said she didn’t think Pete was her type. Bev said it had happened to her twice in the last four years, being dumped. This had not made Audrey feel better. What did make her feel better and what she did was take the sweater parts, roll them up into tight balls. She put the tight balls into a paper bag, went out into the frigid air and buried the bag in the snow in the back of her dorm.

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Standing on the rickety front porch of Reiner Hall, I could already see the top of the blaze from across the road, and down the open field in the center of campus. The annual Fall Fire Fest at Linfeld School was a tradition no one knew the true origin of. I like to imagine it was a wholesome gathering of students who enjoyed kicking off the season by coming together to enjoy a big bonfire together and catch up on each other’s summer happenings. If I close my eyes I can almost see the young men dressed in their slacks, high-end polos and fresh sweaters slung casually across their shoulders as they ambled in their brown leather loafers nearer to the fire’s warmth. Many of them are walking hand-in-hand with their steady girlfriends whose beauty is amplified by the warm orange glow of the massive bonfire. Instead, I open my eyes and see boys in dirty ripped jeans, fitted V-neck shirts, and over-priced sneakers carrying red solo cups filled with who knows what. It’s only just 7:30, but it’s already dark out. The street lamps along the busy main road and the giant blaze are the only sources of light, but the night is mild enough not to need a jacket. As I made my way to the street crossing, pressing the button to set off the blinking pedestrian crossing lights along the perimeter of the large yellow signs above, I adjusted my bag on my already sore right shoulder. With my laptop and British Literature anthologies in tow, that shoulder must be bearing a good 15 pounds of academia on it. Walking along the main path from the dorm halls across the road from campus, I start to smell the burning leaves. The smell is absolutely intoxicating and immediately transports me to childhood. The leaves poetically fall beside me from the trees lining the path almost as if purposely abetting my nostalgic reverie -- creating and then jumping into piles of leaves, fresh notebooks, new shoes, and a new year of teachers and books to read. A time of simple pleasures. A time of innocence and hope unencumbered by pain. A time before time meant anything other than when to eat and sleep. The approaching library doors ended my depressing musings for the moment. I quickly scanned the first floor -- not a single person was in the library other than the girl behind the desk. I could sit anywhere, but I know I’d just sit in my usual spot. Walking up the stairs to the third floor, I made my way to the table closest to the furthest window and started unpacking the contents of my bag. My laptop quickly awoke and my assignment was already up on the screen awaiting my return. Finding the correct place in my notes, I reread the section circled in red pen and heavily underlined in thick black pen strokes: “don’t restrain your voice.” Those were the exact words my advisor used. Her advice wasn’t totally wrong -- I was restrained, but it wasn’t a voice issue. Restraining your voice insinuates that you know what you want say, but purposely aren’t saying it. But my problem is really a perspective issue, in that I have none. Just as I was about to awake my now sleeping computer, I noticed someone at the very last cubicle seat at the opposite end of the room. He seemed to be frantically rifling through his worn backpack in the hopes of uncovering whatever item it is that he needed, but to no avail. His thick rimmed glasses were slightly askew and his dark wavy hair was flatteringly tousled, adding to the overall frenetic effect. Returning to my laptop, I opened up a new tab in the browser and began typing. Before I could finish though, the guy across the room somehow silently transported himself right next to my table, startling me. I must’ve shown my surprise because he looked at me contritely when he spoke. “Hi, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I was just over there looking for my notebook when I remembered I was sitting over here earlier today, so I thought I’d come over to look for it here.” Pausing to catch his breath briefly he hurriedly continued, “No one is ever in the library on a Friday night especially on Fall Fest night, so I didn’t notice you over here until I was right up on you.” He blushed at his blundered use of the common college colloquialism. He started to mutter something to clarify what he meant, but I spoke before he could further embarrass us both. “I haven’t seen a notebook, but I only just got here. Feel free to take a look,” I said uninterestedly as I returned to my laptop. He must’ve noticed my massive anthologies next to me on the table because he said, “I’m guessing that isn’t casual Friday night reading,” as he nodded his head toward the books and smirked at his own humor. He was so close I could see his eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiled. It gave him the effect of age even though he clearly wasn’t older than nineteen and looked barely over sixteen. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I wasn’t in the mood for any talk, really. Isn’t that the point of being in the library on a Friday night? It’s very clearly a loner move. I didn’t want to be unfriendly, I just wanted to be left alone. “No, but I have read most of them for pleasure already,” I said with a quick glance in his direction, and then just as quickly returning to my computer screen. “Oh yeah? I guess I have too,” he said with a casual shrug, his frayed backpack strap slipping off his right shoulder. He removed the remaining tattered strap from his shoulder and placed the backpack on the chair across from me. He bent down to look beneath the table, presumably for his lost notebook. “I don’t know where it could’ve gone. I know I had it with me earlier. I remember writing in it over here,” he said distractedly as he pointed to the tabletop to the left of where he was standing. I didn’t respond because I didn’t know how to. Was he looking for something comforting like, ‘I’m sure it’ll turn up’ or ‘I always lose things too” or was he just musing out loud without expecting a response? Realizing he was just standing there distractedly for an awkward beat, he forced himself to snap out of his inner replay of his day. “Well, no luck here,” he shrugged. “But listen, thanks for letting me invade your space to look for it. I’ll leave you and old Ollie to it.” I looked at him puzzlingly. I was beginning to be concerned about his sanity -- does he see another person sitting at the table with me and named him Ollie? Seeing that I didn’t have a clue what he was getting at, he chuckled and said, “Sorry, I call my British Literature anthology old Ollie, sometimes old chap. It’s something my father used to do.” His eyes crinkled again warmly as he smiled at the memory. I’m not sure why, but I couldn’t help but smile back. I guess I’m a sucker for a guy who has a nice relationship with his father seeing as that’s a completely foreign concept to me. “Anyway,” he continued not at all awkwardly, “I’m sorry again for interrupting. Maybe I can make it up to you with a cup of coffee?” He said as he looked at me expectantly. I didn’t know what to say. Actually, I didn’t want to say what I was thinking, which was, ‘Why in the hell would I go get coffee with someone whose name I don’t even know and who just stumbled upon me five minutes ago?’ But even more confusingly, what I found myself wanting to say despite what I was thinking was, ‘Sure, why not.’ I mean in all honesty I know I’m not going to get anything accomplished with this paper tonight, and if I’m being really honest with myself, I’m terribly lonely. As much of a loner I’ve become in the past few years, it’s certainly not out of enjoying being alone. It’s just how it always ends up being, so I’ve tried to accept it -- embrace it even. All of this was running through my head while he was standing in front of me, which made me realize I waited way too long to respond to him now. He didn’t seem to mind waiting. Instead, he took the opportunity to take a seat across from me, turn to my anthology and say, “As long as that’s okay by you, Ollie.” I genuinely chuckled at his joke, which put me momentarily at ease. Figuring I have nothing to lose, I smiled and said, “What makes you think the girl who’s in the library on a Friday night would be the same girl to take you up on your invitation?” He contemplated my question for a bit. To him, it seemed there was a right and wrong way to answer -- that it was a test and if he passed, I’d consent to coffee. But he was wrong, it wasn’t a test, not for him anyway. Before he could answer, I continued, “I don’t even know your name.” His response was immediate: “Knowing my name won’t make a difference though, will it?” He was right, it wouldn’t. Knowing his name was meaningless. Knowing his name wouldn’t tell me if he was a good person, or if he was worthy of having coffee with. Knowing his name didn’t really tell me anything about him other than what his parents decided they wanted to call their small, squishy baby over nineteen years ago. As if reading my mind, he looked directly in my dark brown eyes and said, “Not knowing something is still knowing something else. You know?” I did know. I knew exactly what he meant. Looking back into his disarmingly, precociously compassionate eyes, I reached for my anthology and fingered the thin pages along the bottom corner. I could tuck the book back into my bag, close my laptop and leave my favorite table on the third floor of the library empty, to silently keep the desolate rows of books company. I could also stay and sit contentedly knowing that not knowing something is still knowing something else.

The words on the sign didn't stick to her until after she had passed them at a clip. *NEED A LIFT ACROSS THE BRIDGE?* When she whipped her head over her shoulder, she hoped they might be etched on the back of the metal sheet just for her, shrinking as they drew further away like everything else left in the rear view mirror. It was only a few miles back that it had dawned on her how close she was to the bridge. The pit in her stomach had swelled some since then, but not enough to stir her from the trance one enters after an hour of driving through the wholly nondescript. It was because of this spell that she wondered if she had imagined the sign entirely. So, for what had to be the first time in her life, she pulled onto the shoulder with the sole intention of back-pedalling. The cars turned to rockets the way they always do when you’re still on the shoulder and after a slow roll through the celestial blur, she was able to crane her neck across the passenger seat and see, once again from the front, the bright orange sign: *NEED A LIFT ACROSS THE BRIDGE?* *DRIVE OVER SERVICE* *24/7 · 365* *EXIT RIGHT* *Since when?* She sat in her head for a second, probing the likelihood of a strange man getting in her car and never getting out. *LOCAL COMMUTER KILLED BY BURLY, BLADE-BRANDISHING, BAY BRIDGE BACKUP BOY.* She shook herself and moved her hand to switch the car back into drive. The morning glare felt especially prickly on her arm as she glanced to her left to join the other cars, shifting gears until she was one of them again. The lane lines began to blend. She thought of the bridge and its rails and the water below it and service pamphlets and liability waivers and kidnappings done in broad daylight and then the bridge and its tall beams some more until suddenly it was in front of her and suddenly she was turning the wheel. A gangly teen waved her over as she returned to the shoulder again, rolling the window down with her free hand. “Good morning ma’am, need assistance crossing the bridge today?” She eyed the boy for a beat before swiveling her head and coming to realize the flagrant sparsity of the operation at hand. No booth, no table, certainly no waivers, just four cars lining the grass and a gaggle of neon-vested youths to boot. She turned back to the twig who, in all his pubescence, had somehow managed to age considerably in the time it had taken her to assess the scene. The excitement in his smile said she might be the first of the day. “If you’re nervous or need assistance for any reason crossing the bridge today, one of our drivers can take care of that for you. We also offer general messenger and delivery services...for the delivery of your parcels, packages, and documents.” He stumbled slightly on the last line -- perhaps not enough sleep the night before. “Who paid for the sign?” The words rushed out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop them. A pause. “They’re not as expensive as you’d think.” He and all his eagerness swayed slightly with the passing cars. “Would you like a lift today?” “I guess that’s what it’s going to be, isn’t it?” she said quietly, glancing back at the guys in the distance, trying to figure out which one seemed least capable of harm. She settled on the shortest of the bunch, though he was a bit stockier than she. The host had settled on a different one, however, and had already called him over. He saluted his friends and half-jogged, half-trotted over, awkwardly. “So, it’s going to be $20, you can pay your driver directly. And unfortunately we don’t take card yet, I’m sorry about that.” She rolled up the window and began digging through her wallet. **···** A muskiness followed the man into the car, but not the kind that assaulted the nostrils, rather the kind that felt familiar, the kind that made her want to lean closer to catch a stronger whiff, but she didn’t dare make that move in this tight a car. “Morning,” he said softly, earnestly. She hadn’t realized its tightness until her stomach unclenched slightly at his word. He was stocky like his friend but he didn’t look to feel squished -- in fact he didn’t bother to adjust the seat when he sat down -- of course she couldn’t’ve known whether or not he was just being polite unless she’d asked or maybe even offered, but they had already started driving. She’d adjusted herself enough so that she could look at him without being obvious. He was handsome but not overly so, more brutish with broad shoulders that she thought might be softer than they looked or at least softer than the bones in his face. The sleeves of his flannel were rolled to his elbows. The blond hairs on his arm matched neither the black mop on his head nor the thick beard he wore; an oddity she’d only noticed when he’d reached for the gearswitch to put the car into drive, but now with his right hand on top of the wheel and his left resting by the door handle it was unclear if this was actually the case or if the sunlight had just caught him at a funny angle. He seemingly toed the line between rugged and delicate better than anyone she‘d known. She was not intent on talking to him, or at least she didn’t think so. She would spend the whole ride examining him discreetly, noting the idiosyncrasies; the kind everyone has when they get in a car. A friend once pointed out to her that every time she turned the ignition, in that split second when the car calibrates, when all the icons on the dashboard light up and beep, she would place both hands on the top of the steering wheel and move them each in a half circle around the wheel until they met again at the bottom. Since being made aware of this, it had become ritual for her; an unskippable moment of caress, checking to make sure every rip and ridge in the leather of the wheel was exactly as it was supposed to be. “Have you done this before?” he asked sheepishly, interrupting her line of thought. Her eyes shot forward. Not only was she not interested in conversation at this hour, but bullshit small talk? She felt sick to her stomach. He followed up, hurriedly: “My bad, I don’t wanna, like, force anything. If you’re not trying to talk that's totally cool. Honestly, I’ve just found that if neither of us say anything at the beginning, we won’t say anything at all, so I guess I wanna give you the option, you know?” He seemed sincere enough. Though she wondered if he said something to that effect to everyone that got in the car with him. In some universe, he might’ve rehearsed the bit to a tee, calculating every word, perfecting cadence. How many “likes” is too many “likes”? He could gage each passenger’s reaction to every detail until he’d come up with the perfectly candid line. Although, then how candid was it really? “I appreciate that.” She looked back at him. “I think, if you don’t mind, I’d like to sit quietly.” “Totally.” He stared straight ahead. She leaned over, resting her head on the passenger window. Had she been too terse in her response? She wondered how many people opt to conversate and how many prefer to sit in silence. Her eyes closed for a moment. Her shoulder blade pressed against the lip of the window, rattling in rhythm with the rest of the car. She never sat in this seat of her car, the standard shake that comes with speed actually felt slightly different on this side. Maybe she’d pumped more air into the right-side tires than she had the ones on the left. The air pump at the gas station near her house gave 2 minutes of air pressure for $1.50. If the last time she’d visited, she pulled up to the left of the machine, she’d have pumped air into the right tires first, leaving her running out of air by the time she walked around to the right side. Her dad once told her that it’s important to not over-inflate because tires can explode if they’re pumped up too much. Was that true? She imagined the horror as her body continued to vibrate. Her shoulders as well as her head felt fragile, rattling against the side of the car like that. She opened her eyes and glanced over at the young man’s shoulders once more. If he were leaning against the side as she was, his body might just absorb the shake, she thought as she watched him lift his arm and move towards his face to scratch his beard. It was full and dark and faded to a lighter red around the outs of his chin. She was really staring at it now. It must be so itchy. A type of itch she’d probably never know. His hand twitched suddenly as a drop of blood fell from his nose onto his knuckle. He quickly moved to cover it, cocking his head back some. “Shit.” He took his eyes from the road, searching frantically for something to cover up. “Do you have a tissue or something by chance? I'm sorry, I-” His voice shook some. Nothing disarms quite like a nosebleed. Like losing your balance -- human beings’ ultimate short-circuit, she thought as she reached for the glove box “I actually might, one second,” she said, rifling through strewn papers and ketchup packets. Her hand brushed over her window hammer. She grabbed a couple loose napkins and handed them to him “Thanks. I don’t know why I get these randomly sometimes...” He trailed off. “I don’t know how long those napkins have been sitting in there, I hope they’re not gross.” She looked back at him. He had leaned his head back so far she was sure he couldn't see the road. The bridge was straight enough. She looked out the window. The spot from which they’d left was already too far to see. She poked her head out some more and realized the end was also not in sight -- a rare stretch where suddenly everything was suspended. They were floating, maybe 100 or so feet. She hoisted herself up some, lifting her butt off the seat, reaching for the best angle at the water but couldn’t know for sure. She sat back down and opened the glove box again. She reached for the window hammer and pulled it out. “Do you know what this is?” she asked, her eyes not breaking from the silver spiked head. The boy glanced at it for a second and shook his head, redirecting his gaze to the road ahead. A pause. “Oh wait,” he said, turning back towards her, “does that, like, break your window if your car goes under water?” “I wonder how many people have this, I can’t even remember where I bought it. I thought you might have a better sense...” She looked at him. The light streaming through the side window brought out new dashes of strawberry blond in his hair. He’d left weathered behind for elegance -- if just for a fleeting moment. “When I was little, I used to have this dream -- I didn’t get it that much, maybe a few times a year. Actually that’s too often, I don’t really remember -- Anyway, I would have this dream where I was in a car on a bridge and then, like way down the road, I’d see a car break the lane and drive right off. Like have you seen *Thelma and Louise?* It would just fly over the railing just like that. It was stunning. And in the moment it would take me to collect myself, I’d realize that the car right behind it had followed it right off the edge. And then the car after it and the one after it. And every time I was in the midst of all this...” she paused. “Have you ever had a recurring nightmare?” She said, turning to him. “I don’t think so.” It was unclear if he was really listening. “Well, I always thought what was weird about them is that at a certain point, you’d think that the imagery and the way it makes you feel in your gut -- all of which is the exact same every time -- you’d think that you’d start to recognize it. Like when you’re in one of those half cooked dreams in between alarm clock snoozes and you kinda know you’re dreaming the whole time you’re in it. Anyway that’s never how it actually went. I’d gotten so familiar with this dream sequence over the years and every time it happened It was just as shocking, just as appalling as the first time. I can’t even, like, properly articulate the emotions -- or I guess “dreamed emotions” -- I was just frozen in this car. I’m sure my body would probably even seize up if anyone were watching me sleep. And I’d just be watching car after car after car project itself off this bridge and I kept getting closer to the front of the line and out the window to the right, the cars are falling out of the sky like rain and pooling up below the bridge like some sort of floating junkyard and I’m in my head like ‘Am I doing this?’ And then it’s my turn but I’d always wake up before I had to make the jump.” She stopped for a second and caught her breath. “Anyway, I stopped having the dream eventually and I think it must’ve even been so upsetting that I removed the memory of it because one day I was watching TV and I saw this footage of a car that had fallen off a bridge and I burst into tears. I literally just sat alone in my living room and cried. Like for an hour or more even, I don’t quite remember. I didn’t even know the people. And the next day I went out and bought this thing but it’s so dumb because I didn’t remember I even had it until I opened the glove box just now. I don’t even think I’d know how to use it or work it well enough to actually save myself.” She looked over at him, waiting for a response, surprised at her own air-out. “That’s fucking crazy.” **···** They’d been sitting in silence for some time. She was back against the window, lulled half to sleep by the car’s hum when he spoke again. “Where are you going?” His words stirred her plenty. A story like the one she’d given not long before would’ve surely catapulted them past formalities, past common courtesies, and yet here they were: regressed to tedium. She looked back at him, he didn’t fill out the driver’s side like he had when he first got into the car. “Work,” she said dryly, hoping her tone might wrap up the forthcoming chit-chat before it could even start. “What do you do?” She couldn’t believe this was happening. What happened to ‘do you want a quiet ride or a loud ride?’ She looked out the window again, the end of the bridge was nowhere in sight. She turned back to him, unsure if her expression read as ugly as she envisioned it in her head. His eyes were locked on the road anyway. “I’m a consultant.” “Nice. So you work for, like, other companies?” “Kind of.”“What kind of things do you consult them on?” She paused. “I basically help brands think about how to better market themselves.” He sat quietly for a second. “Did you always want to do that?” Her face reddened. “What?” She said, unsure if she even had the energy to deal with him. A child. Who drives a car back and forth across a fucking bridge. “I meant, like, ‘they’re always going through that,’ like rebranding and stuff. Like companies are always...doing stuff like that. You must be in high demand.” “Mmm, yeah, it’s alright,” she said, praying her slight outburst wasn’t so nasty but mostly embarrassed at her own embarrassment. How easily he’d pulled back the curtain! She’d taken her job right out of college and never looked back. Though she wasn’t particularly proud of what she did the way some were, she was rarely made to feel bad about it. Only if she couldn’t sleep at night would she explore the rabbit holes of dreams deferred; just enough to make the mind race but not enough to launch a depressive episode. She attempted to replay the exchange a couple of times in her head before settling, somewhat reluctantly, on a delivery of her line that was somewhere between what she actually said and a version of what she said palatable enough to relieve her of some guilt. “Do you mind if I turn the fan up a little?” she asked, having realized that in her fluster, she’d gotten quite hot. “It’s your car.” She leaned forward to move the knob up two spots and was met with a blast of cold air. A long lock of hair fell in front of her face. She moved to tuck it back behind her ear and brushed past her chin. It felt rough. She moved her hand to her cheek and stroked down to the jaw. She took her other hand and did the same on the other side. Her breathing sped up some. She grabbed a napkin from the glove box and dug into her chin but nothing came off. Not dirt. Had she suddenly broken out in some kind of shame-induced rash? Her skin didn’t feel bumpy but more fuzzy. But it wasn’t peach fuzz either, it was more prickly. She turned quickly to the window to take a look at her reflection. Her heart jumped into her throat. *Am I hallucinating?* She thought, racking her brain for an obvious explanation, suddenly unable to remember if she’d eaten or drank anything since getting in the car. “You know what I like to do sometimes when I’m making this drive?” He interrupted. She kept scrubbing, feverishly. “Sometimes I just close my eyes and imagine the cars around me driving right off. One by one.”She snapped her head back to look at him, his eyes were shut. “I think about which drivers would be hopeless. Which drivers would panic. Which ones would remain calm. Which ones would know what to do...Like that red car behind us,” his eyes were still closed, “that red car behind us has been tailing us so close all day. I bet he just goes for it.” “What are you talking about, can you please open your eyes,” she said, trying not to let the shake in her voice take control. “What will we do?” He took his right hand off the wheel and then his left and held each up by his head. “What the fuck are you doing, this isn’t funny.” The car started to veer some. “Dude, what the fuck put your hands back.” The horn from the car next to them blared. “Seriously, Stop. STOP!!!” Her heart was racing. She reached over to grab the wheel but couldn’t. “What the fuck. What the fuck...stop it, what are you doing...” The right wheels popped the curb, jolting her towards him. Through the short strands of hair pulled over her face, she could see him stamping his right foot, flooring it. “Don’t!” She pressed her feet against the glove box, closing it and pushing all her weight through it, lifting herself and punching him. Her knuckles stung against the spikes of his shoulder blade. She hit him again. “We’ll die.” They were right up against the parapet now. Blows of scraping and screeching notes ripped into her ears. A dissonant symphony accompanied by the dizzying stench of burning rubber. She looked back over at him, his eyes were still closed as the wheel in front of him kept turning. She could feel the pressure of the car against the bridge, it would burst at any moment. And like clockwork, the rail cracked. She screamed. The car flew off the bridge, hurling itself towards the water, flipping in the air and pushing the two of them up against the roof. In the side mirror she could see the red car behind them, following them right off the ledge. Then she saw nothing. **···** They spent the rest of the drive in silence. She pulled her phone out for a stretch. Eventually she looked up and saw land. Relief poured over her. She put her phone in her pocket and turned to face him, no longer caring for subtlety. She stared right at him for those final minutes. She watched every itch and every blink. She counted his breaths. He’d traded rugged for ragged. He looked thin. She could snap him in half if she wanted to. When they pulled off to the shoulder right after exiting, he turned to her and looked through her, “Appreciate the company.” She took a twenty and a five out of her wallet and handed it to him. “Fuck you.” He fumbled the money before putting it in his pocket, pulled the lever and maneuvered around the hood so as to not get hit by the oncoming cars. And there he stood, shielded, waiting for a break in traffic. And when one came he jogged across the three lanes and onto the median, where he stood still again, waiting. Still sitting in the passenger seat, she could see across the road a set up identical to the one that had drawn her in before. A group of boys, a couple of cars. She wondered who he might pick up next. She climbed over to the driver’s side and buckled in. Her reflection stared back at her as she reached for the glove box, grabbing another napkin. She folded it, licked it, and put her tongue gently on the corner to wet it before moving to her face to wipe the blood stain running from her right nostril to the rim of her lips. She discarded the napkin and glanced back into the rearview, where there was nothing. The monotony of the work day was a finger trap and it beckoned like always. Off she went.

A few weeks ago, on a Saturday afternoon in the beautiful English countryside setting of Devonshire, an event involving about fifty friends and family gathered to mark our latest grandson’s birth. Called a ‘naming day’ it represented a kind of non-Christian christening. Perhaps, partly because I think paganism predates Christianity my son and his partner hoped, like themselves, that everyone would be touched by a deeper and more meaningful experience of creation. Obviously, as infants, we would have been present when our parents had us either christened with names or prayed over with thanks to God. This event was markedly different and more interactively engaging than a traditional Christian service. As the ceremony began all those present were acknowledged as having different religious or non-religious backgrounds. This implied, for me at least, that respect for religious diversity was to be considered as ideal and self-evident. Of-course, along with the friendly picnic beforehand, the ceremony itself was deliberately arranged to blend within the natural environment. Using primitive technology my son set a fire in our midst and his partner, our grandson’s mother, engaged us all in singing. Repeating a simple mothering invocation, (she had recalled from her time in Burkina Faso), we echoed her words as we queued around the fire to greet their son and bring to him our own personal welcome. I imagine that the implicit purpose of the event was our grandson’s celebrated welcome into the world of human community. The setting established a connection with that elemental and indefinable something which had brought each of our own lives into existence. For me it was more poignant because it gave effect to a meeting between two families and many longstanding friends, who would otherwise have remained complete strangers. Their only child, a beautiful child born in their middle years, was gifted to them, as well as to us, as representative of something unusually auspicious. In me personally, the occasion also produced a sense of pathos. I had felt it necessary to keep that pathos under control until, seizing an opportunity to speak, my words were soon stifled as my feelings gave way to deep sobs. As he held his son, I was recalling the thanks I had given to God for him as our own second son. With emotional difficulty, I explained that, for me, my son’s name could never be detached from the peace I had received with God almost exactly nine months before he was born. But this naming day sincerely sought to invoke something profoundly important about the blessings attached to the name of that new person whose life was received by us all because of our familial or friendly connection to his parents. In the Areopagus in Athens the first century A.D. inscription that struck the Apostle Paul as being apposite for his message was attributed to an 'unknown god.' Today, my deeply felt and emotional reflection forces me conclude that such an unknown god can neither be thanked nor be called upon to deliver a blessing. Indeed, such a god is impervious to the truth that creation is the blessed reflection of God's glory and power. I think it true, but largely misunderstood, that no creature, pagan or otherwise, can invoke a blessing upon themselves. The true praise of all God’s creatures must surely involve the mission to recognize a naming day in every heart which does invoke the blessing of joy and peace with God. It is an exalted name indeed! “Therefore, God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name... “ Philippians 2:9. (ESVUK) Discovering the true value of creation cannot be obtained from what is pre-supposed to have occurred with nameless randomness. The value of a name must itself presuppose true meaning and purpose. True meaning and purpose must itself rest upon knowing the name of the Personal Being who gave it that true meaning and purpose. I understand, from one commentary, that "God identifies Himself as Elohim 35 times at the start of Scripture. In fact, Elohim is the only name used for God from Genesis 1:1 to Genesis 2:3.’ “Elohim is one of the most frequently used names for God in the Scriptures. It is this word which is used in Genesis 1:1, “In the beginning [Elohim] created the heavens and the earth.” In fact, the word appears some 2,750 times in the Old Testament.” Literally meaning strong, Elohim suggests the invisible attributes of omnipotence as well as omniscience and omnipresence. By the power of His Exalted Being he not only created all things but transcends all things. By the awesome deeds of creation Elohim ensured his divine signature is writ large upon even the smallest of particles in existence. How is it possible to know and exalt the Person responsible for the value, meaning and purpose of creation? Firstly, the Apostle Paul, writing under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, recorded in his letter to the Romans, how creation supplies its own evidence for who is responsible for its existence. “For what can be known about God is plain to them because God has shown it to them. For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made.” (Romans 1:19-20). Secondly, and because I have argued the need to understand meaning and purpose from the point of view of the One who gave it meaning and purpose, there must be potential in man which meets that need. Faith is what is needed to receive the truth of God’s Word. “ By faith we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible.” Hebrews 11:3. It is considered, by the Christian faith, that there is an exalted name whose value, reason and purpose can be understood and known fully in the Gospels. Indeed, there is no other name which better speaks to every other named person, as being more exalted. “Therefore, God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name..." Philippians 2:9. (ESVUK)

She ran toward the bush and smiled. “Here, I’ve never seen a flower in so long!” “Spring has come once again!” the voice said. “What was it again, miss?” A loud clank was heard from the bar when its keeper finally caught the attention of the newcomer. The unfamiliar young woman winced as she accidentally knocked down an empty mug behind her arm, drawing more attention to herself with the noise. She unknowingly fell asleep and was dreaming. The regulars of the pub have been whispering ever since she stepped in its doors and seemingly stomped her way inside for a drink. Who is she? they wondered. Every inhabitant of the old town knew who lived and treaded on its hellish roads and scratched on its lifeless dirt with grave hopes-- and this girl was no local. No one bothered to approach her, as her bulky bag of unknown possessions and dark patched overcoat were all enough to drive the onlookers away, and the barman was the only one who was obligated enough to do so. “I’m sorry, what?” she answered. “Your order, miss. I did not get what you said,” the colossal smiling man reminded. His locks were tied up in a neat bun, with shade as dark as burnt coal and curls coiled like springs. Just like every other person in the pub, and even if you walked down the frontier to hopefully locate an innkeeper who would accept you at three in the morning, everyone’s hair was as dark as hardwood or ebony. On the other hand, the maiden’s hair was as fiery as the flames used to ignite the coal itself. And on that night, she was the only person in town to have locks that red. “Oh,” she realized. “I said, what is the cheapest thing you sell?” “Our house special. The best beer you’ll find here in Brimstone.” She scrunched up her nose. “Brimstone?” “You’re in Brimstone, miss,” the barman smiled. His gigantic hands carefully cleaned the mug she knocked over earlier. One would think he could smash it with his fist, yet he handled it delicately. Straightforwardly, she asked again. “How much is your beer?” “One silver.” “One silver?” she frowned. “Don’t you have anything for like, five coppers? What about water?” The gentle giant finished wiping the mug in his hand before responding again. “Sadly, miss, we have no water left tonight. Beer’s the cheapest I can give you.” She grunted to herself and kicked the knapsack resting by her feet. She felt parched to the core after carrying the immense backpack on her shoulders for so long. It only composed of clothes, a pen and notebook, and a thick blanket, with its pockets keeping a few stale biscuits, an empty bottle, and a dagger. To her, her most prized possession was her notebook, for it contained a few notes and sketches of her journeys. It had some details of how her jobs used to be, but in a few of its leaves contained songs of her pain-- melodies and poems-- that she merely sang and whistled to the wind as her only audience. If one flew over the lands and asked about where she’s been, nobody would be able to identify this. She was Eve to Bellwood, Estelle to Travis, and Erla to Emberville. The only thing you’d find on her card was “E. Still”, and there existed a ton of E. Stills on the land. Years of bending her back, lifting goods, and carrying the knapsack during her travels made her look like a tramp carrying a weight that hunched her back forward. It was true though. For one who has only breathed for two decades on earth, she has walked distances and has settled in places she no longer kept track of. Twenty years of not having any bit of familiarity turned her into the harshness that’s scarred her, the coldness that nearly froze her to death during winter, and the dryness of every drought she tearlessly cried her way through. She has been out in the heat and the cold her entire life, and the only direction she knew was where the wind and seasons pointed her towards. It’s been long since she’s seen a flower bloom, and Brimstone was no springtime paradise. After taking a deep breath, she stood up from her chair to leave the pub. The barman lifted his hand and called, “Wait, miss. I have a question.” She lifted her knapsack on the stool and sighed. “What is it?” “You are not from here, I’m sure.” The girl snorted as she adjusted her bag straps. “I’m not from anywhere.” “How old are you, miss?” he questioned. She was appalled by his inquiry. “Excuse me? I’m a full-grown and independent adult, if that’s what you’re asking.” “Don’t get me wrong. You just look young. You’re thin, quite-” The customers of the pub had their attention diverted again toward the red-haired girl they were talking about only a few minutes ago. She loudly pounded the wooden counter with her boot before swiftly pointing her dagger to the man’s chin. Two regulars from afar stood up to defend the pacific barman, who waved them away with his callused right hand. “Please, miss-” “Don’t you ever call me miss again,” she threatened. She looked straight into the man’s confused eyes, already attacked sharply by her deadly glare. “I’ll stab your hands repeatedly, and you will no longer be able to serve those little expensive drinks of yours.” The man swallowed before responding. He was quivering deep inside, but he had to explain himself. She had misunderstood his intentions, but he didn’t want to blame her. She looked like she’s been alone her whole life, and it’s possible that he just tugged on the wrong string. “Please. I was asking because I don’t serve liquor to young fellas. The sheriff might take me out, you know? Although I think you’re more likely to do more to me than him.” She narrowed her eyes, as if observing him thoroughly, before lowering the dagger to her pocket. The girl has never really stabbed anyone, yet she’s scratched and wounded a few. Some men just don’t know how to leave women alone-- except when they’re already bleeding. “Alright,” she said. The barman immediately grabbed the nearest mug and turned to his keg. “Hey. Beer’s on me, on the house. I have some pulled pork here as well.” She raised an eyebrow at him. Without saying a word, she went back to her seat. The kind giant slid a mug of his specialty beer alongside a small bowl of dry pulled pork. Before taking a sip, the girl commented. “No one has ever given me this much for free.” “Really?” She picked up a chunk of pulled pork and nodded. Poor woman , he thought. Girls with such disposition as hers looked to be more likely to work as an innkeeper or somewhere by the alleys. Hell, she would do great in the army. However, she was this thin unhealthy woman with tanned skin heavily covered by covers of coats and jackets and unevenly cut hair that would’ve been beautiful if it were groomed. The barman pitifully smiled at her before speaking again. “Well in case someone does again, it be best to thank them. No need to thank me, though.” She took a sip of the beer. The apparent best in Brimstone, but probably the best one she’s had in her life. As she stood up to transfer to a table on the corner, she shyly smiled graciously to him. “Thank you.” From the back corner, a young man wearing a stained old apron over a checkered shirt came stumbling into the pub. His face had a little bit of dirt, yet his bright eyes and white teeth made him quite radiant; it was easy to ignore the mess that he was. The chestnut hair on his head was all over the place, with his cheeky and innocent nature that all the customers knew well and enjoyed. They loved it when he served them drinks or greeted them good night before leaving. He found joy in interacting with the same people every day, then tending to Lou’s pony at dusk. About ten people would attend his monthly music performances to his little crowd, and that was what gave him life and enrichment. One would say he had the voice of an angel; some described that he was blessed by the heavens or gods themselves, if such divinities existed. “Hey, Lou! I’m done organizing the back room,” he exclaimed. He ran toward the gentle giant tending the bar, Lou, who flipped a silver on his hand and patted the young man on the shoulder. “Thanks, my boy.” Lou had been caring for the young man for quite some time now, for nearly two decades already. The boy’s father was his best friend, who died from the pox epidemic one summer. The saintly child was merely a weakling, whose mother abandoned him right after the father’s demise. At 20, he has grown into an epitome of optimism, and that somehow, hope can still thrive even on the driest of lands. “Lou, who is that?” The boy pointed to the farthest corner of a room. His eyes twinkled at the sight of such a woman from afar, who he immediately found enchanting. Lou chuckled. “Not sure who she is, but a newcomer. She had no silvers so I gave her a beer and some of our pork.” The young man enticingly smiled. Sure, he’s seen the wonder of puppies being born near the alleys and the distant memory of green butterflies by the farmland, yet he has never seen such wonder unlike the red-haired woman quietly sipping on her mug of beer. Her locks were dry, but to him they were lustrous. Her subtle smiles after each sip were stellar to him. The way she looked around the room made him want her to gaze onto him as well. The entire pub of drinkers found her intriguing, yet to the young man quite dumbstruck next to Lou, she looks like someone he’s seen in a dream. As if, she was someone he’s already known. “Do you wanna talk to her?” Lou asked him. The captivated young boy nodded enthusiastically and grabbed a napkin from his apron pocket. He only knew how to fold two things: a cube and a bird, which he learned from Ol’ Gretla’s. Only the bird seemed most acceptable, so he hurriedly turned and folded on the soft paper for a makeshift gift. “My boy, are you sure? She’s...feisty.” “Yeah,” he answered. “I’m sure. For some reason, I really am.” After finishing the folded bird, he took a deep breath and nodded at Lou. Here it goes , he thought. He felt his brown shoes drum on the floors with each step, discordant with his heartbeat growing faster. Some of the customers greeted him as he passed by, yet he didn’t notice them. A woman gasped when she noticed him walking toward the redhead, as if they were waiting for hell to break loose. “Do you like to, uhm, I mean...do you like the pork?” The young girl’s curious dark eyes met the boy's, who handed her a paper bird. Her eyebrows furrowed, but something about his voice was calming. “Who are you?” she questioned. “The pork! I mean, I know the man, who gave the pork. He, uh. He takes care of me.” “Oh.” The girl sipped on her mug in silence. She didn’t know why the man approached her about the pork, but something about his nature made her smile. “What’s your name?” he asked. She put her mug down as she replied. “I don’t give my name to some random bar waiter.” “I’m no random man. I assure you. It’s just that-” “Just what?” The young man found himself finally staring into her eyes deeply. He was breathless; he felt lost in them yet it somehow looked like comfort. Like home. “When I first saw you, I felt like something was drawing me to you.” The girl raised an eyebrow while he continued to speak. “I know we’ve never met, but I feel like I’ve known you my entire life.” At that moment, she felt something echo in her ears. Some sweet sound of strings. The room was steady and windless and she hasn’t heard music in months, yet something about it felt so new and familiar. Perhaps I was imagining it , she thought. “Alright. I’m E.” The young man lit up upon her introduction, but realized it was only a letter. “E? Like the letter?” “Yes,” she affirmed. “I’m E.” “Is that your real name?” “Maybe.” He laughed in response and decided to play along. “In that case, my name’s O. Can I sit with you?” The two of them talked for more than an hour, until the lights that were left lit in the pub was the incandescent bulb shining from above them. A warm glow emanated on the lovebirds-- which was what Lou whispered to himself while gazing at them from a distance as he cleaned up the place. “So, you’ve been lonely your whole life then,” O commented. “No,” E defended. “I’m alone. Just because I’m alone doesn’t mean I’m lonely. I’m perfectly happy on my own.” “Do you like being on your own?” E hesitated upon hearing O’s inquiry. She was never totally alone in her life, yet never did she settle in one space or walk one direction. Something about her instinct felt to never trust anyone. No matter what they offered her. No matter the flair. “Maybe. Something about myself never trusted the world around me. But I try to be happy.” O nodded silently and contemplated to himself. Never trusted the world ? It was a familiar thought of his to feel some kind of betrayal. The world was unkind, indeed, but he always tried to be happy for Lou. But somehow, he understood completely. He decided to ask. “When was the last time that you felt a bit of happiness?” “That’s easy,” E beamed. “When I saw a nest of wrens on the way here.” “That made you happy?” She flicked a stray rice grain to his face. “Hey, if you still want me to stay, don’t judge what makes me happy.” O apologized and spontaneously, a thought crossed his mind. “Hey, do you wanna know what makes me happy? I can show it to you.” E caressed her fingers on the dusty mirror next to his bed. “So, this is where you sleep?” O nodded. He was briskly clearing out his place, quite embarrassed over the mess. However, E did not care at all, as she was fascinated to find one have a decent room all to himself. “What were you gonna show me, O?” Just as she asked the question, O pulled out his surprise from behind his cupboard: his guitar. He strummed it once, checking if it was in tune. E stared at him in awe. She had always loved the sound of strings, despite rarely hearing its sound. During those occasions she did, she was often listening from afar, drowning the music in her ears, hoping they would play in her head forever. There was something about the hum of strings that felt intimate. Whenever she heard a song, she knew of a distinct tune. However, never has she ever heard that melody play. “Will you play me a song?” E requested. O nervously looked up at her and cleared his throat. “Well, sure. Uhm, can we go outside? I’m more comfortable playing there.” The creaks of the porch disturbed the silence of the approaching dawn. One could see the sky starting to lose its darkness, yet E and O-- strangers about three hours ago-- somehow felt connected. “I like playing outside. I feel the wind come when I sing here.” O strummed a chord as he took a deep breath. “It’s like the air speaks to me, and I always hope that it brings the sound of my song to anyone who needs to hear it.” E slowly closed her eyes to drown out her senses and listen to O play his guitar. She felt a chill down her spine-- a spark inside her-- revive as he started to sing a wordless song. It was it: the song she’s always wanted to hear-- the melody that only existed in her head, existed in someone else’s. As O continued humming and singing, E joined in, harmoniously. It left him astonished. He thought only he knew the song he repeatedly whistled and hummed out to the silence. They were one with the notes, and little did they know, they were bringing the world back into tune-- like two little songbirds. The two of them were already resting on each other as they sang, when E felt a cold drop fall on her knee. “Rain...” she mumbled. O grinned widely. “Rain! Oh heavens, it hasn’t rained in so long!” The two of them enthusiastically cheered between themselves. They haven’t felt this much water in a long time, and it was a miraculous blessing. E ran toward the end of the street, relishing the downpour that seeped through her hair. As she skipped around, a wonderful sight rendered her with amazement. “O! Come here!” O ran on the path and followed intently. They were both looking at a bush, with a beautiful fresh carnation red bud sprouting from it. “Here, I’ve never seen a flower in so long! ” E exclaimed. O looked up to the sky and screamed. “Spring has come once again!” E gasped. It was as if she knew this would happen. And it all felt right. “Hey,” she called O. “My name’s Eurydice.” “Your name sounds beautiful. Reminds me of a melody.” Wonderstruck, Eurydice took his hand and walked down the rain with him. “I’m Orpheus, by the way.”

You caressed my face as I rested my head on your lap. I was beyond tired, and emotionally drained, but the gentleness of your hands made me forget about it all. I looked up at you and smiled, in appreciation of your kindness. You smiled back and kissed my forehead. I loved every second of that moment. I thought that if the heavens we were taught of in churches were real, they may not compare to the bliss I felt with you just then. However, there were still recesses of my mind that held onto hesitant thoughts, doubts, darkness I did not want to confront... Was it worth it? Did I...Did *we* do the right thing? What happens now? Will you still love me? Will you even need me? My heart raced, and my peaceful smile slowly dissipated. I didn't know how to feel, what to feel, if I should feel...I was scared. I mean, why wouldn't I be? You caught on to my change in mood, and asked me if I was alright. To which I obviously replied with a lie, but you saw right through it. "I can tell something's bothering you" you said, almost sounding like a saddened and worried mother. I turned my downhearted gaze away from you and towards the distance beyond the hill on which we currently resided. "I--I don't know...", I replied, confused and unsure of what to say. "What don't you know?" I debated myself. Should I tell you? Will she understand? What will happen if I anger her? Deep within I still questioned you; I questioned your humanity. Three months ago you had done things many would deem horrible and dreadful. Hell, I even helped you, and I was concerned about it all, and evidently I still am, but back then I was frightened of the potential outcome for myself. Now I worry about the morality of what we did, and those who we sent beyond the veil... "Love" you interrupted my thinking with a sad voice "please talk to me" I still did not know what to say, but I had to at least tell you something. Though I was conflicted, my feelings for you never waned. "I'm scared", I confessed as I sat up next to you. “Of what?” The proper answer was long and multifaceted, but I wanted to be concise and direct. Though my concerns revolved about the possibility of you taking this the wrong way, it had to be said. I’d rather be sure my worries were mere delusions brought about by the stress, trauma, and anxiety of all that’s come before this moment, than to potentially head into the lion’s den unaware. “Of what comes next” I said hesitantly. You turned your head slightly, wondering what I meant for a second, but you quickly realized the meaning of my words. You then lightly sighed and raised a hand up to my cheek. “I know we won’t ever be the same as each other. We were made by a different hand after all” My eyes, previously aimed at the ground, gained the courage to meet yours as you spoke. “What we did brought freedom and life back to the world. People were lost, and I know many of them did not deserve it, but we both know many more would’ve been lost if we hadn’t done it.” My eyes went back to the soil beneath us. “I know”, I almost whispered with embarrassment. “That’s not all I’m worried about though...” You turn “Mi amor, are you worried about us? Our relationship?” I stayed silent; that said it all. Your face showed a sense of sadness again. “Are you worried I’m lying about my feelings for you?” I remained silent yet again. Hearing and seeing you show such concern made me feel ashamed. To think I questioned your humanity again after all that...What is wrong with me? Yeah, you may be different. Your kind may not be “compatible” with us by god’s standards, but so what? You being here defies what God thinks and says. You treating me as you do means God’s opinion doesn’t matter. Unless they wanna descend from heaven and do something about it, I refuse to give in to the expectation. “I’m sorry” I said, breaking the silence. “I know how bad that probably comes across.” This time you were the one who stayed silent. However, not for long. “A part of me is largely influenced by your people.” You held my hands and caressed them with your thumbs. “I guess, from your perspective, I’d be worried that I was faking it all to gain what I wanted. I--I get it...” I noticed tears were building up on your eyes. Remorse filled me as I wondered why I had done this. “Do you think I would have kept you around for months after what we did?” your breath became slightly shaky. You were close to full on tears, and I felt horrible. What you said was right. You could’ve ditched me months ago if you wanted to, but you didn’t. There was no use for me anymore, but you stuck around regardless. Hell, we set ourselves up in a cottage together. How much dumber can I be... Silence prevailed for a few minutes while we looked down at the ground preventing the discomfort of looking at each other. I was again unsure of what to say, but again had to reply with something. I simply could not perpetuate the silence while your mind ran wild and tried to think of awful reasons why I doubted you. “I’m sorry”, I said once again. “I’m so ashamed...” You looked up at me once more. “I just don’t wanna lose--” The roaring of engines interrupted my words. As I turned around towards the source of the sound, total fear shocked my nervous system. To think that after this long... The thundering of death echoed through the valley. You hugged me tight as you cried, terrified by the unfolding events. “Te quiero...” I said. Tears ran down my face as I kissed you, and the roaring of the engines fell silent.

The cold and I are not best friends. Nor are we enemies. We are friends that catch up once every year but have no need or want to be in constant contact. When they arrive, I embrace them with open arms, looking forward to our much needed reacquaintance but when it is time for them to leave, we part happily and readily. We are currently towards the end our of encounter which is why I was rather begrudgingly putting on my shoes to go outside. Everything was crisp; the light, the snow, the air and sun. A white glow emanated from every angle of any object concealed by what had fallen over the last few days. Out of the window, I could make out my destination, the oddly stocked but surprisingly useful hardware shop. Since Mabel and Joel had decided to part ways for the 5 th time (and she adamantly but naively swore last), she had refused to enter any part of the town he might be in. Her theory was that it was seeing him that first time after a break-up that drew her in. If she could wait until she had built up an immunity, the process of which was still undetermined, then the separation would remain permanent. It wouldn’t but I was being dutiful in my adherence to the friendship laws of store owning exes. When the first step of her back porch finally gave way and the shelf that had always hung quite precariously over her bed gave out under the weight of her collectable ash trays, a visit to the otherwise averted hardware shop was called into order. After working herself into a state the last three days this week when she promised herself she would go, I quietly offered to go instead. At first, she pretended to be reluctant telling me, telling herself, she was perfectly capable of going to a shop. Then she realised that she owed it to herself to really commit to the break up. After she thanked me and promised me a gin and tonic upon my delivery of the DIY items. I checked my watch. Even with the added time of manoeuvring across the roads of untouched snow and deceptive ice, I wouldn’t be late. Padded up in every way possible I tentatively pulled open the front door to the empty canvas outside. The parts of my body unable to be covered instantly pricked up and the cold that had looked so crisp was actually cutting. My cheeks stung as the covered top of my head already began to sweat after the first few steps outside. Under foot my boots dipped into soft snow only to meet impenetrable ice underneath adding a crunch every time they did. It did not look like anyone had been down the street yet, although there were a couple of faded footprints coming from the Tikhman’s house further down the street. Past the residential rows on streets leading to the main street, I could hear some cars moving along at a glacial pace. There were few sightings of wildlife with only an occasionally tweet in the distance. It made the white plains feel even quieter. Except the rhythmic crunch of my footsteps and rough exhale of condensation there was no one stirring yet or those that were made the sensible decision of staying inside. It was why it was noticeable that as I prepared to turn down the long road to the shop, the crunching appeared to have stopped. I had noticed it getting quieter during my so far ten-minute walk, that was already starting to numb every part of me. Assuming it was due to the density of snow, I had paid in no thought but now I looked down. My feet were full submerged. Someone walking by would not be able to tell if I had clown shoes on or was getting ready to ice skate. I lifted up a heavy booted foot and pushed it back into the snow, though it went through no sound followed. Turning I looked behind me onto the path I had just taken. My house was still in sight, I had turned left up my street walking opposite the frozen lake and low shrubbery that was picturesquely outside of my front door. After a few minutes along there, I had crossed the road walking directly alongside the fence of the park until reaching its end and turning left again preparing to get onto the main road. A couple of driveways had been shovelled earlier in the morning but I had not seen a single a person or any fresh footprints. As I looked behind in the snow I had just stepped on, the knowing panic already setting in, I was greeted with undisturbed, brightly white snow. There were no footprints. Not just from anyone else but from me. Knives dragged across my lungs as I began to pace it back the way I had come. The crunching was all gone and my laboured breathing was providing the only soundtrack to my horror. Not now. It was too soon. I needed time to say goodbye. When I made my first turning back along the park, my earlier footprints appeared at the other end of the street but had faded out by the time I was mid-way down. Everything past them lay undisturbed, still a canvas waiting to be utilised. Please, don’t do this to me now. I’m not ready. Just give me a day. Not even that, just a few more hours. A chance to leave it tidier, a chance to do a last bit of good. That’s all I want. I wasn’t sure if I was speaking out loud and even if I was if anyone would hear me, but I heaved myself as fast as I could down the roads saying possibly not so silent prayers. My house was only a hundred metres away now. My whole body on fire, sweating, shaking. Yet as I looked down and back, the snow in wake lay under disturbed. Leaves attached to bushes didn’t so much as whisper as I brushed passed them. Was it possible that even in the cloudless, morning sky the sun was beginning to dim already? I was fading. I wasn’t ready but I was fading. I was nearly there, pushing myself across my front garden and up the steps to my front door. I reached for the door knob, but I was too late. My outstretched fingers went right through the metal. Although clasped in tension, they exerted no force. It was time to move onto the next one. It wasn’t my choice, but I didn’t operate on my time, I operated on theirs. I looked down at the shoe indent my boots had produced when I originally left the house and thought about how nice it is to be someone and be seen. To leave a mark. It is our purpose, it is why we get moved from place to place. To leave fated and purposeful marks. Yet, every time it comes to an end and we begin to fade, it is hard to tell how long our mark will remain and how much we’ve really been seen.

Today is going to be a great day. Today is fishing day. The fisherman was happy. The weather was sunny with a few clouds and not too warm, not windy either. Perfect conditions for a big haul of catfish at the nearby park. His partner had loaded up the SUV with his rods, tackle bags, some bait. They jumped into the car and drove over to the nearby park. He pulled his SUV into a parking space. He got the bucket for the catch out and left it near the car in the parking lot. They each grabbed two poles. The fisherman took the bait. He left the tackle bag for his partner to carry. He strode quickly from the asphalt to the grass. He paused. From the parking lot, it was only about fifty yards down to the shore of the lake not too far away. The fisherman took in the view below him. Blue water, kind of kidney-shaped, a few acres total was the lake. Some vegetation here and there in the blue, not too much, mostly clean water. The narrow east shore was blocked by some heavy vegetation, as were parts of the west, but the north and south shores were clear with a few trees here and there. He turned to his partner, pointing: “Let’s set up near this big oak tree over here.” He started off down to where he had pointed, without looking back to see if his partner was following. They put a pole in the water each, drove the pole holders into the ground, left them standing up, lines shimmering in the sun when the slight wind blew. They each cast out with a second pole. After a while with no luck, a park worker drove up in a small green and khaki golf cart. Stopped, he asked: “you two catch anything?” The fisherman didn’t bother to look back. His partner replied after a pause: “Not yet.” The park worker continued: “Nobody ever catches anything around here.” The fisherman’s interest was piqued: “Fish are dumb, and lazy, I will catch them! It’s always a lot of fun. It’s a fun game!” His partner had a chagrined look, smiled apologetically. The park worker drove off. The fisherman cast out again. He felt a pull on his line. Ha! He had one! He reeled it in. Easy. Not the biggest catfish, but not too bad. He handed the catfish to his partner, who began the trek back up to their SUV, and upon getting the struggling fish into the bucket, his partner wiped a sleeve across sweated brow, leaned back against the vehicle, and took a drink of water. Meanwhile, the fisherman caught another small catfish. He turned, bent down on one knee, got the hook remover from the tackle bag, and began removing the hook. There was a disturbance in the water behind him. Kinda loud. He focused on his work, got the hook out. More odd noises behind him, like footsteps but not. He shouted up to his partner at the car that he caught another. His partner hurried back to him. The fisherman told his partner to take the fish up to the bucket, handed the fish grabber to his partner with the catfish dangling below. His partner started trudging back up to their car. When he finally looked back towards the lake, he saw nothing, just some slowly fading large ripples in the water right near the shore. It looked kind of wet and the grass disturbed going up the bank. The trail led up to the big oak, behind it even maybe, and continued no further. Was that a dark really big whisker or tip of a really big fin sticking out from behind the big oak? Oh! His other pole was tugging! He had a bite! As the fisherman was struggling with his latest catch, the nine foot long catfish slid one eye from behind the big oak to make sure his prey was distracted. His prey was! He stroked his whiskers with his left fore-fin, deep in thought. Ah! He had it! He emerged from the cover of the tree trunk. The giant catfish then stealthily skipped on his fins around the back of the oak away from the shore and behind the fisherman. A twig snapped! The giant catfish froze in place, fish eyes focused with trepidation on the back of the fisherman. The fisherman didn’t appear to notice, engrossed in his battle with the fish on the line. The giant catfish breathed a sigh of relief through slightly open gills. He continued his stealthy stalking, fin by fin getting closer to the back of the fisherman. Only a few fins left now... The fisherman had finally reeled in his catch. He barely turned his head, looked back toward the car: “Got another one! Boy, these fish are dumb! They never learn!” Fin, fin, fin. The catfish reeled up to his full height, balancing on his tail-fin. The fisherman must of sensed something - the breath of gill, the tread of a fin, the stare of fish eyes? No one would ever know. He turned abruptly. What was THAT? Eyes widening more and more in shock. The giant catfish leaped up and forward, mouth wide, swallowed the fisherman whole, head first, all the way to the tips of his boots. He stood up slowly, gulped, wiped his whiskers clean with his fore-fins, croaked a few times in satisfaction. Time to go back in the lake and digest, he thought. He happily ambled back to the shore, slid into the lake and disappeared underwater, leaving only ripples behind. The fisherman’s partner saw the whole thing from the parking lot. Did that really just happen? Couldn’t be, could it? At this moment the park worker drove up again in his golf cart: “Where is your fisherman friend?” The fisherman’s partner exclaimed: “he was just swallowed by a giant catfish! It hid behind a tree, crept up behind him, swallowed him whole, and went back into the lake.” The park worker: “really ...” The fisherman’s partner: “really ...” just looking at each other. After a moment of deep contemplation, the park worker said: “Well, you know what they say: It’s all fun and games ...” The partner continued: “Until someone gets eaten by a giant catfish ...” And the park worker: “that can walk on land ...” Finished the partner: “and ambush people from behind trees apparently....” The park worker nodded sagely.

I think I've been murdered. The chilling realization crept over me like a shadow in the night, and every nerve in my body screamed in silent agony. But let me start from the beginning, from the seemingly ordinary day that spiraled into a nightmare. It was a gloomy Tuesday afternoon when I left work, the rain drizzling down from a leaden sky. The relentless patter on the pavement matched my gloomy mood. My mundane routine had become a monotonous march towards nowhere, and I longed for something to break the cycle. That day, a sense of restless curiosity tugged at me, urging me to explore the mysterious depths of the internet. With each click and search, I stumbled upon a website--an enigmatic forum filled with cryptic discussions and dark secrets. The site was named "The Twilight Conspiracy." Intrigued, I delved deeper into its ominous digital corridors, where shadowy figures discussed the unexplained and the macabre. They shared tales of strange occurrences, whispered rumors of a secret society lurking in the shadows, and debated the existence of supernatural forces. It was like stumbling upon a hidden world, a rabbit hole I couldn't resist descending into. One thread, in particular, caught my attention--a user named "CrimsonSoul" claimed to have discovered evidence of a real-life conspiracy, one that went beyond mere speculation. Intrigued and somewhat skeptical, I clicked on the thread. The user described a series of bizarre events, each more unsettling than the last. They spoke of inexplicable occurrences in their own life--objects moving on their own, whispers in the night, and a growing feeling of being constantly watched. They even provided a list of names and dates, hinting at connections that could unravel the very fabric of reality. I couldn't help but be drawn into the mystery. Maybe it was the monotony of my life or the nagging feeling that there must be something more to the world. Either way, I decided to reach out to CrimsonSoul, desperate to know more. We exchanged messages late into the night, sharing stories and theories that grew darker with each passing minute. CrimsonSoul confided in me, revealing that they had come too close to the truth, and that they were being hunted by a shadowy organization that would stop at nothing to protect their secrets. Intrigue turned into obsession, and I found myself digging deeper into the conspiracy. I poured over documents, old newspapers, and obscure online sources. I mapped connections and patterns, convinced that I was on the brink of a revelation that would change everything. Days turned into sleepless nights as I ventured further down the rabbit hole. My apartment became a tangled web of red strings and notes. Paranoia gnawed at my sanity as I noticed strange occurrences--items moved from their usual places, hushed whispers in the darkness, and the persistent feeling of being watched. CrimsonSoul urged me to be cautious, warning that they had lost friends to this conspiracy. They told me to trust no one, to keep digging but to do so discreetly. The more I uncovered, the deeper my unease grew, and yet I couldn't turn back. The truth, elusive and terrifying, danced just out of reach. One fateful night, as I hunched over my cluttered desk, a sudden realization struck me--the names and dates from CrimsonSoul's list had a pattern, a pattern that led to a date fast approaching--the same date when my investigation had begun. Fear surged through me, and I knew that I had to confront this conspiracy head-on. My heart raced as I prepared for what lay ahead. I had no choice but to confront the dark forces that had infiltrated my life. The night arrived, shrouded in an eerie silence. Armed with my research and an unsettling sense of purpose, I ventured into the heart of the conspiracy's labyrinthine web. The location was an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, a place rumored to be a hub of their sinister activities. As I crept through the dimly lit corridors of the warehouse, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being herded like a lamb to the slaughter. My flashlight cast long, sinister shadows on the crumbling walls, and the air grew heavy with the stench of decay. Finally, I reached a chamber where a group of shadowy figures stood in a circle, their faces obscured by masks. In the center, an eerie ritual was taking place--a dark, foreboding ritual that seemed to defy the laws of nature. Before I could react, I was seized by an unseen force, and I watched in terror as the figures turned toward me, their masked faces devoid of expression. I struggled to break free, but their grip was unrelenting. A ritual chant filled the air, and I felt a searing pain, unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was as if my very essence was being torn apart. Darkness closed in around me, and I realized with horrifying clarity that I was becoming a part of their unholy ceremony. As the world dissolved into shadows, I couldn't help but think that I had uncovered a truth too dangerous to bear. I think I've been murdered, not by conventional means, but by a conspiracy that sought to protect its secrets at any cost. And now, my existence is intertwined with their malevolent agenda, a prisoner in a world of darkness and despair. Every day I live out from here I feel as I am deprived of belonging. I feel hallow and empty, living out the days of my mundane life with this harrowing secret. I've been murdered, not in body, but in soul, forever trapped in the chilling embrace of the Twilight Conspiracy. Heed my caution, for you to investigate as I did I fear you may be too.

Hey y'all. I'm normally more into academic writing but had an idea for a story so I thought I'd give it a shot. As usual I probably over analyzed a few parts of it but any thoughts or feedback is appreciated. The Seducer “I think it’s time for you to go,” he said as he rolled over to face his latest conquest, “I’ll call you a cab.” This had become somewhat of a nightly routine for him - go out somewhere, anywhere to scout and recruit potential targets, satisfy himself and send them on their merry way. The whole process had become somewhat of a banality; while at one point he used to get some sense of euphoria after successfully completing his task, after so much repetition it eventually lost its force. As she eventually made her way out of his apartment, he reflected to himself on why, despite its lack of lustre, he persisted in this same nightly routine. After some careful consideration, he came to the conclusion that he had no real reason to do anything - nothing ever really mattered and it just so happened that seduction was what he did. It was no different than an alcoholic pounding back beers after a long shift or a couponer leafing through flyer after flyer to find all the best deals. None of this mattered to him or to anyone; it was all just what they did. By this point in his life, he was convinced that love was merely a façade. After going through hundreds upon hundreds of partners, he saw no way that some how love was a real thing. The most he ever felt was a twinge of disgust as he rolled over and saw that his flavour of the evening had yet to begin to disembark. But, such is life. Falling in love to him had no more meaning than any other thing he did and thus he had no desire for it. He was a seducer, not a romantic, that was just the way it was and the way it would continue to be. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ As he occupied his stool at the bar, he peered across the room, looking out for his next victim. That’s when he saw her - her beauty took him aback like nothing had in years. After being so convinced that banality was simply the way of life, one look at her made him reconsider what he had thought he knew. ​ He slowly approached her across the bar and made her acquaintance. Not only was she the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, but also the elegance with which she spoke was captivating. He could not believe what he was feeling - after years of treating this exact process as routine, finally it felt meaningful. Finally, after years of running through this exact scenario in an automaton-like fashion, he finally felt alive. ​ He slowly made his way through his arsenal of skills he had spent years cultivating, he began to feel her reciprocity. This was going to be it. This way going to be the night that he could roll over after completion and feel a smile creep onto his face. This was what he had been waiting for without even knowing. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ As he and her traversed back into to apartment his apartment, he was struck with anxiety - what was going to happen the next morning? After all of these years of practice he had never prepared for the contingency that was this; a pervasive feeling of lust that extended beyond merely physical attraction. All he knew for sure was she was not like the others, but this was not a moment he had ever planned for. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ After their session had concluded, he turned over to face her, and unlike with the others, felt a warmth overcome his entire being. This was not just lust, but something more. As he pulled himself closer to her and wrapped his arm around her body, she rotated her head slightly to face him and spoke: ​ “I think it’s time for me to go.

Inside the lid a plain white piece of card was stuck to the green felt lining and it had four handwritten words on it. “Property of Teper Naillian” It had started with a house move. The house move had been a success. Well, as much of a success as a house move ever is. The solicitors did their part quickly and without fuss. The funds were transferred, and the contract exchanged, and we had the keys when we were supposed to. The packing up had gone better than expected. The volume of collected detritus had been less than for previous moves. We had spent time decluttering; selling items at car boot sales and on eBay, taking other things to charity shops, and throwing out pieces of junk we, not anyone else in their right minds, was going to use again. And everything seemed to have made it to the other end in one piece. Even that hideous pink rhinoceros china ornament Jane’s aunt had brought back from some African safari years before. It really needed to have an accident and shuffle off this mortal coil, and the fireplace it sat on. But Jane was strangely attracted to it, and it was the only ornament in the house which the kids had never knocked over. I could only hope. The only strange part of the whole move was the funny looks I got from the Estate Agents every time my name came up. As if they knew it somehow. I doubted it though and thought I must be imagining it all. In fact, I doubted there was anyone else in the country with the same name as me. The surname was uncommon enough in the UK, being of Irish origin from County Clare, but with the unusual misspelt first name (apparently a mistake, one of the dangers of letting a drunken Irishman register the birth I suppose) I was unique. Or I was the last time I checked back in the noughties when websites to check your name’s uniqueness against the 2001 census were all the rage. And I doubted anyone else had named their kid Teper instead of Peter since. We had been disciplined about unpacking too. Three days and all the carboard boxes had been emptied, broken down and thrown up into the loft. I remembered a previous move where some boxes had never been opened before we moved again some eighteen months later. This time we weren’t looking at moving again. Certainly not until retirement in twenty years or so. Or if there was a lottery win. The house had been a bargain, nearly £200k less than others like it. the detailed surveys had no sign of any structural issues or covenants. It wasn’t under a flight path (or proposed one), and there weren’t any new road or rail routes planned. It was bigger than we had been looking for and we felt lucky to find it. It was a month, possibly a bit longer when Grace found the box. Out eldest had been building herself a cardboard city in the loft using all the broken-down packing boxes. She had found the wooden keepsake box against the gable wall of the loft. A small different coloured area of wood between the laminated chip board that covered the joists and insulation. Being inquisitive she had prised away at the different wood until it tilted, and she was able to pull it out of its hole. It was a small intricately carved mahogany box; about eight inches long, six inches wide, and four inches deep. There were two brass hinges at the back, and the front had a little brass lock with a key hole. It was locked and had no key with it. I went up to the loft myself and had a look under the boards and amongst the insulation around where it had been found, but there was no sign of any key. And so, the box sat unopened in an alcove in the kitchen. I would look at it each time I passed, and the kids would ask if I was going to open it. But I resisted. For all of about ten days before I got too curious about what might be in it. I got a fine chisel from the tool box and tapped it into place between the lid and box where the lock was. The box was sturdy, and it took longer than I thought it would, but I finally prised the box open without doing too much damage to it. Inside the lid a plain white piece of card was stuck to the green felt lining and it had four handwritten words on it. “Property of Teper Naillian” I’m not sure how long I held my breath for, but I remember eventually exhaling and gasping in some air. How could this box possibly have my name in it? I shouted for Grace to come in. Berated her about where she had really gotten the box from. Had her mum put her up to this? I’m ashamed to say I made my daughter cry. And Jane’s ire towards me was well deserved. Although the ire did change to something more akin to confusion, and then a feeling of being spooked out, and then accusatory towards me, asking what I was playing at putting the box there like that, just as I had accused our daughter of doing. I was just freaked out. I started to take items out of the box. There was a yo-yo with flaking yellow paint on either side. Two old pennies, bigger than two-pound coins. A Matchbox car - a De Tomaso Pantera. A number of Derby County Topps football cards - Colin Boulton, David Nish, Colin Todd, Ray McFarland, Kevin Hector, Gerry Daly, Peter Daniel, Charlie George, David Langan, Don Masson, John Middleton, Steve Powell, and Bruce Rioch. A multi-coloured bouncy ball. A Rainbow badge with Zippy on it. A green and red kazoo. Two little pencils. A red sew on 10m Swimming patch. And half a dozen photos. A small boy was in them all. Small square photos, in colour but grainy in quality, with a white border around them. I recognised the garden of the house we were in. the shape was the same even if the windows had changed and the colours were different. Another had the boy sat on the knee of an adult. By the clothes and hands, I would say a man, but the boy was the focus of the photo and the man’s head was cut off. The boy himself has blonde hair, green eyes and a smile. In every photo a large beaming smile. I supposed he could have passed for being me at a similar age. There were definite similarities, but my hair was a bit darker, and you’d have been lucky to get a smile out of me, even as a child. After staring at the items for hours, I put them all back in the box and put the box back in the alcove and tired to forget about it. Something easier said than done. It played on my mind. I would find myself sat at the kitchen table, looking at the photos from the box. Feeling there was something in them familiar to me, but I was unable to put my finger on just what it was. Jane had obviously had enough of me moping around more than I usually did, and the amount of time I returned to the box and looked at the photos. She came back from work one evening with an announcement. “I’ve had a look at the Land Registry details for this house. You probably won’t believe this, but there was a couple who owned this house back in the seventies. Their surname was Naillian. A Mr A. and Mrs E Naillian. Are they, or could they be any relation of yours?” I couldn’t speak. They were the initials of my parents. Not that most people would know that, and I wouldn’t have expected Jane to. She’d only ever known them as Fred and Peggy. I doubt more than half a dozen people knew they were really Alfred and Elizabeth. I’m not even going to try to understand where the hell they got the name Peggy from for Elizabeth, but it was the case. Surely, they couldn’t have lived in this house. The dates were before I’d been born, but not long before. But they had never mentioned living in Derby at any point. Not even when we had told them about moving here. Not even when I had given them the address. If they had lived here, surely they would have said something. Anything. I got up and went to the box, and got the photo of the boy sat on the man’s knee. I looked at it for what must have been the hundredth time. More closely now. Studying it. had the clue been there all along? The signet ring on the man’s finger. Hadn’t I seen that same ring as a child? On my dad’s finger? I told Jane what I was thinking and what I was putting together. She wanted to drive to my parents right then. Drop everything and go. I wanted to think it through. We compromised and I rang my parents and spoke to my mum. Told her we were thinking of visiting at the weekend, and she was delighted. The week dragged. Three days felt like three months. A never-ending period of time. Until finally Saturday morning came, we got the kids settled into the car, and I took the box in a carrier bag into the passenger seat with me. Jane didn’t trust me to drive by this point. I can’t say I blamed her. We arrived at my parent’s house in Manchester. The house I had grown up in. it had taken two hours, not bad for a Saturday morning. The door opened and both my mum and dad came out. Jane hadn’t even turned the engine off before the kids were out of the car and getting hugs from their grandparents. Jane squeezed my hand as I took a big deep breath, and she said, “No matter what, it will be alright.” We got out of the car, hugged our own greetings and went inside to a waiting pot of tea in the kitchen / diner. The kids got juices and headed off to the lounge and the lure of the television. And the conversation started. I asked my parents about living in Derby, and there was a solid and quick no. jane said about finding a Mr A and Mrs E Naillian as previous owners of the house we lived in. I said it was their initials, and if it wasn’t them, did they know if it was some other relatives of ours? The denials weren’t as fast, or as solid. My mum glanced nervously at my dad, who was keeping a fixed stare at some point over my left shoulder. But producing the box changed things. My dad glanced at it and quickly looked away, but paled significantly. My mum refused to look at the box. I took out the photo of the boy on the man’s knee, and pointing out the ring the man was wearing I asked my dad if it was his? He closed his eyes to avoid the photo, but my mum let out a sob. And after the sob came the story. Teper Naillian was born on the 9th May 1970. He was named Teper by mistake, his father - Alfred, more commonly called Fred - was drunk when he registered the birth and had transposed the P and the T of the name Peter, and even when questioned by the registrar about whether the name was correct had apparently thundered “Of course it’s correct, what kind of idiot do you take me for?” He was a happy child and although his parents tried, a younger sibling didn’t come. His dad had got in the car to go to work, and didn’t realise Teper was playing with his own cars, toy ones, in the gravel under the front bumper. There was no speed in the car, but the weight over Teper’s chest was enough. Heartbroken, his parents couldn’t bear living at the house anymore. The car was sold, and they moved to Manchester and erased Derby from their lives. I was born in Manchester on the 24th July 1979. I was told that my name was a mistake. But it wasn’t. I was Teper Naillian. The second. I was an only child, or so I had believed all of my life. And to an extent I was, but I wasn’t the first child. I wasn’t even the first called Teper. I was going to be that younger sibling, after nine years my mum was pregnant again. But neither of us got that sibling, he had died five months before I was born. Neither of us knew about the other. Until today. They had used the same name for me, knowing they were never likely to get it wrong. Never likely to call me by the wrong name. Never likely to let slip what they had left in the past. My parents had done such a good job of erasing it they never brought it up when they knew I had moved to Derby. Or when they knew I had moved to the same house. Their house. Where the original Teper had lived. Perhaps that was why the Estate Agents had given me funny looks. A man moving to the house where his namesake had been killed in a tragic accident. What my parents never knew was what that original Teper had done with his keepsake box. They had never known about its hidey hole in the loft and so had never sought it out when they left their old life behind. And no one else in the intervening forty-two years had found it either. I suppose it was serendipity that Grace did, and I found out the truth.

"Please just try to get here. The kids are asking what's going on and I don't want to tell them alone." "I'm trying, my love. I made it out of the city before the warning went live, I should be there in the next 20 minutes. I love you." "I love you too." So many things were going through his mind. There was so much he wanted to accomplish. So many places he wanted to see. Now, all he wanted was to be home with his family. Driving never seemed to go by so slowly. Every mile felt like a hundred and the surrounding were just a blur. He had driven these roads countless times and auto pilot had fully taken over. The only thoughts going through his head were the stories his father used to tell him. "Son, there is a gift that our family is blessed with. Once, and only once, we can freeze everything around us. Time will stand still for all but us. We are free to move and free to think, but eventually it must end and return to normal. Many in our family have decided to forget about the gift entirely but it is my responsibility to tell you that this power is innately yours, should you choose to use it." As a child he asked, "Did you use yours father?" Smiling his father said, "I did my son." "What did you do?" A tear formed in his eye as he said, "I extended the happiest moment of my life. I will say no more than that." Shivers ran through the man as he turned his focus back to driving. He was entering the neighborhood which was full of frantic activity. People loading cars, others breaking down outside, some already catatonic in acceptance of the inevitable. Trying to ignore the horror of awareness on peoples faces, he took the final turn before coming up to his home. His wife ran out to greet him and embraced him in a deep hug, tears in her eyes. "I thought you weren't going to make it, I thought I would never see you again." "I'm here. I'm so sorry. Where are the children?" "Inside. I had to tell Simon, but Tucker and Lucy don't know. Simon is helping me keep them calm, but I don't know if it's really sunk in yet." "Ok, let's go inside." Tears freely flowing, his wife followed him as he entered their house and went to find their kids. "Daddy!" Lucy was the first to greet her father. He had always loved his daughter with a fierce love that could only be matched by the love he had for his wife. His sons he loved equally but his daughter was a much more jealous love. He would stay with her in his arms forever if she let him. "Hello princess! I'm so glad to see you!" Tears began forming in his eyes. "Daddy why are you crying?" she said touching her small hands to his face. Wiping the tears away he said, "Nothing sweetheart. I just am so glad to see you. Where are your brothers?" "They are outside looking through the telescope." "Well let's go find them. I have something I need to tell all of you." "Okay" Leading her father by the hand, she took him outside to her brothers, his wife following closely behind holding his other hand. "Dad!" The boys said in unison. Both rushing over to embrace their father. Simon was looking at his father with a knowing stare. A frantic pleading to his eyes that was never there before. It made him feel sick. "Lets sit down, your mother and I have something we want to tell you." He checked his watch before sitting down and looked at his wife, who gave him a small nod. It was 12:37, they had 4 minutes. "Simon, Tucker, Lucy, there is something I need to tell you. Something has happened. We are going to have to leave here soon. I'm not sure where we are going, but whatever happens just relax and wait for us to come get you. Your mother and I *will* come and find you. No matter how long it takes, we will find you. Simon began crying. Trying to console his eldest he said, "It's ok Son, I need you to be brave for your brother and sister. We are all here and anything that happens we will face it together." Sniffling, Simon said, "o-okay." "Your mother and I love you all so much. A father could not ask for a more beautiful daughter, or more brave sons. We only have a short time but I wanted you to know that whatever happens, your mother and I love you more than anything." He looked to his wife, who was still crying and embraced her in a kiss. The salt from her tears was all he could taste but he didn't notice anything but the softness of her lips and the fullness in his heart of the love for her. "Come here you guys." Wrapping his arms around all of them he checked his watch once again, 12:40, it was nearly time. He turned to his wife and set his head against hers, "carry them, I will meet you there." With those words, he froze time. He broke down for the first few moments. Crying for his family and what he knew he had to do. The sobs were so deep it made his body ache, and he lay on the ground in despair. Knowing that he had to save his family from the terror he must face, he pulled out the gun from his belt. Time unfroze and he saw their bodies beside him, still embracing one another. His sorrow was beyond words, and his grief too immense to measure. Crying and grieving, he looked up as the asteroid began to descend. He first felt the heat, the unbearable heat. Clutching his head everything became blurry and his hearing was only a loud hum that was growing until deafening. Screaming from the heat and pain, he dropped to his knees and the last thing he saw was darkness closing in.

Author's note: This is one part of the Melted collection. These stories can be read individually or in any order. "Got everything?" asked Tucker yet again. "And then some!" Christina had been prepared for years. Like any sane person (and there would be very few of them left now) she was upset that the Doomsday Clock had struck midnight. Despite herself, Christina was almost excited. For years, she had carefully stocked the bunker with canned goods, food, water, entertainment, and first aid kits. A triple-layered zero particulate air filter system kept pathogens at bay. Daylight-simulating bulbs cheerfully lit the radiation-proof bunker. She spent a small fortune installing a self-contained plumbing system and a backup generator for the backup generator. A small arsenal was tucked behind a trapdoor in the main bedroom. Just in case. They would be ready to live underground for years if they had to. She and Tucker had only started dating in December. They met at a joint Christmas party in the atrium of their office building. The building housed a wide variety of boring-sounding businesses and offices, the heads of which decided a holiday mixer would liven things up. The weather on Christmas Eve was warm enough that she was able to wear a red velvet Santa skirt to the party. She pulled the tiny skirt down in the front while simultaneously trying to keep it high enough in the back. Christina regretted her costume choice. Her form-fitting green and red striped top rose up to expose her belly as she refilled her punch glass. She wasn't sure how many refills she had had, no thanks to Carolyn. Carolyn continually refilled everyone's glass in a desperate attempt to keep the party alive, but Christina suspected she was just trying to cover up her alcoholism. The punch was much stronger than it let on. A lanky man who she vaguely recognized as a paralegal from upstairs walked up to the punch table. Christina knew it was cliche, so she was glad she didn’t say what she was thinking out loud. Her immediate impression was that he defined tall, dark, and handsome. She could not help but stare at the jarring contrast between his striking face and his horrible clothing. He wore the ugliest Christmas sweater she had ever seen in her life. Jingle bells, glitter, and pompoms announced his every movement. Puff paint ran up and down the sleeves and a rainbow of sequins caught the light like a disco ball. Christmas lights strung around the applique pine tree blinked irregularly. “How do you wash a sweater like that?” Christina heard herself wonder aloud. The paralegal stopped filling his punch glass and looked down. “You know, I’m not exactly sure? I just bought this thing and I hadn’t really considered what I’d do with it after today.” Christina could not tear her eyes away from the Santa peeking out from behind the tree on his sweater. Santa's expression was slightly menacing. Tucker bent down to get in her line of sight and caught her attention. He stuck out a slender ringless hand. “I’m Tucker. Anthony Tucker.” Christina rolled her eyes. “Okay, Bond James Bond," she muttered. Tucker’s cheeks turned maroon. “Sorry, that was awkward. It’s just that everyone calls me Tucker,” he said as he moved to step away from the punch table. “No, no,” Christina began. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Idris Elba? I guess that’s why it made me think of James Bond, I don't know.” He snorted in self-deprecation and turned to leave. She grabbed the paralegal’s wrist and he flushed even deeper. She looked down at her strong knuckled grasp, unaware that she was clutching with all her might. Cheeks already reddened from the punch, she could not blush. She blinked up at the handsome face in front of her and tried to focus. She felt herself swaying, but wasn’t sure if it was because of the punch or the paralegal. “If you want, I can call an uber for you,” Tucker offered delicately. He gently loosened her fingers. “That’s okay. Can you just... bring me some sugar cookies?” He gently steered her towards a table and made sure she had her purse tucked safely at her side before he left. Tucker returned with a bottle of water and a plate piled high with sprinkled reindeer-shaped cookies. They sat on folding chairs and people-watched. They ranked Christmas sweaters by ugliness. Tucker won by a landslide. When he wasn't pushing pencils on the sixth floor, Tucker said he was an amateur painter. He focused on cubism, but was thinking about moving into postmodernism. Christina did not mention her hobby and munched cookies, listening with genuine interest. "Feeling better?" "Much," Christina said truthfully. They sat in comfortable silence, staring out at their coworkers milling around awkwardly. "So why 'Tucker'? Anthony isn't such a bad name." "It's not, I agree. It's just that I'm the third one. I think Tucker has a little more flavor anyway." He paused. "Do you go by Tina? Chrissy?" "Absolutely not! It's Christina or Miss Watterson. I'm the CFO, after all. No nicknames allowed." She glanced at her companion and felt a familiar wave of pleasure at his flash of surprise. Very few people expected her to have a corner office and she relished revealing her title. To his credit, Anthony Tucker needed only a moment to process the information. "Well then, Miss Watterson, do you have plans for New Year's?" Christina remembered that night with wistful clarity. It felt like ages ago, so much had happened since. Before Tucker, Christina dated casually and rarely stayed with anyone very long. When she finally admitted to her dates that she was a doomsday prepper and had an underground bunker larger than her house, most men stopped calling. She was fine with that because that just meant that they were risk takers in a way she wasn’t. She enjoyed living dangerously - she had tried skydiving, thank you very much - but only by choice. No outside forces were going to take her down without a fight. So when Christina heard the news of the Thwaites Glacier discovery, she had to inform Tucker about her obsession far earlier than she would have liked. Four days passed before she heard from him again. But when Dr. Eleanor Lee - a member of the team in Antarctica that discovered the algae in the glacier - died from Melting after her plane landed in Argentina, Tucker texted her. There were rumors of a case of Melting in New York City, but none where she lived. Yet. Christina offered Tucker an ultimatum. On January 31st, six days after the discovery in the glacier and thirty-eight days into their relationship, Christina and Tucker took the plunge into the bunker. Their footsteps echoed on the tin stairs as they descended into their new steel and concrete home. "Last chance," said Christina. Tucker squeezed her wrist. They walked through a second steel door, closed it, and turned the heavy lock. Tucker exhaled a long-held breath. Christina turned and took both his hands in hers. "It's gonna be okay." "They're dying out there. There are more Melting every day. The temperature keeps rising. They're going mad and they're... My sisters are going to..." Tucker crumpled. Christina held him up. "It's gonna be okay," she repeated. Tucker felt cold sweat prickle his neck. "Did you remember my paints? If I can't paint--" "Don't worry. I even made a little studio for you." She led the way into a smaller room set up with easels, palettes, and a huge crate of oil paints, watercolors, and acrylics. A tall shelf housed boxes of paintbrushes, scrapers, cans of paint thinner, tools, and aprons. A mountain of canvases was neatly stacked against the wall. "It looks like you got enough for about ten years of painting. I'll be a regular Picasso by the time we get out." "Okay, rule number one. We never talk about how long we're in the bunker. We will drive ourselves crazy if we circle a date on the calendar and wait. We have no idea how long this will be, so let's just take it one day at a time." "Fair. Rule number two?" "Not so much a rule as a request. Can you try impressionism someday? I'm more of a Renoir kinda gal." "We'll see," Tucker laughed. He folded her into his arms and buried his face in her hair. They stood like that for a long time or maybe just a moment. Christina kept no clocks in the bunker. “If this is the end, I’m glad I’m spending it with you.” Tucker squeezed Christina’s wrist tightly.

Time, as the magister of Manchuria had written long, long ago, had a tendency to pick favorites. By which was meant, in the primordial pecking order of various realities, it was actually quite rare to find one in which Time presented itself with any sort of self-respect. For every universe in which He was the sort to show up at steakhouses in a pinstripe vest, and talk amiably with His disciples over a glass of Chardonnay and perhaps a nice soup, there are at least a thousand in which He is the type to drive by that same steakhouse at one in the morning in a convertible that assuredly belongs to someone else, his hair flying like a greasy flag behind him and a hoarse note in his voice suggesting he has been screaming vulgarities at the top of his lungs since sunset. ***** Night fell in the Downs of Ans. It was spring, which meant that the willows on the slopes of the Damp Hills crooned to the tune of the crickets, and the sound swept over the quiet streets like a dream in trundling motion. The houses here, to the south of the river Myr and some miles separated from the Silver Bridge, carry a distinct flavor of civil negligence, coupled with resident dissatisfaction that has given even the exterior walls the appearance of coffee on a white shirt. It has always been an unpleasant place, dangerous to walk even on snow-lit full moons, but tonight we frequent it not for the alleys in which muggings take place in Congo lines, nor the stench which has been bottled by the more suicidal breed of alchemist since the city's birth, but for the curious events taking place very far underneath the dirt-caked surface of the poorly cobbled streets. It had all the best trademarks of simple ingenuity, and even when he was nicely lost in the intricacies of his work, the engineer known to his few human contacts as Jorial felt the warm bubble of pride in every firing neuron of his mind. Assassins, it turned out, were just as afraid of a club to the back of the neck as anyone else, and the gentlemen of the Downs at perfected that practice to an art form. So he worked in peace, undisturbed by fears of an undue comeuppance, and as the days went by the machine, like a sketch done in degrees, became more and more defined. What had once been a jumble of gears and elastic connectors was now a defined skeleton of steel and tubing and at least half a dozen species of screws. At the center of the labyrinth was an already half-covered sphere of soft blue luminescence, which blew small sparks into the yellow light of the basement. "Beautiful," said a voice from the other side of the room. "Dangerous," grunted Jorial as a reply, and he gave the final turn on a bolt larger than his fist. It was the first leg of the temporal cage, and though he did not notice, it was almost three degrees too far to the left. "I gathered. Did I tell you that I lost a man carrying that here? I take it that's a no. Oh, don't look so shocked, it wasn't all that dramatic. One second there's two men carrying the crate, and then of course James had to be an utter fool, swinging it back and forth like a briefcase, and then... poof! He's gone! If I'd any idea how he did it, I'd tell you to market that to the highest bidder at the Sterlian Exchange." "And I'd tell you, absolutely not." Jorial wiped his hands on his long apron, his eyes holding a note of worry. "Do you have the rest of the girders? I told you I'd need at least half a dozen more, and I only see two on the pile." He gestured to a pair of long iron beams lying next to a makeshift forge. His guest made a noncommittal gesture that troubled Jorial even more. "Yes, yes. I'm afraid I ran into some trouble at the docks, though, but it's nothing you should worry about. I'll just get them to you tomorrow." "I need to finish this cage today, Cordimus. Else you should have brought the sphere later, like I asked! You told me yourself, it's already killed"- "So dramatic, Jorial. Look at it! We've been sitting here with it uncovered for over an hour, now, and we aren't dead yet, are we? Besides, we don't know it kills people. For all we know, he's just been... moved. That's not the word, but it'll come to me in a moment, it's been a long night." "I don't like this." "I know," said his guest, and began to rise. "Believe you me, I know. But it's just how it is, my friend. If it'll calm you at all, I'll try to get Gideon to raise your payment. Two thousand Capitol pieces, how does that sound?" "Insufficient, if it's my life on the line." This drew a laugh, born more of courtesy than humor. "You're a funny man, Jorial. I like that very much, it makes you interesting to be around. But if you'll excuse me, you are not my first errand of the night, and very far from my last." He checked his watch with a pointed expression, and with a tip of his hat, Cordimus took his leave. Jorial heard his clipped steps ascending the stairs, and his voice calling back, "and of course, if ever you need me, try not to, yes? I'll be back by tomorrow, if all goes well." The door slammed shut. He was alone again. For a moment, he was unsure of how to proceed. He eyed the girders again, then the still burning embers of the forge, and the hammer resting at an angle upon the sizzling surface of the anvil. He could create the scaffolding for the front half of the sphere, and proceed tomorrow with the rest, but then again, the work would exhaust him, and it was far past midnight. He took off his heavy gloves, and rubbed at his wrinkled eyes. The machine would have to wait. Ten years younger, and it would have been a different story, but time was such a venom to the bones, and he needed rest. Twenty minutes later, changed into his nightclothes, the engineer laid his head on the small bed in a side room of the basement and closed his eyes. It was the 2334th year of Maxwell, and the song of the willows lulled him to sleep. ***** Jorial woke to the same unease which had driven him to bed. A persistent paranoia that had lingered ever since Cordimus had arrived last night dragged nails down a pot somewhere in his chest, and he winced as he threw on his apron, mask, and gloves. His knees were no better, and stiffer for the morning, but that would pass. This dread, though, would require something heavier. The kitchen was on the other side of the basement, and the allure of whiskey dragged him through the workshop, where his heart went suddenly cold. The sphere had gone utterly dark. "Mother of Yaw," he whispered. His feet moved independent of his will, ever closer to the dark metal in the center of the machine. "What..." His hand, trembling, rose to touch it. Fear struck him a sound blow as his fingers touched the surface, and he braced for what he was sure would be the unbearable agony of vaporization. It didn't come. The material was cold, but no colder than ordinary steel. Smooth, but not impossibly so. No sparks flew from it, and the blue light was utterly absent. "Cordimus is going to murder me." A pounding came from the direction of the door. His heart lurched and sent a twanging, bowstring sensation down his spine. It will pass, it's the wind, it's nothing at all. It came again, and louder. The wind, the wind, the wind, the... the realization hit him that the basement was not, in fact, in any position where the wind could hit it. It was inside the abandoned cellar of a den of money launderers, who prepared against such things. And besides, it was locked. Wind be damned, there was someone outside. And from the loud THUD that shook the very structure of the basement, they were about to come in. Jorial picked up the hammer from his anvil in one hand, and the pronged poker in the other, and called out to the footsteps hurrying down his stairs. "Who is that? You're trespassing! Who goes?" But no one answered. Only the tramping of boots on the stairs, and a jingle of steel that could only mean the worst. Grim shadows appeared near the opening, and muttered voices carried through. All of a sudden, they stopped. "I said, who goes there?" The answering voice was tinny, but deep and intentionally fearsome. "This is Captain Ryur of the Royal Aralunian Inquisition. Come out now, Magrul, and you may yet see the light of day before your timely death. Refuse, and we'll cut you down before you can read a single verse." Blank silence. "What?" "He's stalling," someone muttered, and one of the shadows grew quickly larger before giving way to its owner, a man in heavy plates of gleaming iron, his helmet large and crested, who held in his hands a crossbow of immense size and antiquated design. In spite of this, he had no sooner begun to loom above the figure of Jorial before he threw himself to one side, the bolt going wide and a cry escaping beneath the mask of steel. "He's a staff! Garis, your spear!" It was obvious that their time in the staircase had not been wasted. When the other three men charged into the cramped workshop of the basement, their weapons were armed and quickly aimed at Jorial's chest. He, in turn, dropped his impromptu weapons and raised his hands slowly above his head. The first man had regained his feet, and an extended creak indicated that his crossbow was once again a threat to Jorial's limbs. "You move, Magrul, you die," he growled. "This is a mistake," was his only response. The original proclamation from the men had only now begun to filter through the rushed confusion of the morning, and he eyed the foreign crests on their armor, and the colors that now belonged only to the Duke of East Halmsvale, with dismay that soon gave way to puzzlement. "Hold on... did you say you were from Aralun? " "Silence your tongue, magician." The crossbow twitched menacingly. "But that's not - just hold on! That... your lot's been dead over a thousand years! And the inquisition... that's ancient history. This isn't right, you don't exist, this is Ans we're in, you hear?" "I say we shoot him." "What's that, in the corner?" One of the men pointed towards the husk of the machine. Ryur's head followed the motion. If it was possible for a helmet with only two slits for the eyes to express curiosity, the captain's was doing so now. "Well, Magrul? Answer him. And no more of your nonsense. We don't follow your pagan politics." "But I'm"- A bolt fired, and smacked into the stone less than two paces from Jorial's left foot. "Last warning," said the captain. "It's not an easy answer," began Jorial, grasping for what Cordimus had told him a long time ago, but panic was clouding his clarity. "It's... well, it's supposed to"- his brain cleared. Realization struck like a lightning bolt. "What year is this?" "Captain, I told you, he's stalling! We should"- Ryur shook his head. "That's enough, Crandis. He's harmless without the staff. Besides, he amuses me. It's the 1920th year of Maxwell, Magrul. Does that satisfy you?" "That's not a nice color for a face, is it?" "Crandis. Shut up. Magrul, the machine. What does it do? Where are the others of your kind? We know of the covens, it won't do to lie to us." "It... I... gods, you really are Aralunian." He raised the mask slowly above his head, and tossed it to the ground. "This house we're in... it wasn't here an hour ago, was it?" "I told you already: enough of your tricks. Is it a teleporter? Is that what you're saying?" "And 'Magrul'... you think I'm a wizard, don't you?" "There's only one Wizard, Magrul. And we've killed him already." "But then... The Shattering, then. That was what, 1912? I'm sorry, I'm terrible with dates. Ridell"- " Don't say that name!" "But I can help you, don't you see? That... no, that's not a teleporter, you... you don't understand, it's a sort of time... manipulator, is what it is. I'm from the future! " "All magic is vile. Future, past... it's of no matter to me. You're coming with us." "But I can help you! In less than a century, your kingdom... it's gone . It burns with the rest of them!" "Shut up. Yarin, tie him up. Crandis, ready the horses. We're leaving. Garis, stay on him, you hear? That spear doesn't drop a single inch from his chest or you're walking back to the outpost." Ryur began to turn. "What is it now, Yarin?" "Er... that staff of his, Captain?" "Well?" "This is a poker." The soldier held it up. "I don't care if it's the beard of Aermun himself, Yarin. He's a Magrul. Said it himself, didn't he? Traveling through time... it's scum like him that almost got the whole lot of us killed." He turned his attention back to the fearful face of Jorial. "You'll hang by dusk tomorrow." "But you don't understand! It's not magic, it's Glint! And you don't know... Mortmondes is coming, he comes and you all die anyway, but I can help you! I can help you, and I'll go back to my time, and the future... your kingdom will last for millennia." "I have no idea what you're talking about, and frankly, I don't care. I've had enough of your kind's treachery. I"- The ceiling split. chips of stone and splinters of half-rotten wood scattered to every edge of the room. A sound like living thunder trampled the sullen dust, and a blazing white light enveloped Jorial's senses and stayed there. He was aware of a chorus of screams, in which he took an agonized part. Something slammed into his chest and sent him flying against the anvil, and the following crack, he decided, was probably not a dent to the iron. His eyes cleared at the precise moment that he realized he couldn't move his right leg, and he saw running feet all around the workshop, and blasts of purple and orange light and a bright sun that threw the crisscrossing paths of the arrows in bright relief. One side of the entire building had collapsed in a shower of natural earth, which had formed a slight incline to the light of day far above. He crawled in that direction, faltered from an excruciating bolt of pain in his lame leg, then drew himself up into a feasible limp, the poker serving as a crutch as he toddled away. Behind him, the screams continued, and someone, probably Ryar, screamed "keep him here! Don't let him escape!" But even that sound was soon lost in the roar of sudden fire. Jorial scrambled against the dirt and rock, fear and adrenaline giving power to his weak strides, and he cleared the top at about the same time as the corpse of the man called Yarin, whose smoking cuirass gave a clue to the nature of his demise. From what little he knew of the period, Jorial knew that what was being used below was raw magic, quite removed from the sharp, domesticated sorcery of his own age, and he felt enough fear of the fact to mount one of the horses in front of the ruined building with more speed than his leg wanted to permit. Screaming from the pain, he jerked its reins around, grateful that someone had already untied the leads as it cantered into a field that wouldn't exist for very long. But it was all right. Through the pain, fear, and bewilderment of his situation, Jorial had found a glimmer of meaning, which he clung to. He knew where he was going. More importantly, he knew what must be done. In an hour, the last of the screams faded into the distance, and were lost. In a day, the first of many golden towers came into view, and the glorious ramparts of Aralun stood mightily in the face of the sun.

No physical compulsion? She signs, baffled by my admission. I shake my head. There is nothing to keep me from telling the truth, save the knowledge that I will lose absolutely everything if I do. Destinee raises a fine eyebrow before nuzzling closer to me. We watch her cousin in open amusement as he begins his daily struggle of wrestling the pink disc from the stubborn clutches of Night. The air shifts, Wind blessing our bodies with her cool breeze as the planet warms. Destinee wills her midnight tendrils to stay impervious to its pull. I carefully twirl a ringlet around my finger, smiling indulgently at her vain tendencies. Not even Wind’s good intentions are enough for Destinee to permit a stray or frizzy strand of hair. We seldom converse in the first hours of the day. Silence may be an obstacle elsewhere, but here, with her, it’s akin to an old blanket--worn and comforting. It wasn’t always this way. I met Destinee before her tongue was cursed. This golden-skinned, petite goddess spoke like she was in constant fear of interruption. Her words collided with one another, stumbling to attribute meaning and profundity to each line of speech. Many gods avoided Destinee, and for good reason. A conversation with her was like performing a play without lines. Destinee had a special affinity for collecting the deepest-held convictions and fears of others. Luxuries aren’t difficult to obtain for immortals, so we barter with something far more valuable: secrets. The future holds no mystery or allure, but the present consistently eludes Destinee. When I asked her if she ever used her newfound information to tinker with the future, she simply winked and said, “That’s the beauty of the future. It never exists. Thus, I’ll never get in trouble for influencing it how I wish.” I sometimes wonder if she knew then how wrong she was. Destinee’s gluttony for secrets was well-known, and regular visitors frequent. Her silvery-grey eyes would alight at the prospect of learning something her visions weren’t privy to, and precious bits of the future would tumble impulsively out of eager lips. It was at Poetry’s first birthday party that Destinee’s words abandoned their safe realm of inconsequential and entered imminently dangerous territory... I don a simple black dress that ends just at the knee. My long auburn hair is pulled into a messy bun, the only style my clumsy fingers can achieve. Destinee enters our room in a stunning floral number. Flora herself had blessed it with the enticing scent and lazily waving energy of a pristine meadow in exchange for the knowledge that her next children would be a healthy pair of girls. I watch a lilac petal on her sleeve shiver in a breeze I cannot feel. She laughs softly upon spotting my hairdo and instructs me to sit on the edge of the bed. She pulls out my pins and begins anew, her gentle hands weaving with the same intensity and practiced ease with which a spider spins its web for an early supper. I feel her touch for an extra spare moment each time she pulls away to pick up another pin. The echo’s sensation makes me grin. My smile vanishes as I catch her reflection in the mirror. Her elegant beauty takes my breath away. Not for the first time, I mourn the fact that I can never tell her outright how she makes me feel. “What will your gift be, Dee?” Destinee asks. “A silver tongue? Perhaps a talent for hearing lies?” She catches my dark expression and returns the scowl. “How dare they reject a godly gift? Hypocrites, that’s all they are. Do Rhyme and Meter not value power? The two of us alone could pit every single god in this city against the other with our knowledge combined.” “A lovely sentiment. I’m sure that would change their perception of me,” I sigh. Destinee gives an unbraided section of hair a sharp tug. “Sarcasm remains one of your worst creations, I hope you’re aware.” I suppress a laugh. My dalliance with Humor had been brief and unremarkable, yet evidence of our relationship could be found everywhere nowadays. I was at once amused and aggrieved by the constant reminders and their enduring popularity. The celebration is hosted by Wisdom himself. His palace is a breathtaking marvel in more ways than one, with an architectural design far and away the most creative and eccentric in the city. Fractals and other impossibilities blanket the floor and ceiling. Twin pillars are inlaid with sparkling jewels yet to be discovered by the human populace. I trace a navy-blue design on a nearby wall with greedy hands, aware that when I return it will be gone, replaced by something even more intricate and bizarre that caught Dom’s fancy. Destinee floats from guest to guest, chattering excitedly. She had confided in me that something important would happen at the party, though the images were still unclear. I’m fairly positive that each interaction is a mining of sorts for clues. Utterly disinterested in small talk and the mysteries Destinee embroils herself in, I hasten to help myself to the impressive selection of wine. Rhyme receives me at a table laden with refreshments. “It’s miles from the realm of perfection but I’m glad you’ve enjoyed yourself to our collection,” she remarks in a sugary tone. I almost laugh. Lying to the goddess of deceit must be the height of hubris. I pat my heart in response and smile. Ambiguous gestures are safest, especially at celebrations. Participants tend to get too drunk to remember that they must interpret my words. My heart stalls when I spot Candor nearby. I’m about to retreat when Rhyme follows my panicked gaze, a cruel smile touching her lips. “Deceit’s sister, come hither!” She calls, waving my twin over. Candor navigates the crowd swiftly, weaving towards us. Auburn hair hangs limply around her pale, freckled face. She wears a sparkly pink dress at odds with her hungry expression. “A pleasure to see you,” I greet her sweetly. She ignores me, and Rhyme follows suit. “I must admit,” Rhyme starts, an awful twinkle in her eye. “your identical eyes lead me astray. Are you the same in every outward way?” Candor nods. “Of course, it’s awfully simple to tell us apart if you know how.” My stomach hardens to stone. A crowd of well-wishers has gathered near to speak to Rhyme, but they pause at my sister’s words. “It’s so easy it’s laughable,” she continues. Destinee’s gaze meets mine from across the spacious room. I smile stiffly. Her stormy eyes flit to my sister and narrow. “Just ask either one of us a fact.” Candor makes a show of examining the table’s contents carefully before plucking a red apple from the cornucopia. The growing crowd follows every exaggerated movement. She thrusts the shiny fruit in my face. “What color is this?” My face burns. “Blue,” I mutter quietly. This garners several laughs and a few claps for Candor’s ingenuity. “How interesting! What color is the apple?” Destinee asks my twin with fake cheer, brushing past the other guests and linking her arm around mine. Candor looks suddenly unsure of herself, but answers regardless. “Why, red, of course. I’m not confined to lies.” Destinee’s grip on my arm tightens. “What an intriguing choice of words. Forgive me, Candy, but Deceit could have said any color in existence, save for red. She’s not beholden to the truth, which seems to me incredibly liberating.” If looks could kill the nearly un-killable, Destinee and Candor would both be lost to perpetual darkness. Dom intercedes, announcing the commencement of the gift-giving ceremony. The crowd quickly disperses to form a line to little Poetry and his father Meter. Rhyme rushes to join them, her mischief forgotten. Candor bows to Destinee and me with an ill-concealed sneer and rejoins the others. She won’t forget this soon. Destinee sighs irritably and follows the crowd, squeezing my hand in parting. I respectfully refrain from entering the queue, per Rhyme and Meter’s request. “We don’t aim to teach dishonesty to impressionable little Poetry,” Rhyme had explained in a cloying voice that attempted to convey regret she most certainly did not feel. Rather than join the small cluster of similarly rebuffed gods deemed too weak or uncaring to exact vengeance, I opt to leave early. I resign myself to the possibility of never meeting Poetry in person. A shame, considering Destinee’s insistence that he will grow to inspire the lives of many. I’m surprised to see Love loitering outside Dom’s estate. New parents want nothing more than a happy match for their child, and the prospects among immortals are few. No one would be foolhardy enough to eject Love when he has so much to offer. Did he really accept their food and drink only to refuse the most highly coveted gift of all? Perhaps he hates them as much as I. “How silly,” Love drawls, surveying my shock with a wry grin. “Your emotions are quite transparent. Aren’t you tired of the endless obligatory gift-giving sessions?” “Never,” I agree with a stiff head shake. Love pushes himself off of the ivy-laced wall with strong, large hands and steps closer. He towers above my considerable height, perfectly white teeth gleaming against dark, unblemished skin. “Oh, this is fun. Have you ever noticed how often you and your sister give the same answer? It makes me wonder why anyone cares enough to puzzle out which is which.” I turn to leave. Let Love find another plaything. He has billions of hearts to mold before crushing them. “Aha! I see it now. You love another. Candor keeps me for herself.” “Aren’t you clever?” I snap, walking quickly towards the gate. The last thing I need is Love meddling in my affairs. “You wound me!” He shouts in a voice spun from silk. “But exercise caution, little liar! Your lover isn’t the only one who sees the future. And your love story looks positively thrilling!” I don’t exhale until the gate swings shut behind me. What does thrilling look like to a god who has spent millennia toying with different hearts? I really think I would prefer boring. My feet take each step of their own accord, my mind lost. Memories of my sister overtake my thoughts, despite my best efforts. In anger, I had once sworn I would never see her again. Of course, this had only condemned me to more sightings. She posed a larger threat than the others realized, in no small part thanks to me. “But he does love me Mother--and if you really loved me you would just die!” Candy shrieked. What did you do? I wanted to scream. What have you done? Candor trembled in shock, standing rigidly. I fell to my knees, grasping at Mother with unfeeling hands. I press my hands to my head as if to squeeze the image from my mind with brute force. I don’t know how, but despite our identical features, Destinee knew it was I who took the stand in Candor’s place and pledged her innocence. Destinee had promised to keep her knowledge to herself. Of course, she isn’t bound by her words. Candy was never the same. I may have helped, but she had engaged in a deception. She could scarcely look at me afterwards. I became the reminder that Candor wasn’t always truthful. None of us fully embody what we represent; no multi-faceted god could, but I suppose that’s one truth my sister never learned to accept. I fidget uncomfortably, more concerned than ever for my twin’s future. Dusk arrives before Destinee, lazily blotting out every trace of Day’s artwork. I sit on the front porch, a rapt audience of one. I enjoy this view most; there is unexpected beauty in erasure. The chance hues and patterns spared never celebrate the same way twice. The clanging of the gate startles me out of my reverie. I spot the tears first, the defeated posture and shivers. I spring to my feet and brush away a tear, looking imploringly into her eyes. This is no time to say I don’t want to know what happened. I don’t care that she knows I mean its opposite--it would hurt my heart to say it. She grips my hand, squeezes it, then brushes past me into the house. I follow, my worry compounding. A dusty volume on sign language is plucked from a far shelf. We had pledged one summer to study in order to converse with Silence, a god both ubiquitous and profoundly lonely. He was unmoved by our attempts and we quickly dropped our practicing. Destinee flips to the alphabet and beckons me closer, pointing out letters slowly: C-U-R-S-E-D. Concern morphs into rage. My breath becomes uneven as, in an agonizingly slow and piecemeal manner, she briefly explains what happened. Destinee told Candor to leave me alone, threatening her with the truth about Mother. Candy’s response? “Write or utter another word and perish.” I shut my eyes. I never curse fellow gods, but Candor warrants an exception. How shall I do it? Destinee tugs on my hair until I look at her. Her wet eyes seal my fate. I can’t bear to let her down. Over the next couple of days we stay secluded at the house, poring over the book. Destinee becomes extremely fond of the profanity section. I counsel her strictly on restraint. My curse is not unlike hers--nothing prevents me from speaking truth and perishing, only my mind and will. These lessons, I come to realize, are more for my sake than hers. I can’t live in fear for her life every time we go to an event, witness a stunning sky, or bargain with other gods. I put a hold on social visits. No gossip, secret-sharing, bartering--no temptation. For the first time, future is a mystery even among the gods. The more I watch Destinee struggle to adjust, the stronger my wrath grows. I want to preserve the kind goddess Destinee believes me to be. What do I stand to lose by paying my sister a visit? After an afternoon of meandering around Candor’s public haunts, I bump into her at the garden, tending to her hyacinths. Before she can utter a word, I lie. “You will curse a god again.” An eerie smile creeps across her face, a twisted semblance of my own. “You told Destinee. I simply covered our tracks. Do you forget how much trouble you’ll be in if anyone finds out you deceived the court?” “Ah, I see. You’re just looking out for us both. I’ll do the same.” Our smiles slowly match. One long pause later, her grin wavers. “I think I finally see too.” Feeling unbearably confined, Destinee and I decide to spend a night on our favorite hilltop. We drag a blanket across dewy grass and wearily allow Sleep to pull us under. As the stars keep watch, Silence guards us both from the curse of Truth. When the inevitable topic of curses arises in the early morning, we openly discuss mine for the first time. No physical compulsion? She signs, baffled by my admission. I shake my head. There is nothing to keep me from telling the truth, save the knowledge that I will lose absolutely everything if I do. Destinee raises a fine eyebrow before nuzzling closer to me. Once the sun has successfully breached the horizon, I descend the hill. At its base runs a burbling creek. As I kneel to cup its chilled waters, a beautiful, horrible sound rings out. “WATCH OUT!” Destinee screams. My head whips around just in time to see my sister cut the air with her dagger. I grab her wrist, shock gripping us both as the blade clatters to the stones below. I can do nothing but stare, breathing raggedly, as my perfect image takes several steps back and flees. Destinee’s yell reverberates in my mind. I claw at the earth, climbing the hill at a breakneck pace. Near its peak lies Destinee. Wind has pushed her long black curls haphazardly across her golden form. I look into bright, silver eyes. They don’t look back at me. My mouth opens. No cry comes. I pull Destinee’s head into my lap and hold her until the sun stings my skin and the Wind relinquishes its hold on her hair, framing the tendrils around her heart-shaped face as perfectly as she would have liked. My mouth refuses to close. It knows, as I do, that my Future is dead. I press my lips against her forehead and whisper, “I love you.”

We enter a living room through double French doors, satin curtains billowing in the ocean breeze. The beach is like a mural painting through the tall windows, framed by clear blue skies and palm trees. Inside, everything is white fabric and woven bamboo. Bright-orange, tropical-afternoon sunshine engulfs the space. A smartphone lies face up on the coffee table. A tinny voice, irritant like a flying mosquito, fills the room, the words indiscernible. A young man sits on the plump sofa, hands in fists as his excitement mounts. A low-volume football match is unfolding on the flat screen mounted on the wall opposite him. The mosquito-sounding voice stops suddenly and the young man reaches for the phone, fumbling in slight panic. He catches the end of a question. “Of course I’m listening, Mum.” He grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl next to him, throws it at the TV as the referee rules against the team he’s supporting. “Hang on, I need to feed Reaper.” He puts the phone back down. The black cat sprawled on the rug shots his head up at the combined mentions of food and his name, then goes back to sleep realising the ruse. On the screen, a white-clad athlete pierces through a red defence. Past the forwards. Past the midfielders. With every yard the footballer covers, the young man rises an inch from the couch. His mouth opens in slow motion. Now past the backs. Only two between him and the goalkeeper. He takes a shot-- And hits the crossbar. The young man falls back on the sofa. One hand clamps his mouth shut and the other punches a cushion. Feet kick the air. The furniture rattles and Reaper jerks awake, paws braced against the perceived earthquake. Limbs relax in defeat as the succession of three whistles ends the game. Numbers count down the time before the next recording begins. The young man picks the phone up again. “I’m back... No, once every hour is not too much. He exercises a lot... Well, you know, doing cat stuff.” Another match starts. He takes a swig of beer. “What trip?” He wedges the bottle back into the ice-full bucket he took it from. “I can’t remember everything you say, Mum... Yeah, I know you’ve ju-- Yes, I’m listening! The trip, sure... to...?” A new action begins on the screen, but it’s short-lived. An opponent tackles successfully and the ball rolls past the sideline. “Venice, of course. No, how can I forget? Same as every year. But I don’t think I can make it this time.” He lays the phone beside him. The sound coming from it is like the screeching of fingernails on a chalkboard. The young man hunches forward, on the edge of his seat. “Come on come on come on...” he whispers at the screen. A goal, a victory lap, and he punches the air twice before grabbing back the phone. “Sorry, you got cut off there for a sec... Bad weather, pissing it down out there... What voices? Oh you know, the neighbours... partying in the hurricane, as locals do.” Aims the remote at the screen. The mute icon appears in the corner and silence falls. “There, I closed the window. You were saying? No, I know it’s tradition, but we’ve being doing it since, what--1910?... 1912, sure, my bad. Couple of years make all the difference. No, I’m not being sarcastic, just an observation.” He pauses the recording and stands up. Through the corridor, followed by Reaper with his tail up. Into the laundry, and Reaper sits down outside, disappointed. Into the bathroom. Phone sandwiched between shoulder and ear. “Look, nobody ever gets the joke. Not your book club ladies, nor Dad’s Facebook pals... Every year he posts the picture of us in front of Saint Mark with the title as caption and not one--Trickling? I’m getting a glass of water, ignore it...” He flushes and washes his hands. “As I was saying, not one single person ever -- Oh, for--! It’s the dishwasher, Mum... Well, it’s... one that flushes, alright? Yep, self-cleaning, there you go... I’m sure you’re about to tell me all about whatever Barbara paid for hers...” Almost trips over Reaper still waiting outside the laundry. He studies the cat for a moment, holds the phone against his chest. “I suppose you actually want food now, don’t you?” They both enter the kitchen. “Of course I miss you, Mum. And Dad, too. But I want to hang out with the lads. Watch some football. A good curry and a few pints... I am 20!... What do you mean ‘since when’? I’ve been 20 for forty years now!” He fills Reaper’s bowls with dry and wet food. The cat purrs and meows, and dives in with appreciative slurping noises. “I told you, he exercises a lot... Look, it’s just a tired old joke. Besides, Dad’s the only one who really needs to be there for it to work. It’s ‘Death in Venice’, not ‘Death and Family in Venice’... not sarcasm, Mum, observation!” He plunges back into the sofa. The recording resumes. “Why are you so desperate for family activities anyway? It’s not like we’re going to run out of time... I’m sorry, sure, your friends are, I didn’t mean to say-- Of course I want you to be proud of me, and show me off to a bunch of old lady knitters before Dad’s call of duty, but can’t we do it in a different way this year? Please?” He eats a few popcorns, kernels cracking under his teeth. Jumps up as his team scores again. Almost sends the phone flying across the room in his excitement. “What did you say? No, I'm not eating... It’s static Mum... Well, that’s what static sounds like, munching crackers... You’ve got a rotary dial, I have a smartphone, you want to argue technology?... I told you, I’m not doing Venice this year. Been there, done that. New plan.” He fast-forwards through the half-time commercial break. “I don’t know... Death Metal concert?... Maybe not your ladies, but what about their grandchildren?... Fine, sorry, children... I don’t know what age you’re giving yourself these days! Last time we spoke you were 80!... Two weeks ago!... Oh sure, and I’m supposed to know it was your lawn bowls phase?” He freezes the frame as the second half is about to start. Pulls up the menu. The second file from the top is highlighted, five more follow. “Listen, I’ll think about it and call you back, I’m afraid the hurricane is about to hit for real and we won’t be able to speak-- No, Dad won’t have to work overtime, they’re pretty good at dealing with that sort of thing here... Yes, they’re used to it, hardly any casualties at all... just a lot of... water, yes, and destroyed buildings. It won't even make the news... Yes... Yes... I’ll pass the message to the ‘squishy ball of black fur’... He’s not going to get fat, Mum, trust me. Yes. Love you too. Ye--” He dumps the phone inside the bowl of popcorns. Shakes it around for a few seconds, then hangs up.

Trapped! Simon Rafferty was dressed like he always did when on a job. He wore jeans, a Netflix T-Shirt, a pair of white running shoes and his sunglasses. If it was cool outside, then the leather jacket came on. He was available four times of the year once per season. As he had told his boss: “Use me wisely.” And the organization had done just that. He was one of the best in the business -- if not the best -- and on this bright sunny September afternoon, he was going to take care of business. The building was in the retirement block. It looked like someone wanted an old person out of the way. The names and faces didn’t matter; they were memorized and then quickly forgotten. He had found the building easy enough access was a little harder. There were cameras everywhere. The ruse as posing as a delivery man had gone the way of the dodo bird. There were a thousand different ways to gain access to a ‘secure’ building. After all, when you were the best in the business, there was always a way of getting the job done. It had been simple to get in. The manager was standing there pontificating about the present political situation and Simon had simply pressed a number on the panel. It took about three-seconds and then the door was opened. He really didn’t look at the manager squarely in the eye. He just shuffled past everyone that was sitting in the lounge area entrance and half-smiled. The two elevators were up on the seventh and eight floors respectively. He didn’t feel like waiting and simply veered left towards the stairs. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and then proceeded to exit onto the main floor. The numbers zipped by and Simon realized that he had taken the set of stairs that was furthest from the desired location. It didn’t matter the end was going to be the same. According to the instructions the person of target was going to be home. Simon felt for the envelope and reassured that it was still there. One of the rookies had dropped the envelope and had been caught. The boys in the organization had laughed long and hard at that one. Of course, the stool pigeon had to be taken care just in case and before he started to flap. The apartment was 311 and he stopped. The man always took a deep breath before delivering the bad news. It was like being the grim reaper minus the dark hoodie, scythe and evil glare. The knock on the door was sharp and precise. It was a reflexion of how he did business. Lorne Johnson opened the door. He was in his eighties, frail, with a wisp of white hair, and a mouth that didn’t properly line up. His arms were full of brown spots and bruises. To make matters worse, the old dog was in shorts revealing very knobby knees. “Can I help you?” “Special delivery for Lorne Johnson.” There was nothing wrong with being polite. “Hang on, I’ll give you something for your troubles.” “That’s okay, enjoy.” Simon handed him the envelope. The old guy nodded and the blue eyes were alert for the last time. Simon could have taken the stairs but wasn’t sure were they led to. So he sauntered over to the elevator and pressed the button. The door opened and he went inside. He pressed G for ground and the door closed slowly. It was an older building and he guessed that the elevators were the originals. It buckled a bit and he smiled and then it stopped. He was unaware that the power had gone out in the building and the entire block. “Are you kidding me?” It was stuck between the third and second floor. The elevator hung in the balance like a cat hanging on by a thread over a steep precipice. He jammed on the emergency button but nothing happened. It wasn’t moving. “Okay, this cannot be happening.” But it was actually occurring in real time. There was no phone to use and he looked at his cell and it had gone dead. He wanted to pound on the door but it was not a good idea because there was no need to attract attention. If the old codger had opened the envelope by this point, then that part of the mission had been completed. Now if he could only get the hell out of the damn elevator. The manager had gone back to his apartment waiting for someone to knock on the door. He was sitting in the chair watching some game show and promptly snoring the rest of his shift away. When the lights went out, he woke up and snarled. “Okay, don’t panic. You are Simon Rafferty, a professional, able to deal with any situation, any circumstance. You have survived all types of deadly situations. You have been behind enemy lines and managed to live and tell about it. In fact, they gave you a medal for it.” He smiled and wiped the sweat off of his brow. “I’ll be home for supper.” Carl stood in the main lobby and waited for the Hydro people to show up. Beverly Johnson arrived to look in on her father, but rarely on a Wednesday. The scout that had surveyed the scene could never have anticipated this. The middle-aged woman had driven down the street and realized that the power was gone. She couldn’t take any of the elevators, so she walked up the stairs. Unlike Simon, she went up the right ones arriving at apartment 311 quicker. She knocked on the door and listened for a sound. There was nothing and she figured he was sleeping. Her father was partially deaf and he didn’t always hear a good rap on the door. She had own key anyway. She slipped inside and the place was clean. A woman came in twice a week to clean and look after him. Gladys, the cleaning lady, was a godsend. She not only cleaned for Lorne, but made sure that he took his meds, listened to him tell his long-winded stories and generally cared about the old guy with a pure heart of gold. The woman always went well beyond her duties. “Your father is just an old sweetie,” she had told Beverly many times. Beverly walked in and felt that there was something wrong. “Father? Dad, are you here?” She walked up to the chair and knew by the limp arm that he was gone. She figured it was a heart attack but when she saw the envelope and the purple powder inside, it was obviously not a medical condition. Beverly had been a nurse in the trauma/emergency room of a major hospital for years. The cardinal rule was not to panic. “Okay, dad never went to get his mail.” The last time he had done that the pool old guy had fallen and broken a hip. That was six years ago and she usually picked it up on the days that she visited. Gladys grabbed the rest of the time. She didn’t disturb anything and reached for her phone. “Hello, yes, this is Beverly Johnson and I am here visiting my father. He is deceased. I have a bad feeling that he was murdered. I am going to call the police and please do not disturb him until they arrive because you might destroy the evidence.” She said all this as she walked down the stairs. Beverly found the building manager standing in the lobby. “Hey, Bev, how are you?” “Horrible. Dad is gone.” “Oh, I am so sorry. Was it his heart?” “No, he was murdered. Look, I have called paramedics and the police. They will be here shortly, hopefully.” “Okay.” Carl figured that the elevator was stuck between the third and second floor. “The Hydro people called and will be here soon. I better call the elevator people.” He checked his cell phone and doubted they would get there since it was already past three in the afternoon. He opened the office door and then one of the tenants poked their head inside. “There is someone stuck on the elevator.” Carl smiled because it would get the elevator people to the building very quickly. “Hello, yeah, it’s Carl. How did you know?” They laughed. “Anyway, the power went out and someone was in the elevator. They are stuck in the elevator you know the one you fixed last month? Yeah, we are in dire need of new elevators but the owner is cheap. Okay, you’ll be here in about ten minutes. Thanks, see you then.” Carl closed the office door and now it was a waiting game. “Okay, who is stuck in the elevator?” Five minutes later, the paramedics, the police, the Hydro people and the elevator repair person all arrived at once. “It’s circus time.” Beverly stood there trying to retain her composure. “Okay, paramedics and police go to apartment 311. You have a key don’t you?” Carl smiled at her. “Yes, I do.” Beverly smiled back. “Great. The elevator is stuck between the third and second floor.” He looked at the elevator repairman. “We have figured out the source of the power failure and it should be fixed in like ten minutes.” “As soon as it is fixed the elevator will start moving.” “Did you figure out who is stuck in it?” “No, I called out but there was no response.” Stan the elevator man smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “How long have they been stuck in there?” “Not really sure, I was busy with something else.” Meanwhile, in apartment 311 the police saw the envelope with the purple powder and nodded their heads. “I have to make a phone call.” The police officer made the call and smiled. “Okay, I need to look at the surveillance camera.” They raced down the stairs and the manager shrugged his shoulders. “It should work even on generator power.” When the power went out the generator went on and produced an adequate amount of power. They started watching the camera tape and saw Simon. “That’s him, the guy we call the Purple Powder Assassin. Where did he go?” “He didn’t go out the door because he’s not on the camera.” Ernie, the elevator guy popped his head into the office. “Okay, there is a male stuck in the elevator.” “That’s him,” Officer Harris was so excited that he nearly bit his tongue. “You think so?” “Absolutely, one hundred per cent yes that is him.” “Do not fix that elevator right away. We have a major assassin trapped. The proper authorities will arrive.” He got on his radio and made a very urgent call. “Should we evacuate the building?” Carl was concerned for his tenants. Some of them had drifted down the stairs while others just staying in their respective apartments. “No, I don’t want anyone to panic. Besides, the guy isn’t going anywhere in these old style elevators. There is nowhere to go.” It was a few minutes later when the SWAT team arrived and the building was surrounded. The power went back on. A couple of minutes later, Ernie pressed a button and the elevator started up. It moved down to the second and then the ground floor. Simon walked into the arms of the Authorities. “Simon Rafferty you are arrested on assassin and terrorist charges.” “And for killing my father.” She kicked him in the groin and everyone laughed.

Deep below Black Site 41 lays the most important project of our entire existence. Humanity is in grave danger and the end is soon. Since 1950 we’ve received a total of 4,000 distress calls from far off galaxies, and they all share one thing in common. A massive object was ripping their home sun apart and draining their planet of life. NASA has never been able to properly view the object, but thermal scans of the area showed us the monster murdering worlds. What looks to be a 400 x 400 structure resembling a pyramid that made such a strong gravitational pull it rivaled the largest black holes. Sometimes the gravity in the army would crush surrounding planets. The committee commissioned by president Truman referred to this entity as the Pyramidion. All of this wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for the “Grey Alien,” species that crashed in Roswell. Without them humanity wouldn’t have had any kind of chance. They came to warn humanity of this horror occurring in our universe, and wanted to give our life a chance at winning. Aside from various communication, flight, and research tech they also provided us with the Nebula Cluster Mega Bomb. The Greys introduced humanity to a theoretical weapon, the black hole bomb. This could possibly destroy its hull, hopefully, killing it. Now we had a chance. Truman gathered countries who were capable of launching such a missile and thus Operation Scholar went live. Project Scholar has recruited some of the best minds in science to aide in researching and observing its pattern. Saving Grace went on to have 20 years of nothing but watching as it ravaged the stars. We contacted the dominating alien dynasty in the Andromeda with help in this project. Scholar was based around simply observing our enemy, Operation God Killer was set in place to kill it. The reptilian like species who refer to themselves as Yigthanians aided Earth in creating Revaltions, a black hole bomb. We worked in coordination defying our previously thought limits of technology in a revolutionary collaboration. Humanity couldn’t celebrate with us. The Yigs helped us developed 10ft thick mirrors to surround a black hole, an electromagnetic ray orbiting one of their moons would fire a ray inside the sphere. The combination of the ergosphere and the mirrors would carry the ray at impossible speeds, with precise aiming we could release this beam with devastating effects. This weapon is our last chance to stop this beast in its tracks. Until 1969 we had nothing really to show for the countless man hours put into this project. That was until it made contact with us. It somehow telepathically contacted a subject of MK-Ultra causing the poor woman to go insane. It filled her head with everything it’s experienced in its life span. It originated from the center of the universe and has lived through 9 other universal resets. After communicating with one of the women involved with the project it communicated with one of our scientists. It learned all our secrets. It knows about our last hope. Since then we’ve not been able to locate or communicate with it. The current date is January 12th, 2021 and we’ve lost all contact with the Yigs. Breaking news reports have broke out across the world of the sun being blocked out by something huge accompanied by loud sirens. It’s here.

I hold the photograph tight in my hands, weeping. I will never see them again. I study the photo, tracing my fingers along the white creases of use. It's been folded and tucked hundreds of times but now maybe never again. That day was warm and cheery. The perfect day to depart from Earth with a lasting memory of the way life felt. Life was in everything on Earth. It greeted you in the mornings with songs of the wild. It caressed you in the rivers of the world. It captured and pulled you into it's overwhelming fullness. It was a place to love and become accustomed to. A place to live and a place to die. And here I am trapped and alone with nothing but steel cold walls to mock my existence, my life. No hope and no way out. My crew dead or dying and soon I will follow. Soon I'll float endlessly in a metal coffin touring the Galaxy. The creak of the steel awakens me from my stupor. I pull myself on a beam, propelling my body towards the window. I see a mass of blue hues expand the length of the window. Wreckage spans before me in an array of debris. The last of the ship that would've pioneered the way for generations to come. All lost now. I see in the far distance hunks of ship exploding and rocketing towards the unknown planet before me larger than before. Getting closer...too close. "Daddy! Daddy!" I turn quickly from the window to see my 4 year old boy. "Daddy do you want to play with me?" The tears bleed from my eyes, grouping in droplets in front of me. I swat them away in grief and anger. How could my little boy be here, in this place. I see his face but I know it isn't real. Still I drink it in and float before him. I look into his blue eyes and remember. It is unbearable. My loss is complete. I will never see my family and will never play with my boy again. I will never hold him high in the air to fly. He loved that. He used to tell me that he wanted to fly like iron Man and I would lift him in the air turning in circles until his laugher filled my ears. I looked at my son, my soul on fire. "Yea buddy, let's play." "Can I Fly daddy?" the ghost asked. My hands drift up to reach under his arms but there is no resistance and my hands simply move past his arms. I look away in dismay towards the air sealed door. The alarm lights flashing, indicating a breach to the ships infrastructure. (I will not escape this. I can either die the way the universe decides or I can die my way. I can die like a intergalactic space ranger.) I walk to the air sealed doors, glaring out the window at the gas giant before me. One small man facing a giant. I lay my finger on the emergency breach button. I look at the photo one more time showing a laughing father and son. My hands lifted high above while my sons arms stick out in front of him in the superhero fashion. He was wearing his iron man suit. "Let's fly now, son. Let's fly" I push the button.

Even though it had been going on for such a long time, I still couldn’t help but marvel at what was happening before me. At who was standing before me. But somehow, even after all of this, I couldn’t bring myself to think that I would’ve wanted my life to be any different. He stared at me sadly, anguish clear in his crystal blue eyes. He gazed into my eyes for a while longer, until he softly raised his hand to my face, gently caressing my cheek. “Goodbye,” he whispered. Tears formed in my eyes, spilling over as I tried in vain to not break out sobbing. I could barely stand it - not going to him and begging him to stay. I didn’t want to say it; speaking it would make it seem all too real. But I knew that could very well be the last time I would ever see him. “Goodbye.” Somehow I managed to choke out the word, even if every fiber in my being didn’t want this to happen, for it to play out the way that it has. He smiled back at me sadly, as if he could somehow hear what I was thinking. Carefully and slowly, he pulled away from our embrace and, with one final look, walked out the door. I slumped down into my bed, trying to hold back the waterfall of tears I knew was going to come. That single word rang mercilessly in my mind. Goodbye . “Lana. Lana? LANA!!” A voice shouted, snapping me out of my daydream. I looked around, dazed as I tried to remember where exactly I was. Jane stood in front of me, angrily snapping her fingers in front of my face. I scowled and shoved her hand out of my face, effectively ending her yelling. Jane frowned at me, most likely wondering what I was thinking about. However, even though she is my best friend, there are still some things that I cannot tell her. Some things that I cannot bear to share. She stared at me a while longer, seeming to try to get me into speaking my thoughts aloud without actually saying anything, but after a while of staring at me with no results she gave up. As well she should, for as my best friend and closest employee, Jane should know when it’s not the time to pry. She sighed off her irritation and continued with what I assume was what she was talking about before I had drifted off, listing all of the meetings that I had to attend and all of the places I needed to be. “Remember, you have an appointment at 12:30 with the CEO of Lang Enterprises, so make sure that you have all of the notes from yesterday's appointment with their ambassador. Your mother will be swinging down at 10:00 to discuss it, and remember that we have still not made a deal with Lang Enterprises so we must move carefully; we can’t afford losing their business to the Grays.” She spoke quickly, moving through my schedule that she had mapped out in her head. I flinched ever so slightly at the mention of the Grays. I couldn’t imagine her not noticing. Hopefully she just passed it on as disgust or perhaps even revulsion over my family’s most formidable business rivals. But it’s not like our family would ever say that in public. In front of other people’s eyes we were quick to assure anyone with a hint of doubt that our family was the one with the better business, the family with the upper hand. As she continued talking, I decided to release my hair from its tight bun and leave it as something more comfortable. A ponytail, perhaps. Jane continued to prattle on and on about my schedule, but I couldn’t bring myself to listen. “Speaking of the Grays,” she said hesitantly, “Did you hear that Jason Gray got shipped off to the war?” She spoke the last part quickly, as if fearing my reaction, for my reactions have not always been pleasant when bringing up the Grays. However, she was definitely not expecting the reaction I gave. I stopped trying to pull my hair into a ponytail, dropping my hair in shock. My wavy brown hair fell down into my face, something that I do not particularly enjoy, but at that moment, absolutely nothing seemed to matter. Everything inside me just froze. “No,” I gasped, trying to remember how to breathe. I could vaguely hear Jane calling my name, trying to snap me back into reality, but I blocked her out, knowing that I could only focus on one thing. The words that broke my heart in half. Unwanted memories started showing themselves to me, bringing me to many months in the past. I sat at the board meeting, feeling immensely annoyed as he kept speaking, talking the head of Cards for Kiddies out of lending their business to ours, and instead moving it to his family’s business. I rolled my eyes as he shook hands with the business woman, effectively sealing the deal, making sure that he saw my dramatic movement. He smirked at me, irritating me to no end, and I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out like a five year old. “Lana? Lana?” Jane sounded panicked, but the memories kept rolling past like a movie. I sat at the bus stop with my head tucked between my knees, crying as the rain fell down on my head. I couldn’t believe it; after so many years of being with him, thinking that he was the one, all of those years down the drain. I knew that I must have looked pathetic, a 20 year old woman crying alone, in the rain at night, but I couldn’t seem to get up. I sat there sobbing until all of a sudden, the rain stopped pounding down on my head. I looked up, confused to find him, Jason Gray of all people, standing in front of me holding an umbrella over my head. He gazed at me a while longer until he sat down beside me, wrapping his arms around me as I cried. “Lana? Lana?” I walked with him, happily swinging our arms back and forth with our fingers intertwined. I couldn’t think of a better place to be. Then, in the middle of our walk, he stopped before the garden of roses. I stared at him, bewildered as he gently plucked one of the roses and placed it softly in my hair. He smiled at me and said, "Even the most wonderful flower has nothing on your beauty,” I gasped as he slowly got down on one knee, presenting me with the most beautiful ring I had ever seen. The memories rushed past with even more force, until finally stopped on one of the most recent memories. And one of the most painful. I sat with him, feeling content as I dreamt of all the happy days to come. It didn’t bother me anymore, the fact that we weren’t supposed to be together. That we were supposed to hate each other, that we were supposed to be fighting every time we laid eyes on each other. However, sometimes I couldn’t help but stare at him and wonder how I could’ve gotten so lucky. I smiled at him as he turned around and gasped as I saw the expression laid out on his face. I had never seen that amount of pain on anyone’s face until that day. I hadn’t thought it was possible. I stared at him in shock as I waited for his explanation. Tears escaped his eyes as he spoke his tale aloud. He said, “My father was not always a businessman. He was once a war hero, fighting for what was right. And he decided many years ago that I would follow in his footsteps.” I swallowed noisily, trying to shove down the lump that was forming in my throat. “He said that I would be sent off to train in the military.” I didn’t know what to do, what I could say. I tried to think of an excuse to keep him here, any excuse. But I knew that once Jason’s father made a decision, there was no changing his mind. That was what made his business such a huge success. Suddenly, a thought occurred to me. “But there is no war. Doesn’t that mean that you don’t have to go?” He shook his head sadly. “No Lana, I still have to go. The good part is that there is no war, so all I will have to do is train. The bad part is that I will have to stay for four years.” Four years. I couldn’t believe it; it had to be a dream. However, I knew that I couldn’t have imagined the amount of agony shown on his face. “As long as you don’t get hurt.” I whispered, trying to think optimistically. That was, without a doubt, what I wanted for him. To not get hurt. I knew that that was not all that I wanted. I knew that I wanted him to say no and to stay with me. But I knew that wasn’t an option. I knew that this would be the best outcome we could possibly get. All of a sudden I was brought back to the present, with Jane’s face hovering over me once again. Last time she was annoyed. Now she was worried. “Elana Penelope DeCreak, what is up with you today?” She asked, pulling the full name card. All I could manage to choke out were two words. “What war?” Jane frowned at me once again, now most likely feeling both worried and annoyed, but she continued to answer my question. “The Republic of Esperanto. One of the deadliest places you could ever be in. They just declared war and the USA is sending out everyone they can to fight them off, including Jason.” I could practically feel myself falling apart at the seams, tearing like a ratty old shirt. The Republic of Esperanto?! Why did that have to be the one place for him to go, the one place that my fiancé had to go. That is why I ran. I ignored Jane shouting behind me, the heads in the office turning, wondering what was going on and ran out of the office until I finally stopped at my house. I wish I could say that I got over it, that I was strong enough to handle it. But that would be a lie. The days blurred into each other, passing by at the speed of a jet plane flying quickly across the sky. I doubt that I stayed in my house for anything less than two months. I eventually learned to block out everyone else’s voices, pleading for me to leave and to rejoin society. I knew that I would only listen to one voice, the voice that was as good as dead. I stayed there for a while until I finally fell into a routine; get up, make a quick breakfast, read on my Kindle, make lunch, read some more, make dinner, fall asleep and the next day repeat it again. After going on like this for days on end, I finally awoke one morning to find Jane standing in my room, peering down at my once sleeping face. I screamed in terror, staring at her with the lower half of my jaw hitting the floor. She simply rolled her eyes as I continued on my yelling until she finally put her hand over my mouth. “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to speak through her hand like a muffle over my face. She sighed. “Isn’t it obvious? You’ve been hiding out in your house for days, and your parents threatened that if you don’t come out in the next two days they will fire you. So, naturally I climbed through your window to tell you, since you didn’t have the decency to return my calls.” Now it was my turn to sigh. I flopped back down into my bed and under the covers, ignoring another one of Jane’s famous eye rolls. “I don’t care about my job.” I grumbled. Jane groaned and before I even had time to wonder what she was doing, she shoved the sheets right off of my bed. “Hey!” I protested, sitting up once again. She acted like she didn’t hear me and stared at me seriously. “Elana Penelope DeCreak, if you don’t get out of your bed and outside in the next five minutes I am telling everyone about your secret romance with Jason Gray.” Now that caught my attention. I bolted straight up on my bed, staring incredulously into her eyes. “How do you know about that?” I asked, surprised. She stared at me a while longer, and all of a sudden she burst out laughing. She continued laughing for such a long time until I began to feel self-conscious. “What?” I demanded, my cheeks warming red. She finally stopped laughing and looked at me for a while, wiping the tears away from her eyes. “Lani, darling, I say this with love. You are the worst secret keeper I have ever met.” My face felt like it was on fire, which only made Jane laugh ever harder. I threw one of my pillows at her, which she dodged easily, and buried my face into another one of my pillows, desperately trying to hide my embarrassment. I tried to summon up the rest of my courage and sat back up in my bed.“You know what?” I managed. “If you came here just to make threats and to accuse me of being a bad secret keeper, which I am not, I think that you will just have to leave.” I remember that I felt very proud of myself at the time for acting so put-together, but only for my pride to crumble down as I saw my words had no effect on Jane, which was clear from the fact that she was smiling and still in my room . I frowned and opened the door to the hallway, gesturing for her to leave. At last she stopped smiling and finally looked apologetic. “Hey, look Lani, I’m sorry. But I know what can make you feel better. All you have to do is leave the house for a bit and I’ll lead you. You don’t have to do anything except follow.” I looked at her feeling skeptical, wondering if she was joking, only to find that she was in fact telling the truth. She really wanted to show me something. I could feel my irritation slipping away until I finally sighed. “Alright,” I said resignedly. “I’ll go with you. But it’d better be something good.” I wasn’t going to forgive her that easily. After I had gotten up and taken a shower, only because of Jane’s begging (I didn’t smell that bad Jane!), I got all dressed up with Jane as my guide. When she eventually decided that none of my clothing was good enough, she quickly left to retrieve some clothes from her house. When she returned I could barely refrain from gaping at the dress in her hands. From the stitching down to the lovely red fabric-it was absolutely gorgeous. After staring wide-eyed at the dress a while longer, I then turned my gaze to Jane curiously. “Where could we be going where I would need to wear that? ” Jane smiled mysteriously. “You’ll see.” I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t continue to ask. After putting on the dress and letting Jane do my make-up, I slowly walked down the sidewalk in front of my house until something occurred to me and I looked back at my house shocked. This was it. I was actually leaving my house. Jane honked the horn of her car impatiently. “Come on,” she shouted. I took a deep breath and, with a final look back at the house, I walked up to Jane’s car and sat down with my legs crossed in the seat. I gazed out of the window, watching the trees and houses fly by until we eventually stopped at a garden. Jane walked out of the car and opened the door for me, waiting for me to get out. I turned around, ready to ask what we were doing here when I saw that Jane was getting back in the car. “Where are you going?” I asked Jane as panic threatened to overtake me. I didn’t know if I could stand to be there, the place where Jason proposed when he was away, risking his life not knowing if he was going to make it back home alive. Jane registered my emotions and quickly ran over to hug me. “It’s all going to be okay,” she murmured softly. “I promise. However, you need to go there.” I was struck by the sudden ferocity in her voice, but I knew better than to argue. Then, with one parting look, she drove away. I started walking forward, wandering through the garden until I finally stopped at the garden of roses, the exact spot where Jason had proposed. I gazed at the flowers for a while longer until I heard a quiet voice. “Hey Lana.” I whirled around in shock. It couldn’t be, it just couldn’t. But there he stood. He was definitely different; he was walking on crutches with his leg in bandages and he had a new short scar marring his cheek. However, I knew exactly who he was, no matter how different he looked. He still had his crystal blue eyes and was still as handsome as ever. I ran forward to him and embraced him in the tightest hug I could hold, causing him to wince. “Woah there Lani, not so tight.” But he was laughing the whole time. I pulled back from him and stared into his eyes, his beautiful, beautiful eyes. “You’re back,” I whispered softly. I then wrapped my arms around his neck, kissing him for a very long time.

Max came from a very religious family, but the beliefs that his parents held so dearly were not such that he wanted to claim as his own. They were both deemed ‘survivors’ of a residential school that was run by strict Christian missionaries who strived to drive the Indigenous beliefs out of the hearts and minds of their students. That had worked with his parents, but not many others of their generation. They were regular church-goers who had forced him as a child to attend church services at least twice a week. One Friday, when Max turned sixteen, they told him that it was time for him to exercise his choice as a young man as to what his religion would be. While he reckoned that they believed that he would make a choice that followed their beliefs, he was still rather surprised that they would let him choose on his own. There were people in the community that lived according to the ‘old ways’ as his parents called it, clearly speaking of something that they did not fully understand. There was one old man in particular, who lived on the outskirts of the reserve, an Elder, whom Max knew that other people would go to for knowledge about their traditional culture. He was not known by his ‘colonial name’ of John Harvey. No one called him that. People simply called him Maskwa, which meant ‘bear’ in the traditional language. So, on Saturday, Max went to see him, bringing tobacco as a gift, as he had seen people do that when they wanted to learn something from an Elder. Maskwa gave Max instructions as to what he needed to do to find his religion. Max Tells His Parents a Lie Not long before supper time, Max came home to tell his parents that he was going to his friend Jim’s place for supper and to stay for a few days. This was not a usual practice with him, so they wondered about it. Still, they said nothing about it, didn’t ask him any questions. They knew that Jim’s family were Christians. And they knew that Max did not like to explain to them why he did what he did. Max quickly gathered up a knapsack full of stuff, strapped it on, and left with only a short ‘goodbye’. After he was gone, they noticed that he had left his cell phone behind. This too was unusual. The next morning, it being Sunday, Max’s mother Mary called Jim’s place to see whether he would be going to church with them. While he didn’t often do that these days, in his parents’ hopeful minds, there was always a possibility that he would. When she called, she spoke with Jim’s mother, who told her that Max had not had supper with them, and that he wasn’t staying with them. Max’s parents became worried. They knew so many stories about Indigenous youth, even some of the kids in their community, who started taking drugs, then disappeared or died. When they went to church that morning, their prayers were for the safety of their son. Max on his Own Max was on his own in the woods. He had never fasted before, but it was what Maskwa had told him to do. Now he had gone over a day without eating. He felt that all his senses were incredibly vivid. Maskwa had told a story to him of how he had gone on a vision quest when he was about Max’s age, and has ‘seen his future’, as Maskwa put it.. Max wasn’t sure about whether or not he would have a vision. And what could it say about his future? It was morning now, and although he had slept little the night before, he felt wide awake. He was glad that he had been able to find the spot that Maskwa had told him about - at a curve of the river, where there were a few fallen trees with their roots sticking out. After describing the place, Maskwa told Max that the young man’s grandfather had been a carver of figures of small animals. His parents hadn’t told him much about his dad’s father, who died when Max was too young to get to know him. Max had long admired the carved figures that were around the home, but never was told and never had asked who had carved them. After Maskwa had told Max about this essentially invisible grandfather, he handed him a knife, saying ‘See what you can do with this.’ Max had thought that strange at the time. But having nothing else to do, and to distract him from his hunger and his wondering whether he would have a vision, he cut off some roots. Then he started carving, with no particular shape or object in mind for him to form. It occupied his mind and was kind of fun. He was just enjoying the process, something of a surprise to him. The next morning, he felt his senses enhanced even more. As he sat down on a log, beginning, before he began to carve, he heard something, a kind of rustling in the bush. He would swear that he could smell it as well, the pungent smell of fur. At first, when he looked, he saw nothing. Then he saw a black object that he could gradually recognize as a bear cub. In one of the few words that he knew in the traditional language of his people, it was called maskosis (‘little bear’). He could see it clearly now. It seemed to be looking directly into his eyes, like it was trying to read his mind. It kind of unnerved Max, so he closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them again, the bear cub was gone. But the sight of the maskosis filled his mind. It gave him an idea. He would try to carve a figure of the little one. He worked and he worked at it, with the picture in his mind guiding him along the way. When he completed his carving, he was happy with what he saw in front of him. That would be the first. He carved two more that day, all guided by the mental picture of the maskosis. Feeling a sense of completion, late in the afternoon he headed to Maskwa’s place. The Elder gifted him with a great smile when he saw the little carved bear cubs. Max gave him the first one he had done. Then Maskwa said to him, “Your new name will be Maskosis. Now go to your parents and tell them what has happened to you over the last few days.” Max’s Parents and Their Concern Max’s parents had grown more and more worried as the time passed without their seeing or hearing from their son. He had been listless and lost over the last few months, and they were concerned that his life had held no direction. That was why they had told him that it was time for him to find his religion. Then he appeared, a smile on his face, and two objects in his hands. They were happy to see him when he arrived back home. They could even see that a change had taken place, a change for the better. Max handed them the remaining two carved bear cubs. His father, Michael said, “You have inherited your grandfather’s skill”. Max could not remember the last time he had heard his father speak of his own father. The couple were initially very quiet and somewhat straight-faced when he told them of what he had been doing, and why. It was a practice that had been harshly condemned at the residential school that they both had attended. But Mary, after thinking of the opening lines from one of her favourite hymns, faced her husband and mouthed without speaking: “God works in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform”. She then turned to her son and said, “It appears that you have found your religion in the ways of our ancestors. It has done you good. But that does not mean that you can’t go to church with us some Sundays. There we will call you Max, but we will use the name that Maskwa gave you, Maskosis, when you are carving here at home. It is your God-given gift.” Top of Form

She notices the kitten around noon. Black cat or not, whether her friends whisper about misfortune following her in to form of an animal, Maria doesn’t really see a reason to make it into something bigger than it is. An animal. The cat’s too tiny to be intimidating, to be some harbinger, an omen designed to resign a person to their upcoming downfall. Having watched it creep forward on legs too thin to support its own paws, fur matted and patchy, there was less worry about it having hold over any misfortune other than its own. So, Maria doesn’t mind. She feels bad, of course she does, but there’s not really much she can do to help it. It skitters every time she tries to step nearer, hisses if she bends down within personal space that is not her own. The kitten watches her, weary, but it does not come closer. “Don’t you find it creepy?” Rhiannon whispers, as they both head to the greenhouses. As the creature treks beside them, leaping towards the walls and paws digging into the grooves between each brick, almost ethereal with the way it glides forward, cushioning each step with a bounce against the pad of each paw. It is almost unnatural, the grace with which it glides with. “What?” “That thing,” Rhiannon continues, “It’s just staring at you with those beady little eyes it has.” Maria shrugs, holds the door open, partly for her friend, and mostly so the kitten can dart inside, tail brushing past her leg in a way that leaves her own hair standing on edge. It feels like anticipation. “She’s cute.” “Not the word I’d use,” Rhiannon whispers, brushing her fringe from her eyes. “And she? Y ou know the moment you start thinking of it as anything other than an it , you’ll get weirdly attached.” Stepping further into the greenhouse, Maria lets the door swing closed behind her. It gasps as it closes, a rough release of air, breathless, leaving her alone to the humidity of the greenhouse. Glasses foggy, with only the sound of Rhiannon’s mistrust and the slightest hint of a mewl from the kitten, Maria rubs at the lenses with her sleeves. She stops half step, turns in the direction of the cat, and pushes her glasses back up the rim of her nose. “Doesn’t she sound cute?” “Oh no,” Rhiannon says now. “You’re already attached, aren’t you?” Maria hums. She scoops a trowel from the floor, places it with the other tools, and heads towards where the kitten is watching her. She holds her hand out, hoping this time, the creature will sniff, maybe butt a cold nose against the sensitive part of her palm. She doesn’t. The cat simply blinks and lets out another mewl. Maria glances around - shadows follow her, her own, not her own, the greenhouse blurring plant and human life together, filled to the brim with shade - and spots a small bowl. She’ll need to warn people about picking the strawberries again. “What can I say?” Maria muses, scooping the bowl up and heading towards the water line. The lever lets out a low groan as she turns it clockwise, water spluttering out in short bursts, like something is caught inside. Behind her, the kitten’s mewl increases in volume. “I really love cats.” She fills the bowl, places it beside potted hydrangeas. Mauve petals clump together, bristled by whiskers as the cat comes closer. It pauses before the plate, whiskers twitching as it sniffs, making sure the water inside the bowl is safe. “There’s a difference between liking cats and liking trouble.” “Really?” For a moment, all she can feel is disappointment. Mouth parting, Maria can’t find the right words. She removes her glasses instead, rubs at them for something to do. As if taking off her glasses will leave Rhiannon blind to her furrowed brow, the way she teethes at her lip, trying to hold off on saying anything. “What...?” “You think she’s trouble?” Maria points to the cat, to where its started lapping up water, tongue flicking out, pale and raw. It drinks with a ferocity that makes her wilt more that the petunia’s they’d come down to re-plot and try to save. “She’s just a kitten.” Rhiannon scoffs, “Please, the only people who like black cats are witches and fools. Which one are you?” There’s something about how set she is in her superstitions that leaves Maria rolling her eyes. When they’d been kids, it’d been admirable, but they’re older now, and it’s just frustrating. “Oh, because black cats are magical, right?” The concept is laughable. The colour of a cat’s fur dictating magic. So what? Black cats see the future and white cats add extra years to your life if you see one? It’s all a load of nonsense. “They’re only ever around when they’re taunting you with a poor future?” Maria asks. The concept sets her teeth on edge, molars grinding together. “They’re called omens for a reason Maria.” Logic it seems, is going out the window. Obviously, her friend is insane. “Okay fine, I’ll bite.” Rhiannon arches an eyebrow. “So lets just say black cats - not any other cat, only the black cat - somehow have clairvoyance and can see the future. Why are they only seeing the bad things?” Rhiannon opens her mouth. Maria raises her hand in response, continuing regardless. “Maybe they’re seeing good things too, and they’re symbols of great fortune? ” She lowers her hand. Still thinking, considering. “Why, even if they were stuck seeing disasters only, would they want to taunt you about it?” She’d say that cats aren’t evil like that, but when Maria had turned three, her older brother Rowan had brought home a little tabby, who’d found joy in being an asshole. “Why when it comes to seeing the future,” Maria asks, “do people assume that the creature with the foresight is intrinsically devious?” “They’re not exactly helping though, are they?” “Maybe they’re offering a warning.” She pauses. This time when she reaches forward, the kitten presses her nose against the tips of Maria’s fingers, allows matted fur to scratch against her skin. “Not taunting but letting you know that you should try a different route.” “That’s a load of nonsense.” Kettle? The pot is calling. “Well things only go wrong when people ignore the black cat, right?” Rhiannon doesn’t answer. “Exactly,” she sighs, “you can’t deny it.” Holding her other hand out, she brushes her hands across the kitten’s body. Wincing at the feel of unhealed scabs and scar tissue along its spine. The poor thing needs a vet, not suspicion. “And who knows, maybe they’re misfortune to us. But we’re fortune to them?” There’s a pause. “I’m taking her.” Maria leans forward, scoops the kitten into her arms. A quiet hiss with no fire to it echoes through the greenhouse. “I don’t really care about luck.” Rhiannon rolls her eyes. “You think you’re Mum will let you keep her?” “Not without a name.” She brushes a finger under the kitten’s chin, lips tugging upward as she feels the vibrations of a purr against her arm. Sated, safe. “Mum might refuse a random kitten, but she’s not going to leave Mallory for the street.” “Mallory?” “Yeah.” Maria sighs. “It’s kind of a fitting name considering. Don’t you think?”

I guess since I’m the guy that started it all, I’m the best person to document it. Maybe I can amass a huge fortune and leave it to my family some day (ha!). I certainly haven’t gotten anything good out of it otherwise, aside from my fifteen minutes of fame and a lot of sleepless nights. Am I supposed to be writing this? Did I make the choice, or did someone make it for me? Is this what happens every time? For a guy with no answers, I sure have a lot of questions.TM (That trademark symbol isn’t a joke, BTW, my attorney suggested I trademark it since I was saying it so much. It never sold any T-shirts, but my lawyer probably got a nice boat). OK, future family of mine, or maybe some Papua New Guinea tribesman who still hasn’t heard the news, let’s start at the beginning. February 3rd, 6:43 PM. That’s what my search history said, and that’s what Wikipedia says now, too. Wikipedia doesn’t mention that I was looking at porn thirty minutes earlier, and neither do I, except I feel like I need to put some things in here that everyone doesn’t know yet, you know, for the sake of historical accuracy. I won’t say what kind of porn because even I’ve got limits, plus what if my mom reads this someday? Hi Mom! The Awakening is what they call it now. More like The Confusining, because that’s how it started and that’s what it still is. Fucking confusing. And now even more so. But I’m jumping ahead. I was browsing Imagazine, as one does after a good fap fest, and while swiping through pictures of cats doing stupid cat shit and people doing stupid people shit (all of it all the more stupid now) I found a picture of me as a kid. *WTF*, I thought, *who is posting pics of me online? *But it wasn’t a picture I’d seen before. This kid was spraying a dog with a hose, and we didn’t have a dog. Heck, we didn’t even have a hose, since I grew up in an apartment. I put my name into the comments voicing my indignation and demand for royalties (even in my pre-attorneyed state I knew that I was entitled to my fair share of stupid shit money). The picture taker responded that it wasn’t me, it was his younger brother. Well I’ll be damned, I said, we look exactly alike. Maybe he’s my long lost cousin or something. Maybe, he agreed, and we started exchanging some details in the comments--not a lot, it’s a public forum and all, but I ain’t got much to hide (aside from my search history, sorry Mom). For whatever reason it got a little attention, and that’s when someone (WizardLick418, historians take note) said, ‘gee, isn’t that funny, I recently found a picture that looked just like me as a kid, too!’ He posted a couple links and sure enough, the resemblance was uncanny (when is it ever canny?). Then the floodgates opened. Seemed everyone was seeing people who looked just like they did as kids. It didn’t take long before people started really searching. Videos were posted of people confronting their younger selves. It got on the news (although Fox declared it to be a scam by the Democrats to somehow allow immigrants into the country as relatives). A few children were abducted by parents of kids who’d gone missing years before, and who could blame them? Some nutjobs online started called for violence, which thankfully was a pretty unpopular opinion, but probably only because they were all kids. The internet is the only thing that allowed us to figure it out. Maybe it’s been going on forever--plenty of people are arguing over that idea, but no one really knows for sure. I think most people are too scared to look too deeply into it at this point. A woman named Melissa tracked down her *doppelkinder* (as they called them) and persuaded her parents to allow her to undergo some testing. Tests were done. Genealogy was geneaologied. People way smarter than I am scienced the shit out of it. Turns out they were the same person. Not twins separated at birth, or cousins. They had identical DNA. They had the same mannerisms. Confusingly and terrifyingly, *doppelkinder* almost always had the same name as their older counterparts, although the parents didn’t have anything in common. To say the world shat itself would be an understatement. People stopped going to work almost immediately. The Imagazine servers collapsed under the weight of people searching among billions of photos looking for themselves (it didn’t take long before some nerds automated that, which only made the problem--every problem--worse). The stock markets tanked worldwide, which is apparently what they always do when something unexpected happens, and if anyone had noticed it sooner maybe this wouldn’t have taken so long to figure out. It’s estimated that several million people committed suicide for Gods-only-know what reason, although they’ll almost certainly be back. It’s weird how you can go through life and not notice all of the things that happen over and over again without giving it any thought. Fractals used to just be a trippy thing you’d look at on your computer when you were buzzed out of your mind on Jolt cola at one o’clock in the morning. Scientists figured out they applied in nature somehow with nautilus shells and trees and sunflowers, but it wasn’t until I saw myself squirting a dog with a hose that people started really considering the ramifications. Turns out *everything* was some sort of fucking fractal: Traffic lights. The patterns your coffee makes when you stir it. Probably the sound waves of all of the farts in Notre Dam are some sort of repeating pattern that we could figure out if we had enough sample points. I think that’s what did it, really: sample points. All the data of eight billion people living on a planet and having lives. Going to jobs populated with people named Kristi (always with an i), making stir fry for dinner but forgetting to buy leeks, obsessing over what color leather to put into the dream car you keep configuring on a website, but can never afford. You know, doing stupid people shit. We overwhelmed the system and fucked up some data buffer and overwrote some protected memory and suddenly people were repeating. The system was conserving resources. The fact that we’re all living in a simulation is now mostly accepted as reality (that sounds so strange), although a certain percentage of the population denies it (8.473333333 repeating as it turns out). Theologians and philosophers are going to spend an eternity trying to figure out the ramifications of it all. Things are getting back to normal now, and people are back to chatting with Kristi about what it all could mean. Meanwhile, in what is almost certainly not random chance, I, the man who first brought about The Awakening, made another discovery yesterday morning as I made my coffee: there is no longer milk.

Evan Clark got on the empty elevator on floor nineteen. He had been putting off leaving work, dreading his next destination, and he was running late. He tapped his foot and stared around the elevator impatiently. To his great dismay, the elevator stopped at floor seventeen to welcome an extremely frazzled looking Brianna Cowell, whom Evan did not recognize. Long moments of silence passed, anxiety emanating from both bodies in equal force. Little did they know, the possibility of either getting where they were headed on time had already disappeared. Disappeared with the building’s power, that is. This fact hit like a load of bricks when the elevator crashed to a halt. “No... no, no, no, no, no...” Bri muttered, looking around the small room in a panic. Evan sucked in a heavy breath. “I think we’re stuck,” he said, pulling out his phone to discover the absence of signal. “The power’s gone out. We’ve got to trigger the alarm.” However, Bri was already ahead of him, and violently slamming her thumb into the silver button. Spotting her frustration, Evan became concerned and put a hand near her arm in an attempt at comfort. “Hey, it’s alright. We’ll get out of here,” he said, in the gentlest voice he could muster. He felt like he was speaking to a child, though Bri was barely younger than him. In response, she groaned and curled up in the elevator corner. Bri knew she was acting like a child, but her embarrassment had taken the back burner. Hot tears of frustration rolled immediately down her cheeks, hidden in the heels of her hands. Tardiness, whether it was her fault or not, would surely cost her a chance at this job. Evan was alarmed, unsure how to react. Should he try to comfort her, put a hand on her shoulder, or would that just make her feel worse? In the end, he settled on sitting down next to her, not too close, and letting her cry. So she did. For a few long minutes, Bri cried. Every frustration of the last few days had finally caught up with her. When she could finally compose herself, she wiped the back of her hand along her cheeks and turned to Evan. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “I’ve just had a really bad few days.” “Yeah?” Evan replied, trying his best to look comforting. “Yeah. I was supposed to have this job interview today, that I really needed. I only graduated two months ago and I’ve had to take money from my freaking parents every few weeks just to support myself. I’ve had to give up on acting. Only two months and I’m already a failure,” she said. Bri’s tears fell quietly now and her voice cracked. Evan hesitated, not sure how to respond. After a few moments, she did it for him. “I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear about my problems.” “No, no, it’s okay. It’s fine, really. I don’t mind,” Evan replied. Bri offered a small smile in his direction. “What’s your name?” “Brianna. But it’s just Bri. You?” “Hello, Just Bri. I’m Evan,” he said, and she chuckled. A long, thick pause filled the elevator. “It’s just, it wasn’t supposed to be this way. But my parents were right. I can’t live off them forever. I need to get a real job. A full-time job. Acting will have to wait.” “Why a full-time job?” Evan asked, unable to help himself. “What?” “Why a full-time job? If you could support yourself with a part-time job, why not do that? Then you could keep acting. It seems like that’s what you really want to do.” Bri shook her head. “No. I need to be an adult now. That’s what adults do. They forget about their stupid dreams and they do something real with their lives. I don’t want to be a waitress or a cashier forever.” “But money isn’t happiness. Would you rather have a job you hate and be miserable but have a lot of money or go for what you want but only have some money?” Bri took a deep, shaky breath. “You sound like every guidance counselor ever,” she chuckled. “But it’s just not that simple. I’ve already decided.” “Just consider it, alright?” Evan caught her eye and waited for her to agree. “Alright, fine,” she agreed. “Anyway, what about you? Where were you going?” Evan blushed and turned away. “Nothing huge. Just a date.” “Really?” “It’s just a blind date. I haven’t gone out with anyone since...” he caught himself. “Since what? Come on, I spilled my guts to you, didn’t I?” Bri teased. “Since my girlfriend broke up with me. Two months ago.” “Not very long...” “Nope,” Evan agreed. “Was it serious?” He took a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, it was serious.” “So why so soon?” asked Bri, her brows knitting together in concern. “Well, I haven’t gotten any better since Claudia ended things. I thought I would, but I haven’t. I still miss her just as much. So I’m trying to move on. I thought it would be the healthy thing to do.” “Why’d she end things?” “A big fight. She said she was quitting her job, and it made me mad because she had worked so hard for it, and I was angry. I said some things I shouldn’t have, and she ended it,” Evan explained, staring into space. His mind was far away, back in his ex-girlfriend’s apartment. “If you miss her so much, why don’t you go back to her?” Bri asked. Evan chuckled humorlessly. “I wish it was that simple.” “Isn’t it? You regret what you said, don’t you? And you miss her?” “Of course.” “Then you’ve got to give it a shot. Go to her. Apologize. Maybe you can work things out. Even if she says no, isn’t it worth the risk?” Evan looked Bri in the eye skeptically. “Of course it is! Oh, come on. I don’t even know you and I can tell how much you miss her.” “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Evan sighed. “So skip your date. Drive to her place instead. Show you care.” An idea suddenly lit Evan’s chestnut eyes, and he shifted towards his new friend. “On one condition.” “I’m listening,” Bri replied, amused. Her first real smile in days crossed her features. “If you keep going to auditions, I’ll go after Claudia.” Bri blushed and turned away. “You don’t even know if I’m any good.” “Do you think you are?” “I don’t know.” “Yes or no?” “Sure, I am.” “That settles it then,” Evan finished. He extended his hand for Bri to shake. She watched it quietly, and couldn’t help the smirk growing on her face. One path felt like freedom, the other, misery. The choice was clear. She shook his hand. Only moments later, the power returned, and the elevator brought them to the closest floor. The two were relieved to step onto solid ground, and Bri surprised Evan with a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear. “Thank you,” he replied, gently nestling his arms around her. “Go for what you want, okay?” Bri muttered. “You too,” he said, and Bri let go and turned to walk away. Before she had gone ten feet, she turned back. “Good luck,” she said. “See you in the movies,” Evan smiled at her. A smile from ear to ear grew on Bri’s face, and she all but skipped away.

The little dragon was on his way to visit his best friend, the rabbit. As he waded through puddles and happily jumped into any muddy hole he could find, he thought of all the adventures they'd had together. He remembered flying down to the big river with his little friend on his back, splashing around in the water, seeing who could skip stones the farthest. He remembered sneaking out at night to see the stars, staying out until their paws got cold and they got goosebumps all over. He remembered singing little tunes together with their other friends, the doe, the fox and the hedgehog. They'd dance around in the forest, making up new steps for every song. Yes, the little dragon thought, they'd had a marvelous summer! But now, the fall was coming, and as the little dragon felt the fallen leaves crunch under his paws, he wondered if the winter would be just as good. He shook his head. Of course it would! As long as he had his friend Rabbit by his side, everything would be just fine. But when the little dragon got to the rabbit's burrow, his friend was nowhere to be found. “Rabbit?” The little dragon called out, “Where are you?” When he got no answer, the little dragon stuck his snout into the burrow as far as he could. “Rabbit? Are you in here?” It was too dark for the little dragon to see anything, but suddenly he heard the quiet voice of his friend: “I'm sorry, little dragon, but I am very tired. I can't play with you today.” “Oh, that's alright”, said the little dragon, “Rest up. We can play tomorrow.” ​ The little dragon was sad - he had been looking forward to spending time with his friend. But he understood that rest was important too. So he played by himself for the day, and on his way home, he picked some flowers and put them in front of the burrow. He knew they were Rabbits favorite, and he hoped they would cheer him up so they could play together the next day. But when the little dragon came back the next day, the rabbit was still tired and didn't want to play. “I'm sorry”, he told the little dragon “but I need more time”. ​ Today, the little dragon was upset. “How can Rabbit still be tired?” he said to himself, as he left the clearing that held the rabbit's burrow. “Didn't he rest all day yesterday? Didn't I bring him his favorite flowers? Why does he still not want to play?” And suddenly, the little dragon got scared. ​ As he beat his wings in the air, he thought: “What if Rabbit isn't tired at all - what if he is just tired of me? What if he doesn't want to be my friend anymore?” The little dragon started to cry, and his tears fell down to the earth like rain. He was convinced that he had done something wrong. Had he made a mean joke? Had he done something that the rabbit didn't like? Or did Rabbit simply find a better best friend? The little dragon's head was filled with these stormy thoughts all day, while he flew over the fields, forests and rivers of the valley, until he made his way back to his little cave up on a big hill. ​ But as the little dragon turned to fly home, he spotted his friend the rabbit, sitting in a field with their friend, the doe. And all the bad thoughts the little dragon had during the day seemed to be true. “So he wasn't tired after all!” the little dragon cried. “He just didn't want to see me!” When the little dragon came home, he rolled into a tight little ball and cried all night. ​ For days, the little dragon barely wanted to get up. He grieved the loss of his best friend. But one evening, his friend the doe climbed all the way up to his cave, and sat down next to him. “Little dragon”, she asked, “Why are you crying?” “Because”, the little dragon sobbed, “Rabbit has grown tired of me”. “Why do you think that?” the doe said, and she sounded surprised. “He doesn't want to see me! He says he is tired, but I know he doesn't like me anymore”, the little dragon cried. And to his anger, the doe started laughing. Outraged, the little dragon reared up, and with smoke puffing out of his nostrils, he shouted, “Why is that so funny? Can't you see how sad I am?” The doe looked at him calmly, and with one last chuckle, she started to explain. ​ “Little dragon”, she said, “You need to remember. Even though you are still small for a dragon, to a rabbit, you are big and scary. You have sharp teeth, and your claws could carve through the bark of the greatest tree in the forest. The fire in your lungs burns so hot, it can feel dangerous to be close to you. Even for me, it is hard to keep up with you at the best of times. And yet, the Rabbit played with you all summer. That must have been very exhausting. Don't you think he might need to take a break to get back his strength? Otherwise he might not be able to play with you again.” ​ The little dragon considered the doe's words for a long time. He'd never felt like he was losing strength when he spent time with his friends. But the more he thought about it, the more he understood. “It's like flying for a long time, right? When I fly for hours, my wings get very tired, and I need to rest so I can fly again.” “That's right!”, smiled the doe. And the dragon smiled back at her, for he had realized that he hadn't lost his best friend, he just had to wait for him patiently. ​ So the little dragon waited. At first, he didn't know what to do with himself. All summer, he'd only played with the rabbit. But the little dragon had other friends - the fox, the hedgehog, the doe, the big owl from the forest, even the squirrel, they all liked to play with him sometimes. So while he waited, the little dragon spent time having new adventures. He raced through the air with the owl, he chased sunbeams with the fox, he searched for acorns with the squirrel, he watched the stars with the hedgehog, and he took long walks with the doe. But he never stopped waiting for the rabbit. ​ And one night, when the little dragon was lying awake in his cave, he heard a voice call out to him from the bottom of the hill. “Little dragon!” the voice said, “I'm sorry for making you wait. I'm not tired anymore. Do you want to come and play?” And the little dragon stretched out his wings and roared his happiness out into the night. His best friend had rested, and he had returned to him.

On the night of 20th February, 2020, a group of cult members gathered around a large table in a dim lit room. They were assembled to perform the yearly ritual. Each member of the cult was to participate in this ritual, on a specific day. Tonight was her turn. Nobody knew how it originated. Some historians believed that it began in the 19th Century Western Europe. Others traced it back to 15th century Germany. The Greek members of the cult started the use of wax lights. It was meant to honor the goddess Artemis. Since then wax lights have been an integral part of the ritual. A figure emerged from the other room, walking delicately towards the large table. Both the hands held ahead, he was carrying the ‘offering’ for tonight. The way he took each step meant that the ‘offering’ was not to be disturbed, yet. He gently placed the ‘offering’ at the centre of the table. Everyone in the room peered at it. The baby’s face looked adorable. Lying head sideways on the table, fast asleep. It was impossible to not love it. That doughy belly, soft hands and those tiny little fingers. The skin looked so smooth. And to imagine what would happen to it in the next few minutes, a shiver ran down her spine. *‘Why?’* she thought. ‘*Why do we have to do it?’* She was handed over the knife. She accepted it with trembling hands. Wax lights were lit around the offering. One, Two, Three, Four... Nineteen & Twenty. The tradition *had* to be followed. She was nervous. She wasn’t ready for it. ‘*This is taking it too far. We shouldn’t be doing this.’* she thought*.* Everyone around her, though anxious, gave her an encouraging nod. *‘You have to do it’*, was the unanimous call. To her, it felt wrong. Tremblingly, she looked around the room. Even through the eye masks and those stupid hats that everyone wore, tension in them was visible. “It is time,” said the person next to her. ‘*There is no getting away from this*’, she thought. She looked around and asked, “Where?” “The belly,” came a response. She knew what she had to do. She had seen it done countless times. She let out a gust of air from her mouth and the wax lights went off one by one. The knife in her hand moved towards the belly of the baby on the table. The sharp end of the knife pierced the belly and... slush... came out the gooey chocolate. Everyone in the room burst into laughter and started clapping. “This was a wicked, wicked idea,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. Everyone started singing the birthday song. The ritual of cutting cakes continues to this day. When a video of hyper-realistic cakes made by an independent cake artist Luke Vincentini was shared on Facebook. It went viral. He made cakes that looked like a kettle, a soup can, a shoe & a meatloaf. In the video, it was impossible to know that they weren’t the actual objects until a knife came on screen and sliced across it. It was only natural that someone with a dark sense of humor would one day have an idea of a hyper-realistic ‘sleeping baby’ cake.

“Isn’t this romantic?” Guiding her toward the loveseat, ornamented with rose petals just for this occasion, I gestured for her to sit down. Eyeing me, she waited for me to drop the courtliness. Sensing her annoyance already, I backed away in defeat, trudging to my side and collapsing onto it with a huff. She sneered bitterly and sat primly, as usual, always so proper and perfect as if nothing had changed. “Sooo romantic,” she rolled her eyes. Those black callous eyes, the eyes which had once been a beautiful sapphire. The eyes I had once yearned to drown in. Now I wish nothing more than to return to the past. “Auriel, my golden flower, I remember how blissful our life was before,” I paused, hoping to see a crack in her facade, “don’t you?” My hopes held no merit. She stayed silent, inexpressive. Detached. Cold-blooded. “Auriel, please. I know things just aren’t the same, but... can’t we just make the best of this?” Something stirred within her, the fervent flame that had once illuminated our nights with lively laughter but now ignited argumentation. “Make the best of this? *Make the best of this*?” she arose from her chair with surprising grace, as if she were floating despite the anger. “And just how do you expect us to make the best of this, Oro? We’re never alone anymore! We can’t do anything privately! We can’t do anything *normally* anymore!” “Auri, please just *try.* Do it for me. For us-” “*For us?* What is left of us? Everything has been ruined! Ever since...” Her tangent faltered as she finally held contact with me, which is difficult these days. We have been struggling to stay afloat. She could see the pain in my eyes, and I knew she was miserable too: that’s why I try so hard. “It doesn’t matter now, Auri. We can’t change the past. Don’t let the accident change our future. Everything is for a reason. We were meant to be, this was meant to happen. Things are simpler like this anyway, there’s more time for just you and me,” as soon as I said it, I winced. Or did as close to a wince as I could- I still haven’t adapted to this new body. “How could you say that? Just you and me? We are being watched right now! We get no privacy!” gliding toward the glass, Auriel scrutinized her reflection. This is how she often spent her days now, in our new life. “Auriel...” I gently placed my fin on hers, “You’re beautiful. As you always were.” And she was beautiful: her golden scales, her slender fins, those big dark eyes. The eyes that finally held gaze with mine. “As a human or as a fish, Auriel, you have my heart. Please say you’ll make this work with me. Please say we can still have a life together,” my words bubbled in the water of our enclosure. ... Outside of the fishbowl, the scientists watched in absolute awe of their newest subjects: the once-human couple caught in the nuclear reactor meltdown radius... that mutated into fish.

My name is Ahtlanta (pronounced Ought-Lawn-Tuh). I am your reality guide, teacher, revealer, fellow traveler on these life meridians. Just as Einstein said there is a space-time continuum not separate space and time, so is the Realituum which some call might call the multiverse. At least two realities always exist side by side in time space. There are many tools to see these truths, these alternate realities. Your vision focuses through your mind not through your eyes. Lifeforce controls your mind not logic. Logic can help but when presented with two realities you must choose. Only one reality exists for beings like you. Nadine read this passage aloud to Jeremy. Jeremy knew Nadine since they were three. His best friend always led Jeremy to interesting ‘places’. He did not exactly follow her like a puppy dog. She did not deliberately train him ever. But her voice demanded in pitch and quality without being demanding that he follow. So when Nadine told Jeremy that if he wants to understand her he should join her at this reality gathering, finding, searching as she called it. He did. “The challenge, my friend. Control your reality”, Matt said. Matt, an expert with pendulums, swung it in front of the class. “The pendulum if properly prepared will allow you to spiritually enter those places that you need when most needed” “Repeat this: The swing energy, gives your life energy...”, he implored to the class-gathering. “The swing energy, gives your life energy...” After a short pause, “The swing energy, gives your life energy...” “The reality moves if you let it, if you allow the multiple realities to be seen.” The pendulum with an endearing, charming teardrop shape and a deep tourmaline color forced the eyes to follow. The pendulum appeared to move without any visible force. As the pendulum swung, Matt continued with his sonorous voice. The students were encouraged to mouth quietly the pendulum mantra. It spun around and around and around. It seemed to go faster and faster, yet no movement of the hand could be seen of professor Matt. Jeremy knew Matt spoke directly to him even though an entire large group stared as well. The images of the pendulum began to blur for Jeremy. Jeremy thought, perhaps I am easily influenced, but I do feel energetic, like floating on a cloud. Yet he still wondered, silently, is this a waste of my time? Then suddenly Jeremy began seeing them. He was not sure what they were. Funny little swirls all around the room. They marched near his eyes. He wondered is anyone else could see this. Suddenly Jeremy, stood high on a mountain completely disoriented. Breezes bringing in an aroma of cinnamon and perhaps sage. A man stood in front of him and offered him a deep purple liquid. He offered Jeremy a pillow to sit on. He sat on the large green yellow paisley patterned pillow. He asked Jeremy what he most desired. Jeremy did not answer. A large dust devil began swirling near him. Jeremy still did not know what to say. He was afraid that if he said anything he might never leave this place where-when-how-ever this place, this reality existed. Suddenly Jeremy once again found himself seated at one of the desks next to Nadine. The professor droned on talking about how to cleanse the pendulum so that it will not be contaminated with negative energy. He stated before you prepare to use your pendulum for the first time remember to do the cleansing process. You must give proper respect to your pendulum. After cleansing it, you must find a proper storage vehicle. Then finally, create a sacred space. By respecting your pendulum in these ways and using it in your sacred space you will create your own reality. The professor said homework for this week: 1. Cleanse your pendulum of negative energy 2. Create a proper storage space for your pendulum 3. Create a sacred space to use your pendulum As Jeremy rode home with Nadine seated behind him, he felt whatever he experienced in the class it could not be real. He felt he must have dozed off, dreamed it. He thought truth is stranger than fiction because this would be horrible fiction. There are no rules, there are no whys, there is no good beginning or ending to explain what he saw. He had only gone to this class because Nadine had insisted that if they were to stay friends then he needed to take this class. It being necessary so that they could be on the same wavelength. But now, Jeremy hesitated to speak about this. He could not believe that Nadine could have experienced this without telling him. Wouldn’t she have mentioned her own reality trip or asked him if he experienced anything. But no, she quietly jumped on the back of the seat and entangled herself with him. They sped off together to her abode. Nadine may have been telling him about alternate realities for a while. But really he felt that the only reality that must be true was her reality. Nadine he knew, knew that Jeremy was conflict adverse. So a lot of times he simply followed whatever she wanted him to. She kind of hated this and kind of loved it. She always with aplomb encouraged him to find his own reality. She told him grab that journey, take that wild ride wherever it takes you! When they got to Nadine’s purple cottage in the woods, she told Jeremy that she had to get up early tomorrow. She also told him that she was suddenly not feeling well and so she would have to say au revoir. Unlike other times she wished him goodnight without a friendly hug. After the reality event, Jeremy decided that maybe it was not a good idea to do the homework. He thought that he might be stuck in that other reality. But at 2 a.m. he woke from a strange frightening dream sweating. His pulse it was out of control. Weirdly he could not remember the dream other than that Nadine and professor Matt and him stood in a totally colorless classroom. He saw the pendulum and thought, why not. Maybe the dream told him that his reality could only be controlled, if he controlled it. Rather than be at the mercy of whatever alternate realities there may be, he decided to take charge. He first prepared the pendulum by burning incense and silently meditating. He had his sacred place laid out with a fringed oval bright, muted yellow with small green spirals of various sizes. Yellow among other qualities was the color of creativity, green had qualities of healing and balance. He began repeating the energy mantra: “The swing energy, gives your life energy...” He cleared his mind and purified the pendulum by breathing in white light. He began to feel his whole body lighter, freer. He had forgotten what this felt like. He was remembering. The time seemed just right, he carefully pulled open the lid of the onyx colored box that contained his precious purple pendulum. Nadine and he both thought purple was the perfect color. It was the color of royalty. It is known to protect and to bring wisdom. He gently held the golden chain attached to the pendulum between his index and thumb. The pendulum began to move. He tried not to think of anything. He focused only on the movement of the pendulum. Whenever his mind drifted the pendulum boomeranged his focus back to it. It took longer, but just as suddenly he again found himself on top of the mountain. This time Nadine sat next to the strange man and professor Matt was there also. He noticed his clothing had changed and he wore gloves. Nadine told him, she loved him. This shocked him because he always thought they were just friends. She moved closer and started to hug him like he had never been hugged by her or anyone. Suddenly, he was alone again, the pendulum swinging gently in front of his face. He looked around for Nadine, and professor Matt and the strange man. None of them were there. The cinnamon incense infused the room. He thought he must have dozed off while sitting up. Maybe these incense had gone bad on him. Maybe he should open the window and get some fresh air. He thought dreams are like a different reality but he had never had such real dreams, ever. He kept on emphasizing to himself that it must be a dream. When the incense finished burning, he decided to hit the sack. But he could not sleep, he kept thinking about what Nadine had said in his dream. He worried that the dream world of his subconscious expressed secret feelings that he never knew he harbored. His closeness with Nadine could be ruined if he ever told her about the dream. He thought and felt it could be disastrous. He as far as he could remember Nadine had never expressed any romantic feelings towards him. And neither had he towards her. They had in fact encouraged each other to find that romance. But neither of them found any lasting romances. In fact they decided that since they had no one special to go to their high school prom with, they should go together. He enjoyed dancing with Nadine that night. Afterwards they had snuck a few puffs on a doobee together. Then Jeremy’s mom picked them both up. She dropped Nadine off first. Jeremy walked her to the front door and hugged her goodnight. His mom mentioned on the way home that Nadine had such a good head on her and was so nice. Jeremy turned several shades of red. He said nothing to his mom. That was five years ago. They both went to the same college and afterward both found jobs in the same home city. Jeremy had an apartment closer to the city center. Every week they got together and discussed their life plans and life situations with each other. Sometimes they completed each others sentences. And yet Jeremy loved his friendship with Nadine. He never, she never, asked for more. Jeremy thought about going out on his motorcycle, but he was afraid he might doze off and go into one of these strange realities. Finally he tried taking three very deep breaths, counting up and down to ten three times and as he counted down he felt sleepy laid down and fell into a deep sleep. The next morning Jeremy woke refreshed. The phone rang right after he showered and still had ten minutes before he needed to go to work. Suddenly a call rang,it was from Nadine. He thought about letting it go to voicemail but he knew that sooner or later he would reveal all to her. So he took the call. Nadine spoke clearly and deliberately,”You are hard to reach”. Jeremy responded,” What do you mean I answered your call on the second ring”? “Think about it Jeremy, Don’t you get it”, Nadine spoke quietly? “Nade”, he only responded like that when he was clueless. “Okay, let me spell it out for you. Do you not understand English? I need to know because I have done everything to make it clear”, she said. Finally she asked him why did he not understand that they were on the same wavelength, literally. “That is why she told him, you could see me in that other reality.”, she said. “You seem afraid”, she said. “Will Nade, I am not sure that I am ready for this”, he slurred. “I know it came as surprise to me too. But I knew when you showed up at the mountain top with me and professor Matt, and Ahtlanta, I knew that we were on the same wavelength. It’s time to admit what are to one another and that we will not find it anywhere else. It’s time to take a chance”, she said. Jeremy was afraid, but he decided to live with his uncertainty. “Yes”, he responded.

For Len it very much seemed like the end. There he was, on the outskirts of Zelnoss, digging his own grave as two thugs were holding him at gunpoint. Him, an orphan thief no more than 10... all because he got “too nosy.” However, he could not help it. His father was murdered and he was just a maker of Bags of Holding. Forced to live on the streets and steal to survive. Asking anyone and everyone if they knew anything about his father... and this time one of the gangs felt he was asking too many questions... he wasn’t even sure if the gang killed his father in the first place... and yet here he was... that said, though, he had a plan to get out of this situation... he just needed to find the right opportunity. “Come on, hurry up,” said one of the mangy gang members as he sat on a stump a few feet away. Pointing his blunderbuss at him. A faint hissing sound could be heard from Len’s hat but Len whispered: “Not yet, wait for my signal,” and the hissing faded away. “What was that?!” the man on the stump demanded, tightening his grip and aim on the digging boy. Thinking he was insulting him under his breath. “No-Nothing, sir,” answered Len timidly. Although in reality he was just faking. Under less impoverished circumstances Len hated being dishonest. However, he learned that acting a certain way would aid in his survival... and acting timid was one such way. “Lay off him, Gerrick. Pretty soon he’ll lay down and never get up again,” his lankier compatriot, a flintlock rifle resting on his shoulder, spoke up. Soon the both of them chuckled but even here Len did not give the signal for whatever was in his hat. As he continued digging he noticed small stones in the dirt and planned on snagging one in his next shovelful of dirt. His slight of hand would allow him to do so without being noticed. Finding a good size stone, he planned to grab it on the next shovelful he poured out. However, he would not get that chance. For just as he unloaded his next bit of dirt, the ground shook... and a pillar of flame shot out from the middle of Zelnoss. “What in the world?!” said the lanky gang member. His friend sitting on the stump darted his head at the pillar as well. “Durga,” Len said under his breath and a long, flat shadow shot out from under Len’s newsboy hat, bit the distracted gang member with the blunderbuss, and returned under his hat just as quickly. His body seizing. Blue veins bulging on his neck. In the next few seconds he slouched over. Dead. Just before the lanky gang member was about to turn his head, however, the shadow struck again from under the boy’s hat. This time wrapping around the lanky gang member. Coiling around him until the gang member found himself face to face with a Great Bolt Snake... before it bit his head and wrenched it off. Len reflexively looking away from the snake’s kill. With the head gone, the snake retreated at a blinding speed... and the headless body fell forward. Len darting out of the way as he saw if falling into the grave he was digging. Just narrowly avoiding the bloody stump at the top of the body. Despite the macabre state of things Len could not help but let out a short chuckle. The grave was going to be used after all. What’s more, he allowed himself this chuckle not out of any dark, sinister reasons... but to prepare him for what he was about to do next. Although he did not relish the idea, Len gulped... steeling himself... as he went about checking the headless man’s pockets for anything of value. His resolve to survive and find his father’s killer was just that strong. To his good fortune, he found two golds, five silvers, and eight coppers. Relieved to be done with his looting, Len moved on to the dead man on the stump. Although reluctant at first Len steeled himself once again as he went through the man’s pockets. Alas, the take was not that good. Only three silvers and five coppers. The man also had a pocket watch... but the condition was questionable at best. Seeing that his blunderbuss was in better condition than the watch Len went about moving the gun, freeing it from its now dead owner, and putting the gun’s strap over his shoulder instead. His looting done, Len finally looked in the direction of Zelnoss... and found a hellscape instead. ... Five Minutes Earlier ... Grieg had just finished closing up his dungeoneering shop and school and was on his way to his room at the inn. However, just as he turned away from the door... all the buildings around him went up in pillars of flame. Including his shop. Where most people might have panicked Grieg was more... irritated. He had just set up his shop and had been doing well the past three months. That said, Grieg was hiding a secret from everyone in Zelnoss... and that was the fact he was not originally human. Before he named himself “Grieg” he was a mindless Mimic guarding the vast fortune of a long deceased wizard. That said, a “miracle” occurred and he gained sentience... and found himself dreading and abhorring all the adventurers he had devoured. As such, as by way of atonement, he decided to leave the dungeon he had been in for millenia... and decided to open an item shop... that also offered schooling on how best to explore and complete dungeons... But alas... that very shop was burning and would soon be, literally, up in smoke. Although he could put out the fire, if he so chose to, it was his fervent wish to live as a human and not reveal that he was anything but. As such it was this feeling akin noblesse oblige... this feeling of “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” that annoyed him so... However there was yet another source of annoyance for him: the fact that all the lives he was trying to save from dungeons seemed to have all been snuffed out in a single day. As such, operating on what little hope he could muster, he went out searching for survivors. Sensing no one was around, Grieg reached into his mouth, which lead to a separate dimension that acted as his “stomach” when he was a Mimic. Now all that occupied its seemingly infinite space... was the wizard’s treasures. He was never sure if he did it out of spite or respect but he consumed all the wizard’s wealth... which also included Relics that could help with his rescue efforts. With such being the case he went for an ornate wardrobe that was in the midst of many other priceless trinkets and artifacts... and pulled out four Cloaks of Protection. Cloaks that would afford the wearer protection from the elements as well as boost their body’s regenerative abilities. “Overtake,” he spoke to himself as he chanted a spell that boosted his speed. Soon enough, his running form was overtaken by a white silver aura... and he scoured the burning streets for whatever survivors he could find. As he did so, turning down street after street, trying to detect whatever mana he could detect he could not help but ask himself: Just what had happened? As to where all this had started... that would be at the town’s church... at the town’s center. Moments before the pillars of flame overtook the town of Zelnoss, a bruised and battered 7-foot-tall youth was carrying a healing maiden to the church. Her closed eyes, looking as if asleep, betrayed the fact she had been dealt a grievous wound on her back. A wound that, one would think, would bleed more heavily however she seemed to only bleed a few drops at a time. Regardless, the 7-foot-tall, 15-year old youth known simply as “Moose” moved as quickly as his injured body could up the church steps. “Priest! I need you!” said Moose as he burst through the church’s heavy doors as if they weighed nothing. “Oh? You are back, are you?” the priest said as he turned away from the organ to see the two figures approaching. “What are you talking about? I need you to heal Amerald, she’s hurt!” Moose continued on as he rushed down the aisle past the pews. “Ah, but you see,” the priest responded, “I wanted you all to die in the first place so no. I will not be healing anyone today... or ever.” “Wha-What?” Moose replied, taken aback at what he was hearing. Thinking back to the quest he, Amerald, and two others were on... it should have been easy... killing goblins... however those goblins were far stronger than level 5... and as a result, the other two perished and he and Amerald just barely survived. “You mean... you sent us on that quest to die?!” Moose bellowed in anger. “My, so there is a brain amidst all those superfluous flesh and bones. Yes, my dear giant, I wanted you to die,” the priest answered, his face taking on a sinister grin. “But why?!” Moose demanded as he bore down on the priest, as if charging him, forgetting Amerald was in his arms. However, he soon found himself stopped by an invisible wall. One that encircled him and Amerald. “‘Why?’ So I can prepare for the coming of my master,” answered the priest. Despite all his attempts Moose could not break free from the magic enclosure he found himself and Amerald in. Looking down, he found they were on top of a magic circle that now glowed a bright red. “And although I intended to have this town’s budding warriors and sorcerers die in an unfortunate ‘accident’ during a novice-level quest... it looks like you will get to fulfill a far greater role after all.” “Oh yeah?” Moose questioned, punching to no avail against wall, looking to his fist as if he was expecting something but it was not happening, “and what’s that?” “AN OFFERING TO MY LORD ALZERESS!” Before being overtaken by flame, Moose saw the floor glow a burning red and it was right in this instant that Moose dove for Amerald. Trying as he could to shield her from the flame. A great pillar of flame then broke out of the church’s ceiling... and all the other buildings in the town. All the flames seemingly reaching the heavens as they burned. The priest, meanwhile, could not help but laugh with maniacal glee. “Ahahahahahaha, yes! Come! ALZERESS! THIS IS ALL FOR YOU!” he declared as he outstretched his hand to the church’s organ... where a tear in reality was opening. Looking in, one could see a void and a maelstrom of vapor. The tips of those vapors occasionally showing tormented faces... for all these were not vapors... but tormented souls... All owned by Alzeress, The Soul Plunderer... Whose figure was approaching from within the tear. A massive, brutish figure, with large horns and wings. Whose body might have been the darkest of pitch were it not for the souls illuminating his dark frame... and glowing purple eyes. “Yes! COME! COME LORD ALZERESS!” the crazed priest called out. The dark figure then approached the edges of the tear and, finding the opening smaller than he was, used his own arms to tear it more. Just as he made it to his ideal size, Alzeress’s gaze turned to the pillar of flame behind the priest... and looked on in horror. “What in the darkest Hells have you done?” the priest heard his lord ask, the voice seeming to reverberating directly into his mind. Looking in the direction of his gaze the priest looked to the flame pillar and saw the outline of a figure holding a body in its arms within... However, this was not what seemed to frighten his lord... for the standing figure within... seemed to have the same glowing eyes as his lord. His, however, was a blood red color that burned brighter than the flames that enveloped him. Switching the injured maiden to one arm, the figure within the flame merely reached out with his free hand from within the flame... and it vanished. In the next instant another tear in reality appeared and a brutal looking arm of deepest crimson extended from within it. The scars covering it more war torn than any battlefield. It was reaching out for the priest and, seeing this, the priest then turned to its summoned lord and pleadingly called out to him: “Lord Alz-” however what he found was the palm of his lord obscuring his vision... before being crushed by it. “Forgive me, Lord Irathzul,” said the dark Alzeress as he bowed from within his own tear in reality. His hand to his heart in a show of sincerity. “My time is nigh,” Alzeress heard a rumbling, reverberating voice speak from the tear where the blood red arm was extending from, “none shall impede my Descension,” he heard the voice once again before seeing the arm pulling back into the tear. “O-Of course, you will have no interference from me, Lord of Blood, Herald of Unfulfilled Rage, Swayer of Demons, and God of Berserkers. May we meet under more amicable terms when next we meet,” responded Alzeress as he closed his tear with his own hands but not before plundering the soul of his devout worshiper. With Alzeress’s tear closed, the flame pillar within the church, as well as those outside, all died down. The invisible wall that had barred Moose and Amerald also vanished and so had the flames. Before they would even realize it, however, the two of them passed out. Their wounds burned shut. Outside, the fires returned to normal and the buildings would continue to burn until dawn the next day. Thus far, it seemed as if Grieg, Moose, and Amerald were the only survivors of Zelnoss.

Deep in the dark, beneath everything she knew Sir Danielle Longbow was introduced to one strange species by another. Kutharma, a cenaga, held a flaming torch high to reveal four bipeds that were more and less like Danielle than the quadruped serpent with antlers that was making the introduction. “I am Broken Hand,” said the foremost of the uamhith. Its arm was the length of Sir Longbow’s, but the width of a finger compared to her tree trunk arms. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” said the knight. She bowed. A wide smile revealed predator’s teeth. “There is no need to bow Danielle,” said the creature which looked older than the rocks of the cave around them. “I can only know you are bowing because I see you through Kutharma’s eyes. Now you wonder how I see through his eyes? My people are telepathic. We talk with thoughts the way you do with words. The odd thing is that I cannot read your mind. I am old enough to remember wars with humanity long ago. I could hear their thoughts, not yours.” “Perhaps humans have changed since you last met them.” Danielle tried to be diplomatic. “No,” the eyeless uamhith shook its head. “It was only four thousand years ago. Not even humans change so quickly.” “FOUR THOUSAND YEARS AGO?” Sir Longbow clapped a hand across her mouth to stop herself shouting. Her voice echoed up and down the cave. Four uamhith winced. Their enormous ears were used to hearing drops of water a mile away. Her yelling was agony to them. “I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of any creature that was four thousand years old. I didn’t think that was possible.” She kept her voice low and spoke to her feet. Shouting had been a serious screw up. Not the kind she could make in the darkness miles beneath the surface of the world. Taking their hands away from their ears the uamhith looked at each other and nodded. “I thought Kutharma might have told you that we are immortal. I hoped he would have told you that we have only brought you here to ask a favour of you.” “A favour? What favour would immortals who can speak through thought need from me?” Danielle looked between the four uamhith. “You are open to a friendship with us. You have proved yourself trustworthy to the cenaga, keeping their secret. You are a warrior with experience killing monsters.” Danielle turned to look at Kutharma. “I watched you in the tournament,” said the wise one. His yellow eyes with the black slits looked at her from the head of a snake which sat on a near humanoid torso with four legs and a long tail. The antlers were the oddest part of a cenaga in Danielle’s opinion. “You fought well against Lord Fabian Castel. You are our friend and no soldier of Crann has more experience fighting monsters than you.” “Oh dear,” she said. “You are afraid?” Asked Broken Hand. The left hand it had offered for her to shake was shrivelled the way any human’s might be when they had lived to the limits of longevity. Its right hand was mangled and scarred. The wounds on that arm were battle scars Sir Longbow guessed. “Anyone who isn’t afraid to fight monsters has taken too many blows to the head. My reputation for killing dangerous beasts keeps obliging me to fight more.” “You would be under no obligation, surface dweller. We only ask in the hope you will help us. You of course have the right to refuse. This is a strange, dark world for you. If you do not wish to help. I understand.” The heads of the four uamhith fell with disappointment. “Tell me about the creature you need killed before I make my decision. Will silver harm it? Is it a cursed creature or a natural beast?” “The creature was one of our own, missing far out from our caverns. It returned as something else, reborn with fury. More beast than uamhith. Taller. Stronger. Longer teeth. A wider jaw. Ears more finely attuned to the slightest sound than our own. It seems to smell blood from great distances. Because it was one of us it can read our thoughts. When we try to do the same a maddening screaming sound fills our minds. The fact that we cannot read your mind may protect you from its telepathy. Silver should harm it since it is a mutation, undead.” “How many of the uamhith has it killed?” Danielle asked. “Seven so far. Two who first encountered it. Then three who went to hunt it down. It has returned regularly. We find the bodies chewed. It is eating its own.” “Wow.” Danielle sighed. “Fuck. That’s a lot.” Lupita would miss her if she died down there. It had been two days since she’d left Leonor. Two days travelling deeper and deeper into the warren of caves and caverns beneath the continent. “If I agree to do this and die, you must tell Lupita how and why.” “Deal,” said Kutharma. “What do you need to prepare?” “I need weapons made of silver. A spear or a sword. Arrows for my bow. I need to set a trap for it. Do you know where it comes into your caverns?” “There are three ways that it can enter our home.” “Can you block up two of them while I return to Leonor to find the weapons I need?” Deep down Danielle hoped her father’s sword would be reforged when she returned. Not having it by her side felt like a piece of her soul was missing. “Temporarily we could.” “Just until I have killed the monster, or until it’s killed me.” Danielle assured Broken Hand. “I realise I should have introduced my friends.” Broken Hand turned to put a hand on a smaller uamhith who reminded Sir Longbow more of a woman. She had curves and was shorter than hunched Broken Hand. “This is Song Voice,” said the elder, patting her shoulder. “Hello, warrior,” Song Voice said and bowed to Danielle as if she was a queen. Her voice was musical compared to the ancient rasp of Broken Hand. “This is Quick Foot,” a withered hand patted the shoulder of a less wrinkled creature that was more than six foot in height. It inclined his head. “He is my youngest grandson. Only two hundred years old.” “Two hundred and nine, grandfather.” Quick Foot’s words raced off his tongue to correct Broken Hand. “And this is Long Ear.” The last of the four had ears that went as far up as the top of its head. “She is Quick Foot’s bride and in just three years will be the mother of his child.” “She has been pregnant for two years grandfather. She is already the mother of my child. We talk. You talk to the baby. It will be a fine new boy for the family.” There seemed to be some family dispute behind the words, spoken aloud for her benefit. Clearly embarrassment didn’t work the same way for uamhith. “I should leave immediately to fetch what I need,” Danielle said. “Thank you for introducing yourselves. Thank you for trusting me with this task. I will return as soon as I can.” She bowed to the creatures who looked grey to her. “I hope you understand why I brought my family to meet you Sir Longbow,” said Broken Hand. “My people are dying out. It is no chance that we were driven beneath the earth by your kind long ago. Eternal we are, but we reproduce as if we have all the time in the world. Five years to make a child, during which time anything can go wrong. Four years of infancy. Many more before the child is fully grown. Every loss we take puts us another step closer to extinction.” “As a citizen of Crann, I know the feeling. I cannot promise I will succeed Broken Foot. I promise to try with all my strength.” “Then farewell and hasten back, my friend.” Kutharma showed Danielle the way back through the myriad tunnels beneath Crann, back to the forest where five soldiers were waiting to escort her back to the capital. Two days after leaving Broken Hand, Danielle was back at the place where they had met. The border between the caves of the cenaga and the uamhith was marked by white quartz dug into the walls. Quick Foot waited for Danielle and Kutharma. The cenaga wise one had two warriors to escort it, pledged to fight with Sir Longbow against the undead uamhith. “You’re too late,” said Broken Hand’s grandson. “What happened?” Danielle asked. “Wandering Heart, I mean the beast, returned. My grandfather is dead. He was closing one of the paths into our home.” Quick Foot’s voice was the low growl of a dog defending its master. “I’m sorry Quick Foot. I came as fast as I could, please believe me. I never wished harm to come to your grandfather. Never.” “I know. I can hear it in your voice. My anger is not for you. It is for Wandering Heart. The fool who strayed too far from home now murders his own.” Quick Foot turned and began walking into uamhith territory. “Is your wife safe?” Danielle asked, thinking of the child in Long Ear’s womb. “She is under guard in the heart of our largest city. If not for the child she would be with us, ready to fight. I am ready. There is only one way into Dark Home now. When Wandering Heart returns, we will kill him. Then we will destroy him in the burning river.” In her armour, with a sword tipped with silver, Danielle followed. It was not the reforged sword of Darren Longbow. It was a blade commissioned by her friend Lord Fabian Castel after they had fought loup garous in Leonor Prison. In perfect darkness lit only by torches the cenaga carried, the walk to the uamhith city seemed to take hours. It felt like seeing the cenaga city for the first time all over again. Orange glowing veins snaked their way between homes cut directly from the rock. It was not the granite found beneath Crann. The rocks formed natural hexagons. The homes themselves followed the form of the basalt on the outside. Inside they were furnished with furniture made of bone. Giant creatures had been sacrificed for the uamhith creations. “What in all hells was that?” Danielle asked, pointing to a skull the size of a house. “That’s a drake skull. Slain by my ancestors,” said Quick Foot. He smiled with pride. “Drake, as in a small dragon?” “Related to dragons, the way that uamhith are related to humans. Somewhere, long before the uamhith and humans we know now, we were one. Along the way we went our separate ways, never to be one again.” Danielle ran her hand down a tooth that was as long as she was tall. Broken Hand’s blood still stained the ground where Wandering Heart had fed upon him. “You remember Song Voice?” “I do. I’m sorry for your loss.” “This way is closed now, Sir Longbow. I will take you to the last entrance.” The walk was a long way through basalt homes into the same white quartz which had marked the boundary between the territory of the cenaga and the uamhith. There were no streams of lava. The carved homes of the uamhith peeked from pillars that propped up cavern ceilings. Uamhith focussed on Danielle, not with eyes but ears. Everything about her seemed alien to them. Children who came up to her knee cried for a parent’s comforting embrace. A creature they could hear but not read was a horror that painted their faces with terror or revulsion. “They’re scared of me.” “Telepathy is one of our most important senses. We read every creature that walks or crawls through our caves. Only stones and plants are as blank to us as you,” said Quick Foot. Eyeless immortals with fangs for teeth scared of her? Danielle smiled and shook her head as she walked. Whenever she thought she’d seen it all life turned a new page for her. More of the bones she’d seen before formed bridges between buildings. Eyeless grey children climbed the ribs of monsters the size of castles. She walked through a drake’s jaw. The eye sockets alone were large enough to ride a horse through. The clothes of the uamhith were mostly woven from dried algae that grew on the walls. Living algae glowed a pale green. Patterns of squares covered signposts and the walls of buildings. “What do the patterns represent?” Danielle asked. “It is our language. We feel it with our fingers. Writing on parchment as you do would be far simpler. Sometimes reading each other is not enough to preserve information.” “Language for the blind?” Danielle wondered. “Lupita would love to know it. We could teach so many to read that never had a chance.” “Slay Wandering Heart and we will teach you our language,” Quick Foot said absently. “We’re here.” Camping out behind a barricade was equally boring and terrifying. Danielle handed out weapons to the warriors of the cenaga and uamhith. She kept a silver tipped sword by her side. To the cave dwellers she gave arrows with silver tips. As she had when she fought loup garous, she drank beer with silver dust mixed into it. The others drank water mixed with the silver. If Wandering Heart ate any of them it would be his last meal. A day passed in the darkness. The torches the cenaga had brought with them died. Uamhith brought them jars of glowing algae. Jars piled up around the entrance. Green light basked Danielle’s eyes. This is a terrible and beautiful place to die. Don’t let me die, gods please . As they sat on bone stools after what felt like eternity Quick Foot grabbed Sir Longbow’s arm. The others drew their bows. Danielle stepped into the space where Wandering Heart had to enter the caves. CRASH. A glass jar by her side exploded. Her heart tried to leap out of her chest. Goosebumps covered her arms. Nerves brought the taste of vomit up from her stomach. Quiet. Be quiet , she thought. CRASH. Her shoulders twitched involuntarily as another jar spilled its glowing guts across the white stone. The biggest difference was that all the light was around her feet. Pitch blackness watched her from the cave ahead. CRASH. A third jar showered the ground with glass and a green glow. TING! Danielle stepped back as a rock hit her armour. The metallic ring was deafening after days of near silence. “It knows I’m here,” she whispered to herself. “It’s seen you in our minds,” said Song Voice. The uamhith loosed an arrow into the darkness. They all heard the arrow hit stone and clatter to the ground. Nothing. They waited. And waited. “Hurry up,” said Danielle. She stepped forwards. “I know you’re there.” She hooked the rope of an algae jar on the end of her sword. Her shield was little comfort as she left the light behind her. “What are you doing?” Quick Foot asked. “What you asked me to,” she said. “Don’t shoot me in the back.” Each step into darkness made her heartbeat faster. Lowering her sword, she let the jar slide down to the cold stone. CRASH. Glass pinged against her armour. Where are - It hit her from above. Sitting on the shield it had her left arm pinned to her chest, crushing her. “Shoot now, it’s on top of me!” The thing twitched as an arrow hit it. A heavy blow struck her face, slapping her head to the side. “GET OFF ME.” It did. Reeling back as if she’d struck it, Wandering Heart fell off her into the mess of the broken jar. Lit from beneath she saw the mutations that made the beast so dangerous. “TOO LOUD?” Danielle roared. “YOU CAN’T TAKE SOME SHOUTING?” She hacked at it with her sword. Arrows flew past her, most hitting cave walls far off. The jaw opened. Canine teeth the length of her hand welcomed her sacrifice. The ears were enormous compared to even the other uamhith. Danielle thrust her sword into its wide-open mouth and pushed as hard as she could. Wandering Heart shook with the blade peeking from the back of its neck. His arms grabbed her sword arm and squeezed. She heard the metal crumple. “NO!” It flinched, clapping hands over its ears as she screamed. Grabbing its sinuous arms, she screamed again. Wandering Heart thrashed around, trying to shake her off. They crashed into the cave walls. She wrapped her legs around its neck, yelling hard enough that her throat stung. Arrows thudded into the beast. Some pinged off the wall behind them. Jaws wide, it pressed towards her. She screamed until its hideous breath invaded her nostrils. The stench was death and decay. Bite or be bitten. Danielle sank her teeth into the monster’s nose. The taste was revolting but as it thrashed and ran into another wall, she could feel its breath begin to fade. Arrows whistled and chewed its back. Together they fell. Wandering Heart’s last exhalation was an anguished whisper. “I’m stuck,” she yelled. “Get it off me.” “Stop shouting please, it hurts,” said Song Voice. “Thank you,” she whispered as many hands pulled the beast away. They were carried back through the home of the uamhith. Bones of ancient drakes passed her by. Wandering Heart disappeared into a stream of lava that twisted between basalt hexagons. Carried in the arms of the cenaga wise one, she slept until she was in the forests of the world above. Blinding moonlight welcomed her back to the surface as it clawed through the canopy.

On April 26th, I pack up a piece of the moon. Of course, I don’t actually know, or even care what the date is, but the reasons for its significance are twofold; the humans do, and this time, it’s late enough where I can secure energy for the entirety of next month. The drawstring bag tightens silently as I lump the wheat coloured chunk into its charcoal depths. Even in the few seconds that I held it, I could feel the healing aura seep into my cosmic latte pores, refuelling my social battery to a dangerous level. I will not, I decided, turn into preppies like the rest of them. They were disgustingly happy, jumping around like monkeys, even sitting on the edge of the circle and swinging their legs to the rhythm of their fluttery chatter. Most of them I knew, but even the ones I didn’t, I could somehow tell that the reason for their social enthusiasm was not due to their moonpieces. They were all inherently talkative, neurotypical even. It almost looked like a cult, the process of removing and replacing tiny chunks of the moon which produced the twinkling effect the humans loved to romanticise. And I guess that was the point; giving the humans a sense of hope within their hapless chaos. Maybe someday I would feel that sense of responsibility for the creatures on earth too. The full moon didn’t bring with it that potential though. ‘Aelia, you know you can’t put your moonpiece there...’ Lyerson’s warm touch on my fingers initiates a reactionary jerk as my hands pull the moonpiece away from the empty space I removed a chunk from earlier. I hadn’t even meant to replace it with my own, but I guess my hands naturally carried out the process as I mused about my counterparts who actually just felt like my counters. My face seemed to show this mishap too, as Lyerson’s face softened, warm as their hands. ‘Distracted by the hubbub of the full moon, huh?’ The sparkles in lieu of dimples on the corners of their mouth appeared, as their sympathetic smile worked in tandem to gently extract the dull moonpiece from my cold hands. They knew I was too embarrassed to answer, and assured me that they would replace the moonpiece on the shadow side, miles away. ‘But won’t your energy dissipate...’ I started, not abashed enough to forget how quickly an almost dead moonpiece can sap a positive disposition. ‘Oh don’t worry, Maggie has been on an uphill trajectory for the last few weeks, so I’ve got quite the stock of good ener-’ Lyerson abruptly stops, the sparkles suddenly disappearing as they cast their gaze downwards. I knew what was coming, and felt myself burning up with fluster. Please don’t please don’t please don’t start with the pity please please please- ‘I-you know, what I mean is that, mmm,’ Lyserson’s usually composed voice cracks as they try to regain control of the situation, but I was already starting to stand up. Wanting to get away from the situation as soon as was alienly possible, I mustered a faux smile and made to leave off on small talk, but Lyerson beat me to it. ‘I better go replace this...but what I mean to say Aelia, is that. Well, I am quite sure you’ll be tethered to a human soon. From what I can see, you’ve already made some really great progress within yourself. Catch you later,’ and with that, they propelled themself off the bright crater. I know it wasn’t their fault. Everyone loved Lyerson, and everyone loved talking about their humans, especially the ones that were doing well. It wasn’t Lyerson’s fault that once they started talking about Maggie, all they wanted to do was praise her efforts on Earth. It wasn’t their fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, yet I hated them for it. I hated that they each had their respective humans, had always had their humans, while I never did. And I probably never would. *** The moon had always seemed sympathetic. Sporadically, when I was procrastinating on my schoolwork, I would look out my window and be pleasantly surprised with its murky glow. Tonight, I look at it and think about just how unaware it is of its own significance, especially today. With everything off, the moon provides the only source of light in my room. Its warm glow reflects in the diamonds of my shalwar kameez, which hangs neatly ironed on the back of my door. I wouldn’t be caught dead in Pakistani clothes on any other occasion, let alone something like this. It was gorgeous and modern; a deep green and pale yellow diamond embroidered flower on a hot pink crop top, a long skirt in the same palette, and a green robe that spanned the length of my body. It was too gorgeous, too cultural. In the throes of living an Australian life with a Pakistani family, I saved the abundance of my Indian outfits for the eyes of my extended family only. In the throes of wanting to kill myself, I saved the abundance of my teenage angst for nights with the moon. I wouldn’t be able to let it show tomorrow; my extended muslim family simply did not believe in mental struggle. My mind wanders back to the moon, its perennial innocence, its innocence today. What were the chances that a full moon coincided with Chaand Raat, the eve before Eid Al-Fitr. As the whole family customarily gathered around the moon an hour earlier, my aunt and uncles remarked how Allah had specially blessed us this Ramadan. ‘Cringe,’ I had laconically dm’ed Dinali, my best friend. ‘Wait, isn’t Eid tomorrow?’ she had replied within seconds, adhering to earlier messages that frantically read ‘extended family round in an h0ur, pls be awake need moral support!!!!!’ ‘Yes’, I cautiously replied, eyeing my uncle for fear of his imminent tirade about my generation constantly on their phones. ‘So why is your family over today?’ ‘Chaand Raat,’ my uncle's eyes briefly scan me, lingering for a moment, like a threat, before continuing the conversation with my dad. ‘Girl I’m Sri Lankan, you know idk what that is.’ I hated that this explanation would require a substantial amount of attention to my phone, so I excused myself, quickly hopping past the back of my chair to my washroom. Tired of sitting, I decide to get some extra steps in and pace the bathroom while locking in an Instagram voice note to Dinali. ‘Soooo you know Ramadan right? How I’ve been fasting for a month in order to show my appreciation for food and the blessings I have from Allah and bla bla bla. Anyway, you know how after Ramadan they have like two festivals called Eid, yeah? Well the first one is the more...fun and non-slaughtery one. It’s called Eid Al-Fitr, and the eve before it is called Chaand Raat...when the moon is spotted and everyone goes out to celebrate and hang out with family and stuff. Chaand Raat literally translates to Moon Night-’ Instagram customarily cuts the voice note off at a minute and sends it to her. I start another. ‘And like...it just so happened that today was a full moon, which has never happened on a Chaand Raat before. I mean it’s like cool, I guess. Like I said, my uncles and aunts went absolutely fucking berserk for it, claiming that Allah was for real looking out for us this Ramadan and whatnot. I swear to god, I don’t know how I revel in their bullshit sometimes. Okay I have got to go now before my entire family starts getting suspicious. Besides this voicenoteisabouttocutoffanysecondnowbyeeee-’ I hurriedly run out of breath while I sit my phone atop the cool marble counter. This way, it would actually look like I’d just used the bathroom for a long call. As I rest it meticulously on the edge, the side of the metal phone case glistens. The source was coming from the vermilion pricked blades poking out the edge of my cupboard mirror. The colour was fresh. I knew because a) it was the work of merely a few hours ago, and b) some of the miniscule liquid had dropped onto the white sink, speckling it with tiny red dots. I grab a piece of tissue, dab it on the red so as to not leave streaks, and get rid of the evidence down the toilet. At least the sound of the flush will make my trip to the washroom even more real. The vivid memory of the colour seeps into my mind, filling the crevices with thoughts that I had trained myself not to dwell on right before bed. Tonight, it was particularly hard though. Despite everything that I complained about in my voice notes to Dinali, a part of me didn’t believe what I believed. What if Allah does actually exist? Surely this life had to have some sort of higher purpose to it? And if not Allah, surely another deity or spiritual being was looking out for us in this hellhole? The moon probably knew. It’s too magnificent and pure not to know the secrets of the universe. And while I eventually drift off contemplating God, I swear I see a part of the moon fall into darkness and out again, in the span of maybe a second. And though this was likely my eyes faltering at the mercy of sleep, I likened this state, and the moon to myself. Most times it is a half moon, but sporadically, it’s full. It always shines on the side everyone can see, but is perennially dark on the other. And sometimes, that darkness can’t help but show. *** At their core, they were benevolent aliens. That’s how the humans might’ve referred to them if they really knew them. Instead, they called them Stars. It was a two way relationship, except they didn’t know we truly existed outside of their tangible existence. In the olden days, they were mostly convinced that the Stars were inextricably tied to their fate. Their alignments were their peace of mind, and this was the closest they ever got to knowing them. Now, some of them felt it through energies, the spiritual ones who tried to exude good energy that would boomerang back in the form of good karma. Others tied their fortune to specific God’s, the kind that bloodshed and carnage were justified for. But it didn’t matter what, or who they believed in, or when they believed it; they were to help them all the same. They existed in the space between the cosmos. Hopping from planet to planet, sustaining themselves in the way humans eat food. The most essential part of this process was gathering energy and healing from the moon. Half moons were more than enough to do the job. The Stars would reverently take out a piece of the glimmering side of the moon, not enough that would be visible to a human eye of course, but enough to give them the energy equivalent to a human overdosing on cocaine thrice. Full moons happened monthly, and were occasions of celebration as Stars could collect a single piece and use it for up to years. With the amount of harvesting this brings on, the next generation of Stars don’t have to pick at the moon as much, leaving it as full and brilliant as it always is to inspire the humans. With the energy of the moon, the Stars travelled back through space, shining for the world to see. We were so respected, that some Stars’ humans would go on to write poems, books, movies, even journal articles about us. They inherently didn’t need any motivation, but that would have been enough to keep them loyal to the humans forever. They would go on watching over them, filling them up with good energy for the next day, intermittently intervening in their affairs through the power of simply supplying them with the urge to look up at the night sky. When they had used up our half moonpieces, they would replace them on the bright side of the moon, either with the same amount of glow or more. Never less. That was all if you were a normal, functioning star. If you were born a Star like me, your brain chemistry just didn’t align with the rest. It was unusual, the human mind wasn’t supposed to transfer over to our community. Ours was supposed to be, had always been, strong and immune from the mental health issues we supported our humans with. Sometimes, our presence in their life was too diametrically opposed for their minds to handle, and we would need our emergency intervention teams to try and alleviate the damage. But their problems never presented themselves in us. After all, that was what the healing energy from the moon was for. But I had been born different. Even the aura of a full moonpiece couldn’t get me to a level a quarter of the level everyone else did. It got me the level equivalent of a human who had overdosed on cocaine thrice, but the ugly part. I didn’t get the energy, I just died, and there was nothing to resuscitate me. As if I wasn’t already judged enough by the saccharine smiles of the other Stars, I couldn’t even harvest pieces of the full moon. I fully needed them to barely hang on, and I was the sole depleter of the whole community. They could never tether me to a human without the high risk of death of the latter. When a full moon came around, I wasn’t allowed to put my piece back on the bright side of the moon. I actually depleted the energy from it, sucked out everything until it resembled a rotten mass that was only fit enough to be thrown somewhere around the dark side. I look down at earth, the hole in my chest empty as ever. I’m usually immune to the light pollution, the pricks of life and my lack of connection to a single one always had me feeling worse than before. Tonight, however, it was particularly hard not to notice the intermittent flashes of light coming from somewhere in Australia. It wasn’t hard to see; the Stars were blessed with 100/100 vision. Due to this, I could also immediately tell that the flashes were a form of Morse code, something I had probably inadvertently actually picked up on something during the community lectures on ‘Fascinating Human Ideas’. I was surprised how easily I was able to decipher the message, and at the bubble of feeling brewing under my skin. My skin, which now had the faintest hint of a dull sparkle in it, pulsing on and off like a weak heart. This had never happened before, and from the stares of the surrounding Stars, it was clear they knew it too. *** I woke up with a jolt, the feeling of falling had my heart pulsing on and off like it was desperately trying to keep me alive. Now awake and alert, I instinctively reach for my phone to check the time, irritating myself after I realise where I had left it. The image of the bathroom sink threatens to appear again, but I grab my torch off the bedside table and turn my attention to the sky instead. Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep, I would have this ineffable urge to talk to the sky in the only way I could. Tonight, the full moon cast its sympathetic gaze upon me, as if it knew I had been questioning the extent of its knowledge earlier. Off on. Off on. Off on off on off. On. And on and on I went, turning my portion of the sky ablaze with the clinical light, asking the heavens to give me a sign, any sign, that there was something out there. ‘Is there anything or anyone out there as fucked up as me?’ ‘Are you there, God?’ ‘Is anyone listening?’ ‘Is anything listening?’ ‘I promise to eat all my vegetables if you just give me a shout or something.’ ‘I promise to stop cutting myself if you just-’ ‘Surely send me a shooting star...’ And though I could have attributed it to my torch, I felt as though it was something more. The patch of sky directly above me gave off a slight warmth, almost as often as my flashes. As a test, I turned off my torch for a few seconds, anticipating whatever it was in the absence. There it was, and if I squinted my eyes, I could make out the blurry outline of a star. It was almost as if I had summoned it from nothing, like the light from my torch had been engulfed by the sky and spit right back at me in the form of a tiny ball of heat. And though it wasn’t the brightest star, I noticed that it was right atop the moon, making the latter seem as magnificent as ever. I had never really noticed the stars in this way before. Maybe this was my star. *** Whoever it was, they were pondering the existence of the divine. Their questions had seared through me, as if I was right there, on earth, reflecting a mirror back on myself. It seemed as though my body had instinctively reacted to this too, as the heat which now emanated from it was the result of a matte shine, not nearly as bright as my counterparts, but brighter than I had ever been. Out of my peripherals, I see Lyerson back a few paces away from me, the only Star giving off a small, genuine smile. For the first time, I’m there. I’m listening. Maybe I couldn’t be a shooting star, but I could be their Star. And maybe, for the first time, someone could be my moonpiece.

(This was originally a comment I left in the r/WritingPrompts thread. Wanted to share it here!) \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ​ It was a Sunday and I always hated Sundays. I hated them more these days, or should I say *those* days, because I'd usually sit and binge watch some sci-fi show on Netflix with a beautiful Chai Latte ordered straight to my door from the Starbucks down the road. But in the 1800s, there was no Starbucks. I'd finally done it. Invented time travel. I was 1 out of 8 Billion people who knew that it was incredibly possible. But it was too bad that I was stranded in Victorian England. Being the first person to develop time travel wasn't as amazing as I thought it would be. It turns out, travelling through time is easy. Travelling back, well... that's a bit more complicated. I arrived here two weeks ago. I tried to go back, trust me, I really did, but as soon as I realised it was a success, I took the time to have a victory nap (three all nighters in row can do that to you) and when I woke up, the machine was damaged. Parts were missing and it looked like it had blown up. I did everything I could to fix it, but the parts I needed didn't even exist here and I didn't understand why it had malfunctioned. My adventure to 1800s London was unwillingly extended. I was walking along the streets now, wearing a gothic garment I had managed to find in the street. It was slightly tattered and dirty, but it was clean enough and considering the time period, I'm sure I fit in better than when I arrived here in my System of a Down tee and black skinny jeans. The jeans alone would have got me in trouble just for being a woman. There was piss and shit every step I walked. The streets were uncomfortably busy. Beggars poured out of every walk way and rich noblemen strut highly on their horses. I couldn't have felt more out of place if I tried. The only remnants I had from my 2010s life was my doc martins that hid underneath the long skirt of this tattered dress. The longer I stayed here, the more depressed I felt. All of my family and friends were probably so worried. I wonder if the police were looking for me? None of them had any idea I wasn't even in the same *time* as them anymore, let alone the same place. I could be standing in a spot the cops are looking for me right this second, but because I'm 200 years behind them, they'll never see me. I felt doomed. Hopeless and the more time went on, the more angry I felt. How could I have been so stupid? I was an engineer! I was a smart person, a rational person. How could I have so arrogantly trapped myself time surfing? I was careful not to mutter anything too loud. The streets were so packed. A few people had given me strange looks as I was passing as well. Attention was *not* what I wanted here. When I eventually get back to my time, at least my acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize will be excellent comedy material. I was looking for objects I could use for the time machine repairs. I had studied how different parts do different things and I was sure that even if I found the base ingredients, I would get myself out of here. I couldn't vote, I was jobless and I had no suitor. This time was not *my* time. I had already acquired some of the things I needed, but the more 'modern' stuff, I just couldn't find anywhere. As I turned down one of the bustling streets in to a wide lane, I heard something that totally broke my focus. I could hear someone humming. Normal I suppose, there wasn't a great deal to do in this time, humming was probably as commonplace as checking your phone. But something about the tune really startled me. I walked slowly towards the humming. There was a window at ground level that was open. There was no one actually in the lane with me, so the sound had to be coming from this building. I ducked down so I wouldn't be seen and carried on listening. I recognised this melody too well, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It was an eerie tune, but there was something about it that really reminded me of space and the heavens. "*Aaaah- aaaaaaaaah"* The voice continued to hum. That's when my brain finally clicked. Without even thinking, I started singing the words really quietly. *"Because the world is round it turns me on...."* My voice was nothing more than a whisper for the first few lines, but as the song continued, I was ready to make myself known to the person humming. *"Love is old, love is newLove is all, love is you...."* And then the humming stopped. There was a brief silence and then the sound of footsteps. "Whoever is outside my window, I suggest you show yourself right now or I'll blow a whole in the wall." Without even hesitating, I stood up and a man slightly older than myself stood on the other side of the window, a revolver in hand, pointing at me. I held my hands up and started stammering "I-I-I I'm not going to hurt you. I just have a question. I-I-I *know* this song really w-well, it's o-one of my fave..." He fired the revolver above my head and I screamed. "PLEASE DON'T KILL ME. I JUST RECOGNISED THE SONG." He walked over to me on the opposite side of the window. Completely silent. He looked me up and down and even poked his head out of the window to literally look me up and down from head to toe. When his eyes got to my feet, he started bellowing so loudly, instead of comforting me, it scared me. "You're a *looooooong* way from home Doc." He slapped his knee through his laughter. My face flushed red, slightly embarrassed. "H-how do you know that?!" I asked. "Well for a start, Doc was meant to be in pun to Docs on your feet. They don't even exist until after the second War. The World War. So let's cut to the chase little girl, how did you get here? To this *time?*" "I'm not a little girl." I muttered. The man laughed again. "Only little girls get stuck when time travelling. When it comes to this field, you are but a child, Otherwise, you wouldn't still be here would you? You wouldn't be stuck." "H-how do you know all th-" The man laughed again, all he seemed to do was make fun of me. "I-I created a device that allowed me to travel back, but its fried. Parts are gone. The things I need to fix it I cant find." I clenched my fist, feeling my own disappointment again. He stopped laughing by this point and his expression returned to serious. He lowered his gun finally and sighed. "I should have known really. Of course it was too good to be true." He said as he walked away from the window and in to another room. I stood awkwardly outside the window, unsure what to do. I just stared into the window and the space he once stood in. \**click!\** Next to the window, a door unlocked and was opened and his head popped out from behind it. "Come in. We need to talk." I hesitated for a second, but entered regardless and he led me back into the room, this time I was on the other side of the window. He carried on walking through it into another room, but paused as we stood outside. "Before we go in here, I need you to understand that it wasn't anything personal. It was the first time I'd seen a TT machine in 6 years. I have been stuck here that long. I felt a glimmer of hope, but my judgement was clouded. I think fate brought us together and now I intend to honour that." I remained silent, mainly because I was confused by what he said. But 6 years stuck here? That's hard to hear from anyone. The door opened and I gasped. Inside, was a machine that looked almost identical to the one I had made. There were parts scattered all over the room, in fact, very *certain* parts... "MY PARTS!!!!?????!" I screamed. The guy looked to the floor in shame.

Feeling the air in the shadow of that mango tree brought me back to my early days. The perfume of the fruits began in December. So Christmas had this particular fragrance in the house. It was an American colonial-style house, like the one in Gone with the Win, in a small size. My mother had seen a picture in a magazine and told my father she wanted something like that. She was not an architect but she made not only the design of the facade lest the plan inside, with a dining room on one side, a living room on the other, and a hall in black and white marble. The stairs made a square spiral and we loved to slide by the handrail, yet nothing compared with climbing the mango tree. We were three children, me, my cousin Marine and my cousin Alfonse. We used to climb the tree starting in the big branches that were very inviting, as they were low. We reached them easily at six, seven, and eight years old. Of course, my mother watched us but compared to the current children, we were much freer. I remember one day when Marine touched something like little stains, and Alphonse cried out "Watch out! This is a snake egg!" Of course, it was not, but Marine jumped from where she was, some five meters high. She fell on a wooden bench and she did not cry because she was ashamed of crying. Ir must have been a horrible pain. Fortunately, she broke nothing. And she was thin as a toothpick. We all came down, but she did not shed a tear. Life went on, each of us in their path, we got married, had children, grandchildren, the house had been sold but the mango tree is still there. There are no more mangos now, not even year in and year out, as it used to be, and there is a big building in the place of the house. Yet, whenever I come near that tree, everything comes back as in a dream. I remember all the laughter, all the bruises, the fear to go on the taller branches, as they might break, the effort to seem courageous in front of the cousins, that kept saying, "You are a little princess, an only child, you have been spoiled!" And I replied, "Not in the least! My mother is severe with me not making me a silly girl!" Nevertheless, I was a bit silly as a teenager. I remember enjoying the company of my first boyfriend sitting on the same wooden bench by the mango tree, hand in hand. When he asked for a kiss, I denied it because I did not know how to act in such situations. As we laughed a lot, me, him, my friend Claire and her boyfriend, Mark, my father appeared in his bedroom window and said we were making too much noise. This remonstrance made me feel bad. Why so much freedom in childhood and so much restrain in adolescence? This little romance lasted a few months. We were too young and too silly. Other friends of mine were not so naive at that same epoch. They were wise enough to appreciate a good boyfriend that later became their husbands. I know quite a few in this case. Well, the other day I passed by this tree and saw an old man under its shadow. This footage took place several times. I wondered who he was and was a little afraid to ask him. Yet, one afternoon walking my dog, I decided to go near and ask him. When I approached the man, I recognized him. It was Paul, my first boyfriend. I was so astonished that I almost fell when my dog pulled the lead. I cried, "Paul! It's you?" "Yes, Mary! It's me. I thought you would never come near. I was afraid that you would not recognize me after all these years!" "Jee, Paul! Of course, I would! How come you are in the neighborhood?" "Well, I lived in lots of places, but now, once retired, I decided to live where I have been happiest, here, on the street where you lived!" "It sounds like My Fair Lady, remember, the film with Audrey Hepburn that we saw at a cinema holding hands?" "Sure I remember Mary! We liked her very much, didn't we?" "Yes, we did. And we were so happy together!" "Yes, we were. We loved each other. And I heard you are divorced. Is it true?" "It is. And you?" " I am also divorced." There was a thick silence. We did not know what to do. I finally asked him why he came to the shadow of that tree every day and sat at that bench. He told me this shadow belonged to him. It was part of his life forever. It was like in the known Chinese tale that a man buys the shadow of a tree and is his owner. There was no need of buying this shadow. It belonged to him because it was part of his history. I had never thought so but I agreed with him entirely. Yes, the shadow of this tree belonged to us. This time, as he approached me, I did not back off. I stood still and when he kissed me, I kissed him back. This has been a kiss of love. We were so happy! We were teenagers again. Eye in the eye, hand in hand, we stood there for a long time, as tears came by. Even the dog kept quiet, not pulling the lead. He sat on his paws and looked at us peacefully. We were reunited at last. This has been the best surprise of my life. I thanked this magnificent mango tree for its long and fruitful life in all possible senses. The next thing to do was to introduce each other to our families and hope they will like us. My family would certainly approve of him, a lovely man, good father, and excellent grandfather. The day I was to meet his daughter, I was so nervous that my hair went crazy, not to be fixed in my ordinary hairstyle. I had to make a bun and finally got it straight. She was a bit shy at first but then she gave me a warm hug and we became friends instantly. Our grandchildren met sometime after that and we all went to see the famous mango tree that united our families.

“Mommy, can I have a balloon?” A child tugged at his mother’s clothes while pointing at a stand selling balloons. The mother sighed. “Oh, all right fine. Just don’t lose this one.” The mother paid for a nice blue balloon and gave it to the child. As they walked off, the child tripped and immediately let go of the balloon and it floated off into the sky. The mother was more dumbfounded than anything and the child started to cry. ... The balloon was confused. One second it was tethered to the earth by a human child, the next it was abandoned into the breeze and drifted into the cloudless sky. The balloon didn’t get to publicly float for a while as a strong gust blew it over a city. Looking down onto the buildings below, it first saw the finest of towers and houses glistening over the glorious boulevard below, but that wasn’t the only thing it saw. Next to the gorgeous buildings, there was a maze of slipshod buildings sprawled out in contrast. This confused the balloon, shouldn’t the humans defend each other, shouldn’t they watch each other’s’ backs? The balloon tried to dismiss this thought thinking, there must be a justified reason the other humans must have their own woes... the balloon wasn’t completely sure. The balloon got blown down into the slums where it became horrified. The humans there were living in absolutely appalling conditions. There were families starving, structures that were falling apart, and orphaned children running around in rags. The balloon wanted to do something, anything, but it couldn’t, it was just a balloon. It could just float. The winds changed and blew back into the wealthy part of the city and balloon floated along with it. Among the glamor, the balloon saw people splurging on fine goods and foods, partying their times away, and seeming to only give a care about themselves. The balloon felt a building furry, here were people just throwing away money without care while people not far away are struggling to just survive. Again the balloon wanted to do something, but it was just rubber. It could only drift. The balloon was disheartened. What could it do? It couldn’t do anything. The humans probably wouldn’t do anything anyway. The balloon did a mental sigh and decided to just give up thought. As it drifted of both mentally and physically, the balloon only lamented that it couldn’t do anything. A loud crash brought the balloon back to consciousness. From high in the atmosphere the balloon peered around and saw the remains of a collapsed building. With nothing else to do the balloon drifted down to the ruins. It was horrendous. Scrap was everywhere, and so were bodies. The balloon decided to look for any survivors it could find, it could at least try to do something. It floated above the scene but could find anyone. All of a sudden there was what sounded like a child crying. The balloon saw a kid almost hidden by the wreckage and covered in so much dust they were barely visible and immediately floated down. ... The child sniffled. They wanted to cry but they were losing the strength to even do that. The child was scared, they didn’t want to fall sleep forever like what happened to their parents. That fear gave the child enough strength to cry out for what they thought was one final time. Strangely a savior came to the child, a blue balloon. “Hello, Mr. balloon...” the child propped themself up awkwardly and weakly. “Are you here to carry me off...” They reached out to the balloon and pulled it towards their chest. “...thank you...” The child poked some of the dust on the ground and drew a smiley face on the balloon. “I don’t think I’ll make it Mr. balloon... I can’t feel my legs anymore...” the kid looked back to their legs. “My legs got stuck when the building fell... I hope I can finally see my parents again...” The kid’s grip on the balloon loosened and it floated up slightly. ... The balloon thought about the child. They wouldn’t survive. For the third time the balloon wished it could do something, but it was just a disposable toy. What could it do? It could only be carried by the breeze and eventually, ...the balloon realized there was one final way to help. ... The child let go of the balloon and watched it float away. It didn’t get far, however, when the balloon ran into a sharp piece of wreckage, poped, and fell back into the child’s hands. “Did you hear that?” rang a voice in the distance. “I think there’s something over here.” said a closer voice. Some of the rubble surrounding the kid was moved aside and a firefighter peered through the newly made gap. “There’s a kid over here!... They are still alive!” A few more firefighters rushed over to help clear the rubble and free the kid. “Don’t worry now,” the first voice said to the kid, “we will save you.” After a bit of struggle, the firefighters freed the kid from the wreckage and was carried to an ambulance. While all this happened the child looked down at the small corpse of a balloon in his hand “Thank you Mr.

Forest Creatures I’m frustrated looking at an empty sheet of A-4 its white virgin rectangle taunting me to write. Was my life always so inane and predictable? The page's luminosity of unblemished parchment pulls my mind back to a bedsheet blowing during a wonderful August summer school holiday. This mundane occurrence of mother washing, over time, has become a sorely missed distant place and time of simplicity. Within moments, I have sat again on my James Captain Motorcycle in the early seventies. The old maroon machines familiar aroma of petrol and oil permeates making me breathe quicker and twitch the throttle of an inactive engine. A faint whine from the neighbor’s dog pulls my attention to her, she looks longingly at me over our adjoining fence, her soft eyes begging me to stroke her and perhaps take her for a walk. I make a subtle click to her with good-girl appeasement. She slinks back to her kennel realizing that today’s adventure will not include a dog walk. A gust of wind flaps my mother’s clean washing, resulting in wafting and billowing sheets flooding the ambiance of our rear garden with fresh smelling artificial tones. This scene of domestication makes me desperate to leave this pocket of boredom to begin my ride bathed in sun, flicking the ignition with a gloved hand; followed by a quick kick of a chrome leaver brings a snappy two-stroke to life. Shoving it of its stand, I maneuver her past the kitchen window and under our house gable onto a pale concrete drive, excitement builds like a drug high, as my anticipation heightens, I look out both ways for cars and police, then excitedly scoot illegally across our public road, entering through a hedge-gap to an adjoining field. Within minutes, I’m speeding along a field track to Far-Wood, breathing deeply, the wind blowing my hair on a bright summer’s morning, serenaded by a two-stroke hum and its gas mixture stimulating all my senses, spreading a smile across an exuberant face. Mile’s flash-by and too soon I’m closing the throttle to enter the forest, cutting my speed to almost a walk helps me negotiate a thin sliver of a woodland track, dotted with stones and fallen branches. As the track widens and becomes uncluttered, a thirst for speed made me open up the throttle releasing a snappy two-stroke engine growl. Heavily laden trees flash by, as dirt shoots from the motorcycle back-wheel, these visual cues trigger adrenaline. Instinctively, I Stand on my foot-rests tensing all my muscles as the bike takes off over a bump, it lands smoothly before a steep hill, winding open the taps, digs the rear tire into the soft earth, my machine scales the incline easily! Eventually, opaque woodland clears, answering to an open field paralleling a strip of forest. Before me, a dirt track meanders and undulates between forest edge and muddy field. Regretfully my throttle has to close as the bike weaves and skips pulling my arms and shoulders. The angry two-stroke engine spits and complains as I wrestle the steering through loose dirt and thick mud. Crawling along with my eyes scouring for a good track, allows me to see and smell the open field and the greenery of a substantial forest. Eventually, a slow arching bend pulls away from the plowed loamy field through a lush green arch that leads to a hidden Dell. Without warning, my stomach turns and my heart races as a previously flat path descend sharply into an area full of hillocks littered with yellow and green hawthorn bushes, I pull the brakes sharply stopping with a skid, then I maneuver the bike behind a small hill; a deft flick of a silver key kills a strumming engine. As the engine dies all that can be heard in this eerily quiet place are cooling machine clicks. I’ve never stopped for any time in the Fairy Dell before as locals warn against it! However, being a rebel, warnings act as a siren. Moreover, what can be frightening about an ancient Dell, that local villager’s walkthrough? Encouraged by the heat I laid against lush grass, to enjoy the day's sun and balmy ambiance, I am convinced that this Dell being haunted by Fairies seems like a fanciful tale? Silence causes me to check my senses again; I can only hear a droning sound of long-distance traffic and an occasional metallic click of a still cooling motorcycle engine. Noticeably, sounds of wild-life and birds remain absent. Curiosity, makes me get up to begin a reconnoiter. I notice animal tracks go through the Dell, strangely non-lead to underground dwellings? Following, tiny footpaths cut into turf, leads to a deep shrubbed mini-gorge, its strangeness beckons further examination. I Eclipse its edge, the bank sides collapse! Falling, whilst scrambling, sliding, scrouging through bushes lands me on a grassy plateau, I look up to see how far was my descent, staring up from the gloom shows me the main path has disappeared, stretching before me, a well-trodden tiny path zig-zagging through scattered copses demands to be followed. I scour the narrow path for prints and droppings, seeing nothing doesn't worry me! Common sense dictates weathering can remove any trace of animal activity. However, I follow it deeper into a dense copse full of undergrowth and darkness. A flap and a scurry, of what sounds like small fluttering wings jolts my head to look upwards, a thud follows as my head hits a thick branch. A young woman’s laugh rings, turning towards its direction a beautiful girl is sat on an old tree stump, stroking my head to relieve the pain. I also rub my eyes checking this girl is not a fanciful wish, despite my attempts to correct my vision, she still appears to be sat and smiling at me. Before I can speak, “Hello, John.” Greeted me! I look at her every one of my hormones races. She was beautiful with blond-haired dressed with wildflowers in barrettes, complimented with a figure-hugging bottle green skirt, strangely she wore no shoes? Moreover, I didn’t recognize this person! As I stood raking every memory of village and school girls, I knew, her soft voice whispered. “Are you scared of me John? Come over here.” I walked over desperately trying to remember where I’d met this strange beauty. As I approached a fragrance of fresh forest after rain exuded from her. She Moved across the impromptu stump seat; her hand playfully tapped the wood beckoning me to sit next to her. I sat down nervously not knowing where to put my eyes, many questions concerning this young woman puzzled and embarrassed me, as I could not remember her! Her eyes sparkled green as she looked at me and smiled in a cheeky elfin way, despite my aversion to prolixity, I had to ask an obvious question. “How do you know me? I don’t believe I’ve ever met you before?” She laughed uncontrollably kicking her legs in delight. “I see you every day John on your way to school, sometimes at school, always in the woods near your home. Exasperation flooded me! Why don’t you introduce yourself? She followed this question by giggling uncontrollably, seemingly enjoying my disadvantage of her presence in my life. Stopping suddenly, she declared. “That’s what I’m doing now John, introducing myself!” May I ask your name?” Her eyes flashed with devilment! “Guess!” “I cannot guess, there are simply too many girl names. However, in my school, all the girls are called Bridget, Maria, or Mary.” She giggled again obviously enjoying her ability to remain a mystery. Slightly frustrated I proposed a solution. “Ok, I think I will call you elf. You look elfin, and certainly dress like one!” She retorted! I’m certainly not an elf!” Seeing the lady was upset I tried to justify my assumption with a voice that was a little higher through nerves. “I think elves are quite cute, at least the ones I’ve seen in paintings and prints.” A pair of green eyes steadily stared back arousing carnal interest. Swinging her legs around to face me I braced myself for some kind of rebuff. “I can assure you John Elves may look cute, however, in my experience of those trouble-making irksome creatures. Cute is the last word I would associate with them! “Sorry?” I replied with a deliberate tone that mirrored the Australian speaking pattern of a question-initiative. This rouse did not work as only a muted reply supported by sparkling eyes returned. Frustrated, I tried another ploy to make her reveal her name. “So...” No name prompt returned from her, just an air of enjoyment, it was at this stage I decided to fain no interest in whatever name she used, hence a spiel of small talk erupted. “Do you often come here? I mean what’s of interest at the bottom of a Dell surrounded by thick bushes? She stood up quickly, in a releve like a ballerina, again a waft of fresh forest filled the air. She held out her finger, a Jenny-Wren, flew to it perched and began twittering to her. Without looking at me a loud dialog between her and the bird ensued. “Jenny, he’s asking why I come here? Obviously to be with my friends, and of all my friends, you are the wisest little bird.” Excited fluttering and chirping from the little bird followed she and her feathered companion seemed to be talking the same language, then both looked at me. “Jenny does not like your motorcycle. It frightens her! What do you say, John?” In reality, what I’ve just seen astounds me Manny thoughts hatch with the ferocity of fireworks! Nevertheless, my reaction is mixed; a part of me believes this apparent bond of a girl, and a bird may be an elaborate trick? Therefore, I try to ascertain a way to qualify my position of doubt, ignoring her question I ask. “Can you tell the bird to fly to my right shoulder and kiss my ear?” She stroked her bird’s tummy while saying something, immediately the creature flew to my shoulder and lightly kissed me, and returned. Astonishment took any words of comment away; they truly had some kind of bond! Enwrapped, I kept repeating amazing, fantastic, and other expressive adjectives, which will remain unprintable. Releasing her bird into a nearby tree and sitting down on her stump again, her green eyes fell on mine. “I can speak to any animal; would you like to see my rabbit friends?” This was an opportunity I did not want to miss, yes! Spilled from my lips with childish wanting. From her mouth came a shrill whistle, within a moment's glance dozens of rabbits filled the grass plateau, all of them running around both of us, many talking to the mysterious girl. I was wide-eyed and smiling profusely having never seen such a command over wild animal! A part of me was witnessing something that seemed impossible, the other desperately looked for a sleight of hand. However, whatever this phenomenon was? It was happening before my eyes! After a few moments, she dismissed her rabbit friends, leaving just the two of us and a chirping Wren. After all the excitement my stomach began feeling empty, looking at my watch to check the time revealed an empty wrist. However, instinct told me it was near lunchtime. Before I left, I tried one more time to extract her name. “Excuse me, (With a long pause) She did not say her name but, as usual, smiled with delight! “I have to go, it's near my lunch; it's been great fun hanging out with you?” She smiled seeing another failed attempt at retrieving her name. Then her head fell like a little girl, a tear rolled down her cheek as she whispered sorry. Bemused, I blurted- "Why did you whisper sorry? I’ve had a great time!" Her eyes fell on mine. “I’m sorry for making you late; however, like you, I have to go!” I blurted out. “Will I see you again?” With an enchanting giggle, she waved and disappeared behind a bush. I ran to the spot, not a trace of her remained; my scramble to the path mirrored my mind scrambling in earnest, trying to make sense of my encounter! Was she a fairy? This erratic thought kept circulating in my head. Eventually, I cleared the steep top and began walking to where I had hidden my motorcycle. It was missing! It then inexplicably it went dark! Dismayed and confused I started my long walk home, puzzled and exasperated by all that had happened. Trying to find some logic to my present situation, thoughts of practical jokers, and perhaps the darkness falling indicated an eclipse had just occurred? In reality, I was flummoxed. After about two hours of stumbling through dirt tracks and dark forest, the street lights adjacent to my house came into view, then I noticed all the house was dark? It must be later than I thought. Nervous feet walked quietly to the door, afraid my parents would be angry, gathering my keys, I tried the lock. They didn’t fit! Trying them again resulted in them failing. No option was left, apart from wrapping loudly on the door. Anxious as to how my parents would react my first knocks were quiet; no one stirred; my next volley shook the glass. I heard a movement upstairs, above me a light illuminated, seconds later a large man opened the door wearing a blue dressing gown, gruffly asking. “What do you want!” I stood vacantly scanning around for signs of my parents, searching for an answer, I could only say the words. “I live here.” He looked quizzically at me. “You’ve got the wrong address.” He began shutting the door I screamed. “I’m John Paver and I live here!” He paused closing his door. “No one lives here called Paver. You have the wrong address!” His wife started coming down the stairs, asking what was wrong? “Some kid says he’s lives here, probably drunk; you know what kids are.” She came to the door in a white dressing gown and piled up dark hair; she smiled kindly. “Who are you?” With a stressed voice, I repeated John Paver. Her mouth dropped. “You can’t be! John paver disappeared forty years ago!” I screamed back at her. “I am John Paver!” The man reached for a black rectangle that lit-up, his fingers started whipping and scrawling over it. “We will soon find out who you are son!” His mouth fell open, he showed his wife something he’d found. Both stared in disbelief. “Impossible! I can check, what year is it son?” Astonished I replied- “1974!” Jesus, this is impossible, do you have any money on you? I raked through my pockets. “Yeah, I’ve Ten-shillings.” He looked at me checking my appearance, after which he turned to face his wife holding an expression full of disbelief, his now shaken voice proposed. “We’d better ring the station!”