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Allura 49

“I See” “What do you see? What I see and what you see, could it possibly be, that we may see is differently? That doesn't make me right and you wrong we're just willing to stubbornly stand alone. We can agree to disagree which is so weird to me. What solution have we come to? Is there something else we can do? It’s through the eyes of the beholder. Ask her, ask him exactly what do you see? To the question must be asked whatever it may be. Perspective or perception? What is really to blame and be it to our shame? Because what we’re really saying, is the same”. The End James insisted on my reading this poem. I tried to see it his way. He thought this poem would help, but it didn’t, not at first. You’d think it would have, he’s my identical twin brother. We are so much alike in so many ways but there are times we just don’t see eye to eye, and this is one. It started back when we were freshmen in college both of us majoring in psychology. I wanted to be a doctor, James wanting to be a college professor. Well as in most psychology classes the subject of relationships comes up one way or another. I perhaps should stop here and introduce myself, I’m John. I know it sounds like the beginning of the names of the twelve disciples. We were teased throughout grade school for our names. We come from a religious family so there goes our names. My mother Mary thought James and John would be easier to pronounce and Paul and Saul didn’t sit right with her. My father Peter Powers was the assistant youth pastor at the First Baptist church we attended. So, you can imagine we heard all types of sermons, etc. The one that most intrigue me and my brother were the ones about love. This is one of the many subjects we agreed on but at the same time we didn’t. We didn’t realize how far apart we were in our perspective on love until we were older. Love, itself is a word that’s hard to explain, James would say. I always said that love is just love and what’s hard about that. I love you; you love me. James’s argument stayed true, but what is love. While in college this was our monthly topic of discussion, especially whenever one of us got involved with a young lady. Whenever one of us got serious in a particular relationship with the young lady and the word love came up. James and I took many of the same classes. We however tried our best to take them on different days and at different times. Our friends thought we did that so not to confuse the professors, which was totally not true. We did that so we wouldn’t be confrontational with each other on certain subjects of which we may not have agreed. Because as I said though we were identical we didn’t always agree. James while in college had many relationships none lasting very long. He never got serious with any one girl like I would. One of my relationships lasted a whole two years. James longest was a semester. He felt especially as freshmen we shouldn’t get too serious too fast. He felt we had lots of time to find the right one. James ran from any girl that would use the L word, love. I felt he had a point to a degree. Myself, when a girl told me she loved me I’d say it right back, because I did. I loved them as a person. I wished them well and no ill would come to them etc. I felt like I did love them. Weil, James would get upset with me. On more than one occasion he’d tell me I did not love those girl and I should be ashamed for telling them that. I’d argue, “well what was I supposed to say, nothing. Oh, yeah, I’d do like you James, I’ll call them as soon as I got home from a date and break up with them with no decent explanation except that they said, I love you? James would say, “boy you don’t have the slightest idea what love is.” He might have been right. I don’t think I did in its truest sense. All I knew is that God loved me, Jesus loved me, James and my parents loved me. But did these girls love me. I would have like to think so. So, I made up in my mind the next girl that told me she loved me, I would ask her how she knew she loved me. There, I thought would be my quest to try and figure out James’s philosophy on love. Why did he feel it was hard to explain and why did he run from it? It wasn’t until years later that he shared it with me, and I better understood his stance on it. He later in life did get to the place where he would say I love you back. However, he would make it clear he was not in love with them. And of course, that would start an argument. The young lady could not understand that. To those who would take the time to listen to his explanation. They would learn that to James love was a sacred word and it wasn’t to be used lightly. He matured and wasn’t running away anymore as he did in college, he simply felt it necessary to make it clear. He shared with me the different types of love. His love for our family was different from his love for his wife. Yes, James finally married, and it was to Jerri Lee-Powers he was able to say, I’m in love with you. How he became so particular about love I don’t know, I guess it was all the sermons we heard and the psychology classes we took. He even once told me he never uses the word love when it came to inanimate objects. I asked him to explain that. What he said next blew me away. He said love is a sacrificial word. He continues and says like John 3:16 “For God so love the world He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.” God sacrificed His Son, His son Jesus sacrificed His life. Why? because they loved us. So, I don’t ever say I love something that cannot sacrifice for me. I was as I said blown away. That was deep, I thought but it made sense. So, I try my best to never say things like I love a particular food or car or whatever. He is a smart dude, good husband, father, son and brother. He’s the oldest but not by much, a couple of minutes or so. And I Love Him.

The Dark Lord Helshep was in a council meeting as they were laying out the plans for the next phases of his subjugation of the Stolen Hills region. “My Lord, I suggest we launch a full-force strike here and here,” he said, pointing to points on the map. “Yuu, will this work?” Helshep asked, turning to his oldest friend. She shook her head. “No, the Hills are a veritable fortress. Even Alex will have issues taking them by sheer force,” she explained. Vestari, however, looked offended. “You will refer to Master as My Lord or Lord Helshep. None of this given name stuff,” he snarled. “Oh yeah, tell me who has known him longer? Huh, you big dork,” she said as she squared up against him. “ENOUGH YOU ARE BEING DISRESPECTFUL TO THE BOSS!!” a voice boomed from Silvers Greyback. Both looked suitably admonished. “We can shelve the strategy for later. No need to rush this. I’ve got an idea brewing I think could help regardless, and a bit of time to smooth things out could help,” Helshep said before turning to Serena. “Tell me, Serena, what news on the Heroes party?” he asked. The entire chamber went silent. Few knew what he really was asking about. “Our scouts that we have keeping an eye on them report they have defeated a troll mountain,” she answered. “Just a mountain troll?” one of the officers scoffed. “No General, a Troll Mountain. As in a troll that has grown to the size of a mountain,” she clarified. The General went very pale at the idea. “Where was it?” another asked. “The Dune Sea, apparently it was hidden under a massive set of dunes and recently awoke. The Heroes party swooped in and won the fight by blowing it to dust,” she explained. “What of their Mage... Alice, I believe her name was? She seems like someone who could become a serious threat. Should we not have her eliminated?” another general asked. The room’s temperature dropped by a few degrees as those who knew could only watch the man walking on ice that was creaking. “No, I find her rather entertaining. She shall be left alone,” Helsheps voice echoed around the chamber. A voice that was devoid of all emotion. “I think we should take a break. We sinful lords and close confidants of Lord Helshep can have a friendly chat in private,” Yuu suggested trying to save the general from himself. The room gave a few nods, and the majority left. Leaving only Yuu, the Sinful Lords, Helshep himself with only Heek, the beastling servant, as the only other one present. The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop a few rooms over. Yuu looked around and just sighed. “Looks like I’ve got to be the one,” she said, turning to Helshep. “Go on, Alex, get it out your system,” she said, giving a vague gesture in his direction. Helshep looked around the room. His face that was a mask of stern stone reflecting a harsh and brutal life he had lived since he first rose to the throne. At Yuu’s prompting, this mask vanished and was replaced by a man beaming with pride. “Oh, my Gods Yuu!!! She fought a Troll Mountain!!!!!” he yelled with unrestrained joy as he picked up his best friend in a mammoth bearhug before spinning her around. “Bet she’s gotten even stronger,” he was now bouncing like a child the night before Winters Gifting. Putting Yuu down, he rushed over to a wall and moved the curtain against it out the way. It was a map of the world with notes on each of the Heroes party’s exploits. If anyone else saw this, they’d just think he was keeping track of a genuine threat. But the people in this room all knew he was just a dumb doting dad. “That makes this her seventh disaster class monster to date!” he said, pinning a new note to the map. “Actually, boss, that'll be her eighth. They apparently fought an elder dragon as they were sailing over to the Dune Sea,” Heek said. “Why wasn’t this reported?!” he boomed, turning to face the room. “Well, sir, it was a private sailing ship they bought themselves. Also, I only received word of it this morning through our messenger system. I was going to pass it to you later,” Heek explained. “Even better!!” he beamed, adding an extra pin into the Straight of Balthazar. “Master, I hope when the day comes where you will stand on opposite sides, you will take the good of the nation into consideration,” Vestari said. “Huh?” Helshep uttered, confused. “Sorry I wasn’t listening. What was that Vestari?” he said, turning and actually paying attention to his Vizier. “I said will you fight her if you have to?” he asked. “Of course, I will. She is my pride and joy. But she still needs to learn which opponents she should face. I won’t kill her, just a friendly parental beat down,” he said. The crowd were visibly reassured. They often worried about him when it came to his family. As in regards to both his adopted children and his children by blood, he often lost all sense of logic and became an uncontrollable storm. “You know, looking back when I first met her, I knew she had to be your kid Boss,” Silvers said. “Oh?” Helshep said, turning suspiciously towards him. “Yes, Boss, I didn’t think meeting a fifteen-year-old would make me near wet my breeches. Let alone the daft girl turned a useless pebble into pure gold,” he explained. “She did what?!” Helshep beamed as he rushed to stick a pin into Port Staine. “Hopefully, that party will get some common sense drummed into her head,” Yuu muttered. “Doubtful, I’m sorry to say she and Sir Victor are more than likely corrupting the Heroes common sense,” Heek said knowingly. “Well, those that can rise to the top of this world are often those who never really understood that normal crap,” Yuu said, sidling up to Helshep. “Indeed, we blew ourselves up quite a bit back then,” Helshep said, reminiscing with her. While they were lost in their revelry, a knock came at the door. The officers had returned from their break and were ready to resume. “Hey Alex, get your face back on,” Yuu said, jabbing his ribs with her elbow. His face returned to his stern political stone-faced shape with a few slaps. “Enter!” his voice boomed, returning to its emotionless state. The generals shuffled in and around the table. “Ok, I have a plan, and it is inspired by how the heroes beat the Troll Mountain,” he said, letting a sinister grin show. ​ for more my nonsense go to r/Random3X ​ extra note: this was originally a response to a WP that was removed thought let people here enjoy it.

It all started when the world seemed at peace. I guess we all got too comfortable; because what happened next nobody expected. I live on the most southern border of Detroit; a city riddled with crime. You got to be tough to grow up in Detroit. We all carried around switchblades in our pockets. My older brother Apollo steals for a living. We grew up poor on the streets after our parents died. I was little and they took me to the central park. We came home and I ran to the street corner. Suddenly I was cornered by a man who put a gun against my temple. I felt metal against my skin, cold and hard. I took one last look at my surroundings before everything went black. I shivered as I prepared for the worst. I had heard that death by gunshot was quick, but I wasn't ready to die. Not yet; I took one last breath and waited. Nothing happened. Am I dead? I heard a scream and ripped off the blindfold and saw my Mom dead. The man had his gun to my Dad who jerked his head slightly; indicating me to leave. The man pulled the trigger and I stayed in place trying to scream; to say anything. I finally dragged my legs and ran away until I collapsed. Chapter 1 I woke up later in a small plain room that I had never seen before. There was a small wooden shelf next to the bed I laid on. In the corner, there was a small bucket. I opened my mouth but no sound came out. Next to me laid a small china cup so thin it looked as though you could break it by staring at it. There was an unmoving black inky liquid inside. I smelled it and gagged. Just then I heard footsteps. I hid under the blanket as a sweet voice burst throughout the whole room. “I know you’re awake deary. You can come out!” I shuddered but knew I was busted. I slowly took the blanket off from the corners and slowly raised my gaze. I didn’t know what I had expected but it sure wasn’t a sweet old lady with graying hair. I checked to make sure she didn’t have any weapons on her. She looked safe. I slowly lifted my eyebrows. Something seemed off about her. I looked into her soulful chocolate eyes and couldn’t set that feeling aside. But something in her dimpled face made me want to trust her. I guess it might just be the fact that I grew up in a harsh place, but something about this house, this lady; didn’t seem right. I swallow and give in. She cant be a criminal. I walk around the house. It is ordinary looking. Everywhere I look is wood. She has no accessories or trinkets lying around the house. There is a trapdoor, a locked vault, and an attic that I noticed when walking around but don’t let on. I feel like I’m being watched in this creepy house. There are portraits of people lining the plain walls. The halls were thin and bare and they lead into a small corridor with a domed glass roof. There were weird walls in the observatory that looked like they pull away. Was it really just my imagination or is she hiding something? I suddenly hear a creak behind me and jump. It’s only the old lady. She looks at me with weird eyes. Her eyelids were drooped and you could only see the whites of her eyes. She walks with a cane that thumps beside her. She is wearing a black shawl over a black blouse. Her voice is much deeper than before as she speaks. “Come down for dinner now! You are not allowed to be in here. Only your bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room! Now child!” I run down before she can come. There is something strange about this lady. I need to find out more. I sit down at the table and notice something gold sticking out. I can’t do anything with the women around, but make note of it. I make note of every time she leaves and when she comes back. I am confined to my three bland rooms, and there is no entertainment. There are some books, but those are big dusty volumes of biographies and fantasies that take place in outlandish worlds with fairies and pixies. There are books written in Greek and Latin. Then I see a big book with a dusty cover. It is so covered I cant see the cover. I brush off the dust with my hand and read the cover. It reads How to Get Away with Murder. Chapter 2: Girl I shudder as I stare. I can’t look away from the big, bolded words in front of me. I hear a door slam and jump away. This woman is crazy! I know I have to run away but I don’t know-how. The next few days I oblige to everything the woman says. I stay in my room. I don’t do anything that might make me a target in this weird house. I know that something is happening when she comes into my room and says she will allow me to come to the market with her. Chapter 3: Lady I could tell as soon as I graciously let her into my humble abode that she was suspicious. I could tell as she glared at me and would not talk. I knew she found out something as she was snooping around my house. After I let her in! I started to show my true self as I knew I couldn’t hide anymore. I tried to be nice but I could tell she knew and didn’t like me. I wanted her to feel safe. I was going to kill her at first, but I couldn’t. She was too much like me. I knew she grew up horribly and when I saw her passed out with tear-stained cheeks I knew I had to do something. I admit I’m not the sanest person and have made a living off of theft and murder, but I have to. I grew up with three siblings and no parents. I got thrown into jail at fourteen and tortured into insanity by the inmates. I learned the secret to life was to not care, and that human lives matter, but they are plentiful and many. It is easier to not care, and not get hurt. I took the girl in because she and I were orphaned. And maybe I could get her to turn her ways. Chapter 4 So I let the girl come to the small central town with me. I brought her to a small gas station with boarded windows. I looked for security cameras. There were goodies and drinks for snacks. I took the girl aside and told her to rob the store. She obviously got nervous. “I cant do that!” she exclaimed. “Why not?” I asked. “It’s quite simple.” “No! That is my brother’s job!” “Here; tell me what he’s like?” I asked sympathetically. “Well;” she exclaims “He is small and skinny. We grew up together on the streets and he raised me. Then one day, he left me and never came back! I haven’t seen him in years!” I look at this girl. She had to grow up without her parents, or her brother. I looked at her face as she pretended to be strong. She had to be, growing up in Detroit, on the streets, with no family. I took her hands and showed her how to steal. She was a natural. We then stole fifty-dollars and went out to eat. The kid seemed to trust me more after that. And it was kind of nice having someone like me around. Chapter 5: Girl I started to trust her after I told her about my brother. We went to a restaurant and she let me order anything I wanted. Half-way through dinner, she left to use the restroom. I sat in the booth and waited as she came running out. We left suddenly without paying. There was some hacking behind us on the way out, but I didn’t pay any attention. That was my first mistake. I didn’t pay attention to anything but the lady. She seemed eager to get out of there as if she knew something I didn’t. We raced back to the house. For the rest of the day, I sat in my room. At dinner, I tried to get out but my door was jammed. I tried wiggling the doorknob but it wouldn’t budge. The woman came and started to tell me that I would be locked in my room. I tried to go to sleep early, but my imagination kept me up. I finally fell asleep, and when I woke up there were bars on my window, and pancakes sitting on a plate on the floor. I ate breakfast and tried the windows. The bars were so thick and impenetrable that no one could have broken through them. I roared and beat my fists on the walls and door all day but to no avail. My fists were bloodied but by the end of the day, nothing worked. For the next three days, I was left in my room with nothing to do. Finally, after a week I got toys and a television. What I saw changed my life. There was an outbreak of some disease that was going around. It caused people to forget their morals and become savages. The world was turning barbaric as people fought with each other, stole, and beat each other to death. The television screen flashed to a bloodied mess with mass murderers and chaos taking over. She shut off the television and shuddered to think about what had happened to humanity. She would get food every day, and plenty of toys for her to occupy herself. After a month of this treatment, she started getting restless wandering around her room. I whined one-day thinking if I complained enough she would allow me to leave. I watched as two months in it was so bad and the human population was down. People hid and murdered each other. It was like a big game of hiding and seek where if you got found you either fight or die. I was glad to be locked in my room I just wish I had gotten a little more freedom. Chapter 6: Lady I felt really bad for the girl. I hated locking her in her room, and when I heard her whine I wanted to let her out and tell her its okay. I am not as cruel as people think. I wanted the girl to be safe and not know how horrible I am, and how this started. I try to give the girl toys and trinkets so she won’t get bored, but I can’t expose her to the outside world. She would probably die, and it would be my fault. I don’t want the blood on my hands. I have barely run out of food but have put off getting more. I run down to my basement under a trapdoor and go to my holding cell. I have hidden extra food underneath the floor in my bunker. In my basement, there is a bunker, food storage, and holding cell similar to the one I was in when I was fourteen. I remember those days and I remember that when I found the little girl she was scared and crying, with a big gash and bruises all over her body. I took her in and healed her; putting her on medication. I was going to kill her or keep her for work, but I couldn’t do it. Human lives are valuable and I have always hated my job, but if I don’t kill: Ill be on the streets for good. Chapter 7:Girl I was sick of waiting in my room. The old lady would come to visit me once in a while. I would get three meals a day, although the portions have gotten smaller. I licked my lips as I thought of a big home-cooked meal. I knew I wasn’t getting out of here anytime soon so I thought about my childhood home. I started crying, and once I started I couldn’t stop. I threw my pillow against the wall. I shivered uncontrollably as I spat all over. The woman ran in and sat down. I choked and sputtered, trying to make out words, or anything. However, nothing came out. Finally, my shaking stopped and my head stopped pounding. “I killed them!” I yell. “I killed them!” “No sweetie! You’re fine, you’re good.” she comforted. “Shh...” I calmed down slightly as I rolled back and forth shaking a little to comfort myself. She held out a soft brown blanket and I held it close to my body as I hugged it. I slowly started feeling better. “I don’t want to be stuck in here anymore!” “I know sweetie, it won’t be long now.” If only that were true. Chapter 8 After three months of being stuck in my room, I began to get bored. The lady gathered books and I would spend all day reading. I did that for months. I wanted to go out, to live a little. I was so bored cramped up in the little wooden room and my muscles tightened up daily. I spent the next few days talking to myself and making up stories. After about five months I started talking to myself and thinking about things. My thoughts started getting scattered and messy. My thoughts turned psychotic and I felt like the dusty leather book on the shelf. For the next two weeks, the lady still hadn’t come. It felt like an eternity but eventually, October passed by followed by a crisp November, and I still wasn’t allowed to leave my room. The news showed chaos and bloodshed as the “plague of attack” continued. People referred to it as the plague of the century or the “plague.” The old lady was nice, but I was so bored. I started talking to my bedpost and imagining it talking back. Finally, December rolled around with the bare minimum of food. I was so bored I started mumbling and pretending I was a model on a red carpet, with cheering adoring fans surrounding me. After a year and two weeks, I was let out of my room and I went to the trapdoor. I walked in and there was a swift breeze as a bunch of airborne drugs came blowing out of a cracked airpipe. I felt my body shiver as if being taken over. My face swelled as my eyelids drooped. I felt different, stronger. I felt my pulse rippling through my veins and I knew something was up. I had watched the news for a year. So, I went to find the lady. ---------Pitch Black------------

The destructive capacities of the ingenuity of the human mind had not been fully unleashed until our first encounter with another intelligent kind. We had written about encountering an alien species for centuries before, but unfortunately we were limited in our imagination and tried conceptualizing of other intelligent life as similar to our own. As in, they perceived the same sensations we did and thought more or less similar to our own patterns of thought. But the 'intelligent' kind we encountered were much more profound. Trying to understand their cognition and how they perceived existence itself is much similar to trying to comprehend what it is like to be both God and a lowly amoeba. It is simply completely different from our own qualia. Our first encounter with this kind of life, if that is what it can be called, spawned a whole new field of philosophy and scientific research dedicated to trying to understand their processes of cognition. But my work isn't related to that field, I don't busy myself with pointless work. Misunderstanding is conducive to conflict, and the profound levels of misunderstanding that existed between humanity and this alien life almost immediately sparked conflict. The United Nations employs me, and a hundred thousand other engineers, mathematicians, and scientists across the globe to research new technologies to support the war effort. It is critical that we win, or we face total annihilation. We don't understand why they seek to destroy us, but we do understand that we must fight to stay alive. The global economy no longer revolves around the endless consumption of goods by consumers, but consumption of goods through the brutality of war. We faced a long series of losses, with only the nuclear bomb recouping our disastrous efforts to somehow strategically counter our enemies, before the 'Titan mech' was developed. It's a robotic machine, in humanoid form, that has several weapon systems embedded upon it and stands several meters tall. The bravest and best-trained of the military forces of the globe pilot these mech's, and they give us the cutting-edge advantage we need to push back our foes. But recently, we lost three outposts on Europa. This moon is critical to our species survival for its reservoirs of water, which have now all but been exhausted on earth. The outposts situated on and in orbit around Europa are some of the most well-guarded in the entire fleet, for this very reason. Our newest Mech's are deployed to this location, meant to hold off new waves of invaders intercepting our solar system from interstellar space. But every mech was obliterated, and the marauders annihilated the outposts. We have stopped receiving radio transmissions for the past three weeks from these locations. Fortunately, Europa was ignored as they clearly don't understand the nature of our logistics chain but the objects are now headed towards Mars -- where a large portion of humanities population resides. The Chilean Radio and X-Ray Observatory has noted a fleet of objects, detectable through the fact that they are spots in the sky where no radio or x-ray signals are emitted whatsoever, is on course to intercept Mars in its orbit. I first assumed that there was some fault in the design of these new Mech's, but I demanded to speak with the United Nations General Secretary after neither myself nor none of the scientists under my command could find any faults. Unfortunately, the United Nations was just as corrupt as it was before the war, only it had access to much larger sums of cash. The last General Secretary was assassinated as a result of him meddling in a border dispute between the Russians and the Germans and some other Europeans, and the new one is known to have only gained his position in politics by acting in service of the corrupt entities which desire to tap into the funds devoted to the war effort. It won't be long before he is assassinated himself, I thought. They typically never last longer than intervals of a decade. When I approached him, I made sure to make a good first impression. This was my first time meeting him, and I wanted him to know that just because he was General Secretary, he really held no power over me. It was the Generals who made the most important calls, after all, the General Secretary just held the official power. "I'd like to know what happened on Europa," I said, disregarding introductions altogether. The General Secretary looked shocked, as though he had been disrespected. "I'm sorry... What makes you think you can just walk in here without any formalities?" He looked old and decrepit and had the face of a person who couldn't think for themselves. "That's a waste of time," I responded. The General Secretary had an expression of contempt on his face. I didn't want to wait for this puppet to lecture me before disclosing the details of whatever went wrong on Europa, so it would be better to cut to the chase. "No, it's not." He responded, almost mumbling like he could barely form sentences. "Sir, I need-" He cut me off. "Our new pilots on Europa weren't adequately prepared for addressing the situation that they were supposed to resolve, and were subsequently wiped out." The General Secretary said, emotionless. "What pilots? Where are you deriving these pilots from?" I demanded. "Whenever we face losses like this, its usually a consequence of the source-nation we are recruiting our pilots." "They were composed of individuals from a largely international background, there was no discrimination involved in this new recruitment program." He responded. "Then what went wrong? Where was the mishap?" I asked. "There was no mishap, simply a new program of training has been introduced." The General Secretary said. "A new program? Why would you think its a good idea to deviate from the original training regiment? It has been refined, over generations, to give us the best pilots." I responded. "The old program was inadequate for our strategic objectives." The General Secretary said. I recognized him now, from the scar on his neck. It was a former admiral of the fleet. I wondered what he was doing here, in this position of authority that was surely going to get him killed, when he could try and pull the strings from the back of the stage. I tried ruminating over the possibilities, when the thought crossed my mind that possibly the old program was too expensive, and some business partners or politicians wanted him to cut funding to it to siphon some of the money allocated to the program to their encrypted accounts. "Are you saying its too expensive?" I asked, ready to try and expose him for what he truly is. "No, in fact, this new program requires an increased amount of funding." He responded. "We had to allocate double the amount of funding we typically do for this reformation of the training program." I scratched my neck, confused. I noted that, upon my entry, the security that protected the General Secretary was far more stringent and larger in scope than it typically is. Maybe he is paranoid, being a new secretary. But it seemed that the military had provided a helping hand in ensuring that his safety is secure, considering the sheer amount of personnel that are protecting him. Perhaps the military played some role in this scheme. "Then what the fuck is going on? Why are we losing?" I demanded. I was the director of research and development for the entire international force, my position was among the most important in the United Nations. When I demanded answers, I got them. "I am sorry to inform you that the idea that we were 'winning' before was simply a propaganda slogan thrown around to keep morale high. We were always losing, this is just a different kind." The General Secretary responded. "A different kind? A different... *kind of losing?* Just give me a straightforward answer." I said. "The truth of the matter is that we have always been losing. The amount of resources that we exhaust to keep the most minor objects away from our important logistics line is too much. The larger attacks, which occur periodically about every five decades, always cripple our command and logistical infrastructure and very nearly wipe us off the map each time." The General Secretary said. "At a space station situated in a polar orbit around Jupiter, one of the most powerful telescopes ever constructed sits. It consists of an array of mirrors some eight hundred meters across, with the appropriate life support systems, hangar modules, and power generating equipment attached. The remainder of the station is dedicated to housing the large computational systems required to process the data it captures, and algorithmically filter through this data to detect small zones deep in interstellar space that emit zero radiation." I now understood that, whatever he was telling me, was something that I had been deliberately kept in the dark about. Something that was a very classified matter, but that he had decided to disclose to me due to my apparent pestering. Perhaps he thought I was too important in my post to see me quit over a lack of information. "Our greatest astrophysicist believe that these intelligent life-forms, if they can be called intelligent in the way we think of that word, are manifested by a form of matter that does not interact with the fundamental forces except in some undetectable manner that deflects all electromagnetic radiation that interacts with the warped area of space it occupies. It's possible that these specimen exist in some sort of higher state, a more dimensionally complex state than ours, where they protrude into our perceptible plane of existence and... for whatever reason they do not take kindly to our existence. Anyways, this telescope has been searching the skies for fifteen years now. The data was streamed to a data processing complex in Tokyo, and for the majority of its operation it did not detect anything." "But two years ago, one of the processors embedded in the great complex of computers aboard that space station detected some sort of anomaly. The computer automatically began utilizing the majority of its processing power to scan this area of space on this spectrum of wavelengths -- which mind you is all classified information that I will not disclose -- and a discovery was made. A fleet of objects, far larger than anything that has ever been detected in our solar system, is situated in interstellar space near Alpha-Centauri. It is larger by a factor of two hundred and fifty, occupying a space nearly a lightyear across. We believe that our kind friends are trying to wear us down, and exhaust us, before making a final, massive thrust to wipe out our species from the solar system. And so far it has been working." The General Secretary said, the lines of age sagging through his distinctly asiatic face. He continued, "As the war has been grinding on-wards for generations, the resources that we can utilize to support our own population have been exhausted at a rate far quicker than typical. Granted, our technological development has been spurred forward by the conflict, but our own technologies can only be sustained if the economy itself can be sustained. And for all intents and purposes, the economy is in a terrible state. Inequality runs rampant, and the vast majority of the globe's population lives in conditions that are best described to be below the poverty line. Even in the wealthiest cities, violence and crime is the most characteristic part of life. Compared to the luxuries the average individual enjoyed before the war, our society is in a dismal state. The only luxuries we have now are created by the technologies we have engineered through our efforts to survive. This is all a consequence of the economy being geared toward the war effort, and not the general growth of living standards. This is further exacerbated by the increasing scarcity of resources. Because of this, the enemy is winning by grinding us down slowly. They may even be able to get us to fight against ourselves before they surmount the final attack." "Me and my comrades directing the international force recognized this, and I was thrust from my position in Japan to General Secretary as soon as the opportunity arose for me to be elected to that position. My first act as General Secretary was to implement a new training program that would not only give us a better advantage against the enemy, but end the war altogether. Even the highest ranking politicians, and the wealthiest individuals, are not aware of this. We were able to influence them in the proper way to encourage the General Assembly to elect me through a long series of empty promises and threats. Acting tangentially to this training program is another weapon and form of travel that I cannot speak of, but I can say that it will deliver our final strike that will annihilate our enemies from the very idea of existence itself. We don't need troops that will simply fend off enemy attacks for a period of time, we need troops that are so finely tuned to excelling in combat that they will counter-attack the enemy and cripple whatever remains. For that reason, we have implemented a global training program that militarily trains children from the moment they reach the meager age of two. Children act like sponges, and can become the greatest soldiers if they are trained correctly. The events on Europa were a mishap, but a step in the right direction. Now if you will excuse me, I have some work I need to finish.

Carter held his wife’s hand and gently pulled her across the beach towards the incoming waves. The tropical sun was shining brightly, and the sea’s soothing sounds filled the air. Her skin, already pale from too much time spent indoors, was now stark white from the thick layer of sunscreen she’d applied. "That’s it, slow and steady. We don’t need to go far today, just wet your feet a little bit," he said. Gracie gave a tiny, quiet whimper but followed along. "Does it get deeper quickly?" she said with her eyes fixed on the gently lapping waves. "No, it’s a really gentle slope. Look how clear the water is! You can see the ground!" "That makes it worse! I don’t know if I’m ready. Can’t we try tomorrow?" she replied in a terrified voice. "I know it’s scary. But the therapist said you need to try and cope with being exposed to your fears. Let’s just try to get as close as we can today, okay?" "Yes, but... I don’t know," Gracie said, a frown forming on her thin face. "You can overcome anything, if you just put your mind to it. I know you can," he said and tugged her hand a little. "I wish I could go swim with you. Like someone normal," Gracie said, head hanging. Carter embraced her, rocking her gently. "Aw honey, I’ll stand here looking at the sea for a hundred years if we have to. I can deal with anything as long as we’re together," he said. They didn’t often engage in public displays of affection any more after years of marriage, but the moment called for a kiss. When they let go, Carter pulled softly on her arm, making a step towards the waves. She resisted for a moment but followed. When they reached the edge of the water, Carter said "I’ll go first," and walked forward a step to where the water swirled around his ankles. Gracie sighed, and tentatively advanced. She glanced towards the open sea and shuddered. "Nice, isn’t it?" Carter said, playfully splashing his feet in the surf. Gracie grimaced. "Let’s just walk along the surf a little," he said and gently strolled forward. It was hot, but a slight breeze made the heat bearable, even pleasant. The water was just the right amount of warm. The corners of her mouth started turning up, just slightly. "I guess it’s not too bad- IEEEH!" Gracie suddenly shrieked and leaped out of the water, tearing her hand out of his. She fell on the sand, holding her left foot, sobbing and shouting something unintelligible. Carter instinctively looked down at his feet. A small gray eel-like thing pulled itself out of the sand. Three pairs of thick fins along its length were trashing furiously. For a moment, the waves receded, letting him see the mottled gray flesh of its back before the water washed over it again. It made Carter think of cockroaches and maggots scurrying in filth. He recoiled at the sight. The eel-centipede thing pumped its powerful limbs and shot off into deeper water, disappearing from sight. "Gracie! Did it bite you?" he shouted. He knelt down beside her, looking at her foot. She was still squirming and sobbing and sat grasping her left foot around the ankle. Blood was seeping out of an almost triangular hole about the width of a pencil in the side of her foot, near the little toe. Gracie’s shrieks turned into a quiet sigh and she passed out. Gracie and Carter walked out of the tiny island hospital. She leaned on Carter to avoid putting weight on her bandaged left foot. Gracie looked miserable while Carter tried to cheer up his wife. "I’m so sorry, sweetie. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want. Let’s stay at the hotel and enjoy the sunshine at the hotel pool." "Not the pool. I’m not going near any water here," she answered, shuddering. He helped her into a taxi. The beat-up old car puttered past colorful street vendor stands selling fruit and snacks. The oily, spicy fumes of fried street food wafted into their car. Gracie’s stomach suddenly made an astoundingly loud rumbling noise. When Carter looked at her, she had a look of surprise and embarrassment on her face. "Uh, are you hungry, hon? We can stop and take something back to the hotel," he said. "Yes, please," Grace replied. She stared at a little stand where grilled meat was sold on sticks. "Can you bring a few of those please?" she asked. Carter looked at the long sticks, each of which had several hefty chunks of meat. The sizzling morsels glistened with grease and fatty bits and were expertly seared over a coal fire. The fragrance made Carter’s mouth water, but it seemed an unlikely treat for Gracie, who was more of a lean chicken breast person. He looked at her skeptically. "A few? I’m not sure I could eat a whole one," he laughed. "They look so good." Her stomach rumbled again, loudly. "I can put them in the fridge and eat the rest later." She was looking at the food almost longingly. Carter wondered if shock could cause bouts of enhanced appetite and asked the driver to stop for a moment. A few minutes later, he returned, carrying three skewers wrapped in silver foil. To his surprise, Gracie didn’t wait for them to reach the hotel before tucking in. She grabbed one of the wrapped skewers from the paper bag, tore the foil off and started eating. The grilled vegetables were unceremoniously discarded while she ripped pieces out of the steaming gobbets with her teeth. Juice ran over her lips and down her chin in rivulets, but she didn’t seem to notice. Carter hadn’t seen such a blissful, ecstatic expression on her face even during their lovemaking. She devoured the whole thing in a few minutes, and reached for the bag to take another one. Even the driver threw a few glances back at the small woman eating ravenously. "Whoa, chew your food, hon," Carter laughed. When they reached the hotel, Gracie grabbed the bag of food and walked back to their room while Carter paid the driver. He had to hurry to catch up with her, despite her injured foot. She sat down at the small glass table in the suite and immediately started on the last skewer. "I thought you didn’t like barbecue," Carter said. "Dish ish really good," she said, her mouth full of chewed meat. Carter shook his head and stared at her while she wolfed down another helping in a few minutes. She belched loudly and stood up, wiping her mouth with one hand. "Excuse me," she said absentmindedly. "That should tide you over until at least tomorrow’s breakfast, huh?" Carter replied, a little taken aback. "Actually I’m still hungry. Let’s get more food," she said. He raised his hands in a calming motion. "I think we need to go back to the hospital. Maybe you have a tapeworm or something." "Carter, I’m just HUNGRY," she spat. He took an involuntary step backward. There was an intense look in her eyes he couldn’t remember seeing before in five years of marriage and twelve years they knew each other. He tried to negotiate. "Let’s go back to the hospital and we can pick up some food on the way there, okay?" Gracie seemed to consider this, then walked outside without a word. He shook his head and started to follow when he saw something on her skin. "What do you have there?" he said. He ran his fingers over a few gray spots on the back of her neck. They were slightly raised and felt rubbery. Her skin felt hot to the touch. "Honey, are you running a fever?" he said. "Let’s get going," she replied curtly and walked away. Carter decided that the quicker they got to the hospital the better. They had to wait a quarter of an hour before another taxi turned up. Gracie was pacing up and down the pavement, agitated as if running late for an appointment. When their new ride reached the little marketplace where they’d picked up the skewers, Gracie got out without waiting for Carter. He hurried after her as she made a beeline to a stall where chickens were grilling on spits over a coal fire. She ordered two, and started eating one the moment the woman tending the stall handed her the first paper bag, with the other tucked under her arm. Holding the whole bird in one hand, she took rapid bites out of it as if she was eating an apple. "Hot, seniora, hot!" the woman said, laughing. Gracie paid her no mind. As they walked back to their taxi, Carter was astounded to see her gulp down the whole piping hot grilled chicken in less than two minutes. She almost inhaled the meat, barely chewing and absentmindedly dropping the splintered remains of bones on the ground. She was already tearing into the second helping when the taxi got going. "I’ll give you twenty extra if you get us there quicker!" Carter said to the driver. The man replied, "Si senor" and gunned the pedal. Gracie was sucking the meat off the chicken bones at speed, then discarding the gnawed remains on the car’s floor. It wasn’t long before there was nothing left to eat. "I’m hungry," Gracie said, looking around as if there might be more chicken she hadn’t noticed yet in the car. "I’m sure there’s something for you to eat at the hospital, honey," Carter replied. He was sweating. Gracie still looked around, as if unsure where she was. He noticed there were more of those gray spots on her lower jaw. They were raised like pustules and radiated from the jaw down to her neck. He wasn’t sure if that was an illusion from the car’s bumping on the road, but he could have sworn they were twitching. The taxi stopped at a traffic light and Gracie tried to open the door. "Honey, no!" Carter called out and tried to stop her from leaving. She pushed him away with savage force and he was stunned for a moment when he hit his head on the opposite door frame, crying out in pain. The driver shouted at him in Spanish when he followed after her. Gracie was running at full speed back the way they had come. He tried to keep up, but she didn’t seem to tire. Panting heavily and holding his aching side, he suddenly heard a car horn. The taxi driver had turned around and told him to get in. After a few minutes of driving, they saw a small crowd of people shouting and gesticulating in the street. "There!" The car stopped and Carter hurried out, towards the commotion. He pushed through the shouting people and saw another street vendor’s stand in the middle of the crowd: a butcher’s shop. Shanks of meat were on display, and half a pig and other animal parts were hanging from hooks. Gracie stood beside the cart and was gnawing on a raw goat leg, ripping chunks of meat off with her teeth. People were pointing at her and shouting "Esta loca!" A man in a butcher’s apron was lying on the ground, apparently knocked out. Nobody paid him any heed. "Gracie!" he called to her. She looked up from the bloody hunk of meat in her hands. The gray pustules were all over her now, giving her a diseased, bloated appearance. Her stomach was visibly distended, which made her look heavily pregnant. There didn’t seem to be any recognition of him in her eyes. Carter noticed a few spots had grown even on her eyeballs. "Oh God, honey! We need to get you to a doctor!" Carter cried out at the sight. In the crowd, some crossed themselves. In response, Gracie let loose an inhuman screech he would never have believed her to be capable of. She sprang away, still holding the half eaten goat leg. "No, wait!" Carter ran after her. Gracie ran past bushes and palm trees towards another stretch of beach. She somehow managed to take bites out of the meat while she ran. Carter followed as quickly as his tired legs and lungs allowed. Gracie waded out into the water where the waves washed around her knees. The gray spots had taken over most of her body, and grown out in big, mottled clumps that reminded him of the eel-centipede’s flesh. With a scream, he jumped at her, intending to wrestle her to the ground and keep her from escaping again. She swatted him away with frightening ease. He landed heavily on his side, sending a spray of water into the air. She hissed at him again, a sound like an angry cat. The whites of her eyes were fully covered in gray spots, leaving the blue of her pupils the only spot of color. There was no understanding in them, no recognition that they even belonged to the same species. "Gracie, please, don’t leave. We’ll find a way to fix you, I promise," he said, sobbing. She looked at him, teeth bared, giving no indication she understood. She tore her dress away with black, encrusted hands. Exuded slime formed translucent webs between the fingers. Long slits traced her torso, like slashing wounds that had stopped bleeding. She was growling, but there was a wet quality to the sound, as if her lungs were filling with fluid. She seemed to be struggling to breathe and crouched on all fours. Her webbed hands shoved water into the slits in her skin. As her new gills started working, her lungs breathed air for the last time. Further out, the force of the incoming waves rocked her back and forth. She continued undeterred, never looking back. "I love you! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me alone!" Carter shouted. He realized that she couldn’t, even if she wanted to. Her transformed body would suffocate outside of the water. Soon she was swimming out, her gray fins pumping with powerful strokes. Eventually she dove down, disappearing from sight completely. Carter stood on the beach, alone, shielding his eyes from the sun. There was only the sound of the waves and the wind, and seabirds cried in the distance.

No boy ever learned the concept of justice right off without the whipping post. Elective goodness seemed too complicated, too many fruits of temptation not to slip into vice and transgression. The trick, it seemed, was to sidestep a whipping or a clout to the head. Taking something that didn’t belong to you--many parents agreed on that sermonette--just wasn’t done. Walking the path of thievery was risky. You never knew if some stout mother lying in wait with a wooden spoon might lay a purple knot on your coconut. Sin and sanction seemed an abstraction easy enough to understand, but it was the Batman show that kept it clean. He was the one to thwart bad guys and to hand out sound floggings to whoever scoffed at the law. Yet, his little speech to Lydia Limpet that crime did not pay was an upside-down concept to me, all slogan and puffery, an untruth. I was determined to riddle his adage with holes of logic. Crime could pay, and pay well, and I set out one day to paint that highfalutin moon in blood. It was the Joker and his men stealing from the Ali Baba Jewelry Store that egged me on. I decided to hit the nearest emporium that trafficked in jewels, S.S. Kresge’s Department Store. That afternoon I pushed through the front door alone, meandered about the store, not a penny to my pocket. I wore no mask, no criminal’s costume, just the usual cap, obligatory striped shirt, dungarees and Keds. No adult noticed, no blowhard in a crime-fighting outfit stared me down. I drifted past the teal blue booths of Kresge’s grill and caught whiffs of greasy hamburgers, my mouth watering at the sight of a boy and his sister spooning through 25-cent hot fudge sundaes with whipped topping. Touring toys, I was light on my feet, fingering stock at the pegboard wall where hundreds of Hot Wheels hung stickered at the lofty cost of sixty-six cents each. I wanted something better, a talisman of some kind, a gem worn only in risqué social crowds. Loafing my way past the foul smells of overfed pet fish and sickly parakeets, I stopped at a display of coloring books and crayons before wandering to a center-aisle table overspread with women’s necklaces and bracelets. Crowning the mound was a glittering gold necklace chained to a pendant with an egg-shaped emerald. Its dark vision of eternity captivated my hands to pick it up and to give it a mystical rub. The verdant stone was undoubtedly worth millions, I decided. During those precious seconds of hypnosis, some sinister voice whispered to put it in my pocket. A flashback stirred, opulent images of the Joker’s cask of jewels. I remember him prancing through a museum of rare artifacts. He was a clown with the roar of a lion, a madcap of genius. His ambitious plan worked, and Princess Sandra was out one rare diamond. Why shouldn’t Kresge’s Department Store in Arlington Plaza, too, suffer a loss now and then? After all, Zelda the Great stole the Star of Samarkand, a shivering jawbreaker emerald, and was never once whipped with a switch or beaten with her father's belt. I spied at a short distance the old woman at the register, the perfect seconds of opportunity ticking. She was busy ringing up a heavyset lady whose cart was loaded down with Turkish towels, boxes of chocolate-covered peanuts, and oversized ladies’ underwear. This five-finger discount required baseball surveillance, a darting glance from under the bill of my cap. The coast was clear, aisles empty, no manager in sight. With the emerald necklace tucked in the palm of my hand, I ducked under the table of jewels. All I could see was a pair of pressed slacks passing by, set to the shuffling sound of soft-soled shoes. I was out of sight of the saggy-jowled lady, busy poking keys at the register like a song of prosperity. It was time for business. I slid the emerald into my front pocket and popped up. Down the aisles I began to fake browse, hobbled strangely by a limp. The hot beryl stone turned albatross, its fresh guilt greater than all my sinner’s stains. For that reason, I could not shake the peculiar gate with that emerald feeling every bit the size of a plum. The bulge in my pocket gave an awkward sensation of hiding a baseball. Even my leg hurt. Wandering from aisle to aisle, I was a wounded duck. Every moral sensation to dump the stone was met by the resilience of my inner bandit. I had the jewel and wasn’t about to turn loose of it. Finally, the customer up front had disappeared. No one occupied the space between the chrome divider and the checkout stand. My forehead flushed as I tottered toward the doors emblazoned "EXIT," my chest expanding and deflating like a football. I reached for the door handle when the old woman cried out, “Thank you for shopping Kresge’s!” The alarm of her voice spun me like a spinning top coming off its string. I grinned sheepishly and gave a feeble wave as she stood there snapping her gum, filing her nails absentmindedly. The immediacy of fresh air swirling into auto exhausts and the shifting smells of cigarettes and Plaza Donuts renewed my soul. I had a new lease on escape. No one raced after me, no one shouted, “Stop that boy!” And certainly not a soul striding along the plaza sidewalks realized I had just stolen the Emerald of the City. I strode under the covered walk, cut across an access drive to a perpendicular sidewalk, and continued past the state liquor store. I was quicksilver, a peasant boy looking to vamoose. A sensation came over me that no big cheese could stop me now. No feather was as light as my shoes breezing over the walk. J.C. Penney’s mannequins, normally a source of idle fascination, now blurred with hurry. I ignored, too, several half-smoked cigarettes discarded on the dirty walk, the Beacon Journal news box, and a payphone, where I customarily snapped the coin return in hopes of a ten-cent windfall. Escape was suddenly no pipedream, the end of the walk marked freedom. I threw a nervous glance over my shoulder and cleared the corner of Western Auto. I found myself behind the plaza facade. My breathing relaxed. A commercial dumpster met me there, anchoring the crest of a slow ramp that gave way to a sloping parking lot. The place was empty, just me and the brick walls. The Arlington Plaza was a coin, and I was free as a jailbird on her tails side, all barricade and brickwork. What an abrupt change from the store fronts, the heads side polished glass and inviting imagery. I dawdled there, eying the distant woods should I need to flee. I went to my pocket and studied the angular cuts of the emerald. I did not want the necklace. The links offered a trail back to pilferage, an unnecessary golden rope as evidence. I broke the chain from the pendant and lobbed it over the wall of the trash receptacle. What a burden to lose, nothing short of tossing a lady finger firecracker and getting away. The deed was done, as dirty as they come. I was lambing it now, a fugitive from the justice system of the Greater American Retailers of America. With the naked emerald in hand, I trotted off. For kicks I imagined police in pursuit. I built up my speed until my lungs were puffing to irregular rhythm. Slowing where the sewer creek gurgled under Virginia Avenue, I held up the booty against the sun’s rays and admired the stone. Solitude knew no greater measure than me standing there on a dirt bank shivering and shaking with forbidden excitement. I was free, a boy clutching the Emerald of the World. By the time I reached home, I had slipped the gem into my back pocket. On the porch I snapped the front door handle, slipped through the kitchen, and sealed up my bedroom door behind me with the airy sound of one’s face coming to rest on a pillow. With no door lock, I eased my baseball bat between the wall of the alcove and the door. There was no time to waste, one false move and I might wind up another failed swindler jigging to the leather strap. Batman would have bragging rights over what paid and what did not. I stashed the gem in a place no one would think of--inside my pillowcase. The escapade over, I laid back and rested easy, flipping through the latest copy of Highlights . Days went by before the delinquent’s ego got the better of me, however. I was bursting to share news of the heist. The caper was too big for me. I just had to spill. Inside our wobbly tree fort, all present raised hands and swore to secrecy. This was no small potato. Should just one nincompoop blab, authorities would chase me down like a hound dog, blindfold me, and line me up to face a firing squad. Among my coterie, Dean, the Birdman, and Chad, we had no snitches. I explained how I had pulled it off and even boasted that I would make a better Joker than the rube on Batman because my emerald had been hidden for days without even a whisper of suspicion. I was the man. This seemed a reasonable posture until the fateful afternoon of my mother’s discovery. I was riding my Tonka dump truck in the sandlot minding my own business when the maternal siren went up through the neighborhood. “Stevie! You get in here--right this instant!” I knew that unmistakable intonation of hysteria and anger. Its riveting truth shook me to the bone. I froze a second as the work zone went on around me, boys dozing tufts of grass, erecting new cities, blubbering out the sounds of gritty diesel engines. I ground dirt under my fingernails, dug my knee into the bed of the truck. “I’m coming,” I shouted and abandoned the truck along, my feet dragging through the neighbor’s yard for home. I practiced my surprised face, deciding to dress up disbelief as an ally. After all, I had done nothing wrong just now but play with pals. When I touched the handle to the front door, electricity ran through it. My mother was seated at the table. Her shoulders were slouched, eyes blank with inner thought, the emerald on display before her, a torn popsicle wrapper the only other item on the kitchen table. I plopped down. My mind spun with explanations like someone spitting out fifty-two playing cards. I settled on the Jack of Diamonds. That was the card, my warrant by which I would swear grimacing truths. “Where did you get this?” She tilted it beneath the yellowed kitchen bulb. I opened by pausing for time and offering questions of delay. “Uh--where? Where did I get it? Where did I get that?” “Yes, where did you get it--and don’t lie to me.” “Oh, no. I--I got it down by the slide. It was laying there . . .by the parking lot. And nobody wanted it. You can ask anybody.” I heard my voice chirp falsetto. She furrowed her brow, eyes piercing. “So, just laying there on the ground, huh? By the slide in the parking lot, is that what you’re telling me?” I nodded. She rose and padded into the other room. I found my moment of truth plagued by difficulty swallowing before calling after her. “Uh, yeah. Can I have some water?” My mother returned to the table, placing her well-worn leather edition of the King James Bible next to me. She shook her head to the request for a drink and leaned in. “Now, you put your hand on the Lord’s word,” she said, the tenor of her words offering a slight crackle. “And you look me in the eye and tell me here and now: Did you steal this? Yes, or no?” The sorrow of the moment could not have been greater, save for my father being present. This was the ultimate gauntlet of truth, the spiritual lair by which many a crook had succumbed to the absolute by which all others were weighed and found wanting. One liar’s hand there and you may as well write out your last will and testament. I swear I thought frostbite would set in as I placed a grubby hand on the Good Book. My lower lip began to shake, I sensed disaster would follow. My high-handed plans for an empire of jewels toppled right then. She had me cold, and I was done. Determining a just form of punishment remained the lone question. I nodded and studied the tiles of the kitchen floor, skipping one to the next while thinking, always thinking. I murmured something incoherently, uncertain myself what the string of words meant in English. “Why is it shiny then, like it just came from the store?” My toe tapped the floor like a woodpecker. My hand slipped from the Bible. I was falling apart. I pictured police detectives examining the crime scene, my picture tacked up in post offices across Ohio. “I don’t know. It just is.” “Stevie,” she continued. “Don’t put your chin down. You look me in the eye this time and tell me you didn’t take this from the Plaza.” I left the patterns of gold linoleum and glanced up. Her green eyes surely saw my heart harboring naked despair. I wished at that moment I were wearing the slitted mask of Batman. Were his words true, this entire misdeed an unbelievable prophecy? Crime does not pay. “Tell me!” “I don’t know if I did, Mom. I don’t think I did.” “Well, that's it. You are in for the day. No more playing outside,” she said resolutely. I nodded eagerly, acquiescing to the relatively light sentence, which nearly amounted to a governor’s reprieve. “That’s okay, Mom,” I said brightly. “I understand.” Perhaps my cheerfulness was too soon forthcoming because she wrinkled her brow for a second and added, “And your dad’s going to hear about this. So, go get your truck and get back here on the double.” That evening she revealed the scandal to my shiny-faced sisters as well, once we had gathered for dinner. They seemed uncharacteristically judicious but pleased upon hearing how I was the scoundrel and they were above the law, safe as stones buried in a mountain. Everyone else managed to enjoy supper. In the center of the table, Hamburger Helper ladled onto egg buns mounded over a serving dish, though I could barely chew, wadded bread left in my mouth with nowhere in particular to go. I stopped and concentrated on swallowing. I was to return the pendant and to pay for what I had stolen. I pictured myself blubbering at the counter while nearby adults were certain to sneer at the dishonest youth destined to become a sneak thief. My sentence also came with the spiritual mandate that I ask Jesus in private to forgive me because, apparently, there was little room in heaven for lowdown skunks who swipe costume jewelry from Kresge’s and then lie to the woman who brought them into the world. Lying there on my bunk bed that night, I ran my fingertips over the springs of the bed above me and hummed a bar of “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay,” not because I had forgotten the words to "How Great Thou Art" or any hymn but because the radio belonging to Oscar the Drunk down the sidewalk had been playing Otis Redding when we were last moving dirt with the trucks. It was in my head while my heart teetered somewhere over a dirty lake. I tried mostly that night to conjure up what my mother meant by looking for “inner peace with the Lord.” A spiritual awakening never did overtake me. Instead, I drifted off mumbling "If I should die before I wake." The remainder of my transfiguration was paid mystically in Monopoly scrip and hard truths: Crime did pay in emeralds--despite the epigram of Batman--but in heaven, golden harps. Punishment for my crime began with isolation, a spirit buster for any wayward kid. Being sentenced to the bedroom with a monastic indulgence of being allowed out for meals only felt cruel and unusual, sans any appellate process. During each meal, I noticed my sisters making little eye contact with the boy rogue, my jokes returned by faces of indifference, the clatter of silverware, and deadpanned calls to pass this or pass that. Grounded for days and staring through my bedroom window, I studied the tops of trees on bluebird days and noticed how those same trees roared with movement whenever a storm rushed up. Doing time was no joke. The slow turning between fair and foul weather led to a reverie of the good old days. Memories got the better of me: How I had once been free to ride a bike, to work a yo-yo for hours, to triumph at marbles. Eventually, I was released on probation for good behavior and wandered off to the woods. The new mood replaced my normal sense of genuine hope with institutional cynicism. I needed to do better. That was that. My rehabilitation began at the edge of the woods where a king maple stood fifty feet high and change, as great as the stars on clear nights. Scott Johnson had scaled the tree and looped two ropes over a sky branch, the rope’s ends dangling to the ground. I came upon him threading one end through the punched-out hole of a swing seat, four corners of a rectangular piece of scrap wood.

“Rebel and defend your rights,” “Don’t let the government bullies push you around,” “Do we live in a democracy or not?”--the loud slogans blasted across every window on Karen Singleford’s new car and shouted from the door of her two-bedroom walkup in the Seacrest Arms Luxury Apartment complex. Karen, the single mother of two pre-teen sons, Harry and Jarod, made no secret of her disdain for “health regulations” imposed during the influenza endemic and what she considered the clear danger they presented to her freedom to live life her way and to raise her boys free from bureaucratic interference. Two floors above her, however, ER nurse Nancy Huffingly felt she had experienced enough of the fatal disease close up to religiously follow all the mandates and to condemn those who “posed a real danger to themselves, their families and their neighbors.” Nancy felt she had seen too many hard-working people deprived of their loved ones too early in life due to the ravages of the illness that had taken over her quiet town. She had no problem writing scorching editorials to all forms of social media and the more traditional forms of communication to those in the tiny rural enclave in which both women lived. Sure, Nancy had seen Jan, a fellow nurse and her best friend, undergo a tortious reaction to her third booster of the influenza vaccine. But, thankfully, Jan had recovered after two weeks and the doctors at their hospital saw no lasting effects from the shot. Both Nancy and Jan had come to the realization that Jan’s suffering had been a minor price to pay for living the rest of her life. All medical “experts” consulted by the two nurses agreed wholeheartedly. Karen, however, remained convinced that the vaccination and other requirements imposed during the flu outbreak did nothing to make her life better and ultimately would lead to more totalitarian control of her pleasant suburban life. She also felt Jan’s condition proved the uselessness and danger of the restrictions. For six months the two neighbors loudly attacked each other on social media, in the traditional community press and in person. It got to the point where they couldn’t simply pass each other in the apartment complex hallways or each other without minor skirmishes breaking out. The other tenants also began to complain that they could not live in peace in the complex, and some of the fighting also resulted in damage to both women’s apartments. It got to the point where apartment superintendent Ralph Jacobson warned the bickering belligerents that, if they didn’t call a truce shortly, the authorities would be called and eviction proceedings would begin. That was until the fateful day on June 25, 2022. That morning Jarod woke up with a blazing fever and vomited up every scrap of food his mother fed him. He also told his mother he had lost all taste for the little bit of food he kept down. Karen, who could least afford it on her low-level food server’s salary, stayed home to take her son to the ER and nurse him to recovery as she worried about the future of her small family. Contrary to “theories” advanced by her doctor and the hospital’s other physicians, the young mother swore Jarod’s illness came from the unusually cold and wet weather plaguing their resort community for the last two weeks and not from the disease the bureaucrats used to justify their restrictions. Two weeks later it looked like Karen’s “traditional” remedies had helped Jarod to turn the corner to recovery and she took him home. The recovery proved to be short-lived and the boy’s symptoms began to return. Karen’s physician said the influenza that, in fact, had forced him into bed for several days had returned and might endanger his life. Karen still stubbornly refused to allow her actions to be dictated by the “autocrats whose restrictions ultimately will land this entire country in a social prison.” She continued to minister to her son with “the tried and true methods that have served myself and my family for generations” while stubbornly refusing to give in to any demand to vaccinate Jarod. Jarod appeared to rally at times, but, immediately after each period of turnaround, it looked like his life would slip away for the final time. Karen reluctantly rushed him back into the ER and allowed the doctors to treat him using the updated methods that their training told them would bring her son “back from the brink.” “However,” she warned, “I will not allow them to inject my son with a vaccination that they and their fellow autocrats have used as an excuse to attack everything I believe in.” Finally, when it looked like “traditional” and “modern” medicine had come to a standoff, Karen’s “ideological archenemy,” Nancy, prevailed upon the medical community and government officials to accept a compromise that she believed would save the day. After several heated meetings with the doctors with whom Nancy worked and Karen all involved decided to continue with Karen’s favored treatment. After three days, with only minor progress, the young mother agreed to have her son receive all three doses of the influenza vaccination. Government officials agreed, however, to lift all restrictions and to make treatment voluntary accompanied with constant consultations between members of the medical community and those who supported Karen’s point of view. Following a tense 48 hours during which Jarod slipped in and out of consciousness several times and again seemed on the edge of death, he recovered. Hospital staff released him four days later. Although the disease did not completely let go of its hold on the boy for another two weeks, little sign of the influenza remained. Karen and Nancy began working together with a number of world-renowned medical professionals to disseminate their combined treatment. The voluntary acceptance of the now-improved vaccination combined with improved testing techniques and advances in post-disease treatments greatly reduced the toll the disease took on people around the globe. The seriousness of the influenza and the almost total elimination of fatalities spread throughout their small community and around the world.

Rustlers? “You two gonna pag-nag back there all day? We got beeves to round-up. And I for one want to get back to the ranch house tonight for one decent meal for the week.” “Lighten up there, K-Keyes. Who d-died and left you in ch-charge anyway? We all got equal b-billing with the B-big B-boss.” “Then hustle up there, Stinky.” “W-wish ya didn't call me that no m-more. That encounter with th-that polecat was so long ago his stripes have f-faded away by now and he would just be a c-cuddly p-pussycat.” “Been calling you 'Stinky' for so long don't even know what your name was. What does it matter. We all go by some sort of nick-name. 'Slim' there because he is and 'Tiny' because he isn't. I don't even play the ivories much anymore yet you call me 'Keyes'. Just gotta keep with 'Stinky' 'cause it sticks. Quit ya belly-achin'.” “Well, don't ya'll ever ca-a-all me late for dinner.” “Don't worry so much, Tiny. You have enough saved up ya could miss a meal or two.” “Ha-ha. Ya'll too funny!” “Hey, Fellas, see what I sees?” “What is it, Slim?” “Couple riders atop that ridge yonder. Looks like they's a drivin' some beeves 'afore 'em. Think might be a rustlin' some of ours?” “If they are that's a hanging offense. Let's ride over closer so they see us. If they bolt we know they are up no good and we can shoot them down. Stinky, you hang back some and keep your rifle trained on them for back-up. Otherwise, we just need to get their story. Could be passing through is all. Big Boss owns so much land it is impossible to always go around.” “Sure is pretty land we're passing through, wouldn't you agree, Red Eagle? Grass so green stretching out far and wide. Trickle of a stream in that valley. Maybe we should steer these steers down there for a drink. Looks like they have that same idea anyway. Thirsty cattle can smell water and we have kept them on the move for a long spell already.” “Harrumph.” “Wonder whose land we are on? Haven't seen a homestead for over two days. Hope we aren't trespassing. Not all these landowners are the friendly type who don't mind you passing through.” “Riders.” “Yeah, I see them now. Don't have guns drawn. Maybe won't be a problem. Perhaps we can get their permission to carry on or they can point us to a way around if they don't want us here.” “HOLD UP THERE! State your business, Strangers.” “Howdy, Neighbors. We come on friendly terms. Name is Marcy, Ford Marcy. Just passing through on our way from Texas. Got about a hundred head of longhorns from my father's ranch down near Fort Worth that my friend, Red Eagle, and I are driving to his Osage tribe hold up in the Indian territory, northern part of Oklahoma. Sorry, we didn't know who this land belongs to in order to ask permission to pass. Would that be you?” “Well, now it just might be. A hundred head, you say. That don't sound like it would be very profitable for all the trouble.” “We aren't in it for the money. My father's cattle have been reproducing like crazy so now that the war is over he needs to move some of them. Red Eagles' people need the meat now they can't hunt buffalo. I am headed to Kansas to marry my sweetheart I met last spring on the wagon train I was leading westward. After some tragedies she bailed out and I promised I would be back. Oh, that's way too much information. The two of us couldn't wrangle any more than this herd. So here we are. Been eatin' dust 'bout two weeks already with about that much still to go. Do you need to see our ID papers? Guess that would stand in for a bill of sale. Pops is doing this out of the kindness of his heart. No money is exchanging hands.” “You are right. That is more information than we need. Let us just take a look at the brands and make sure none of ours are accidentally getting mixed in.” “Oh, by all means, but if that has happened it has been totally their own idea. Can't help it your fellas like the looks of our girls, you understand. You are welcome to cut them out. We have our hands full just keeping them together and headed in the right direction. Hard to keep count. We have been tracking in a general northeastern path following some of the rivers. Where exactly are we anyway?” “Hey, Keyes, remembers what some of those drovers in town warns us about Texan longhorns? Might have some tick diseases. Don't wants them mixing with ours.” “You are right, Slim. Marcy, you might have to buy any of ours that have attached themselves to your herd.” “Whoa, that wasn't in the plans. I have never heard of any problems with our herd. Would you know what to look for?” “Not me or the boys here but our Big Boss might. We were hoping to get back into the ranch tonight. Maybe we can check with him. It is going to take you at least a day to pass through his land anyway.” “Be much obliged.” “Come on, Fellas, let's have a look see.” “Mind if I tag along? Want to take a closer look at their health. Stay here, Red Eagle, make sure none are cutting back behind.” “Humph.” “He sure don't say much, does he. Isn't it kind of lonely out on the trail with someone who doesn't talk?” “Most of the time we are on opposite sides of the herd anyway but you have a point. All of your guys talkative?” “Sometimes way too much. That Stinky never wants to shut up does he, Tiny?” “Y'all right 'bout that, Keyes.” “So you are 'Keyes', 'Tiny' is the one not so tiny and 'Slim' is the tall thin guy. Got that but who is 'Stinky'?” “Oh, he is up on the ridge watching over things.” “I take it you try to keep him separate because of his name?” “Oh, no. That's just a hold over from childhood days when he got too close to a polecat.” “Hows ya manage with a native as ya companion? He looks mighty fierce and none too friendly.” “Don't worry, Slim. His best quality is loyalty. And that means a lot. Just like all of you seem very loyal to this Big Boss. Tell me about him.” “Well, he is big, very BIG. And he is the Boss, very Bossy. What more is there to say?” “Well, Slim. We could tell how generous he is.” “Y'all means like when he lets us share his ribs, Keyes?” “Yeah, there is that,Tiny, but he treats us well.” “He has ta if he wants our help. This too big a place to run alone. But I sure does likes his ribs. Da ya remember the one from down Laredo way? She was so-o luscious... “ “Okay, Tiny, I don't think he needs to know everything. Let's look over these beeves.”

The sky is an unsettling dark gray with very thick clouds. Nothing about this beach is right. The sand isn't that beautiful white sand I remember from my visits to Florida's gulf coast. Instead it's the dingy brown sand you'd find along the eastern seaboard. The waves crash violently instead of gently lapping the shore like they did previously. The shore line itself is covered in washed up seaweed. Ever since that one conversation I have a lot less control over the environment. I can pick the location, but not the details. At least Vanessa looks nice. She's wearing the same green dress that she had on when I first met her. Her jet black hair is tied back in a lovely braid. The contrast of her tan complection with her green eyes is still incredible. Except now I see a deep seated despair in those eyes. She glances down at the pistol in my hand. "How do you want to do this?" she asks. "I really don't want to do it at all." "I know, and I hate to put such a burden on your shoulders. But, we already tried the other way, and it didn't work. This is the only alternative I can come up with. I think that you have to push me out of this reality for it to be permanent." "Are you sure this won't kill you in real life?" "I didn't die last time. I just woke up. I think that's a good sign." "Vanessa, I..." she cuts me off, already knowing the words before I even speak them. "Don't say it, please." "I understand. We'd better go ahead. Just turn around and look at the water." I wish I could have given her a better view. Like the beach we stood on before. She turns to face away from me. I take one last look at the way the dress shows off her shape nicely. I raise the gun and take aim at the back of her head. I'm holding it less than six inches away. At this distance I can't miss. I hesitate for a moment and I'm not sure if I have it in me to do this. I have to force it to happen. I feel my finger slowly begin to put pressure on the trigger. \*\*\*\* Vanessa and I are on the rooftop where we danced before. Except this time there's no sound of a Latin street band below, playing that song that she sang along with in Spanish. Now there's mostly just the noise of a heavy wind. There's a sharp chill in the air. This feels more like New York weather than Miami. She sits on the roof ledge and explains her idea. "If I die in here then that should sever this link between us. Then I can live my life, and you can have your own dreams again. You can build the world you want." "I wish it didn't have to be this way. For what it's worth, I'm sorry for the pain I've caused you." "It's not your fault. I got carried away, and I should have been honest with you from the start. I hope that you'll find someone new, and give her the kind of experiences that you gave me." "If I ever figure this out, I'll definitely try it." She turns herself around facing the ten story drop below. "Goodbye Kevin." she says as she pushes herself off of the ledge. She doesn't scream as she falls. Suddenly I hear the impact. It's a loud thud of something smashing against metal as if she landed on a car below. It jolts me awake, and I lie in bed feeling my heart pounding inside of my chest. \*\*\*\* We're alone in a deluxe hotel penthouse suite. I'm still lying down in the wonderful king size bed. Vanessa is up and looking out the window. I can see in her face that something is bothering her, but I'm not sure what it is. She turns and looks at me. "Kevin, " she begins, "I can't keep doing this." "Why not?" I inquire. She walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. "I need to tell you something.” she says. “Out there in the real world, I'm married. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have kept that from you." She pauses for a moment to let the news sink in. I'm silent, not knowing what to say. Vanessa continues. "I justified this little adventure we've been having because we weren't doing it in real life. But when I’m awake, I'm starting to think about you more often. I can't do that, my husband is a good man, and we have a good life together. I can’t let things that happen in a dream interfere with that." I take a deep breath before speaking. "I understand. This leaves one big question though. How do we stop?" "I don’t know. We’ll have to figure that part out." \*\*\*\* The beach sand is a pristine shade of white, that looks amazing in the sunset. Waves of crystal clear water gently roll in and back out. The air temperature is perfect. I'm relaxing in a beach lounge chair with lots of cushioning, covered by a big blanket. The lounger is double the normal width, which is great since it allows plenty of room for her. She's lying next to me, and my arms are around her. She looks into my eyes and smiles. "This was fun, " she says. " and the beach scene was a nice touch." "I'm glad I wasn't the only one enjoying it." "I'm getting that feeling, like we're gonna wake up soon. Or, at least I am." "Yeah, I'm feeling it too. Hopefully we'll meet up again." "I'm sure we will. It's been pretty consistent so far." "Well, I'll tell you what. While you're awake, think about some different environments you'd like to try, and places to see for next time." "Will do." We lean in and end things with a kiss as I hear the sound of my alarm off in the distance. \*\*\*\* I've been experimenting with lucid dreaming for about five months now. I'm starting to get the hang of it. I've finally reached the point where I can start to control the environment, so I've been exploring different places. This time I'm in a park, looking at a pond with a dozen or so ducks swimming around. "Nice day." I hear a woman's voice say. I turn and look to see her approaching. She's 5'8 and slender. She has a tan complexion, and jet black hair going just past her shoulders. The dress she's wearing is emerald green, and fits just right, showing off the contours nicely. Its color matches her eyes perfectly. "Yes it is." I reply, "I'm Kevin, nice to meet you." "I'm Vanessa. It's nice to meet you too." "So, Vanessa, what brings you here?" "I don't know. This is where my dream started." "Your dream? What do you mean by that?" "I'm a lucid dreamer. I haven't actually had a full conversation with a dream character before, so this is new to me." "Ah, well, I'm not sure how to break this to you, but I'm not a character, and I'm dreaming right now as well. In fact, this is the environment I created for my dream." "What? How is this possible?" "I have no idea." "Well, what are you planning to do while you're here?" "I don't have a set plan, I'm just exploring. Since you're along for the adventure, maybe we should take a walk, and get to know each other better." I reach out my hand for her to take hold of. She looks at it and grins. "Okay, but we have to come to an understanding on one thing first." "What's that?" "Under no circumstances are you getting into my pants." she says, trying to sound very serious. I can't resist the opportunity to say what I'm thinking. "You're not wearing pants." I reply. She gives me a mischievous half smile, and takes my hand anyway.

He had endured a lengthy career. In recent years he had also become aware that his end date in the workplace loomed ever nearer. The signs were everywhere. Interaction with his coworkers had become non-existent. There was a time when all he seemed to do was attend meetings. He had shaken his head and complained to his wife often, explaining that he worked long hours because he could not complete his work because of all the meetings he had to attend. Everyone wanted to hear his opinion. Now he was invisible. He received invitations to only the most general meetings, the kind that was directed at everyone on the team. Yesterday he had overheard his frenemy John refer to him as a dinosaur. The company had initially been a small mom-and-pop type. Bill started working for the company in accounting when he was twenty-eight. The owner was eccentric but devoted to the company and had a strong work ethic. Bill found the owner's behavior more amusing than irritating, and they developed a solid working relationship over the years. The accounting team consisted of the owner's wife and Bill. Twelve years after Bill signed on, the owner's wife, who headed up accounting, retired. Ten years later, the owner retired and turned the business over to his son. To Bill's chagrin, the owner's son was far less ambitious and smug. Bill knew he needed to get on the son's right side once he had taken over operations. So, being an opportunist, he seized the opportunity to expand his territory. Bill offered to become the go-to guy for the third-party IT company that managed the company's network. He had laid it on thick about how the son must be overwhelmed taking on so much responsibility. His delivery was convincing, and he was rewarded with more work but no more pay. Nevertheless, the son managed to keep the company profitable despite his lack of interest and engagement for five years. Then unexpectedly, a large firm looking to expand into the area offered to buy the company. For months it was like watching a tennis match as the offers and refusals went back and forth. Then, finally, a deal was struck, and the unambitious, smug son who had inherited the business became a multi-millionaire. Bill knew he was the reason for the son's continued success. Yet the son did not offer even a small parting gift to Bill for all those years of shouldering the lion's share of the work. On the other hand, the new owner recognized Bill's abilities and offered Bill an increase in salary and a significant retention bonus. Bill accepted the offer without hesitation. There were multiple reasons for Bill's decision to remain. First, he did not want to look for a new job. He liked the new owner well enough and especially liked the independence the new owner allowed him. Secondly, his two children would soon be of college age with a college fund that was sorely lacking. They had been forced to borrow from the college fund years ago when one of the cars stopped running. The car had over two hundred thirty thousand miles on it, and the mechanic said there was just no fixing it. The intent was always to repay the college funds. Then came the leaky roof that had to be replaced, closely followed by a replacement for the twenty-four-year-old HVAC. Then, one by one, the other appliances died and had to be replaced. He was grateful that his wife had chosen to leave the workplace and stay at home while the children were young. His workdays were long, and weekend work was necessary at least once a month. The bulk of the responsibilities of parenting rested squarely on her shoulders. This had been an ongoing point of contention between them throughout the years. And while it was true that he was often not there, what alternative was there? He was the sole provider for their little family of four. As the children got older, he became less grateful for his stay-at-home wife. It would have been a welcome change to have the extra income if she worked part-time. Although they had this discussion regularly, his wife was decidedly against it. She argued that the teenage years are critical to keeping children on the right path. He agreed wholeheartedly with the premise. He did not understand precisely what she did for seven hours a day while the children were in school. Not that it mattered. She had no intention of returning to work, and he knew that. The college funds had never been replenished, and the repayment of college loans rested squarely on him as usual. Over the next fifteen years, there were three more mergers and acquisitions. Bill survived each of them, and John thrived. John was promoted to Manager of Information Technology in the latest buyout. The new owner had explained to Bill that John's education and experience were best aligned with the IT role. He went on to say how much he appreciated all the years Bill had invested and all the demanding work he had managed. It is time for you to take a breath and return to your roots in accounting. Bill was not an idiot, he knew it was only because John was younger, and he was what they would have called a bootlicker in days gone by. It was so unfair and made Bill feel salty. He swallowed the contempt and congratulated John each time he received another unearned accolade. Those years in accounting had served him well. Bill was a planner. He had begun work on a parachute plan years ago. Being the go-to guy in IT had advantages too. He learned so many new things, such as how to design a worm and all about spoofing. The worm he had designed lay dormant, but on January 1, it would come to life. January 1st and 2nd are companywide holidays. It was also when the system backup for the year was generated to set the stage for closing the books on the last year and setting up the new year. The worm's payload would remove operating files and overload the web server, which would cripple the system. There would be no alerts or alarms because they had been disabled. John, the new IT manager, would know something was wrong on January 2 when he set up the script to open a new year. It would take an external systems expert to assess the damage and develop a restoration plan. Then, when the audit was complete, all signs would point to his best frenemy, John. He had not even had to spoof John's IP address. He covered for John when he was on vacation. John had left his laptop behind because he was receiving a new one, and the old one was needed to transfer files and duplicate network settings. It was a cinch to plant the worm on his old computer, which was then transferred to the new computer. In addition, the old computer was wiped clean, so no evidence was left behind. Bill was eavesdropping yesterday evening, as was his habit when he worked late. He learned the current owner is looking to go public with an IPO at the first of the new year. That may not be a bad idea, thought Bill, thinking of the stock awarded to him in place of the richly deserved bonuses. If he retired and sold the stock at year-end, he may come out ahead of the game for once. The owner then said, "pump-and-dump," a vaguely familiar term. He almost held his breath as he listened closely to the rest of the conversation and quietly exited. It was true after all that good things come to those who wait. Bill had hardly slept last night. He had made the decision to postpone his retirement and go another round. He had options now. Option one, ride it out a little longer and time his retirement and the selling of his stock with the pump-and-dump scheme. But, of course, no one would ever believe that bumbling, old Bill was savvy enough to be part of such a slick scheme even if he reaped the benefits. Option two, choose to be a whistleblower, and receive a significant reward along with the title of hero. He typed notification of retirement in the search box on his computer. The file popped up, and he removed it. He then emptied his trash file. Suddenly he realized the icing on the cake was that he would be there watching the year-end debacle up close, and Bill smiled the first genuine smile in a long time.

Kat woke on a Saturday morning and hurled curses at the sky. She was supposed to be boarding a plane to Fiji in a few hours, but the completely inconsiderate weathercaster on the news had informed her that an impending monster snowstorm amassing off the eastern seaboard was going to ground all air travel in and out of New York. Kat was staring out her window, willing the dark clouds away when the phone rang. Her sister’s face appeared on the screen and Kat let out a heavy sigh before answering. “Dana,” she said with forced brightness. “Kat,” Dana replied, with sincere brightness. Nothing was ever forced or faked with Dana. She was the most annoyingly authentic person Kat had ever met. “Where are you headed for the holidays this year?” Dana asked. “I was going to Fiji,” Kat mumbled. “But there's a storm coming.” “That's great!” Kat knew she'd made a grave mistake telling her sister that she'd be stuck at home. There was an air of triumph in Dana’s tone, and Kat wondered if she had somehow orchestrated the blizzard. “You can come home for Christmas then,” Dana said. Kat could just picture her expression, somehow glowing and smug at the same time. “No way,” Kat protested. “I am not driving to Connecticut.” “You can make it before the storm gets bad if you leave right now,” Dana said. “Everyone would love to see you.” “Doubt it.” “Kat’s free for Christmas!” Dana shouted to someone in the background. “Dana!” Kat exclaimed, alarmed. “Do not tell people that I'm coming home for Christmas.” “She's coming home for Christmas!” “I am going to throttle you.” “Aunt Charlize is already planning to set another place at the table, so it's settled,” Dana said, utterly unfazed by Kat’s threats. “See you in a couple hours!” There was a click and Kat stared at her phone, incredulous, wondering what the hell just happened. She glanced at her suitcases, packed with sunscreen and bikinis and a floppy sun hat. Not at all suited to a Christmas in Belbridge. Kat dragged herself off the couch and dumped out all her Fiji gear, refilling the suitcase with gloves and beanies and sweaters. She rifled through the closet for some sturdy snow boots and clomped outside into the frigid air, glaring at the dark clouds again. “This is your fault,” she muttered, shoving her suitcase into the trunk. A few flakes of snow drifted down, mocking her. Kat filled up the gas tank and headed north, not sure why she'd let her sister bully her into going home. She hadn't been home for Christmas, or anything else, in six years. The fight she'd had with her parents before she left was so epic in scale that she thought she could still hear it, like a stubborn echo. Maybe it seemed cruel for Kat to reject the family legacy and leave, after Zach. But she needed to live her own life and his responsibilities had been thrust upon her while she was still reeling from his loss. Kat’s big brother had been like a lighthouse, a shining beacon of safety in the dark. She felt unmoored without him. Zach was primed to take over the family restaurant as the oldest, and the one who loved the place most. Their parents thought Kat should become the new future owner as a way to honor him, but Kat felt that the best way to honor him was to do what he'd always told her to do: chase her dreams. And Kat’s dreams were filled with shutter clicks and capturing moments in time, preserving them forever. Making the perfect cinnamon roll or serving coffee to locals and foliage chasing tourists was fine, but not for Kat. As she approached the snow-dusted Welcome to Belbridge sign her hands tightened on the steering wheel. The town was positively bedecked in holiday cheer. Lights strung up everywhere, Christmas trees glittering in front windows, and a picturesque sprinkling of snow. It looked like a scene set for a Christmas card. Kat hated that she wanted to stop and snap a photo of it. She had rejected Christmas after Zach’s death, the whole month of December cast in shadows and jagged edges since he'd hit a patch of ice on a road he'd driven a million times before. It hardly seemed fair that you could know something so well and still have it betray you. Roads were a lot like people that way, she supposed. Kat parked in front of her childhood home and eyed the Christmas wreath on the front door like it might come to life and bite her. She didn't think the world had any business being so damn holly jolly. She didn't get out of the car until her phone rang, Dana’s smiling face lighting up her screen yet again. “I know you’re outside,” Dana said, by way of greeting. “Stop being a baby and get out of the car.” “I am not being a baby,” Kat said, affronted. “You’re being a huge baby. Come inside before I send Josh out to get you.” Scowling, Kat cut the engine and climbed out of the car, walking up to the front door and its homemade wreath with all the cheer of a woman sent to the gallows. She raised a hand to ring the bell but before she could, it swung open. Dana stood there in a bright green sweater and a reindeer antler headband nestled in her brown curls. Her necklace and earrings were silver snowflakes, and her nails were painted green and gold. She was Christmas personified. Her lips pulled up in that obnoxiously infectious grin. “Kat!” she exclaimed, as if she hadn't just been threatening her on the phone. She yanked Kat into a hug, freakishly strong in her holiday fueled affection. “It's so good to see you. You look amazing, how was the drive?” Dana didn't give Kat much chance to answer any of her rapid fire questions as she led her into the depths of the house. Kat followed dutifully behind her little sister, trailing her fingers over the familiar wallpaper. “Kat’s here!” Dana announced, pulling her into the living room. Kat stood there in her dark coat, standing out in the sea of green and gold and red. Her family glowed in the light from the giant fireplace while she looked like the ghost of Christmas future come to terrify Scrooge into not being such a dick. “Um. Hi,” she said dumbly. “Kat, sweetie, it's wonderful to see you! It's been so long!” Aunt Charlize enveloped her in a hug and Kat was overwhelmed with the smell of gingerbread and Dior perfume. Charlize seemed to break the slight tension bubble that had formed when Kat stepped into the room. Her other aunts and uncles and handful of cousins all offered waves and hellos and a few more hugs. Dana’s boyfriend Josh gave her a warm smile. The two of them had been together since their sophomore year in high school. Kat was shuffled through the room on a tide of familial greetings until she found herself standing before her parents. She felt eighteen again, standing before them declaring that she wanted to be a photographer instead of being part of the family legacy. Her father had turned the color of a fresh beet at the notion of her running off to a big city to be a starving artist instead of embracing the stability their family had created. Her mother said she'd be home within a month, begging their forgiveness. The fight had been loud and angry, punctuated with harsh words. And Kat had never come home, until now. “Kathleen,” her mother said, taking her in. “We weren't sure if you were really going to come.” “Well...here I am,” Kat replied, wondering if her attempt at a smile looked real or if she just looked constipated. It was hard to tell exactly what Marian DeStefano was thinking. The woman had the best poker face in the world when it suited her. But where Marian could be a vault when she pleased, her husband was an open book. Kat saw remnants of hurt and anger on his face that mirrored her own, but there was warmth there too, and he pulled her into a hug. Kat was horrified to find herself feeling an urge to cry. “It's nice to have everyone home for the holiday,” he said. Kat felt her breath catch, throat burning. Not everyone. It would never be everyone again. She had said as much back then, screaming at them that it was wrong to put up lights and a tree and go on with celebrations when there was a Zach-shaped hole in their lives. But she held back from saying anything now. Dana’s eyes were flicking back and forth between them, and Kat didn't want to be the one to start a fight five minutes after walking in the door. “It's good to see you guys,” she said instead. She thought Dana might have sighed with relief. Awkward hellos over, the household settled into easy chatter. Kat wandered the room looking at the dozens of pictures, memories settling over her like a heavy blanket. If she was the ghost of Christmas future, this house was filled with the ghost of Christmas past. She stopped in front of a family portrait, taken the year before Zach died. He was smiling and dressed in a nice outfit, while fifteen year old Kat had insisted on wearing all black. A little Dana was beaming with a smile that nearly took up her whole face. They were such a cliche; the golden eldest boy, the moody middle child, and the carefree baby of the family. Dana could get anyone wrapped around her finger within five minutes of knowing them. It was hard to tell Dana no. Disappointing her was like kicking a golden retriever; something only a true monster would do. Kat sighed. It was December 22, which meant she had to endure at least three days of family and festiveness. The giant tree in the front room looked like it could barely take the weight of all the ornaments hanging off of it, and the house smelled like Christmas cookies. It was like Santa Claus and his elves had a rager and barfed all over this place. But Kat stuffed down her jaded complaints and endured dinner with her family. She thought it was going okay until she said she should get going to book a room at the B&B, and quickly realized she'd said the wrong thing. “Why don't you stay here?” Marian frowned. “You can use your old room.” “I don't want to impose.” “This is your home, Kat.” “Is it really, though?” Kat asked. She immediately wished she could snatch the words back, but they hung in the air like a guillotine blade poised to drop. “I see,” Marian said tightly. “Well, if that's how you feel, then you can of course go. I hope you’ll at least show up at the Christmas Eve party at the restaurant.” “The ugly sweater party? You still do that?” “We still do a lot of things here,” Marian said. “You'd know if you'd ever bothered to come home.” “I didn't come home because I didn't think you'd want to see me, considering you practically disowned me when I left,” Kat ground out. “We did no such thing. Don't be dramatic.” “I’m going to the B&B.” Kat stood, her face hot. Dana followed her down the hall. “Come on Kat, please don't go,” she said. “I knew this was a bad idea.” Kat shoved her arms into her coat sleeves. “You needed to come home,” Dana said, expression stern and at odds with that stupid reindeer headband. She grabbed Kat’s arm as she prepared to march outside. “Please come to the ugly sweater party,” she said, and the naked plea in her tone evaporated some of Kat’s anger. She sighed. “I'll be there,” she muttered. “But I don't have an ugly sweater.” “I have one for you.” “Of course you do.” Kat looked at her sister with fondness and exasperation, promising again that she'd be there. It was a tradition her parents had hosted for years. Christmas Eve brunch and a spirited ugly sweater contest. The only time they had ever skipped it was the year Zach died, because they had to make funeral preparations instead. After a night spent tossing and turning, Kat ventured out into the snowy wonderland of her hometown and wandered aimlessly. She saw everything in double, like a sequence of before and after shots. She rounded the corner onto Main. Old habits. She drew to a halt and stared at the restaurant across the street. Her grandfather had started the place, naming it Mabel’s in honor of her grandma. It was now a Belbridge institution. Kat pulled her gaze away, but did a double take as a familiar face walked out, shrugging into a winter coat. “Alex?” Kat only whispered his name but it was like he heard anyway, because he paused and looked up, catching her eye. He blinked in surprise, then smiled. “Kat! You're really here.” Alex jogged across the street to where she stood. Kat remembered him in his tux on prom night. His shoulders were broader now, his face in slight need of a shave. His eyebrows lifted and she realized she was staring. “I’m here,” she agreed. “I wasn't sure if Dana was just messing with me when she said you were coming back.” “She strong-armed me into it.” “I’m glad.” Kat was suddenly a schoolgirl with a crush again, her cheeks heating. “You on your way to Mabel’s?” he asked and she quickly shook her head. “Want to come with me then? I promised Mrs. Vernicek I’d come fix her decorations. The Santa on her roof fell down.” “What a tragedy.” Alex had the same old pickup he'd driven in high school, a faded blue hunk of metal with a bench seat that he lovingly kept in running condition. After he’d rescued poor Santa and narrowly avoided sliding off the roof himself, he asked if Kat wanted to grab a drink. She planned on having a few sips of eggnog and reminiscing about old times, but the universe cared little for Kat’s plans. The eggnog was strong and in the morning she did not wake up in her room at the B&B. “Hell of a way to reminisce,” she muttered, her head swimming slightly. “Who needs reminiscing when you can just do a prom night reenactment,” Alex said. Kat smacked him in the face with a pillow. “God, is that the time?” she groaned. “I’m going to be late for the ugly sweater party.” “I’m going too. I'll give you a ride.” Kat was pulling her boots on when Alex stepped out of his room wearing a garish red and yellow sweater that had a plastic T-Rex head hanging off of it, over the words “Merry T-Rexmas.” She stared at him in abject horror. “What? Ugly is the goal,” he grinned. Kat grimaced at the thought of what Dana had picked for her. Kat only had one leg out of the truck when her sister accosted her. “I tried to bring you your sweater this morning but you weren't at the B&B,” Dana said. Her eyes scanned the truck and she seemed to recognize it, her gaze then traveling to Alex as he got out and waved. Kat wanted to disappear as Dana’s expression morphed into a knowing little sister smirk. “Oh. I see. You were spreading holiday cheer.” “Just give me my sweater,” Kat griped, snatching the thing out of Dana’s arms. She tugged it over her head and looked down to see the damage. It was tye-dye, with a sequined snowman flashing a peace sign. “This is a crime against humanity,” she said darkly. Dana grabbed pulled her inside. Kat was about to say she was only staying long enough to eat an omelet but the words died as she entered Mabel’s. Her first couple of years in New York had been rough. Sleeping on a friend’s couch, eating ramen noodles most nights. She'd taken pictures of everything, experimenting with light and angles. She sold some of her prints on Etsy and started a photography Instagram. She'd finally gotten to showcase some of her cityscape work at an exhibition and had some success. Her Instagram blew up, and she now had actual clients and her own website selling prints of her photos. Now, hanging on the walls of Mabel’s, were a collection of those photos. There were professional shots from her website, but there were others too. Photos she'd taken while still a teenager, on the tripod Zach had bought her. Displayed prominently over the counter was one from the day she'd opened it, when she made Zach and Dana pose with her in front of a pile of autumn leaves. Zach had tossed her into it right after, and she’d recruited Dana to help her retaliate. “They've been following your work since I found your Instagram,” Dana explained. Kat just gaped, eyes stinging. Her parents were coming toward her, in matching hideous orange sweaters. “We wanted to show you how proud we are,” Marian said. “Dana suggested we put them up...is it alright?” Kat had never seen her parents nervous, and the sight of it now unraveled the knot of anger she'd been carrying. “I love it,” she said. She hugged her mom for the first time in years, their own Christmas miracle. Dana was grinning, and Alex was smiling too, standing there in his God-awful sweater. And there was Zach, smiling down at her from the photo she'd taken. Kat didn't expect to repair the cracks in her family’s foundation overnight, but as she savored this little moment, this snapshot in time, she figured it was a pretty good start.

Sensitive content: Bereavement 10.25am Helen desperately wanted to keep up her strength for the ordeal which was to follow, but she simply could not relax. For what felt like the hundredth time, she picked up the clock from the sideboard, put it down without registering what time it said, then walked across to the window, pulled aside the curtain and peered out into the street. On the other side of the room, the telephone on the mantelpiece pierced the silence. She turned, let go of the curtain and began to walk across to answer it, but the ringing stopped before she had even reached the centre of the room. She sighed, looked unseeingly at the clock again, then resumed her vigil at the window. The door creaked open to admit Jamie, carrying an acoustic guitar, and Luke, who had a battered copy of The Oxford Book of English Verse tucked under his arm. Helen suppressed a gasp at the sight of their incongruous dark suits and black ties. She couldn’t help noticing that Luke had still not properly brushed his hair, even today, but decided not to remark on it. “Ah, there you are.” She greeted them with a forced smile. Luke shivered. “Geez, it’s cold in here.” Jamie slumped on to the sofa. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to this.” “Me neither,” Luke grunted. He opened the book, then let out a loud snort. “Geez, what kind of random stuff is this? Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert,” he declaimed, striking up a melodramatic pose. “That from heaven or near it Pourest thy full heart...” Jamie looked up, shocked. “You’re not going to read that out, are you?” “God no. It just, like, opened at that one. The one I’m supposed to do is something about death not being proud.” “Thank goodness for that!” Helen heaved a sigh of relief as Luke flopped into one of the armchairs and opened the anthology at another page. His lips moved silently as he perused the text, whilst Jamie picked up the guitar and fiddled with the tuning pegs. After a few moments his fingers moved to the strings, and the air was filled with the strains of Stairway to Heaven . The door opened again and Martin entered. Helen smiled. Despite the sombre occasion, her husband could still look stunning, even when dressed, like their sons, in dark suit and black tie. Jamie stopped playing, mid-phrase, and put the guitar down. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to do this.” “And this poem!” Luke chipped in. “I mean, I know it was, like, one of her favourites, but--” “Don’t worry,” Martin soothed. “Nobody except us and the priest know about it, so if either of you decide you can’t go through with it, nobody else will be any the wiser.” Jamie shook his head. “But we’ll feel as if we’ve let her down. She always said--” Martin held up his hand for silence. “Like I said, don’t worry about it.” “You’ll both be fine,” Helen reassured them, as Martin seated himself in the other armchair. “Who was that on the phone?” Luke asked. “Somebody trying to sell us life insurance,” Martin answered. “At least, I think that’s what he was selling. He had an accent so thick I could spread it on my toast.” “They can certainly pick their moments,” Helen sighed, as their sons groaned. An uneasy quietness descended over the room. Jamie eventually broke the silence. “This feels weird,” he murmured. “Like - the calm before the storm.” “Mmm....” Helen nodded agreement. Luke pushed the poetry book aside. “How old were we when Grandpa died?” he asked. “Not very old,” Helen answered. Martin considered. “Well, he died in 2001, so you would have been...” he added up on his fingers, “... five and seven. A bit young to go to his funeral.” “How old was he when he died?” Jamie asked. “Sixty-eight,” Martin said. “How well do you remember him?” “Not much,” Luke said. “I remember he had, like, lots of white hair, and he smoked those little cigars. And he talked funny.” Martin laughed. “That was because he came from ‘Zummerzet’.” The others joined in the laughter at his mock West-Country accent. Luke spoke again. “When he died, I, like, didn’t really take it in. Not like it was with Charlie.” Martin’s face became sombre. “How old was he?” “We were in, um, Year Eleven. So - fifteen. Or maybe sixteen.” “Did they ever catch the driver?” Jamie asked. Luke shrugged. “Dunno. If they did, I never heard about it.” “Tragic,” Helen murmured, turning back to look out of the window again. She jumped as Jamie let out a loud sneeze. “Bloody flowers.” Jamie glared at the massive floral arrangement which completely covered the coffee table, then looked anxiously around. “Where are the tissues?” “Over there.” Martin pointed towards the sideboard. “You’d better take a few with you. It’s not the sort of day to go out without a hanky.” “That’s usually my trick,” Helen smiled, as Jamie blew his nose and stuffed a handful of tissues into the pocket of his jacket. “What will it be like?” Luke asked nervously. “I mean, like, we’ve never been to one before.” “Service in church,” Martin answered, “then to the crematorium. That’ll be quite short, I should think. Then back to the pub for the wake.” There was a pause whilst the two younger men took this idea on board. Helen couldn’t help thinking that they both looked very uneasy. Then Jamie spoke. “Dad, you believe in all that church stuff, don’t you? Do you reckon it helps?” Martin considered. “It always has done up to now,” he said eventually. “In a way it’s comforting to believe that you’ll see them again one day. Although, having said that, sometimes things happen that can shake your faith.” “What?” Helen gasped. “But you’ve always--“ Luke’s voice cut across hers. “You mean, like, ‘If God exists then why does he allow this?’” “What sort of things?” Jamie asked, turning back to Martin. “Well... I remember years ago, when an aunt of mine died quite young, the first thing my grandmother said was ‘Why wasn’t it me?’ And it does make you wonder: Yes, why wasn’t it? If there is a God, then why did he let the younger woman die, rather than the older one? “Why indeed...” Helen murmured. “Yeah,” Luke agreed. “You kind of, like, come to expect it with old people, don’t you? Not like with--” “Natural selection, maybe?” Jamie suggested. “You know, survival of the fittest, and all that?” Helen raised her eyebrows thoughtfully, but said nothing. “Or Fate?” Luke went on. “Like, predestination and stuff?” “Maybe,” Martin agreed. “Grannie always believed in that. So did Uncle Tom.” Luke smiled. “I liked Uncle Tom. He was quality.” “Yeah.” Jamie’s normal voice was suddenly replaced by a broad Cockney accent. “I wanted to be the Village Idiot, but I failed the exam.” Luke joined in, also adopting the unmistakeable accents of the East End. “I speak two languages: English and Rubbish.” “Uncle Tom never talked rubbish!” Helen said, across their laughter. Martin chuckled. “He was a law unto himself! For what he said about eternal life, centuries ago he’d have been burnt as a heretic!” “Why?” Jamie sounded puzzled. “What did he say?” Before Martin could reply, the sound of the doorbell stunned them into silence. Martin stood up and went to answer it. Through the open door into the hall, the others could see and hear the man in the black overcoat standing respectfully on the doorstep. “Mr Blythe? Are you ready?” “Yes, just a moment.” Martin came back into the living room and picked up the flower arrangement. “Ready?” Jamie and Luke glanced nervously at each other, then nodded, picked up the guitar and the book and followed their father out into the hall. Helen watched them go, then drew a deep breath before moving to join them. “Here goes...” she whispered to herself. “Heaven alone knows how this will go...” 10.55 am As the cortège came within sight of the church, Helen gasped in surprise. “Geez, look at that!” Luke’s words mirrored her own thoughts. The path from the churchyard gate to the church door was lined with people, standing two- or three-deep in places. Several of them were already visibly weeping. The priest was waiting for them as they climbed out of the car. He gave a kindly smile to Jamie and Luke. “Are you all right for this?” he asked, nodding towards the guitar and the book. Jamie squared his shoulders and nodded. Luke followed suit, but with rather less confidence, Helen noticed. “Very well then. Let’s go...” The pall-bearers picked up the coffin, balanced it on their shoulders and carried it into the church. The mourners followed. The contemplative strains of Mozart’s Ave Verum Corpus filled the building, and Helen detected a faint smell of incense as the priest began to recite the familiar words of the funeral service: “I am the Resurrection and the Life, said the Lord...” Helen stole a quick glance at Jamie and Luke. Their faces were both fixed, as if hypnotised, on the coffin. They shouldn’t be having to do this , she thought. Not at their age. 2.45 pm Helen was the first back into the house. She wandered aimlessly back into the living room and stared out of the window as the funeral car drove off. She turned as the door opened and Jamie and Luke came in, gratefully pulling off their black ties. They both looked tired and drained. She took a step towards them and smiled. “Well done. I was proud of you both.” Jamie sighed, sat down on the sofa and put the guitar down. “I’m glad that’s over.” Helen nodded. “Me too...” She stopped speaking as Martin came into the room. He looked exhausted, but was clearly trying to keep going. Luke shivered. “It’s still cold in here.” “The kettle’s on for some tea. That should warm us up.” Martin sighed as he sat down in one of the armchairs. “Well done, both of you. You did really well.” Helen smiled in agreement. “Yes, you did.” Jamie managed a wan smile. “Thanks. I don’t know about tea, though. Right now I could do with something a bit stronger.” He heaved himself up from the sofa, crossed to the sideboard, opened one of the cupboards and peered inside. Eventually he pulled out a strangely-shaped bottle, about three-quarters full of dark red liquid. He held it up and squinted at the handwritten label. “What’s this? ‘ Blythe Spirit ’?” Luke looked up. “Hey, that was in that poem!” He grabbed the book and flicked through the pages, whilst Martin joined Jamie and studied the bottle label. “Let’s see - oh, it’s home-made sloe gin. Blythe spelled with a y. I think that’s Mum’s idea of a joke.” “ Oh, very droll,” Luke groaned, as Helen suppressed a giggle. “Shelley, isn’t it? The poem?” Martin asked. “Yeah. To a Skylark , it says here.” Jamie wrinked his brow. “Isn’t there a play as well? I vaguely remember it from school.” Martin nodded. “Yes. Noël Coward. I saw the film years ago. It’s about a ghost who can’t let go. It was supposed to be funny, but to be honest I found it a bit weird.” Helen opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Luke shiver again. Meanwhile, Jamie had unscrewed the top from the bottle and taken a cautious sniff at the contents. “Oh well, I’ll try anything once.” He started to pour the liquid into a small glass. “Anyone else?” “ Yes please,” Martin answered. Luke hesitated for a moment, but agreed, albeit nervously. “Er - yeah, go on.” “No thanks.” Helen shook her head. Jamie poured out two more glasses and handed them to Martin and Luke. As Helen passed round the back of Luke’s chair, she noticed that he shuddered as he took his first sip. It’s probably a bit too strong for him , she thought . It’s pretty powerful stuff. Very good for colds, though. Kills ninety-nine per cent of all germs, and leaves the other one per cent too rat-arsed to bother. But the movement was not lost on Jamie either, who put down his own glass and turned to his younger brother. “You OK, mate?” he asked, as Helen walked back to the window. Luke relaxed. “ Yeah,” he shrugged. “It’s - like - weird.” He stared into his glass, then took another cautious sip. “Yes,” Martin agreed. “It’s an acquired taste.” Luke opened his mouth to reply, but then appeared to decide against it. The three of them sipped their drinks in silence. “This is, like, the calm after the storm...” Luke said eventually. “Mmm....” Helen murmured. “What did it say on the death certificate?” Jamie asked. “ Some fancy medical term, I think. Hang on, I’ll have a look.” Martin stood up, crossed to the sideboard and took out a piece of paper from the top drawer. “Yes, what did it say?” Helen asked. “I never saw it.” She walked round behind Martin and peered over his shoulder as he read aloud: “ Cause of death: acute myocardial infarction . Heart attack to you and me.” “At least it was quick,” Helen remarked. Martin shivered as he folded up the death certificate and replaced it in the drawer. “You’re right, Luke,” he said. “It is cold in here.” Jamie stood up and switched on the electric fire. “What happens now?” he asked, as he sat down again. “We need to pick up the ashes from the undertaker,” Martin answered. “I think they’ll be ready tomorrow, or the day after.” Luke shuddered. “That’s, like, really creepy. What’s going to happen to them?” “She always said she wanted them scattered over the sea,” Martin said, sitting down in the armchair. “So I thought we might take a trip down to the coast on Saturday. We could have a pub lunch afterwards if you like.” “Mmm...” Luke sounded less than enthusiastic. That’s not like him , Helen thought. He loves his pub lunches. “ Talking of ashes,” Jamie took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, “I’m popping outside.” “ Could I bum one off you, mate?” Luke asked. “What?” Martin looked up in surprise. Helen frowned. “I didn’t know you--” Luke looked sheepish. “I don’t usually, like, but right now...” “Sure.” Jamie offered him the packet as they headed for the door. “I’ll go and make the tea.” Martin stood up and followed them out. Helen stared after him, then moved away from the window and sat down in the armchair which Martin had just vacated. It still felt comfortingly warm. For the first time since the morning she felt able to think straight, and tried to clarify everything that was crashing through her jumbled brain. Peter Pan said that to die would be an awfully big adventure , she thought. But so far, it’s been more like an awfully big anticlimax. She counted on her fingers. Heart attack. Well, at least it was quick and tidy. I think I was probably dead before I even hit the ground. And I’ve been spared the indignity of old age, or being a burden to anyone. That was what I’d been dreading most of all. Postmortem. Ugh, that wasn’t nice. She shuddered at the memory. Big bash in Church. Dear Martin - I might have known he’d give me a good send-off. And I was surprised at how many people turned up. Some of them I haven’t seen for years. They seemed genuinely upset. But then, if they thought that much of me, why didn’t they come to see me whilst I was still alive? Cremation... That wasn’t particularly nice either, but then, I wasn’t really expecting it to be... Bunfight at the pub. Then - what? I often wondered where I’d end up, but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine it would be back here. Is this it? Mrs Blythe, welcome to the afterlife. They drummed all that Heaven and Hell stuff into us at Sunday School. For a while I even believed them, but I’d started to have doubts even before all that business with that loony fundamentalist, telling us we’d all go to Hell if we didn’t give the Church at least a tenth of our income. But if this is what really happens, then at least I’ve managed to prove him wrong! I suppose it started when Miss Muir was teaching us about Hitler. What was it she said? ‘Perhaps that’s what Hell really is - having to listen to what people say about you afterwards. And the more wicked you were, the worse it will be.’ And then... Uncle Tom. She began speaking aloud, her voice slipping effortlessly into the tones of her uncle’s Cockney accent. “Eternal life ain’t about your soul goin’ on for ever, sittin’ on a cloud and twangin’ an ‘arp. It’s them what’s left behind ‘oo keeps your memory alive after you’ve gone. And ‘ow much you’ll be remembered depends on ‘ow much you did, and ‘ow much you were loved, when you were alive. What d’you reckon, ‘elen my girl? “So is that why I’m back here? To live on, as a memory? For as long as they ... rememb...” The rest of the sentence was lost in a racking sob. She struggled up from the sofa, crossed to the sideboard and picked up the box of tissues. I’d no idea that in the afterlife I’d still be able to cry... As she wiped her streaming eyes, the door creaked open, admitting Jamie followed by Luke. Luke in turn held it open for Martin, who was carrying a tray bearing a teapot, a milkjug, a sugar basin and three mugs. All three froze in their tracks as they looked across the room. The tray left Martin’s hands and crashed to the floor... THE END...?

"I know it's a weird fear to have Emmie. You don't understand," I told her in an angry voice. She was sitting in her green PT Cruiser at the edge of my driveway. The keys were still in the ignition. Her bright red nails tapped against the steering wheel in an impatient manner. Her blond hair twisted in perfect ringlets around her cheeks. Her blue eyes raged with fire. "If you don't want to go. That's all you have to say," her face scrunched with anger. I wanted to go with her. That wasn't the question. The question was how? How could I survive? I looked at her empty passenger seat and my stomach dipped in fear. She didn't understand what she was asking me to do, and I didn't know how to explain it to her. "Please don't be angry," I pleaded. She was my best friend. I couldn't stand the thought of her fiery temper directed toward me. Yet, I couldn't get in the car with her. My feet wouldn't move even if I willed them to. "Sure," she said with a bright smile, "If you get in the fucking car Rue. How long are you going to let fear dictate your life?" What an easy question to ask. She didn't eat panic for breakfast or snack on anxiety between meals the way I did. I drank in her tiny frame and wondered how such a small person could be so fearless. "Fine," I told her. A sick feeling pounded in my gut. It begged me not to do this. Every hair stood on my arm when I put my hand on the cold handle of her car door. Fear whispered down my neck. Would I be able to pull this off? We used to do this every year. It was an Emmie and Rue tradition. Emmie was backing down the drive before I had a chance to convince myself to get out of the car. My fingers gripped the door handle with white knuckles. I couldn't release my fingers even with the door locked. Irrational thoughts paraded around in my head. Thoughts like jumping out of her moving car or grabbing the steering wheel and steering us off the road. "Oh Rue, isn't this wonderful? I love this time of year!" She exclaimed. I tried to relate and failed a miserable failure. The Christmas lights were blinding. The music pouring from her stereo promised holiday cheer. The only cheer I felt inside was a small voice cheering me on for making it further than I ever had before. It was hard to hear over a louder voice. That voice screamed for me to get out of the car before something terrible happened. "I don't get it. I wish you would talk to me the way you used to. What happened to the Rue who loved Christmas?" Emmie asked. The reason burned hot in my throat. Words, however, often took bravery to speak. It didn't matter how close you were with someone. Sometimes, the words still wouldn't come. "I love Christmas," I explained in a voice that would fail a lie detector test. "It's just not what it used to be. I grew up, Emmie. I changed." "Hey," she said in a low voice, "Things can always go back the way they were before. All you have to do is let me back in." She dropped a hand on my thigh and squeezed. No, they could never go back. I didn't want to be the one who ruined the meaning behind this time of year for her. I didn't want to color her bright world with the dark colors that painted mine. It wasn't fair. Her car flashed down the street in our neighborhood the way it did when we were teenagers. The earlier days when we were both wild and free. For a moment, I let myself become caught in the nostalgia of it all. A person could almost forget in the face of familiar things, the truth which laid underneath. "Rue. I’ve missed this!" She bounced up and down in her seat. My face felt hot. I pressed it against the icy window and watched snow-covered houses pass us in a forty-mile-per-hour blur. It wouldn't be much longer. We were almost to the annual Christmas tree lighting. After that, I would be trapped with a Christmas shopping feign. We hadn't done this sort of thing in years. The thought of doing it now made my heart squeeze. "Showtime," Emmie promised. The car stopped moving and we were staring at a large crowd of people. A twenty-five-foot tree stood proud in the town square. Panic coated the walls of my throat. Fingers intertwined with mine and I looked to see the person they belonged to. They were Emmie's fingers, and she had the widest grin on her face. "Thank you for coming. This means the world to me,” she whispered. That much was obvious. She didn't drag me with her to the front of the crowd the way she used to. I was grateful. It gave me a few moments to get my shaking hands under control. It took everything I had in me to stand there. I stood and watched smiling faces when the lights lit up the tree and cheers rang out. Tears stung the corners of my eyes. I averted my face so Emmie couldn't see. "Are you ready for this?” She asked. "I'm ready to spend every dime I have in my pocket. It was funny how things changed over time as people grew older. Then, it was funny how things didn't seem to change at all. She was ageless as I watched her struggle to contain her excitement. I looked into her hopeful eyes and felt crushing despair in my chest. "Please don't make me do this, Emmie. I can't." I whispered, "I can't." "You can," she promised. Like the Emmie I grew up with, she threaded her fingers tighter through mine. She charged toward the first store window and she took me with her. She wasn't the type of girl who could take no for an answer. "You're remembering that day... aren't you," she asked. I nodded my head since I couldn't produce words using my vocal cords. I hadn't stopped remembering that day since it happened. She had to know that. I didn't know why she needed me to confirm it out loud. Emmie laid a pale hand on the door to Smithy's Candle Shop, "Oooh oh! Let's go in here first. I'm a sucker for candles." It felt like Deja Vu. As if the day she brought up were happening all over again. Bile crept up my throat. I didn't want to be here. "Emmie, you know I can't go into that store. I'm sorry you dragged me all the way here but...." I waved an arm at the storefront window. "The shelves are laughing at me. Look at them! They know I can't do this. Can I please wait in the car?" She turned her face toward me. It was crestfallen. Anyone who walked by would have felt the disappointment that exuded from all five feet of her. Her eyes brimmed with furious tears. I had made her angry again. "You got in the car," she hissed. "You can't quit. See this through!" My back was against the red and grey bricks that made up the storefront of Smithy's. I slid down them when the weight of what she said hit me. I knew what she was trying to do. I knew she meant well. The thing was it didn’t matter. I couldn't bring myself to do it. My feet hit the ground in a sprint before I even realized I wasn't collapsed on the sidewalk anymore. I heard Emmie shouting behind me. The stares of Christmas shoppers burned into my back. I'm sure they wondered why this crazy girl was running through the middle of the town square and ugly crying. I ran until I spotted Emmie's green cruiser. My legs came to a full stop and I hit my fist against the hood of her car in frustration. The sadness and fear had turned into something much worse. It was rage. "Dammit, Emmie. Why?" I cried. A gentle hand laid a crossed my back. I looked up in surprise to see that Emmie had beaten me back to the car. Her eyes screamed she was sorry. How could I direct my anger at her? None of this was her fault, after all. "Why did you leave me behind?” I asked. She answered me in a quiet voice, "I'd do it all over again. You know it and I know it." "It isn't fair. I can't do this without you," I whispered. "Yes," she replied. "You can, Rue. That's why I am here. To show you that you can." The memories were coming, and I couldn't stop them. They flooded my brain with image after image. There was one memory that played over all the rest. It was the culprit for the storm that down poured inside me. It was an image of Emmie standing next to me. We were sixteen years old. It was our fourth year going to the tree lighting ceremony together. We hadn't watched the time. We were out way too late. Our parents would worry. It didn't matter that I warned her. Emmie didn't concern herself with things like that. She only cared about living her life to the fullest. After that, came the memory of the hands. They grabbed me from behind without warning. Hot breath assaulted my neck. A foul-smelling voice whispered in my ear. It said, "Drop all your bags and whatever money you have left on you." Emmie turned around to face us. Her blue eyes grew wide when she realized what was happening. Before I could stop her, she rushed toward us. In a single moment, it was all over. I laid in an empty parking lot surrounded by shopping bags and Emmie... well. She laid on the sidewalk surrounded by blood. The man ran before I could pull my cell phone from my pocket. I crawled to her and grabbed her with shaking hands. Her skin was warm. She wasn't breathing. I pounded my fist harder against the car's hood until I could bring myself back to the present. It was the hood of the car her mom gave me after Emmie died. It was unfair. He grabbed me. He didn't grab her. She should be here shopping and spreading holiday cheer. I should have been the one who died. "Why did you have to go and do that, Emmie? It should have been me," I told her. "No Rue. You're still here for a reason," she said. For Christmas shopping?" I asked, without being able to hide the sarcasm in my voice. "No silly. To live your life. To live it to the fullest. You have to," she begged. "You have to do it for the both of us." She smiled wide again. It wasn't the glowing smile she usually showered me with. Sadness tugged at its edges. Damn it all. It was like a sucker punch to the belly. "You're right. I can't keep living in fear, can I?" I whispered. She grabbed my face in her hands, "You can do anything. Anything you want to do." She assured me, "But I won't let you hide from this any longer." She let go of me after that. Once I closed my eyes, I feared when they opened she would be gone. The kind of gone where she never came back. I kept them closed as long as I could before her heavy sigh tore my eyes open again. "Go Rue... go and smell the candles. Buy one for me. Sit and watch the lights and the people while they're shopping. The way we used to. Know even when you can't see me or hear me. I'm here with you. Go ahead, I know you can do it," she said. She was right. I walked back to Smithy's for the first time in ten years and turned the door handle. I couldn't live in the past anymore. I had to move on. I had to do it for both of us.

I’ve been waiting a year for this day. I sit at the bar, chew on peanuts, and swill the last of a Pabst Blue Ribbon. It’s 2:59 pm. The ceremony is about to begin. The Steelers just scored a touchdown. The sports bar jumps with cheer. Five bucks says, right about now, she’s thinking about peaking her head out of the bride’s room just to see what all the commotion is about. When she does emerge from that soft shelter, she’ll shield her eyes from the altar. She can’t see me before the ceremony--that would be bad luck. “I’ll take another,” I say to Jamie, the bartender. He brings me another PBR. The beer is cold. The Steel City air has a bite, too. It’s early October. If I had actually shown up today, I’d be on the altar right now sweating my balls off. Memphis churches run hot, especially these newfangled non-denominational ones. But really, between you, me, and this blue ribbon lager, I never had any intention of marrying Kaitlyn. I left her at the altar today and I am enjoying every moment of it. It’s 3:05 pm. My phone peals. I get a text from Micah, the best man. “You OK? Where are you? We’re praying that you’re close. In Him, M.” Yeah, Micah, I’m close alright--close to taking a shit. But yeah, no problem, dufus. I’m only 779 miles away. I’ll be right there. Micah. What an asshole. He was Kaitlyn’s boyfriend ever since they met in Sunday school back in the 4 th grade. Kaitlyn told me that she and Micah almost kissed one night after a school dance. Micah stopped an inch from her lips because he “wanted to put the Lord first.” He wanted to kiss her for the first time at the altar. I didn’t meet Kaitlyn until a year ago. I didn’t even live in Memphis at the time. I saw her post on Twitter, “I cast my crowns at your feet, O Lord.” How she ended up in my feed in the first place, I’ll never know. I decided to follow her tweets. She posted all kinds of holy-roller shit like, “We are one day closer to seeing our Lord and Savior face to face.” Or, my personal favorite, when she would call upon her “prayer warriors” to pray really hard for something specific to happen a certain way. Let me tell you about God for a second. Yes, he exists. Yes, he’s a he. And yes, he has a plan. But ain’t no “prayer warrior” gonna change that plan for nothing. The only human being who’s gotten remotely close to figuring out how God works is George Carlin. You know, that crusty dead comedian with the fart jokes and the surprisingly astute observations about human nature. One time he said something like, “even if a thousand people held hands and prayed with all their might, nothing would change, and, if anything, their prayers would probably make matters worse.” I showed up at Kaitlyn’s church one Sunday. The preacher, Bobby John Smith, asked the congregation, “Is anyone ready to give up their life of sin and walk with Jesus!?” with “Jesus” having that southern jumble of extra vowels--“Jeeaazius!” I walked forward from the back of the room with crocodile tears the size of water balloons streaming down my face. “Help me, Lord! Please, help me!” I shouted, over and over. I faked a good faint right then and there at Bobby John’s feet. Kaitlyn ran from her seat on the front row to my side where she took me in her arms and told me she would pray for me and everything would be alright. The trick to pulling off a long con like this one is keeping your stories straight. I say stories--plural--because you have to have two. The first, the story about your new life, you write with the victim. This gives her more of a “buy-in” before the bill comes due. The second, the story about your old life, you reveal slowly over the con. She has to know that you ain’t a saint, but also that you are reluctant to share too much because you are ashamed of your old sinful ways. Of course, both stories are complete bullshit, but you have to remember which way the wind is blowing. “Hey, numb nuts, how ‘bout showing some Steelers pride!” Mel, an aggressive bar goer, yells at me. Poor fool. Ruining my buzz like that. In his defense, I am looking a bit sullen at the moment. But, whatever, bra . And so, in my imagination, I push my fingers into his nostrils and then into his brain where I go “goochie-goochie-goochie-goo!” and fuck with his amygdala. He has a goofy ass look on his face for a second, bleeds from his nose, and then falls face first right into the ledge of the bar. “Mel’s passed out again, Jamie” a different bar goer says. “He’s bleeding! Call 911!” Jamie says. A group carries Mel away to the picnic benches outside to give him some air. The EMTs pick him up and take him to Mt. Zion. I never check on Mel to find out how bad the damage is. Usually, when I do the amygdala thing, the loser suffers irreparable brain damage. But it’s hard to say whether it’s the “goochie-goo” or the face plant that does the trick. Who cares? Mel sucks. Kaitlyn fell in love with me because she thought she brought me to Jesus. Over that year, we read every fucking page of her King James Bible together, three times. After the first time, she told me how Micah and she agreed not to see each other anymore because “God was calling them to other places.” After the second time, we started holding hands. She told me that she wanted to kiss me, but wouldn’t kiss anyone until her wedding day--that her first kiss would be before God. After the third time, she was a little stand offish because she thought it wasn’t fair that a man of my experience should be deprived of “sexual intercourse” but she had to wait until she was married. I said to her, “Don’t worry, Kaitlyn. This is my new life in Jesus. I am reborn In Him. I want to wait, too.” Then I got down on one knee, pulled an engagement ring from my pocket, and proposed. She said “praise Jesus” over and over. I took that as a yes. The hardest part of the wedding con ain’t fooling the bride. It’s fleecing the family. Pulling the wool over the whole family’s eyes is the equivalent of an Oscar Night sweep--best actor, best director, best costume, best screenplay, and best sound design--all in one. The trick here is, when the father pulls you aside in the laundry room, hands you a $10,000 check, and tells you to elope, you tear up the check and say no. He’ll want you to elope because of your sob story about having no family and no one at the wedding to celebrate you. You go through with the wedding though because it’s what his little girl wants. And once you have dad, you have mom. Mom really only cares about herself and how she looks--don’t ask me why that is. It’s like mom can’t handle a different woman having the spotlight. Something about matriarchy, I guess. But, at all cost, you gotta watch out for little brothers. They really don’t give a shit. They don’t want to be at a wedding in the first place and will expose you if you let on even the slightest hint of a sham. “Tad’s down!” Jamie shouts. “What the hell’s the matter with you people! Give him some air!” Jamie, Jamie. Tad’s had a heart attack. Tad’s been eating cheese fries and drinking Genny Light since the fucking 80s, so it’s a miracle he didn’t keel over sooner. Hold on, Tad. It ain’t your time. In my imagination, I reach inside his chest and give his oversized heart a little squeeze. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. He inhales and grabs his chest. He begins to sob like he did when he was 12 and fell off his skateboard. “Tad’s OK,” Jamie calls. Yeah, sometimes I save people. I ain’t good. I ain’t bad. I just am. I ain’t the devil, either. That jerk has been in the White House for the past four years. The devil ain’t too bright. Too much pride, I guess. And so, right about now, Kaitlyn is in tears, jilted at the age of 25. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate Kaitlyn. This was never about revenge or making a holy roller look foolish. I don’t even hate Micah, although the sandals and the white socks have to go. Actually, the reason I did what I did was to bring Kaitlyn and Micah together. After the jilting, Micah and she will leave the church. They’ll think it was all total bullshit (and, spoiler alert, most of it is . . . except the “love” part. That’s all you need). Kaitlyn and Micah belong together, but they won’t make it without this wound. And now they will love each other for the rest of their lives--an ineradicable bond forged from mutual misery. That’s God’s will. That’s the divine plan.

Caze and Rebexi’s family life had been harmonious, despite the challenges of living in the Blue Colony, but they were shaken to their respective cores when Zily came home from school crying. “Darling,” Rebexi said, as she stroked Zily’s hair. “What happened?” Caze hovered behind Rebexi, troubled by his daughter’s blotchy face and reddened eyes. Zily sniffled, burrowing her head into Rebexi’s lap. “Jaro said...” Her voice was muffled. “Jaro said how come you don’t go to church on Starday? He said...” Caze stifled a gasp then spoke encouragingly to Zily. “What did he say, sweetheart?” “He said that if you don’t go to church on Starday then you can’t go to heaven - you’ll go to Earth!” She broke down again. Rebexi patted her back while Caze tried to reassure her, but they looked at each other, concerned. In eight years their interfaith relationship had, of course, been through ups and downs, but they’d been determined to make things work. Caze went to church on Starday and the observational days, while Rebexi went to the Stella temple on Lunaday and kept a shrine in the living area for the Stellan gods. They spoke respectfully about each other’s beliefs and before Zily’s birth had decided not to impose either of their religions on her but that she could decide when she was old enough. Zily had been to the Pog church and the Stellan temple occasionally but neither had been particularly interesting to her. They had not expected that Zily would be forced to reckon with her family’s beliefs at only five years old. Caze and Rebexi did their best to cheer Zily up but later that night, after Zily had gone to sleep, they sat on the couch, both leaning forward, elbows on knees, brows creased. Caze spoke first. “Perhaps it’s time that we made more effort with Zily and church? And the temple, of course. She’s a bright kid. She can start thinking critically about these things.” Rebexi nodded. “Yes, I think it’s time. I just didn’t think it would start so early. Honestly, people need to keep their opinions to themselves.” They reminisced about when they had first met in the Green Colony and fallen in love, the many well-meaning but pointed arguments their parents and extended family had made. It had been a difficult time but it had cemented Rebexi and Caze’s love for each other and their commitment to living an amicable, unprejudiced life. News stories about religious intolerance made them grateful for the peace they’d managed to create in their little family. Now it had been breached. They decided that, if Zily was willing, she would go with Caze to the Pog Church on Starday, and then on Lunaday she would go with Rebexi to the Stellan temple. On Lunaday evening they would then do something together as a family. Zily accompanied Caze to the Pog church on Starday and then the next day to the Stellan temple with Rebexi. On Lunaday evening, her parents probed gently for Zily’s thoughts on her religious experiences. Zily smiled at them, saying that she had liked both the church and the temple but why didn’t they all go together? And why was there so much standing then sitting then standing then kneeling? “Well, darling,” Rebexi said, “the standing and kneeling is for different parts of the ceremony. You show your respect to the gods by kneeling when you pray. And then when the priest is speaking, you sit quietly and listen. Sort of like at school.” “But why don’t we all go together? How come you only go to temple and dad only goes to church? And why did the priest at the church say there is only one god but the priest at the temple said there are many gods?” “Sweetheart,” Caze said, “your mother and I have different beliefs. We belong to different religions. It’s like how we support Ursa Major but some of your friends might support Canis Major. But we can all watch the game.” He was pleased with the starball analogy he’d come up with on the spot but Zily still frowned. “But daddy, we all go for Ursa together. We don’t go for different teams in our family. Anyway, Ursa Major is the best starball team.” “I was raised in a Pog family, which is why I’ve always gone to Pog church, and mummy was raised in a Stellan family, which is why she goes to the temple. But we can still love each other and be a family. Now, how about some ice cream?” Zily came home again crying the next day, and every day after school. At first, she told her parents in detail about the bullying (Jaro, again, saying that she couldn’t go to church and the temple, that Stellans would go to Earth with all the unbelievers) but as the week wore on, she became quiet and withdrawn. Caze and Rebexi tried to reassure her that it was just kids being silly, that she wasn’t going to go to Earth, and that she should tell the teacher if it continued. When they brought up Mister Silver, Zily just shook her head. Worried, her parents said that they would speak to Mister Silver themselves. The meeting with Mister Silver started well. Mister Silver complimented Zily’s intelligence and creativity but when Caze cleared his throat and spoke about the religious bullying, the teacher began to frown. “I see, I see,” he said. “Thank you for bringing that to my attention. It’s hard to know what’s going on behind closed doors.” Caze glanced at Rebexi. “Behind closed doors? I think it’s all been happening in the playground. And even, with all due respect, in your classroom.” “I meant, we were unaware of the family situation. That Zily has not been properly baptised into the Pog faith. And your, ahem, unorthodox marriage.” Rebexi leaned closer. “Mister Silver, this is a public school, not a religious school. It shouldn’t matter whether ZIly has been baptised or not. And our marriage shouldn’t matter either. We just want the bullying to stop.” Mister Silver sat back in his chair and smiled down his nose. “Now, Ms Blume, you may not like to hear this but it is in the best interests of your child that she is brought up properly. In the Pog church. You could consider converting yourself.” “We didn’t come to you today to talk about our religion,” Rebexi persisted. “We came to ask you to do your job as a teacher and stop the bullying!” Mister Silver stood up, still smiling down his nose. Rebexi noticed the Pog medallion hanging from the chain around his neck. “I think this meeting is finished,” he said. “Please think about what I’ve said. I will keep an eye on Zily’s behaviour.” Caze and Rebexi shook their heads, confounded. It was like they were back on the Green Colony. Always the same problems. Why couldn’t people just learn to respect others’ decisions? Especially when they weren’t hurting anyone. They left Mister Silver’s office without shaking hands and collected Zily from the playground, finding her sitting alone against a wall. Once Zily was in bed, Caze and Rebexi sat down for another long discussion. They’d been having hushed talks every night about the other children in Zily’s class but now they were up against the school itself. The idea of moving schools hovered in the air between them. Then Rebexi mentioned the conversation she’d had with her parents back at the Green Colony. “I’m not saying that we need to move back there. But it’s something to consider. Apparently, things have really improved there in the last few years. It’s like all the old problems came here.” Caze thumbed his jaw. “It’s a big move. Honestly, why should we move? We’re not the ones at fault. Especially Zily.” “I know, I know. I’m just saying what I’ve heard. And what happens if the bullying doesn’t stop? Do you think the school is going to do anything? Would things be better if she went to a Pog school or a Stellan school?” “I don’t know.” Caze had been sent to Pog schools and he’d told Rebexi about some of his experiences there. It was partly why he only went to church on Starday and the special days. She knew that he would not be keen to send Zily to the local Pog school here if the behaviour of the bullies at her current school were anything to go by. “Look, there’s no need to make any big decision now. It’s just an option. My parents would love to see us again. And Zily of course.” “Let’s see how the next week goes. Hopefully, they’ll get bored with their bullying and forget about it.” The school bullying worsened but more troubling was the interference of zealous Stellans at the Parents and Citizens meeting. They harassed the school board and any Pog staff members present. In turn, teachers like Mister Silver squared up to the Stellans. Rebexi wondered why Mister Silver didn’t find a job at a Pog school. There were a few around, more than there had been on the Green Colony. On the morning that Zily refused point-blank to go to school, Caze gave in. “Let’s do it. I’ll look into working remotely. I’m sure you’ll be able to do the same.” Rebexi gave Caze a tired hug then hurried to book flights. The next interplanetary craft left at the end of the week. They had four days to pack up their life on the Blue Colony and make a new start. If it was true that the sectarian extremists had left the Green Colony for the Red, then hopefully they could achieve some peace again. The flight day came around quickly, even though Zily had not attended school at all during the week. As the family boarded their flight, Caze took one last look behind him. Rebexi sighed. They had both had such high hopes for the Green Colony. How things had changed. Zily was still subdued but she became more excited as they buckled into their seats and the attendants brought around zero-gravity snacks. It was her first flight. Caze talked to her about the engineering that went into building spacecraft such as these to distract her from the jarring take-off. The craft was almost empty. The attendants mentioned that it would probably be more full on the return trip. Rebexi tried to relax by watching the in-flight movie. They were approaching the Green Colony’s atmosphere when the meteor shower hit. It created enough turbulence that the pilot turned the craft around to wait for a safe entry. As she did so, a large meteoroid flew past their craft, clipping a wing and they began to spin. Zily vomited, crying, as chunks of her zero-gravity snacks floated around the craft. The noise from the failing spacecraft was tremendous. An attendant shouted to them to find an eject pod, just in case. Hands linked, they made their way to one of the pods, grabbed an oxygen suit each then sealed themselves in. Inside the pod, the noise and commotion were only slightly muffled. Caze said a silent prayer to Pog. Rebexi made the Stellan hand symbols, even as she clutched Zily to her chest. The attendant stared at the monitor which showed that the spacecraft was still unable to right itself but then something else hit the craft and the eject pod was thrown into space. Caze threw his arms around Rebexi and Zily. Rebexi already felt like the force of the ejection was crushing her, now with Caze it was almost unbearable but the thought of losing either Zily or Caze was worse. After a long minute, the noise stopped, and it was still inside the pod, although they knew that they were probably travelling at thousands of kilometres per minute. The monitor had gone blank so they could only guess. After another minute of silent free-falling, there was a series of loud thumps as they were bumped around. “We must have entered the Green Colony atmosphere,” Caze said. The pod accelerated on, finally hitting the ground with a bone-shaking thud that caused them to pass out. Rebexi was the first to open her eyes. She turned her head left and right to release the tension in her neck, then shook Caze gently. Zily’s eyes twitched and then she tried to stand up. “Careful, darling,” Rebexi said. “Take it slowly. We’ve fallen a long way and at great velocity.” The flight attendant lay against the wall, breathing but unconscious. Caze stood up and checked on him, then the monitor. He could only get it working enough to show them the view from one of the external cameras. Wherever they were, it was not the Green Colony spaceport. A dry landscape surrounded their pod, bright sunlight glaring off the concrete structures in the distance. Where were they, and how long had they been passed out? “What can you see?” Rebexi asked. “Are we on the Green Colony, daddy?” Caze shook his head. “I’m not sure where we are. But not to worry. We have oxygen and the emergency supply store. But we should try to find help for the flight attendant. The craft can’t be too far.” Rebexi was apprehensive about how far they had drifted and where they had landed. She hoped that they were on the Green Colony and that the spaceport was not too far from where they had landed. “Let’s check our oxygen then we’ll go and see where we are,” Caze said. He helped Rebexi with her oxygen suit, then Zily. “Ok, let’s do this.” Caze pushed open the escape pod’s hatch and he stepped out into the light. Rebexi followed him, holding Zily to her. The expanse of dry, hot land surrounding them was unsettling. Only a few crumbling buildings in the near distance broke up the dry, bare landscape. Caze and Rebexi glanced at each other, neither willing to go any further than the safety of the pod. Fortunately, there was oxygen in the air here so they removed their helmets. The sound of whispering reached them. Perhaps it was a light wind? The noise grew closer and then a group of about ten people emerged from one of the concrete buildings. They were dressed like the people in textbooks about the twenty-first century on Earth. Zily clung to Rebexi. A member of the group stepped forward and bowed. The rest of the group did the same. Caze and Rebexi looked at each other. Caze was about to speak when the first of the group to approach them stood up. It was a woman, with brown, sunworn skin. She bowed her head and spoke in a clear voice but neither Caze nor Rebexi could understand her. The women turned to the others and they began to chant. “What are they saying?” Rebexi whispered. “I don’t know,” Caze said. “It sounds like ‘jed die, jed die’?” “What does it mean?” “I don’t know but it must be significant.” The group continued their chanting while the leader spoke, finger pointing to the sky. She had a preacher-like quality to her address and Zily wriggled in Rebexi’s arms to watch. The woman caught sight of Zily watching her and stopped her monologue. She walked closer to Rebexi and Zily and then dropped to the ground, crying out in her strange language. The group stopped their chanting and also approached, fanning out in a semicircle around Zily and her parents, joining the woman in a new chant. “Bay bee yoh daa! Bay bee yoh daa!” Rebexi’s jaw dropped. This was too unbelievable. Could they have landed on Earth? She thought about how they must appear through these peoples’ eyes, mysteriously emerged from their ejector pod. “Caze,” she murmured. “I think...They must think that we have fallen from...heaven?” Caze blinked. “No, that’s ridiculous. I...” As Rebexi and Caze attempted to reconcile this strange encounter, the sky darkened like inky night. The woman and her followers continued their chanting, entering a trance-like state. The air around them stirred, like a thick soup, and the heat intensified so that sweat dripped from their faces. Rebexi twisted her head around, troubled, then grabbed Caze’s shoulder and pointed to the sky. “Asteroid!” Caze stared for a few seconds at the pinprick of light that was swelling and swelling. “Back into the pod! We’ll be safe there.” He pushed Rebexi and Zily back towards the pod entrance. Rebexi turned. “What about these people? They’re in danger!” “No time! Get back in with Zily.” Caze spoke to the woman leader but she was deep in her trance and would not straighten up to see what was happening in the sky above them. Frantic, Caze tried to shake her, then some of the followers, but to no avail. He bolted back to the eject pod, pulling the hatch shut behind him. BUREAU OF METEOROLOGY, SPACE WEATHER ADVISORIES Blue Colony orbit: clear conditions Green Colony orbit: some meteor showers expected Outer space, intra-colony region: white alert issued, catastrophic meteorite warning in force, avoid space travel.

Taking care of business. Everyday. Meg hears the three o’clock song play over the grocery store intercom like it always does. She knows it’s only meant to silently signify the beginning of rush hour at her job. Still, she enjoys its catchy and upbeat tune. “Hello, you're Meg, right? I’m Sam” Sam, a fellow cashier, says. “I am. You’re new. How do you like it so far?” Meg says as she turns towards her. “I know I've only been here six months, but I love it here!” “That’s good. I hope it stays that way.” “How long have you worked here?” “Three long years.” “Hopefully, I won't be here for long. After I graduate from college, I plan to leave.” Sam says with a twinge of light in her eye. Meg had plans and dreams when she was in high school, but after she reached adulthood, she realized her dreams weren’t a priority anymore. “Hello.” Meg turns to see a regular, Mr. Lee says as he enters her line. “Hello, Mr. Lee. How did you find everything?” Meg says as she starts to scan his groceries. “Terrible.” Mr. Lee says with a snickering grin. “How’s the wife?” “Same old, same old. She sure is enjoying retirement.” “Why don’t you retire? I’m sure your restaurant will be fine in your kids’ hands.” “You’re probably right, but I guess I’m a stubborn old mule.” “Your total is $12.36.” Meg says as she places the last bag on the counter. “Here you go, darling.” Mr. Lee says as hands her the cash. “Have a great day.” Meg says with a smile as she hands Mr. Lee his change. After Mr. Lee, Meg handles a few more customers before the clock strikes five. She hurriedly logs off her register and heads over to the time clock. She swipes her badge and waits for the confirmation message. But when the text flashes, Meg can hardly believe her eyes. Clock on at 9 a.m. “How could that be?” Meg murmurs to herself. Meg shakes her head. She determines she must have just seen the wrong time. She must be tired from working all day, so she decides to head home. As Meg walks to the front and starts to walk out of the door, she hears, “Where are you going?” Meg turns to see her manager, Joe, trailing after her. “My shift is over. I’m going home.” Meg says. “Very funny. I need you to hop on a register.” “No, I’m going home.” “If you leave right now, don’t worry about coming back.” Joe says. Meg desperately wants to walk out of that door, but the look in her manager’s eye tells her he’s serious. Meg knows she can’t afford to be without a job. She has enough money problems as is. “What register?” Meg says with a sigh. “Register three.” Joe says without hesitation. Meg trudges back to the checkout area and hops back on the register she was on before. She can’t believe she has to work her shift again. On the bright side, she will have double the money she would have earned if she only worked one shift. Meg goes through her shift without a hassle. She has her lunch at one o’clock, then she hears the three o’clock song. Finally, when the clock strikes five o’clock again, she heads to the time clock this time with her aching back and feet. Meg leans against the time clock and swipes her badge. Her heart sinks as that dreaded message flashes once again. Clock on at 9 a.m. “No, no! I don’t understand.” Meg cries as she slowly backs away from the time clock. “No, not again.” Meg says, shaking her head. “What’s going on?” Joe says. “Something strange is happening.” “ I don’t know what you’re babbling about, but I need you to get on a register.” “This isn’t fair. I want to go home.” “You know what isn’t fair? I’ve worked at this company for 12 years, and I’ve only got a raise a couple of times. My wife left me and got the house and the kids. I’m balding. That’s unfair. Listen, life’s not fair. You have to just deal with it, because you don’t have a choice.” “I guess.” Meg says. “Now I need to hop on. We have lines.” Joe says. Meg just nods and gets back on register three. This shift she decides to use her words sparingly. She doesn’t want to tire herself out any more than she already is. She also didn’t want to say anything she would regret. During her lunch, she just stares at the wall thinking, trying to stay awake. She fantasizes about walking out in a big explosive way. She imagines shouting obscenities at the customer who so happens to go in her line. She imagines flipping off Joe as she walks out of the door. As she hears the three o’clock song, she contemplates walking out. She decides to wait to see what the time clock says. She hopes for a new outcome, but her hopes aren’t very high. When the clock strikes five, Meg trudges over to the time clock. She swipes her badge and waits for the wheel to decide her fate. As that familiar message grazes her eyes, a tear falls from her eye. She has no words as she stares at that cursed machine. “Why are you just standing around?! I need you on a register.” Joe says from behind her. Meg turns to look at her manager, and with a tremble in her voice, she says, “Can I please go home? I’m so tired.” A second and third tear falls from her eyes. “Aren’t we all.” Joe says. “I’m serious.” “You can go home,” Joe says, “but you can kiss your job goodbye.” Hearing those cruel words, she considers actually walking out. As much as she desperately wants to, she knows she can’t afford to lose this job. She would rather work a thousand shifts back-to-back than risk homelessness and starvation. So, Meg decides to comply and jump back on register three, which she now calls home. She spends this shift taking crying breaks in the janitor’s closet and faking a half smile for her fluctuating patrons. She ponders on two questions throughout the day: Why her? Is she cursed or is this truly what life is about? As that time comes around again, Meg goes to the time clock to receive that message she knows awaits her. Clock on at 9 a.m. Seeing that dreaded message again, makes Meg realize that there is no end to her situation. She decides to just accept her fate as denying it won’t make it any easier. Meg hops back on her register and stops looking at the clock. Soon after, time starts to blur together. Lunch, song, time clock. She progressed through each new shift like clockwork. Lunch, song, time clock . She isn’t sure how many she completed, but she became okay with this new existence more and more as she did shift after shift. Lunch, song, time clock. “Meg, are you okay?” Sam says from behind Meg. “I’m great. It’s almost time for my lunch again.” Meg says, staring off into the distance with a faint smile. “Hello.” Mr. Lee says as walks up to Meg. “Hello, how did you find everything?” Meg says. “Terrible.” Mr. Lee says. Before Mr. Lee can let out a snicker, Meg starts giggling. That giggle turns to a chuckle, then a cackle. She wants to stop laughing as her stomach is hurting, but she can’t stop. Suddenly, Meg drops to the ground, still laughing. Then she stops laughing all together, and she can feel her eyes start to shut. “Are you okay? Meg?” she hears an amalgamation of voices around her. As everything starts to fade, Meg can her manager say in the distance, “Move her over. We have lines.”

Many centuries ago, when magic was as common as the springtime rain, a giant whale lived in the ocean deep. His name was Agathus, the Guardian of the Sea. He was awake the day the ocean came to being and knew each creature by its primal name. Throughout the centuries he grew and grew, and on the day that land arose, he was thrice bigger than the largest peak. And, by the time that humans learned to travel seas, the ancient giant’s shadow stretched for miles as he moved below their fragile ships. One stormy day, while wind furries danced wild spirals with the son’s of lightning and of rain, Agathus calmly followed western currents deep below the crashing waves. He glanced above to see the silver crackling of the darkened sky and spied a lonely ship, tossed savagely between the treacherous waves. Agathus sighed. The world above the waters was still young and full of growing chaos. Without a doubt he knew the ship with all its forty souls would soon be swallowed by the sea. The ancient whale was set to pass them by, resigning them to certain doom, when something made him pause. Between the crashing of the waves, the thunder of the skies, and the curses of the sailors, a single voice drowned out the chaos with its soothing calm. A mother huddled with her babe, below the rocking deck. Her crying son she cradled to a song, in hope to soothe his final hour. Agathus listened to the gentle lullaby she sang: The starfish sing a lullaby As mermaids drift to sleep Give them your worries and your fears They’ll drown them in the deep. And then they‘ll send you dreams of gold On waves of sea-weed foam The starfish song will keep you safe Until you come back home The ancient whale was touched by the courage of the soothing song. “Today is not a day that such a one should die,” he whispered to the sea. And so, Agathus rose beneath the sinking ship. Allowing it to safely cradle on his back. The sailors all fell to the deck as an enormous landmass rose beneath their ship. Looking with gaping mouths at still the storming sea, now miles away on either side, they raised a cheer to all their spirits and their gods. The mother and her child, still hidden below deck, paused but for a breath, and then continued singing to her child. Agathus stilled his movements and honed in to hear the lullaby once more. The gentle song felt soothing to his heart. His eyelids growing heavy with slumber’s honeyed call. The ancient whale slipped into a most pleasant dream. ... Two hundred years did pass before Agathus once again awoke. He felt his body weighed. Instead of one broken and helpless ship - now a small town was perched upon his back. A port was anchored to his side. His back stung from the rows of plow scratches of the human farms. A grove of fruit trees delved like splinters in the giant’s hide. *I did not give them leave to stay. With just one dive, I’ll make them dearly pay.* Agathus took a breath but then he paused. A lullaby wove through the night. A Father’s voice sang soothing to his daughter’s twins. The starfish sing a lullaby As mermaids drift to sleep Give them your worries and your fears They’ll drown them in the deep. Agathus heard the care within his voice. *Perhaps, just one more day, I’ll let the humans stay upon my back.* Agathus stilled to hear the ending of the song, and with each verse, sleep pulled him deeper into her embrace. .... Another century slid past with Agathus asleep. Then on a freezing winter’s night, when blizzard’s raven covered all with cold white feathers of his wings, the whale awoke in agonizing pain. The town had grown into a kingdom of 10,000 souls. Four massive ports were now staked firm within his flesh. A thick oak forest delved its twisted roots into his aching back. And deep beneath his second rib, the humans had begun to mine his pearl-white bone. Agathus tensed with anger and disgust. He readied his descent below the ice-cold waves. But then a child’s voice began the lullaby anew, he paused. A little beggar girl was shivering as she sang her straw-made doll to sleep. The starfish sing a lullaby As mermaids drift to sleep Give them your worries and your fears They’ll drown them in the deep. And then they‘ll send you dreams of gold On waves... On waves.... The singing stopped. A bought of coughing racked the child’s frame. Agathus waited for the girl to finish the last verse. The love he heard within her voice kept all his pain at bay. Yet, she did not resume the tender lullaby. With one more ragged breath, she clutched her doll, curled tight beneath the quickly falling snow, and closed her weary eyes. Agathus felt her tiny heartbeat slowing like the echo of a distant call. He knew the winter frost had come to claim her soul. And, as her heartbeat gave a final thump, Agathus shook with fury and dismay. *That they would let a little one as this die in the cold. They don’t deserve another day’s reprieve.* Agathus took a breath and dived below. The human kingdom given freely to the deadly sea. ... None guessed of why the isle of Berianth had disappeared. Some spoke of witchcraft, ghosts, and spirit’s whimfull wrath. The few who did survive kept endless search for land they claimed their own. And Agathus, the guardian of the sea, lay resting on the ocean floor, still angry, hurt, but wiser than the day before. As gentle ocean currents tended to his wounds, the Ancient swore to never lend again his back to those above. And as he slowly drifted off to sleep once more, he called to mind the ending of the fateful lullaby.

[TW: Substance abuse and profanity] Despite the darkness of night covering Copenhagen like a thin blanket, the city did not lie dormant. Big metal hearts and long chains lit up the streets, revealing people’s red noses and smiles as they pranced around. Sara marched hastily past the crowd. Her pulse pounded in her ears; the only rhythm in all her hectic thoughts. The eyes were glued to the phone in her hands. The cold bit her slender fingers pink, but her knuckles remained white as she clutched the phone. On the screen was a route navigating her through it all. Finally, she came to Studiestræde, where only a few lights from bar windows illuminated the black brick walls. She ran over to the bar, Masken, where a guard stood outside the door. He smelled pleasantly of cigarettes, which mismatched his unpleasant grimace. Sara forced the friendliest smile she could muster at the time: “May I come in?” The guard: “ID.” Sara: “Please, I’m not going to drink, I’ll be in and out in no time.” Guard: “No ID, no entrance.” Sweat on her forehead froze to ice in the wind. Sara returned to her phone to text mom. And as her lungs inhaled one deep breath, she held it while typing: “I forgot my ID, can you find my passport and send me a picture of it?” Her mom did as asked and sent a picture of Sara's passport. Apparently, that wasn't good enough for the guard and Sara had to download her health insurance card so he could have a look at both. Finally, he let her in. Sara darted through the entrance, but before she could feel the radiators heat, a man shouted: “Go away you crazy bitch!” All the air her lungs had been holding like two balloons, all of it was punctured into one word: “Shit!” At the bar stood Emma towering over a trembling man, laying on the floor beneath the tall girl. With foam out of her mouth, Emma snarled at the man. A whole crowd of drunk people stared at the spectacle in the corner of the room. Sara weaved her way through the small blockade of spectators so she stood a few meters in front of Emma. “Emma, please, let’s go.” Emma gave her a look that could burn down a city: “Fuck off Sara!” Sara’s blue eyes met the dark brown ones, not with hate or anger in them, just disappointment. The kind of disappointment that planted sadness and hopelessness in a garden. Emma let her eyes wander to the fat sack on the floor. The blood dripping from his nose contrasted with his winter-white skin. Then at her knuckles, all painted scarlet. Emma walked passed Sara, pushed her way through the crowd and exited the place. Everyone’s attention either turned to the door or back to their alcohol. Some laughed nervously at what had happened, others started talking about it as if a murderer was loose. Sara put a hand on her heart; it was the only band-aid she had for the weeping organ. A small breath was freed and she left too. When stepping back out into the cold, she saw Emma standing there texting on her phone. Sara spread her nicest smile again and called out: “Emma!” Emma glanced back with the same sour face as before. With her fuck finger out, she turned around and started trudging down the street. Sara had to gallop up to reach her: “Wait!” Emma: “Leave me alone.” Sara: “Can’t we just talk?” Emma: “Can’t you just fuck off?” Sara: “I’m worried about you!” Emma: “Good for you.” Sara opened her mouth to say more, but one of her snow boots got in front of the other and she fell. The left leg scraped the asphalt. Emma stopped: “Sara! Are you okay?” Sara sat down on the road and pulled up her pant leg to see some rosy lines: “It’s okay, it’s just a scratch.” Emma reached out her hand to help her up and Sara took it. Emma’s hand was nice, soft and strong. When Sara stood up, she couldn’t quite put weight on her left leg. Emma: “Can you walk?” Sara: “Yes, I think so.” Taking a step, left leg first, she felt a jolt through her leg. But as she always did, she bit her cheek and continued to approach Emma with faltering steps. Emma just stood there. Sara was now millimeters away and their breaths mingled together in a single cloud. Sara: “See!” Emma shook her head and rolled her eyes: “Come here.” With her back turned, she grabbed Sara’s legs and pulled the smaller girl up, piggyback style. Sara instinctively grabbed Emma's neck, bringing the warm hair to her face. Normally, people wouldn’t want someone else’s hair in their face, but something about the nice smell and the warmth made her feel safe. Then they started jogging off through the dark street. Sara: “Where are we going?” Emma: “To the grocery store, they probably have Band-Aids.” Both went silent after that. They continued like this for a few minutes. The pace slowed to a walk, but the grip remained sturdy. It felt like she could sit there safely forever, close to Emma. Sara: “When we get to the grocery store, I’m going to buy some cigarettes.” Emma: “You really need to stop smoking at some point, it’s not good for your lungs.” Sara: “Says the alcoholic.” Emma: “At least I know I have an addiction, and I’m trying to turn away from it. I’ve been sober for three months now.” Sara lost her voice. Three months of work, lost. That feeling of disappointment flooded everything again and began to water the sadness. Emma must have sensed it, because she whispered: “I’m sorry I went out for a drink.” Sara: “Is it because of your parents again?” Emma: “I wish I could say yes, but in reality I don’t know. The Christmas dispute was probably just an excuse to drink and get into a fist fight.” Sara didn’t say anything, because what do you say in that moment? Emma continued: “My parents don’t understand why I continue to drink and demand an answer, but I barely know it myself. I don’t know why I’m an alcoholic. I don’t know why I am the way that I am.” Sara: “You are not a bitch, if that’s what you think.” Emma: “Thank you.” Sara tried to get a look at her face but couldn’t see it for the hair. She gently ran her fingers through it and tucked it behind Emma’s ear. When Emma looked back, Sara could see her reflection in her eyes. They saw each other for the first time that night. They saw each other for the first time in a long time.

Robby dropped the thick tome down on the mahogany table. "I Guess I should have worn a mask." she coughed in the plume of heavy dust. "Alright, lets crack this thing open" Yin said, eager to find the spell and be out of this dank place. "Its ok" Robby reassured her friend, "We have time on our side." She let the glowing Infinity Pendulum dangle over the Spell book by its silver chain, and spoke - “Ubi est puer Sanguis et aqua non inecum facit quod semel est iterum” The book obeyed, tracing wild, green embers across the cover in long forgotten symbols. A chill wind slapped the book open. The embers rose and ghosted into finger bones fluttering the pages to attention before landing on the correct one. The wind died and all was quiet again. "Tubular" Robby grinned, "Alright Yin, take a picture, I want this page and that one too, then we need to go." Yin pulled from his sack a heavy scanning device, the red laser hummed and passed over the spell book before the scanner promptly caught fire. "You have got to be kidding me!" Yin shook the device until the flame sputtered. "Must be some sort of ancient anti-piracy measure." Robby laughed and up-heaved the spell book off the map table and into her satchel. "Oh well, looks like the book is coming with us." "Are you trying to die twice?" Yin demanded, "That scanner belonged to Onslow, if we don't replace that tech he is going to solder our faces together! If we survive that, well have the Capitol City Magic Department searching for whoever stuck into the archives and stole the 1st edition of Sovereign Ihura's Circulus Salis Et O!" Robby held up her necklace and pointed at the pendulum pennant she wore around her neck. "This pennant means answers. This means a chance to find out who really shut down our school and where they really shipped all our friends. I'm not going to let something so trivial as the C.C.M.D. stop me now. “ “You mean stop US now.” “Exactly.” She grinned. The duo snuck back up through the narrow stone spiral staircase they had used to reach the archives. They both activated the limited night vision afforded them from the HUD goggles, also courtesy of Onslow. At the top of the staircase lay a room that was definitely not the same room they had come through ten minutes earlier. “Well, this is not good” Robby whispered and plucked a data pad from an inner pocket of her orange overalls. The data pad silently bisected itself, the top half acting as the drone. The machine activated surveillance mode and liftied up into the old wooden rafters. Over the dark maze of bookshelves and halls of ornate rugs the drone hovered, sending the image back to Robby. “So, are you going to clue me in as to what is going on?” Yin shrieked. “Patience, my young friend.” she grinned. “I'm less than a month younger than you, my old friend.” “Shut up, I see something.” Robby opened up the options menu of the flight control software and activated functionality mode, a sub menu popped up and Robby chose data extraction and pulled the slider full left. Four of the five drone’s extremities grappled onto a cruddy wooden beam while the fifth leg stood erect. Robby touched the button of a triangle with a slash through it, activating the drone’s optical nano-data diode. “Look, right there!” Yin said too loud, pawing at the screen of the data pad. He pointing out a computer terminal with core access that was sunk into the cobblestone wall a few hall turns away. “I see it, I see it” she elbowed him out of her way “And be quite!” The drone’s blue eye shot its beam into the terminal, easily overloaded its protocols, cherry picked relevant data and sent it back to Robby. At her touch, the pad went dark and all data streamed straight to her goggles. She brought up the schematic, after a moments analysis, she spoke “This is not good.” “Let me guess, the crystalline engine that powers this place keeps the layout procedurally generated to deter would-be thieves from combing over the archives for old magic?” Yin lamented. “Precisely. How did you know that, are you reading my mind?” “You know I wouldn't do that.” “ I know, I’m teasing. Lighten up, we will get through this.” she assured. “I’ll believe that when I wake up in bed tomorrow.” “Okay, it looks like this room is surrounded in some illusionary spell, creating an infinite dungeon labyrinth of ancient bookshelves.” She spoke. “This looks promising... Found it, only a specific combination of left and right turns will trigger illusion magic override and open maintenance hatch, leading...directly to the first floor. “ “Amazing. What's the combination?” “I don't know. The combination changes every hour.” she grinned hard and turned up the opacity of her goggles so she could not see how agitated her friend had become. “This will take about 40 seconds to decode, I’m recalling the drone.” “Then we have to pack away the tech, it needs to survive this mission. We can’t afford to got caught with it, knowing Onslow, its probably stolen.” he admitted. “Here, take these goggles and quit yapping before I hug you,” she knew he hated having his personal bubble threatened. “Here comes the drone, grab it for me wi -” Robby cut her sentence short when a massive suite of medieval armor lunged from the dark, slicing the drone in half with its razor sharp sword before crashing into the ground, thunderously rocking the entire floor of the archive in a shower of sparks. “Stay calm, It’s an illusion spell, its not as tough as it seems!” she said. “Run!” Yin yelled, diving out of the way of the armor’s second sword swing, his poncho nearly nicked by the end of the blade. “It’s clearly not an illusion, are you trying to get me killed?!” “Whoops, my bad, but I do have to combination!”Robby shouted without looking up her her pad. “Left!” she grabbed on Yin’s collar and yanked him down the hall with her. The armor followed close behind with another momentous swing of of the sword. Missing wildly, the very real sword crashed into bookshelf, instead of exploding into a foray of pages and splinters, the sword passed through the illusion of a shelf and crashed into the floor for a second time. The shock wave sent Robby and Yin flying into a nearby wall, a thick tapestry saved them from concussions. They pulled themselves to their feet just when the suite of armor to be upon them once more. “Left again!” Robby yelled, stabilizing herself on Yin’s shoulder before pulling him down another dark library hallway. “Right!” the pair jerked the opposite direction. The Archive’s security measure entitled hall\_patrol.exe lost sight of the two as it’s thudding steps came to a halt, standing unnervingly still. “Three rights and a left,” she then whispered, trying not to to rouse the armors ire. They slunk around the appropriate bookshelves and found themselves at the maintenance hatch. “Finally. How do we open it?” Yin asked. “It should already be open!” Robby spat. “I - I don’t know why its not open!” “Robby, it sees us!” Yin’s eyes grew two sizes and he gripped his friend by the shoulder. The spirit inhabiting the armor grew bright with white and purple rage, turning it into a colossal torch of hot metal and anger. The suit ran toward them, bellowing with furious metallic clank. “Robby, Look at your necklace!” She looked down at the pendent at the end of the chain, upside down T shaped stone pendulum was glowing with the same ghastly green as when it woke the spell book earlier. “Stand back!” Robby ordered Yim. She took off the necklace and, with her heart pounding nearly as loud as the steps of the metal threat barreling upon them, she whirled and slung it stone-first straight at the armor. In the split second that it took to reach the target, the Infinity Pendulum grew into the size of a boulder, crashing into the center mass of the armor and sending it flying backward were it landed in a heap of purple steam and twisted metal. “YES!” Yin cheered like a person who’s life had just nearly come to an end, “How in both hells did you know it could do that?!” “I have done that once before,” she wheezed before falling on her butt. “It takes a lot out of me, but apparently, its worth it.” She laughed. Yin helped her to her feet. Yin grunted, “Unbelievable, after 10 grades at school we never learned how to do anything as powerful as this.” Yin stepped into the crater the armor had made, searched around and found Robby’s necklace, back in its original condition. He tossed it back to her just as the maintenance hatch popped open over her shoulder. “Beautiful.” Robby leered deep into the jewelry. The friends emerged from the hatch of the brick building into a dark, rain-soaked alleyway. They darted under the nearest awning and packed away Onslo’s tech with enough time to catch the midnight Hover Rail across the city to the Little Moon neighborhood. At the crest of the business district, just before the rail descend into residential, Robby could see nearly the entirety of the City. The streets that stank of burring mystery meat. The glowing neon shopping plazas constantly supplying a steady steam of weapons for violence, drugs for sex, and rock ’n roll for everything else. She wasn’t designed for this place, she was destined to be somewhere else, she just didn't know where. “Hey” Yin elbowed her and smiled. “Hey” she elbowed him and smiled back.

Shawty and Baby Mama Try to Kill Us By Seth Fox In in the glory days of my wild and reckless youth I redistributed discount construction equipment for the benefit of low-income immigrant workers. Which is to say, I stole power tools and sold them to the Mexicans. Often times I worked with an older cat named Mufasa. Like The Lion King, but not quite as regal. Mufasa had a baby mama who was less than thrilled with how he lived and with whom he spent his time. Mufasa was also in love with a crack whore I'll call Shawty. I can't remember her real name, but who cares? She was a crack whore. I don't like to think of her as a crack whore simply because she didn't look like a crack whore. Shawty looked quite healthy, I mean. She was however, technically a prostitute and she did spend a significant portion of her income-and anyone else’s income, for that matter-on crack, for which she smoked profusely and at any and all available points in time so if that doesn’t make one a crack whore I suppose nothing would. Mufasa was determined to win Shawty's heart with gentlemanly charm-and ample donations of crack-but refused to purchase her professional services outright with cash. Shawty did not particularly like Mufasa in the romantic sense but she loved crack. Hence their camaraderie. One bright summer morning after coffee and donuts I'm shooting speedballs under a bridge where I spent the previous night, when my breakfast is interrupted by a call from Mufasa saying it was time to go to work. I gave him directions to my bridge and exactly 12 minutes later he arrives with Shawty in tow. Shawty asks me if I have any crack and I say no. This is a lie. I have plenty of crack, of course. But never tell a crackhead you have crack. Besides, she wasn't sleeping with me and I wasn't in love with her. Plus, it was first thing in the morning so we were literally on our way to buy crack. She could wait ten goddamn minutes. It was not that serious. After we all cop and smoke some morning crack, Mufasa informed us that he had already promised his baby's mama-whom he was no longer “with,” he clarified-as part of some custody agreement/cocaine negotiation that he would allow her to ride shotgun and make some money with us today. At first, I was apprehensive, but came around after he assured me it wouldn’t affect my cut and bribed me with some free crack. Fuck it. Sign her up, let's go to work. We arrived at her apartment and Baby Mama-who is not a small woman-gets in the car and immediately asked if I have any crack. I say no. Mufasa gives her crack, I smoke crack, she smoke crack, we all smoke crack, Mufasa and Baby Mama in the front, me and Shawty in the back, crackity crack crack crack, Backstreet's back, alright. We arrived at a popular home improvement store and park off to the side so we can “gather recon” and “strategize” and “smoke crack.” After much debate over who has the most experience and who should take the lead we arrive at a plan. Which was exactly the same plan we always had: Shawty drives, Mufasa and I go in and grab as many drills and nail guns as possible, run out the door, jump in the car, Shawty hits the gas and Baby Mama- Sigh, -does nothing whatsoever. At this point it becomes relevant to say that I'm the only white person in the car. When Mufasa and I go in separate doors, loss prevention is immediately suspicious of him and corner the register. I am seemingly ignored. We load up everything we can carry and head back towards the bay doors. “Can we help you with that, sir?” A man in a red vest asks Mufasa. Mufasa keeps walking. Taking advantage of my anonymity, I slide on ahead and set off the alarm by going to the door with a big stack of merchandise. The alarm confuses the Vests, who turn to watch me exit the store and debate within their own minds whether or not they just got double-teamed by two separate and unrelated heists, or if the skinny white boy and older black dude are, in fact, accomplices. This happened every time. Their confusion caused hesitation, allowing us to run wild. Before they can act as a unit, Mufasa makes use of an impromptu battering ram of DeWalt boxes and tramples the distracted vest-wearing customer service drones, forcing his way out the door as well. The pair of us charge blinking into the daylight en route to the extraction point and notice, much to our dismay, that Shawty, Baby Mama and the car are gone. Alarms are blaring, customers are staring. Here come the vests. One is riding a forklift for some reason, which is a terrible decision in virtually any tactical scenario. But the Vests aren't tactically minded. They're mostly senior citizens. We hear the girls before we see them, screaming around the parking lot. They went to the wrong door. We charge toward them and the Vests give chase. I arrive first and dive headlong into the backseat. Mufasa close behind, begins throwing me nail guns. I load the nail guns as the Vets grab Mufasa. I also grab Mufasa. It’s me vs the Vests in a wacky tug-of-war over my partner in crime. Baby Mama screams and Shawty, in a moment of tactical clairvoyance, puts the car in reverse, stomps the gas and shatters Mufasa’s foot. Mufasa is not thrilled, but the Vests relinquish their hold on my comrade for fear of retaliation with furious lawsuits. Corporate America has trained them well, but victory goes to the scum-sucking crackhead larceny gang. Mufasa hurls the last box at our enemies punctuating our conquest and we flee in Phyrric Victory. We have our bounty, time to see the Mexicans. We took their riches and sped away on squealing tires. I felt like an American icon. An outlaw with a band of thieves. “Where the fuck was you?” Mufasa ask Shawty. “You said the other door!” Shawty says, incorrectly. "The fuck I did!” Mufasa explains. By now, the women in the car have united together in allegiance, presumably, to overthrow the patriarchy. Which was us now, I guess. Baby Mama informs Mufasa of the potential consequences of speaking to Shawty in such a manner, Mufasa suggests an alternate physical location for which she can place her criticisms. This doesn't help, but rather adds fuel to the fire of the feminist coup. At this point, Baby Mama seeks to plant the seeds of mistrust within the hearts of us men by implying my manhood is of superior quality because I was not overcome by the Vests like Mufasa was. A regular Sun Tzu, that Baby Mama. Mufasa looks at me confused and in noticeable agony over his shattered foot. To this, I got nothin'. Mufasa changes the subject. “My fuckin foot!” Should we go to the hospital? Of course not! We have a car full of stolen tools and we are literally fleeing a crime scene. Mufasa assures us that getting paid would make his foot feel good as new. Everyone else seems to agree, so off we go to meet our ‘migos. Tensions are running high amongst our merry band of thieves. Mufasa continues to cry out in agony and Baby Mama continues to insult his manhood. Shawty asks me if I have any crack. I say no. This is a lie. “I got some heroin, though.” Shawty stops the car. “You got heroin?” Asks Baby Mama. “Bitch, you don't do heroin.” Said Mufasa. Mufasa proceeded to explain to the women that he does not trust heroin addicts-except for me, of course, we’re homies-and that she should take no thought in what I just confessed. Baby Mama winks at me seductively and I am overcome with mortal terror. Mufasa secretly ask me for some heroin. You know, for his ailing foot. The pain it’s, unbearable. Can’t concentrate. So, I help a brother out and we continue our journey. Baby Mama decides she wants to drive and Shawty begins to question her solidarity, disrupting the male versus female dynamic. Shawty asks what is wrong with her driving and Baby Mama exhibits her Machiavellian authority by slapping Shawty up-side her head. Shawty retaliates and thus begins the first brawl at 75 miles an hour. Mufasa attempts to reason with the women but is nearly rendered unconscious from the heroin. I guess now's my time to take charge. “Yo, let's just get this money, okay?” The women stop fighting each other, focusing their wrath against me. Which was fine, because all they did was talk shit while I got high with Mufasa in the back seat. And so it was, all the way to the Mexican trailer park. Mufasa and the women stay in the car while I negotiate with the Mexicans. I sell the merchandise and keep a little extra for “emotional stress” but they don’t need to know that. Junkie is as junkie does, I guess. By now, everyone wants crack, so we re-up and stop by the QT for supplies. Mufasa man's the pump while I shoot up in the bathroom. The men get beer and they women get blue slushies. Baby Mama once again decides that she wants to drive and by now Shawty has crack so she doesn’t mind. Mufasa’s foot is still broken and I’m avoiding confrontation by smoking crack and hanging out in the back with Shawty's boobs. Baby Mama takes the wheel and drives the car directly into a phone pole. Rather than take responsibility for her vehicular inadequacies, Baby Mama makes it known that Mufasa should have never let her behind the wheel. What was he thinking? Clearly this demonstrates how he is not shit and is subsequently a terrible father. Don’t we all agree? We didn’t agree. We weren’t even paying attention, actually. I was at this point trying to negotiate with Shawty about how much crack I’d have to put in her pipe before she would let me put my pipe in her...uh...crack. Mufasa, despite his foot, switches seats and tears off down the highway, refusing to comment. He watches our negotiations through the rearview mirror. Baby Mama watches him watch our negotiations through the rearview mirror and thinks to herself, “Is he fuckin that ho, too?” Baby Mama rips off the rearview mirror and hits Mufasa with it. “Is you fuckin that ho?!” Ah, shit. I separate myself from the bosom of said ho because said ho ain't no ho, apparently. Mufasa is at a loss for words and the ho that ain't no ho removes her jewelry. At 85 miles an hour I’m convinced that Shawty and Baby Mama are trying to kill us. Shawty dives into the front seat and the women grapple like rabid marmosets at 90 miles an hour. A blue slushy explodes across the windshield and Mufasa passes back the rearview mirror from The fray. The car veers into the opposite lane. I notice a large truck barreling toward us through the blue ice and a certain peace comes over me. Here I am, smoking crack in the back of my homeboy's car watching two women fight over a man neither of them really wanted. The truck honks. “Yo, motherfucker! Do something!” Mufasa ordered. Shit. Right. I notice my rig and my dope and I have a plan. Mufasa jerks the wheel and the women jerk it back. Honk! Any junkie worth his salt can cook up in a moving car, but this was for the gold. Honk, honk! I pull out a tiny plastic bag and sprinkle some white powder in my spoon, then add water from a bottle. “Are you fucking getting high right now?!” Mufasa screamed. Slap. Bite. Scratch. Somebody’s weave lands in the seat beside me while the car swerves. “Trust me, I got this!” I said. In goes the cotton. Stir. HONK! HONK! “Fuck you, bitch!” “Fuck you, you stankin' ass ho!” I pull back the plunger. HOOOONK!!! “DO SOMETHING!” Mufasa yells. I shove the needle into Baby Mama’s massive shoulder and press the plunger. Mufasa was right, she did not do heroin. If your tolerance is low enough, you don’t technically need to find a vein to get off. She slumped to the side and lets go of the steering wheel. Mufasa jerks the car back into our lane as the truck rattles past beside us. We yet live. Shawty seems pleased and convinced Baby Mama would never call her a ho again. Baby Mama slurs something that rhymes with “snow” or “flow” and vomits all over Shawty's bouncy brown boobs. No more negotiations today, it seems. Back at the apartment Mufasa and I bump fists. “See you tomorrow?” “Hell yeah, brother be safe out there.” “You too. Here's your mirror.” Shawty and Baby Mama never worked with us again.

She knew what she was about to do was against the rules. In fact, she was about to break the single, most important rule instated for her to follow. Yet, she insisted. “Nobody will find out,” she told herself. She went on, believing the lie. Nobody had attempted to do what she was about to do, or if they had it had been kept secret. It was dangerous and irresponsible, but most of all, it could cost her her job. A job she had worked so hard to secure. Her hands trembled as she typed the message, each finger hesitating as it landed upon the keys with a familiar clack. The message she typed out was short, yet it was powerful, not in the sense of meaning but in the sense of defiance. She sent her message, a simple “Hello,” and with it she gave up everything she had worked so hard to uphold. He heard a familiar ding accompanied by a small, but intense, vibration from within his pocket. He reached in and fished out his sleek, elegantly crafted smart phone. He had received a message from an unknown number. A number that he could never recount seeing before. A number, unbeknownst to him, that was not in service to any individual. He opened his phone. As he read the message he was met with a small sense of confusion. The simple “Hello,” displayed itself upon his screen. It’s small gray bubble broke the silence of the otherwise white background. “Who is this?” he thought to himself. He considered disregarding it, writing it off as simply being sent to the wrong number. Yet for some unknown reason, the message entranced him. He dismissed the thoughts of ignoring the text and typed a reply. A reply just as simple, and just as short. As he typed on his small, digital keyboard, a small phrase appeared in the white space above. “Who is this?” and with the completion of the message he hovered his finger above the blue arrow and delivered his response, appearing in a little blue bubble, once again breaking the silence of his screen. The message immediately displayed itself upon her screen, and with it, came a sense of panic. He had responded. The reality of what she was doing began to set in. In an instant she wished to undo what she had done. To go back just five, short minutes, to go back to before she had violated the law of her work. Her wish was not granted. Instead she was left staring blankly at her bright, unblinking screen. She didn’t have an answer to the question she was being presented. Who was she? In a short instant she considered telling him the truth, yet she knew she couldn’t. All she could do was stare. The brightness of the screen engulfed her, she was suddenly lost in the artificial, unnatural light. She had not thought this through. Without contemplation she typed at her keyboard. She wanted to stop herself, but the thrill of what she was doing urged her on. She sent her next message, “A friend.” This was a lie of course, although she knew him, she was not a friend. A friendship couldn’t come from what she was doing to him. She was watching him, unknowingly and against his will. She was not a friend. A response came quickly, “Do I know you?” The answer of course was no, but could she tell him that? Her question was quickly answered for her as her computer was shut down. She herself was being monitored, a fact that she was unaware of. A tall man, slender in figure and heavy in presence entered her office space. He looked at her with a grim scowl, a scowl that dug deep into her soul. She was commanded to follow him, and she complied. He led her to the office of her employer, an office she had only entered once before for her initial interview. She was ushered in and the door was closed behind her. As she stepped into the office she was met with a menacing stare. A stare that shook her to her core and chilled her down to her bones. She took a seat without being instructed to do so, and calmly waited until her boss addressed her. “Do you know what you have done?” his deep, sullen voice, echoed through the small room that they shared. “Yes sir,” she was met with silence. She knew that she made a mistake, and she began to tremble in her seat. “Please sir, I can’t lose this job,” she spoke again. “You won’t,” there was a hint of disappointment in his voice, “not unless you do what you are about to be told.” She was simultaneously relieved yet frightened at his statement. She waited for further instruction. He reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a small handgun, placing it on the surface of his wooden workspace. Fear welled inside her, she contemplated running, anything to get away from the object that was just placed before her. “Tell me why,” he spoke. She then broke down and began to tell him everything. How she had fallen in love with the man the day she was assigned to him. She explained that after watching him for two years she could no longer bear being apart from him. She just wanted to meet him, she wanted to be able to fall in love with him away from her computer screen. She was hysterical, hot tears falling from her eyes, carving out rivers down her cheeks. His expression did not change. He looked at her with judging eyes and began to yet again fill the room with his cold voice. “You are to kill the subject that you have been assigned to.” These words were deafening, she was in that moment hit with the severe reality of her situation. Hit with the realization that mistakes like hers are why people disappear. She took the gun into her hands, feeling the weight of it. It weighed her down, and she felt as it was growing heavier with every second that passed. He gave her the address of the man she was to kill and had her removed from his office. He checked his phone again, he was overcome with curiosity and wished to know who the messages had came from. However, his day went on, and he quickly pushed his mysterious encounter to the back of his mind. He went on to mindlessly complete his daily tasks. Every day was the same, variation was rare and accepted as unlikely. This day was no different. It was as if he had no control over his life, as if everything he was to do was predetermined for him. It was as if he was an actor preparing for a role by living as the character, a character that he would meld with and soon forget who he was before. With this dull repetition, his day quickly turned to night, and he soon found himself meeting his large, lonely bed. She now trembled before his doorstep. She knew what she was about to do was illegal, but the law didn’t apply to her. In this instance she was above the laws set for those who simply exist in a world that she has a hand in controlling. She had no issue getting past the heavy, locked door. She was trained for situations like this, yet only now was the necessity of her training apparent. She shook as she made her way through an unfamiliar space. It was as if she stepped into another world, a world that she had no business entering. A world that she was about to destroy. She easily found her way into the bedroom of the man she had been assigned, and crept near his bedside. Upon seeing him laid out in slumber, she froze. She had long wished for this moment, to be able to see the man she loved in person. As she gazed over him a sense of panic set in. She had already come too far, and could no longer reject what she was told to do. She lifted the gun and pointed it towards his head, it’s weight now apparent more than ever, as if not only did it carry the weight of the materials in which it had been crafted, but also the weight of the sinister act she was about to commit. Her finger slowly wrapped itself around the cold trigger of the weapon she held, pointed at her target. A target was all he was now. He was no longer a human being that she had watched day after day, he was no longer a man that she had fallen in love with. He was a target, a target meant to be destroyed. As she reduced his humanity in her mind his eyes fluttered open, and his humanity returned for a short fleeting moment. A moment that seemed to last an eternity and in that eternity lie another in which their eyes met. An eternity in which she wished to live, staring into his eyes, into his soul. An eternity that was interrupted by the loud bang of a bullet being forced into his brain. Once again turning him into nothing more than a target. A target that had been eliminated.

That’s the thing about this city, it comes to life at night. Lights and vibrant colors dominate the city filled with tourists spending every minute with smiles and office workers drinking the stress of the day. But as daytime break the cheerfulness dulls, replace with rush hour and glum faces of people stuck in traffic and workers who were tired of doing jobs they never dream of doing. Many are stuck with it. Every person is busy to care that one person among them doesn’t belong to the crowd. A girl with pearly white skin, splash pink hair, and steel-gray eyes. She wore a black crop top, a black short skirt, and barefoot. Those alone should have attracted attention but they failed to notice her despite standing in the middle of scorching Philippine sunlight. Failed to see there’s no trace of shadow beneath her feet, or that she stood few centimeters above the ground. She also glides instead of walk. She smirked as she peered at the phone of a high school girl. The girl made a deal to meet after school with her secret boyfriend. “Be careful not to get caught. Maybe I should tattle on you? Follow you home and tell your mom?” she said with a wicked laugh, but the high school girl tucked away her phone and cross the street, weaving herself between the honking cars. She shrugged and glides to another person to spy. No one would care, no one sees her. She can invade anyone’s privacy and they would never find out because she’s invisible to the human eye, she who guides spirits of those who killed themselves instead of fighting to live. She can do whatever she wants without anyone caring, she had done so for millennia. She existed long before the first car, witness wars, celebrated with humans as Armstrong left the first human footprint on the moon. Watch television get bigger and thinner, phone screen get bigger and powerful. She saw it all, except, they never saw her. Her shoulder dropped a bit before she looked up to a building across the street and sigh. The sight of a crying man at the roof, tentatively stepping to the edge annoyed her. “Jump already,” she mumbled and snapped her finger. A parchment appeared in front of her and the picture of the man on the rooftop was on the paper, below was his name, Eduardo. Age, forty-six. His work, lawyer. Cause of Death, suicide. Reasons, losing the will to live after his family got murdered after refusing a bribe. Time of death, one-thirty in the afternoon. She looked back at the clock of carinderia behind her. Seven minutes before Eduardo’s death. She lowered her eyes and froze at the sight of the young man, not older than nineteen standing behind the display of cooked food. His coffee-brown eyes looked straight at her. “You can see me?” she asked passing through the small seating area, but before she can glide beside him, his suntanned skin paled and he passed out. “ Ay diyos ko po !” His female coworker shouted. “ Manang , Danilo collapse! Manang, your son!” The coworker sat beside him and shook his shoulder and put a finger over his nose. “Danilo, wake up! Manang, he’s not breathing!” A chubby woman in her forties rushed out from the back of the carinderia and join Danilo’s coworker. The mother looked as if she’s about to hyperventilate as she kept calling her son’s name and told his coworker to call a taxi. “Let’s bring him to the hospital.” She pressed a finger on her forehead. “Filipinos are too dramatic.” She hovered over them and frown at Danilo's soul rising soul slowly rising out of his body. She grabbed her parchment and used it to slap the soul back to its shell. “It’s not your time to die. Wake up, I need you physically conscious to know if you really can see me.” Danilo opened his eyes and gasped for air. His mother crushed him into a hug. “ Hijo! Please don’t scare me like that!” She opened her mouth to get Danilo’s attention. She wanted to know, needed to know if he can hear and see her, but the screams across the street made her turn. The parchment still floating beside her now blinking with words that say, the soul ready for collecting. She looked back at Danilo. He got back on his feet, glance around, and like everyone's gaze across the street. There was no sign of him seeing her. Danilo would react another way if he can indeed see her, but his unseeing eyes passed her and the parchment. She glided out of their carinderia and levitated above everyone. A bitter smile appeared on her lips as she floated over the traffic and stunned faces of the people around. Ever since she got this job, not a single person hear or see her, how could she expect a man from a modern time to notice her? She shook her head. What the hell did you expect? She mocked. She approached Eduardo’s spirit, looking lost as he wanders out of the crowd forming around his lifeless body. “Eduardo, I need you to come with me.” He looked at her, at her feet floating from the ground. “Are you the angel who will bring me to heaven?” She laughed. “Oh, I’m not.” “Are you the devil then? Did God deemed me unworthy to be in heaven with my family?” She grunt. “Look, you’re not going to heaven or hell. If you hadn’t kill yourself you might have gone to heaven, but since you did, you’re leaving with me.” Eduardo’s face fall. “Where are you taking me?” “We will go to a place where you’ll face a different judgment. Where you go next all depends on what kind soul you are, if you learned something in this life or needed to reincarnate to a similar life.” “Is it possible for me to request to be with my family?” Occasionally there is a soul who refused to go with her and she needs to resort to force and violence to make them, but souls like these are hard in their way. He wasn’t refusing but isn’t willing either. A headache to deal with. “Probably,” she replied. A lie. Souls from suicide are usually put through a painful trial, one of the mildest was getting reborn onto similar fate over and over until they live through the hardship and died a natural death, or by accident as long as they didn’t end their own life. The hardest place is close to hell, where the soul experiences joy and then is thrown into a wave of unspeakable despair. And there’s her, not dead nor alive. She looked at Eduardo. “If you don’t come with me, who knows what other beings might come for you,” she said and after a few more words, she sighed with relief when Eduardo took her hand and let her guide him away. *** Danilo stared up to the sky where the woman with splash pink hair and gray eyes flew with some foggy thing hanging in her hand. Ever since she appeared early in the morning when he opened the carinderia, he can’t help noticing her. The hair and the eyes were part of it, but she also got a supernatural vibe about her. Her eyes were cool and dull as she looked back and forth, then there are her feet as she moved inside people’s personal space. Her bare feet weren’t touching the ground, she doesn’t have a shadow and a strange piece of paper appeared at the snapped of her finger. He wanted to scream in fear at first, but then he heard her talk to everyone, but everyone ignores her, and each time they go she looked dejected. He pitied her, but the feeling only lasted for a few minutes. Only lasted until she turned to look at the clock and caught him looking at her. He covered his face and let out a laugh. He fainted. He can’t believe passing out from seeing her glide toward him. “Danilo, this is not a laughing matter!” his mother scolded. It’s dark outside now and his mother has been talking about the suicide all day. He can almost write about the dead’s lawyer story with his eyes close. “As pitiful as that man was, our business will suffer for sure. People will not eat in a place close to where someone killed themselves.” He rubbed his mother’s shoulder. “ ‘Nay , relax. If you don’t, your beautiful fat will attack your heart, and I’ll be an orphan.” She reached for his side and twist her fingers in a tight pinched, he yelped. “I’m strong as a horse, I won’t be dying soon.” Danilo laughed. “That’s good,” then seriously said, “The moment the news gets old, everyone will forget. You’ll see.” “ Sana nga, ” his mother wistfully said. *** After delivering Eduardo’s soul, she returned to the street where his body the drop. They cleaned the area. Her eyes traveled across to the street toward Danilo’s carinderia. The cooked meals were gone, the seating area tucked away to the side. She found him right away pulling a metal grille of the carinderia . She tilted her head, unable to understand why she felt so strongly about him, but instead of thinking so much about it, she floated up and stood beside him. She waited until Danilo pulled the key from the lock and say, “Hi,” Her heart raced as he turns to her and smiled. “Hello,” he said. “You can see me?” “Yes,” She glides backward, “How?” “I don’t know,” he dropped the keys to his shorts pocket, “I just did the moment I saw you when I opened the carinderia earlier.” She looked down, trying to think of what to say, for millennia she dreamed of speaking to someone, really speaking, and not only communicate with souls she needed to convince to follow her. A living person who will talk to her and make her feel noticed. Now, there’s one standing in front of her and all she could do is choke at her tears. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Danilo asked, the panicked on his face as he grabbed her and dried her tears with his hand made her cry even more. “It’s been so long since someone touches me!” His hand stopped moving. “What?” And you think Filipino are overdramatic , said a sarcastic voice inside her but she kept wailing while Danilo took her hand and walk. *** Not that he usually pulled a girl to follow him, but that night, Danilo can’t help but smile as the people looked at him like some lunatic. Seeing someone with the hand in the back like they’ll pulling something when they see nothing is the perfect recipe of being mistaken as someone with a loose screw. If only they could see and hear the girl floating behind him, everyone will run screaming. He should be scared too. He knows nothing about her, but he can’t bring feel any fear. Even when he collapse earlier, it wasn’t fear, but overwhelming surprise, and a strong sense of being pulled out of himself which caused him to lose consciousness. Her command, however, made him felt as if his soul was tossed back to his body. He pretended not to see her, thinking maybe she was a product of his imagination, but after touching her, he knows, she isn’t. He can’t even think of leaving her after seeing her cry of happiness simply because he can see and speak to her. “Here,” he said offering her a cold drink from the vending machine near the park where he brought her and let her cry it out. No one cares. No one hears other than him. She shook her head. “I’m not human, not anymore anyway, I don’t need human food or drink to stay alive.” “Okay.” He opened the lid and sat beside her on the bench. He looked at her small feet, clean feet. “Don’t you wear shoes?” “Don’t need it.” She floated up, crossed her legs, and softly land beside him. He whistled and she blushed. “What are you now?” “I’m not sure.” “Okay. You said not anymore, that means you use to be a human. How did you die?” No answer. “Where do you live?” Silent. He changed the question. “How old are you?” “A millennia.” He spat his drink. “What!” He coughs and dried his mouth. Chug down the rest of his drink. She turned to him with all seriousness. “I’m more than a thousand years old.” “You don’t look much older than me, younger even. Eighteen? Seventeen?” She sigh. “I’m one-thousand-one-hundred-twenty-seven years old. Satisfied?” No. Danilo thought but decided to give it a rest. “I’m Danilo.” “I know. I heard them call you.” “Right. Your name is?” “I can’t remember.” “Are you serious?” She nodded, her face blank. A short time later she took a deep breath and told him everything. The painful tale of a past she can’t remember, not even her name, only that she committed suicide and her punishment was waiting for the souls of those who committed suicide. Knowing most of them are victims of injustice and she can’t do anything but watch them die, and some even suffered a bit more before dying. “Today is the first day, I felt free, and tonight, I strangely feel content,” she said with a smile. A sweet and soft smile but dim and lonely like the moonlight shining on her, it created a halo at the edges of her hair. “If somehow this is just a dream, I’m happy to remember that once I was not invisible.” Danilo felt his heart ached, it’s as if she will fade away the moment the clouds shaded the moonlight. He reached out as she slowly levitates from the bench. “Tala,” he called. “What did you call me?” He anchored her down and caressed her cheek, “Tala, the goddess of the stars. That name suits you, and I’ll always see you, I can see you, Tala.” Thump. “Ow!” she cried. The people in the park turn before moving on. She was too busy rubbing her butt and stretching up to notice, but Danilo saw it. They turn. The people turn. “Strange, I can’t float. Something’s wrong I can’t summon--” She paused and no matter how many times Danilo called out she remained silent and then tears flooded her eyes. “Tala!” “I remember now.” Danilo let go of her shoulders. “Your name? She shook her head. “My past. I murdered them. I murdered my father, my stepmother, and my half-siblings. I killed them all in their sleep and tried to kill myself. But I was saved and given this punishment. My first task was to watch my mother get abuse and killed without knowing who she was, not even remembering as her soul beg me to go with her.” Dread spread through Danilo, not because of the crime she did, but for her. She lived so long and suffered without remembering, but that in itself is mercy. “Everything will be fine. You must have a reason for doing it, and you’re regretting it now.” *** She turned to Danilo in horror. “You don’t understand, I receive this punishment for my crime, for my jealousy and cowardness. And now, they’re lifting it off me and leaving me here as a human. No friends, no family, no one who cares. That name doesn’t suit me.” But she also refused to be called in her old name. Danilo cupped her cheek. “Tala, you have me, I care, I’ll be your friend and family, okay?” His bright smile pushed the darkness away from her human heart. She nods and took his extended hand as he stood up. “Let’s go home.” Home, she loved the sound of it. I’ll do my best to be useful , she inwardly promised him. After walking fifty-meter, however, she felt like a burden. Danilo saw her winching from the pain at the sole of her feet, not use to walking again, and offered his back for a piggy ride. She loved his scent, his warmth, and she isn’t sure she will be able to love him other than a man. She leaned her mouth close to his ears. “I don’t want to be your family, I want to build a family with you someday.” She felt him tensed, then in a hoarse voice he replied, “Yeah, me too.” A small giggle escaped her lips. She pressed herself on his back, hugging him, eyes heavy from unpeaceful rest through the millennia. *** Danilo groaned at the indecent thoughts running through his head. He wrapped his arms tighter on Tala’s legs and continue his way back home, carrying the woman who journeys through many human generations and be with him. Danilo looked up at the moonlit sky and whispered a silent thanks. That’s the thing about this city, no one notices except those who take time to look a bit closer about the mysterious things happening every day.

Sometimes, while he was watching his team work, Nikolai wondered what the world had been like before the Retreat; 9 to 5 jobs, long lunch breaks. He would wonder, while staring at the screen in his home that showed all of his employees dutifully typing away, how anyone could get anything done in 8 hours. Right now his team was working in Real Time. In about 20 minutes an alarm would sound all around the office indicating it was time to go On Retreat. When that happened, each one of his employees would pull out the small device that everyone kept in their pockets at all times, open the Retreat app, and login. Even though employees only worked in the office a couple of days a week (the other days they could work from anywhere) Nikolai had tried to make the space as inviting as possible. There were large plush couches for those who didn’t like to sit at desks. There were multiple coffee stations, as well as a few with drinks that contained something a bit stronger than caffeine for when you were working on an especially difficult project. There were also many brightly colored signs on the walls with helpful reminders like “Eat something! A hungry worker is an unproductive worker.” And “Fifteen for Fire!” The latter was referencing the requirement to take one 15 minute break for every 6 hours of work while On Retreat to ensure maximum productivity. These reminders were important. Nicolai had learned that the first few months after the release of Retreat 1.0 had been messy. People would go On Retreat to work on a project for hours, then come back and continue working. Time passed differently when you were in the bubble that the Retreat app created. Hours would speed by, but in Real Time it was as if you had just sat down to work. CEOs were so excited about the increased productivity that they didn’t think to remind their employees to eat, or sleep. The results were not pretty. Nowadays there were limits, rules, reminders everywhere. Nikolai smiled as he heard the melodic chimes starting, right on schedule, and unmuted his microphone. “Have a good Retreat!” he said. ******************************** Kai only had a few more months left of school, and for that she was grateful. She had known going into it that a degree in Programming was going to be a lot of work, but she had underestimated just how much. Even with the mandatory sleep and food breaks that were built into every day, she was exhausted all the time. She knew her classmates felt the same; they would commiserate during their midday lunch breaks, share tips for minimizing back pain, and which brand of eyedrops were best to combat the dry scratchiness that came from staring at screens all day. But they knew it would all be worth it. Soon school would be a thing of the past and they would be Programmers, making a real difference in the world. After all it was students just like them that created the Retreat app, students just like them that wrote the code that allowed the United States to have the most productive workforce in the entire world. Kai stood up from her laptop, stretched her arms up over her head, and did twenty jumping jacks. She took a deep breath and long sip of her coffee. She knew there were stronger drinks, some of her classmates used them during midterms and finals, but Kai was nervous about stuff like that. She had heard tales of hallucinations, of students who didn’t sleep for days, wandering around campus like zombies. The teachers all said those stories were just urban legend, but Kai wasn’t so sure. She was about to sit back down at her desk when the door to her dorm room flew open and TJ and Amma burst in. “Kai!” Her best friends both looked kind of manic, wild eyed and breathless. “We have to show you something! Like right now!” Kai looked up at her friends suspiciously. “Ya’ll ok?” she asked. “You are both acting like you just took a sip from the wrong mug.” Amma waved her hand impatiently. “Girl you know I don’t touch that stuff. But seriously, come on .” She grabbed Kai’s hand and literally tried to drag her out of the door. Kai looked over at TJ who was still standing in the doorway. “TJ, what’s up? He grinned at her, his blue eyes twinkling. “We just have to show you,” he replied. “But Amma maybe you could let her put on shoes first?” He indicated Kai’s bare feet. Amma sighed. “Fine but hurry up !” Kai followed her two friends down the hall and into one of the many computer labs that were spread out across the campus. She raised her eyebrows questioningly when Amma locked the door behind them. “What..” Amma placed a finger to her lips and led them towards a table in the far corner. Kai expected her to boot up the laptop that was there but Amma pulled a small piece of paper out of her pocket instead. Written in blue ink, were what seemed to be lines of code. Kai was impressed. Paper was hard to find on campus, since almost every assignment was done on some kind of computer device. She was about to ask Amma why she had hand written this one when TJ answered for her. “They haven’t figured out how to track what we write. Or what we think. Not yet anyway.” Kai understood then. Her friends had written a new program, but not one for any class. “What does it do?” Amma grinned. “You know how they monitor us when we are on Retreat? You know, to make sure we are only using the extra time to study or do homework or whatever? Well we figured out how to hack it.” Kai looked over at TJ, who nodded. “How do you know it works?” she asked. Her two friends shared a quick glance before smiling back at her. “We tried it,” TJ replied. “Yesterday, for a full hour, in Retreat time that is. We took a walk in the park.” Kai stared at him, her eyes wide. “And???” TJ shrugged. “No one said a thing.” ******************************** Kai had learned about the time before the Retreat app had been created, they all had. It was part of every middle and high school education. About how much less productive work used to be. About how much time humans used to waste on meaningless things before the coders figured out how to optimize everything; exactly how many hours of rest, leisure activities and exercise were actually necessary. People in this country used to be terribly lazy, prone to staring at mindless videos for hours on end. Kai could not imagine having that much free time ever. When would anyone get their coursework done? Besides, it wasn’t as if she didn’t ever have fun. During their mandatory hour long midday break, she and her friends often played games, kicking a ball around for fun or playing with a real deck of cards or an old school chess board. Most people played games online of course, but you could still find these things if you knew who to ask. And at night, before bed, she would sometimes even watch a video or listen to music to help her unwind. It was necessary after so many hours of studying. The idea that her two best friends were suggesting, however, was something different. “What are we going to do all day?” Both TJ and Amma smiled mysteriously. “Whatever we want,” they replied. Retreat time was specific to each person who activated the app, basically opening a bubble around them that sped everything up and made time in the real world appear to not move at all. In order to allow for working in groups, however, you could link up with people nearby and add them to your “bubble.” Kai pulled out her device, handed it Amma and watched her type in the new code. “Are you sure this is a good idea? We are only a few months away from graduation.” Amma smiled. “Isn’t that exactly why we should do this? Before we become productive members of society for, well, basically forever. Don’t you want to have some fun first?” Their campus was not that far from the lake, so the three friends went there, armed with sandwiches and sodas. They sat by the shore and Kai popped the top open on her drink. TJ reached into his pocket and offered her a small silver flask. Kai raised her eyebrows. “I thought you guys didn’t do that stuff”, she replied. TJ shook his head. “Its not a stimulant silly. Its alcohol. You know, for fun?” Kai had really only had alcohol at formal events; a glass of red wine at her cousins’s wedding, the occasional beer at a graduation party. No one ever drank in the middle of the day. Alcohol was known to dull your senses, to make you sleepy and unmotivated. Which, she supposed, was kind of the point. She poured some of the contents of TJ’s flask into her bottle of soda and watched as he and Amma did the same. They each took a large swig, then lay back on the grass and stared up into the bright blue sky. It was a beautiful, cloudless day, sunny and warm. Kai had just closed her eyes when she felt a tap on her shoulder. “Im going in the lake”, Amma declared. “Wanna come?” Kai blinked at her. “I obviously don’t have a bathing suit here. I thought I was studying this afternoon, remember?” Amma shrugged. “Yeah, so?” Kai looked around the deserted shoreline. Everyone else on Retreat right now was in a office somewhere or a coffeeshop designed for work. Amma was already removing her clothes. She glanced over at TJ who waved his hand dismissively. “Go ahead," he said. "I’ll stay here.” Kai considered it for a few more seconds before grinning and following her friend down to the water. The two girls stayed in the water for over half an hour, swimming back and forth and floating lazily on their backs, the midday sun on their faces. At one point Kai felt Amma reach out and take her hand and they stayed like that for awhile, holding hands with their eyes closed, slowly drifting in the lake’s tiny waves. When they got back TJ was eating the rest of his sandwich. Before he could have time to react, Amma plopped down right in his lap, wet skin and all. He flinched at the cold water but rather than pushing her away, he wrapped his long arms around her and drew her closer. Amma then reached her hand towards Kai and pulled her down next to them. They sat like that for awhile, three bodies touching each other, absorbing each other’s warmth. When Amma turned her face upwards, TJ’s lips met hers easily. Over four hours of Retreat time passed in this way. They finished their sandwiches, sodas, the contents of TJ’s flask. They talked about their futures, fantasized about what life would be like when they graduated and became the top coders in their fields. The sun had traveled almost all the way across the sky when Amma finally said, “Do you guys ever wonder if all of this is worth it?” Both Kai and TJ just looked at her, waiting for her to elaborate. “I mean, this day, this lake, all of this. When are we ever going to have a day like this again? We have been in school basically our whole lives to get those dream jobs where we will then work non stop until we die. And we were always taught that that was the ultimate goal, the ultimate purpose in life. But what if it isn’t?” “Well you guys have the hack now”, Kai pointed out. “So maybe we can come back here. Like once a month. Even when we all are big tech superstars.” Both TJ and Amma nodded. They made a pact then, an agreement to take a break from the real world once a month and just be free, together. Then they went back. Kai had an exam to study for. TJ was finishing up his final project. Amma had a paper to write. A few weeks after their Retreat to the lake, TJ tried to enter the hacked code into his device and it was immediately rejected. Apparently the higher ups had learned about the hack, and had changed something in the app. No one had ever said anything, they had just quietly fixed the problem. TJ spent a few hours tinkering with the Retreat code but eventually he gave up. There were finals to take, projects to complete. Graduation was rapidly approaching. Besides, by then all three of them had been offered internships at high level tech companies. The real world was waiting. ***************************** When Nikolai’s team returned from being on Retreat, he checked in with everyone to make sure they had all eaten. He then told them to get some coffee, to take a little break. He watched his screen as they chatted with each other, joked, laughed. They all looked happy and Nikolai felt proud for providing a positive work environment. After all, happiness was key to productivity. A few weeks ago, some college students had apparently hacked the Retreat app, allowing them to disappear for hours without being tracked. Nikolai’s boss had been beside himself. “They went to the lake!” He had cried. “They went swimming. Naked. They didn’t study at all. They didn't even bring a book!” Nikolai had wondered if the students were going to be punished, perhaps even kicked out of school. Programming college spots were extremely competitive; there were probably thousands who would be more than happy to take their place. But his boss had shaken his head. “Are you kidding? We’ve already sent an update to the app,” he said. “Their code will no longer work, or anything like it. But we aren’t doing a thing to them, we aren’t telling a soul. Can you imagine if it got out that someone had hacked the system? We would never hear the end of it.” Nikolai of course agreed not to say anything to anyone. “So they are just getting away with it?” His boss didn’t seem particularly concerned. “So they spent a few hours hanging out by a lake. Who cares? Young people always think that they are going to change the world. Eventually everyone learns what we already know. He paused, a small smile passing over his face. “We are in charge of the world’, he said. “We are the only ones who can really make change. And we already did that, many years ago. Nowadays, the smart people know to just play along.” As Nikolai watched, his team finished up their coffees and one by one retuned to their desks. It was only 2pm, Real Time. There were still plenty of hours left in the day.

Jerome never really liked his name. Jerry was too casual and Jerome just sounded too much like someone he wasn’t. That being said, he had no other name to go by so he went by it nonetheless. So it was that he heard his name over and over this Saturday morning when he woke. “Jerome. Jerome. Jerome!” He woke with a start. “Mmmmph. Huh? WHAT? What is it?” Your phone is blowing up, silly, she said. She. Oh yes. He almost forgot. He had company last night. Liz. They knew each other from another past they both shared but no longer lived. For years they never knew what became of each other but grabbing a drink at the right bar at the right time weaved their stories together once more. High heels. Short skirt. Red wine. And things go as they always go. Two likeminded people attracted to each other inoculate their brains with booze, and then move on to shady corners and wet slow kisses and then on to messy sheets and awkward mornings. What? Your phone. It’s been blowing up for half an hour at least. Oh. Jerome fumbled around his night stand for his glasses, found them with his fingers, put them on and started looking for his phone-but it was not where he usually put it. Your pants, she said while giggling. The phone is in your pants. That’s where the sounds are coming from. They are on the floor by the door-along with the rest of our clothes. She giggled some more. They had barely made it through the door before everything came off, he remembered now. She was laying on her stomach clutching the pillow. Her red hair laying across her cheek and green eye blinking at him when he awoke. Her back was bare and the sheet was laying across her rump. She was wearing nothing but the expressions on her face. I forgot how much fun we have together, she said. It’s been too long. He smirked and made a comment as he rose - that was your decision, if I remember right. You abandoned me. I didn’t abandon you. Hmph. You’re an ass. -she said as she pulled the sheet over her head. Jerome wiped his face with his hands, rubbed his temples and walked over to his clothes. The smell of sex was all over the room. A warm almost salty smell of bodies and stale alcohol. The clothes were indeed in two neat piles. He thought to himself these could be filed as his and hers regrets. His pants were inside out, one leg pulled almost all the way through and socks still in his pants legs. His shoes lay below. Her heels and skirt were directly in front of it. Nearly perfectly stacked. The shirts? Where were the shirts? He panned across the room. Nothing. Her bra was on the bed though. God she looked good in that bra. Everything about it complimented her breasts. Slight lift gave her a bolted on bombshell look with small but perky curves and delicate round perfection. He opened his door to the hallway of his apartment complex and there they were. The shirts were 10-15 feet down the hall laying against the wall. I guess we got started a little early-he thought. His feet padded quickly down the hall - hands grabbing the shirts and back to his apartment he went. He latched the door as he came back inside, threw the shirts on the chair and dove back into bed. Hey, our shirts were in the hall. HAHA. I guess we got a little hot and heavy before making it inside. Are you going to get that phone or not - she yelled into the pillow. oh. Yea. I forgot that’s why I got up. What’s the matter with you all of a sudden? Nothing. Okay, then. I’m getting a shower. Will you shut the phone off first? Or answer it? I’m trying to sleep here. Hey. Queen bipolar. You were laughing a bit ago-now you are all mad and pissy-what’s the problem? I didn’t abandon you. Liz, I came home. All your stuff was gone. I had an email a few days later that said you couldn’t do it, that you loved me but you had to go because you were afraid you’d hurt me and that was it. Not a note. A word. A slap on the ass. Nothing. You hurt me. That was 5 years ago. How did you NOT abandon me? It wasn’t like that! - she screamed. Will you answer the fucking phone, already?! Liz, my phone isn’t even ringing. What the fuck are you talking about? Oh God. Not again. Not again?? What do you mean. That’s why I’m in town. Sigh. I had to see my doctor. The phone. I hear the sounds of phones sometimes when they aren’t really ringing. It hasn’t happened for a long time though but it started again. I thought I was getting better. Ive been on medication for the voices and the ringing stopped with them. The voices? He slipped back into bed next to her, put his arm over her - they on their sides facing each other. What voices? She sighed. A long pause. That’s why I had to leave. Because of the voices? Well, no. Because of the ringing? No. Then why?! What are you trying to say? Because. Because why, Liz?! Because they weren’t being kind. Who wasn’t? the voices on the phone, Jerome! This makes no sense. These voices are in your head-is it your conscious talking to you or what? You aren’t like schizo are you? She closed her eyes and tears ran into the pillow. Wait, what? You aren’t schizo are you?! All my life, I thought schizophrenia was like that movie we watched called Sybil. Remember watching that when we were kids? But its not. It’s not at all. I hear telephones I answer them, Jerome, and I change. I dont choose it. What do you mean you change? I mean I change. I’m not myself. I make decisions I wouldn’t normally make and I become who I am not normally presenting to the world as me. Why didn’t you tell me this? Because no one knows. No one can know. I came into town because I needed to take care of some things with my doctor. I wanted to see you. To feel you. That much is true. I didn’t know it would be the last time. As she stood from the bed, the covers dropped revealing a naked shaking woman holding a gun. Jerome screamed, LIZ, NO! Oh honey, Ive not been Liz since the phone rang. BANG. The smell of gunfire was all that remained of the evening in Jeromes apartment when state detectives began combing through his things and questioning why there was a dead woman in his bed with only a pistol in one hand and a cellphone in the other. Jerome sat and stared at the detectives shaking his head. He could only whisper the words, “I should never have called her.

Cara Stones sat in school, waiting for her teacher to tell her the stupid resolution thingy. She sat, waiting. Here it came. Mrs. Walden opened her mouth; "Children! Today, you shall write of thy resolution!" she shouted. Cara plunged for her notebook. She started to write on it: Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She eats apples a million times a day. Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She always seems to have to go pee! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She eats like a pig. Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. I think she is a pig that pees out apples! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She needs some beads for her classroom because kids don't have no fun! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. Her turkey sandwiches are dumb! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She eats like a rhino and a pig! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth, she hates to do the jig! "Can I see yours, Mary-Allison?" Mrs. Walden was asking "Sure! Here. 'My new year's resolution is to be kind to my little brother and take care of my toys better!" Mary-Allison replied "That's a wonderful resolution, Mary-Allison!" Mrs. Walden replied. "Thanks!" Mary-Allison said back. Mrs. Walden moved up to Cara. "Cara! How are you getting along with your resolution?" she asked Cara "Um, okay. Not too well." Cara said back, hiding her notebook." Cara replied "Can I take a look?" Mrs. Walden asked; "Um, sure, wait a second." Cara took her pencil and hastily scratched out her "resolution". Too bad, it didn't do much good. "Cara?" Mrs. Walden edged on "Here," Cara said, handing her notebook over Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She eats apples a million times a day. Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She always seems to have to go pee! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She eats like a pig. Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. I think she is a pig that pees out apples! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She needs some beads for her classroom because kids don't have no fun! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. Her turkey sandwiches are dumb! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She eats like a rhino and a pig! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth, she hates to do the jig! "How horrifying! Oh, my!" screamed Mrs. Walden, "detention, after school. The rest of the week. That is a horrible resolution!"

Oliveria finished unpacking her things and wondered what to do next. Who am I kidding? It's 2330 , she thought. She got into her pajamas and tucked herself into her bed. Waiting for sleep, she wondered why she was so clueless as to what to do in her own home. Maybe because she was never at home long enough to consider it her home. She had bought the house a little while after she graduated at a university nearby. After a week, she decided that she couldn't stay in the same town after all those awful years at the university. Almost immediately, she won one million dollars and a trip to Australia. It was unreal. Her parents might have found out that she partook in a special lottery and they might have rearranged some things, but she chose to ignore the thought. Her parents never ceased to spoil her, but even if it did really happen, she would rather play dumb than have her mood spoiled. When the beautiful journey in Australia ended, she decided to turn the tables around. She cancelled her flight back to England and booked a new one to Thailand. The list went on and on: from Thailand to Malaysia to the Philippines to China to Japan to Saudi Arabia to Germany to Scandinavia to Greenland... She only stopped when she realised that the money she had left was only enough for a flight back to England. Not that her parents wouldn't give her more, but sooner or later her journey had to end after all. "Tomorrow," she said out loud to her thoughts, getting sleepy. Her eyelids fell like stage curtains over her eyes until all she could see was black. - The next morning, Oliveria woke up to the sound of her phone ringing. She grabbed it and looked at the time displayed on the lock screen. “I-it’s 1100! Wait, that shouldn’t matter anymore,” she said to herself. “Should it?” She accepted the call and put the phone to her ear without looking at who it was. “Uh... hello?” “Oliviaaaaa!!!” a voice rang from the other end. Immediately, Oliveria felt like going back to sleep. There was only one person who would always call her that. “What, Sloane?” she said without even bothering to not sound tired. It wasn’t very nice of her to do that, but Sloane was that one girl in university. That one girl who would always use her friends to her advantage, that one girl who was dumb enough to wonder why everyone else hated her. She was, at the very least, annoying. She couldn’t even get her only friend’s name correct. “Where have you been?! I couldn’t get to you at all! I tried to call you, I tried to break into your house, but the only things I could get from you were your Instagram stories! You’ve been on vacation, Olivia! And you’ve been ignoring me! How dare you do that! Now I’m tired and sick of everything I had to do all by myself these months! Including getting mad at you!” First of all, grow up. Second of all, you never had to yell at me at all. Third, last but not least, you could have phrased that until you had fewer sentences to say and therefore save your energy to do something useful. But do you even have anything useful to do, though? “Yeah, you know, I had to take a break,” Oliveria started. “All those university years got me tired.” “Well, I was never tired of university , so how can you be?” I don’t know, because all you did was create enemies for no absolute reason, and I had to clean up the mess you made, going here and there apologising to everyone and everything. “You wouldn’t understand.” “Hmph!” Oliveria could just imagine Sloane’s pout. “Well, sorry, but whatever! I need your help now!” At that point she launched into a speech of orders for Oliveria to do, but Oliveria could only think of one word she said. “You’ll do all that for me, right? Because I’m your friend! Okay, thank you so much, see ya Olivia!” “Wait, wait, Sloane! Don’t hang up yet!” “What? I haven’t got all the time in the world.” “You said... you said ‘sorry’.” “Yeah, so what? You’re the one who’s always nagging me to say sorry to people.” Oliveria chuckled to herself. “I kinda actually missed you.” “Ew, don’t make this weird.” “We’re friends, we have to be weird!” She hung up and Oliveria laughed some more to herself. “Oh my god, she actually grew up.” With all the tasks Sloane had given her, she could only say goodbye to going back overseas. She never had a job to keep her rooted to the town she lived in. Her parents would never let her have a job anyway. The same went for Sloane. She put on her coat and decided to walk to Sloane’s. It was a penthouse in a condominium in her neighborhood, which people called the ‘rich people neighborhood’. Seriously, they couldn’t have thought of a better name, could they? Oliveria also wondered why she stayed friends with such a toxic person as Sloane all these years. It wasn’t just a lot of her now ex-friends who asked the same. Sloane used to have a lot of friends, Oliveria included, before all of them realised how poisonous Sloane was and ditched her, leaving her alone. Except Oliveria, of course. It wasn’t like she didn’t have a choice. A lot of time she was asked to come with her friends to leave Sloane alone. There was nothing wrong with that. “An evil witch like her deserves to be alone,” her friends added. But even if it was true, the thought of being alone was enough to scare Oliveria, even if it wasn’t her who was going to be alone. So she stayed by Sloane’s side, while her now ex-friends misunderstood that she was just as evil. Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with being friends with an evil person, as long as I don’t encourage her evil, Oliveria thought. It just means I’m extra nice, because I still care about her, even after all she’s done to me. So why do I still feel bad? Before she could give it another thought, the elevator dinged, notifying her that she had arrived at Sloane’s penthouse. It stops. “It’s me, Oliveria,” she called out into the empty elevator. The doors opened directly to Sloane’s home. It also triggered something in Oliveria that made her completely change her vibe. “Geez, Sloane, anyone could just enter this house anytime, where’s your security?” Oliveria scoffed, almost tossing her coat to the clothes hanger. “Anyone in the elevator would have to speak to me so I could open the elevator doors and let them in,” Sloane replied, crossing her arms. “ I am the security. Isn’t it smart? Smarter than whatever you probably put up for your own abode.” “Damn, you never let a chance to make people hate you go free, don’t you?” “Oh, I believe you mean jealousy, Olivia.” “Unlike you, I’m a narcissistic masochist, so win-win. Plus, my name is Oliveria. And I don’t like to be reminded of my parents’ stupidity.” “Oh, whatever. Your parents gave you such a dumb name, I might as well correct it. Now help me with these. You’re an alumni, you might as well be kind enough to help one of your juniors.” How can a name actually be wrong? God never said so , Oliveria thought as she shook her head, smiling. After all the “school work” was done, Sloane flipped out her phone and started furiously typing, ignoring the curious looks from Oliveria and making her body turn elsewhere when her senior peeked over her shoulder. “Oh, oh,” Oliveria sniggered (which, even though she tried her best to not seem so, still sounded like she was awkwardly speaking in another language). “What is this now? What are thy hiding?” “It’s none of your business.” “It is now, because I saw some of it.” “What kind of dumb retort was that?!” “I heard it from a dumb person. It was so dumb, I saw what you’re searching into Instagram.” “-!” Sloane made a frantic turn to cover her phone with her body. She failed; her body was too slender and her shoulders weren’t broad enough. “Why are thy searching for a ‘douchebag who is insulting to women’? I didn’t know you were a masochist too.” “Ugh, I wouldn’t be that desperate for attention! That’s like, pathetic!” “Ouch, Sloane.” “Well, you deserved it.” “So who’s this new guy?” “Like I said, none of your business. Your messed up logic does not make any sense in my home.” “Aw, man. I just wanna help.” “Yeah, how? Make my logic as twisted as yours?” “Like maybe by shrinking your search results down to a few people?” “You don’t even know who I’m talking about! He’s new!” “I’m deducing that you don’t know who you’re talking about either.” This time, the infamous Sloane Pout Face had a shade of red as an addition. Is she embarrassed or mad? Oliveria wondered. Well, well, well, the things that happen when I’m gone, huh? “Just what happened, Sloane?” Sloane then proceeded to launch into yet another rant ( how does this girl even talk so much? Oliveria wondered), all while keeping her new pout face on the entire time (it made the old pout face seem like a mere BETA version). Apparently, a guy had humiliated her in front of the entire class when it was time for their team to present in front of the crowd. “That uggo with all the freaky scars on his face just made everyone laugh at me! I didn’t even get to do anything, he just took over right after that! My marks this semester are damned because of him!” “So what did you do next?” “I stormed out and ran to the bathroom, of course!” That just increased the chance of your marks’ damnation. “Oh.” “I’m gonna find him on Instagram and spread rumours all about him!” “Yeah, you are.” So it’s like an anime plot now, huh? Oliveria could feel a smirk threatening to escape her lips. So much fake kindness around you that you are attracted to the first thing that insults you. Oh, the cliche! Forget going overseas again, my story is over! It’s time for Sloane’s story to begin, isn’t it? Oliveria stood up. “Where are you going?” Sloane asked. Might as well make it more interesting. “We have better chances finding him at the university campus, don’t you think?” “Oh, yes! I’m glad I thought of that! Now let’s go!” Oliveria noticed her nostrils flaring and her knuckles turning slightly white. Oh, for this once, Oliveria! Don’t get mad at her! The girls grabbed their coats and headed into the elevator. Whilst the elevator was going down, it stopped at the 5th floor and guess who stepped out into the elevator with them? Mr. Scarface! Ha ha, this beginning has too many potential plot twists already. Oliveria smiled to herself. She was surprised that she was content with staying in England and assisting Sloane, given the fact that she was a thrill-seeker who always wanted to try something new. Nevertheless, she was at peace with stepping off the stage, away from the spotlight so Sloane could shine in her place. “What are you smiling about, Olivia?” “Nothing.”

Don't you know she's gone? "Excuse me? I'm here to find a Trissa Keita?" The voice startled Isla Pérez out of her thoughts. She had been studying for her history test tomorrow- stupid America, why must you fight so much?!?- and wasn't paying attention to her surroundings. The person who had spoken to her was a middle-aged man with an uncomfortable look on his face. Isla wasn't sure why. They were in a library, after all. Who could dislike being there? "That depends. Who the heck are you and what do you want with Tris?" Isla questioned. The man looked even more uncomfortable now, shifting his eyes from side to side. "I'm her... uncle. Her father needs to speak with her." Isla frowned, tugging on the dyed pink strip in her sandy brown bangs. "Why did her father not come?" The man gulped. "He was busy. Please, can you just tell me where to find her?" His words brought back a memory. Something Tris had said to her when Isla asked about her family. ------------------------------------ "I'm going to visit my parents this weekend." Trissa looked up from her book. "Oh?" Isla nodded. "It's my brother's birthday." Tris smiled faintly. "Tell him I said happy birthday." "What are you doing over the weekend?" Isla asked her roommate. "Cause if you don't have plans, you can come with." Tris shook her head. "Nah. I won't interrupt your family get-together." Isla tilted her head, setting down her computer. "Will you visit your family?" Tris froze. "No. they'd be too busy to see me, even if they wanted to." Isla got up, plopping down on the couch next to the other girl. "Their loss." ------------------------------------ Isla snapped back to the present. The man was still looking at her. "I'll call her and see if she'll agree to meet you," Isla informed him. "No!" he insisted. "I need to meet her now!" Isla flinched back at his sudden volume change. "I'm really sorry, but I won't just have her meet some random person from the library." "I'm not random," he said, "I'm her uncle." Isla frowned. "Still. If she agrees, I will meet you back here at 4:00 pm tomorrow." The man relented. "Fine. I will see you then, Miss..." "Isla. I'll see you then." ------------------------------------ "Tris! I'm back from the library!" Isla called out to her girlfriend- It felt so nice to call Tris her girlfriend, even if she'd only been able to do it for a couple of weeks- so she would know Isla was back to their dorm if she hadn't checked her texts. Which she hadn't, apparently, considering her surprised "Oh!" "Are you baking again?" Isla asked, walking into the kitchen. Tris had been, based on the supplies scattered around the counters and the white flour sprinkled across Tris's dark skin. “Hey, Bookworm!” Tris said, raising her brown eyes to meet Isla’s green ones, “How was the library?” Isla puckered her lips. “Fine, but something weird happened. There was a man there who insisted that he was your uncle and that your dad was looking for you-” A loud crash cut her off as Trissa dropped the mixing bowl she was holding. “W-Wha-What?” Tris’s voice came out shaky. “Whoa!” Isla exclaimed, running over to her girlfriend and wrapping her arms around her. “I didn’t tell him where to find you. I know... I know you don’t have the best relationship with your parents. I told him we’d meet with him only if you wanted to.” Tris’s breath caught. “I’d... I don’t know. I want to make things right between me and my parents, but they aren’t going to accept me if they wouldn’t accept me then. But still, I want to try.” Isla nodded, rubbing circles on Tris’s back. “Ok. we’ll meet with him tomorrow, assuming he’s actually your uncle.” Tris closed her eyes, leaning into Isla’s embrace. “Thank you,” she whispered. Isla smiled as she pressed her face into Tris’s black hair. “Course, Love. Of course.” ------------------------------------ Trissa got out of class fifteen minutes before Isla got out of gymnastics. Which meant she had twenty minutes before she and Isla were supposed to go to the library to meet her father. Oh, joy. “Uhhh,” Tris whispered to herself and her dog she was taking on a walk as she went to Isla’s gymnastics studio. “Why do I have to do this?” No one answered, which allowed Tris to try and think of what she was going to do when she and Isla went to meet her family. She checked her watch as the gymnastics studio into view. Twelve minutes. “Do you think Isla would like a scone when she gets out?” Tris asked the dog, Waffles. Waffles, being a dog, didn’t answer other than barking and wagging his tail. “Yeah, I think she would,” Tris decided. There was a scone place right around the corner. Tris tugged on Waffles’s leash. “Let’s go, puppers. We need to hurry if we’re gonna get food.” ------------------------------------ Isla got out of gymnastics class to find Tris sitting with Waffles at a table in front of the studio, eating a muffin. “Hey, Bookworm!” Tris called. “I got you a scone!” Isla smiled. “Hey, Butterfly. How long have you been here?” Tris shrugged, standing up and handing Isla the bag. “Not super long. Ten minutes, maybe?” Isla opened the bag, taking a bite of the scone. “Ready to go?” Tris gave her a weak smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” ------------------------------------ Tris nervously twisted the ring around her finger. Back, forth, back, forth. “He should have been here by now.” Back, forth, back, forth. Isla glanced over. “It’s two minutes after four. Calm down. Read a book.” Tris shook her head. Back, forth. “Nope. I couldn’t focus on reading now, anyways.” Back, forth. Isla shrugged. Back, forth, back, forth. “What are you reading?” Back, forth. Isla flashed her the cover. “These Violent Delights. It’s a Romeo and Juliet retelling, but they’re all gangsters in Shanghai. And also there are monsters.” Tris smiled. Back, forth. “Sounds cool.” Back, forth. Isla set down the book, grabbing her hands before she could twist the ring again. “Hey. It’ll be fine. Ok?” Tris sighed. “Ok.” Isla smiled. “Good. besides, I think I see the guy.” Tris turned around. And yeah, there was her uncle. Great. He caught sight of her. “Trissa!” Tris bit her lip, squeezing Isla’s hand tighter. “Uncle John.” He walked over to them. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you for a while. Your father would like to see you again.” Tris stiffened. “Would he now,” she said, barely audible. Her uncle sighed impatiently. “Yes. Now come along, he and your mother are waiting for us.” “Excuse me, I don’t think we’ve met,” Isla interrupted. “I’m Isla, Trissa’s girlfriend. Pleased to meet you.” John frowned. “Yeah, kid, nice to meet you, but my niece and I need to get going, so you can run along with home, ok?” Isla’s smile shifted into a glare. “No, I don’t think I will run home. I’m staying with Tris.” “And besides,” Tris spoke up, “I’m not going with you.” “Your father-” “My father,” Tris interrupted, “didn’t care about me when I was a kid. My father is a terrible parent and a terrible person. I don’t want to see him, and I don’t want to see you. I thought maybe something would have changed, maybe you guys would care about me as who I am, not who I can be. But since you don’t, please. Leave me alone.” John stared at her in shock, and Isla whispered “Good job.” in her ear. Tris stood up suddenly. “Come on, Isla. Let’s pick up some pizza on our way home.” Isla nodded, shooting John another glare as she and Tris left. “Good job, Butterfly. You did amazing.” Tris smiled. “I know. And I’m not going to go back.” Isla grinned. “Good. Now, I believe I was promised pizza? We can even get it with pineapples, you weirdo.” “I’m not weird, pineapples are the best!” Isla sighed jokingly. “Why do I love you again?”

Write a story told exclusively through dialogue. "Sarah, your back!" he said "Well, it's been a long time," she replied "Sit here, I was just making tea," said Joe "So, how are ya?" "I'm fine, what about you, where have you been?" he asked. "Where have a been...uh." Joe turned around from the stove to face Sarah and gasped. "What happened to you?" he demanded "Nothing... its" "Your face, your hands! "he blurted "Shh.... keep it down; they're sleeping," Sarah said hastily "Did Warlock sent you somewhere?" Joe asked "I... it's a long story, and you probably don't wanna hear it." "Sarah!" "You know it's top-secret, "she said "What would you say if I turned up in your house, covered in blood and wounds?" he snapped. "Oh...fine," she said in a defeated voice. "Warlock sent Mina and me to recover a gemstone in the mountains of Vietnam." "I knew it was Warlock," Joe said under his breath. "It took us days to reach there, but we had to go through some vampires first." "They did this to you," Joe asked. "No, no, in fact, some of them were nice." "But we had to convince them that Warlock sent us, and we mean no harm; when they finally understood, they told us to watch out for the trolls." "Trolls? I thought those guys died ages ago." "That was the problem; we didn't know about the trolls." "I've heard that there are two paths, the short one has trolls, and the long one doesn't." "We had to take a short way because it had already been ten days. And unfortunately, we found the trolls in the cave we had to stay. We tried our best to escape because trolls have a terrible history with us humans." "I'm guessing you escaped." "Hardly," she fretted. Joe looked at her with a confused expression. "Mina gave the leader of the trolls a gift." "gift?" "Yeah, she said it would make a good impression." "What did you give? Twenty feet tall candies." Joe jeered "Ha! she gave them the amulet of the god of war." "Wow," said Joe softly. "Mina told them we would come tomorrow with another gift. But that's when it all went wrong." "How what happened?" Joe said quickly "Their leader and another bloke broke into a fight." "Blimey!" "Anyway, the leader got his neck snapped, and the amulet was broken. There was no use, so we decided to take a long way." "I'm guessing that was a mistake." "Yeah, it was a cloud forest." "Ah, short, and crooked." "It was barren in the winter, you know, rotting barks, dried leaves, and worst of all that, it was quiet. Every tiny sound seemed like a threat. We kept moving when out of nowhere, a high tide of quicksand came down on us. Mina got out of the way, but I got completely sucked." "So, I'm talking to your ghost?" said Joe "The thing is that when I got in, it wasn't quicksand at all!" Sarah chortled "What?" "Yeah, it was water! With all the tiny fish and stuff. Mina was totally freaked out. And guess what I found the gemstone under there!" "Wow!" "But just when I was about to get back, a huge mermaid with tiger teeth and face like a corpse came right at me. Luckily Mina got me out in time, or my face would have ripped off."

I have known Noah for a long time. Since we were kids he already have that "I'm-An-Introvert-So-Scram!" waving flag on his head. We actaully met on a scarlet sunset by the swing. I was reading a book I found in the playground earlier when he suddenly approached me saying that he wanted the book back. I didn't gave it to him because I haven't finished reading it. He snickered at me and it turned to bickering, then into a soil fight that resulted of a wailing Noah, who looks like an idiot losing to a girl. I gave the book to him and he started to calm down, he hugged the book and left. I stood by the swing for another minute when Noah came back running towards me and gave me the book telling that I should read it. Which I quickly accepted and it turns out Noah would be the greatest impact who made me who I am today. "You know you really did outdone yourself this time." He exclaimed with an out going smug face look, "But Becky, why do you write too many mystery novels, can you do something soft or romantic, you are a girl for the angel's sake, be soft." He added as he comb my hair using his scarred hands. Noah's been doing archery and been overpracticing himself and it worries me. "Don't you think you're over offering your self to me. Use the damn comb. Don't hurt yourself." I told him but I got kisses on my neck as a reply. I gasped as he continued to drop kisses to my shoulders and whispered "Yes my sweet writer, my sweet sweet Rebecca." When we grow up, girls flocked around Noah but he stick with me , which I find irritating. I got bullied because of him and even made as an out cast by the whole class. They actually told me how I was a bitch for seducing him and leading Noah to the bad path. Those we're the bad things and there were actually no good things about backstabbing. "Rebecca, I'm sorry if I put you through this. I promised I won't let anyone hurt you again." He cried at the hospital. In his perspective I look helpless with a dextrose. Though I laughed it out when I remembered that I was pushed and fell from the stairs. He taught that I broke my wrist and stormed out of the room. He went back to the school and gave a piece of his mind at the broadcasting room. Everyone heard it and everyone knows who was it. After that, it became quiet. I am still treated as an outcast but atleast no one dares to hurt me or bully me, just the momentary gossips ans jeering. But it was quiet and I love it. Noah did outdone himself on protecting me and I felt lucky for having him. Though I don't know if Noah worries about me or he worries about how I can't write? Eitherway, I am still lucky. "Noah, what sex positions that works best in this?" I nonchalantly asked him at the cafeteria. He turned beet red and was telling me to keep my voice low. "I want to include it to the story, I just want to know if there are any positions convenient on this?" he snorted as he laugh as I was naively ask him. People adored Noah for being diligent and responsible, on the other hand, I was stuck on reading that I sometimes forgot about the existing real world. Being an orphan makes you immune to being treated as non-existent. It turn out to be ordinary to me but Noah made me feel that I am existing. Noah lost his parents on an airplane crash leaving him and his rich coldhearted granpa that basically turned Noah as an orphan with unlimited credentials. "I love you, Becky, stay here, we can be together, please stay," he said as he reach for my shirt and slid his hands underneath and cupped my skin. He kissed me gently then hungrily, like someone who wants to consume me inside. I respond with the same pace and letting my hand wander to his body. I gasped as our lips parted. He took off my shirt and gave me hot pecks on my collarbone. He leave marks all over my body, marking me, loving me, believing in me. "Is it bad if I say that I don't want to live with you? I want to be with you, Noah, Yes, I really do. But as of now I want to know ME, more of me. Is it bad if I focus on writing, for now? Is it bad to pursue solace from my self?" I asked continuously and he heaved a sigh and hug me covering me with his scent, "If it's your choice Becky, I will respect it." People thought Noah as an out-going guy because he was one of the cheerful and easy going adviser but he turns out to be the most introverted soft boy. He sometimes sneak or rejects parties, drink nights, even meet-ups. I even caught him sneaking out with a book everytime there was a family gathering. I really don't get how this guy's mind works but deliberately he just confidently do his thing. I sometimes loomed if he would do that if we would stay in one roof. Would he try to escape away from me? Then I noticed that Noah loved the silence between us, he loved the idea of the tranquility that courses between us and that comforted me. In retrospect, he pushes me to be an occasional out-goer instead of writing all day long. Parties, contests, book signing or publishing, it was hectic honestly. Surprisingly tiring but doing it together with Noah made it little less a burden to me. I received awknowledgements and earned a name as an author, all thanks to the dreamy Noah who keeps on pushing me to be a writer. One time he got from his work and was yelling "P-A-R-T-Y!~" . I was delighted that he initiated "Party" but alas, after bath, he took the new book that I bought and sat comfortably at his bed and read the entire series all night. Yes! Party it is! That's just how he is. "Beckyy, give me a snuggle, I miss you my sweet sweet Becky." he sang as he barge in my apartment after the field trip at the school he was teaching. I gave him a warm welcoming hug while he planted kisses to my head. I decided to write a love story as requested by him. I find writing romance easy because I based the personality of the character to him. I fixed a decision that after I finished this book, I can let myself live with him. I got engage with writing. Too busy that I lose sleep. I rarely visit his place and when he does barge in my apartment, I neglected him that I didn't realized that the silence was suffocating him. I didn't mean to, I just got so absorbed at finishing the book that I sometimes forgot to eat. I kept on writing holding to the idea that I can live with him after this. We will be together. This is my surprised for him. A gift devotedly made just for him. The romance book he was asking for. But I was wrong. I received a call one evening, telling me to go to a hospital. When I arrived, I didn't made it in time. He got on a car accident, died even before I arrived. Or, I think he died after I totally absorbed myself on writing and neglected him. I didn't know if I cried. But I went to his place and slept there. I woke up covered by his clothes. I barely remember what happen last night. His room was a mess. I guess, I berserk last night and made a pile of his clothes and created a bed out of it. It smelled like him. I missed him. I accidentally slipped over a tiny red box tucked on one of his shirt. I opened it and saw a ring with an attached note-- 'For My Sweet Becky. She offer me a book, I offer her a ring.' I didn't notice the tears were that warm as I whispered his name. I didn't know that love can bring so much pain. I didn't even have the chance to say goodbye. After that day, I move to his place, the book I've been working, I don't think I can even look at it or read it but I can't bring myself to burn it, so I put it at the stack of books and left it. Unfinished. I continued to write. It was the path Noah had given to me. And I write perfectly, I need to write it perfectly. I don't know if I became numb but I craved to write perfectly. Well I got lost from time to time. I made mishaps. But Noah wouldn't mind, right?

“You never told me what you did before the draft,” Johnny said. The light from the flames danced over his face. “What does it matter, whoever that was I ain’t no more”. Charlie replied, biting off a piece of jerky, and stared into the fire. His eyes were distant. Johnny leaned back on his hands, crossed his legs, and looked up at the starry sky. Around them the Nevada desert engulfed them, dry, desolate yet inviting strangely. It attracted the dreamer, the lost, and the searching to its vast expanse. “Come, cross me and fortune awaits on the other side.” It called. They had gone off the Bloody Canyon Road, east of Star Peak of the Humboldt Range on a dirt road into the Coyote Canyon and stowed away their choppers, both riding Triumphs with gooseneck frames, narrow ape bars, and characteristic long forks. “I was about to become a teacher,” Johnny said. “I don’t know why really, it seemed reasonable, I guess. My parents were, or well they still are but my mother has retired now. 30 years she taught, imagine that; 30 years.” “Mmh” was the only reply that Charlie could muster. Lost in his own thoughts, his left-hand index finger running along the steel of his recently “gifted” Benelli B76 9mm. A unique piece that was newly produced that same year in 1976. His right-hand thumb fingered a 1% patch on the left side breast pocket. In his mind, there was a darkness blacker than space. “Come now, Charlie, who were you?” Charlie glanced at Johnny; the flames mirrored in his eyes. “A guy who died in that jungle. Just fucking died.” “Jesus man, you need to move on.” “We killed Johnny, and we died too, Jesus? He saw our souls and thought those ain’t lookin’ right and threw us in hell.” Johnny said nothing. A thick silence fell upon them, a thick angst that stole both hope and joy. “And they all died too, Big Ear, Bugs, Charlie Brown, Lazy, Grumpy, hell Johnny, even Junior Kid blew up two weeks in fucking rice field. Jesus, man, he was fixin’ them congress kids to join him in heaven and shoving us into ten years in hell.” Charlie’s eyes were wide, black with a mix of stern despair. “I’m a ghost Smiley, just a fuckin’ ghost.” Jonny sighed. “Smiley, yeah.. yeah, you are in a dark place Charlie, you should do like me. Just leave Vulture behind in that jungle as I did with Smiley, time to move on, and see life instead of death.” Charlie stared at him as if he was unable to comprehend the words that Johnny spoke. An alien language with words and meanings that were lost to him or forgotten. Words that had drowned in a knee-deep pool of blood in a wet jungle. “Anyway, I am down to my last twenty, what about you?” The question threw Charlie off his dark mental stride. “Uh, yeah, me too.” Johnny sighed as if he had an answer he didn’t want, got up, opened a saddle bag on his chopper, and pulled out a map. He sat down by the fire again and studied it for a few minutes. “There’s a small town, probably about an hour away, Lovelock, a liquor store or two there I bet.” Charlie took another bite of jerky. “And a casino I think.” “You want to hit up a casino? Man, you are in a dark place. You would do good with a bit of Jesus in your life.” Charlie shrugged. “Why not? In ‘n out, fast, grab all’s we can n’ ride off. I bet it got more cash for grabbin’ than a liquor store.” He took a firm grip of his gun. The rest of the evening was spent in silence and anticipation. Johnny, whilst still questioning the idea felt an ethical, almost duty-like responsibility to support Charlie. He looked at the man, Charlie’s face was untidy, rugged, and beardy. Someone should pick his eyebrows even. They both had endorsed the now classic biker outlaw look, jeans, t-shirts, wrong leather vests with patches, red and white bandanas and black leather motorcycle boots. They didn’t look mean but they sure as hell looked like they were up to no good. The following morning, they set off and the sun beat down mercilessly on the barren expanse as they first made their way north along the mountain range, turned west, and then down south along Route 80. In the distance, a patrol car emerged through the asphalt mirage and as they passed made a U-turn and wailed its siren for them to stop. Charlie and Johnny pulled over to the side of the highway and exchanged wary glances. The officer stepped out clad in a crisp uniform, he adjusted his hat and approached with a cautious gait, his hand resting near his holster. “Afternoon.. gentlemen,” the officer began. “Mind telling me what you’re doing out here?” His eyes darted between the two bikers. “Just passin’ through, Officer.” The officer’s gaze narrowed, “Texas boy huh?.. Passing through to where? This isn’t exactly a tourist route.” Charlie locked his eyes and pierced through the police officer aviators. A gust of wind swept over them. The officer slowly chewed on his gum. Johnny finally broke the silence, “Is there a problem officer?” The patrolman’s hand tightened on his belt. “Not yet,” he replied slowly, “but I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Stay out of trouble.” The weight of his words settled in the still air. The three men remained motionless exchanging a tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The vastness of the desert around them amplified the quiet standoff. “Aint’ no problem from us officer” Charlie replied. The officer gave a curt nod and turned back to his patrol car. The bikers remained still. Their eyes followed him until the patrol car pulled away, made another U-turn, and continued in its previous path. "Let's go," Charlie muttered. The engines of the choppers roared back to life, shattering the stillness as they tore back onto the highway. The officer's suspicion trailed behind them like a shadow, but their focus was ahead--toward the neon lights of the casino and the high stakes that awaited them. They rolled into Lovelock, the deep thundering noise of their engines and rugged faces turned the heads of law-abiding citizens. The casino was easy enough to find and they parked their choppers at the Royal Inn across the street and sat down in its outdoor seating area. Betty Sue, a petite brunette with bright, hopeful eyes and a warm smile, approached their table. Her hair, tied in a loose ponytail, bounced lightly with each step. “Hello gentlemen,” she said, her voice sweet and clear. “Name’s Betty Sue. What can I get you? Maybe something to eat?” She lingered by Johnny, her gaze lingering a bit too long. Johnny looked up, forcing a smile. "I don't know, Betty Sue. What do you recommend?" She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, leaning in just a bit closer. "Well, that depends. Are you looking for something strong and quick, or something that lasts a bit longer?" Johnny chuckled. "What would you suggest for a man just passing through?" Betty Sue’s smile widened, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe something that lasts a bit longer?" “Alright then Betty Sue, how about you give us something that lasts a bit longer?” She winked and smiled. Her smile was warm and inviting, “Two beers and keep them coming? Two plates of bacon, eggs, and two pieces of steak?” Johnny’s gaze softened, “My kind of girl Betty Sue, you sure are my kind of girl.” Betty Sue giggled, drawn by their roughness. They came from somewhere and were probably going far away to a thrilling adventure. From behind her, the disapproving figure of her father appeared. “Betty Sue, leave these men alone. They’re not your type, they’re not anyone’s type,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing at Johnny. Betty Sue rolled her eyes and retreated, throwing Johnny a wink as she left. Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Eyes on the prize Johnny, no distractions.” Johnny smiled innocently. They drank, ate, and observed the comings and goings of the patrons of the casino. Betty Sue had clearly been instructed to keep her distance from the two bikers and they were only served by her recalcitrant father. But in the background, she threw secret glances and winks at Johnny threw his winks and glances back, antagonizing Charlie's demand for restraint for lust and sinning in the process. They waited for a moment, that moment. That life-defining moment when a man chose a path that he can’t turn back on. When he either walks the path of the righteous or forever leaves that good man behind and becomes a true outcast of society. As the sun began to set over the horizon, a pause of movement at the casino emerged after more patrons had left the casino than had entered. “Now” Charlie stated. They finished their beers and got up and were about to exit the bar at the Royal Inn, and just as they were about to pull up their bandanas over their faces Charlie bumped into a man that was busy orchestrating the exit of his chattering wife and three children. The man looked up at Charlie who looked back. Charlie’s eyes were black as a wild death. The man’s eyes scanned Charlie's face, his eyes pondering as if he had seen Charlie before. “Hey, aren’t you Charles Cortlandt?” Charlie was clearly thrown off guard, he staggered back two steps and shook his head. “I don’t.. no I don’t know who you are talking about.” The man began to smile raised his hand up to the height of his chest and pointed at Charlie. “No no, sure you are! Charles Cortlandt! I saw you dancing on TV, oh man, that must have been what, ten, fifteen years ago?” Johnny looked perplexed, stunned. He looked at the man, and then Charlie, and then the man. Clearly, this man was not mistaken given the level of excitement. “The Vulture.. danced?” The man looked at Johnny, “Oh yeah, he did. The best twister there was, he won competitions you know. Twisted like no one else, magic it was. Charles Cortlandt, “The Twister” he was called. Yeah yeah, I know you, The Twister! What happened to you? Did you dance more?” Charlie's eyes fluctuated and stirred. “I.. dude you must be thinking of someone else” “I’m Bobby Robertsson” he pressed and shook Charlie's hand before he could withdraw it and Johnny too. “And this is my wife Brenda and those three wildlings are Bobby JR, Linda, and Paris, Brenda's mother always wanted to go to Paris but she was ill so we named her Paris..” Bobby Robertsson continued for a minute or two, elaborating on his family before he suddenly stopped mid-sentence. “Hey, you know what?” “No what?” Johnny replied. “There’s actually a Twister competition at the casino, like right now!” Bobby looked at his watch. “Five thousand for first place, me and the missus are going. Kids these days don’t appreciate the power of a good twist so this might be the last twist competition ever. You should come, Charles, I bet you’d win! Anyway, best we get going. Need to get these little monsters into bed, I hope I’ll see you later Charles Cortlandt!” Bobby scrambled together his family to the best of his ability, Paris, the youngest waved goodbye “See you later! See you later Charles!” “Imagine that honey, The Twister! Just out here!” was the last word they heard from them. Jonny smiled. Charles looked at him with defiance. “Look man, I don’t..” Johnny interrupted him simply with a shake of his head. “Charles Cortlandt, ‘The Twister’, the greatest twister there was.” He burst out laughing, smacked his leg,s and looked back up with the largest grin on his face from Nevada to Kansas. “Well look at that, the infamous ‘Vulture’ is ‘The Twister’, how good were you, really?” Charlie shifted his weight from one leg to the other, not sure of which path to go down, and which character he would play at this moment. Who was he? Really? A ghost from the jungle or a memory of an artistic expression. “I made a couple of dollars.” He replied. “Made a couple of dollars? From Bobby, it sounded like you made more than a couple of dollars.” Charlie had no words, somewhere inside a boy’s light voice echoed through the darkness. A whisper of innocence and silent words of sadness floated into his mind. He felt a wave of guilt and remorse fill him. But most of all, an overwhelming feeling of unfairness. That boy had been forced into war, forced to kill, and forced to walk through knee-deep puddles of blood, and where that boy drowned only for The Vulture to be born. His eyes became red and teary. “Charlie, my friend,” Johnny said. “You can win five thousand dollars from twisting, or a few hundred from violence and robbery. Two different paths brother. Chose the right one.” The air inside the remote casino crackled with anticipation as the Twist competition reached its peak. The room was filled with tidy, upstanding citizens, their polished shoes and crisp attire were a stark contrast to the rugged figure who strode onto the dance floor. Dressed in his worn leather, uncut beard, dirty biker boots, and his ravaged face, Charlie stood out like filth on a crisp white wall. Whispers and raised eyebrows followed his every step, but his eyes were fixed on the center of the room. He knew this moment was more than just a dance--it was a chance to choose the path of reclamation and find that stolen boy again. As the first notes of Let’s Twist Again filled the air, his body came alive with a fluidity that seemed impossible for someone so hardened by life. Come on let's twist again like we did last summer Yeah, let's twist again like we did last year Do you remember when things were really hummin'? Yeah, let's twist again, twistin' time is here And he danced. His movements were a mesmerizing blend of precision and passion, each step with a grace that belied his rugged appearance. The crowd, watched in silent awe as he spun and twisted with an energy that transcended the boundaries of time and space. He moved as if the dance floor were his domain, a place where the past's shadows held no sway over the lost and now-found boy. With every twist of his hips and swing of his arms, Charlie painted a story of resilience and rebirth. He looked up at the disco ball's reflective colorful lights-covered ceiling and broke out in tears that ran down his cheeks and flooded his beard. His feet tapped out a rhythm that echoed the heartbeat of a man rediscovering his lost joy. The judgmental gazes, now held their breath, captivated by the sheer artistry unfolding before them. There was no need for applause or cheers; just a collective recognition of the extraordinary that unfolded among them. As the final notes lingered in the air, he came to a breathless halt, standing tall amidst the quiet reverence of the onlookers. At that moment, he was no longer the biker and the soldier haunted by memories of war. He was the dancer, The Twister. A boy with a dream that dared to dream. The boy that had captivated Bobby all those years ago. He was a man who had found a way to weave beauty and grace from the threads of his past. The competition was won, not through the points of the judges, but through the transformation of a phoenix rising from the ashes of a haunted ghost. Epilogue. Charles Cortlandt left Charlie behind on the dancefloor of the C Punch Inn & Casino. He won that competition and went on to become one of the greatest dancers in the United States of his time, reaching far beyond just the Twist. Rumba, Flamenco, Experimental Dance, and much more. He never got married but much to the detriment of his sister he overwhelmed her two children with all the love and gifts an uncle with a seemingly unlimited amount of prize money can give, spoiling them beyond her control. He retired from competitive dancing in his fifties and opened a legendary dance school. Johnny married Betty Sue her father’s protests and they both became teachers just like his own parents were and they taught at the same high school for more than 30 years until retirement. He died peacefully in his sleep after a period of slowly evolving pancreatic cancer, leaving behind his wife and three children. Betty Sue’s father eventually succumbed and eventually, one of his grandchildren took over the inn. Bobby continued managing his family and saw his three children grow up into healthy young adults. He and his wife retired in Boca and enjoyed a long retirement in the sun where she learned to play the piano and Bobby explored a newfound passion of constantly demanding that he and his wife should take care of at least one of their 10 grandchildren. The patrol officer never needed to keep an eye out for the two bikers, he continued to patrol Highway 80 keeping the lawful safe and criminals and boys that were up to no good unsafe, chewing his gum. Charlie and Johnny kept in touch and exchanged letters weekly. Charlie spent the first years writing about the war with Johnny, the only one he felt that could truly understand but eventually let it go and wrote about his dance career. They made several trips to Vietnam to visit old battlegrounds and reunited with Vietnamese veterans, burying hatchets and ghosts from the past.

Many time cycles in a different notion of our galaxy, Gitfangula was born. Wait, that really is not fair. How could I possibly begin the story of those two that way? In the celestial voids of Marnus and Minuous, there was a plan (oh, yes, that’s much better). In the minds of the elders of those sacred spaces, there was an urgent need to create a place where their thoughts could meander and grow without causing too much of a headache. At first, this idea, like all great ideas, was considered controversial and silly, so no more was said about it, until one day when one elder made the terrible mistake of using more than the mindlinks they had developed over the centuries. Instead, he did something that many thought to be impossible in such a gaseous and insubstantial region. He actually made a sound. There were rumours that such things could be done with their physical presences, but this had been strictly forbidden since the Poor Times. There had been so much conflict and pain that it had been decided that everyone should just shut up...and keep their thoughts to themselves. And it worked. And then it did not work. Rumours flew fast and hard between the different mindlinks that something from the past had invaded the present. The idea that someone would actually forget how peace was created seemed so ridiculous that they had to laugh in Marnus while many other guffawed in Minuous. No, this was not the truth. But there were others who did believe it could have actually happened. An elder who had not spent much time crossing through the different nebula and quasars out in his dull part of the universe knew that sound was a very powerful quantity. Without giving the creator a name, he had to trace back through the mental messaging and thought patterns of all the other elders until it was clear who it was that spoke (even the word sounded unusual). And then he responded. It is very rare for someone to receive a psychic punch. The last recorded episode occurred in the history of the elders when they were still vocal. But this was something quite planned and difficult to make real. But it worked. It worked very well. Soon, the victim once again became vocal, cursing his state in the only way he knew how with the only word that he knew: “Gitfangula!” There are many theories as to how or why the word existed. Some believe that it was the name of the elder who decided to punch out the other near the Marnus border; others believe that it was a particular patch of nebula near the Minuous territory; either way, it was the first word spoken out loud in a generation and it was shared with every elder who was connected to the Great Consciousness*. *[Oh, the Great Consciousness was not spoken of during the Silent Era. It was a term that only existed when certain members of Gitfangula tried to understand their origins. Many terms were first put forward and tried: the Mental Meandering, the Unspoken Speakables, even the Hard-to-Say-It-with-Just-One-Phrase Spot. It was certainly less of a mouthful than these others; it was much more useful when people knew what a mouthful was.] And then things proceeded very quickly. The first timegates opened up in the dust and heat of the elders’ once sacred place, allowing life that was still quite primitive and raw to grow. With time, there came moments. With moments, there came incidents. With incidents, there came remembering. Now, there are many in Gitfangula who believe that this was truly a worse moment in their history than the first sound. Despite their deep respect and awe for The Great Consciousness, they often felt that things would have been easier without sounds, timegates, or even their fabulous market, Tectonia. Maybe there would have been less wars, less problems, fewer batarchs attempting to rip out their guts if they travelled through the wrong gate. But that is all speculation. What is past is past. Until...well, the arrival of those two. Their parental entities were so proud when their birthing chambers announced the arrival of the entities that would be known psychically as Gork and Slarb. Arriving within the same time frame, the announcement on the mental feed was loud and spontaneous: “Hear me, oh citizens of Gitfangula! The arrival of two noble births has taken place, and I am sure that all Gitfangs are proud to share in this moment of great importance. Let us celebrate!” A wild intercranial cheer went out as the new life forms grew and accumulated all the necessary knowledge needed to become citizens. Their parental units did expect something like this and had stored plenty of food units and other goodies to revel in their good fortune.* * [One more note: both Gork and Slarb, with different parental units, were what could be considered the high nobility of Gitfangula, with entities in their past linked to the first sound, the founding of Tectonia, and the establishment of controls over the timegates; they even had one named after them. This does matter.] It was a propitious start to their careers. Both Gork and Slarb attended their education sensorials on the same dates; both Gork and Slarb used the same timegates when their parental units - okay, families - made trips to other realms for education and restorative reasons; both Gork and Slarb made long trips to Techtonia to buy things, gossip about other dimensions, and boast about all the batarchs they were going to hunt and fight. But they never met. It was only by accident that they became a duo that the citizens of Gitfangula would detest, hate, love and finally admire. It was a neural newsflash that no one could have ignored. “Citizens of Gitfangula, we are under attack!” Both Gork and Slarb felt the fear on the neural network, and they were themselves also a little scared by the news. “We have a new enemy on our borders and they wish to use the timegates to invade and destroy what we have created! We need to watch these portals and make sure that there are no alien entities among us. Who will join us in this great battle?” The psychic roar was above what anyone expected - a few days would be needed for a complete recovery - and the citizens of Gitfangula prepared themselves for battle. And Gork and Slarb? They both looked for a ship. Now, there is some debate whether it was outright cowardice or strong practicality that led them to the outer edge of Tectonia. That was where the newest and best vehicles for time jumps and the like. The owner, a large entity who refused to vocalize his name - it was Dode, so you can understand why - wanted to clear out his lot before the worst of the coming war touched his business. Seeing that Gork and Slarb had both arrived at the exact moment that the announcement was made, he felt overjoyed at his luck. “And to what do I owe this shared honour?” Gork saw Slarb; Slarb saw Gork. They both saw the vehicle. “We want the Nectar!” Many moments later, they would debate about who first said that they both wanted the car, but for Dode, it was a sale, and he refused to confirm anything for any of his customers (not good for repeat business, even in the case of war). So, Gork met Slarb. And then they met the Nectar. When they pooled their credits, they found that they had exactly the right amount to purchase it (an equal split between the both of them). And Dode knew that he was done for the day. Gork and Slarb did a simple tour of the inner consoles, rest chambers and the power sources and fell deeply, totally, and cripplingly in love. “We are not fighting any invaders, are we?” “No, we certainly will not.” Again, there was a debate after events about who began the conversation - it was on the psychic feed - and who drove into the timegate. But most of the discussion ended when the citizens of Gitfangula realized that the war was over. The Nectar, as it passed into the nearest gate, collided with the invading army, killing the entire armada and making their deaths vivid and clear through the neural connections all Gitfangulans could access. The fact that the invading army was small enough to be crushed and burnt to death by one of the exhaust ports on their ship was not discussed. Celebrations were long, psychic and vivid; from Marnus to Minuous, the leaders heaped praise on the families of Gork and Slarb; the Nectar became their favourite ride; and the timegates were considered safe and reliable. Gitfangula was now known as a tough, stable and important port of call for travelers, all thanks to an accident of both combustion and dumb luck. And Gork and Slarb would continue to have many adventures together. And those tales will be told on another day...

“Daddy, can you tell me a bedtime story?” The father chuckled. “Of course! There’s one I’ve been waiting to share with you, and I think you’re just about big enough.” The father needed nothing more than the night light to see his son’s lips curling into a smile; the type of weak grin that could only be created by someone blissfully leaving the Earth, although only temporarily. And as sure as escape brings bliss, the father began to lull his son to sleep. “Amid a flurry of snow, a fire crackled, somewhere deep in the mountains where the howling winds could deafen and silence you all at once. The men that stood around it talked about rumors of death; a culling, brought down from the guards who overlooked them.” “You see, outside of this encampment, a war had been fought, and the prisoners’ side had finally lost. They had lived on hope, hope they would win the war and finally go home to their loved ones. Or a hope they would live, when they had signed up to die. But this hope left the men weak, and they reveled in it. Stories of mothers and girlfriends, of childhood activities and life before the war. Only one prisoner rejected this hope, as he understood he existed to die.” “By rejecting this hope, the man gave himself life, even if only to spite death. And this life gave him strength, which allowed him to fight. Whether it was spitting on a guard’s shoe or destroying the products of his own slave labor, the man existed now for two reasons: to fight firstly, and to die secondly. He embraced his death, but at the same time ran from it, because giving himself to death would require him to stop his fight.” “When this prisoner heard of the slaughter, he shook his head, and cursed the men who held him. But inside he felt nothing but indifference, a peace in the knowledge that it doesn’t matter who kills him, or how he dies: the result is the same either way. Some of the men cried, while some outright refused to believe it. But our prisoner continued to fight on anyway.” The father looked over at his son, who was listening intently with his eyes firmly shut. The man thought his son to be sleeping, so he continued on: “Five days, the men said. Five days until they were all executed. Some killed themselves, so they could die on their own terms. But this was even crazier, as they simply admitted that their life was not worth fighting for, when all they had done prior to internment was fighting for their life. Our prisoner decided instead that he had five days to make his tormentors' lives just a bit worse.” “And so he continued his pointless rebellion by not making his bed and by staring at the ground when a guard commanded him to look him in his eyes. He was chastised for his misdeeds; harsher labors and crueler physical punishment. The rumor said the execution was in three day now, and the man grew bolder, empowered by the coming of his end. He figured out a way out of their prison: in two days, a supply ship would come in. It would take a ton of luck, but they would smuggle themselves home. The plan was perfect. Either they died as was intended, or they made it home in one piece.” “But alas, it turned out to all be for naught, as the next morning a special order came into the communications bunker. Due to the need for secrecy, the captors’ government decided they were going to transform the prisoner camp into a top-secret weapons development facility. This would require that all the prisoners be slaughtered, the government said. No one could know what went on here, and they decided there was no point sending the men home to the rubble their country was left in. There would be no hope for the soldiers, and that same day the guards lined up the men and shot them in the head one at a time. All but one of the men died the way they lived. Without any purpose.” “The exception being our prisoner, of course. He died fighting, and as he stared down the barrel, he smiled, for he knew he could finally end his fighting.” And with the conclusion of his story, the father kissed his sleeping son on the forehead. He then went to sleep himself, where he dreamed of a fictional world in which there was no need for anyone to fight.

Bick pushed the hatch closed on the back of his beat up Jeep Cherokee, sending up a little prayer that he hadn’t overloaded his old friend as the latch clasped shut with a satisfying snap. He walked around the front and pushed the keys into the ignition, giving the car a little gas to bring it to life. As the engine purred, or rather rattled, he let go of the keys and the breath he had been holding hesitantly as if doing either too quickly would kill the Jeep’s drive for life. “Are you ready to go yet?” Bick shouts out the window. Across the yard, Amber is holding up a camera pointing at herself. She looks over at the loaded car with a scowl. “Seriously Bicky? You can see I’m still vlogging right?” Amber yells back as she lowers the camera and turns it over to check the footage. “Ugh, I am going to have to record that again now. Thanks I didn’t want to put in a ton of cuts but the sound quality is going to be ass now thanks to your car.” “Sorry babe, just film the outro inside...”Bick started to suggest but his words were apparently just for himself as the front door slammed closed before he could finish. Bick leaned back in his seat and knowingly turns the car back off. He had become used to Amber’s constant vlogging of her life, tolerated her “off brand” outbursts of anger, and had become a costume to the major personality change he had seen from her since her Youtube channel had started trending. Her attitude today was nothing new but he had hoped her happy face would have kept up a bit longer through the day as they prepared to move in together. He chalked it up to stress since it certainly couldn’t be exhaustion as she didn’t help pack or lift a single thing even though they were only moving *her* stuff into the new apartment today. Twenty minutes later, Amber appears at the door again holding her camera up on a selfie stick as she walks down the sidewalk with a small box propped up on her hip. Bick could tell from the car she had taken off some of her makeup and redid her hair to make it look like she had been doing more than sitting on the computer and looking at Instagram while he cleared out her whole room himself. Her room mates, fellow bloggers, were all dutifully gathered at the door waving goodbye and looking like they might cry. Bick waited until Amber was in the car and the camera was down before he dared to start it back up again. This time the cold engine gave a bit more of a whine then it did the first time. “Looks like they are all going to miss you,” Bick comments cautiously as the girls all immediately disappear and slam the door closed again before they had even left the driveway. “They’ll miss doing colabs with me all the time trying to skim my viewers,” Amber said as she threw her camera down into her purse and pulled down the mirror to check her makeup. “Freaking Gabi even asked for me to do a video for her snapchat story before I left. She’s never going to break a million followers.” “I don’t know, Gabi’s channel is a little niche but I like that she does crafting videos instead of just makeup or vlogs or whatever like all of the other channels do...What?” Bick asks as he catches Amber’s gaze out of the corner of his eye as he maneuvers the trailer out into traffic. “Nothing, it doesn’t even matter,” Amber says as she looks back down at her phone. A pregnant pause grows between them as they drive down the road. “It’s just that I can’t believe you think her content is good. She repaints dolls. It’s weird not artsy or whatever. She acts like she’s a makeup channel because she redoes eye shadow or dyes doll hair.” “I didn’t say I would watch it all the time, I just said I thought it was cool her channel is so unique.” “M’kay,” Amber responses before she flips her camera back on to get some driving footage. Bick breathed a sigh of relief as they pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex. The parking lot was a lot tighter here than the driveway they had just pulled out of and he creeped through the parking lot slowly, giving Amber time to point her camera at him again. “Are you ready to see the place?” Amber says behind the camera. “Bick. Answer.” “Yeah,” he says absent mindedly. “Ok, I am going to need you to sound way more excited,” Amber explained hurriedly, a tint of annoyance hitting her voice. “Do it again.” “I am trying to concentrate on not hitting any of these cars....” The red light starts blinking in the corner of his eye. “Oh man I am so excited to get unloaded! It’s a dream babe.” As they pull up in front of the building with the single units, Bick notices a small crowd waiting around in the parking lot. He recognized them as some of the guys from a big prank channel that Amber had colabed with a few times in the past. They were all immature assholes but at least they would have some help moving all of the furniture upstairs. “Did you invite the guys from the Crew 10 channel to come over?” “Yeah, I figured I’d need some help getting all my stuff moved in,” Amber said with a shrug. “Stay in the car while I give them the camera, okay?” Bick shrugged as Amber rang out with her purse, and handed the camera over. She stood talking to the guys who were all named something like Chad or Paul or something equally douchey before they walked over to the bottom unit and unlock the door. Bick frowns and throws the car door open. “Hey, wait guys. I think the landlord must have given us the wrong keys. We rented out the top unit right there,” Bick explained as he jogged over to the group. Behind him the rest of the guys descended on his car, pulling boxes and pillows out of the back. “No, YOU rented out the top unit. I rented out this bottom one,” Amber said with a laugh. “What are you talking about?” Bick said, stopping short of her, still in the parking lot. “I’m not moving in with you Bick. Why would I need to? Do you know how much money I make from ads and sponsorships?” Amber said walking towards him. Chad or whatever followed her with the camera and stopped so she could turn and look at it. “I am a strong independent woman and I don’t need you to take care of me. We are over.” The Crew 10 guys busted out into a chorus of ooooos behind them, stopping their frantic unpacking to jump around like idiots. Bick clutched his hands into fists at his side as a cold sweat broke over him. “Why are you doing this?” Bick asked quietly, the burning in his stomach quickly becoming a river of ice through his veins, turning his blind rage into calm disdain. “I don’t want you riding on the coattails of my success anymore, honestly it’s sad,” Amber said. “Riding on the...Girl you need a major reality check. I supported you for two years while you sat unemployed talking to your camera,” Bick said as he started taking steps back away from her, acutely aware of why the Crew 10 guys were now unloading her stuff so fast. She was afraid he would drive off with her things, like he wanted any of her shit. “Petty talk like that just makes you look like a dick. You need to grow a pair and get your own dreams. I think you’ll be a happier person for it,” Amber said as she started walking over to check on the growing pile of stuff, apparently dismissing him. “You were my dream,” Bick muttered as he stalked back to the driver’s side of his Jeep. Chad followed him around with the camera, causing his anger to bubble up all at once to the surface. “KEEP THAT SHIT OUT OF MY FACE AND GET HER SHIT OUT OF MY CAR NOW,” he yelled at no one in particular as he got into the front seat, starting the car and slamming it into gear. Twelve days later Bick is lying in bed when his phone lights up with a text. Randal \[Have you seen the video?\] \[Yeah when she put it up last week\] Bick Randal \[No. The one CueStar just put up\] \[No. I’m trying not to watch that crap\]Bick Randal \[Amber lost all of her sponsors!\] \[youtube.link\] \[What? I’ll watch it now. Hold Up.\] Bick He smashes the link and turns the volume up on his phone. “Hey Cueballs, it’s your guy with the news, Cuestar. Today all of the internet has their eyes set on former beauty guru and all around shit person Amber Beck. It seems we have an update to the story I covered last week. For those of you not in the know, Amber put up a ‘prank video’ titled TRICKED MY BF INTO THINKING WE WERE MOVING IN TOGETHER THEN DUMPED HIM...EPIC FREAK OUT. Well she apologized for it saying it was “all in joke everyone was in on” but sources close to her have confirmed that her boyfriend shown in the video in fact had no idea. The big news today ladies and gents though is that along with losing her channel for promoting bullying, she has also lost all of her sponsors on Instagram and is seeing the largest unfollowing ever. That’s right Amber Beck has been canceled! Her ex roommate Gabi also put up a video....” \[Don’t tell me karma doesn’t exist\]Bick Randal \[Yeah, it is pretty hilarious\] \[I’m guessing this is why she texted me wanting to get back together. Always tryingto use me for something...\]Bick Randal \[Oh man! What did you say back?\] \[I just ignored it. I have a date tonight\] Bick ​ ​ This post was a special request. Love you Bicky.

The original Monkey’s Paw. That was truly a classic, and Azimut was a freaking genius. Also, you know, right place/right time. 1523 was a great year. No Monkey’s Paws today though. We’re necessarily more subtle now, but that doesn’t mean we’re not effective. I like to think it’s no coincidence that our department awards come out the week after Mother’s Day. Second highest rate of suicide attempts of the year! Go team! The awards really should be coming out today, and to be totally honest, I feel like my chances are better this year than ever. I almost had it last year, but *of course* Thalimeth that giant kiss ass took it home. Was *a step stool that causes you to lose half a centimeter in height every time you use it* really award-worthy? Grow up. I’m in early, just like I have been every day for the last month, and I’ve got a feeling that in the current more politicized environment that carries a lot of weight. Not even Thalimeth is here yet. Minute after minute, the rest of them trickle in. I’m just sitting here, sipping my coffee. I wonder idly if they already have the award email written? Are they waiting for the day to officially start to send it? I have two nominations this year. The *glove that flawlessly grips a hammer but that causes every seventh nail to bend,* and, my personal favorite, the *glasses that grant perfect vision but that subtly change the meaning of the text*. So many arguments! So much anxiety! Ah. Phezizael lumbers in last, and while I love the guy, he is just not cut out for this. He’s built like a fourth circle demon, and the cubicles here are clearly made for second circles. But he’s in, every day, cramming his wings and hilariously thick tail into his chair, and coming up with, let’s be honest, pretty pedestrian cursed objects by today’s standards. Trying to be something he just isn't. Nice guy, but wouldn’t want to piss him off. Look at those shoulders! That’s everybody now. Well, almost everybody. A few minutes later, I hear hoofsteps in the hallway, and there he is. “Hail, everybody,” he says. “Hail, Megalesius.” Phezizael’s giant knuckles barely scrape the ceiling when he raises his hand. Honestly, his heart just isn’t in it. I try to put some extra pep into it today, just in case. It can’t hurt. Here’s the trajectory. If I can pull the department award today, next quarter it’s promotion season, and maybe instead of Hailing Megalesius from the floor like the rest of these chumps, I end up with a private Hail in the manager’s lounge. First step into manager territory doesn’t get you the sweet sweet office overlooking the Pools of Tyranny like Megalesius, but you *do* get a window, and if you open it on a good day after lunch you can sometimes hear the screams of the damned wafting over the sulfur flats. Megalesius takes his time settling into his office and eventually closes the door. I have emails stacking up, but I’m not reading them. I’m just watching the subject lines and waiting for the announcement. It has to be today. It has to be me. Twenty minutes tick by, and I’m starting to get nervous. I have a meeting with Production in ten, and I really don’t want to be out of the loop for the next two hours, and especially not with those losers. *We're* the designers here. The creatives. They just follow orders. Four more minutes, and then *bing*. **Subject: An update on the Office of Cursed Objects** Okay, that’s not the way they usually announce it. *Effective immediately, upper management has decided to close the Office of Cursed Objects. It was a hard decision, and we value the input of all of you over the last four millenia. You are like family to us. Rest assured that this has nothing to do with your personal performance, and is part of a larger re-organization. In order to focus more closely on our mission we have decided to put “more thrust behind fewer pitchforks.”* *This action has been cleared with Demons Local 533. Please consult with your union representative for retraining and/or reassignment.* *Thank you, and Hail Satan* “Those sons of bitches!” shouts Phezizael, and his cubicle erupts. He grabs his monitor, throws it right through the wall, and makes a beeline for Megalesius’ office. He’s met by two seventh levels who materialize to block the way, their gray smokey hands wrapping around his arms. “Hey hey ladies,” says Phezizael. “I was just kidding. Just... yeah.” His wings slump, and he casts a baleful look into Megalesius’ window. Nobody wants to mess with the seventh levels. They lead him back to his desk. No award. There will be no award. No promotion. No eventual second promotion when Megalesius gets bored and moves on, leaving the view of the Pools of Tyranny to me. *I* want to throw my monitor too, but I’m not stupid. I’m also not strong enough. Fine. Fine, if this is how they want to play it. One of the seventh levels is gliding around, handing out boxes, one at each desk. “Fill and leave,” she hisses. No use fighting it. I start to pack my things. My hands stop a moment at the little picture frame. It’s me and a bunch of the guys out after last year’s awards, and Megalesius is right next to me. I kept it here, thinking that maybe it would have some subtle effect on him when he would walk by my desk every day. That’s right. We’re friends. Pals. A wild whim takes me, and I pick up the picture. I was never that great at Production, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t whip something up on a moment’s notice if I have to. Kid’s stuff, really. I say a brief prayer and trace the correct symbols on the back of the picture with my finger. A pulse of power flows into it. I take the picture and walk slowly toward Megalesius’ office door. One of the sevens slides into my way. “Hey,” I say. “I, uh, just want to give the big guy something. You know...” She hisses in response, and I blanch. “It’s okay,” says Megalesius, and the door opens. “Let him in.” I look around, and it seems that his office is already bare. He knew. And he doesn’t look upset. I play a hunch. “You moving... down?” I say, suggestively. “So may it be,” he says. “The new Director of Sacrileges and Defilements.” Damn. “How long have you known?” I say. It would have been nice to have been given a friend a heads up. To have let your top performer know so he wouldn’t have to go getting in line in the union shop with the likes of Phezizael. What will Bekorith think? Oh sure, she said she was in it for the long haul, but if I get reassigned to something like cinder duty, or worse, Bone Removal... that wasn’t going to support her lifestyle. “Long enough,” he says. I waited. This was his chance to invite me along. I’d spent my entire post-pupal life in Cursed Objects, but I felt like my skills were more generalized. I’d grown. Surely he could see that. There had to be a place for me in Defilements. “Is there something you wanted,” he says. I feel something inside of me snap. “This is *bullshit*,” I say, and as soon as it's out of my mouth I regret it. But maybe he’s been looking for a show of strength and aggression from me all along, and *that’s* what has kept me in that cubicle for the last four thousand years. I hear the hiss of the seventh level behind me, but see Megalesius shoo her away with a subtle move of his finger. Maybe I *am* on the right track. “Four thousand years!” I say. “We’ve been stealing souls for you for four thousand years, and this is how you tell us? How you tell *me!* Come on, Meg. This is a chump move.” He appears to be slightly smiling. Yes. This is what he’s been waiting for me to do. I let a little smoke seep from behind my ears, to show that I know how the game is played. “We both know that I deserve a shot on your new team. Think about it! You’ve seen me work! I’m a damned genius!” And here his face falls a little. “Yes,” he says. “About that.” He strides the four steps between us, and puts his face right up against mine. “Ideas are a shilling a filling,” he says. “Production is where the real artistry lies.” “Production?” I say. “They’re just a bunch of hacks! Anybody can do it! You don’t even need a fourth degree horn to get on that team.” “And yet,” says Megalesius, “they are the ones who are following me to Sacrileges and Defilements.” Ah ha. Ah hahaha. He backs away and strikes a pose that is both effortlessly evil and nonchalant at the same time. That was rich. Well, that settles it then. He gets the picture. His very own personally cursed object, courtesy of the guy who apparently isn't good enough to come along on his trip to sulfur town. “Hail, Megalesius,” I say. “Hail.” “I get it,” I say. “Makes sense. You gotta do what you gotta do, right? Hey, before I go, I wanted to give you this...” I hold the picture toward him. “It’s, you know, us...” “Ah,” says Megalsius, and he reaches toward it. His hand stops inches away. “Why, Uriolanus,” he says, “there appears to be a charm on that gift.” Shit. I feel the presence of the seventh level right behind me. “And...” -- he squints -- “it appears that you were going to give me an object that made the bearer have uncontrollable... what is it?" He sniffs at the picture. "Ah, diarrhea.” Megalesius shakes his head slowly. I want to run, but that’s not an option now. What was I thinking? A thousand things blaze through my head, not the least of which is the actual skill that the Production demons have when it comes to concealing the charms on the things that we design. “Put that away before you hurt yourself,” he says. “Feces? Please. You need to grow up. A thousand years in Bone Removal seems like it would be just the thing for you. Correct those airs you always put on.” I feel the fingers of the seventh level start to wrap around my shoulders. “Hail,” I say. It was all about to be gone. Bekorith. The nice cave down in Hazimath. The two weeks every year on the Styx. “Hail *what*?” says Megalesius. “Hail, Megalesius,” I say. I know when I’m beaten. The seventh level pulls me back through the door, and I don’t bother resisting. She guides me back toward my desk. “Oh!” says Megalsius. “Just a second. Please.” He walks from his office, and is swiftly by my side. “You weren’t without talent,” he says. “Thank you, sir.” Was it maybe not too late? “Before all of this happened,” he says, waving his arm broadly about, “we *had* decided on the department awards. Felt it was tacky to deliver them, then, pull this on you all.” “That’s kind of you, sir.” “Anyway, you won.” I won. “Yes,” says Megalesius. “It was the glasses. That was truly inspired. I know it won’t mean much in Bone Removal, but I feel like you should have this. It belongs to you.” He holds out the award. Its coal black, faceted surface reflects only eyes and fire, no matter where you look. It’s beautiful. “Hail, Megalesius,” I say. Despite what has just happened, what was about to happen, I am truly grateful. I know that I’m talented. I’ll go to Bone Removal, and start over, and soon I’ll be supervising instead of actually pulling bones, and then I’ll be noticed, and eventually... “Hail,” he says. I take the award. It is cold and beautiful in my hands. Cleaning up my desk won’t be quite so bad now. “Oh, and Uriolanus,” he says. I try to put the award in the box, but it won’t leave my hand. There is a pulse of power from it, and I feel a deep rumbling in my bowels, like flaming eels at war. Megalesius laughs, as only a senior Director of Sacrileges and Defilements can laugh. “The bathroom is on the left.

*********************************************** Hey all, this has been a crazy week and I couldn't write until Friday, so this was a quick one. There isn't a lot of action, it is just a simple idea, but my goal with these prompts is to hit the deadline, much like the real world. :) Thank you to the Reedsy community for all the support we all get here every week! *********************************************** The thing about flowers is, they are blissful exuberance, even if it is only for a moment. They remind you to enjoy the small things because life is a fragile thread. My grandmother was the green thumb of our family. She filled her gardens with lilies, orchids, roses and so much more. Every summer it was a beautiful array of chaos. As a child, I remember thinking, everything is out of order. It’s like she just threw the seeds and let nature decide. If I planted a garden, I thought, I would organize it into seasons, color, and set boundaries accordingly. I guess I still approach everything that way. After years of study and research in Botany, they granted me my Ph.D. I suppose it came naturally to me. I still can’t remember to water my own plants, but the science of life just fascinates me. It had been 20 years since I spent summers with my grandmother; I was too busy to keep in touch. My job was demanding. My team was working to solve hunger in the most affected areas. We needed hearty plants that could grow in unique environments. Then the news came in a message; my grandmother had passed at home, on a Wednesday. It seemed too black and white for a person whose life brought so much vibrant color. The emotions hit me harder than I expected. “I need a couple days to take care of some family matters,” I announced to my team. “But Abbie, we are about to conduct field tests.” a technician named William says, wringing his hands, looking exhausted, like we all do. “This is our ony chance to get this right, our raw materials have run out." “I know Will, I’ll take tomorrow morning, and be back in the afternoon. I promise” I reply. That seems to ease the tension. -------------------------------------- I wake to the usual breakfast, oatmeal, or something close to that. We are substituting a lot these days. An hour passes. Why am I dragging my feet? I just need to get in the car and get this done. I doubt Gram had anything of actual value, but the authorities will only guarantee security for several more days, then her home will be fair game for looters. I slide into my car and stare at the words on the screen ‘Where would you like to go?’ it flashes. “Another planet,” I mumble. “Auto-drive?” I say, “Take me to 386 Mulberry Rd., in Easton.” I fasten my seatbelt, darken the windows and close my eyes as the car begins its descent out of the parking garage. “Call mom,” I say. My connection barely rings before she appears on the screen. “Abbie, thank God you are ok, I’ve been trying to call you. Where have you been?” “Mom, I’ve been working night and day, we have been taking shifts, I barely have time to eat and sleep these days. Don’t worry, I'm going to Grandma’s now. I’ll get anything that has value to us.” “Are you sure that is a good idea, honey?” she responds, “with the rampant drought people are getting crazy, they are telling us to stay in our homes” “I’ll be quick, the escalation hasn’t reached here yet,” I reply. The conversation continues about her friend’s son or something; I tune it out until Auto-drive announces I am approaching the destination. “Ok, mom I need to go. I'm here.” I say. “Be safe,” she says as I end the call. -------------------------------------- I remove the window darkening and the sunlight floods the compartment, I can feel the heat even inside the car, it’s bad today. Stepping outside, looking over my Grandmother's home, it is a stark contrast to my memories. The front yard used to be overflowing with life, it is now a snarl of plant stocks, dried and bent. It reminds me of a makeshift graveyard from some old movie. The dust blows and swirls in the yard. Nature definitely gave up the ghost here. The front door passcode is still the same after all these years. Entering the house, everything is dark; it was never dark when I was a child. She loved the sunlight, but she drew the shades and curtains to keep the heat out. The lovely smell of lavender is familiar, her essence still lingers in the air. I thumb through papers, look over a few pictures, and smile at photos of me in pigtails. That seems like a hundred lifetimes ago. “I better get this done,” I mutter. I look through closets and in her bedroom; taking handwritten letters and notes. She had drawn so many of her flowers; the details are stunning. I didn’t even know she was an artist; I was just too self-absorbed as a kid to care. Finally, I have a collection of belongings and mementos, now I just need a box. The basement, maybe? I try the handle, but it is locked. That’s odd. Grabbing a key I found in her nightstand, I slide it into the lock and turn, and the bolt releases. The door opens hard; it had been shut for a while. Stepping down the stairs, the cool air is welcoming. I search in the dark for a light switch, finding it, hoping the power is on, then a single bulb illuminates the basement. The basement is a series of stacked boxes with labels on each one. She meticulously organized this area, for a woman who seemed to have no rhyme or reason to how she planted things this is quite coordinated. I look in each box; and find they are full of vacuum-sealed plants and seeds, categorized and labeled. I step back in awe, I just uncovered the holy grail. There are thousands of specimens here, roots and stems, vegetables, fruits and flowers of many kinds, things I haven’t seen in 10 years, preserved in all their airtight glory. I literally hop up and down with excitement. The genetic material alone, stored away in this basement, is more than we have found in years. “I love you, Grammy,” I whisper, “You didn’t just randomly throw the seeds in your garden, you really had a method to everything you did." "You and I are not so different, and you may have just saved us all.”

Once, when I was very young, my mother told me the story of a place called Hamathy. Now, Hamathy was a small town, more of a village, really, nestled deep in a faraway mountain range where the snow shone pure as starlight and sharp white peaks stood stark against the blinding blue of the sky. Hamathy's few streets were lined with fine wood houses, and though their windows sparkled with frost, inside each fireplace flames burned hot and high, and the people of the town were warm and safe and in the company of those that they loved. One day, though no one knows what caused it, an avalanche began on the mountain where Hamathy stood. What seemed to be an ocean of snow crashed down its picturesque slopes, and when all was once more still and quiet, the town was miraculously untouched, but the one road that passed through Hamathy and out into the world was blocked in both directions. The people of Hamathy were smart--they knew that something like this could happen one day, and they had taken precautions. Stacks of firewood and shelves of food, water, and anything else they might need filled every shed and basement. There were enough supplies to last weeks, perhaps even months, and so, after diligently checking to ensure that each of their neighbors were safe and sound, the people of Hamathy went home and settled in to wait, secure in the knowledge that help would arrive long before they were in any danger. But as days went by, then weeks, and no sign of rescuers appeared on the horizon, the people began to realize that perhaps their town, their refuge from the noise and chaos of the larger world, was perhaps just a little too far from all that hustle and bustle. And when a full month had passed, and still no one came for them, it seemed all too certain that no one beyond the mountains was aware of their predicament, much less coming to help. The people of Hamathy, however, were not afraid of a little labor. So on the first day of the second month after the avalanche, a meeting was called, and they all bundled into the town hall to work out how they would rescue themselves. Hamathy didn't have a snow plow, but what it had in abundance were shovels and the hands to wield them, and so it was decided that they would dig their way out. A work schedule was arranged, people volunteered for shifts, and it seemed that everything was going smoothly. Only near the end of the meeting did someone raise a very important point--they had neglected to discuss the direction in which they would dig. A simple issue, it would seem, and yet it turned out to be the most contentious one of all. Before long, the whole hall had erupted in arguments between those who wanted to excavate the road to the north and those who preferred to head south. Some had family on one side or the other, others were concerned about the steepness of the south road, and still others worried that the closest town to the north was much farther away, but nearly everyone, it seemed, had a strong opinion on the matter. When the sun began to set, and no progress had been made on reaching a decision, it was suggested that everyone go home before the deadly cold of night set in, and they could come back the next day, when tempers were cooler and the air was warmer. This, at least, was agreed by all to be a sensible idea, and so the people of Hamathy put their coats back on and dispersed in the fading light. For two more days, the debate raged on inside the town hall. But when the third sunset came, and still they could not agree on north or south, they decided instead to dig in both directions, and each person could choose for themselves where to work. By this time, it seemed clear to everyone that there simply was no agreement to be had, and after all, it made no sense to delay the beginning of work for a consensus that was never going to come. The next morning, the first shifts of workers set out in each direction, nodding tersely in greeting as they passed one another in the street. The work was hard and the wind was blistering, but at the end of the day, everyone was much happier than the night before. At least now they were doing something, instead of sitting around and waiting. A week went by, and spirits were higher than ever. Progress was speeding along in both directions, and the greetings had upgraded from stern-faced nods to waves and smiles. It took another month and a half after that for the supplies to run out. It was actually the firewood that was used up first, and with no way to heat their homes, the people of Hamathy piled once more into the town hall and kept each other alive as best they could with the warmth of their bodies. That worked well enough, but there was also no way to melt their now-frozen water or thaw, much less cook, their now-frozen food, and soon enough, people began to die, one after another after another. Still, every day, the workers went out to the north and the south and dug and dug until they could dig no more, hoping and praying with every breath that today would be the day that they made it through to the other side and help was at last in reach. And every day, fewer and fewer of them trudged back into town with heavy hearts, those hopes and prayers yet unanswered. It was on the final day of their fourth month in isolation that the last of them finally died, shovel still in hand as he drew his last breath. Here's the funny thing--well, perhaps funny isn't exactly the right word, but--either way would have worked. When the last citizen of Hamathy succumbed to the cold, both of the paths were well over halfway to completion. If only they could have set aside their differences and agreed on a direction to take, every person in Hamathy would likely have survived--though "if only," I imagine, would be of little comfort to the people who mourned them. You may be wondering why, in the name of all that's holy, my mother chose to tell a young child such a disturbing story. I think the lesson she wanted me to take from it was about the folly of pride and the virtue of cooperation--when my brother and I would fight, for instance, over what game to play, she would say, "Remember Hamathy," and I would quickly decide that it was better to play hide-and-seek for the eighteenth time that day than to be saddled with extra chores and not get to play at all. And, to be fair to her, it was a valuable lesson, and I certainly did learn it. The problem, I think, is that I was the only one who knew about Hamathy. My brother never had the dubious pleasure of hearing that particular story, and so it was always I who gave in. The lesson my mother didn't mean to teach me, but that I nevertheless learned all too well, was that it was my job, my duty to sacrifice, and that if I didn't, my selfishness would be to blame for the conflict or catastrophe that followed. I'm sure you'll all be shocked to hear that, at the tender age of twenty-three, I burned out. Lost my job, lost most of my friends. Lost myself for a little while, too. I'm doing much better now, but the road to where I am today was a long and hard one. So, in the hope of passing on my mother's wisdom but not repeating her mistakes, here's a lesson from Hamathy that I learned a little early, and one from me that I learned a little late: don't fight with people you care about over things that don't matter, and stand up for yourself over things that do.

At the height of the pandemic, I quit my job, packed up my life, and moved back in with my parents. Moving back into my childhood home came with many conflicting emotions--while it was something nostalgic and familiar, I also felt like a stranger in my own home. Luckily, my parents welcomed me and my puppy Brownie with open arms; after the death of our beloved family dog 2 years ago, it was clear that they enjoyed having some companionship around the house again. It was a good change for Brownie as well--I could tell he preferred living in an actual house versus our cramped studio apartment in the big city. He loved having so much more space around him and enjoyed exploring all the new smells in the neighborhood. On our walks, I would usually take Brownie to a small park near our home as most dogwalkers in our neighborhood frequented that area. I had also befriended some of the regulars there, so it was a good opportunity for both the dog and I to socialize within our new community as well. There was a larger park located outside our neighborhood that was more quiet and serene that I had never taken Brownie. Our late dog Samson had loved this park but we hardly ever took him there because it was farther away (~20 minute walk each way). So for Brownie’s first birthday, I decided to take the long trek to this park to kickstart his big day with a new adventure. As a former street dog, Brownie had very strong instincts; sometimes it seemed like he had a built-in GPS. He had never even been to this park but as we got closer to it, the harder he started pulling towards it. He knew all the turns and paths to turn to get there--even I had to navigate our way there with Google Maps. Without a beat, he dashed past the playground, swing set, and benches to a fenced off area that I had never noticed before. It was the size of a dog park enclosure, although it didn’t seem like it was one as the grass looked pristine and unused. There wasn’t any signage that indicated what this area was either. Right in the center of the garden was a patch of beautiful flowers, arranged in a rainbow-like gradient. Brownie sat in front of the open gate begging to go in. I was hesitant because I didn’t want him to mess up the garden as it looked like private property. He absolutely refused to move so I relented, “Fine, just five minutes.” I looked around to make sure no one was watching us and went in, closing the gate behind us and taking off his leash. As usual, Brownie sniffed and galloped all over the garden. I was worried that he would make a mess but thankfully, it didn’t seem like he had left any marks. This place seemed like a paradise for him and he didn’t want to leave, but I stuck to my guns and enforced the five-minute rule. After some whining on his end, I had to carry him out and walk him home. The rest of Brownie’s birthday went well. We got him a doggy cake and invited some friends and their dogs over for a party. He got all his favorite treats and all the love from his favorite people (and me). As I was getting ready for bed at 11pm, I noticed Brownie sitting by his leash. Once he saw me looking at him, he started to whine, indicating that he wanted to go for a walk. It was strange because we never walked him this late at night so he had never asked to go out at night. “Sorry boy but it’s late, I promise you’ll get a longer walk tomorrow morning,” I said. He didn’t seem happy with my response and started crying loudly, borderline howling. Not wanting him to wake up the entire family, I gave in and started putting on his harness and leash. The second we were out of the door, he started running in the direction of the large park. “Brownie, slow down boy,” I wheezed. “I can’t keep up at this speed for 20 minutes.” He stopped and sat, looking around as if to re-evaluate his surroundings. He spent the next couple of minutes sniffing the ground and after that, he took a different direction, leading me through a series of unfamiliar alleys. As we were still new-ish to the neighborhood, I had absolutely no idea where we were going and honestly, I was a little afraid of what we were getting into. However, no more than 5 minutes later, we arrived the large park. Somehow, Brownie had found a shortcut to this park--which was very impressive. Thankfully, the park was brightly lit by streetlamps so I felt more at ease, although there wasn’t a soul in sight. Once again, Brownie begged to enter the fenced garden. “Five minutes,” I said, and we went inside. As I closed the gate and bent down to unhook the leash, I heard something footsteps and panting coming towards us from a distance. I looked up to see a white schnauzer running towards us, its tongue sticking out and looking overjoyed to have found us. The dog completely ignored Brownie and came right up to me, rubbing his face all over my leg and licking me all over. This poor baby had probably been lost in here without its owner and was dying to be let out. He looked just like Samson and reminded me of him as well, because he would also nuzzle & lick me every time I came home for the holidays. “Aww hi baby,” I cooed as I squatted down to pet him. “Are you here all by yourself? Where is your family?” He looked at me with longing eyes and licked my face. “Aww you’re so adorable, you look just like my Samson,” I said as I looked into his beautiful brown eyes. His ears perked up as he got even more excited and started running around me in circles. Meanwhile, Brownie seemed elated to have found a new friend; he followed the dog trying to sniff his butt. Upon noticing Brownie, he stopped, sat, and stared at me with sad eyes. “Oh I forgot to introduce you two! This is Brownie, today is his first birthday so go easy on him,” I joked. “He may look scary but he’s a sweet boy just like you so you will get along great!” Brownie tried to nuzzle up to him, licking him all over his face but the dog looked devastated for some reason. After a few moments of petting him and trying to get them acquainted, the dog started to perk up and reciprocated Brownie’s licks and butt sniffs. They got along great, chasing each other around the garden and rolling around in the flowers. After about 10 minutes of playtime, both dogs came back exhausted and laid down on either side of me. I took this opportunity to search the lost dog for any ID tags but he didn’t have a collar or anything on him at all. I reached for my phone to take a picture of him but realized that I left it at home as I thought we were just taking a quick walk around the neighborhood for Brownie to potty before bedtime. The dog crawled into my lap and looked up at me with his big sad puppy eyes. He was such a sweet, adorable dog and I felt bad for how sad he must have felt being all alone here. I was glad he was having a good time with us. As I got Brownie ready to leave, I realized I couldn’t just leave this dog alone in the middle of the night. I didn’t have an extra leash with me so I tried scooping him up into my arms. He happily obliged, but once we walked towards the exit, he jumped out of my arms, ran towards the flower patch, and laid down there. “No it’s okay sweetie, I just want to give you a nice warm bed to sleep in tonight. We’ll find your family tomorrow, okay?” I told him. He still refused to budge. I tried carrying him out of the gates a few more times but each time, he would leap out of my arm and lay in the flower patch. Even if I didn’t carry him, he would refuse to follow me out of the gate. For a dog that looked at me with so much love in his big eyes, he sure did not want to go home with me. I checked my watch and it was close to midnight. Brownie seemed exhausted and I had to let him go home to take care of him. “Fine, you can stay here tonight,” I told him. “But we will be back here first thing in the morning to help you find your family, okay?” He just stared right back at me. I felt my heart crumple with guilt as I turned around and left the park with Brownie. I had only known this dog for less than an hour but it felt like I had abandoned him. Brownie looked sad to leave as well, but I couldn’t keep him out there all night either. The next morning, I recapped the events of our night-time adventure to my mom over breakfast. “I’ve never seen a fenced-up area at that park, it must be some kind of construction work,” she said, sounding quite surprised. “Maybe, but it didn’t look like there was any kind of work going on there at all,” I responded. “The garden seemed quite tranquil and well-maintained as if it were someone’s lawn.” “Who even leaves a dog at the park in the middle of the night?” “No idea, I know I felt awful leaving him behind but I had no other choice, he completely refused to come with me. He was a white schnauzer that looked like Samson and he seemed to like me while I was there.” Mom gave me a hard time, saying I should have tried to take the dog home with us and that there was no excuse to leave him behind to fend for himself. I know it was wrong of me to do so, but I had genuinely tried all that I could to lure him out. Annoyed with my bad decision, she decided to come with us to the park to help check on the dog. “Come on boy, take us through the shortcut again,” I told Brownie. Again, he sniffed around to find his bearings, but he looked back at me with confusion in his eyes. I sighed. “Fine, I guess we’ll have to take the long route.” 20 minutes of walking, sweating, and panting later, we finally made it back to the large park. My eyes searched all over for the fenced garden, but it was nowhere to be found. We walked around the park whistling, trying to catch the attention of the dog that was there the night before. A couple of passersby gave us judgmental stares, but we ignored them and focused on our search. I walked my mom over to the spot where the garden had been. The fencing was gone but the rainbow flower patch was still there. Mom walked towards the flowers and gently ran over them with her fingers. “Pretty, aren’t they?” she remarked. I nodded my head in agreement while Brownie started sniffing and licking the flowers. “When we buried Samson here, we planted these flowers to add a nice touch to his grave. I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long considering they were planted 2 years ago,” she said. My jaw dropped. “Th-this was where Samson was buried?” I stammered in shock. She nodded her head in sadness. “Yeah, we wanted him to have somewhere to run about and play in the afterlife... if it exists, of course.” I stood there in silence. “So where was the garden where you found the dog last night?” Mom asked, looking around the park. I slowly lifted my finger and pointed to the flower patch, “Right here.” Mom’s face went pale as we stared at each other in disbelief. I had always felt guilty over not being a good owner to Samson. I had moved across the country for college when he was only 4 years old; even though I’d come back to visit over breaks, I still felt like I had missed out on most of his life. Despite this, he was never angry with me and he was always ecstatic to see me every time I came home to visit. When he was diagnosed with cancer at just 8 years old, I immediately traveled home to see him. Even while he was ill and could barely walk, he was still upbeat, energetic, and over the moon to spend time with me. When I left a few days later, I held him for hours, crying because I knew that it would be the last time that I ever got to see him. Weeks later, my parents texted me that Samson had passed away peacefully in his sleep. The guilt of leaving him behind pained me every time I left, but it weighed heavily on me especially hard that last time. Even when I adopted Brownie over a year later, I still felt guilty about loving another dog. Somehow, maybe Samson’s spirit had held onto our world just to see me again one last time. If that were true, I finally understood why he was happy to see me but sad when he saw Brownie. I felt a tap on my shoulder breaking me out of my thoughts. “Look over there,” my mom pointed to the left. I turned my head to see a rainbow lighting up the sky and smiled. I’ve never really cared for rainbows, but this one filled my heart with warmth and love.

Did you know, in some species of spiders, after mating, the female will cannibalize the male? Funny isn't it? How betrayal seems to lurk even beyond the human race. The library is empty, it feels dead. A place once occupied with breathing and beauty now filled with existential dread. My phone continuously buzzes in my pocket. I don’t need to check it to know who’s desperately trying to reach me, or maybe I’m just too scared to check. The librarian scowls at me as I pull my phone out to silence the device. I can’t help but glance at some of the words on the messages sent to me. “PLEASE” “HURT” “ANSWER” “SORRY” I push each message bubble back into my brain, but the word ‘hurt’ plagues my mind. I pull out my phone and decided to finally check what was said. 11:59 pm “I’LL HURT YOU” I feel vomit creeping up my throat, desperate to kiss my lips. 12:01 pm “RESPOND. IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE.” 12:03 pm “I HAVE YOUR LOCATION.” My heart stops beating. I quickly click the contact, the silence doesn’t feel so quiet now. ⇨ ‘David <3’ “Stop Sharing Location?” I quickly click the button, stopping him from seeing my location. The silence mocks me, leaving dead echoes asking ‘were you quick enough?’ 12:05 pm “DID YOU REALLY THINK TURNING THAT OFF WOULD STOP ME?” I throw my head in frantic circles, like an owl who can’t get its head to turn 360. The librarian is gone, I’m too scared to check behind her desk. I never thought he’d be capable of something like this. My mind takes a moment to escape to the past, clutching each decision I've made through time as if it would bring me back. 9:30 pm 3 HOURS PRIOR. The air outside was cold, crisp even. The air in itself simply felt like the crunching of fall leaves. I walked up the steps to a big door, bringing my fist down to knock. A few seconds later, a friendly familiar smile welcomes me in. “Hey Dana! I’m so glad you could make it. Welcome in!” The tall man in front of me ushers me in. He takes my coat as I nervously walk further into the giant house. “You failed to mention you live in a castle” I exclaim jokingly. He lets out a phony laugh and leads me to his dining room. “Hey guys this is Dana. She’s not like us so you play nice now you hear?” He lets out another one of his fake laughs and so do the rest of the people sitting at the table. “It’s nice to meet you Dana.” A woman, with dark brown hair and piercing eyes says to me coldly. “It’s nice to meet you too.” I almost whisper back. “And you are?” The look on her face shows me she isn’t too happy I don’t know who she is. “You don’t know me? Really?” There’s silence before she answers. “In that case, my name is Marie De Chevalier. I’m David’s girlfriend.” I smile at her, ignoring her obviously ply to make me jealous. “That’s a beautiful name.” She gives me a reluctant smile back, the same way a butcher smiles at a pig. “Okay well you’ve met Marie, let me give you an introduction to everyone else.” The tall man speaks. “You already know me from work... but in case you forgot, my name’s David.” I let out a giggle and Marie gives me a soul piercing glare. “This is Tom, Becca, Ray, and Claire.” They wave one by one as David goes down the line. Each person looking more rich and bitchy than the one prior. Six snobs sitting at the table in front of me. My parents always taught me to never judge a book by its cover, but that’s hard when the cover is wearing Gucci and smells like Coco Channel. Silence fills the air and David leaves to get the food. A blonde girl who goes by the name of Claire wearing a white flowy shirt and a black formal skirt speaks up. “So, Dana, where do you work?” I try to relax into my chair and decide maybe I’ll try to get into this book, even if it does have a Louis Vuitton bag attached to it. “I’m currently employed at a restaurant.” They all make, what they think to be, sly glances at each other. My face goes red as I speak again. “I-I get to make my own hours, and the tips dare really good!” Another girl with red hair and the shortest green dress I've ever seen, snickers. “No, no, that's really good. Maybe one day I can hire you at my dads car company. We always need more cleaners.” My head scrambles as I try to find a way to quickly change the conversation. “I thought there was supposed to be six of you?” I say. They all fall silent. A boy with slicked back brown hair, and an outfit that resembles something you’d see Leonardo DiCaprio wear clears his throat. “Yes, unfortunately Aaron was not able to attend our gathering tonight.” He pauses and nibbles on his lip. “I’m afraid he’s feeling rather, ill.” The silence that lingers is clearly filled with lies. I don’t push for answers. “Will you give him my regards? I hope he feels better.” Each word bounces off the dart of an eye. No one makes eye contact with me. The room feels empty, suffocating, until finally David comes back with drinks and food. “Whoah who died in here” he laughs, but this time his friends don’t laugh back with him. “Aaron clearly” I joke. David’s hand slips, sliding over the glass martini. His hand gushes blood as the drink leaks all over the carpet. “David!? Are you okay?” I yell. Quickly standing up trying to find something to clean the blood. His friends stay seated, and David looked frozen in the air. A man with black hair, beady eyes, and a freshly shaved beard speaks. “David, it’s okay. We told her he was sick .” The emphasis on sick almost makes me puke. What did he mean? David lets out a breath I didn’t know he was holding. “Oh.” He quickly clutches his hand, the pain seeming to have just now hit his nervous system. “Shit this hurts.” I pick up the broken glass shards, and place them into the trash. “Where’s your bathroom? I’ll go get you a towel.” His once friendly demeanor is eaten by a demon of anxiety and irritation. “Down the hall to the left.” His friends still don’t meet their eyes with mine. The hall is dimly lit, there seems to be rooms with every turn of my head. I walk into the first room I see on my left. Red light hit my eyes hard. Photographs hung on a line, I had entered a dark room. My feet turned to leave, but my mind inclined me to stay. I walk around, looking at the different locations and faces on each photograph. “I wonder who took these” I thought to myself, admiring the photography skills of this very skilled artist. I turn each photo around and see a date and time each piece was taken. I hang the photographs back up and finally decide to leave, that is until I catch a glimpse of thick black liquid. “What the fuck is this” I whisper to the strangers in each photos. Inside the liquid seems to be photographs of some sort. My mind attempts to rationalize with me. Telling me it’s just the substance that processes the photos, but I know better. I’m smarter than myself. “Oh fuck here I go.” I take a deep breath and grab the photographs out of the black sludge. It’s cold, cold in the same way organs are when they die. The mysterious black ooze slides off the photographs. “What the fuck.” my breaths come out shakily. A little white photograph sits in my hand. The girl in the photo isn’t a stranger at all, in fact, she’s me. I quickly reach for the other photographs and pull them out. Me going into work, me working at my restaurant, me smoking a cigarette outside. My breaths get heavy as I hear a voice call for me coming from the other room. “Hey Dana, you okay? Do you need some help?” I throw the photographs back into the sludge, some of it sticks to my hands. I take a minute to breathe before I give him my reply. “Y-yeah sorry. I was just looking for some, uh, antibiotics.” I hold my breath, listening for the sounds of expensive shoes coming down the hall. I close the door to the dark room, and pinch my fingers as I walk back to the dining room table. Confirming this isn’t a dream. “There you are!” David smiles. “We thought you ended up like Aaron for a sec!” he and the rest of his friends let out a phony laugh. I laugh nervously, sweat creeps down my back. “H-hey so, my mom actually called me and she- she’s not feeling very well so I- I need to go back and make sure she’s okay.” My hands stay planted behind my back as I talk. “Oh okay I get it. Do you need a ride home?” He takes a step closer to me, I fight every urge to take a step back. “It’s okay, I can get a cab.” I grab my bag and hurry out the door quicker than I should have. I wave down a yellow taxi. “Take me to the downtown library please.” The driver nods his head and I look out the window up at the giant house. Through the window, I swear my eyes see bony, pointy hands peeking through the silk curtains. Marie’s hands. 12:06 pm “I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.” My hands race to his contact again. “Block This Caller?” I click the button and shut off my phone. I take a deep breath that gets sucked into my chest when I hear the creak of a library door. I quickly, but quietly stand up and run behind a shelf surrounded by murder mystery books. Great. “Dana? I know you’re in here.” Each foot step mimicke the sound of my racing heart. I whip my head around looking for a way to exit the building. All the way to my right, straight across the library, is a void filled room. It’s pitch black, and it seems to be my only option. “Dana?” His voice calls again. We play a game of cat and mouse and I go behind each library shelf filled with different genres of books. He goes to the very back of the library, and I pull my shoes off to creep across the open war ground, i’ve got a red target painted on my back. One step. No sound. Two steps. A creak, no David. Three steps. I rush behind a bookcase and hear the sound of shoes still creeping along. I enter the room, my hands feeling around for a light switch. “SURPRISEEEE!!!” “AH WHAT THE FUCK” I scream and flail my arms around, fighting the air and bullying the wind. “DON’T HURT ME, DON’T HURT ME.” Face around turn into a frown. I crouch down throwing my face into my knees. “D-Dana?” A soft, familiar voice speaks. “Dana it’s me, what’s the matter?” I stand up and spin around. My eyes meet Davids as he stands in the doorway holding a chocolatey cake in his hand. “Please don’t hurt me!” I shout again. He has a look of confusion on his face, genuine confusion. “Dana no one’s gonna hurt you, this is a surprise party.” He speaks sadly. I finally look around noticing what I hadn’t before, the face of all my friends. “But, but the photos.” David cocks his head. “What photos?” “When I went to get you a bandage, I saw photos of me.” I say breathily, still shaken up. “Oh Dana, thats for your present. I knew it was creepy guys!” Everyone shakes their head assuredly. “No, no David just wait until she sees it!” I turn in every direction, scared and confused. “What about Aaron? You got all shaken up when I said he was dead?” David takes a breath, that’s because we planned a murder mystery for your birthday. I thought Marie had snitched. I whip my head around making eye contact with Marie. “Why was she scowling at me then? And being so mean?” Marie walks up and takes my hand in hers. “I’m so sorry about that Dana, I’m really bad at keeping surprises. That was just the face I made trying to contain my excitement. If I had talked to you any other way I knew I would burst!” I pull my hands away from hers and rip my phone out of my pockets. “But the messages! What about the messages!” David pulls out his phone to see what was sent. “When I saw you went to the library, I thought you had figured out the surprise. Hence when you turned your location off, I sent” “Did you really think that would stop me?” I say, cutting him off and finishing his sentence for him. He nods. “And as for the “I’ll hurt you” it was autocorrect. I meant to say “I’ll coerce you” and before I could finish saying “coerce you into leaving the library, you had... blocked me?” He began to speak again. “I thought when you had entered the library, you would have seen Aaron with his murder mystery makeup on. Hence the “it’s not what it looks like.” My eyes meet David’s until the shame I feel forces me to look at the tips of his shoes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry everyone.” There’s silence, until David pulls a lighter out from his pocket. One candle, two candles, three candles lit. “Happy birthday to you.” David begins. “Happy birthday to you.” Soon, the rest begin to follow. “Happy birthday dear Dana, happy birthday to you.” David laughs and adds “Anddd many more where you won’t think i’m a killer!” Everyone laughs, including me, and David smiles. Thank You guys. This was an interesting birthday for sure, but a great one now nonetheless. The rest of the night is filled with laughing, cake, and games. And even a dumb blanket, custom made, filled with the silliest candid photos of me in my most special moments.

Grow up, she said in her letter. Her words cut deep and upset me. I thought she was my best, my one and only friend. I thought she was the person I could turn to when I needed someone. There was nobody at work I could talk to or even wanted to talk to. Granny, Auntie, Uncle and Cousin Bob who I was living with at the time were not the conversational type and so I could not turn to them either. I felt lost and alone. I wrote to Daphne and told her I felt like a bird with a broken wing . In my mind, I imagined a Blackbird with one wing dangling limply by its side. That's how I felt. When I was younger, Dad often came home with a bird that had fallen out of its nest or that had hit the windscreen of his Jeep and we would hand rear the birds and then send them on their way. If a bird had a broken wing, then it could not fly and invariably it died no matter how hard we tried to save it. This is exactly how I was feeling--lifeless and forlorn, somehow, as if a bit of me was missing, helpless too. I was sixteen working at my first job and living with my Granny and I’d just heard that my dad had left my mum. It was a shock. The thing is, now I think about it, Granny had been acting a bit odd lately. She came into my bedroom and began making my bed. I like to make my own bed and even if someone else makes it, then I strip it and do it again myself. Don’t ask me why. I told Granny I could make my own bed. I even had to pull the covers out of her hands. She said nothing and went back downstairs. The following day she said we should send some flowers to Mum. I thought it was an odd thing to do as it was not Mum’s birthday, but went along with the idea and sent the flowers via Interflora. I asked Granny what I should put in the note with the flowers, and she said to just put, From Hastings. Hastings was Mum’s place of birth, and she loved it. I went along with this idea as well. I found out later that when Mum saw the flowers and read the note; she burst into tears because she thought the flowers were from Dad and that he wasn’t leaving her after all, and he was saying sorry. Well, that news upset me even more--sending flowers to Mum and then Mum crying over them. They were meant to make her happy. Then a few days after that, Granny was reading a letter, and she turned to me and told me Dad had left Mum. I was just about to go to work and that is all Granny said and as I could not think of anything to say back; I went to my office job at the huge departmental store on the seafront. People in the office asked me if I was all right and I said yes, I was just tired, that’s all, and maybe going down with a cold. I made excuses for how I thought I looked and never told anyone anything. I didn’t think anyone would be interested. People at work only ever spoke about--work. I did not know how to put what had happened to my parents and how I felt into words. The only words I could think of were those I used when writing to my friend Daphne. My dad has left my mum and I feel like a bird with a broken wing. Grow up. She replied in her letter. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I never wrote back and Daphne never wrote to me again. I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself at all. I was wondering what on earth I could do to help Mum? Should I stay with Granny at Hastings and continue with my job? Should I go back to Bedford and move back in with Mum and then have to find work? The reason I had moved to Hastings in the first place was because I was able to get a job there after leaving school. I applied for many jobs back at Bedford, but nothing materialised. I felt terribly disorientated. I didn’t know how Mum was feeling. No-one told me where Dad was. I learned later that Dad had moved in with his secretary and her three children. One of whom had the same name as my brother--David. So now I had two brothers, and they were both called David. That was even more confusing. Was David my stepbrother, or did that only happen if Maria and Dad married? More muddling stuff to clutter up my already scrambled mind. I developed a permanent headache and often felt sick and dizzy. I also learned almost by chance that Dad and Maria and her three children were planning on moving to South Africa. They did eventually move there, and it would be thirty years before I saw Dad again. Soon after moving to South Africa, my brother heard that Dad and Maria had got divorced. Maria went off to Australia with her lover, leaving her three children behind in South Africa. Then Dad moved to Botswana and married a Motswana woman, who he later divorced and married another Motswana woman. I lost track, and I only heard about all this via third parties. Each year, Dad would send me a birthday card. It would arrive several weeks after my birthday and be signed, Dad. No love or kisses and no address or phone number either, so that I could write to him or telephone him. But at least it was some kind of communication and at least I knew, each year Dad was still alive. *** About five years after my parents broke up, I was travelling back to Bedford by train. I was at the railway station waiting for my connection when I noticed Daphne. I hardly recognised her. She was with a man of a similar age, and I assumed it was her boyfriend as by now I too had a boyfriend, but he was not travelling with me that day. I went over to her, and we spoke, though coldly. I asked her what she was doing at the station. Was she going on holiday? It was a lovely warm sunny day. Daphne told me she was going to London to see her newborn baby. The little girl had arrived early with all its organs in the wrong place and some on the outside of its body, and she was very sick. I told her how sorry I was at her sad news. Daphne looked and spoke like a little lost child that day. But she also spoke as if without feeling, as if she had steeled herself and was taking everything in her stride. I didn’t tell her to grow up. I didn’t tell her to stop feeling sorry for herself. In fact, I think she did not feel sorry for herself at all. I got the impression that she had no feelings whatsoever--numb. We didn’t hug. I don’t think either of us smiled at each other. Then her train came in, and we lifted our hands to wave a small goodbye. I think over those five years between receiving her condescending letter and seeing her at the railway station I had grown up and now Daphne, with her sick baby, was having to grow up fast as well.

A week after Abigail Whitaker’s funeral, her two children reluctantly began going through their mother’s belongings. To sell the valuables, donate usable items, and discard the rest. But it wasn’t an easy task. Abigail was a hoarder her entire life, and she couldn’t easily throw things away. She kept postcards, some of which belonged to sixty to seventy years ago. And like a zealot, Abigail kept all belongings of her late husband, who was listed as MIA in the Vietnam war decades ago. She loved her husband dearly and waited all her life, expecting him to walk through the door at any moment. Amongst all her children and grandchildren, Paul Whitaker was Abigail’s favorite grandchild. Perhaps because he had the same name as grandpa, and by getting older, like two peas in a pod, he further resembled his late grandfather, the man he had never met. There was a framed black-and-white photograph of the grandpa in the military uniform on the grandma’s lounge room wall, very much resembling Paul today. Despite grandpa being around ten to fifteen years older than Paul when that photo was taken, the resemblance was stunning, as if Paul himself posed for that shot. Therefore, Paul had a special place in Abigail’s heart. Paul willingly volunteered to clean grandma’s attic. Grandma didn’t like anyone to get close to the attic. It was a no-go zone for everyone. So much so that when Paul was a child, he and his cousins believed grandmother had a secret, and whatever it was, she hid it in the attic. In their imagination, they believed grandma kept a treasure there, more like pirates’ treasures, a box full of gold coins and jewelry. They possibly got the idea from the Treasure Island story, with its animated movie having just been released back then. Now Paul was in his late twenties, a Ph.D. student in theoretical physics, researching the concept of Time. However, it was implausible to find anything valuable in the attic. Still, Paul was keen to find what grandma stored there and why she didn’t want anyone to walk in there. The attic hatch was secured with an old and bulky padlock, and same as all old things, it was made of high-quality steel. But no one knew where its key was. Eventually, he had to cut the tough lock with a bolt cutter, and he found it more challenging than he had expected. The attic was dark, and its light wasn’t working, possibly for ages. Its air was damp and heavy. At first glance, it was like a cave with lots of abandoned goods left forgotten for centuries. Everywhere was covered with a thick layer of fine dust. Paul walked in and stood in the middle of the attic. It took a while before his vision adjusted to the dim light. First, he noticed a few pieces of old furniture such as; side bed tables, chairs, and a lampstand, all covered in dust and spider webs. Some looked heavy and bulky. ‘How did grandma carry them up in here?’ Paul questioned. ‘They will go straight into the waste bin,’ he decided. Then he saw a bookshelf full of old, dusty books with discolored pages. As a bookworm, Paul quickly decided to keep the books for himself and read them all. He was sure no one would protest against his will to keep those old and dirty-looking books. ‘But family will worry about my sanity!’ He smiled at his thought. There were many packed carton boxes there, stored on top of each other lined up next to the walls. On close examination, Paul recognized his grandma’s handwriting on the boxes, with a short description of their contents. It made it easier for him to sort them. The first box he examined was full of unmatched glassware. ‘Sorry, grandma. I know you don’t like to throw them away. With your permission, I will drop them at a charity,’ he murmured as if he was talking to grandma. Though he didn’t believe in the afterlife and the existence of spirits, he liked to think grandma’s spirit was there, monitoring his actions, and he didn’t want to cause her any distress. The next box was full of old and out-of-fashion dresses whose color had changed by the passage of time. ‘Should I donate them or throw them away?’ Paul asked himself. ‘With your permission, grandma, I will discard these old dresses. I don’t think anyone will wear them.’ Paul murmured as if he was talking with Abigail. After going through a few boxes with unimportant contents, he found four large carton boxes with grandpa’s name written on them. He got curious about their contents. Paul had never met his grandfather. He was listed as MIA during the Vietnam war a few decades before he was born. But his memory was alive in the family. Grandma had told many stories about Paul Whitaker, her husband. So, for everyone in the family, grandpa was a hero. But for Paul, grandpa was a superhero. He was proud of being named after him. And their resemblance was Paul’s pride. Paul opened the first box. It was full of civilian clothing belonging to grandpa. A quick examination told him they were all in his size. ‘I can wear them. There are good for a retro, 70s party,’ he smiled at his thought. The next box was full of old military uniforms and boots. At the bottom of the box, he found a military belt, a bayonet, and a stainless steel military water bottle. He excitedly decided to keep all of them to himself. In the third box, he found documents, photos, and letters grandpa had sent to Abigail. Paul couldn’t hide his excitement. It was a real treasure, and he would keep them all for himself. The letters were sorted by date. So he opened the first letter dated 10 th of June 1970 posted from Quang Tri, Vietnam, and read it. My dear Abigail, Today is the tenth day since my arrival in Vietnam. I am sorry for not being able to write sooner. We were busy attending induction groups and adjusting to our new environment. Today I got a desk job, working at the company office at Quang Tri. My condition is not as bad as you might think, and we are far from any action. It is pretty safe here, and you don’t need to worry about me. The heat and the mosquitos are our sworn enemies. I am sharing a bunker with six other guys. But, three of them compete to prove who snores louder than the other two. So their symphony orchestra keeps the rest of us awake all night. I guess this is an army’s plot to force us to volunteer for the front line than sharing the bunker with these roaring bears. Sorry, I have to go. The sergeant is calling me. Miss you, Paul Grandpa’s handwriting was like his. And strangely, his signature was exactly like Paul’s signature. How could two people, who lived at two different times, adopt to sign like each other? ‘Statistically speaking, its chance is near zero!’ Paul argued with himself. ‘If I knew, I would forge documents under grandpa’s name and get away with it,’ he smiled at this thought. Paul heard about hereditable genetic traits that some individuals are physically and psychologically more like a parent than another. But in his case, he looked almost identical to grandpa. But, as far as he knew, he should inherit just a quarter of his genes. That night he finished reading all the grandpa’s letters addressed to his wife. Some were funny, and a few brought tears to his eyes. Now he understood why grandma had always been talking highly about his grandfather and had never remarried. They were in love. There was a bulged large manila envelope full of black and white photographs in that box. Paul took the bunch of photos out and explored them one by one. In the first picture, grandpa was in a bar and held a pint of beer in his hand. Grandpa wrote a short description on the back of the photo: 5 th of August 1970, at a local bar in Quang Tri. Vietnam. Paul Whitaker. Most of the photographs were from his time in Vietnam. While shuffling through the photos, Paul found a much older picture, damaged, with low resolution, possibly over a hundred years old. A man that could be grandpa stood next to an old warship. He looked at the back of the picture. As he expected, Paul found a handwritten description there, which had aged with time. It was grandpa’s handwriting, which was like his own. 24th of December 1863, USS Wissahickon ship armed with an 11-inch cannon (Dahlgren gun). Civil war. Paul Whitaker. ‘Was grandpa interested in the civil war?’ He asked himself. Soon he found a sepia-toned old photo. In that image, a man who could be grandpa posed in a bunker with a long rifle hung on his shoulder. Paul quickly checked the back of the picture. As he expected, grandpa left a description. 5th of September 1914, France. A day before the battle of Marne. Paul Whitaker. Paul suspiciously stared at the old picture. The man looked like grandpa or even himself. ‘How could it be? How could he take part in that war?’ Paul asked himself, puzzled. ‘Maybe this man is his father and my grand grandfather!’ He mused. Then he found another photograph. This time, grandpa or someone similar to him stood next to three other soldiers, with the one on the left having a sergeant insignia on his uniform’s sleeve. It was in another war zone near a coastal line with many warships on the horizon. By their uniforms, he could say it wasn’t Vietnam. He quickly checked the rear of the picture and nervously read the handwritten description. Wednesday, 7th of June 1944, a day after D-day, Normandy, France. From left to write; Sergeant James Blackwater, Corporal Paul Whitaker, Private John Parish, and Private Timothy Spring (our Medic). Paul Whitaker. Paul was puzzled and couldn’t digest how his grandfather could be in all those wars! ‘If today someone shows me photographs of himself at different times in the history, I would suspect that the pictures are photoshopped. But these are real photos taken long before the invention of personal computers and photo editing software. So how can it be possible?’ Paul re-examined those bizarre photographs again and again, without finding a rational explanation for them. Then, suddenly, an epiphany caused a chill to go down his spine. The stunning similarity he had to his grandfather, their same physical size, similar handwriting style, and their identical signature made him ask, ‘what if I am my grandfather?’ Paul had been seriously researching the concept of time and the possibility of time travel in the last two years as part of his doctoral research. ‘What if I build a time machine in the next ten to fifteen years? Then I can time-travel into the past. And I can be my grandfather!’ Then he asked himself, ‘did grandma know the grandpa and I are the same person?’

They come for everyone, they’ve come for lowly peasents, witty balladeers and even for kings. They are the INEVITABLE but this time they’ve come for him, where are they going to take him? to hell? to heaven? He had already seen everything here. What difference is it even gonna make? They don't share the complex view of justice and morality that the mortals have. Their judgement will always be as simple as black and white for they are the duality - day and night, light and dark, life and death. Evil, lesser evil, greater evil that is all the same to them. The white one always roots for the mortals; she loves them and the black one, he simply doesn't care for them, they are but play things to him. An eternity of pain and agony or pleasure and joy decided with just a coin, a salient decision decided by chance. Oh! But the coin always lands on the right side. They are very reckless with the fate of the dead by leaving the decision to chance but the verdict is always unerring. But this time they each really wanted him taken to their own domain. For a very long time they haven't seen someone like him. Even in death he looks so magnificent and valiant. They didn't want his judgement to end in a toss of a coin, they wanted to seize this moment so this time they chose a game of will - chess. The white one as always intended had the first move... *Somewhere in the slums of a dying city a little boy is happy. He loves stories. That day he stumbled upon a book full of stories, he actually stole that from a kid from the rich side of the city. He opens the book with a mouth full of smiles. He was awestruck by what he saw in the book, it was a painting. He caught a glimpse of heaven that day. Amidst all the ugliness and injustice around he had hope that one day he would create paradise for him and his people.* As said the white one really loves the mortals, she started the game off with a pleasent and motivating memory but conflicting to the character of the black one, he cared for this mortal he wanted him in his realm. He started to dig out the darkest things the mortal has ever committed. He made his move.... *Only when he was 17 years old the mortal led a revolt against the king. He carried the wrath of all his people - The untouchables of an unlovely society. The courtiers and their men had no chance against his rage for he carried the wrath of hell to create heaven on earth. The king surrendered, he won. As a groundwork for his paradise he could’ve spared the king and his family he could’ve given them a chance but he didn't. His heaven’s bedrock was drenched in the blood of the undeserved.* The white one wasn't impressed, the black one always brings up the worst from the people. She knew that this mortal couldnt be defined with only this moment, she had hope in him. She made her next move. *When he was 25 years old, he looked out from his castle windows, all he could see was a thriving kingdom prospering under his regime. He got married to the most gorgeous woman in the kingdom and he loved her with all his heart. Though the kingdom was flourishing under his rule it still didn't even come close to what he had envisioned.* The black one was eager to make his next move as he knew what the mortal had done. He loves to point out the holes in the holy. He made his next move. *He is now the greatest king the kingdom has ever seen. He is king now but back then he was the mockery of a failed kingdom, the royals would cringe at the sight of him and his people because deep down they knew it was their ugly and corrupt selves that brought this upon their own people. He will not be like his predecessors. He craved for greatness, he waged war against other kingdoms. His thirst for conquest and victory got unquenchable. He left a trail of blood and tears on his way. He said to himself that this was for the greater good of his people and their paradise. He was so determined to not be like his predecessor but he turned worse.* *He became a tyrant.* The white one swiftly made a move and pointed out that the kingdom he conquered was joyful and delighted under his rule. The black one pointed to the rebels and conspirators fighting for their motherland only to spill more blood of the innocent and he made a move. This went back and forth for a while until the game ended in a stalemate... *The mortal is now 50 years old, he still wasn't satisfied with his paradise. He has now laid siege to the last and only standing fort against him. This is the final chapter of his conquest, after this he has no town to raid, no fort to siege and no rivals to challenge him. He wanted to savor his last conquest.* *They surrendered to him, his final enemies knew they are but practice for him. He has defeated far more powerful enemies than them. Their surrender rendered him fruitless. So he did it, he did what every sensible tyrant would do, he burned the fort down.* *Amidst all the blazing fire, while all his men were celebrating he stood idle with no purpose. A very little boy approached him, clenching a book to his chest, he asked if his father would be killed. The mortal assured the boy that his father had already surrendered to him and for that he would live.* *He took the boy’s book, it was the same book that changed his life. He is still wonderstruck from that illustration of the paradise. He reminisced about his old days of glory. hoping to feel nostalgic, he turned the page... he saw an image very unappealing and opposed to the previous image - he saw hell, an illustration of it. It felt familiar for him, he looked around him and saw hell. All these years he had only been marching forward leaving a trail of blood and death, he never once stood and looked back at the chaos he had been causing. He was too caught up in what he was giving; he forgot what he was taking.* *It was too late, the hell he created spawned a lot of demons. When he turned to look back at what he did, his back was exposed to those fiends.* *He was assassinated at a political gathering where he intended to free all those kingdoms he conquered.* And now he lies lifeless on a royal bed surrounded by those who wronged him. He lies there lifeless with a metaphysical chessboard with pieces that are stalemated. The disparities knew that the stalemate could mean only one thing..... The mortal lives.

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting. &nbsp; *** #Last Week So many great stories were submitted last week! And I was delighted to see all the feedback exchanged on the thread. You all really brought your A-game and choices were tough. But with that being said, there were two that I thought stood out. by u/Rulerofgummybears - A short, thrilling tale that uses only 100 words to paint a vivid image for the readers. by u/PennGuinoMcAistear - An intriguing scene with a full arc and a lovely twist ending. #This week’s challenge: **The call came at midnight.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #How It Works: - In the comments below, submit a story between 100-300 words by the following Sunday at midnight EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. - Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take any nominations you make into consideration. You may send them to me via reddit or on the discord. But please remember, this is not a contest. - While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to come back throughout the week and read the other stories on the thread. Upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread.

Spring began with a violent storm. The storm was darker than the previous storm. It was wetter too. The clouds regaled as lightning burst and thunder cracked. “It has been a while,” Cirrus boasted, “since we have lit the sky like this.” “Quite a lot of time we have spent indeed,” responded Nimbus. “And plenty of effort too.” “Collecting that vapor is no easy chore,” whispered Stratus. “But a cloud must go, where winds do flow,” said Cirro. With that, the birds wished them luck and the clouds were off. The air carried Cirrus high and Nimbus higher, Stratus low and Cirro lower, and happily so. For Cirro loved to float. He saw the land from high above, as most never could. He experienced time pass, and saw rivers change. He saw plants come and go, as was nature’s way. Once, he had been low enough to pass through a peak, but never felt it’s rocky touch. Because clouds cannot embrace what it is they feel. They can observe for a fleeting moment, but never alter. And that was fine with Cirro. For he knew why he was made. He knew that every cloud had a storm to create. Summer began with a reasonable storm. The storm was lighter than the previous storm. It was dryer too. The clouds delighted as lightning surged and thunder smashed. “It has been a while,” Cirrus boasted, “since we have lit the sky like this.” “Quite a lot of time we have spent indeed,” responded Nimbus. “And plenty of effort too.” All the while Stratus was silent. “Is everything all right?” Cirro asked him. “I did not collect any vapor this time,” he responded. “The birds spoke as I floated. They said I am far too repressed to be doing this sort of work. They said only the grass benefit from our storm. They said the three of you had accomplished more than enough.” “She had a point,” thought Cirro, “the birds can land on any tree or drink from any river. The birds must be wise if they can touch any peak they desire. Better not cause a fuss, there was still a storm after all.” With that, the birds wished them luck and the clouds were off. The air carried Cirrus high and Nimbus higher, Stratus low and Cirro lower, and happily so. For Cirro loved to float. He saw the seas from high above, as most never could. He experienced time pass, and saw mountains change. He saw creatures come and go, as was nature’s way. Once he had been low enough to pass around a peak, but never caught it’s steady glance. Because clouds cannot examine what it is they see. They can observe for a fleeting moment, but never alter. And that was fine with Cirro. For he knew why he was made. He knew that every cloud had a storm to create. Fall began with a hesitant storm. The storm was lighter than the previous storm. It was dryer too. The clouds elated as lightning flared and thunder clapped. “It has been a while,” Cirrus boasted, “since we have lit the sky like this.” All the while Nimbus and Stratus were silent. “Is everything all right?” Cirro asked them. “We did not collect any energy this time,” said Nimbus. “The birds spoke as we floated. They said we are far too oppressed to be doing this sort of work. They said only the trees benefit from our storm. They said the two of you had accomplished more than enough.” “They had a point,” thought Cirro, “the birds can speak to any creature or taste any meal. The birds must be wise if they can touch any peak they desire. Better not cause a fuss, there was still a storm after all.” With that, the birds wished them luck and the clouds were off. The air carried Cirrus high and Nimbus higher, Stratus low and Cirro lower, and happily so. For Cirro loved to float. He saw the skies from high above, as most never could. He experienced time pass, and saw trees change. He saw people come and go, as was nature’s way. Once he had been low enough to pass beside a peak, but never heard it’s call. Because clouds cannot detect what they ought to hear. They can observe for a fleeting moment, but never alter. And that was fine with Cirro. For he knew why he was made. He knew that every cloud had a storm to create. Winter began with no storm at all. The skies were brighter than ever before, and the earth dryer. The clouds languished as no lightning was seen and no thunder was heard. Cirrus, Nimbus and Stratus were silent. “Is everything all right?” Cirro asked them. “We did not put in any effort this time,” said Cirrus. “The birds spoke as we floated. They said we are far too depressed to be doing this sort of work. They said only the Earth benefits from our storm. They said you had accomplished more than enough.” “They had a moot point,” thought Cirro, “the birds did not understand that more than one relished in a storm’s benefit. The birds must not be wise if they can touch any peak they desire but never appreciate doing so. Better to cause a fuss than have no storm at all.” With that, Cirro turned to speak to the others. But the air carried Cirrus high and Nimbus higher, Stratus low and Cirro lower, but unhappily so. For Cirro had discerned for too long. He knew in his heart that the birds had been wrong. But he never spoke up. As the breeze heightened he realized they had created their last storm. He watched the trees, river, and mountain fade from view. And over the horizon clouds did go.

The mind, such a beautiful fragile thing. The key to slipping away from our painful, stressful realities. But also the secret weapon we harbor that can lead to our ultimate downfall. I always look at the world in a half-full glass, I whispered in a daydream once. Oh, how daydreaming was my eudaimonic pleasure, how it dulcified my anxiety like the lull of the luscious melodies of Jazz. My mind glowed with the glimmer of a million fireflies leaping across the luminescent sky. But that was before the storm clouds came rumbling in camouflaging my midnight. A year ago I would have never had to make the vow I now make on this December 31st, but your life can change in an instant. Happiness, you were everything to me, your radiating positivity, but where did you go? My life was once a fairytale, but it withered. It started one day in March. "Virus spreading rapidly in Europe'', the voice on the black box stated. I thought nothing of what was supposed to be a "humorous meme". But fear still settled in my mind. You see, we were actually headed on a school trip to Europe, one I had dreamed about since I was 3, yes at an age where I was just beginning to recollect dreams. But then I internalized the words my teacher stated about the trip, "they won't let you go if you have the faintest of a cough." I from then on had a mission. This mission coupled with my ambition to achieve perfect attendance took up most of my thought space so that no other thoughts could have the precious airtime. The battle was on and I suited up. I wore my shield of a face mask. Others mocked me saying the mask would do nothing to prevent getting the virus, but I didn’t care about just the virus. You see before my trusty shield came along, I was left defenseless against the siege being laid by the flu. “No cough” my thoughts reminded me, as persistently as an alarm clock. I got smart by wearing a mask, and my shield and I formed a bond as strong as that of a soldier and steed. Wearing my shield, I felt safe, an indescribable feeling of safety. But then my armor with age sought retirement. Except I could not provide that, for the quest to obtain a new shield proved impossible. So I instead bandaged the steed up with tape yet this proved an ineffective solution so more drastic modifications had to be made. That’s right, layers of paper towels. However, my armor then became heavier and the days felt longer. It’s as if safety couldn’t exist in my little corner of the world. The improvisations inflicted feelings of excessive warmth and sickness within me. Good thing we were given rest in spring break. But who I thought was the enemy in a battle I thought was over was not the real devious mastermind. The truth was, my battle was just beginning and turns out there was almost no one I could trust. The germs that danced once across my nightmarish visions ceased out of existence, blown away like dust. I found comfort in the cocoon of my solitude. I made friends with the silence as my contact with the real world had been severed. But very soon my own mind started to fight me as if it was discontent with my inner peace. “Pick up the litter or bad things will happen”, it screamed in my head on a loop. I obeyed and thought it was just the morality of my conscience. But this thought echoed in my inner being in parks or any time I was outside. I would stop everything I was doing just to pick up a cigar with my bare hands, and then I couldn’t stop. I was like Pac-man on a hunt. Picking up trash was like a never-ending addiction that I did not desire to have. I would scream out of frustration yet I could not stop until my arms itched. Could not stop until it was dusk by the time I came home where I would be met with a “Where have you been?” Oh, mother how I wish I knew. I was in emotional distress, longing for freedom. I was tired of this. But one day, it was as if relief came. My mind no longer chanted such banter in my ears. And yet I wasn’t free. “Step on the sidewalk crack and your mom will die”, became my next favorite tune. And once again I obeyed. But did obeying make me feel better? No! You’d think if you were in perfect submission to your captor, then they would be satisfied. But instead, he ramped up the punishment. Intensified it until I snapped. On that fine September day, I just a girl going about her day. But then he called out like a siren to a sailor and I was lured in by the far from melodious tune. Yet the tune had a hypnotizing effect. I reawakened my trash habits and I knew I had walked into a war. Soon enough I was sticking my arm elbow-deep in a trash can to re-throw away a water-logged phone three times. “Do this or your dog will be poisoned!”, “Oh we wouldn’t want your brother getting into a car accident now would we?” Well, he was right, so I obeyed. And by the end my shoes were muddy, my socks wet, leaves intertwined in my hair, itching sensations all over my body, and an emotional breakdown as the cherry on top. I then obeyed more trying to please him so he never put me through that again. But he never held up his end of the bargain. He kept it up, but what could I do? “Step on the sidewalk crack and your mother dies”, became my mantra. But the demands of being outside were too hard to keep up. So I just solved the problem by staying house-bound. Others never left the house in order to protect themselves from the virus, but my main reason for staying home was because being outside was too scary, time-consuming, and emotionally draining. So two weeks passed, and I was officially kind of like Rapunzel minus the shiny long blonde hair which some of us secretly wished we had. But then I was fine until I was not. Honestly, how could I fight a monster I could not see? Time progressed and I tried to get by as fear paralyzed my body at any given moment. With tears from fear arising occasionally. I stayed in his servitude and by doing so I almost lost myself completely. I slowly started to deteriorate. Joy could not be found so often, and my days were not enjoyable. And then I felt emotionally void, as he hid my feelings from me. But then it changed. My pain became visible and mom finally cracked the mystery. So me and my mom went to an ally for valuable intel. The therapist finally revealed my enemy to me. 3 letters, one syllable, OCD. I still lose myself in his mazes. He being my OCD voice Baxter. I am slowly finding myself. The truth is I almost had to lose myself completely to uncover my enemy. So this year as I reflect, while others make resolutions for diets or improved patience, I will make my resolution. A resolution to fall in love with myself again, and learn to forgive myself. Because we all deserve happiness and independence. But to do that we must learn to break free. And that can only be done with understanding and self-love.

One Father, One Son It was late spring in the city - one of those days, when both sunshine and light rain are received with joy and, let’s say, with hope. It was an early afternoon - lunchtime in downtown: hugs and handshakes, half-buttoned shirts, a sip of lemonade from the decanter. Chair legs squeaking, silverware clattering, the humming of talk. Lunch specials on the table, pages rustling - people devouring pastas, meats, and soups so intently, as if the meal were altogether a detective novel. Lunchtime was booked for the dates that were not exciting enough to spend an evening with, but, pleasant enough for a meal. A middle-aged, medium-tanned gentleman in a white polo and a jacket, blue jeans, and moccasins - like from glamorous adverts of the '90s - beckoned to the waiter, asked for coffee, and then looked at his watch. The man looked around and didn’t see someone or something he was expecting to see - and finally he opened a newspaper, slowly turned the pages and, eventually, buried his nose in it. After the man had finished his second espresso and handed the cup to the waiter, a voice behind his back said: “Hey Father!” “Finally!” the man responded joyfully. “You are here!” He turned and gasped. “What happened? You look like you’ve been ran over by a... cow.” The young man he was talking to didn’t look that bad. He had dusty boots and shaggy hair, as if he had traveled from afar. Also, he was wearing a questionable, in terms of style, tracksuit, but the “cow” reference said more about gentleman’s hunger than about the appearance of the young man. “And what’s here?” Father asked, “What’s with the neck?” “Oh, that?” Son touched a patch on the right side of his neck. “I removed the mole. It was annoying me.” “This mole?” Father pointed at his own neck. “Not 'this,' of course, but a similar type, yes,” Son said, nodding. “That’s weird,” Father said. “It doesn’t annoy me.” “Clearly, I am not you.” Son gave a subtle smile. Father folded the newspaper and tucked it away in his square-shaped leather bag. Then he stood up and gave a hug, a tight one, to his Son, who didn’t offer much hugging in response - he rather sank in Father’s arms. “I’ve got news,” Son said in a muffled voice. Father released him, and both finally they sat down. Both Father and Son were easy on the eyes. They had straight backs, massive chins, and long necks. When these men moved - say, for an extra tissue, or an ashtray, or to get a spoon that fell to the ground - they did it with an elegant slowness, even grace. They could make quite an impression on someone - for instance, on some bored eater at the next table - so he would wonder if these people actually had learned not to hurry unless there was a really serious reason. “Hold it for a little,” Father said, “the guy is desperate.” He nodded at the waiter. “He approached me, like, three times already. People don’t like to wait, you know, even if they are called “waiters.” Father laughed at his own joke. While he was giving his order about wine and the rare cook of the meat, Son plopped a transparent folder with some papers in it on the table. Then he asked the waiter to bring him the salad with couscous. “Did you come by car?” Father asked. Son nodded at the parked bike. Father laughed. “Can you drink and bike?” he asked. Son shook his head. “I am okay with water.” “Then I will have the whole bottle,” Father concluded. He lit a cigarette and inhaled. “What?” he asked. “Life teaches you nothing,” Son said. “That’s actually fascinating.” “What, again?” “Mum died of cancer.” “I know.” “She was a smoker.” “Your mum, unfortunately, had underlying health conditions.” Father made another puff. “She was 52!” “Exactly,” Father said, nodding. “A critical age for women of their family. Genetics. There is not much we can do about that.” “You are just damn stubborn.” Son sighed. “I am going to be suing you,” he added. “For smoking?” Father chuckled. “No, not for that,” Son said, taking the papers from the folder. “Not just for that. My company is suing your company.” Father finished his cigarette. “I don’t understand.” The waiter brought the couscous salad on the same tray with the drinks. Son sipped his water. “You know what I do for a living, right?” “I believe, you work... at a research center,” suggested Father. “And I certainly know that you chose this job over getting your PhD.” “It’s an Urban Environmental Research Center,” Son explained. “I am an expert, one of the experts.” Father remained silent. “The data we just got in, show that your company, your company’s production is causing pretty terrifying damage to the western part of the town, and...” he sighed, “to the workers as well.” Son had a bite of the salad. “What are you doing?” Father asked. “Oh, sorry, I realized I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Son said, putting the fork down. He continued speaking, though: “This is toxic metal, for the most part. You’ll have to either replace it with something less environmentally challenging, or, you know, we’ll shut you down.” As Father was pouring another glass of wine, his medium rare steak, covered with cranberry sauce, arrived. “We?” he said. “Who is 'we'?” “We’ve got an amazing legal team.” Father grunted, cut off a tiny piece of meat and chewed it slowly and carefully. “This is not the first time someone has threatened me,” he said. “I am not threatening you,” Son said, sounding surprised. “I am warning you.” “You are warning me?” Now they were both eating. “Dad, you don’t need more money.” “Excuse me?” “You’ve earned a lot, from my perspective, and you don’t need more.” Couscous or bread went down the wrong pipe, and Son started coughing. He then leaned toward the water, but, accidentally, grabbed the wine instead and took a good gulp. “Put my wine back,” Father demanded. “Sorry, man,” Son said and swallowed what was left in the glass. “Nice wine, though,” “Do you know that I once almost killed a man who was trying to squeeze me for my business?” Son paused for a second, as though recalling something, then said: “Yeah, it was a nice bedtime story.” Father smiled. “So you know who I am,” he said. “I am not trying to scare you. I am just warning.” Son shrugged. “The law is on my side, Dad,” he said. He waved to the waiter and asked for a tea. Father took off his jacket - the sun was roasting his body from his forehead to his chest. “I am telling you - your manufacturing is screwed,” Son said firmly. “We’ve got the evidence. Complaints, measurements, numbers. The impact you are making is horrifying. Better leave now, and, you know, go travel, embrace life, all that...” “What you are suggesting exactly?” “If you look into the documents, you’ll see I am offering you a good deal.” Son smiled rather happily. “I’d give you a name. You would transfer the company to this person. You quit. We win the case. The company pays the fee to us and to the state. I pay you a certain commission. Win-win, and - our city is a slightly better place to live in.” “Okay,” Father agreed. “Let’s see this battle.” “What battle?” “You are challenging me to.” Son looked confused. “You are rejecting the deal?” he asked. “This is not a deal,” Father said. “This is everything else but not the deal. Who taught you that?” “Taught me what?” “This.” “I only care about...” Son began, but the phone interrupted him. Son took the call. “Yeah... Sure... I am just in the middle of something... No-no, I will be there. Of course, you can count on me,” he said softly, if not ingratiatingly. Father, in the meantime, was dipping a piece of bread into the sauce, and then eating it with his fingers. The sauce left brownish marks in the corners of his lips. “Is it because of your mother?” he asked, when Son put his phone away. “What? Why?” Son needed a moment to switch to a different tone. “Is this because I left her when she got ill? Because if that’s the case, I can explain.” “I don’t need an explanation,” Son said, gesticulating expressively. “And it’s not because of that... Though it’s awful what you did.” “She didn’t want me to be around,” Father said. “She despised me, just like you do now. She said she wanted to spend her last years without me.” “It’s really not about Mum,” Son insisted. “I am just doing my job, and I like it.” “But I never stopped supporting her - money, good doctors, care,” Father said, squinting at the sun. “I think I left my sunglasses in the taxi.” “I don’t want to hear that!” Son shouted. People at other tables glanced curiously over, waiting for the continuation. Father didn’t say anything, a fight was not flaring up, so people soon returned to their own conversations and meals. For a while Father and Son just sat in silence. “I don’t care about the past,” Son said finally. “I’m trained to care about the present moment and the future.” “You were trained?” Son nodded. “And who paid for your training, I wonder?” “Who?” Son asked. “I did!” Father slammed the glass on the table so hard the stem broke in two. “I paid! To see you betray me!” The waiter came over. He looked displeased. “Is everything okay here, sir?” he asked with moderate irritation. “Yes-yes, I’ll pay for it,” Father murmured and handed him a broken glass. “Can I have another glass?” “More wine?” the waiter asked a bit stiffly. “I said - another glass of wine,” Father said. The waiter hovered over them for a few moments as if he wanted to say something else, then headed into the restaurant. “So this is what you meant by ' I love nature and all that, Dad '?” Father said to Son. “When did I say that to you?” “When you were little. Like eight or something.” “I didn’t lie,” Son agreed. “I do love nature. I want this planet to survive. It is in danger, as you probably know. Oceans, climate, species... My job is to heal it. Or, at least, not to let it die.” “It is a chronic disease,” Father said. “What?” “The disease can get worse or better at times, but it won’t kill the Earth.” Father yawned. Son grinned. “You clearly don’t give a shit!” “Do you?” “I do,” Son said - all of a sudden, joyful. “I don’t know if I'll have kids of my own, but I want future generations to treat the planet with respect. And to enjoy its enormousness, its beauty, its hospitality...” “I just don’t understand,” Father responded quietly. “You were such an affectionate kid. We spent a lot of time together. We hiked, we played football... We did stuff! Do you remember?” “Just some bits.” “How come you abandoned our bond so easily?” “Look, Dad. I am done worrying about insignificant stuff, like how you and Mum screwed up your lives, or me not having the right partner around.” He now sounded and looked like a doctor who was about to deliver bad news to a patient. “Times have changed. The world has changed. There are more important things in the world than two people’s interactions with each other.” Father whistled. “Oceans, I guess?” he said. “Not only, but oceans, too, yes.” “Are you recording our conversation?” Father asked. “No, I'm not.” Son looked perplexed. “That’s an amateur mistake,” Father laughed grimly. “Now you are thinking that you should have, aren’t you?” Son didn’t respond. “I think I have to go now. And you do what you want.” Father waved at the waiter and gestured that he’d like the bill. “I am only paying for myself,” he said to his Son. “Are you leaving?” “Oh, yeah.” He put on his jacket. “You can’t leave!” “Why not?” Father saw his Son clasping his head with his arms. “Headache?” he asked, trying to sound indifferent. “If I don’t bring them this deal, they will fire me,” Son said. “What?” “We are broke,” Son continued. “We lost most of our donors. You know, the world is in crisis.” “Yeah, I read,” Father noted with sarcasm. “We don’t want to go the court,” Son whispered. “We want money. We still have to pay rent, and bills, and salaries... This fee would cover most of our costs and help start new campaigns... Anyway, I promised my bosses to bring them this deal. They don’t know you are my father. If you’d just agree to transfer the company to the third party!” Father suddenly laughed. “That’s some dirty business you’re in, Son!” “For the good cause,” Son said. “Why won’t you find a new job?” “They will sue you anyway.” “You don't have much to offer, huh?” Father asked. “That’s why you are not quitting. Apparently, it is not enough just to declare your love to Mother Nature. You’ve got to have some hard skills, even if you are a bloody damn environmentalist.” Finally, Son started crying. The waiter brought the bill, and Father stood up and paid his half. He was about to leave. “Give me the papers,” Father said. Son looked up at him. “Give me the papers,” Father repeated angrily. “And the pen.” “You will sign?” Son asked. His tears dried up. “No, I will just make a doodle,” Father sighed. “Yeah, I will sign. But first I’ll read what I am about to sign.” Father lit a cigarette and looked at the documents with disgust. “This is the right thing to do,” Son said. “I am happy you are contributing to helping the planet.” “Just so you know,” Father replied, “I don’t give a shit about the planet.”

Frank Leary, 68 years of age, lived in apartment 4B in a drowsy, decrepit building on the corner of Gaston and Avery. With most of his days spent reading encyclopedias and passing judgement on pedestrians who spoiled the urban view from his window, he found peace in the silent company of his one-bedroom apartment at the very end of an otherwise vacant hallway. Short, stocky, and with a figure resembling a crouching toad, he was, in all respects, a peculiar man with an equally peculiar set of likes and dislikes. This included, but was not limited to, a rare appreciation for the calm, rhythmic wagging of his dog’s tail; a mild irritation with foamy coffee; and a surprisingly unparalleled loathing of the dripping faucet in his bathroom, which he was both too inert and close-fisted to fix. In the same way, Frank was, to put it lightly, no big fan of stereotypes. “They’re a cheap, embarrassing excuse for character development that gives viewers nothing of substance to hold on to”, he would tirelessly exclaim to his grandchildren the one time a year he took them to the movie theater. A former scriptwriter himself, he believed this gave him the indisputable right to insert his ‘objectively correct’ opinion into every movie-watching experience. But despite Frank’s inherent peculiarity, he was far from unintelligent, and the irony of his being was not lost on him. Deep down, beneath his cold, callous exterior, he knew he matched the ‘bitter old man’ stereotype through and through. Of course, having dealt in absolutes his whole life, he knew this fact, too, with absolute certainty - although nothing would pain him more than to admit to it. This subconscious resentment for his own hypocrisy brewed within him a burning desire for seclusion. For Frank, this seclusion would be incomplete if not accompanied by a deafening silence that hung in the air like cobwebs on a tall bookshelf. One might then attempt to imagine how severely Frank’s expression soured (more so than usual), when, upon opening his front door one day, dog leash in hand, he was met with an unfamiliar character. A young man, who looked as though Frank had caught him in the middle of knocking, stood before him in a pair of sensible brown pants and a white collared shirt, both of which he had clearly taken care in ironing. Fresh-faced and boasting a warm smile, the man carried with him an air of youthfulness and a sense of wonder. He knew he had his whole life ahead of him, and this only added salt to Frank’s perpetually festering wounds. The dog, a small, scraggly mutt that had become Frank’s personal burden after the passing of his wife - mirroring his owner in appearance, but not in demeanor - barked with delight at the presence of another human being, particularly one so radiant and energetic. The crisp, high-pitched barks resonated off the cracked and musty walls of the hallway but were quickly brought to an abrupt end by the kick of Frank’s heel to the little burden’s side. The stranger, despite being made clearly uncomfortable by the treatment of the dog, did not break his smile. In fact, while introducing himself as Frank’s new, next-door neighbor who had just moved into apartment 4C, his smile only grew warmer. Once the echo of his words slowly ceased, a brief silence descended between the two men. Suddenly, with a low grumble and slight nod of his head in acknowledgment, Frank yanked the thick nylon leash and hurriedly made his way down the hallway. Whilst the busy city streets burst with excitement and anticipation for the weekend, a profound, burning anger situated deep within Frank’s gut had made him feel nauseated and lost, for he could not understand why or how someone might move there. The building was on the verge of collapse and had hardly been in an attractive part of town, thanks to which Frank had gone almost a decade of living in complete, unsullied solitude at the end of the long hallway. Disoriented and overwhelmed by the news he’d just received, he collapsed onto a bench and convinced himself that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad. But, lo and behold, not two full days after his first encounter with the new resident, Frank’s initial hunch seemed to have been proven right. The day had started splendidly. The street outside Frank’s window was empty, as it typically was on Sundays, with only the occasional squirrel making an appearance on the pavement below. The usual morning coffee was rich and foamless, and even the dripping of the bathroom faucet appeared hardly noticeable. Perched over his elbows at the rickety kitchen table, Frank breezed through a section on African sand gazelles in the third edition of Weisman’s Encyclopedia, astonished by how such a small, dainty animal could reach such incredible speeds. Suddenly, a faint sound caught the attention of his finely tuned ear. Ruffling his brow, he soldiered on with reading about African sand gazelles, considering them to be much more important and worthy of recognition than the happenings of some irrelevant ne’er-do-wells. However, despite his best efforts to drown out the noise by means of intense concentration, the noise only seemed to grow louder and ever-more present. Surprising as it may seem, despite his persistently resentful attitude, Frank was not a confrontational person. He, too, then, was surprised when he found himself marching with great zeal to apartment 4C, convinced that his new neighbor was the root cause of his grief. After all, this had never happened while the apartments around him were vacant. With a powerful knock on his neighbor’s robust, wooden door, Frank’s voice boomed: “Can you please stop making so much noise? You’re disrupting my peace!”. The door quickly opened to reveal the figure of the young man. His casual house clothes appeared just as neat and tidy as the brown pants and white-collared shirt he wore a few days earlier. Although clearly puzzled by this unexpected accusation, his quintessential warm smile once again did not waver. Whilst he was polite enough to apologize for any inconvenience he might have caused Mr. Leary, he also, nonetheless, insisted that whatever noise his neighbor might have heard was not his doing. Returning to his apartment, Frank noticed that the sound had disappeared. He scoffed under his breath, probably uttering an insult or two about the man next door. It wasn’t until a few days later that the same, aggravating sound had once again graced the otherwise hushed atmosphere of Frank’s home. This time, however, Frank’s incredibly short fuse led him straight to DEFCON 1 - filing a formal noise complaint to the police. For the next few weeks, as the noise persisted, Frank incessantly issued noise complaints, but to no avail. Embittered by the sense of duty that was so painfully lacking in the police force of the city, Frank could think of no one else to turn to but the building’s concierge. Intelligent as he was, he could also think of no reason why a decrepit, old building in a far from appealing part of town would even have a concierge, and he detested that part of his rent went into paying for this service. For this reason, Frank generally avoided speaking to him, unless it was absolutely necessary, like it was now. The concierge was a man slightly younger than Frank, with a long, grey face and visibly thinning hair. Generally insipid and terse, his expression for once revealed a sense of shock when Frank came to speak to him. Upon hearing Frank’s noise complaint, though, the concierge’s expression of shock would immediately turn into one of confusion: “Sir, the resident in apartment 4C moved out last week.” Whilst this came as a massive relief to Frank, it, strangely enough, did little to put an end to his daily exasperation. Even after the young man’s alleged departure, the seemingly sentient noise was a regular at Frank’s. It would arrive unannounced - sometimes during breakfast or the afternoon news - and would only leave after dark, when the few sounds filtering through the apartment was the whisper of the gentle evening wind and the soft tapping of branches against the cold, double-paned window. The menacing sound in question was more so an indecipherable ruckus than simply a noise - impossible to pin-down and often changing where it came from, it was a constant and ubiquitous force. Its peculiar nature made Frank wonder. Perhaps it came from the upstairs neighbor? Or from the building next door? Or could somebody simply be playing a cruel trick on him? Whatever the case, the weeks-long debacle had quickly tired out the old man, and the next morning, after loading his bags and dog onto the backseat of his old, rusty Ford Pinto, Frank Leary left his one-bedroom slice of heaven on the corner of Gaston and Avery. It had not taken him long to make it out of the city. As he made it to the outskirts, he watched the oncoming miles of workers making their daily commute towards the city center. For a moment Frank pondered whether they, too, faced a problem that, like himself, only they could understand, but upon remembering that he left the city to escape from the wretched noise, not to think about it, he mechanically switched on the radio as a distraction from his thoughts. It had been a long time since Frank had listened to the radio, or any music, for that matter. For a man so obsessed with silence, he considered music to be a sacred creative force. After all, listening to music was a favorite past-time of his that he once shared with his wife, and he intended for it to stay that way, as a memory cemented in time. As he allowed himself to reminisce over fond recollections of enjoying music well into the early hours of the morning with his wife, a bitter-sweet feeling enveloped him, and, as if by some curious twist of fate, her favorite song chimed through the speakers of the Ford: “My Echo, My Shadow and Me”. Almost as if he had been hypnotized, Frank made it to his country house, having completely lost track of time. Idyllic and quaint, the little white house sat perched on top of a hill, overlooking the rolling wildflower meadows and birch forests that spilled out below. Frank chose a comfortable looking spot of grass to sit on and gazed at the spellbinding beauty of the landscape, which was perhaps second only to the sight of the scraggly little dog chasing a butterfly. For the first time in weeks, Frank felt a sense of calm. He had, in a mere few hours’ drive from the city, all but forgotten the ghastly noise that had haunted him back home. He felt at peace with his own thoughts about coffee foam and African sand gazelles, and this time he thoroughly enjoyed his little canine companion’s rhythmic tail-wagging. When, suddenly, the noise reappeared. Bewildered and confused, Frank jumped to his feet. Running erratically in circles around the overgrown meadow, he searched desperately for a source of the noise as it rang through his ears, cruelly and carelessly. But there was no one and nothing there. There was no one to complain of, and there was no one to complain to, and yet the noise still persisted. In that moment, Frank fell to his knees, cupped his face in his hands, and cried. Hot tears dripped off his face and onto the ground below. Meanwhile, apartment 4B returned to its natural, silent state of being.

(Descriptions of fictional crimes investigated by the story's main Character Max.) Detective's Fate It's august of 2008..... Max is a detective living in Chicago He checks his pistol and puts on his police badge as he walks out his front door. He has been searching for a serial killer known as the Caller for years and always been one step behind due to the red tape..... More importantly the chief's lazy attitude towards getting search warrants and actions approved by the courts for raids. Twice Max had good intel on the suspect's locations and photo evidence showing him at the sites. The department needs more vigilant, caring officers and leaders but no one steps up to do it, instead they just complain about the slow progress and officers. And hinder investigations. Now Max has decided that it might be time to stop playing by the rules and catch this scumbag.... .... .... Starting his car Max sets his GPS to the address that "The Caller" was last seen and pulls out of his driveway as the 50 miles of directions pop up. The killer's nickname being for his signature of calling in as he is committing the crime. As he drives he remembers his first case, five years ago now..... ..... ..... A woman, Joane Taylor, was found dead in an alleyway after going out for the night. She showed no signs of struggle leading the police to believe she had drank to much and expired from alcohol poisoning.... ... The death was written off as a "party gone wrong".... That is until several more were found and the coroner decided on a whim to test for other substances. Once it came out that the deaths were possible murders... The calls started coming in, almost like the suspect wanted credit before revealing himself.... Then ways of the deaths began changing as the Serial Killer explored his twisted desires searching for his preferred method. The last case being a young woman found stuffed in a dumpster after the killer apparently got scared off.... Max will never forget it.... .... .... The GPS finishes and the car beeps its final direction, taking an exit off the highway. Ramps out here are always confusing... Which is funny since he has driven this one for five years now... The chief says he should sit this one out but he can't... The latest victim 3 months ago. Marie Spelner, a waitress out on her smoke break talking to her spouse on the phone. Survived by her husband, no children or living relatives. .... Max Spelner turns into the driveway of the house he was directed to... Stepping out of the car he walks up and knocks on the door. Looking at the house he knows the family must be doing well if they live here.... Raising his hand to knock again he hears a scream from inside.... A second later the door is answered by a middle aged butler holding a tray with wine glasses on it... "Hello Sir, I'm sorry but this house does not wish to partake in any offers at this time..." Max calmly says. "I'm not selling anything." The butler looks confused for a moment before his eyes dart over Max's shoulder seeing his unmarked cruiser and he nods. Looking past the butler Max sees that a woman is cleaning up after their dog. "Have you seen this man?" Says Max holds up a picture of the one suspected of being the killer. The butler gives it a once over before replying. "I'm sorry sir, no I have not." His tone sounds like he is lying... .... "Are you sure?" The detective asks. "I would not lie about something like that, sir." He states, his eyes not meeting Max's. The woman calls from inside "Fletcher, who are you talking too?" "Some man asking about a killer" he calls back. "The killer is an inside job!" The woman quickly states. "What?!" Max says. "The Killer, it's an inside job." She says again, louder this time. In the same Max also hears a child begin to cry in another room. "We should start from the beginning, it will be easier to explain trust me." The woman says. 'She seems to know what is going on.... "How do I know your story holds water?" He asks out loud. "Oh I wouldn't lie. I have been following the case myself and it seems like an inside job to me." She states, somehow sounding hurt. "Is there anyone else in the house besides you two and the baby?" He asks noticing the baby isn't crying anymore. "Just Fletcher and I live here, the baby is my cousins but he just stays the night sometimes." She replies. Max draws his gun and enters the house upon reasonable suspicion of an emergency in progress or suspect on the premisses as the man seems to be deceiving. While the woman still seems unconcerned that the child is now silent. He pushes past the butler and rushes towards the area he heard the crying. passes the entryway, the dinning room, and a kitchen before finally finding a child in a playpen. "There there..." He says in a sing song voice picking up the child. "I'm officer Max, do you know where your mommy is?" The child just cries louder. Then he sees the man from the photo walk out of the bathroom, upon seeing him he bolts for the door and Max sets the child down gently then gives chase. He runs through the house, following the man as he can hear the woman screaming at him to stop but he doesn't." "Stop or I'll shoot." The man doesn't even break stride. Instead he runs out of the front door and jumps into his car. Furious that the man might escape he fires at the car as it drives away. The back window shatters and he hopes he got his tire, but he doesn't wait to find out as he runs to his car and initiates a pursuit.... He flips on his concealed lights in his cruiser as he reverses down the drive and into the street. The suspects car is fast but he manages to keep up with it weaving in and out of traffic as people move over for the siren. As they approach a red light there is heavy traffic in the intersection..... .... The suspect slams on his brakes and Max's cruiser only just stops short of hitting it. Jumping out the Detective points his firearm at the vehicle running up beside seeing heavily tinted windows. "Get out of the car and on the ground now!!" He shouts as he moves to the driver's side door. After seeing no response.... Max throws open the door and the driver is gone with the passenger side open. He quickly runs to the other side catching the man trying to sneak off tackling him to the ground and then takes his arms putting them behind his back. Max grabs his radio and calls it in as the man cries. As he is waiting he hears a noise that sounds like static..... "Wrong guy moron.. Did you ever stop to think I wanted you close for this one. That I planned everything...Even framing the pothead..... I almost lost interest until you pulled in the driveway... The attic is kinda cramped tho... I think I'll go carve some meat. Maybe graduate to other things to. I'm not sure yet. Lets see if you can catch me before......" A familiar voice says over the radio then cuts off... ... Max looks at the man on the ground. "Why did you run from me?" He asks. "Cause I have like 19 grams of marijuana in my pocket." He replies... "Do you know how stupid that is?! I don't care about that I'm looking for a killer." Before he can answer Max hears the woman from the house screaming for her life and a child's cries on his radio. Then from below Max. "He's in the house, he's in the house! My mom and the baby!" The man on the ground says crying. Max uncuffs him and runs to his car heading back to the house as he lays down rubber on the road... ... ... As he approaches and pulls into the driveway he notices the front door is open. "Hold on I'm coming!" Max screams jumping out of his cruiser... He runs into the house finding the woman's body arriving too late. Moving over to her he checks for a pulse but she is gone, a large gash in her neck. As he stands up he slips in a fluid but gains his balance and tries not to think about what it is.... He rushes to the room the baby was in finding the play pen empty. He leaves the room searching the rest of the house and still doesn't find the child. "Where are you!!!" He calls out.... "This is the Callers first kidnapping and the media would eat up the fact I failed to stop the man." He thinks as he blames himself. Sirens begin to blare in the distance as backup is about to arrive... ... ... "There's a woman dead and a baby missing! The woman is in the dinning room straight ahead of the front door, Hurry!" He yells into his radio... Looking over at the mother seeing a piece of paper on the floor. He walks over to it seeing writing. "So close... Looks like I'm a kidnapper now.... Good luck finding me.... And... I so enjoyed killing that sweet wife of yours. Might do it that way again. Not to the kid tho....later Max. Ps. This game is so fun.." It says. "He was here..." Is all he can muster as the team enters. "He was right in this house and I missed it because her son freaked over weed and ran..." He says as another officer speaks to him gently. "Don't beat yourself up Detective, it's not your fault. He must have hid before you got her and left after you arrived." The words do little to comfort him "First day back on the job and the killer escaped taking a child..." He says as he walks away. The chief arrives in his new lexus with a screeching of rubber as he lurches to a halt. He quickly exits and leaves his door hanging open as he rushes into Max's face.... "I told you to stay away from this case MAX!!!!....(takes a breath)... "If I catch any flak from my superiors, I won't suspend you.... That'd be to easy. Desk duty and an entry level demotion. The new guy will have a higher rank than you if things go my way.... Now get outta my sight...". "(Sighs)... "This job is gonna be the death of me..." He says walking away from Max and towards the Coroner's van..... ..... ..... On the way home the detective stops by the store close to his house which is unlike him because he usually follows the same routine. He nears the front door and he hears a kitchen timer ding loudly from behind him as his car explodes throwing him through the storefront windows as they are blown out..... ..... Alarms around the lot and others nearby create a cacophony of noise. His head pounding as his body aches, Max pushes himself up and collapses as the store manager runs over to him telling him not to move as he dials 911.... .... .... Waking in the hospital Max recalls the feeling of the Shockwave as he flinches in phantom pain. "Who woulda thought its like holding a ringing metal bat that hurts your hands but all over and way more intense." He thinks. He suddenly feels tired and falls asleep.... .... .... .... The next time he wakes, he sees a breaking news story that Jane Saltani is reporting on.... "Young toddler Accidently Shoots Serial killer/kidnapper ending his life and Alerting residents in the Area." The news anchor says. Sighing to himself Max thinks about how crazy that is and laughs. Tho he really wanted to bring the guy in. He closes his eyes to get some much needed sleep as his door opens. Max looks up to see a man with a silenced pistol pointed at him. "Hm. Now they think I'm dead. Funny how they just assume they got the right guy. Just like.... You did Detect... ....." Max hears but then hears no more as his end comes at just over the speed of sound.... The Caller leaves the hair of another intelligent convicted murderer that he obtained in a spot that's believable and quickly leaves..... He disables the surveillance system and sends a virus out to any device that has received video data from the hospital. Erasing and corrupting the systems. Leaving a master hackers finger prints on a glass from his home.... "Sorry, no witnesses." He says to the security guard as he fires... ..... ..... .... ....

It was the first day that I had been able to venture out alone. My Sherpa had been keeping me in closed quarters until now, but she felt I knew the terrain well enough now for a solo wander. I set out early, crossing through the wooded area, and the cold slate flats before taking some respite and food, a mixture of soaked grains and meats to keep me from becoming dehydrated should I not find a water source. By mid morning, I came to another wooded area I had been through once with my Sherpa, but was not very familiar with it. Two pools and an almost dry waterfall framed the terrain neatly, beyond this was unknown to me. I decided to push no further and began to explore the dry basins, scrambling over hardened clays that so recently held water. I came to an unusual looking raised area, the shapes too regular to be natural, though in material it seemed to be wooden. Yes some sort of wooden structure, a man made object all the way out here? My curiosity peaked and I couldn't resist the urge to climb up and explore. I leaped and scrambled up the side, which proved smoother and more difficult to get a grip on then anticipated, as if its creator had been attempting to deter such actions. Of course, this only spurred me on further. At the top, unseen from below was a plateau. Some signs of long since ceased activity still showed here, but it was the eastern side of the plateau that caught my attention. A raised lip in the midst of the flatness. I wandered over, to discover that the lip shielded what seemed to be some sort of hole. Whether natural or man made I could not say. After poking about for a few moments and realizing from I could not see far into this cave, I weighed my options. My sensible side yielded, the stern voice of my Sherpa echoing in my ear. We didn't have a common tongue, but I knew a warning from her when I heard it. But my wild side won out. I am a strong climber, I could descend a little and have a better look and come back out if the cave looked too dangerous. Tentatively I lowered myself over the ledge, gradually sinking into the crevice. My leg reached for the next foothold just as I lost my grip, the surface smooth and polished - in a flash I found myself free falling into the darkness. I've been deemed lucky and told I always seem to land on my feet in life, something I have scoffed at in the past but fortunately rang true this morning. I blinked in the darkness, mentally checking over my body which appeared injury free after the fall. As my eyes adjusted slowly to the dark, the light from above began to reveal the shadowy shapes that made up my surroundings. The cave had an unnatural smell, musty and a sickly sweet almost synthetic fragrance singed my nostrils. I set out to familiarize myself with my surroundings, and most importantly, seek out a route back to the ledge I had climbed down. Unless I had become completely disoriented, I discovered that the east and south sides of the cave did indeed seem to be of stone. The hairs on my neck began to raise - what was this cave, part nature and part constructed. What and where was that sickly sweet smell coming from? I followed the southern wall of the cave around until I met what must have been the western face I had climbed, it's smooth and constructed surface mirroring that I had just found. Underfoot I heard a rustling and froze... was there more than one level to this cave? I shuddered at the thought... though perhaps that could be my way out. I decided to continue mapping my surroundings first, turning north. With a sickening thud, my entire body rebounded of an unexpected surface. I reached out to feel a smooth, highly polished surface, cold to the touch. This was not like the stone or constructed walls I had encountered. No, this was something entirely different. I gave the surface a tentative sniff - metallic. My mind reeled. This must have been the same surface I lost my footing on, leading me here. A trap? What was this large metal object? Why was it hidden in this cave? Or could I even call this a cave, given its apparent semi constructed nature? My heart raced as panic roared in my ears. pullyourselftogether pull yourself together PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER!!! I took a deep breath. Be rational. My mind had jumped ahead to alien conspiracy theories, and I struggled to rein them in. Perhaps this had once been the site of some sort of industrial plant? But why then hide it? Toxic sludge monsters battled the far more rational "to keep people safe" option in my mind. As I explored further, the panic in my mind became harder and harder to control... encountering areas of dampness with that heavy perfumed scent. What felt like gigantic plastic pipes jutted aggressively out of the metallic surface. A knot in my stomach grew progressively tighter, with the realization that I had left my food topside, having planned to initially just have a little nose around the edge. The surfaces of the cave proved unclimbable, and though I had a little more luck with the plastic piping, it only raised me slightly from the surface - there was no way I could clamber back to the top. I sunk to the floor, dejected, hungry. The smell of the cave becoming more and more nauseating as time wore on and my spirit wore down. I'm uncertain how long had passed when I felt the breeze, the scent of fresh air. I sought out the source and discovered that the cave I was in was not rectangular as I suspected initially, a small opening between the rock and the metal revealed itself on the north east side. Exploring this could mean a way out. But it would also mean being pressed between the indifferent rock and the cold, unknown metallic object. The potential of escape won out, I slowly moved forward into the tight space, squeezing my body forward. There was no room to turn, should I meet anything on this path a hasty retreat backwards my only hope. The resonance of my movement against the metal surface told me the object was some sort of hollow entity. I tried not to dwell on the multiple grim scenarios that plagued my mind and keep focus on my escape. After what seemed like a lifetime, a sliver of light shimmered in the distance, my heart soaring with joy. But with each step forward, an unseen force began to clip the wings of my soaring heart. The sliver of light was just that. A sliver. The cave narrowed impossibly, not even enough space to slide a hand through. To my dismay through the crack I could see the wooded area I had so happily traipsed through hours before. The sight was torture, and I slunk back into the dark, damp perfumed air. Hunger gripped at my belly and though noises we abundant, no dark evil seemed to make is presence known. I tried to make myself comfortable, as best I could. Here and there were the crisp, hollow remains of long since dead bugs, nothing lived in this box. Would I?, I thought grimly... To keep warm, periodically I would move my bones, and on one such jaunt stumbled across a soft surface, too hard to be a blanket... a rug perhaps? I decided to sit and consider my limited options. I screamed myself raw, hoping perhaps in this remote wilderness someone would pass. I sat and sobbed, thinking of my Sherpa's warnings. Would she return this way? I expended what little energy I held attempting to hoist myself back towards the ledge, through which by now the light was beginning to dwindled. Night fell, and with it, my hopes. I lay dejected, nauseous, miserable. The smell and metal shape infecting my mind, cruel smooth surfaces, perfume stench. I was doomed, this was my lot. My mind drifted to the Sherpa, she often practiced some form of meditation whilst I had been awakening in the mornings. I tried to emulate her calm, but my mind fixated on my slow and eventual doom. I wept. Small mewling sobs escaped my lips, when I began to hear the noises. A distant boom - from outside or within the depths of the metal object? I shuddered. Rustling.. trees? Or creatures ascending whatever depths the object held? And then... in the distance a voice? Not alien but a human voice? The source was hard to decipher but I pressed forward into the narrow crevasse I had earlier explored in the hopes of freedom. The forest remained dark and silent, until I heard it again. My name. MY NAME. Faint, distant, but unmistakable My heart rate rapid I attempted to push my way as far into the crevasse as I could. A light, and her. The Sherpa had returned and had begun to search for me, relief flooding my every fiber. I parted my dehydrated lips to shout in response but nothing came out. She moved away as I tried again and again to get my hoarse voice to respond. She had moved completely out of sight when finally a choked noise escaped my mouth - HERE. HERE. HERE. OVER HERE. I heard her sure and speedy footfall and finally a familiar face loomed in front of me. She smiled and said something - her native tongue incomprehensible to me, though I could see a flash of fear in her eyes. I cried back at her pleading for her speedy help, but she turned and ran back towards the slate flats. I openly cried. After what seemed like hours, she returned, this time with some of her strange items I had seen her use before. She began to methodically work on the smooth surface opening the space but it was not enough. I continued to weep freely now, the metal object still blocking my path and I saw no hope of this small, weak woman shifting it. Unlike my fear of the object, she seemed unperturbed by it, confirming that perhaps it was not some monstrous spacecraft but in fact something of her native people's design. I cowered in the back of the cave as she worked at the crevasse. Then unbelievably, with what I can only imagine was my Sherpa having called on the strength of her gods, she started to push and pull on the metal object. There was a ferocity I had not yet seen in this gentle soul and with an almighty heave, to my disbelief the object began to move.... small minute distances at first. The roar from the hollow drum deafening my ears. With an almighty heave this unassuming woman moved the metal structure, in the light now visible to me as some sort of box. As fresh air flowed in I became aware that this box was the source to of the perfumed stench I had choked on throughout the day. My instincts took over and I dashed to freedom, past the Sherpa who was now struggling with the metal object, a strange and I thought pointless dance now that I was out. I found the pack of food I had left behind scarfing down chunks of meat and moist grains barely stopping to chew, and within moments, vomited everything I had consumed back up. Shock, I assumed. But I was free. The Sherpa had by now replaced the metal box, and in a high voice, I assume gave me a scolding, but I did not understand. We walked back in silence to the area we most often camped on, with it's soft plush surfaces. Exhausted, she lay down, and I moved to her side, trying to express my thanks - thinking late is better than never. She looked at me and rubbed my head, which I took as an open invitation. Purring, I moved on to her stomach and curled up for a nap, gave a little meow and began kneading her legs with my claws.

Sue Ellen sat at her desk sipping her Earl Grey and eating her usual lunch of low-fat turkey and a hastily prepared salad. The more she thought about it, the more she began to believe what her recent ex-boyfriend, Brian had said. She was boring, and her need for order and routine was getting in the way of her life. She had eaten this lunch every workday for the past two months with no problems, but today it tasted bland and unappealing. Just like her . The thought snuck into her head greasily, leaving an unpleasant feeling. Being recently single after being in a relationship with Brian for over three years was something of a shock to Sue Ellen. She was not forty years old yet, but somehow, she felt too old to date. She felt like old produce left in the fridge, wilted and unsaleable. Brian had certainly perpetuated these feelings by having an affair, and honestly, there were so many little things that she should have noticed but didn’t. Or maybe she just hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself. Tap. Tap. Tap. She works through lunch because she has nothing better to do. Watching her coworkers, the sea of square placeholders in a beige room, they have all grouped up for lunch, small friend groups chatting about everyday things. Her cubicle had nothing of note in it. No personal items, no photos, maybe just a hint of her smell. She suddenly remembered she needed to run by the department store after work. Tonight was the dinner reception for the wedding her old friend, Tammie Lynn had invited her to. “You remember my kin on my momma’s side, right?” Sue Ellen had nodded. The two had been out to lunch ‘catching up’, but mostly Sue Ellen had felt like a burden, unloading all her problems on her old friend. The ‘kin’ in question was the blue-collar side of the family. Specifically, the cousin that gave Tammie Lynn the reputation for being a hillbilly in elementary school. Her cousin Clint had come in with a pet possum once, and Tammie Lynn was the only one who would talk to him after that. Of course, Sue Ellen came along for the ride. “Well, Clint's finally tying the knot! The bride’s a real sweet girl. A nice Jewish girl he met when he moved to the city. You wanna be my plus one?” Tammie Lynn had asked outright. She never did mince words, and Sue Ellen could read the hopeful glint in her old friend’s eye, a hint of mischief even. “Sure. It’s not like I have anything else going on.” Tammie Lynn’s blue eyes sparkled with delight as she gave Sue Ellen one of her characteristic bear hugs. The girl was rail thin but somehow strong as an ox. So here she was, going to a hillbilly wedding. She knew that Tammie Lynn’s mom’s side of the family were the hillbilly ones. It would be fun, though. They were good people and had always made her feel so welcome, even if they didn’t have anything, they still shared it with her whenever she had come over. She hadn’t seemed very excited at first, but the more she thought about it, the more she appreciated her friend inviting her out, particularly with people she felt safe around, though it would be a sight. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to drink or not. Did she want to be a part of it or just be a spectator? Sharing a drink with someone was like sharing a meal with Sue Ellen. She spent most of her Friday afternoon workday shopping online to see if any styles would suit the occasion. Tammie Lynn had mentioned bright colors and... denim. Boots? Probably. She would have to dust her old pair off and dig up her denim jacket. They were broken in and comfortable, so at least she wouldn’t be stuck chilly and wearing high heels all night. “This isn’t going to be so bad.” She could feel herself getting psyched up. Pausing her endless cycle of routines for a couple of days. Everything would be fine. The department store she had chosen was near her workplace, so she walked for some fresh air. A small cafe nearby smelled like roasted garlic and red wine, but she put her hunger behind her, knowing that the reception was only two hours away. The department store was almost empty, with only a few patrons within on a Friday evening. The smell of perfume from the counter gave the place a floral note, and she figured she could get a tester of something to make herself smell a bit better after she picked out the dress. She found the cut and color she had seen online. It fit beautifully, and it was very comfortable. Maybe she would have a drink after all. She grabbed a tester of perfume. It smelled of lilies, but the name was just BURST, and for some reason, the impression was that of a poorly ventilated funeral home with a bum freezer. She put that one back for another with a fresher smell. More like chamomile and bergamot. Her hand twisted the glass to face the name. It was just called Dolly and had a flower on the spray cover. As someone who worked in sales, she was confused by the branding on both perfumes. “When did things become so literal?” This one reminded her of that Dolly Parton song, wildflowers, however. “Fine by me”. There was no time for a shower by the time she got home. Quickly, she freshened up her makeup and hair and gave herself a dollop of Dolly. The boots fit like a dream, and she found a fifty-dollar bill in her old jean jacket. She hadn’t worn it since before...before Brian. “Thanks, old me,” She thought, as she drove through the city, to the outskirts of town, until the neon lights and pavement became warehouses and well-lit industrial barn buildings. She wondered for a fleeting moment, if it wasn’t her fault for Brian. This outfit that swallowed her in comfort and practicality would have disappeared from her closet, and been replaced with something 'acceptable'. He would see her in a pair of boots and give her a look that made her feel unwelcome in her own space. Finally, she found it. It was a barn-style building, with lots of tables and dancing space. The interior was painted a tasteful grey with green accents. A bar on the right side of the room was artfully built with reclaimed wood. A stocky bearded bartender waved her inside. Her first glance around the room was intense, to say the least. Old Jewish men in kippot cavorted genially with old-timers in tight denim and tucked-in button-down flannels. There was a small buffet with finger foods and charcuterie. Finally, she heard Tammie Lynn’s voice above the tumult. She waved an arm toward Sue Ellen, who was with the bride and groom’s family. Tammie Lynn scooped up Sue Ellen in her thin arms, directing her to a chair. “Ya’ll, this is my oldest friend, Sue Ellen. Mamaw, you ‘member her, don’t ya? A familiar elderly woman with perfectly permed hair carefully pinned on her head nodded and gave Sue Ellen a shaking hand. “Hello, honey. How you been doing? I heard about that awful situation with that boyfriend of yours. Don’t you worry honey, there’s plenty of decent men to go around here, Tammie Lynn’ll show ya around.” Sue Ellen was so shocked that the old woman and her husband were still around, they must have been over ninety. It took her a moment to feel embarrassed that everyone knew her situation. But looking around the table, she saw nothing but friendly faces standing up to hug her. She introduced herself to the Blums. Their daughter the bride, Ava was a delightful girl, standing next to her, beaming with pride--no longer the possum pet owner. Now he was her groom. Tammie Lynn’s cousin, Clint had turned into a tall and handsome man. “Good for you two! Congrats!” Sue Ellen exclaimed after she got warmed up to the room. There was surprisingly no jealousy or malice in her voice, or her secret heart. Sue Ellen saw at first glance that she was everything he wanted her to be, and Sue Ellen knew that Ava never went home with Clint feeling like she didn’t belong. That’s nice. “ You could have that too, now.” Sue Ellen’s secret heart whispered. Dinner was being served, so she took her seat waiting for their table to be called to the buffet line. Sue Ellen realized that Tammie Lynn was sitting across from her, but she had neglected to introduce herself to those on either side. She made to do so before Tammie Lynn cut in: “Oh where are my manners?! Eric, this is Sue Ellen, and to your right, is Bubbe Blum.” She raised her voice a little, reaching a gentle hand across the table to the woman almost as old as Mamaw and Papaw Walker. “Bubbe? This is my oldest friend, Sue Ellen. The old woman raised her eyes to Sue Ellen, giving her a gentle pat on the hand. “Nice to meet you, young lady. You’ll be taking care of me tonight, right? Don’t let these old-timers sweep me off my feet, alright?” Sue Ellen couldn’t help it. As she shook the woman’s hand she saw the faded and cursed tattoo on her arm. But despite it, the woman bubbled with spunk. I think they would say ‘Hutzpah’. “Yes ma’am, I’ve known these guys for a while, they aren’t getting anything over on me!” The old woman pats her hand again, and finally, Sue Ellen remembers Eric there. He smiled sweetly at his Bubbe, his brown eyes the color of honey. She met eyes with Tammie Lynn, who gave her that mischievous smile. Sue Ellen shook her head slightly; her friend was clearly trying to set her up. He seemed nice and all, but she wasn’t ready for anything. But she saw how Tammie Lynn was looking at him. Why is she trying to set me up with him if she clearly likes him? After their meal, Sue Ellen drags Tammie Lynn alone to the bar. “Thanks again for inviting me! I’ve forgotten how your family makes you feel so welcome. Also, what’s the deal with you and that Eric fellow?” Sue Ellen bought them a round from the bartender, who was more her type if she was being honest. He had a burly physique and a nice smile. “Oh well, you know. You have a city lifestyle so I thought you might get on with him well. He is handsome. I think he’s some kind of professor or somethin’ I don’t remember. But he seemed yer caliber.” Her eyes squinted like she was hurt by this admission. “But don’t you like him? Why aren’t you, his caliber? You’re loving and down to earth. Go get what you want, girl.” Sue Ellen could feel her old twang coming back. That part of herself that Brian had tried to kill. “Does he make you feel like you aren’t good enough?” Tammie Lynn shook her head. “I guess I just don’t know him well, is all.” Tammie Lynn looked back at the table where Eric was now drinking scotch with some of the Walker cousins and the groom. He listened intently to a raucous story but met eyes with Tammie Lynn, and Sue Ellen could see it. He thought Tammie Lynn was something pretty special. “Well, what should we do, Tammie Lynn? What’s the plan?” Sue Ellen elbowed her to get her attention away from him. “Well, I don’t know! He’s out of my league.” Sue Ellen grabbed another round of drinks, though she didn’t even think she wanted to drink earlier that evening. It was her turn to usher Tammie Lynn forward toward the cousins. They all spent the rest of the evening together, and eventually, it was time to head home. Tammie Lynn and Eric got to talk amongst themselves for a while. Sue Ellen entertained the cousins and had to take a cab home. The wedding was an early one the next afternoon. Since the families were of two faiths, the wedding was held outdoors. The wedding color scheme was blue and yellow, it was a lovely spring morning in the backyard of the Walker residence, only an hour out of the city. The Chuppah was a beautifully built pergola that the Walker family made for her. He said it symbolized the effort that went into blending a family. The veiling and the walk to the Chuppah were wonderful to watch as each family gave away their children. Of course, Tammie Lynn cried the whole time and kept stuffing tissues in her purse. She had always been a little sappy compared to Sue Ellen who rarely cried. She noticed Eric seated a little behind them on the bride’s side of the aisle. He glanced at Tammie Lynn often, smiling at the woman’s blubbering. Somehow being with Tammie Lynn was cathartic and cleansing. Washing away the stink of her old self. Even if she wasn’t the one crying. Eventually, the ceremony came to an end, it was a little long because both faiths were addressed, and there was a Rabbi and a Preacher in attendance. Lots of praying, and singing, some speeches. Lunch was barbeque, potluck-style. Very Walker. Everyone sat on picnic tables, and a huge dancing area was set up in the center. The bride and groom had their first dance, but then the party opened up. Sue Ellen wasn’t always a dancer, but it was a fun bunch. She found herself dancing with just about everyone at some point. Some of the old-timers brought out instruments, from both families. Somehow, they made it work, either taking turns or playing popular songs. The sun shone down on them, as the two families swirled in a bouncing continuum. For a moment, Sue Ellen was free. She was wearing red polka dots today, a dress she had pushed far back into her closet, almost in hiding. It was thin and airy, and she felt radiant. She chose boots again, though she put on the nice cream-colored ones with the white tassels. By the end, they were grass-stained and sweaty. She separated herself from the group for a moment, it was about three o’clock and she had been dancing for hours. She kicked off her boots and found a cool patch of grass beneath the shade of an old hickory tree. She nodded off, the cool breeze on her flushed cheeks. The sky was brilliantly blue, and her toes felt soothed beneath the thick grass. A gentle clicking sound roused her, who knows how long she slept there. Looking up, it was Bubbe, she had pulled a lawn chair out to sit with her beneath the tree. “Hey, Bubbe Blum. You, okay?” Sue Ellen sat up on her elbows. Her body felt loose and relaxed. The older woman in her fine yellow fascinator hat, her hair looked like a bouquet as she sat above Sue Ellen, the shade framing her body in a silhouette. “Just watching my grandson fall in love with your friend. I would have thought you would go for him. And here I knew I would find you feeling sorry for yourself, but you look just like the picture of splendor.” She looks down at Sue Ellen with a fond expression. “Being here with you all reminded me of better times and a better version of myself. Are you sad that it wasn’t me?" She paused, thinking. "I don’t think it should be me. I’m not ready for that yet. Hell, only yesterday I thought I was worthless and boring. Now I don’t even know what to think.” She trailed off, lost in thought as she watched the party wind down. “A day can make a big difference, can’t it?” Bubbe got a faraway look, but then she patted Sue Ellen’s arm and stood to leave. “You’re going to be alright, kid.” Sue Ellen beamed because she knew it to be true.

SENSELESS It was dark. Not just an ordinary dark, but a total absence of light. It was an inky blackness that seeped from the walls - if walls there were - and made those walls cease to exist. It was a blackness that was all encompassing, smothering in it's totality. It muffled sounds - it muted other senses that struggled to compensate for the lack of light, striving to facilitate some sense of...something. This dark was a black blanket that spread over everything - absorbing everything and giving nothing in return. Something. Then, within the all encompassing blackness, there was a stirring. A movement that tickled the air from somewhere within the dark depths. It was so slight, but it elicited soft sounds, almost muffled by the black darkness. Soft sounds that whispered sibilantly like small breaths. Breathing. The soft breaths became stronger and more defined. Something was definitely breathing, and nearby. Slow, steady breaths now whispered in the dark, and the stirring within the blackness became stronger, more noticeable, more insistent. Now there were the soft sounds of rustling. Movement. A hand reached out, slowly, feeling, questing. More rustling. Was that straw rustling? Was there straw on the floor? Fingers explored: touching, feeling, tracing the lengths of the strands they discovered. Each of the touches translating into sensory images within the mind behind the questing fingers. Yes straw. A single confirmation of sense in an otherwise chaotic swirl of nothing. Questing. The mind behind the questing fingers began to quicken - it's responses still yet slow to comprehend. Even thought here seemed to be muffed by the stifling blackness all around. It was like something trying to stir, yet smothered in black treacle. It was a molasses, softly giving and yet seeping back as soon as a space was cleared. Within the mind, a consciousness began to gather. Thoughts began to coalesce, slowly, one by one in the deep blackness within and without. Consciousness. The hands reached up and felt the body they belonged to - arms, shoulders, neck then face...and hair. Long tangled hair it seemed. Then down the torso, feeling a curvy shape and on down to legs... and feet. At the joint of leg and foot the fingers encountered a hard cold surface encircling that space and the mind reacted in shocked surprise with a single tangible thought...."prisoner". Questions. Where? What? Why? Who? When? Where was she? And yes... suddenly she was assuredly aware of herself as a "she", but other details still remained elusive and barely recognised as being absent from her cognisance. Befuddled and bemuse, she struggled to make sense of the limited clues she had as to her whereabouts. What was she doing here? Now there was a question that stirred deep feelings inside her...feelings of apprehension and fear. She knew from the manacle on her ankle (there!! words were coming back to her to describe and identify things) she knew she was a prisoner. Why was she a captive? A swirl of flashing images swept across her muddled consciousness, too fast to register properly, but enough to give her a fuzzy memory of a succession of events that had lead up to this predicament. They immediately left her with a sickly feeling in the pit of her stomach. Who had captured her? And even more important...who was SHE? Two words popped into her mind as she thought of these two questions. Two words that were...names. Areassa. Maleku. She savoured the names as she silently rolled them around her tongue, trying them out for taste and size. Areassa, she found, gave her a warm feeling of belonging. This is me, she thought to herself, and smiled in the darkness. Then her mind turned to the thought of the second name, Maleku, and this name made her shiver with a feeling of cold dread. Her smile at once transformed into the grimace of a snarl as her heart began to instantly thump hard and loud like a drum within the cage of her chest. This name was bad. Finally, the last question - when? When did she arrive here? When would something happen...and would that something be the arrival of someone? She was alone in the darkness, she was certain of that, because there were no other sounds but those she herself made. Time stood still in the utter emptiness of the blackness in which she found herself. The air smelt old and musty, the sweet scent of the straw the only thing that seemed fresh in that dead seeming place. Her nostrils flared as she scented the air for more clues, but deeper breaths just lead to a bout of coughing and sneezing that left her panting breathlessly. Eventually calm again, she licked her lips. Her tongue discovered that they were dry and cracked and painful as she licked. Swallowing the scant saliva that her tongue's activity had triggered, she tasted the dust coating them. It was the dust she had raised with her own movements, and it's taste was unpleasant. She needed water. Water! The mere thought of it caused her to realise she was thirsty, a deep thirst that furred her tongue and left her throat feeling raw after all the coughing. Swallowing now seemed suddenly far more difficult. Blinking her eyes as she struggled to come to terms with her situation, they stung and brimmed with moisture that her mouth craved. Tears trickled down her cheeks in warm, wet trails that she brushed away with the back of a hand. Were they tears caused by the dust? Or were they due to an upsurge of emotion? She shook her head disdainfully, chiding herself that this was no time for tears of any kind. A rumbling gurgle from her stomach gave a sharp reminder that she was also hungry. When had she last eaten? She didn't know, but the immediate vision of hot venison stew filled her imagination with such a temptingly insubstantial remembrance of the flavoursome feast that her stomach cramped on it's emptiness. Thoughts of her stomach lead her to the next realisation of her other bodily needs. She squirmed where she was, half sitting, half lying in the skimpy bed of straw she had first woken up on. Whether there was an amenity within her reach she did not know, and as yet she desisted the urge to discover. Her mind drifted in on itself....drifted inwards to the growing maelstrom of images and emotions created by her recent recollections. Her mind observed the spinning chaos and she felt herself being pulled ever deeper into the well.

This has something to do with the novel that i'll be working on soon that i think that i'll be calling 'demi-god savior?' this isn't the exact stuff that will happen but eh. I'm just trying to make some stories now and i hope that you enjoy. Mika. Ryder. The two of them had been friend's for as long as they could remember, almost since birth. At least that's what Ryder liked to tell her. Though in a way he WAS kinda true about that. They had met after a week after birth, that was close enough. They had met each other that early because they shared a...future. Mika's parent's had someone come into the hospital right after her birth, she was kind of like a fortune teller. Even then the fortune teller lady had also done this with Mika's mother and even father. Though it was nothing interesting for them. Though she had a really...interesting future. "What do you mean by that? She CAN'T go and do that!" Her father didn't like it. It had been this way in the world for over two decades, their daughter wasn't going to ruin it. The Fortune Teller sighed and spoke again, "I've told you, your daughter...Mika will grow up to free the demi-gods. I don't think there's a way to stop it." "What about the god's?? Like Zeus, Athena, all of them! they're also keeping the demi-gods like this, our daughter can't possibly stop them to help the others." The fortune teller remained silent as she started to walk out of the house. She turned around and stopped at the front door then she spoke, "Even them." Mika's parent's had waited a while, maybe some other kid had the same future. Or maybe the fortune teller was wrong with this one thing, They didn't always have to be right with things. They could make small mistakes. It had been a while until her mother got a call from one of her friend's. Their son, Ryder, apparently had the same future as their daughter. This was bad. The fortune teller told the same future to different people? They wanted to believe that it wasn't their kid's but they just couldn't. It would have been good if the future they learned wasn't with their kid's, but even then the future would be bad. Who would want to FREE the demi-gods? Who know's what they would even do if they were all freed. They could go after the mortals. Well, even if it wasn't a bad thing like that, they still weren't going to let them be free. They knew what they could do. "Mika, come on! We don't need to listen to that thing the fortune teller told us, we can do whatever we want. We're both eighteen!" Ryder told her. He HATED that someone was telling him what to do. Ever since the both of them were around two years old, their parent's were kind of controlling in a way. There were areas nearby where demi-god's were being held to do whatever the lead mortal- or maybe even what a god said. No one was going to be able to enslave a god. They'd probably get killed from attempting it. Though the mortal's AND the god's reached an agreement a few years into the demi-god enslavement. The mortal's AND the god's didn't really like the demi-gods- even if they WERE a kid of one of them. They still didn't like the demi-god child, especially Zeus. The god's and goddesses agreed to help enslave the demi-gods while not enslaving or killing the mortals. The mortal's agreed not to try and really do anything that came to mind to the god's and goddesses. What else could they even promise? They were just mortals, they didn't really have a lot. "How do you suppose we even stop our FUTURE, Ryder? and come on, don't you feel at least a small bit bad for them?" "Come on, we don't HAVE to listen to a stupid fortune teller, she could even be wrong about it!" While they used to not be allowed to go to those demi-god areas their parent's were letting them go to SOME small areas with them. Though only if they'd tell them or something. They didn't wanna be so strict and they still thought that the future could possibly be with someone else. Though still, even if it WASN'T them, they'd still need to try and find out who the future belonged to. Maybe they could go get rid of them, or keep them locked up in their house. This was still a bad future for them. Mika sighed as she pushes Ryder aside and starts to dig through a drawer nearby. He watched in silence as she wrote something down on a piece of paper and then set it down on the kitchen table. She waved back at him without saying anything and ran through the front door of the house. He already knew where she was going but he took a look at the note. 'going to see the demi-god's, be back soon. -Mika" "Wait, Mika!" he called out, "You don't have to give in to that future! do whatever you want, don't listen to it" why would anyone want to even free the demi-gods?? The nearest demi-god area was actually really close, while the two of them were still running, they could see it up ahead. A bit far back from that one they could see a much smaller one. Maybe around ten demi-gods there. He managed to catch up with her and grab her hand before they reached the entrance. No one saw them yet luckily, the entrance was a large metal door that had a scanner you needed to use to get in. "Mika...come on! you don't have to do this just because of a stupid fortune teller said so." "i'm not doing it because of the fortune teller, i'm doing it because i WANT to! they shouldn't be enslaved, i feel bad for them because i want to. not because of that lady." She then slapped his hand away and put her hand onto the scanner. They watched as a purple light appeared and scanned it, then it turned into a light green. The door began to open up for her. She looked at him and said, "I'm going to do this WITH or WITHOUT you Ryder...and i have a feeling that it's without you" She entered it. Ryder didn't follow her inside. oh boy, this is probably bad. what do you all think?

Author's Note Regarding Sensitive Material: this submission contains discussion on the struggle of infertility . I peer anxiously at the silver spigot of the decanter as I top off Aunt Marge’s glass of sweet tea, wary of a single droplet escaping through that precarious seal on the teal glass. Today has to be perfect, and heaven knows that the last thing a beautiful buffet table needs is three gallons of iced tea dripping all over the burlap tablecloth. Sweet iced tea, of course. This is South Carolina; around here, unsweet tea is only good for flushing down a drain. Aunt Marge cackles at my fervent concentration and shakes her head before plopping a wrinkled hand on the lacy shoulder of my dress. “Everythin’ is perfect, honey,” she reassures me in her natural drawl, bringing her face close to mine as she takes a satisfied sip. “Even the tea is perfect! She’ll just love it. She’ll love it all, and she loves you, Lizzie. She’s just so happy that today ever came.” I gulp at her last words, and quickly unclench my jaw as she pats my arm before sauntering toward the gift table. She doesn’t know; I can’t really blame her. To her credit, Aunt Marge is proved right. She knows her grand-daughter, my cousin Cassie, and her tastes well. That’s why I enlisted her “advice”, such as it was, for the shower. She spouted off ideas over the phone: a pink candy bar! Little pink flamingos decorating the lawn! A banner of pink and gold ribbons on the mantle! Won’t that just look lovely? Pink cups for the tea and punch! I wrote it all down, like a dutiful niece. A few hundred dollars spent and many boxes of cheap plastic arriving on my doorstep later, and my two-bedroom condo was transformed into a parade of pink to welcome Gracie Abigail - due to join us in just eight short weeks, as Aunt Marge and Aunt Jennie (my real aunt) and, of course, Cassie, remind us all the time. I hold myself straight, I pin a bright smile on my features as soon as Cassie bounds - a bit unsteadily with her seven-month belly - through the door and wraps me in a hug before gushing about the bouquets (“where on earth did you find pink hydrangeas this time of year?”), the garlands, the piles and piles of gifts weighing down my former kitchen table. “It’s all perfect,” she exclaims, running her fingers over the soft petals of a blush rose. But when I give her a sharp nod, her smile fades immediately. She quickly scans the kitchen doorway to make sure our various female relations are still gossiping around the iced tea decanter before wrapping an arm around my shoulder again. “I know today is hard,” she whispers. “I so appreciate what you’ve done today. It took so long for us, too. We’ll celebrate for you too, hun. I know we will.” My throat closes as she gently presses her forehead to mine. I say nothing; there is nothing to say. Besides, today is already perfect; what could make today any better? I surely can’t think of anything. So I jerk away from her as the doorbell chimes again. I pin my smile back where it belongs as I graciously welcome the next round of squealing, frenetic women climbing into the condo, each laden with gifts. An hour later, the two dozen or so ladies have drunk nearly their fill of sweet tea and pink punch, muscadine wine from the Midlands, and naturally, champagne. No champagne for Cassie though; Aunt Jennie hands her box after box of gifts, cards upon more cards tucked into pastel bags. Cassie gasps with every toy, blanket, trio of onesies she opens. I am tucked awkwardly between her and my fireplace, my ballpoint pen trembling as I try to focus on each thoughtful present and jotting down the lady who gave it; Cassie has to write thank you notes, after all, and Aunt Marge says I’m just so great at getting the details right. I giggle at the little jokes (“you can never have enough diapers!”), and gently arrange each item beside me on the hearth once Aunt Marge takes a picture of Cassie holding it with a brilliant smile. After the first round of presents goes by, my mind retreats to a comforting haze. Listlessly, I pretend to add up all the gifts in my mind, in terms I can understand. Thirty dollars for a wooden set of alphabet blocks: that could have bought three pregnancy tests. The really good ones, the ones that tell you “early”. Not that it ever makes a difference. Eighty-five dollars for a rotating baby monitor, with two cameras included: that could have paid for my Clomid prescription. The one we gave up on months ago, after Dr. Samir threw his hands up and admitted that we had to try something else. Two-hundred and fifty dollars for a car seat: that could have bought the medications from Germany, the ones that my insurance won’t pay for, according to the assistant at Dr. Samir’s office (“I’m so sorry, ma’am, but advanced treatments aren’t covered under your plan. Of course, you can always pay out of pocket!”). It might have even paid the shipping, too. I snort a little at the four-hundred dollar stroller, the convertible one (of course, Cassie needs the convertible one): that much wouldn’t even pay for the first IVF appointment. I sip my sweet tea, impervious to the little gnat already drowned in my glass, and shake these terrible thoughts out of my mind. It’s not Cassie’s fault, or Aunt Marge or Aunt Jennie’s fault. It’s nobody’s fault. It definitely isn’t my fault. I manage well enough with my stock smile as the ladies meander out of my doorway a couple hours later, whispering their congratulations to Cassie for the hundredth time amid a handful of glances back at me as I thank everyone for coming today. As I expected, almost no one pays much attention to me; why would they? I’m just the hostess - the young lady serving the tea. Almost no one, except for Mrs. Davidson, the pastor’s wife, who leads the married ladies’ Sunday School at church. All of the others are filing out, mostly in pairs, dispensing hugs to each other when Mrs. Davidson suddenly leans in toward me. I draw back anxiously as her watery, dark brown eyes come alarmingly close to my face, but the effort doesn’t spare me her query. “Have you and Johnny thought about trying?” She leans in even closer, her eyes now brightly inquisitive. Trying . The word ricochets around my mind as my fingers go numb. “You know,” she continues slyly, “trying for a baby of your own, I mean.” I swallow quickly, and grip my palms together at my waistline. Had we thought of trying ? Had we thought of anything else but trying ? Was trying all we ever did? When would we run out of money to keep trying ? Any of those would have been more incisive questions. They would surely be closer to the truth. But those aren’t what she asked, and God knows, she does not want the answers, either. I will the muscles around my lips to curl into a smile as I reply: “We’re thinking about it.” Several hours later, I am alone in my condo, which is now covered in torn up bits of shiny paper, white and pink tissue galore, and the occasional sprinkle gone rogue from whichever cupcake it started the afternoon on. Now that the shower is over with, now that I have nothing to do, nothing to keep me busy, the space which I decorated so meticulously feels strangely foreign. The champagne-stained pink napkins strewn about, the ribbon garland bearing the words “IT’S A GIRL!” now detached on one end and slung lazily across my hearth. In truth, it feels offensive. I should clean up. I know I should. I always know what I should do, after all. Somebody has to clean up, and Johnny won’t be back from his deep-sea fishing trip until tomorrow night at the earliest. I told him to take his time, to go have some fun. He deserves it; like the shiny paper all over our floor, he’s torn up, too. But I can’t seem to move. All I can do is stare at the glittery golden words in their great slant across my fireplace: IT’S A GIRL! My mind fixates on those words as I draw a deep breath. I press my sore palms into the hardwood floor around me, and push myself to my knees, then my feet. Slowly, like a trance, I wander to my bathroom as the all-too-familiar cream tiles come into view. How many mornings, afternoons, nights have I said on the linoleum floor, hoping, waiting, begging anyone who might hear me to make my only wish, the only one that matters, come true. I wrench open the glossy white drawer, and pull out a test from its pink and purple box, wrapped in waxy paper: one of the “good ones”. I’ve only got this one left, I’ll have to buy more, and they aren’t cheap. But I have to try. It’s early; my cycle isn’t due for days. I already went through these same, tortured motions earlier in the morning; that’s the best time of the day to try, they say. This is foolish; it’s a waste of $9.95. It’s too soon, or too late. It’s never the right time . Everyone always says, “it’ll happen at the right time !” But I have to try. I can’t not try. It doesn’t take me long to wet the stick; I’m practically an expert at using these little plastic sticks by now. I sit down in my spot, once again, and hold it, and wait. Five minutes. Then ten minutes. It’ll be negative, I tell myself, over and over again, seeing the image repeated in my mind that I’ve seen in my palm so many times before. Once the timer on my phone buzzes at fifteen minutes, I switch it off, and look down. NOT PREGNANT. There it is, in plain English, black and white. Not pregnant. I quickly catch my breath, I gasp as the tears I’ve held back for twelve hours now fall in earnest. My God, if only I could have back all the minutes, all the hours I spent crying on this floor, all the times I hid from Johnny, all the times I avoided his eyes at breakfast, all the little plastic sticks tossed in the garbage. But the phone beside me buzzes. I exhale sharply, assuming that the timer has gone off again, when I see it: one unread message, from Cassie. I click the green icon, and get it over with. Thank you so much for such a perfect shower! I can’t imagine a more beautiful day than today was, and I can’t wait for all of us to meet Gracie. She will be so very loved by her Cousin Lizzie! I shake my head as a fresh round of tears falls. But then, a quick scroll reveals the rest of Cassie’s message: I love you so much, and I’m praying for you. Pray for me, Cassie. Please, pray for me.

Kratos C. J. R. Isely Sitting above that slim track of earth in the crowds, my fingers clench and unclench in my lap. Around me, there’s that hum of voices, all buzzing with excitement. None if it really seems real, though. They are voices that don’t exist. Not for me. No. For me, the only real thing is that slam in my chest, each beat an ache for something I’ll never have again. This has to be the nearest thing to torture that has ever existed. This is some glimpse of hell. For the first time since I agreed to this, I realize that I’m not strong enough for what’s to come. I’m not strong enough to face this. But, glancing at the woman settling herself into the seat beside me, her long brown hair pulled back, her eyes fixed ahead, I grit my teeth. She’s sat by me through so much, she’s shown so much strength. The idea of telling her I’m too weak to be here, that I want to leave, burns in embers of shame in my stomach. I push it down. Taking deep breaths, I try to calm. I rock forward and turn from her to look down again, shifting to get as close as I can to the rail. My knees press against it but, just like the sounds around me, that pressure isn’t real. It’s just a restraint, a barrier that insists on reminding me that I don’t belong down there. My eyes travel along the fences below, white and pristine. They travel to the starting gate, where track workers are hurrying to prepare for this moment. Without my bidding, they finally move to the shifting movement to my left. Half-ton athletes are led to the track from the parade ring, strutting and arching their necks, fighting to break loose of the riders who restrain them from stouter horses. The sight makes the air thick around me, like inhaling cold water. Watching their movements, the colors of the silks, I again question why I came here. I thought I was ready. I really did. But I’m not. I’m too weak. My hands begin to shake in my lap. “Did you want to go, Eric?” Amber reads my mind from my left. I turn to her and I see her eyes are shining too bright. Those beautiful green eyes that have been by my side for so long. She reads it all in my silence. She sees the struggle. There’s a piece of my heart that wants to beg her to save me, to take me away. I feel it choke in my throat and burn in my eyes. That weakness again. Instead, though, I force myself to shake my head and I feel her hand close over mine in my lap. There’s no point trusting my voice and she knows that. My breath is too tight and it only constricts more when another horse is led onto the track. That animal pulls away the last of my strength and I don’t have the power to beg to go. I can only stare at him with my mouth open to catch the suffocating oxygen. Bright blue and yellow silks shine under the sun on the blanket and the jockey. The big bay tosses his head and prances sideways, already anticipating the break from the gate. His white blaze shines like a beacon, his eyes fixed on the horses who’ve already been led ahead of him. The white number eleven on his saddle blanket makes my mind track backwards. Eleven on a track of thirteen. Again . I remember the last time, too. The last eleven. Memories of rain falling, of fog rolling in, the cold and the grey, and that voice above it all: “In the eleventh gate we have the favorite of this race--Kratos ridden by jockey Eric Sherman.” In there here and now, though, they aren’t saying my name when they say Kratos’s. Instead, I hear Levi Castillo’s name and I give Amber a quick and unsteady smile before turning my eyes back to the track. He’s a good jockey, a good choice. They asked me and I said he was the rider who could take Kratos out again. But it doesn’t make it any easier to sit here and watch. It’s not any easier to see the horses load in the gate. When I see them close the gate behind Kratos’s black tail, my breath catches again. Once more, I blink and my eyes to open to that other day, the grey and raining one. Beneath me, I feel the horse tighten and shift. His energy is my energy, tied together through that bond too strong for words to forge. A bond of souls, heartbeat, breath. We are one creatures, not of legs and hooves and saddle but of speed, power, and unseen wings. He rocks his weight back and forth, ears pricked forward and he lets loose a loud snort. When the bell rings in my ears, it breaks me of the loose of the bell ringing in my mind. My body jerks, expecting the rush for that split second, that feel of air in my ears, thunder beneath me. Instead, my knees are met with that metal bar and the crowds scream and I am back at the side of the track. Back where I am watching the horses surge from the gates from the sidelines. My knees press harder into the rail that blocks me and the taste of freedom. At my side, Amber is screaming herself hoarse and waving her hands. I don’t turn to her, though. I can’t look away from the streak of blue and yellow that is rushing to join the knot of horses at the rail. He broke a heartbeat too slow, hesitated that first crucial second. Thousand pound animals stretch into their strides, rushing, flying over the dirt. They surge along the first straightaway. I can only hold my breath and watch Kratos’s lunging steps devour the ground and throw dust at his wake. Part of me wants to scream encouragement, part of me wants to scream in the agony of sitting so still, but I lack the breath to scream at all. They are at the first turn and Kratos is stuck in the knot of horses in back of the pack. I see Levi trying to steer the horse to the outside, into an opening between a chestnut and a grey and.... Mud sprays over my goggles. I lean further into the black mane. Despite the wet dirt of the track that rains down on me, the blue and yellow silks of my sleeves are vivid. Just as vivid as the red and purple silk of the rider on the grey ahead of me who is drifting from the rail. And there. I see the opening. I see the smallest gap created by riders trying to break loose of the pack. Kratos doesn’t need me to tell him. He only needs me to show him the path. Power rushes in his every move beneath me, rushes us through that smallest break in the tight cluster ahead of us. Amber’s hand tightens on mine and it draws me back beneath the sun. She’s leaning forward, her eyes fixed on Kratos and the rest of the horses. I try to shake loose of the past. I try to regain the moment I’m in, this moment, where everyone around me is being carried in that hope and excitement. The horses turn onto the back straight away. A field of thirteen blaze the track with their pace, jockeys flattened against their necks, begging their mounts to give that last bit of effort, that final attempt to take the wire. Kratos has moved between two more horses, through the pocket, and is flying toward the tight group that leads the track. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to focus, though. It takes just one blink, one breath, and I’m again back. His hooves hammer a heartbeat that rattles in a different time against the slamming of my own pulse. There, the opening. That small hole on the rail taunts me. It’d be too much to ask of any other horse, but not Kratos. I know he can take it. He doesn’t hesitate at my slight thought, the twitch of my fingers in the reins. Instead, he throws himself forward with another burst of speed. We are flying into the gap and between the body of a black horse and the blur of white fence. We move from the back of the field to the middle of the track. I don’t need wings to soar above it all. The power of this horse gives me strength that no one will ever understand. “Coming into that final turn!” It’s a jolt to hear that same announcer’s voice in the here and now, saying the same words he had at that moment on that day in my past. “Come on, Kratos! Go!” Amber is screaming, her hand clenching my arm so tight that I am losing feeling in my fingertips. My mouth opens but I can’t yell. All I can do is feel the energy of the crowd engulf me like a fever. People around us are standing, shouting. Amber stays in her seat beside me but we push as close to that white rail as we can in these bleachers. The sideline is alive with mere ounces of that adrenaline that those riders feel turning that second corner. They are burning the track beneath them, coming into the home stretch and Kratos is moving out of the rail, opening wide. He’s covering ground with bounds, his ears flat to his neck, and I can almost imagine I hear Levi shouting encouragement to the horse. But I can’t be sure. It might be my own voice, yelling those words all that time ago. “Time to give it all, Kratos!” The words are whipped in the rain and the mud and the howl of wind that rushes in my ears. Hooves thunder in their own storm that has nothing to do with the darkening sky. Horses around are the only true tether to reality, the only thing my eyes can focus on. All else is a blur of grey and rain and distant troubles that belong to other people, other worlds. The hope stretch opens before us. Water glistens in the track moments before the horses tear through it, churning it. Kratos and I are coming up on the three horse pack that leads this track and I know he isn’t going to weaken. That fire that blazes in his blood is raging in my own. We are both throwing our hearts forward, rushing for the end. My fingers close on the rail before me now and I gasp for each bit of air that my lungs scream for. Those memories. They crash over me, they suffocate me. They flash between glimpses of the track under the sun. No. I don’t want to think of that moment. I don’t want to be there again. The horse leading to my left is lagging now, slowing. We are pulling ahead in each step and-- On the track, Kratos is overtaking another horse and the announcer is absolutely screaming himself hoarse. “It’s Kratos! Kratos, the longshot! Kratos making his comeback on the outside! He’s past Inferno Feud, he’s coming up on Settled Score.” Rain slams against me, there is only one horse now to pass, that white finish post looming nearer. I push myself against Kratos mane. “Can he do it? Can he make this comeback?” Something shifts in the corner of my eye and it’s all wrong. But I’m too slow in turning my head, too slow in realizing what is happening. The hooves of the falling horse thrash out and I jerk at Kratos’s reins. He tries to turn, tries to move both of us to safety. His hooves wallow in the muck of the rain sodden track. The world is thrown away from me while my body is flung upward. I’ve lost my wings in soaring. There’s one moment of seeing the bay horse flail, seeing him thrash for footing that isn’t there in this rain. Then I’m falling. I am crashing down from the height of power. Mud sprays around me, the first realization, when I hit the trembling ground. My body rolls, chaos roars, my heart slams. I try to move, try to escape. A field of thirteen horses. Eleven at my back. There’s one moment of purest fear before I’m again slammed against the earth. The hooves of horses destroy the ground around me, animals trying to leap my prone form. My arms fly over my head, and I squeeze my eyes shut. My screams are useless, my ears are ringing, my body is broken. I know I am going to die, I am going to die in this moment. The sound of breaking bones echoes over the hooves and the racing and the storm. They shatter where the thousand-pound stride collided with my body but the pain never hits. My body is jerked sideways, thrown like a plaything, and I am staring at the sky from my back. The grey clouds let rain fall over my face and nothing else is real. Nothing of the pain. Nothing of reality. No sounds. No sensation. Only the sight of the rain. But then a dark form is moving above me. His white blaze shines despite the grey, the mud, fall of the heavens above. He blots the storm. He shelters me. Sides heaving, sprayed in mud, Kratos’s nose reaches down to rest on my chest. I close my eyes. There is a moment where I hear the screaming, I hear the fear of others. Then, with my guardian above me, I know nothing. Nothing but the unconsciousness that swallows me. “And it’s Kratos in the lead! Kratos is taking the homestretch by one length, two lengths!” It takes all my strength to snap to sunshine and the track. My body is shaking, sweat is running down my skin, my eyes ache, lungs on fire. I can only stare at the dark bay horse who is a flat streak of blue and yellow silks, rushing ahead of the pack. “Go, Kratos!” My voice breaks on the scream, the only shout I manage before the horse rushes past the finish post without another horse within five lengths. Amber springs to her feet and shrieks, jumping up and down. She turns to me and there are tears running down her cheeks, rolling from those bright eyes. “He did it, Eric! He came back!” She reaches for my hands, kneeling beside me and staring into my face with her shaking smile. “He came back, Eric.” When I open my mouth to answer, I realize that the air has returned and brought tears pouring from my eyes too. Grief, pain, relief, joy--they congeal, they twist inside me, they choke me. Wiping her eyes on her shoulder, Amber tries to compose herself and I see all my emotions reflected in her face when she finally looks at me again. “They said they want you to come to the circle, Eric,” she whispers. “Are you ready to see him?” How many times has she asked that and I have ignored her, told her no, that I can never do it again? How many times have I thought it might kill me to see what I can never possess once more? But now, I know I’ve been selfish. Selfish to be afraid of hurting, of seeing him and not knowing that one of us will ever be able to fly again. And perhaps I never will. Never will feel that power once more. But I know now that Kratos still can fly. He still has his wings. And I can’t hide forever from that. I look again over the track. Some of the pain seems to have lifted in my chest. I know that I will never fly but he will always be my wings. I close my eyes a final moment and let go of that final self-loathing that has lived in my heart since that day, that fall. I let it go because he can still fly for me. He can take those strides for us both. When I open them again, I look up at Amber above me, above my wheelchair, and I nod. “I am. I am ready to see Kratos again.”

Every night, it’s the same dream. A familiar voice beckons me into that luscious, thriving garden. Through the aged wooden gate held together by rust and sheer willpower, I trudge. The path never seems too long, yet as I traverse it, I feel energies seeping from me that I unwillingly borrowed in the first place. Bonds that I have no earthly collection of forming shattering in the dense moonlight. It’s like radiation leaving my bones - colour draining from my marrow, my muscle mass shifting, altering. Remembering some form better than the one I hold now. I feel myself change, yet I know I am the same. When I get there, it awaits me. An MC-Escher like collection of plants, stairs, and the feelings and thoughts of those who came before me. Brilliant collections of living matter, intertwined and codependent. Forms that seem impossible in wake take shape here, beckoning even the most lucid of travelers. I find myself exploring, wanting more of this place. Every staircase I climb, new energy fills my cells, turning them into an instrument for incessant humming. I am but a vessel. I find new purpose in the unreadable, ancient etchings on the infant stone walls. Cryptic symbols that some part of me reads like home. After some time, the illusion shatters - I find myself falling through steep nothing as my body divides and reunites rapidly. New version of myself, colliding with the old. A woman, faceless and formless, yet clear in my mind. She comforts me as I undergo this process, becoming something new. I wish she would stop. No - I wish she would keep going. I lose track of my mind as it races off without me. There are parts of me that don’t want to change. These parts are slowly mutated, reformed and bathed in blistering white energy that ages them past perception. The more resistance I show, the more she grows agitated. But she never hurts me. It’s almost like she knows how much I am holding back in the waking hour. Eventually, I feel the changes come to a stop. I’m allowed to exist in the current form I hold - floating in an embryonic state, waiting for the creation of all... or is it the destruction? I feel fantastic. Frantic. Manic. The deep layers of depression binding my soul during the working hour no longer restrict me. I am formless. In this moment, I am whoever, or whatever, I need to be. I find peace. We swim through existence together, basking in all the endless possibilities of the new minds we hold. We visit those who are bound by their humanity, and we bless them with the same gift. Then, every single time, the shaking begins. The matter around me vibrates and I feel myself collapsing back into my primordial form. Sick, twisted, repulsive flesh and bone. Humanity I didn’t ask for. Ribbons of anxiety, depression, anger - wrapping around me like chains on an old boat. She fades away with a sadness that’s untranslatable. Every night I fight this rebinding, this recalculation of my earthly matter. But last night, a strange language filled my synapses, and gave me strength to fight. A location burns into my mind. It stays. I wake up in a pool of disgusting, mortal sweat as the alarm clock blares, calling me back to life. Notions of office blocks, morning coffees and office workers fill my mind as my humanity is recompiled. I long to sleep again, to feel the feelings I felt during my slumber. I want to feel those feelings constantly, to have that sense of purpose full-time. Normally, I have no choice as I sink back into my life. This time, things are different. I feel a calling to that location branded into my grey matter, a deep beckoning. I know what I must do - the Godmouth awaits me. It awaits you too.

I first saw him out the window, getting out of his car. He wore vibrant colors: A bright red sports jacket, bright green pants, and a bright purple hat. He had a pencil mustache, and looked too old to be looking as he looked. He walked up to my door and knocked. I looked through the keyhole just to see his eye looking through his end of the hole, right back at me. I opened the door. "Well howdy partner!" He said in a terrible imitation of a southern man. "How can I help you?" "Well, I heard you're an interesting guy to talk with." "From who?" "Well, from everyone around the block!" "I'm not sure what they're talking about, so I guess I'm going to have to--" He walked right in, gently shoving me aside. He walked up to one of my paintings, something I had painted a couple years back. It was of a naked man holding a cat, which covered up his genitals. The critics loved it and made all sorts of claims of what the whole thing was about, and they couldn't seem to agree on a single thing that the painting was about. A lot of people asked me about it, but I never had any answers: I didn't know what the damn thing was about either. "Well, this is interesting." He paused for a minute, "So, the cat is the man's coping system for the world, in this case it is most likely depression or schizophrenia, and without it he would be completely naked?" This struck me. I almost told him he was right, but then he walked over to the kitchen table, picked up a knife, and chopped his fingers off. Then, he ran over to the painting and waved his arm around, splattering blood onto it. I pulled out my phone and dialed 9-1-1, but when I looked up after dialing it I saw that he was running toward me. He tackled me and started beating me with his good hand as his other dripped blood onto my face and into my nose and mouth. Then, he dragged me by the collar over to my backyard and dumped me into my pool. He jumped in and pushed me down. I gasped for air, but only sucked in his bloody water.

Warning: Autistic Meltdown (Including restraint and self-harming behaviors) Leah fiddled with the volume button on the dash, turning the pop music up so loud it shook the car. Q covered her ears with her hands, wincing as the sound hit her eardrum. She glanced at Tytus, who was sitting in the back of the van with her. He said something Q couldn’t hear, and the car stopped shaking as Leah turned the music back down. “Sorry about that, Q-tip,” Leah said from the front. “That’s not my name,” Q responded, looking out the window at the blur of trees. “It’s just Q. You know that.” Leah laughed a little, fidgeting with her pink hair. “Yeah, but Q-tip is more fun.” Q smiled a little, nodding along to the beat of the song playing. She was excited to get to the Air BnB they were heading towards. “Oooh, do you think it’ll have-- like-- a pond or something?” Araria questioned excitedly. “Probably not. There was nothing in the description about that. There is a pool, though.” Iris turned onto a dirt road. “We’re almost there. Someone wake Tobias up.” Araria saluted and proceeded to kick Tobias in the side. He grunted and turned to glare at the girl with tired, brown eyes. “What the hell?!” The two began bickering back and forth from the middle seats as Iris pulled into the driveway. “Children! We’re here!” Leah cheered and burst out of the passenger’s side as Tytus barked a laugh. “Moooom, I’m hungry,” he said in a whining tone. “Shut up,” Iris said. They all clambered out of the van, grabbed their things, and went into the cabin-like house. It was huge, with a large living space in the middle and three bedrooms clustered down the hallway. Araria and Q walked into the room they had claimed as their own. The large window on the far wall filled the room with bright sunlight. Unpacking went without too many hiccups. At one point, Q looked out of her door to see Tytus chasing Tobias with a pillow in the room across from theirs. After a half-hour filled with pulling clothes out of her suitcase and hanging them up as well as filling the one bathroom with all six of their things, the house filled with the smell of delicious food. Q hesitantly walked into the hallway, met with the sight of Leah and Iris cooking together like an old married couple. Even though both were the same age as the rest of them-- just out of high school-- they always became the two parents when it was just their group of friends. Q jumped as the sound of crashing lightning rang through the house. She looked outside to see it was still sunny. “I’ve never seen lightning without rain,” she wondered out loud. “It’s probably going to start raining soon,” Iris murmured. Araria whined from the table. “Aww, I wanted to play outside.” Iris was right. By the time they all sat at the table and began eating the stirfry Iris had cooked, rain was pouring down outside. Q watched as the water dripped down the windows, smiling a little. She always loved watching the rain. The rest of the night was filled with laughter as they played a board game Leah had packed. Tobias ended up falling asleep at the table, and Araria won. She gloated all through the time they all spent getting ready for bed. “There was no way Tytus was even close to winning. Like, he placed second, sure, but he wasn’t even close,” she continued as she pulled a bonnet over her orange braids. Q hummed in acknowledgment as she closed her eyes, quickly drifting off. Q slept fitfully. The boom of thunder shaking the house woke her up multiple times. On top of that, she kept waking up sweating from the heat. Eventually, she threw off the blanket she was wearing in an attempt to cool down. By the time the house began stirring, Q only got a few hours of sleep altogether. She groggily stood up and stretched. Araria blinked up at her from where she was snuggled up in her bed. “Mornin’ Q,” she mumbled, sitting up a little. “How’d you--” “What the-- Why won’t it work?” Tytus’s voice ran through the house, interrupting Araria’s question. Q peeked out the door to see Tytus in his room, the door partially open, flicking the light switch back and forth. “What’s wrong?” Tytus glanced over at her. “The light won’t turn on!” Q hummed, turning back to her and Araria’s room and trying their light. It also wasn’t working. “I wonder if the power went out.” Tobias poked his head out of the bathroom. “Yep, that’s what I thought to. The water’s not working either so it looks like it. That would explain why it got so hot all of a sudden last night.” “Damn it,” Tytus mumbled. “That means my phone didn’t charge and...” He grabbed it, fiddling with the buttons. “Yeah... it’s dead.” He sighed, throwing it back onto his bed. “Aww, this sucks.” Araria pouted. She walked down the hall and knocked on the door to Iris’s and Leah’s room. “Guys, wake up! The power’s out.” Eventually, everyone was awake and sitting in the living room. Iris walked in with breakfast bars and fruits, handing them out to everyone. “Well, I messaged the owners of the house, and they said that it seems like the storm took down the powerline that powers this property. On a good note, they are giving us back half of what we paid for the Air BnB.” Tobias grumbled, “That doesn’t help us now.” “We can either leave now and just go back home, or we could stay here,” Iris said, ignoring him. “I vote we stay and make the best of it. There’s a pool outside so we can stay cool.” Leah smiled widely. How she was always so upbeat, Q would never figure out. “Yes! We still have to pay half of the price, so it’d be a waste of money to leave now. If we get hot, we can sit in the AC car,” Araria reasoned. “Let’s just vote,” Iris suggested. After voting, it ended up a 50/50 with Tobias, Iris, and Q wanting to go and Leah, Tytus, and Araria wanting to stay. Q looked at Tytus, who was staring at her with blue puppy eyes. “Q...” he said pleadingly. She sighed. “Yeah, okay, but only if we eat all the ice cream that’s not melted yet.” Araria squeaked, running to the freezer and throwing semi-melted popsicles at all of them. “The rest of it is melted,” she said with a pout. A few hours later, Q was sitting in the shade, fanning herself with paper fans Leah had made as she watched Tytus and Araria have a ‘splash-off.’ “At least they’re keeping cool,” Iris sighed, leaning against the glass porch door. “Iris, babe, come on,” Leah said from the edge of the pool. Iris hummed at her before walking up and sitting with her legs in the pool. “That’s all you’re getting. I don’t want to put my swimsuit on, Leah.” Leah sighed but took it in stride, immediately splashing her girlfriend’s legs. “Tobias,” Iris called as she looked over her shoulder, “Can you grab water bottles for everyone?” Water was distributed to everyone-- warm, of course, due to the lack of refrigeration or ice. Tytus was the only one who didn’t run towards the water; instead, he floated on his back and looked at the sky. “Tytus.” Q approached the pool, sitting next to Iris and crossing her legs. “You need to drink water.” He hummed in acknowledgment and came to take a sip of the water labeled with his name. “I’m swallowing enough of this pool water that I’m the most hydrated I’ve ever been.” “Doubtful,” Tobias said. He jumped into the pool next to Tytus, causing a large splash right in his face. They sat there for a little longer before Iris suggested they go in and eat food. Everyone clambered out of the pool, dried off, and changed. Q and Iris-- the only two who stayed relatively dry-- worked on setting up sandwiches. They took their chances with the warm vegetables and condiments, but Iris refused to let anyone touch the hot lunchmeat. Q sat down with her sandwich, taking a bite and trying not to wince at the uncomfortable texture. Q felt like she was drowning in sweat, her purple shirt sticking to her back, and the others didn’t look much better. Araria had been drinking water bottle after water bottle like it was no one’s business; Tobias was alternating between fanning himself with two paper fans and taking bites out of his sandwich; and Leah had forgone the half-sleeved shirt she was wearing for a loose crop top. “It’s too hot in here,” Tytus complained. “I’m going back outside. At least there’s a breeze there.” He grabbed his plate and opened the porch door. “Tytus, seriously?” Iris asked incredulously. “It’s over 100 degrees outside right now.” “Yeah, and it’s 100 degrees in here too.” Iris shook her head. “Q,” she said, “give this to him.” She handed Q a water bottle. Q grabbed her sandwich and drink and went to go sit with Tytus outside. “Thanks for the water,” he hummed around his sandwich. “It’s really too hot to be outside,” Q said. “I repeat: it’s just as hot inside, dude.” Q wrinkled her nose. “Don’t call me dude, Tytus. We’ve been dating for like 6 months.” “Really, dude? I don’t know what the problem is, dude.” He shot her a goofy grin and poked her in the side. She flinched away, shaking her hand back and forth a little. Tytus’s smile faltered. “You good?” “Uh, yeah,” she said. “I think I’m just a little overstimulated.” “Sorry,” Tytus said, moving a little further away from her so their sides were no longer touching. She smiled a little. “Love you,” she mumbled. “L’ve you too.” He blinked a little, leaning against the wall behind him. His eyebrows were creased. “Are you okay?” Q asked. He hummed in response, shrugging. “Tytus, seriously, you don’t look good.” He exhaled a laugh. “Very kind of you, sweet... uh sweetheart.” He blinked a little and put his sandwich back down on his plate. He had only taken a few bites. “I’m fine.” He sits up, blinking a little. “I’m going to dip my feet in the pool. It’s way too hot.” He stood up and took a few steps towards the pool. Q watched, jumping up when he stumbled, his eyes rolling back and his face losing color. Her heart plummeted as his body went limp and hit the water. She froze for a moment; his body began to sink to the bottom of the pool. Her brain whirled as the water from the splash touched her toes. She couldn’t save him; she could barely keep her head over water when she swam. She couldn’t even lift him out of the water. But he was going to die if she didn’t do anything. He was going to die. She was going to watch him die. Her breath turned sporadic, and her vision went blurry. She became distantly aware that there was noise around her. More water splashed her legs, making her back up. She hated the feeling of water on her skin. It mixed with the sweat that was building from the heat, making her feel sticky and gross. She kicked her legs out, trying to dry them off, and began rubbing them. When that didn’t work, she hit them, hard. It hurt but was nice in a way. Calming. She kept hitting her leg before something grabbed her arm and held it still. She whined, pulling at the thing, but that only made them hold tighter. She needed something, though. She felt like her body was freefalling. Realizing she was leaning against something hard, she pulled her head forward and banged it against the wall. It caused pain to flare from the back of her head, and she sighed in relief. When she tried again, though, something soft blocked the path. Her throat hurt as she screamed in frustration. She couldn’t do anything. Whatever was holding her down was hurting her. She wanted it off. She wanted it off. And then it was off. She had a moment of freedom, where she scratched at her leg, relaxing into the sharp pain. However, her relief was short-lived as something else was placed over her body. She tried to shake it off, pushing up on the weight. The weight didn’t move, though, instead gently putting pressure all over. Q felt her body relax a little, breathing heavily. Her eyes slowly cleared, and she could see Leah’s face hovering over where she was lying down. She didn’t remember lying down. “--Breaths, come on,” Leah was saying. She was breathing loudly, and Q felt her lungs following her. Her breathing slowly became more even and normal, and suddenly, Q remembered why she had been panicking in the first place. She sat up, looking around wildly. Her eyes locked on the sight of Tytus lying on his back next to the pool as Iris was performing what looked like CPR. She pushed the weighted blanket off of her-- that’s what had been placed on her, she realized belatedly-- and ran towards him. Tobias was pacing back and forth, fiddling with his phone. Leah followed Q, kneeling next to her. “Iris has been performing CPR for maybe a minute. After they got him out, he wasn’t breathing. Tobias tried calling 911, but we don’t have any cell service anymore because the wifi is down with the power outage.” Q didn’t respond; the words were stuck in her throat. That happened almost every time she had a meltdown: once she calmed down, the panic took her words with it. Instead, she placed her hand on his forehead. It was worryingly warm, but she couldn’t do anything about that right now. She began gently stroking his hair as his body moved with Iris’ compressions. All of a sudden, there was a gasping sound, and Tytus began coughing, his body curling into himself. Iris pulled back and quickly moved him onto his side. Once in that position, he began to cough up water onto the concrete. Q instinctively jumped back to avoid getting hit before feeling slightly guilty and coming back to his other side. Tytus continued coughing for what seemed like forever before slumping back on the ground. “Jeez,” he coughed out. His voice came out so scratchy that it made Q’s throat hurt. “Uuh, what- what happened?” They all turned toward Q, who realized that the others most likely didn’t know what happened. However, when she opened her mouth, no words came out. She let out a small sound of frustration, running back into the house and grabbing her phone. She prayed that it would work without service and opened up a communication app. When it loaded, she sagged in relief. It took a moment to type it all out, but eventually, a robotic woman’s voice left her phone. “You went to get into the pool, but it looked like you fainted. I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry.” Tytus hummed, sitting up. Iris leaned forward and grabbed his arm to support him. “Don’t stand up yet, idiot.” “I feel the- feel the love, Iris.” Iris rolled her eyes in response to Tytus’ sarcasm. “You need to be slow. Honestly, I might have Tobias carry you to the car. I don’t feel like you should be walking after all that.” Q nodded in agreement. She stared at him for a moment too long before lunging forward and hugging him. He laughed a little, reaching one arm around and hugging her back. “I’m okay, Q. I’m right here.” She felt tears dripping down her face and onto his shoulder, as Leah gently pulled her back. “You don’t want to hurt him. Iris probably at least bruised his ribs doing CPR.” Q nodded in agreement, and they sat there for about 15 minutes as they allowed Tytus to recover a little. Iris said that they would need to go to the hospital as soon as possible, but right now, Tytus shouldn’t move too much. Once Tytus felt a little more stable, Tobias picked him up bridal style and carried him to the car. They blasted the AC in an attempt to cool him down, having decided that that was mostly likely what caused him to pass out. Only Iris, Q, and Tytus rode in the car; everyone else stayed behind to pack their things. Iris would come back after dropping Q and Tytus off at the emergency room to pick them up with all their things. The drive back was long-- almost an hour-- and Q found herself rubbing her hands back and forth against the seat until her hands were rubbed raw. Tytus assured her that he was fine now, but he was still a little pale and sweating even after sitting in front of the AC. Once they got back into a place where there was phone service, all of their phones rang with the same alert: Heat Advisory: Avoid being outside for extended periods of time. Exposing yourself to these temperatures may result in serious illness or death. After reading it, Iris groaned. “A few hours too late, phones.”

“Mom! Mom!” Dominic yelled, as he walked up the stairs into the corridor, the marble columns stood perfectly on the plinths with paintings hanging on each of them. The summer sunlight beamed into the room making the staircase look like a fashion walkway. Just before Dominic could yell again at the top of his voice, a plucky looking middle-aged lady walked in from an open door, she was wearing a ravishing gown with a carnation on her buttonhole and a pair of red stilettos, her hair was styled into a chignon, probably on her way to an occasion. A lanky but thick looking bald man was abreast her. “Good morning to you, Dominic!” She said firmly. “What's good about the morning?” Dominic barked. “I haven't come here for your greetings, why did you forget to send my allowance into my account? I was embarrassed at the club last night because there was no money in my account!” “And who said I forgot?” She grimaced. “Wait! You mean to say you did that on purpose?” He shrieked. “Yes! Dominic Ivan Thompson! I've had a bellyful of your animus behavior. I am your mother and you will treat me with the respect I deserve!” “Really!” He sneered. “Yes! I will cease to send money into your account until you forsake this abrasive attitude of yours!” The man behind her nodded his head in agreement. “Hey you! Why are you nodding your head? You think I don't know you're the conspirator of this,” Dominic gestured as he walked towards him. “Newsflash! You will never be my father!” “He had nothing to do with this!” She pulled him back. “ It was all my idea.” “Oh! It was all your idea, Bravo! Mom of the year,” He clapped. “Was it also your idea to bring this man into my Father's house and have him fuck you on my Father's be...” Before he could finish his statement, a slap landed on his mild face, he held his cheek and clenched his lips together in anger. After few seconds of quietude, he plodded towards his room, as he held his door knob, he turned back and said, “In case you forgot, today's daddy's birthday,” He tilted his head towards the ceiling, “Happy birthday Dad.” His mother's lips quivered right before she bust into tears. The bald man wrapped his arms around her in an attempt to comfort her but all to no avail. Dominic walked into his room and was welcomed by a vile smell, probably from lack of ventilation or the heap of dirty laundry laying on the floor. He plonked his Phone on his cluttered desk, took a sip from the glass of Absinthe that seems to have been sitting there for days and tossed himself on his bed, looking all zonked. “I don't need her. Am a graduate, I'll look for a job and move out of this damn house.” He soliloquized as his rubbed his sore eyes. As Dominic sauntered into the elevator, he hands reached for an elevator button. “Wait!” A voice said briskly. Dominic removed his lanky finger from the elevator button at the sound of the voice. It was a lady, she snappily walked into the elevator with a coca cola bottle in her hand which seems to have been shaken to well as the bubbles went all the way up to the cap. “Which floor are you headed? I am going to 13th floor,” She noticed he was indifferent about what she said so, she pushed the 13 button herself and the elevator door closed. As the elevator started moving, she tried to open her drink, the cap flew off with a hissing sound and some drink spilled on Dominic jacket. “Shit! Look what you've done to my jacket!” He yelled as he used his flicked his jacket. Feeling remorseful, the lady tried to wipe it with her handkerchief, “Am so sorry. Here, let me help you.” “Don't touch me man!” He nimbly moved, “Am on my way to an interview and you've ruined my outfit!” “Am so sorry, it's just a drink, why are you acting like I poured acid on you?” Dominic squinted his eyes in anger, “With all due respect ma'am, is everything ok with you? You ruin my outfit and you still have the temerity to talk!” “But I said was sorry!” She yelled, “I can see you are a rude boy, didn't your mother teach you how to talk to people?” As she spoke, Dominic noticed how disheveled and chubby she was looking but after few seconds of examination, he noticed she wasn't chubby, she was pregnant. “Oh! I see the problem now, you're pregnant. Pregnant women and their crazy hormones,” He flipped in disgust. “You're the crazy one!” She shrieked. “Children of nowadays, y'all don't know how to talk to people!” As, she spoke the elevator door opened. “Ma'am please go, you've reached your destination, crazy woman!” She walked out of the elevator and continued raining insults on him. “What a crazy lady!” He took of his jacket and dusted it roughly. Dominic stood up and shook hands with the interviewer. “We will give you a call Mister Thompson” “Thank you sir!” Dominic grinned. He walked down the hall to the elevator. As he entered, he saw the same woman he had a fight with earlier strolling towards the elevator, he quickly pushed the button to close the elevator door but the button seemed non-functional, he pouted his lips in anger at the button. The woman arrived at the elevator flinching, she snickered at the sight of him and trudged into the elevator in silence. Occasionally, Dominic glanced at her and noticed she was uncomfortable, She placed one hand on her waist as she bit her lip in pain and closed her eyes. Just then, the lights went out and the elevator stopped working. Distracted from her pain by the disruption of power, the lady panicked. “Mister, What's going on, what happened to the lights?” She asked tremulously. “Why have the elevator stopped?” “Ma'am please calm down, am sure it's a power outage, buildings like this always have back up generators and am sure it's gonna come on anytime soon.” He tried using the telephone but it wasn't working. “It's dark in here! We're stuck!” She banged the door of the elevator. “Somebody please help us, there are people in here!” “Ma'am can you calm down! I told you buildings like this always have back up generators and am sure it will come on soon.” “If we do not shout, how are they gonna hear us? In fact, Mister mind your business while I mind my business,” She moaned in pain. “Somebody help me!” “Oh my God! Ma'am can you please just shut up! Your shouting is giving me a migraine, you think I wanna be stuck here with your body odor?” Immediately, she was quiet, feeling hurt by what he said. Suddenly, the lights came back on again. “See! I told you buildings like this always have back up generators,” He beamed. “See what!” She replied still hurt by what he said. She stealthily sniffed herself to confirm if what he said was true. Unexpectedly, the lights went out again and this time the cables of the elevator snapped, the elevator dropped a few feet, the force was so powerful that they both fell to the elevator floor as they screamed in fear. It was stable, Dominic stood up in the darkness, he heard the woman moan but this time it was louder and more severe. “Ma'am, are you ok?” He turned on the flashlight on his phone and saw her on the elevator floor with her legs wide open, he crouched and saw a liquid substance on her underpants and immediately, he knew what was happening. Her water had broken. “Somebody please help us!” He banged the doors of the elevator as hard as he could. “Help us! There's a pregnant woman in here and I think she about to have her baby!” He banged and stomped his feet harder and harder but no one showed up. The wailing was becoming louder and unbearable. Dominic was perplexed, he eventually gave up banging the elevator and tried to soothe her. A pot-bellied man walked into the reception. “Bessie! Haven't the generator been fixed yet?” “No, sir.” “Tell the technicians to hurry up!” He sashayed into his office. Dominic was at the verge of losing his mind, the pregnant woman had become more intense. “Ah! Somebody help me!” She lamented in pain. “Sorry Ma'am! So sorry!” She shook her head in discomfort as she managed to raise her upper body. “Don't call me Ma'am, Stop calling me Ma'am! My name is Abigail--My name is Abigail!!!!!” She sang with a high-pitched voice. Dominic began to wonder if she was going crazy because of the way she said her name. “Ok! Abigail, where's your phone?” He asked in a sweet voice. She fossicked through her bag and handed her phone over to him. “Ok, what's your husband's number? Just give me anybody's number we can call to help us.” “The father is not around,” She muttered. “What do you mean he's not around? Ok just give me anybody's number, your doctor, your sister! Anybody at all!” “Mister! Give me my phone!--Give me my phone!-- Give me my phone!” He swiftly handed the phone to her, yet she continued shouting. “Give me my phone! Give me my phone!” Dominic didn't want to call his mother, but he had no choice. “Hello, Mom! I need your help!” He entreated. “What's wrong Dominic? You sound worried.” “Mom! Am stuck in an elevator with a pregnant woman and I think she's about to have her baby, please help me!” “Is that her I hear in the background?” “Yes! Mom, please help me!” “Ok, what building are you in? I'm gonna call for help” “I'll text you the address.” “Ok!” She hung up. He felt a bit relieved, now that help was on the way. “Abigail! Don't worry, help is on the way.” “I am dying!” She yelled as she hauled the collars of his shirt. Few minutes later, Dominic phone rang, it was his stepfather. He scoffed at the sight of the call. “What do you want?” He barked. “Dominic, your mother told me what happened...” “ Of course! She told you,” He interrupted. “I don't have time for your fore talk, I have an issue at hand!” He hung up. The phone rang again, “Hello! What is it! I don't have to talk to you old man!” “Listen! Dominic,” He commanded. “I know you don't like me but whether you like it or not, you need my help to save that woman. Have you forgotten I am a doctor?” “Whatever!” He replied acknowledging the fact that he was right. “Now, put me on speaker phone.” “You're on speaker phone now,” He laid the phone on the floor close to Abigail. “Hello, Ma'am. Can you hear me?” “Yes, I can sir,” She groaned “My name is Dr. Aaron, what's your name?” “My name is Abigail--My name is Abigail,” She recited. “Ok, Abigail, I am on my way with an ambulance to help you, ok?” “Ok Sir. Please hurry up!” “Not to worry, you are in safe hands. Dominic, can you hear me?” “Yes, I can.” “How far apart are the contractions?” Dominic tried to recall his thoughts, “Well, umm... 2 minutes apart I guess.” “Ok! I need you to feel her belly and tell me the position of the baby's head” “Ok!” He gently placed his hands on her belly, “I think it's facing downwards.” “Ok! Dominic, we may not have enough time before the baby comes. I need you to check if she's dilating.” “How am I supposed to do that!” He said in confusion. “Do you know where the cervix is?” “Yes!” “Ok! I need you to check how many fingers you can fit into her...” “No! No! No!” He waved his hand in disagreement. “I can't put my hand into this woman Virgi...” Before he could finish rebuffing the order, Abigail took of her underpants hastily and pulled his arms into her. “Check! Please check!” She screamed. “But make sure your hands are clean!” The doctor continued. “Ok! I think she has wipes.” “Yes, I have!” She pulled out a packet for wipes from her bag and gave it to him. Dominic wiped his hands before he put his fingers into her. “How wide is it?” The doctor asked. Pouting his mouth in disguise, “It's... It's pretty wide, I can fit my whole hand.” “That means she's dilating! Dominic, we don't have anymore time. The baby is coming!” “What! I can't deliver a baby!” “You have no choice, Dominic! That lady is going to have that baby and you are her only hope. Find a piece of cloth and put it beneath her legs” He quickly huddled his jacket beneath her legs. “Have done that!” “Dominic! Now tell her to push!” “Ok. Abigail! You need to push, ok. The baby is almost here.” She clenched his arms and pushed as hard as she could. After series of pushing, the baby wasn't forthcoming. “Doctor! The baby's not coming.” “She needs to push some more!” “Abigail! Abigail! Doctor, I think she passed out.” “Dominic, you have to wake her up, she can't pass out now!” He shook her vigorously before she gained consciousness again. “I can't do it anymore,” She gibbered. “Abigail! Look at me. We are almost there, come on, let's bring this baby to life. I know you have it in you, just push please,” He tried to cajole her. She tried to gather enough strength before she pushed. “Ahh!!!!!!!!” She yelled. “Doctor! I can see the baby's head,” Dominic screamed in excitement. “Tell her to stop pushing now!” “Abigail, stop pushing!” “Dominic! Now, you need to guide the baby's head out and the rest of the body will follow.” “How do I guide the head?” “Gently curve your hands underneath the head and guide it out.” “Ok. Wait! There something around the baby's neck!” “That must be the umbilical cord. You have to cut it of.” “Ah! Cut it off with what? My teeth?” “Preferably, a clean blade.” “Where am I find a blade in here?” “I have! I have!” Abigail muttered. He trolled through her bag and found the blade. “Doctor, I found a blade!” “Now cut the cord. But, leave enough space between the cord and the baby's head, we don't want the baby to bleed to death.” “What! I don't think I can't do this.” “No, Dominic. You must do it now! Cut the cord.” He gently placed the blade on the cord with his fingers underneath and cut it. “The cord is cut Doctor!” “Now, tell her to push. Am almost at the hospital.” “Abigail! Look at me, we're almost there, just push one more time, as hard as you can!” She gripped his collars and pushed with all the strength in her. “Ahh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” With Dominic's hands came the baby. “Abigail! You did it. It's a boy!” He smiled and handed the baby to her. “My baby!” Abigail grinned as she held him in her arm. Silence filled the air for some seconds. “He's not crying!” She panicked. “Dominic, what is going on?” The doctor asked. “Doctor, the baby is not crying! He's not breathing, why?” “Oxygen! The baby needs oxygen! place three fingers on the baby's chest and perform ten compression then you blow air into the baby's mouth.” “Ok!” He began with the doctor's instructions, just then the call ended. “Hello! Doctor! Doctor...” He continued with the compression while Abigail sobbed for the fear of losing her child. The hatch of the elevator was opened and light radiated into the elevator. The doctor and some medics jumped in. Dominic sat in the summer bench, the smell of barbecue for nearby grills filled the air. The atmosphere was peaceful. He heard footsteps, it was his Mother, she sat beside him with a broad smile on her face. “How're you doing son?” “Am ok.” She couldn't believe how calm he was, it was a miracle. “Mom! Am sorry.” “What are you sorry for dear?” She asked in surprise. She couldn't remember the last time he said that to her. “For everything!” He looked her in the eyes. “The way I treated you and everyone else. After Dad died, I felt all was lost and you remarried which made me angrier. Being in that elevator with Abigail was eye-opening. Mom, I saw what she passed through just to bring her baby to life, the pain, the struggle and when I held that baby in my hands, I felt happiness within, I could only imagine the happiness the mother felt. It made me realize you passed through the same just for me.” “Dominic,” she held his hand. “You are my son, I can never be mad at you forever. I am glad you've come to realize life as it is. It's not easy for a life to emerge. Life is precious, and we must learn to appreciate it.” “Mom, you know I wondered why I got stuck with that pregnant woman in that elevator. I mean, it could have been someone else. Maybe the universe thought of teaching me a lesson,” He laughed. “I guess so,” she joined him in laughter. “By the way, how's Abigail and the baby?” “Well, Dad said the baby is in 100% perfect health and Abigail is just fine, she named the baby Dominic.” “Dad! You say!” “Yes mom, he's a good guy, he helped me save Abigail and her baby.” “Wow! Am so proud of you son,” She hugged him passionately. “You guys are having a family reunion without me?” A voice triggered. They both looked to see who it was. “Good afternoon Dad!” Dominic smiled. “My elevator Doctor!” The trio laughed and hugged in the scorching summer Sun.

Having a hobby is a good way to pass your free time. It also helped you to discover many different strengths and weaknesses that you had or needed to work on. However, some people didn’t like hobbies and having to do something in their free time made them feel like they were working. At least, that was how my friend felt when I told him to get a hobby. “What’s wrong with a hobby? At least, it gives you something to do when you’re bored.” Hobbies made me feel like I could discover my new passions. As I grew older, I always had a passion in different things. But that was not how Kyle felt. He preferred the lazy hobby, where he could sit in front of the TV and watch Netflix all day. “If I can watch my Netflix, I’m passing time. No need for exhausting yourself for no reason.” He was a complete couch potato. I thought that I should get him to try out things, even if it is sports, to see what he liked but no matter what he kept telling me the same excuse. I visited the art museum or the history exhibition to find out more of my passions, but all he did was hunt for places to grab a snack. It became irritating at times. Yes, some people said that eating was a hobby, but that was if they were lazy people! A hobby didn’t have to be something tiring. It could be something you did for fun and watching a movie or playing a computer game wasn’t doing something for fun! “Why are you so negative? Just try out something and see if you like it. But don’t say you don’t like it because you want to go home and be a slob on the couch!” He just gave me a look. I felt that there was more to life than just being in front of the TV. I knew that he collected antique vases that dated to the first Queen of England and other ancient artefacts. And I found a stall that had those exact items, but instead of him looking at them, I found Kyle eyeing out the cake stall next door. The poor girl who stood at that stall looked horrified at him. “Kyle! You are scaring the girl. Look at this, I found your collective items.” He sulked for a minute, but then I saw a slight interest in his eyes when he saw the vases. “I haven’t even touched them in years, why would I want to collect more?” I saw a delicate vase with ancient Egyptian drawings on it. Since he had a variety from all over the world, I decided to get this one for him. He didn’t have an Egyptian vase and this was a perfect item. “It’s a beautiful vase. Wise choice. But the vase contains a hidden secret in it.” The vendor made a chilling comment on the vase in my hand. I knew that any treasures stolen from the Pharaoh’s tombs were cursed, but could this vase be too? Perhaps his warning meant something and I didn’t want to leave without finding out what he meant. “What is the secret? Should we be worried?” He gazed at me for a minute before looking away. “It cannot be said in public. But it might change your life and reveal hidden thoughts, feelings, emotions or whatever you may want to call it.” This made me even more suspicious of the vendor’s warning. What was he trying to tell us? Since he didn’t want to say, we left with the vase in hand. “This vase is incredible! It can make things happen, as if it is a magic lamp!” I was surprised by Kyle’s excitement with the vase I bought him two days ago. First, he was in a mood and didn’t want to do anything...practical, but now he can’t step away from the vases, especially the new one! A part of me was happy that he was back to his new found hobby, but another part made me think back to the vendor’s warning before we paid for the vase: ‘The vase contains a hidden secret in it’. If the hidden secret was that it could make hidden hobbies ignite in someone’s heart, then I didn’t see that as a negative side nor a warning. But his excitement was a bit too sudden. Perhaps there was more to this vase than met the eye. Whenever I wanted to scan the detailed artwork on the vase, he would harshly pull the vase out of my grip. That behaviour of his also seemed sudden. I had to find out what this vase had. Was it a curse? Or just some strange spell? Or was it all in my head? I revisited the stall where I purchased the vase for Kyle. The vendor recognized me, but the look on his face meant that he wasn’t too happy to see me. “Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?” I reached my hand into the Tote bag I carried on me, and took out the vase to show him. “Two days ago, you mentioned that this vase had hidden secrets in it. When I asked you what they were, you didn’t reveal them. I want you to tell me, right now and right here, what those secrets are and I demand an explanation!” He looked around him as if he was on the lookout for any suspicious listeners. After a moment’s silence, he directed me to an area where only the staff were allowed to go. “We shall talk in here.” I followed after him and there he sat me down to explain the history behind this antique vase. “I take it that your friend has returned to his interest in antique vases?” Before I could ask him how he knew, he raised his hand to silence me. “Please, let me finish: The vase was a precious gift that was given to Queen Cleopatra on her 30 th birthday. She loved the beauty of it and kept it hidden in a secret room, where only she knew and had access to. However, after she kept this vase she had many tragic losses in her time. Her life began to become miserable and every suitor itched to get his hands on both the beautiful vase and its extremely beautiful owner. Her guards, who protected her from any threat, managed to ward her off them. But one of these men secretly got into her room and stole the vase. It was from then that she ordered all her magicians to place a curse on this ornament, but if it was in the hands of someone who bought it for another’s interest, then it might bring more than happiness for that individual.” His story made me think that Cleopatra had a specific reason for the curse or spell that she had placed on this vase. I was more intrigued after hearing about the history of this vase only increased my interest to learn more.

Etim, aren't you joining us? Tom asked almost unmindedly, "No!" Etim answered without adding any more words. "Maybe he isn't feeling really well or he hasn't eaten since morning" Tom thought to himself before taking his eyes off him. Etim was in a weekly meeting with his friends. The group was about fundraising and financial support to her members. In the group, if you are a registered member and you had any event or ceremony, you will inform the group officially with a bottle of wine, and all the members will contribute a particular amount of money to you. But even without a member having a ceremony, the group do meet on Thursdays to discuss new ideas and the way forward for the group. Apart from the contribution they make for a member who has a ceremony, all members of the group do contribute a fixed amount of money every week to help fund the group's purse. Such money is used for charity or if need arises, to help a member who is desperately in need of money. Mr Tom was inviting Etim to join them in their table where they were drinking some strong alcoholic beverages and most of them were even smoking cigarettes. Though Etim's refusal to join them wasn't taken personally by anyone, it was a bit Surprising that he could boldly say no to alcohol. The following week, they conveyed again for their usual weekly meeting. A whole lot of issues were being addressed and Etim even came up with an idea, "My opinion is that we should always celebrate and enjoy ourselves every once in a while, what I mean is that we should set out specific times that we could drink, eat and reignite our love for each other. We can even colour it up by sharing gift items among ourselves" Etim said after he lifted up his hand. "Wow, that's a nice idea" exclaimed Mr Tom, the chairman of the group after listening to Etim. Thanks so much Mr Etim for that great idea and we will definitely start to implement it as soon as possible. "The Great Minds Association (TGMA)" was a great organization to be in. Their detailed planning and contributions goes a long way in uplifting the members. The love shared among the members could be discribed as a pure and genuine love because they seemed to trust and believe in each other so much. The took each other's challenges and experiences as their own. But they never seemed to include God in anything they did. They could not even pray before or after any meeting. Why? The reason being that the founder of the group Mr. Tom didn't want the group to turn to a religious one and moreover, the purpose of the group was to accommodate people of different and diverse religions, so he didn't intend to bring any religious differences Etim had taken a personal decision to stop drinking alcohol. The reason for this decision was best known to him alone. After this decision, he had attended several meetings with TGMA but none of his fellow members seemed to really notice that he hasn't been indulging in alcohol all those while. Then on one fateful meeting day, Mr Tom called Mr Etim aside and both of them were sitting on the table alone and discussing. In front of them was a bottle of branded whiskey and two small glasses. Mr Tom poured the drink it the glasses, carried one and also expected Etim to carry the other one but to his greatest surprise, Etim didn't even touch the glass the whole time they were discussing. Amazed at what he saw, he winked and said playfully, "Don't Tell me that you don't drink alcohol anymore! "Yes I stopped indulging 2 months ago, and don't tell me you just notice it now" Mr Etim said smile. " Yes, I just notice it now for the very first time" Mr. Tom said and gave him a pat on the back. " I wouldn't ask you the reason for this decision because I do know that Change is the only constant thing in life, no one could believe that you Etim of all people can really stop drinking alcohol" Mr Tom exclaimed playfully. "Yea I have changed and I haven't regretted about it" Mr Etim said as they both walked away laughing. Eventually, all the other members of the group and even Mr Etim close friends and family members got to know about his change of attitude. Etim that everyone knows, was a man that loves drinking. He could even go extra miles to make sure that he has a good alcoholic beverage inside his fridge. His motto was "Instead of me to lack alcohol, let me lack food" Mr Etim was married with 3 children. After several failed attempts to convince her husband to stop drinking alcohol, Mrs Etim finally gave him his way and resorted to praying to God that he should change him for her. On some occasion, he will come back to the house drunk, looking so scattered and lousy. On such occasions, his wife will help him to the bathroom, give him a warm bath and make sure he sleeps before doing any other things. The aftermath of such days were always advise heaped on upon advice from his wife. When his wife noticed about his change of attitude, she was so excited but resented that she should give it time to really prove whether her husband has truly changed. Three months passed and Mr Etim remained faithful to his decision. This got his wife really excited and she thanked God so passionately because she believed that it was God that changed her husband. Even Kingsley, thier eldest child was also excited for his dad's change of attitude. He had always looked at his dad as the perfect example of a man he wants to become if not for this particular bad habit. Mr Etim was a very renowned man. Very honest, respectful, and he was best known for his integrity. He didn't joke with his words. On one of their meetings in TGMA, one of his colleague even joked that he was only taking a break and will eventually start drinking again in the nearest future. Mr Tom would always test him by serving him alcoholic beverages once he visits him on his office. "You have truly change o" was always his remark when Etim refuses to drink. Etim's wife decided to test him one Sunday evening. She cooked his favorite dish, pounded yam and put a lot of meats. After everything, she invited him to the dining table and disclosed the suprise to him. They ate and ate until they were full and just when Mr Etim wanted to carry water and drink, his wife exclaimed, " A chill glass of alcoholic beverage will go a long way in digesting such a sumptuous meal! "But you know that I stopped drinking anything alcoholic sometimes ago. Why are you now saying that? Or are you trying to tempt me?? "No no no! How can I tempt you? I was only joking and I wanted to see your reaction" Mrs Etim replied playfully. The both laughed and continue eating It was at this juncture that Mrs Etim was truly convinced that her husband has truly changed. In amazement, she exclaimed " Change is the only constant thing in life and people should not always be judged by their past because someone can definitely change without announcing it on the radio".

“I will make money from writing, you'll see!”, I insisted, "To start with, I will win fifty dollars in the Reedsy writing contest!” “What a fortune!”, dad laughed, “I tell you what! I will bet you another fifty bucks that you won’t win but if you somehow do, I won't mention law school anymore and you will be free to become a screw up!”, dad said. “Deal!” *** "It was autumn and it was cold and dark. Leaves were falling out from the trees. Cold wind blew some of the leaves around. Birds were very cold and besides there almost weren’t any birds left cause their went south. Maybe just some crows flying and walking around on the ground, covered with fallen leaves. It was very sad..." “Spare me, dear God!”, Judy said into her coffee mug. She called her dear friend, Martha. “Hey. Martha! Listen to this!” She read some of the story over the phone. “What’s with the trees and birds!”, Martha said laughing. “Right? And have you ever seen a crow covered with leaves before?” "Ha ha ha ha! Please... stop... And those repetitions? This could be taken care of with just one sentence!” “Writing is hard and yet everybody thinks they are a Hemingway these days!”, Judy observed. “Well at least they’re doing something that makes them grow as opposed to whatever stupid stuff kids do nowadays!”, said Martha with a slightly more serious tone. “Good point...” "What was the prompt for this one anyway?", asked Martha. “Write a story about a character who has found something precious”. “Looks like you just found it, ha ha!” *** “Robert submitted his first story to a real writing competition!”, mom announced proudly at the table. I always resented her embarrassing me in front of people. She probably didn't mean it but somehow everything I did sounded childish or weak the way she described it. “Robert, sit up straight, honey! You spend all your days at the computer and if you keep slouching, you will look like Quasimodo at a young age!” She proceeded to scrubbing some imaginary schmutz off my forehead with her saliva moistened thumb. “Mom, please...” I wanted to run as far away from the table as possible. “So what is the story about?”, uncle John rushed to my rescue. I could barely break through my embarrassment. “About a girl who lost a leaf and was trying to find it...”, I mumbled out finally. “Why was she after a leaf?”, asked my cousin, Cody. It always felt like he was out to get me. Ice hockey was all he ever talked about. “It was her lucky leaf...”, I explained. “Couldn’t she just find another leaf and make it her new lucky leaf? I mean there’s plenty of leaves to go around!” Uncle John gave Cody a warning stare. “So did she find it?”, asked mom. “Her friend who was a crow found it for her...”, I said. “I don't get it!”, said Cody. “Cody!”, uncle John interjected. “Sorry...” Dad was quiet. As far as he was concerned I was going to make a fine attorney. “Well, I think it’s a great honor to have a budding writer sit with us at the table”, Aunt Lucy chimed in. “So when will the winner be announced?” “In about a month or so...”, I said. “I’m crossing all my fingers and toes!”, said aunt Lucy. I always liked her. *** “The sea was very stormy...” “Oh, boy, here we go!”, Judy thought. “I think I know where this nautical wonder is going. Let me guess... It was dark as well?” The story continued: “... and very dark.” “Bingo!” “The mast broke on the boat and the sail was all torn in half. Captain was the only person left on the boat that was not dead. The boat was small and made of wood and it was lost at sea...” The prompt was “Write a story about a character who overcame an ordeal”. “That one is impossible to overcome...”, Judy thought. She closed the internet browser and opened Candy Crash instead. *** “What are you doing with your life, Robert!”, dad asked rhetorically. It was clear he meant to point out that I was wasting it. “Dad, I’m trying real hard! My writing's getting much better! I even got a like on Reedsy for my new story about a sea captain who made a hot air balloon out of torn sail fabric...” “That would never work!”, dad blurted out. I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the balloon or my future plans. “I'm just looking out for you, son! Don't you know that even the big shot writers out there are often struggling to make their ends meet? Writing doesn’t pay off, son!” "Dad, we made a deal!”, I reminded him. "All right! I'll be quiet until of course it's your time to pay up from your attorney salary..." "Ugh!" *** “Dorothy seated down on a chair and then took a deep breath and then exhaled and then she was trying to relax but she couldn't. She had a very hard day at work because her boss almost fired her because she was late from flat tire. She had lots of bad memories from childhood and she worried about what will happen next... ” Judy cringed. She wasn’t looking forward to reading through the entire story but she made it far enough to realize it won’t fly. “Write a story about being in the moment” was this week's prompt. Judy has been a Reedsy juror for quite a while now. One of her selections, a fictional story about cicadas, made it all the way to the top but the one she just tried to read would be in the hard rock bottom category. *** There were two months left before my graduation and quite some time passed after I gave up on writing. Not only my stories failed to win the prize but they were ignored by other members of the blog. I submitted one, sometimes even two stories every week but I haven’t received a single like apart from some troll nick named ‘Brat’ who kept liking all my stories, probably just to mock me. “You won, dad! Looks like your son is going to become a lawyer after all!”, I resigned. “Don’t jump the gun, my son!”, Dad said with his head immersed under the open hood of his beloved Corvette. “You’ve got two more months before your time runs out. Submit another one, then you can pay me in cash... or in beer!” “Fine!” I just wanted to put it to bed once and for all. *** Aunt Lucy handed me a mug of hot ginger lemon tea. “So, what did you write about lately? Did you win that contest yet?”, she inquired. “My latest story was about a woman who discovered she could change her entire past with the power of her mind... but... I was hoping we could talk about something else...”, I said. “Sure, Robby! What is it?” “Dad has been a real pain. He keeps pressuring me about that law degree... and since you grew up with His Stubbornness, the King of Asses, I thought maybe you could give me some pointers or even talk some sense into him...” “Oh, Robby, dear! That’s a tough one. As you pointed out correctly, your dad is as stubborn as a tree root! He’s always been a good brother to me but changing his mind about anything has never been easy...” “Was he always like that?”, I asked. “To a certain degree yes, but he became even more strict after he graduated from the military school”. “Figures...”, I sighed. Pause. “Let me show you something...”, aunt Lucy said excitedly. She took me to a spare room in her attic. It was filled with remnants of the past stashed away in boxes and plastic bags ‘just for when’ - the kind of room found in most old American houses. She opened one of the boxes and handed me an old folder filled with some hand written texts. “This is your father’s from when he was about your age...”, she said. I started reading one of the pages: "She opened the gates to the sacred temple of her mind and basked in the sunlight of the moment. Her lustrous thoughts freed themselves up from her tepid body. They meandered in and out like a flickering swarm of newly hatched butterflies. Lightweight, fragile and fleeting, just the way thoughts should be!” “Dad wrote it?”, I asked with surprise. “Yes, my dear! He used to be a budding writer just like yourself. His writing was beautiful, except...” “Except, what?” “His stories, though very well written, lacked a certain spark that would make them worth reading. His writing style was flawless but it always seemed like he was out of stories to tell...” “Can I have these?”, I asked. “You can borrow them for a while. Just don’t tell your father!” “Don’t worry, auntie! I’ll be discrete”. *** “When Chris woke up, he was turned into wolf but he didn’t notice anything for a long time when he was in bed. He noticed that something was different only when he got out of bed. He felt very hungry for raw meat and started crawling around the house on all fours. He also felt like going outside. It was very strange and scary...” Frank kept reading his son’s next submission to Reedsy contest. This one was in response to the prompt “Write a story about a character experiencing a sudden change”. It was awkwardly written, there were redundancies and repetitions all over the place and it was almost impossible to go through except the story line and premise alone were very compelling. It was about a wolf who had a dream about being a human. He gave it a like. “I must say, even though he can’t put a sentence together, that boy has a knack for storytelling”, Frank thought. His chest started feeling heavy and achy out of the sudden... *** They told us to come in a few hours once dad wakes up. He had to go into an emergency surgery right away. It was very fortunate that he was holding his phone when he felt something was wrong. It saved him precious seconds. Now it looked like, for the entire month before my graduation, he will have to be in recovery. When we saw him at the hospital he seemed a little weak but it looked like he was going to be alright. Aunt Lucy was already there. “Robert, my son, I want to tell you something”, dad said with a slightly exaggerated tone of a dying father from Brazilian telenovelas. “What is it, dad?”, I inched closer. He glimpsed at aunt Lucy. She gave him a nod. “Forget about that stupid bet. You don’t have to go to law school. I was wrong to pressure you...” “That’s alright, dad. My mind is already made up. You were right, my writing stinks and I would never survive as a writer. Copyright law seems close enough to my interests and might prove quite useful...” “Yes, your writing does stink but... your stories are wonderful...”, he said. “Wait, what? You've read them?” “Who do you think kept liking them on Reedsy?”, he asked. “Wait! You’re the... ‘Brat’? I should have known that one...”, I said. He chuckled. “There is something I need to tell you too, dad...” “Oh?” “Aunt Lucy showed me the stories you wrote when you were young.” “I know. Your aunt just told me...” She smiled at me. I continued... “Your stories are very...” “Let me guess...”, he interrupted, “They are beautifully written but they lack in storytelling...”, he said as if reciting a threadbare nursery rhyme, “Yeah... I've heard that one many times”. I made a 'you said it' face. Aunt Lucy approached the bed. “Frank, I think you've been a little unfair to Robert. You were almost as insufferable as our dad was to you. At least you didn’t forcefully sign him up for the military school...” “Grandpa did it to you?”, I asked. “He wanted me to serve a cause greater than myself... He couldn’t stand the thought of me wasting my life as a weak writer...” “That’s harsh!”, I said. “I don’t hold any grudges and in the end I’ve been very pleased with my military career, but now I do think he should have let me choose...” We sat in silence for a while. “I have an idea”, aunt Lucy turned to dad, “Since Robert is a born storyteller and you are going to be in recovery for at least few more weeks, how about you two engage in a little father and son bonding project!” “I think I know what you have in mind, Lucy but I don’t know... It’s been too long. I'm pretty sure I've lost my flare...” “Nonsense!”, she protested. She grabbed a notepad and pen and threw it on dad’s bed. “Now! I don’t want to hear any more excuses! Get to work, you two!” She kissed our foreheads and left. *** “Write a story about two characters who solved a dilemma by working together”, was one of this week's prompts. Judy finished reading a story by an anonymous writer nicknamed 'Robrat'. She called her dear friend, Martha. “Hey. Martha! Listen to this!” She read the entire story over the phone. “Looks like you’ve got a winner!”, said Martha.

He wasn\`t aware of the deer, before he heard its screams of agony. As he went closer, he could see, an arrow piercing the deer\`s lungs. The heart however, had remained untouched. The gentle brown eyes pleading for mercy. “My poor brother, who has done this to you?” The only thing he could do, was to redeem the animal from its suffering. So he took his bow, shooting with deathly accuracy. It was sad to see the spirit leaving its empty shell, yet it would have been crueller if he had done nothing. He patted the soft nose, “rest in peace, my brother.” Two green eyes from between the trees, made him shocked stepping back. The creature came closer, it looked like a lizard. No, more like a dragon without wings, covered in moss green scales and with a snake like body. He looked around. He was surrounded by them. Suddenly a presence appeared behind him, he wanted to flee but stumbled. His bow fell to the ground and before he could pick it up, a hand enclosed his neck. The grip was not violently, but firm telling him not to move. “Don\`t be afraid of my children, they won\`t hurt you. Unless you have a black heart. You killed the king of this forest, and my husband.” The dragons were now crawling up to him. “You know, there are humans, who kill for fun. And humans, who kill to survive. Which one are you?” “I did not know... he was already wounded, when I found him.” *Liar!* The creatures around him whispered, distrust reflecting in their eyes. Even the wind seemed to be against him, as if it wanted to say that humans cannot be trusted. “Why did you come into my forest, human?” “Because I had no choice, my kind is hunting me.” “And now they followed you, disturbing our balance. In one way or the other, you are responsible for his death!” “So, I can\`t escape death, either you or they will kill me, am I right?” Bitterness swung in his tone, the woman let go of him. He turned around to her, “your actions are your own. You cannot escape the consequences.” “I see, then I would prefer it to be killed by your kind.” “Why? If you leave my realm you are allowed to live.” He shook his head, “my fellow humans will find me, and burn me in place. If you kill me, I may be able to keep my dignity.” The woman seemed sorrowful, “they resent you... for what?” A weak grin occurred on his face. “I reject their faith, I follow ancient path\`s wisdom. Your wisdom, Lady Gaia.” She looked to the deer, “so you really released him from his pain...” One of the dragons was cuddling with his hand, careful he stroked over its scales. “You seek death, to flee from life.” “No, My Lady. To be afraid of death, means to be afraid of life itself. I lived my life as best I could, but my deeds led me to an early end. I can run but I can\`t hide, it is better to face fate. Than to survive as a coward. I embrace death, as I embraced life.” The mother bowed her head, “you are wise for a human. Yet we don\`t kill, like your kind on the battlefield, everything goes its way.” He handed over his dagger, a triskele was carved into its pommel. “I know. Everything is better, than to be executed as a traitor in front of thousands of self-righteous, judgmental, hateful eyes.” He leaned against an old oak tree, the dragons followed. Lady Gaia came towards him. Her divine, green-glowing appearance carrying the light of life, and at the same time the darkness of the night. She embraced him one last time, like a child. “You are no traitor, just someone born in the wrong place. You shall reincarnate in my realm. My brave, wise child.” The dragons sat on his feet, on his legs even on his stomach. One seemed to hold his hand, with his tiny claws. Looking at him, with soothing eyes. He looked upwards to the tree canopies. Such a wonderful view. “What is your name?” “Aderyn.” A fast pain emerged, when she slit his throat. “Now sleep, Aderyn.” Her motherly voice was the last thing he heard, closing his eyes. The wind blew towards him, a gentle, warm breeze of summer air. Carrying his soul away. The goddess placed the dagger beside his body. The dragons bowed their heads, then disappeared into the green. Leaves whirled around her figure, then she too had vanished.

Samantha stood on the dock overlooking the lake soaking in the warm sun, focusing on the sounds of the boats out for a boat ride under the light of the moon. She volunteered to come early to the family's summer home to air out the rooms, uncover all the furniture and get it ready for the onslaught of her family. Samantha hadn't wanted to come, since she hadn't set foot in the house since that fateful summer 10 yrs. ago, but her mother insisted that they have her engagement party among their closest friends and her entire family. Engagement party, who would believe that she would ever get married. Samantha had avoided marriage like the plague; she never found a man who she loved more than a friend, but her mother kept asking her when she was going to get married, and she felt the social pressure to give in. Samantha finally met Jaden, who was like no other man she had ever met. He didn’t push her to have sex with him, or get married; but after 6 months of dating, they finally made love, which wasn’t what Samantha wanted, but he was a gentle lover, very respectful and so Samantha gave in. Maybe, she could eventually love him; he was the nicest guy she had ever met, so after dating for a year, he proposed, and Samantha said yes. Her family was over the moon and wanted to share the occasion with their good friends at the summer house. So here she was, standing on the dock where she had stood 10 yrs. ago when life threw her a curveball from which she felt she would never recover. Samantha had had an ongoing battle with her mother over many things throughout her life; not the least of which was why Samantha couldn’t be more like her older sister, Anna. Anna was all girl, loved to dress up in “girly clothes” as Samantha called them; was very popular with all the boys, and was a varsity cheerleader. Her brother, Tim, was oblivious to most things around him if it didn’t involve a football, so he was no help with her battles with her mother. Samantha was more like Tim; she was what many considered a tomboy. She was athletic and played softball and basketball from a young age and although she was popular, she never felt like she was like the other girls her age. All they talked about throughout high school was boys and Samantha felt there were other things more interesting than boys. The summer after her junior year in high school the family spent the entire summer at the lake like they did every summer since Samantha was 5yrs old. It started like every other summer. The usual families were there and as was the custom, the first Saturday was the first event of many that all the families would spend together. The party started like all the past parties had started; connecting with old friends who they hadn't seen since last summer; with one exception. One of her favorite people, Thomas, also Samantha's age, brought his cousin, Julia, who was visiting for the summer. Her parents were in the middle of a messy divorce and she needed a place where she wasn’t in the middle of battling adults. Julia was 17 yrs. old, a senior, played varsity softball and had a full scholarship to play for Oklahoma in the Fall. When Julia shook Samantha's hand, Samantha was taken by surprise by how it felt to shake her hand. It was that feeling that Samantha had felt many times in the past when she was around one of her best friends in middle school. She remembered how the feelings frightened her and so she stopped being friends with these girls. This experience repeated itself many times throughout her high school years with the same result- she stopped being friends with these girls. Her other girlfriends talked about these feelings, too, but they always were feelings they had for boys not girls. Now, here were those feelings again. She thought she was past those feelings; she was mortified. Samantha left the party immediately and vowed to stay away from this girl, but Julia had other ideas. She too had had the feeling when she shook Samantha’s hand and she made a point of tagging along with Thomas when he met Samantha at the boat dock the next day. The difference between Julia and Samantha was that Julia embraced and honored the feelings she was feeling. She knew that these feelings were sexual, and she loved the way the attraction felt. Her parents always encouraged her to be her own person and that included her sexual orientation. As hard as Samantha had tried to avoid Julia that summer, it was to no avail. What Samantha began to realize was that these were perfectly normal feelings to have, but not for other women. she made a point of never being alone with Julia until the last night of their summer stay. Samantha was on the dock, enjoying the last sights and sounds of the lake when someone called out, “Sam, is that you?” Samantha turned and saw Julia moving toward her and said, ‘” please don’t call me Sam, my name is Samantha.” Julia was taken aback, but it did not deter her, and she continued to walk toward Samantha. When they were close enough to touch, Julia leaned in and kissed Samantha on the mouth. At first, Samantha pulled away, and then gave in to what she was feeling and kissed Julia back. But when the feelings started bubbling up inside of her, she pulled away and ran down the dock toward home. That was the last time Samantha saw Julia, but the memory of that kiss haunted her for many years after that summer. Samantha spent the next 5 years sleeping with a guy after guy, trying to convince herself that she was straight and that Julia was just an anomaly; until she met Jaden and decided she could learn to love him. Today, she was standing on the dock, filled with memories of all those summers before, but especially the summer of meeting Julia, willing it out of her thoughts. She was jolted back to reality with someone calling her name. “Samantha, is that you”? As Samantha turned, there was Julia, more beautiful than ever, tan, elegant, sexy as hell walking toward Samantha. “What are you doing here?” Samantha asked. “Thomas told me you were having an engagement party this weekend, and I had to come to wish you well” Julia replied. Samantha was noticeably uncomfortable, fidgeting with her sweater and not making eye contact with Julia. “I have never stopped thinking about you,” Julia continued. “I have kept up with your career and hoped to see you again during the summers, but you never came back. “ Samantha was beyond understanding what was happening to her, but as Julia moved closer in an attempt to hug Samantha, she could no longer deny the feelings she was having. She knew then that all these years of avoiding women who frightened her with what she felt for them, was just her denying who she was and who she loved. She finally succumbed to the attraction she felt and as Julia was hugging her, she turned her head and kissed Julia, like she never had kissed anyone before. She was flooded with desire for Julia, but pulled away and just looked her in the eyes and said “If you would a still like to, you can call me Sam.” Julia laughed out loud and kissed Sam again, asking her to come with her to the boat dock so they could take the boat out for a midnight ride. Sam shook her head and said that she would be there in a minute but first she had to make a phone call. As Sam dialed Jaden’s number her hands were shaking. When he answered, she said, “Jaden, we need to talk.”

So this happened today. It didn’t start today but it happened today. It started months and months ago on tinder when I swiped a girl I thought was kinda cute. We swapped Snapchats and then nothing. Until last week when I was feeling especially lonely, I messaged her just for the company. Since then we’ve been messaging everyday, the conversations seem to drag out over multiple days like a chess match played via carrier pigeon, each of my messages carefully thought out to try to be the best I can. I’m sure for her it comes naturally, but for me I make so much effort with each message. This morning I woke to the torrential rain outside. I checked my phone straight away to see if she’d come to her senses and cancelled yet, she had messaged but only to say we would have to push back out meet-up time as she had a problem with her house but she’d get it sorted. I tried to act cool, I went about my normal morning routine and was secretly smiling to myself about how the day might unfold. “You can get here for about half 10” she sent me. It got real then because until this point she had just been a name and a bitmoji on my screen, but at 10:37 she was across the street. She wasn’t the type of girl I usually go for, not that I can afford to be picky, but she was so different to me. But my god she was gorgeous! Long black hair flying around in the wind like it was trying it’s hardest to get away from the gleaming smile on her face. Jeans, trainers and a coat, so simple and yet on her it looked flawless. “Heyyy.” I was gone, luckily when she said it she was putting on her seatbelt so she didn’t see my stupid face extend like it was being stretched from the eyebrows up and the jaw down. Her accent was incredible. My stomach felt like it weighed as much as the car I was in. With my hand on the wheel to hide the shaking I replied “hey, you alright?” With the pseudo confidence rarely seen outside of the intoxicated. I went to drive but I stalled. How embarrassing, how much worse can I get? Oh yeah I stall again. What a great start? Way to make an impression. Third time lucky though I managed to creep the car out of her street while asking for directions out of her estate like I was an Uber and with the professional tone in my voice to match. Half an hour later though I was settled, I had asked all the questions I had thought of before I woke up that morning. Flickering between “so what surprised you most when you first moved to this country” and “what’s your favourite dinosaur” I was just as much a mess as I was 30 minutes ago. I drove her to a small town in the countryside where I had planned on telling her about my experiences there and showing her the river that flows through the centre, the medieval buildings and the history on offer. However, as we arrived I just drove past all that at the speed limit while talking about how I was failing my duty as the tour guide for the day. It’s amazing how differently things work out in real life vs inside your head while you lie in bed at 2am. The romantic meal on the side of a river turned into a very greasy fish and chips ate in the front of my car while staring into a shop window. What am I doing?! Here I have one of the most genuine, sweet, beautiful and charming girls I’ve met in my life and I’m smashing battered cod down my throat like it’s a competition. There’s no way she’s having a good time, she can’t be having fun, she probably only smiles and laughs at my jokes so that I’ll take her home after I’ve spent my time with her. Just as quickly as we arrived we left, it was half way over and I wasn’t ready for that. We listened to music on the way back with the occasional quick short conversation, usually ending in some sort of dad joke by me and her with a smile and a stare that just said “I can’t believe you said that” but in a good way. Back at her house, I made an excuse not to drop her off in the middle of the road but instead to park up, clinging to any hope that she might possibly invite me in just so our time wasn’t over. “So when are you free next?” What?! First of all you *want* to see me again? Even after that shambles of a ‘date’ you want to endure me again? Then the realisation that she wasn’t going to invite me in. My mood went down, up and down again as fast as my breathing must’ve been the last time I was here earlier in the day. “Uhhh, I’m not sure, I’ll let you know later.” How generic. Truth was that no matter what I would’ve made sure I was free for whenever she was but I couldn’t say that to her. I’m not even sure if she liked me or she’s being nice until she shuts her front door and can block me from her phone. But, this time without stalling, I drove away feeling defeated, unwanted and like I just traded an amazing few hours for a whole week of sadness to follow. I couldn’t help myself though, before I made it home I messaged her. Telling her how much I enjoyed meeting her and that I had a great day. You should’ve seen the grin on my face when she replied, reciprocating what I had expressed with the same cheerful texts that we’d been sending before. I forget exactly how we got there but she asked what my first impression was of her and when I asked the same she said “you just need to get more comfortable, you don’t get much credit for” and that was it. She must’ve accidentally sent it or misspelled a word. I had to know so I asked “much credit for what?” “I guess what I’m trying to say is that you’re really nice, you’ve got a great personality and great features.” I didn’t even know what that meant but I didn’t care. If someone had seen me they might’ve thought I was trying to taste my ears with the corners of my mouth. On the drive I mentioned a game that I was particularly good at, she hadn’t played it or even heard of it before but she downloaded it earlier and I played with her for an hour or so. She sucked, I know she’s new but she was absolutely trash at that game. Yet it was the most fun I’ve had in that game. Next time I see her I have to just be more confident. I really, really wanna see if this is something that could be something more but I just don’t know if she feels that way. Like all the times before, I’m probably setting myself up for a months long misery.

From the moment she was born, everyone seemed to love Lucy. Like a human lodestar, she had the ability to draw warmth out of anyone around her. She succeeded at everything she attempted, and attempted almost everything. Without a doubt, she was the brightest, kindest, most beautiful woman I ever knew. On a Thursday night, in the heart of a New York blizzard, Lucy took her own life. When they went to bury her, the ground was so frozen they could hardly dig her grave. They lowered her into the cold earth, to cover her presence and hide our shame. There she lies today, bereft of the warmth she inspired in others, abandoned by the world and its people. I have tried talking about it many times; her mother refuses to discuss it. It is an open secret, something that happened and must not be mentioned, better consigned to history than examined in the light of day. That may be, but I can’t keep going like this. I need to talk about what happened. I need it to be told so someone else can remember. One final time, to set it in stone. *In the year of our lord 1518, in the city of Strasbourg, France, a woman walks from her home. She enters into the streets and begins to dance feverishly. Soon, multiple people have joined her. Together they dance as if their very lives depend on it, shaking uncontrollably to the rhythm of an ineffable beat. The illness spreads, there appears to be no obvious vector of transmission. For some, just knowing about its occurrence is enough to spur on an incident. No medical intervention seems capable of easing the ailment. The townspeople turn to god for help. Mass sermons are held, exorcisms are concocted to evict the demon that has gripped the town. It proves ineffective, but this does not stop the peoples’ prayers. There is a sense of the town being held together by prayer alone. Meanwhile, the diseased dance until they collapse from fatigue. Only then are they relieved.* When Lucy died I locked myself in a room for four months. I didn’t see another soul, didn’t hear a voice other than my own and the ones in my head. I ate very little and said even less. I wanted to come to terms with the grief. I wanted to memorize its features, to read its movements and learn its manners. I wanted to size it up like a rival gladiator before a bout. It worked, maybe a little too well. By the time I left the room I could describe every facet of the grief in utmost detail. I can still remember those descriptions today, but I’ve long since forgotten what Lucy looked like. I didn’t cry for years, I still rarely do. We don’t get to decide between what haunts us and what we leave behind. What happens to those things that are forgotten? Those people? A hundred years from now no one will remember Lucy, no one but the earth. Where do those thing go? Where is Lucy now? Everywhere and nowhere. Gone and yet fractured, smashed into a billion little pieces, digging in under my skin. What does that make us? What does that make me? *In 1300 BC, the Egyptian Pharaoh Akhenaten has had enough. In one fell swoop he abandons the old pantheon and replaces them with his own god, Aten. A single man, destined to be the sole intermediary between his world and the next, decides to usurp the gods. He outlaws the worship of the old pantheon. It is largely unsuccessful. In response, Akhenaten’s madness deepens. His laws grow more brutal, his convictions more dire. On paper it was a simple thing: the gods are only as real as they are believed to be. It is he, the pharaoh, who decides what is real for his subjects. And yet the gods are fighting back, refusing to die. As if they know what follows.* *Akhenaten decides a new capital is to be built. In alleyways and dark corners he is dubbed a heretic, yet no one dares to oppose him. The pharaoh’s might is absolute. What was supposed to be a religious execution has become a bitter war, one Akhenaten does not survive. After his death, all signs of him are swiftly erased, along with any mention of his foolish god. The old pantheon is soon returned.* I disappeared from the world. Not in a physical sense but certainly in a spiritual one. I retreated further and further into myself, until I couldn’t recognize who I was. To the world, I became a ghost. In a way, I think it was an attempt at punishment, a way to create a connection between myself and Lucy. None of it was my fault, it just made more sense if it was. At least then I had someone to blame. I quickly managed to put up appearances. It’s not difficult to teach yourself how to go through the motions. Lucy became my excuse for everything, the reason I went home early, the reason I didn’t go out on Fridays, the reason I stopped writing and the reason I couldn’t pick it back up. I didn’t tell anyone of course, it wasn’t any of their business. From the outside it must have looked like I suddenly stopped, like everything about me had ground to an abject and indefinite halt. Lucy’s death was a single, immaculate puzzle, and because I had made myself one of the pieces it had become impossible to solve. That was how I liked it. But life stops for no one, no matter how badly we want it to. In time, the rapturous drumbeat of your heart is destined to overpower any lingering regrets, and you will be forced to stand back up. It wasn’t that I didn’t still need Lucy, it was that I had been faced with an ultimatum: Give up life, or give up Lucy. Some part of me still had enough sense to know it wasn’t what she would have wanted. To hold on any further would mean despoiling her memory past the point of no return. She would die again, and this time I *would* be the one to blame. All these facts were true, even if I was the only one who knew them. They were real, even though they were only in my head. Even from beyond the grave, Lucy had the power to change my life. *In 1519, one year after the Dancing Plague torments Strasbourg, the Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortéz lands on the shores of modern day Mexico, determined to conquer the newly discovered land for his king and country. A year later, Cortéz and his men arrive in the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlán, a glorious city built upon the waves of a great lake. The city dwarfs anything Cortéz has ever laid his grubby little eyes on.* *They are received by the Aztec Emperor Moctezuma, who declares Cortéz an incarnation of the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl, the great feathered serpent. Cortéz is lavished with gold and proceeds to claim this mighty empire for his king.* *The story isn’t true, of course. The Aztecs were far from uneducated. They understood warfare and deception as well as any European warlord. It is, however, the story that was told for generations, a recollection of events so outlandish and intriguing that it could not help but spark a match in the world’s collective imagination.* *It helps that the Aztecs did not get to tell their side of the story. Tenochtitlán was raised to the ground like a modern library of Alexandria. Whether or not Cortéz was a god, he would ultimately herald destruction of biblical proportions.* For all of Lucy’s childhood her mother would always tell her not to believe in anything. ‘Don’t let anyone decide for you’ she would say. Lucy took it to heart, how could she not? When we are young our parents are like gods. We believe their every word because there is nothing else to believe. Those words gave her hope, they became Lucy’s foundation, the very core of her being. They elevated her, allowed her to reach ever better and greater things. They also killed her. When Lucy’s life fell apart there was no one to turn to, no one to blame but herself. She struggled under the weight of her own genius and the implications that genius created. It was torture. It wrenched her apart from the inside out. I tried to help, to find the right words like I’m supposed to do, but I couldn’t. There was no way of reaching her. She was already gone. I hated myself for that. I still do. ... In a perfect world she would have had somewhere to turn. There would have been a figure or ideal to grant her comfort. A God, to deliver absolution. Higher powers provide ambiguity, they serve as a sticky, waxy substance through which we can glance at the truth without being exposed to its power. It’s why there are no wordless gods. The language isn’t just necessary, it’s the point. Language and truth can never occupy the same position. Viewed together they form perfect parallels, lines skirting each others’ edges but never intersecting. In just the same way that I can never make you feel how it felt when Lucy died, even though I remember it clear as day, a god could never have helped her any more than she could have helped herself. But what does that mean? That it isn’t real? That it isn’t worth trying? Maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the point is to be haunted, to be gripped eternally by the feeling that there is something just out of reach that you can’t quite put your finger on, infinitely distant yet uncommonly familiar. After all, real events have no power. It’s only when we start telling them as stories that they begin to carry weight. It’s only when we tell them again that we can make sense of what happened. Often, by the time we do, the real thing has already been lost. So we walk in circles, following the stories we ourselves laid down as tracks, trying to capture the nature of the thing we lost, certain that if we could just hold it in our hands once more, that it would surely bring with it some new perspective, some ancient, antediluvian truth that would make our pain feel just a little lighter. In that sense, we have already become like gods. Because that’s all a god is: a false guide, circling something real, a memory thrice recalled and twice recorded, not a lie, but something adjacent to one. Maybe that was what Lucy needed to hear. Maybe it’s just what I want to believe. Every night I lie in bed and close my eyes. Every night I feel the life drain from my body as my consciousness fades. Every morning I am born anew, without sin, or pain or memory. Every morning I have to reconstruct myself from the broken shards of what remains. I never come out quite the same. When I die, I too will be a memory. Everything I am and was will be compressed until I become a single thing with many facets. A god, a dream, a notion. No one will remember the pain. No one will remember the loss, or the sorrow and horror of a life cut short. No one will remember who I really was. But that’s okay. The earth remembers. The earth *always* remembers.

Jill’s heart shivered when she saw Bruce for the first time. The young woman didn’t expect her blind date to be so handsome. After Jill saw Bruce, she wanted to thank her best friend, Rachel, for setting her up on a blind date. Jill hoped that her date felt the same way about her. Since Jill was a psychologist, she tried to read Bruce’s body language toward her. She studied Bruce’s gestures while sitting across from him at a table. Jill liked everything about Bruce, and she couldn’t understand why. She liked the way his lips moved as he spoke to her. She liked his smile and how it complimented his attractive, prominent jawline. Jill loved the hint of gray that decorated Bruce’s short blondish hair. Bruce felt the same enthusiasm toward Jill. He loved Jill’s curly fire engine red shoulder-length hair and her gorgeous facial features, which had an Asian-like essence. Everything about Jill seemed perfect to Bruce. Like Jill, he also liked the way her full lips moved when she spoke. There was something that bothered Bruce. He loved meeting Jill, but a melancholy atmosphere would nip at his thoughts now and then. “So is this your first blind date?” Jill asked while smirking at Bruce. She licked her lips in anticipation while waiting for her date’s reply. “Yeah, this is my first blind date.” Bruce chuckled when he saw a glimmer of disbelief in Jill’s eyes. “Honestly! This is my first blind date!” Bruce repeated. He broke into complete laughter as he tried to convince Jill. Jill slowly nodded while squinting her eyes at Bruce with her lips still wearing a smirk. “So I’m the first woman you’ve gone out with? That’s hard to believe.” “Why is that so hard to believe?” Bruce shot his question at Jill while still laughing. The man began drumming his fingers on the table as he waited for Jill’s answer. Jill shrugged her shoulders while looking away from Bruce for a minute. “The guys I dated in the past always dated other women before me. Some of them had girls on the side while they were dating me. I’ve never been with a guy who said that I was his first date. It would be refreshing if it’s true.” Jill laid her suspicious eyes back on Bruce’s ruggedly handsome face. She tried to look serious, but a slight smile would constantly manipulate the corners of her mouth every few seconds. “It’s true. You’re the first girl I’ve dated.” Bruce looked Jill straight in her eyes and he never blinked. The man folded his hands on the table and he leaned forward with an earnest glow on his face. He wanted Jill to believe him because he was telling the truth. He watched as the smile on Jill’s face slowly faded. “You must be a virgin,” Jill stated without hesitation. She watched as Bruce sat back in his chair while giving her a shocked stare. Jill snickered when Bruce’s face turned red. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.” Bruce stared at Jill incredulously while chuckling. He wanted to say something else to Jill, but he held back his words while nervously brushing his fingers through his spiked, sharply cut hair. Bruce cleared his throat and he took his eyes off Jill when the waitress approached their table. *** As the evening went on, Jill and Bruce became more attracted to each other. The couple was no longer at a restaurant. They were now inside of an L.A. nightspot, grinding against each other on the dancefloor. Bruce had his hands on Jill’s curvy waistline and he loved feeling her hips sway rhythmically to the DJ’s hip-hop EDM. Jill loved feeling Bruce’s tall and muscular build hugging her from the back. Occasionally, she would playfully gyrate her buttocks against Bruce’s manhood area. Jill couldn’t understand why she felt so comfortable around Bruce. She didn’t feel guarded around him. The young woman loved feeling free around Bruce. She never felt so free on dates with other men. There was something about Bruce that exhilarated Jill. She didn’t mind getting loose with him. She didn’t mind feeling his large, firm hands on her butt even though they had just met a few hours ago. Bruce enraptured himself in the nightclub’s erotic atmosphere. The young man also enraptured himself in Jill’s atmosphere. It aroused him knowing that his body sweat was mingling with Jill’s. Bruce never thought of himself as a good dancer. But tonight, Jill awakened a rhythm inside Bruce that he didn’t know he had. He had to catch up with Jill’s dance moves and it amazed him to watch Jill gyrating and grooving like an NBA cheerleader. Bruce’s hands molded Jill’s wide hips and he could feel her sweat leaking through her silver skin-tight dress. The young man stayed in rhythm with his blind date. He rested his chin on Jill’s shoulder while wrapping his bulky arms around her waist and enjoying the feeling of her hand stroking the side of his tattooed neck. Jill and Bruce were perfectly in sync with each other. The couple was inseparable as they danced to the DJ's remix of Marco G’s Dancefloor . The R&B dance tune was turning the nightclub upside down. “You wanna go to my place after we leave the club?!” Bruce had to shout out his question to Jill over Marco G’s young voice and a booming beat that shook the club’s floor. The young man’s heart skipped a few beats per minute when Jill smiled up at him while nodding her head. “I’ll ride with you for the rest of the night!” Jill shouted up at Bruce while reaching up and resting her arms on his shoulder. “I like you! You’re cute!” Jill announced her feelings for her blind date. She wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol talking for her or if she was really expressing her feelings for Bruce. Within a second, Jill brought her lips in for a kiss. She had to stand on her toes to kiss Bruce. The kiss made Jill’s skin tingle. Every cell in Jill’s body celebrated when her lips connected with Bruce’s soft lips. Jill thought she was kissing an angel. When Jill kissed Bruce, the nightclub and the crowd of dancing young people disappeared. This was the best first date Jill had ever experienced. She became one with Bruce and she could taste the tequila on his warm lips. Bruce couldn’t feel the bounce of the crowd anymore, or the nightlife atmosphere that embraced him and Jill. All he could feel was Jill’s plush lips massaging his. Kissing Jill made Bruce forget that he was a married man. It made Bruce forget that he lied to Jill at the restaurant. Bruce had a wife, but he decided that tonight he was a single man who found love for the first time. The young man embraced the moment with no fear of consequences for lying to his blind date. Bruce felt that he never lied to Jill, so he had nothing to feel guilty about. Everything was falling into place for Bruce, and all he cared about was making Jill happy. *** Midnight had arrived and Jill kept thinking about the unforgettable experience she had with Bruce at the nightclub. Jill had a little too much to drink while she was at the club. The young woman still felt aware of her surroundings. Her head was a little fuzzy, but she knew that she was inside Bruce’s house. She made herself comfortable on his sofa, and she didn’t find it strange that Bruce was kneeling in front of her like a man ready to propose. “You got a nice crib,” Jill giggled out her words while looking around the living room. She studied the clean and sophisticated living room, which had a Mediterranean style. Jill loved every piece of furniture in Bruce’s house and she couldn’t take her eyes off his coffee table, which had the shape of a palm tree. “There’s something you need to know,” Bruce said while maintaining his kneeling position in front of Jill. “I haven’t been honest with you.” Bruce continued. He chuckled when Jill giggled at his words while playfully tapping the tip of his nose. Bruce knew that Jill was substantially drunk and that she was half-listening to him. “Oh-oh, you haven’t been honest with me? You’re hiding something?” Jill’s speech was a little slurred and she caught on to what Bruce said to her a minute later. “What do you want to tell me? You can tell me anything, you know? Because you’re cute and I won’t get mad.” Jill spoke with a flirtatious spice in her already sultry voice. She leaned in Bruce’s face, almost burying his nose in her busty cleavage. The young woman couldn’t keep her hands out of Bruce’s hair and she knew that she was acting silly, but she didn’t care. “I lied to you when I said you were the first girl I dated.” Bruce softly threw his words out of his mouth and he nervously gazed up at Jill when he felt her hands come to an abrupt stop in his hair. Jill lifted one of her eyebrows. She kept a bewildered smirk on her face while leaning away from Bruce. “What are you talking about?” Right after Jill asked her question, a mysterious young woman wearing a pair of ripped denim jeans and a pink halter top cautiously stepped into the living room with her hands folded in front of her. To Jill, it looked like the woman appeared out of nowhere. “Please, don’t get upset. I can explain this.” Bruce put his hands up in a pleading gesture. He watched as the playful smile on Jill’s face melted into a look of disgust. “Who is this? What’s going on?” Jill still had a relaxed tone in her voice, but it had an edge. She tried to stand up from the sofa after it sunk into her mind that Bruce had made a fool out of her, or so she thought. “I need to go home.” Jill became a little sober after the other woman came into the living room with a pitiful expression on her face. “Don’t touch me! You’re an asshole!” Jill’s soft, sultry voice exploded when Bruce attempted to place his hands on her shoulders. “Take it easy. She’s not what you think.” Bruce chuckled nervously after Jill shoved his hands away. “She’s just the babysitter!” Bruce knew that he couldn’t waste any more time. He quickly reached for his phone to play a video for Jill when he saw that the young woman was about to slap him. “What the hell is this?” Jill snatched the phone away from Bruce and it took a minute for her to realize she was looking down at a recorded video of herself talking. Jill couldn’t believe that she was staring down at herself in a video. She turned up the volume on Bruce’s phone to hear what this other Jill was saying. “Is this some kind of joke? Is this CGI or something?” Jill shot her questions at Bruce and she watched as he slowly shook his head. “You recorded this video yesterday, but you don’t remember it because of your condition,” Bruce explained. His gentle voice shuttered a little when he felt tears trying to bloom in his eyes. “She has a message for you. Just listen.” Bruce tapped his finger on the phone's screen. “Hey, Jill! I know you’re probably sitting on the sofa feeling confused right about now. Don’t worry, girl! I’ll try to explain everything!” The video Jill laughed out her words while pointing at the phone’s camera. “The man who you went on a date with is your husband. You’re celebrating your anniversary tonight. I hope you had a good time. I told your husband to make you happy for the both of us.” The video Jill paused for a minute while looking down and wiping away a tear. “You have what the doctors call severe anterograde amnesia. It’s a type of amnesia in which a person cannot remember recent memories. You still keep your long term memories, like your childhood memories. But you can’t remember recent memories. You got in a car accident while driving to work. A drunk driver ran a red light and plowed into you, causing your car to rollover. You suffered a severe brain injury and you needed surgery. Every day, you forget who your husband is and your children. I made this video to help you remember that you have a lovely husband named Bruce Livingston, whom you’ve been married to for eight years. You have two beautiful kids. A girl and a boy. Your son’s name is Scott and he’s five years old. Your daughter is seven and her name is Olivia.” Jill had her hand over her mouth with her eyes glued to the phone's screen. Seeing herself in the video still felt like a dream. “Since your anterograde amnesia causes you to forget recent memories, you probably don’t remember doing this video the night before.” The video Jill took a deep breath before letting out a soft laugh. “Every night I make a video so your husband can show it to you. I didn’t want you to forget your anniversary, that’s why making this video was super important. I told my hubby, or maybe I should say, our hubby, to take you out on a date. I wanted him to recreate the blind date that your best friend, Rachel, set you up on ten years ago. I wanted Bruce to recreate the night when I first met him. I wanted him to take you to the same places you went to on your first date with him. I wanted your anniversary to be special. I hope you had a good time at The Cobra nightclub. The Cobra was where you kissed your husband for the first time. You have severe amnesia, but you will not let a car accident and your amnesia stop us from enjoying life. You will not be bitter and depressed because life is too short for that. Take notes by recording videos every day so you can capture and remember the best moments in your life. A drunk driver took away a piece of you, but you can get that piece of you back. You’re a wonderful mom and a splendid wife. You’re also a powerful woman and nothing will stand in your way. I love you, girl! You hang in there and I want you to stay strong for the both of us! I can’t explain everything in this video, so your husband will finish the job. I want you to give my love to your beautiful husband and your two gorgeous babies. I wish both of you a Happy Anniversary.” Jill kept her watery eyes on the phone even after the video ended. The young woman couldn’t talk for a minute, and she allowed her tears to drip down on her husband’s phone. Bruce used his thumb to clean away some tears beneath his wife’s eyes. He watched as his wife slowly stood up from the sofa while softly gasping and brushing her hair away from her wet face. Bruce stood up with his wife and he jumped a little when Jill dropped his phone before grabbing him and kissing him passionately. Jill never said a word to her husband and she let her lips do the talking. After assaulting her husband with a heavenly mind-altering kiss, the young woman took her husband by the hand. She reached out affectionately to touch the hand of the babysitter who was a seventeen-year-old girl named Amy Washington. “Your children are asleep. You want me to show you where their room is?” Amy asked Jill while embracing the woman’s hand. The babysitter guided Jill down the hallway after the young woman gave her a nod while still crying. Amy knew Jill, but she knew that the mother didn’t remember her. The teenager would later find the right time to reintroduce herself to Jill. But for now, she felt that it was more important to show the woman where her children were sleeping, so she could give them her love. Jill still had her husband’s hand when she stepped into her kids' bedroom. The young woman wasted no time kneeling beside Scott and Olivia’s bedsides and kissing them. She made sure not to let her affectionate kisses wake up her son and her daughter. Jill’s reality was still sinking into her mind as she gazed at her children, feeling like she was staring at two angels for the first time. She would occasionally gaze up at her husband unable to stop her tears. After giving her little boy and her little girl one last kiss on their foreheads, the happy but confused young woman slowly stood up and embraced her husband. Bruce kissed his wife on her lips. He watched as his wife wrapped her slender arms around him while laying her tear-soaked face on his shoulder. As he held his wife securely in his arms, Bruce thought about how he instantly fell in love with Jill when they first met. Tears tried to escape from Bruce's eyes when he thought about how the car accident, his wife’s surgery, and her amnesia never destroyed their marriage.

Myself and my friend Julie set out for a hike in the woods. We had everything planned down to the finest detail. The only thing we hadn't planned on was the weather and a storm was fast approaching. As we searched around for the perfect spot to pitch our tent I came across a pile of trail mix, which led me to another and another. The trail was leading us somewhere as if somebody wanted us to find something. The trail eventually led us into a clearing. As we got to the clearing the trail suddenly stopped. A strong smell of ginger wafted through the air. Me and Julie followed the smell until we found the source of where it was coming from. We came upon a small wooden cabin. The light was on and smoke was coming from the chimney. Someone was cooking something and it smelled good. The rain was pelting down, so me and Julie decided to see if they would offer us shelter. Our bellies were empty and it was too wet and windy to pitch the tent. Julie knocked on the door as I peered through the window. The place seemed empty except for a pot of food cooking over an open fire in the centre of the room. Cold and hungry we decided to leave ourselves in. "Sure, if all comes to all I will offer to pay for their hospitality, " I said to Julie. I looked around the cabin for any sign of life. I walked over to the pot and lifted the lid. A smell of ginger rose up from the pot and into my nose. There were thick chunks of meat in the stew and it looked delicious. With my stomach growling, I grabbed two big bowls that were sitting by the pot. I served up two big hearty bowls of stew for myself and Julie. Julie sat by the window eating her stew. Something had caught her attention and she seemed more focused on what was outside then eating the stew. As I was eating my stew I started reading through a book I found in a drawer in one of the bedrooms. The book appeared to belong to a girl called Gretchen, it was some sort of diary with only a few entries. December 1: The winter freeze is setting in, food is sort. So my dad has to sell my horse for food and fuel. I hate him for it, he was my best friend. December 10 : The food is gone. I heard rumours that parents were eating their kids to survive. I'm too hungry to even care or be scared. December 11: My brother Hanson came into my room last night. He looked scared. He tucked me in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He told me he had to go away and I was to follow him when it was safe to do so and he would leave a trail for me to find him. "Look for the trail and we can never be apart," he told me. December 13: We started eating well. For once there seemed to be plenty of food. I just wished Hanson could be here to share it with us. I asked my mom and dad where he was? They just smiled at me and told me he was gone to live in the Gingerbread house. A magical place with plenty of food to eat, and he sends us the food that he can't eat.. December 20: Food is getting low again and I'm really scared. I overheard my mother crying to my father, telling him I was all she had left. My father angrily telling her that we won't make it through the winter and definitely not with an extra mouth to feed. I heard him tell my mother that they were young enough to start over. December.21: I watched out the window as my father sharpened the axe. A smell of ginger floated through the air. I'm afraid this might be my last entry. Please pray for me. The entries just stopped and the rest of the diary was empty. As I leafed through the pages a piece of folded paper fell from the diary. My eyes widened as I read the text. It was some sort of recipe and instructions on how to splay meat from certain parts of the body. I felt my knees buckle and weakness washed over me as I read the writing at the end of the piece of paper. "If you scare the kids it taints the meat. If the meat tastes bitter, use plenty of ginger." I toss my bowl of stew across the room. I screamed at Julie to drop her bowl. She dropped it and called me over to the window. "At first I thought I was imagining it, but what is that outside by the trees, " said Julie as she pointed out the window. A flash of lightning lit up the forest outside the cabin. A little girl was standing outside waving at us. Every time the lightning flashed she got closer to the cabin. Before we knew it she was standing at the window smiling and waving at us. She didn't appear to have hands just stumps were her hands used to be. Then the lightning struck again and the little girl was standing in the cabin. The little girl pointed at the pot that was brewing on the fire with her stumpy arm. “How did I taste? I was scared so I might taste bitter, " laughed the little girl We heard a loud bang come from outside the cabin. The little girl turned to look at the door. The grin on her face turned to pure terror. I asked her what the noise was. She turned to me with tears in her eyes. “It’s my Dad and I think he is hungry.“ The little girl turned to Julie. “Are you scared? Please don't be scared, if you don't taste good my dad will be angry with me.

I always thought my life had no meaning. It's as if I was born with no true purpose. No 'helping as many people as I can', or 'make the world a better place'... Nothing. I never had a calling of sorts that attracted and mesmerized someone towards some thing or action. Then one day, as I was coming back home from school, I decided to take a new and unexplored route home. It minimizes the time taken to reach my house by half as compared to the ordinary route. I never took that route before cause Mommy told me that it's really unsafe and dangerous cause it's where 'Monsters have taken shelter after coming out of Hell'. It always scared me very much when I was small but now, I was 15 year old big boy.. I was not getting fooled by some cooked up Monster story.. Everybody knows Monsters are not real.. Also, I thought I was strong enough to kick one or two Monster's butt.. I mean I was a Champion in doing just that on Monster Hunter, so, I can do that in reality too. Still I was a bit scared, but I started walking on that route anyway.. The path was very gloomy at first; dense trees on both sides really blocked majority of the sunlight.. It seemed I was walking through a tunnel after a point... It just got so dark.. Maybe the sun starting to set didn't help much with the light either. Anyways, with such low light and weirdly stagnant surrounding, I started getting a bit tensed up and scared. But I didn't wanna cry and shout 'Mommy, Mommy' like a weak, little kid.. I was 15 now, I was a big boy. So, I mustered up all my courage and started walking a bit faster, trying to find some sort of exit. An hour passed.... Is what I thought at that time while I was practically running to maybe find a glimpse of life, preferably my Mom. But all I saw was darkness, in varying forms of concentration... Sometimes as thick as jelly and sometimes as light as a cloud.. Maybe if I had just calmed down and taken three deep breaths, then, I would have been just fine.. But I started remembering my Mother's warnings and how the Monsters were killers, who just pounded you with their big hammers until you died, laughing while they did it. It was at this moment when I lost it... I began running frantically in zigzags, my eyes filled to the brim with tears, shouting and shrieking 'Mommy, Mommy' at the top of my voice. It felt like the Monsters hidden in the darkness are trying to catch me, so I ran harder trying to find any sort of light. After running for what seemed like ages, I finally found an exit... A portal of light. I was so happy.. Never thought that I would be happy seeing light, but I was... So I ran a bit more... Pushing my failing legs to enter into the portal of illumination. I couldn't stand darkness anymore... Its density was suffocating. So, I gave it my all, physically and mentally and successfully entered into the portal.. At first, all I saw was light.. Blinding, protruding light.. Light so severe that it burns your eyes no matter how tightly you close it.. It seemed like both the forces were out to get me... Like Monsters trying to snatch their prey from one another.. As I walked forward, the light started to lose its intensity and gradually, I could see building like structures.. Little by little, I could make out roads, trees, houses and most importantly people.. Oh! It felt so good seeing humans, that too, kids like me, playing jovially.. As the light faded completely, I saw the place in its entirety and I rubbed my eyes in amazement and delight. It was exactly identical to the town Warhammer in Monster Hunter, my favorite game. The same buildings, the same roadsigns, the same well at the middle of the road with wooden sign, ' Welcome to Warhammer, where Hammers do the talking'. The kids, who I saw playing cheerfully, were actually hammering and hunting down the monsters to complete one level after another, just like in the game itself. It was like a virtual reality game, where everything was so real that your senses get deceived. I couldn't stay away from all of this for long; after all, it was my favorite game. So, just like in the game itself, I picked up a hammer from the hammer shop, located at the center of the town and started whacking one monster after another. It was not entirely identical to the game... I mean, the graphics were much more advanced, with the blood and bones looking much sharper and refined, the Monsters looking very much real with their movements and screams. For some reason, the Monsters looked much more humane than what they looked in the game. All of this added to the game playing experience and I just couldn't stop playing.. Playing this game gave me that purpose which I searched for so long.. It's as if I was born to play this game; as if it was my calling.. Moreover, this VR game is funnier in comparison to the desktop version... Like, when I run after the Monsters to smash them, they run screaming 'Monster!! Monster is coming! Run! 'It's so funny... The Monsters calling me a monster.. It's hilarious.. It's because of these well written dialogues that I cannot stop laughing while playing it and smashing those idiots... I don't know why Mommy would scare me and forbid me from taking this path.. Maybe because she thought I would get addicted to this game and enjoy it too much and continue playing for hours.. Well, she is not wrong..hehe.. I love this place and I have no intention of going back anytime soon... Let's look at how many more Monsters do I have smash to clear this level... The Monster board says, 7.6 billion... Wow, that's so many monsters.. I can't even count the number of zeroes that number has... Wait, One, two, three, four, five.... Forget it, I'll figure it out later.. Now, I have to smash some more Monsters and get home soon or I'll get smashed myself hehe.. Now, where do I start? There... Let's start from there.. Hey, that Monster kinda resembles my mom...

“What the actual fuck is happening?” I was standing behind a trash can that smelled of cat piss. I reasoned that the sight before me was the byproduct of ammonia intoxication because people can’t just levitate ten feet off the ground, in the middle of the street, with no chords, ropes, or jet packs. “Isn’t that Jacoby, that weirdo from third period?” Clara questioned beside me. Not only was I not aware that she had been next to me, but I was confused as to why she sounded so calm. It was indeed Jacoby, the most random of people to be performing a miracle for the ages. How could she have sounded as haughty as ever in the face of such wonder unless I really was losing my mind. “Claire Bear, can you please tell me, does it look like Jacoby is . . . doing anything strange?” I hesitated to just come out and say what I saw because I was already on thin ice. Ever since the death of my uncle Jerry, I had been walking around a little less than myself. The loss had dredged up a lot of, let’s call it, “stuff” and my parents had everyone on high alert as a product. Clara was for sure, though a decent neighbor, a backstabber who would spill business for anything she could perceive as an opportunity to make herself look like an invaluable person. “Him standing in the middle of the street like an idiot? Yeah sure. I should go over and tell him to move before he gets himself killed.” True to her word, she walked right over to him under the bright summer sun, a hand smoothing down the front of her white dress to keep the wind from lifting it up. Jacoby didn’t seem to see her immediately but did float down just before she could come within a few feet of him. Her eyes were trained, when he was floating, on the space that he eventually stood, the entire time. It’s as though she could only see him in that very spot. He did not act startled or waiver in the least. It was then that I decided I was losing my carefully kept marbles and so chose to straighten out from my bent position and make myself a respectable citizen by engaging with Jacoby directly. He and Clara had begun to chat and were walking towards the Paramount Pharmacy, the best in our well water town. “So, yeah, I was just looking down the road. That was all Clara. I thank you for your concern,” Jacoby said as politely as he could muster though it was obvious, at least to me, that it pained him. I smiled, a tight, cheek hurting smile when he looked my way. It was hard to meet his honey brown gaze. He had been in the air, I could have sworn but wouldn’t dare say, just a few seconds prior. When I did meet his gaze head on, his brow furrowed quizzically, and his eyes widened. “My, Clara. You have been so kind as to check in on me. Always so helpful. Would you mind going’ on in there to the Pharmacy? I was supposed to ask about Ms. Sally’s ointment. You mind seeing if it has come in yet? I promised I’d do a check for her and keep my mouth shut about it. For a seventy-year-old math teacher, she can still be quite vain, you know?” Clara shook, giddy with the gossip. She spared me a half smug glance then skipped on in to nosey her way into Ms. Sally’s business. Jacoby stayed behind, eyes fixed to me the whole time and I was painted red, my neck hot with flush. “Hi Adams,” Jacoby said. He began to walk over to a nearby bus bench. The street was quiet for a summer Tuesday afternoon. Everyone in town was out celebrating in the square after that morning’s homecoming parade and I was exhausted from the theatrics. I was supposed to be heading home. My date, Abbey McKinnon, would no doubt have been in a rage if I were to show up late with the limo that evening. Home was exactly where I was headed before I saw whatever hallucination of Jacoby. “How’s it going Jacoby? Did you enjoy the parade?” I ask. “Oh, no. I didn’t get a chance to see it. I was busy with something.” The turn of his lips proved contagious as I felt my own twitch upwards in response, but only for a second before I looked away. I thought I saw his eyes flit to my mouth, and this left a hollow but at the same time full sensation in my center that filled me with alarm. “But I hear congratulations are in order. Clara told me about our team. Good work, I’m sure Abbey is stoked to be with a winning King.” I choked on a chuckle. “I most certainly will not be crowned king of homecoming. Not this year. Abbey and her girls, Clara included, decided it would be best for the books if we were runners up this year and won in our Senior year instead. She said ‘everyone loves an underdog. It’ll read better,’ apparently.” I sat down next to Jacoby and my ordinary fidgets started in my legs, causing a wiggle, wiggle in my ankle. I apologized and shuddered away when I bumped my foot into his, but he waved it off with an easy smile. “Jacoby, I uh. I thought I saw something back there, a moment ago.” “Oh, yeah? What did you think you saw?” He looked me right in my eye and my stomach couldn’t abide by the direct challenge. “Oh, nothing.’” “There you two are! Jacoby, you little rat. Ms. Sally ain’t asked for nothing.” * The festivities of the evening went to plan as the women in my life had intended and they could not have appeared happier. My mother was all too eager to snap up picture after picture. She insisted on going to Abbie’s house and wanted to pay her portion of the limo and hotel fees the parents had agreed to. The other ‘rents had given Mama a bit of a discount with all the travel my dad had been doing as of late. No one wanted us to burn through the funds he’d left. They were meant to last. I had stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, tired of all the posing and fake deliberation on what it meant to be this year’s runner up with Abbs. Oh, me? Oh my, what a surprise and an honor. “Having a good time, runner up?” Jacoby appeared beside me on the old brick wall by the dumpsters, his hands folded together. I felt a little shaken, like a rattle in a baby’s hand at the proximity. “Sure. It’s been a heck of a long day.” “I’d suspect as much.” We looked at each other and something about the eye contact, after a while, plied me like warm water softening plastic. “Where the fuck you come from? I didn’t see you inside.” Jacoby frowned, but that frown fell faster than a drunk falling for a stripper and it was replaced by a small smile that bloomed across the bottom half of his face like dye in a pail of water. “What?” I sobered, afraid that it would be my only moment to ask: “Do you know how to float?” He went still and silent, so I pressed on. “Look, I know this may sound like a bag of cashews and peanuts, but I swear I saw you like twenty-feet in the fucking air this afternoon and Clara acted like everything was normal and maybe it was, maybe I was - “ “You did see me. And no, Clara couldn’t. If you weren’t the person, I’m pretty sure you don’t want to be, then you wouldn’t have either.” To be honest, it took a moment to dissect what he said because that last sentence confused me. I looked up and down the wide alley we were in. The metal door to the cafeteria was left ajar, the night's festivities taking place just down the hall from it and audible even where I stood. “What does that mean?” “I uh. I am what some may call a warlock in training and my aunt totally told me not conjure a love spell so I may have used a levitating love potion which essentially makes me appear to be levitating to those who may sort of, kind of, be interested in me - which I totally am not accusing you of, seeing as you have a girlfriend and all but, yeah. You’re not crazy, but I completely understand if you now think I am.” I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or run. So, I did all of them. And somehow, my wiggly hands pulled Jacoby along with me.

I had my taxi drop me off at 666 Jackson Street, right at “Dr. Susannah's Museum of The Weird.” By day, it was a downtown tourist trap meant to get visitors to pretend to awe at clearly fake bigfoot prints, Fiji mermaids, and other oddities. The most real thing they had there was the taxidermized remains of a three eyed pig, although even then, the taxidermist went out of his way to make it a bit more horrifying. But by night, after closing, when the witches reclaimed their spot from the tourists, the weirdness got very real. And that’s when I popped by to make my visit. “Good evening, ladies.” I said to the three heads of the coven (Margaret, Christine, and Tina) as they sat at their table. “I must say, this city never ceases to amaze me, one of my favorite spots on the mortal plane to pay a visit.” The witches seemed surprised. “What, you didn’t think that even The Devil still needs to take a vacation every now and then?” “I’m more surprised you needed a cab to get here.” One of them said. “I didn’t need to, I wanted to.” He said. “Whenever I visit the human world, I want to make the most of it, live like a local, ‘when in Rome’ as you say. Hell gets boring after a while. Heaven is even worse, if I weren’t immortal I’d die of boredom every time I have to go there for a ‘diplomatic’ trip. You humans, on the other hand, you know how to make everything artistic and vibrant. Your lives may be short, but you’ve damn well learned to...” “Can we please get to business?” one of them asked. “Very well.” I said. “You must be Margaret. You were the one who contacted me, I believe.” “Yes, I am.” Margaret said. "And what does a group of beautiful young ladies like yourselves want with The Devil?" I asked. “We need a weapon, something that can defeat a powerful vampire.” Margaret said. “It’s a long story, but we’ve made enemies with an exceptionally powerful vampire lord, one who calls himself Lord Wallace, although he's not been 'Lord' of anything ever since he hopped on a ship to the United States. Anyway, we need something that can beat him. Could you give something like that to us?” “Wait here.” I said before vanishing back to Hell, to browse my vault. I came back a few minutes later with something I knew they’d be interested in. “11th Century Celtic vampire killing staff.” I said. “Infused with powerful magic designed to kill vampires. If anything in my collection has a chance of killing it, this does.” “Now that that’s out of the way, what would I expect in return if I loaned this to you?” I asked. “How about our souls?” Tina asked. I laughed. “I can already smell the sins on your souls, they’ll be mine eventually anyway. You’re young, so it may be a long wait, but they will be mine, and I think you already know that.” “How about this.” I said as I showed them a picture. Shelby Smith was a fifty-two year old woman who lived fairly close to the witches. For all her strong suits, attractiveness was not one of them, never was. Despite being fairly active, her lifelong love of sweets kept her quite overweight, and it didn’t help that she was too frugal to buy jewelry, makeup, or nice clothes, save for maybe a nice church outfit or two. She was a nurse by day, and a committed charity worker by night, organizing weekly luncheons for the homeless with her Bible study group. To most who knew her, she was a kind, grandmotherly figure who always had kind words and a hug for anyone who wanted one. “I want her dead.” I said. “Her infectious kindness makes it very hard to attract people in this area to sin. If you kill your vampire, then you owe me her death.” “Deal.” The three witches said in near perfect unison. "Wonderful." I said as I whipped up a contract. After they all signed, I said "Alright, now, I best be leaving." "Why, because you have important duties back in Hell?" Margaret asked. "No." I said. "Because I have a dinner reservation in fifteen minutes. One of my favorite seafood restaurants is just down the street." \_\_\_\_\_ The next day, the witches made their move against the vampire. They went to the mansion he was based out of, and used the staff’s power to break down the door. They even targeted him during the daytime, to make sure he was really home. “Wakey wakey, we’re here for you.” Margaret said. “It’s a beautiful day out, come enjoy.” The vampire said and did nothing. “Alright girls, time to find this prick.” Margaret said as she summoned a ball of fire in her hands. They didn’t find him anywhere downstairs, so they went up the stairs. And then, Christine was attacked from behind, pulled by Lord Wallace and thrown down a full flight of stairs onto a wooden floor. The other ladies could hear the sound of her neck break. Margaret then used the staff to blast lightning in his direction. Lord Wallace fled back into the shadows, and Margaret and Tina then stood back to back, eyes on a swivel and ears scanning for every little sound that could be him. Lord Wallace then reappeared as a cloud of smoke. Margaret used a wind spell to make him dissipate, and spread him so thin that it was hard for him to put himself back together. After he reappeared in his vampire form, Margaret began blasting him with fire. He keeled in pain, but then leapt out of the way and into one of the bedrooms. Tina noticed something. She said “Stop, look at that.” and pointed to a little discovery that could turn the fight in their favor. The spot where she had fired lightning had burned straight through the ceiling, and was now shining light inside. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Tina asked. Margaret then fired another three blasts at the roof, each one made a little more light shine in. “Yeah, I think I am. Keep watch while I make it a little brighter here.” \_\_\_\_\_\_\_ After they brightened up the second floor, Margaret taunted “What are you staying inside for, the day is so nice. Oh well, time to get you out of that stuffy bedroom.” She used a wind spell to knock the door off its hinges. She and tina barged in, only to find that no one was there. What they didn’t realize was that each room on the top floor was connected, each room had a backdoor leading to one of the other rooms. But just before they realized what was going on, Tina was grabbed from behind, bit once in the neck, and then thrown out of a second story window. The window wasn’t even open, she was simply thrown with so much force that she bursted through the glass. Margaret didn’t even have to look at her to know that she was a goner. The vampire then came towards Margaret, but Margaret kept it at bay with a fire spell. She then pushed him back, into the hallway, where the light would shine on him. “What’s the problem, too bright out for you?” She asked as his skin began to burn under the intense sun. Right as she was about to win, she got cocky, and blasted the ceiling with more lightning. She thought he was too weak to fight back anymore; he wasn’t. Using the last of his strength, the vampire rushed her, and before she could back up or defend herself, he slashed her neck wide open. He succumbed to the sunlight and finally burned to a crisp moments later, but it was too late for Margaret. She then simply died of blood loss, and no spells could save her. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_ As I looked at Margaret’s dying body, I said “Oh well. I may not be getting to see Shelby Smith die, but at least I won’t have to wait any longer for your souls. I'll be seeing you again soon, in Hell, looks like your friends are already waiting for you there.” “And thank you, I think I’ll take my staff back now.” I said as I pulled it out of her hands and left to put it back in Hell’s vault.

The foyer was filled with thick red carpet, emblazoned with intricate patterns of silver and black ribbons that caught the eye, and covered the cold stone floor completely. The furniture was carved from the wood of the surrounding forest. Stained such a deep brown that the pieces looked almost black. The space was cold, and the only sounds were of the ticking of an antique clock accompanied by the rhythmic typing of the Headmaster’s secretary. A woman who looked ancient, but refused to stop working. As if her presence at that desk was simply another constant of the universe. We had been waiting for twenty minutes already, but my blood was still pumping. My ribs hurt and my trousers were torn, but otherwise I was fine. The upperclassman sitting next to me on the bench was not. He was wheezing and trying to hide it. I pulled a piece of nicotine-dosed gum from my inner jacket pocket, contraband here at the Citadel, and slipped it into his palm. He took it immediately. Hiding slow chews as his breathing eased. Fresh blood was slowly seeping through what remained of his right sleeve and he was doing his best to keep it contained. “Why do it?” I asked of the taller boy. I had to know. His eyes were closed as he kept pressure on the wound with his opposite hand, the secretary remained devoutly focused on her work. Apparently, the presence of wounded Cadets was not an uncommon occurrence here. “Why?” he responded with a slight chuckle and pained wince, “For one I’ve never liked Gregor or his family. Two, he had a knife, and you did not. Three, I’ve never liked Gregor or his family.” I pulled my uniform’s kerchief and began to tie it around his arm, cinching the knot over the gash to keep pressure. I kept prying, “And that was enough to spur you into diving off a table during dinner, stab him in the shoulder, and get cut for your efforts?” I checked the snugness of the dressing and glanced at the secretary. She kept typing, oblivious, or indifferent. “That’s correct,” he coughed, and I stared at him in confusion. He finally opened his eyes, and upon seeing my face he laughed, immediately wincing hard again. He spoke softly, “My name is Kalchomich. I am one of your class supervisors in the machine shop. I have watched Gregor accost you and other members of your class since the start of school, but you always stood up to him. Even when it would end badly for you. At dinner, when he threatened you, I simply had enough. So, I put a stop to it.” Kalchomich leaned back and focused on chewing while I attempted to make sense of his logic. A dull buzzer went off at the secretary’s desk and her constant typing ceased. She looked directly at us over half-moon glasses, “The Headmaster will see you now.” Then promptly went back to her keyboard and screen. I made to stand, but Kalchomich grabbed my arm, his pained eyes looking right through me, “We stand up for the good ones, because if we don’t, then soon there will not be any left.” I heard his words then, but it would be years until I understood them. At the time I was more focused on helping him stand. The bottom of his right trouser leg was doing a poor job of hiding a very swollen, very broken, ankle. The landing after his initial attack had not been a good one. Taking his arm across my shoulders, I helped him up and we pushed our way into the Headmaster’s office together. My name is Vladimir Zhukov, and that was the first dead hero I have met.

402 Another sleepless night of tossing and turning in my bed Another night of terrors pounding at my head Another cell phone ring, another horrific scene Another dead body for me to have to see “Hello,” I answered as the tone stayed dead Then a woman's voice shrieked, “He's at it again.” “Are you sure?” I asked as out of the bed I flew “I'm positive sir, but this time... he left you a clue” As I hung up the phone I sat for a minute to think A clue? Why now? What is the missing link? This doesn't make any sense, as I picked my clothes off the floor I can't wrap my head around this, he's never done this before I then grabbed my badge and my gun and ran out the door Another drop of rain Another dark night Another dead body Another scene of fright This victim wasn't different, he did them all the same Bound, gagged, and stabbed in his sick demented game This poor girl had been tortured, had to suffer so much pain “Has anyone notified the family? Do we even know her name?” “No, not yet sir,” I heard, “we're still trying to figure this one out” “But here's the clue he left for you... he stuffed it in her mouth” Another lifeless corpse Another woman dead Another brunette beauty Another street of red I stared at this piece of paper as I plotted my next move But I kept drawing a blank, for all it read was 402 He wasn't going to make this simple, this was no easy clue He was toying with my brain as I knew not what to do “Check every apartment in this city, I don't care how long it takes” “Until we figure this thing out, not a woman will be safe” Another shot of whiskey Another cigarette drag Another night gone hopeless Another night gone mad He just won't quit, won’t give up or leave He won't relinquish himself, discontinue or cease He won't vacate my life, retire or flee He won't stop til I'm dead, til there's just a shell of me Not til I'm hopeless and defeated, not until I give in Not til I am ruined, not until then will he win I laid it on the bar and stared at the piece of paper til it bled Til 402 was all I thought about, til it was branded in my head I know it wasn't over, I know what he will do He will have to kill again, He'd want to leave more clues Another cell phone ring Another whiskey down Another shrieking voice Another body found “Sir, you must get down here, I don't know what to say” “Well first,” I shouted, “tell me what happened. Is everything ok?” “Sir, I can't explain this, please say you're on your way” “I'll have to take a cab, put up the yellow tape” My cigarette was lit but a drag I did not take For inches just blew off as the ash just blew away I stood running, fast, for a step I did not take My hands remained still, as my heart began to ache Everyone stood in horror at how this girl was laid to rest For the clue that he had left me, he carved it in her chest I couldn't understand what he left for me to read I just could not make sense of the letters before me 'NOT HIL' is what he carved, 'NOT HIL' is what I saw As I remained motionless as the rain continued to pour Another nightmare branded In another person's soul Another 911 call Another clue untold The next victim was found different, I almost couldn't tell He laid her down so careful, he treated her so well No puncture wounds or stabbings, no torture could be seen No horrific nightmare, no signs that he was mean A dead body, of course, a murder yes indeed Fearful, dreadful, frightful, horrific to say the least Not his usual victim, it was not his usual play No signs he went too far showing his shades of Mr.

Sins of the Father (and Mother) It is a well established fact of life that parents will occasionally, usually unintentionally, embarrass their children. This is often accomplished, in most cases by the dad, simply by choice of attire. Kids do not want to be seen in close proximity to a parent who likely secured their latest colorful outfit at the clearance sale rack at the “Nerd Department” of Kohl’s. Such momentary discomforts suffered by a child are to be expected and over time can be forgiven. My tale of woe is not the result of unintentional acts of geeky, parental behavior, but rather the result of a carefully planned course of action designed to inflict maximum humiliation. This cannot be forgiven. Much of what you will read here is based on hearsay, in some cases double hearsay, and in an instance or two, triple hearsay, or so I’ve heard. A fair amount of conjecture is also sprinkled in, as well as a spoonful of sheer guesswork, but I deem it all reliable. Planning Stage My parents met in high school. That was 10 years before I was born, but I have reason to believe that is where we find the genesis of the diabolical deed. My uncle says he knows a guy who once bought a used car from a guy who had the same study hall as mom and dad. I never spoke to him directly, but he swears that he overheard mom and dad whispering words like "bunnies" and "boxers" on multiple occasions. Coincidence? I don’t think so. My parents celebrate their anniversary on February 14 th . As such, Valentine’s Day is a big deal around my house. Even my dad gets all squishy about it. Coincidence that Phase One of the dastardly act was launched on Valentines Day? I don’t think so...more like it was their gift to each other. Critical to the success of the scheme was the fact that dad and my gym teacher both are active members of the local Lions Club. My dad joined Lions 5 years before implementing the demonic deed. Proof of premeditation? I’d say. It is also significant to note that my mom and the mother of the beautiful Janet served on two PTA committees together, thus giving them plenty of time to scheme. Consider too that my dad and Jack’s dad were in the same bowling league. Do you think more than bowling for average was going on? I do. The complexity of the plan staggers the imagination and underscores the degree of depravity behind the dastardly deed. Execution “Happy Valentines Day, honey! We got this nice gift for you.” The tone was sweet, much in the mode of Brutus asking Caesar to stop by for a visit. The package was beautifully wrapped, much in the tradition of the keepsake the Greeks left for the Trojans. The impact would prove to be greater than the consequences of either event. Even today, after the passing of so many years, I still lament that, in the immortal words of Lloyd Christmas, “I didn’t even see it coming.” A good laugh was had by all. Pink boxer shorts covered with red hearts in a variety of sizes, a multitude of hopping white bunnies, and the words “Honey Bunny” plastered all over them. “Thanks mom, very funny.” If I had only known. I would have immediately shredded the garment, burned the fragments, and buried the ashes in the backyard, somewhere in the vicinity of the final resting place of Fred the hamster and AJ the turtle. But those were the naïve, trusting days of a 13 year old, so I thanked my parents and placed the “Honey Bunny” boxers at the bottom of my sock and underwear drawer, firm in the belief I would never wear them. They say timing is everything in the world of humor. The same can be said for successful pranks, especially those of a malicious nature. Like a cat waiting to pounce on its unsuspecting prey, patience is key. In this case, the clever prankers quietly strategized for months before implementing the conclusion of their sorry scheme. Freshman year in high school is a vulnerable time for many teens. Around mid-October, I was working through some self-confidence issues as I tried hard to “fit in”. I felt I was making good progress, and then it all came crashing down with unspeakable, humiliating, and endless consequence. I had a restless night. I heard sounds in my bedroom, mysterious, foreboding sounds. In my semi-conscious state, I couldn’t identify the source. But now I know with absolute certitude that someone, mom or dad, I can’t be sure which as both strenuously adhere to the self-serving principal of plausible deniability, was rifling through my sock and underwear drawer. The next morning I discovered that there is indeed something worse than the proverbial “empty cupboard”- a drawer with a lone pair of boxer shorts- yes, you guessed it, the now infamous “Honey Bunny” boxer shorts. How could this be? I know there were at least 3 pair of non-Honey Bunny boxers in that drawer, and now, poof, they’re gone? This was beyond suspicious. “Mom! Where are my boxer shorts?! The only pair left is the stupid Honey Bun shorts, and I’m not wearing those!” “They’re all in the laundry. You’ll have to wear the Honey Buns, honey bun.” She sounded so sincere, so sweet, so honest. I bet she practiced that for days. My own mother! Wait, let me think. It’s Thursday. My Physical Fitness course has classroom instruction on nutrition and healthy lifestyles on Thursdays. I won’t have to change into gym shorts today. No one will know I am wearing the Honey Buns. I’ll know, and there is a certain degree of discomfort associated with bearing such a close relationship with hearts and bunnies, but no real harm could come of it. But that I could only have grasped the extent of the devious intricacies of the plot. My last normal day of high school was, well, pretty normal. In fact, it was above and beyond normal. My buddy Jason had informed me that Janet (the object of heartfelt obsession since my very first day of high school) would in fact agree to go to the Freshman Dance with me should I ever be able to muster up sufficient courage to ask her. Now this put my mind on a whole different track. I could think of nothing besides Janet, the dance, and how I would go about asking her. The troublesome reality of what was yet unseen vanished in the fog of fanciful romance. Looking back on it, I am still undecided if it was merely cruel fate, or had either Jason or Janet, or both, with the prodding of their parents, assumed the part of co-conspirators. The role that the irresistible powers of distraction played in the event seems way too “convenient” to have been a matter of coincidence. Jason steadfastly denies any part in the whole sordid affair, and the shroud of embarrassment has precluded any attempt on my part to communicate with the beautiful Janet. “Attention! Due to maintenance work in the gym scheduled for tomorrow, Mr. Hall’s Physical Fitness class will be held in the gym today.” How difficult would it have been for my dad to learn of the schedule change from my gym teacher during a night of bowling and beer guzzling? Difficult? No, I’d put it in the column of highly probable...and sinister. It never registered. Every electron flashing through my brain was focused on my only reality at the moment- Janet, Janet, and then some more Janet. As I stood in front of my locker, I was completely oblivious to the fact I was wearing the Honey Buns and the ensuing doom soon to be unleashed. “Hey, Jack. What do you think we’ll be doing today?” “I think we're still on...oh my God.” My blue jeans were off, and there they were, for all to see- the dreaded Honey Buns. Jack was not a disciple of the cautionary admonition, “Loose lips sink ships”, and he was certainly not one to let a rich opportunity to publicly ridicule a classmate pass him by. He pounced with remarkable relish. “Hey guys! Take a look at this! Pink underwear with hearts and bunnies!” Oh my God. The moment I heard the words and the accompanying clamor for all to get a good look, I knew I was doomed. A nearby junior meanie grabbed my blue jeans and my gym shorts and took off, leaving me standing there defenseless and humiliated in my Honey Buns for the remainder of the period. They say the laughter could be heard in the girls’ locker-room clear across the other side of the gym. I would later learn that nearby neighbors in their homes questioned the cause of the jubilant uproar emanating from the high school. It was an emotional stoning. My classmates showed no mercy. Even my gym teacher, previously perceived to be a nice man, laughed to the point of tears. Verbal descriptions of the event would have been damaging; the presence of camera equipped cell phones guaranteed long term and widespread devastation. I felt like I was on display at a Carnival side show. Tardy students were flagged down in the hallway and brought in to take a look. Word of the spectacle somehow reached the faculty lounge and a number of the adults quickly abandoned their role of caretaker of children and rushed in to get a good laugh. Girls giggled and pointed in the hallways the remainder of the day. Teachers smirked and muffled laughter. The Principal gave me a sympathetic look, shook his head, and said, “I was going to say that all things will pass, but then I saw the picture. Good luck, son.” Aftermath There are figures in history who are defined by one singular event, some good, some not so good. The good: Bobby Thompson’s home run, Neil Armstrong setting foot on the moon, Lindberg’s trans-Atlantic fight. The bad: Bartman interfering with the foul ball in the Cubs’ playoff game, a candidate for national office flubbing the spelling of ‘potato’, Will Smith’s slap-down of Chris Rock. The ugly: me in my Honey Buns. Similarly, there are permanent nicknames that carry a positive connotation, such as Zorro and Batman, while other monikers are less desirable, such as Humpty-Dumpty and Butt-Head. And then there is the truly regrettable- Honey Bunny. From that day forward my christened name languished on the trash heap of history. I would forever be known as “Honey Bunny”. Every kid in that high school called me Honey Bunny. Teachers did the same. My parents discarded the name they once picked out and went with Honey Bunny. The Greeter at Walmart shoved a cart in my direction saying, “Here you go, Honey Bunny”. The ultimate humiliation came when the priest in the Confessional slid open the little door and asked, “And when was your last confession, Honey Bunny?” I fought it at first. I tried wearing disguises to school, wigs, phony glasses with the fake nose, occasionally a dress, a lovely chiffon with gold trim. It only added to the ridicule. I pleaded with my parents to send me to the Catholic High School across town. We checked it out, but my hopes were quickly dashed when the admissions counselor greeted me with, “We’d love to have you here at St. John’s, Honey Bunny.” I finally realized there was no point in resisting, so I embraced it. If I were to be Honey Bunny, I was determined to be the best Honey Bunny I could be. The next day, just after the final bell at the end of the school day when the hallways are the busiest, I jumped up on a chair, raised my arms above my head, and shouted, “I am Honey Bunny! Hear me roar!” That only made things worse. So, I sit alone and dejected, each day growing more and more accustomed to a life of ridicule and anguish. At long last, I have concluded that nothing can be done to improve my present circumstance. I turn then to the future. It is my heritage, it is my right. Should I ever find a woman charitable enough to take “Honey Bunny” for her husband, and should we have children, I will be certain to pass along the sins of my father...and mother. I am not so cruel as to inflict anything as damaging as Honey Bunny boxers on my offspring, but I will be sure to dish out ample doses of embarrassment when opportunities arise. I already have a few things in mind. Whenever we are in public places, I’ll hit them up with distasteful nicknames like “Princess”, “Speedy” and “Buster”. I will make certain that my kids are the last to know there is no Santa, thereby guaranteeing they will be the brunt of a few laughs in their elementary school classrooms, maybe even high school if I can pull it off. And any time a child of mine distances himself or herself from me because of my wardrobe selection, I will quickly close the gap and repeatedly shout, “I’m this kid’s dad! I’m this kid’s dad!” I don’t know if we can call this payback, but I feel better already.

I'm stuck. Not in glue, not between two cushions, and definitely not between relationships. I am stuck in mediocrity. A life based on being nothing more, and no less than average. I could have trials, and I most certainly could have tribulations, but I don't. I want adventure, i want to be taken away to a life of grandeur, or even a life of doubt, filled with challenges of the unfamiliar. Packed with steps for me to stride up or fall down. Anything changing, slowly, quickly, Honestly i don't care, just different than mediocre. And I wonder....Is this life I have been given truly a gift. My worries are not true worries, and things I have taken for granted are treasures around the world. Things I know in my everyday life of mediocrity could be life changing to the right person. A generation of poverty stricken people walk miles for the same life fluid I put into a toilet. Is this wrong? I really have no clue. I am too busy waking up day in and day out doing the same exact thing as every other person stuck in the state of mediocrity....Being content with my life. It stops now.... I need a change. I need explosive days, and powerful feelings that strike a nerve, and make me unhinge my normality. Life that flows through the soul and out my body, radiating into everyone around me. Changes that I start, and commit to finishing. Steps to move myself forward or even leaps that can alter this mediocre lifestyle. ... ... But.... .... I am already in bed, so I'll start tomorrow.

Spring. The time when the grass becomes greener and the leaves turn brighter. It’s also the time when the annual Spring Festival takes place in the city of Sacramento, California. People all over the city come together on this Saturday and enjoy this event. There are different tents for food and other sold goods, live music and performances, rides, game booths, and to end off the night, a fireworks show. It is an overall, enjoyable occasion, but maybe not for everyone. Eva is a college student in her sophomore year who has a passion for painting. There are joys in grabbing a paintbrush and creating a piece of work where there are no limitations, but when it comes to her personal life, joy doesn’t exist as she’s constantly fighting the negative thoughts that have been attacking her mind for years. Her family forcefully brings her to the festival to get some fresh air, instead of staying isolated in her room, letting her thoughts rot her brain. Vince, another student in his junior year of college, flew from New York during his spring break to spend time with his grandmother, as he does every year. He’s studying to become an architect, so he takes his school and work very seriously. His aura makes him unapproachable, which is why he isn’t close to many people, but it hasn’t occurred to anyone that that idea does put a burden on him. He never wished for people to keep a distance from him, but they did and believed that was okay for him because he’ll become successful for himself and his family. Success was all that they cared about when it came to him. Vince had been accompanying his grandmother around the festival until his Aunt Janice came to take over. “Don’t worry about me. Go and make some memories on your own for once while you’re in this town” Vince’s grandmother whispered, then winked before she walked away with Aunt Janice. Eva had been sitting on the grass with all the other festival go-ers, listening to the live music. She was drawing in her notebook to pass the time by, since her mother wouldn’t let her leave until after the fireworks show had ended. She stood up to walk around and look for something new to occupy her. She bumped into a man that looked the same age as her who was taking a picture for another family. Apparently, they bumped into each other pretty hard to where her sunglasses on her head fell to the ground. “That was my fault. I am so sorry,” Vince apologized. “It’s fine,” Eva said while picking up her glasses and blowing off the dirt on the lenses. She walked away to grab a napkin from one of the food tents and sat back down on the grass. As she was cleaning her glasses with the napkin and her half-filled water bottle, Vince comes her way and apologizes once more, but this time with a bag of chips he bought from a food tent. She accepted the chips and he sat about five feet away from her. They didn’t know it, but in their minds, they were both questioning why the other was alone at this festival full of families, friends, and couples. Most people had their company, but soon, they would be each other’s company. “Do you enjoy going to events by yourself or are you waiting for anyone?” Eva started. “I was with my grandmother, but she decided to leave me alone to have fun. She thinks I need a break from being such a serious person...but she’s right. These kinds of things are nice,” Vince explains. “What about you, if I may ask?” “My mom forced me to come here. She thinks being cooped up in my room all the time is bad for me. I hate to admit it, but she is right because being outside gives me inspiration for my paintings.” Their conversation went on for hours, talking about their lives. Even though they both enjoyed listening to one another’s stories, sharing pictures of their own career-related work on their phones, they each couldn’t help but feel a pinch of sadness about how the other felt about their own life. On one hand, Vince was amazed at how much freedom Eva feels when she creates new artwork, but at the same time, his heart tugged at the fact that she couldn’t paint her reality to become more happier or secure around her family. On the other hand, Eva felt inspired by how much initiative Vince has taken on his career as an architect. She was fascinated from seeing the blueprints he created and how he has been helping his uncle with designing buildings in his town. However, there was a sense of despair when he discussed how much people only appreciate him for being on top of his education and career. She noticed his gloomy expression when he stated that he wished people looked beyond those capabilities and cared about him, and not just his work. People view buildings and think it looks beautiful from the outside as they pass by and just disregard the structure built inside of it; this was Vince’s perspective on how his life was like, and Eva completely understood that. Vince went to grab a blanket in his car for him and Eva to sit on. They talked all night about each other’s’ interests and futures. Although it wasn’t addressed, they both understood to not pry into one another’s personal life because they had respected each other that much. However, throughout the night, they each couldn’t help but feel the need to know how the other came to be the person they are today and why they aren’t the person they wished to be. There was a lot more that they needed to learn about each other, and if only time persisted, then they could. They joked and shared laughs until the fireworks suddenly shot up in the sky. There was silence between the two amongst the “oohhs” and “aahhs” from the children around them, but their minds were loud with wonders about the other and when they will see each other again. Their hearts felt that there was a reason they needed to stay connected. The show ended, and so did their light-hearted conversation that would be unforgettable for the both of them. “It was great meeting you. I actually had a wonderful time, which doesn’t happen often, so I guess you’re lucky,” Eva joked. “Well, I’m honored. I also had a great time with you, so thank you. I mean it.” “Would you like to meet again one day? We can go to a café near by or come back here and-“ “Actually, my flight leaves tomorrow morning.” “Oh,” said Eva with a saddened tone. “My week of spring break ends here, unfortunately, but now I’m wishing this was the start,” Vince says apologetically. “I’ll be back next year during break, so we can meet up and continue our conversation because I would love to know more about you.” Eva smiles and says, “Yes, I agree. Let’s exchange phone numbers, so we don’t lose contact.” Vince complies and they both enter in their contacts on the other’s phone as people are ushering out of the park to drive back home, since the event was over. When they finish, they bid each other goodbye and go their separate ways with disappointment and hope in their hearts. Eva walks towards where her mother’s car was parked until she hears Vince call out her name, causing her to stop in her tracks and turn around. “We’ll meet again in the spring time,” Vince ensures.

Yoshito was meditating deep within his treasured memories. He focused on the pearl of greatest value to him: *The whole memory was of the koi and of his father. His father was already very old when Yoshito was born. He meditated and remembered that day, he was three and a half years old, merely two by his new American age.* *"We moved here when my son, you were born." Yoshito's father had said.* *He had stared at the fish and recalled his birth. Later when his father died he had stood at this pond and recalled the memory of when he was two, recalling his birth.* *This was a string of pearls, when he closed his eyes and dreamed or meditated. All of his very precious memories kept intact, perfectly and remembered.* The call came in that interrupted this thought from Yoshito. Since his desk phone was off, in his office, on his scheduled afternoon tea time, the call came in the form of his secretary, Mrs. Djan. "A call from Doctor Reese, sir" she said in English. "Okay." Yoshito said plainly. Only Mrs. Djan noticed that he sounded annoyed, his exact tone and speed was slightly different. A voice analysis might not have picked up the difference, but it took a human ear sometimes, Mrs. Djan didn't trust machines. Her boss took the call and she went out to her own desk outside his office. She simply used her phone for this message, she sent it saying: "Reeses-in-pieces" to her new boss. She knew when it was time to find a new job. "Reese, how are you? How is Carol? Is that squirrel still stealing from Annabelle's bowl on the back porch? Ha Ha Ha." Yoshito talked to Reese. Reese had a lot to say because there was silence as Yoshito listened. He was telling Yoshito that he had done work on soldiers similar to what Yoshito was working on. It had gone very badly, they had become berserk monsters, possessed by the singular thought to kill. The rest hadn't worked as well as before, with the canine subjects. Mrs. Djan heard none of this, but she knew the scope of what Doctor Reese might be saying. "Calm down." Yoshito told Doctor Reese. "You remember what I told you before?" "How not? I mean: I will tell you again, just so you know." Yoshito replied. Mrs. Djan eavesdropped to this, but then Harris came in. He was head of security in the hospital. "Doctor Yoshito should be informed that a Mr. Reese is here to see him." Harris said to her back, catching her eavesdropping. "Right." Mrs. Djan straightened herself out. "That will be all then, Harris?" "Yes Ma'am." he frowned and left. She resumed her eavesdropping and heard Yoshito saying to Reese over the phone, who was apparently also in the building: "I was studying all the time, very focused and very good student. I was cold and my manner was not warm enough for the delivery of babies. I got my first patient and as we spoke the nurses cared for this pregnant woman. She was having her sixth child and she kept reminding me that she knew more about birthing children than I did with all my study. She wanted some tea. I told the nurse to pour the hot water for her. The pregnant woman insisted that I pour the hot water. She stared very intently and I grew strangely nervous and my pour became unsteady. The more unsteady my pouring of the hot water grew, the more intensely I tried to correct it and the more it gushed into the cup. Finally some of the hot water dripped over the side onto the plate as I finished pouring. All that in just one escalating moment from one simple lack of preparation on my part. She fired me, judging me to be too green and incompatible with her next birthing. I had some money after college, such was my cold prudence. When other patients reacted similarly to her I went into retreat and visited a garden of stone where a master of tea ceremony is willing to teach. It was not irrelevant to delivering babies. I went back and I felt different, having stared into empty stone lanterns. I delivered countless babies but then decided to go back to school. It was the mind I sought, instead of birth. I studied the human mind and became world renowned as a neural surgeon, second only to you Doctor Reese." "It is a long story." Reese complained. "And I am tired of hearing it, word for word." He suddenly burst into the office of Mrs. Djan with Harris as a hostage at gun point. He had a zip gun. The zip gun was a weapon where a spring coiled around a nail in a thin pvc pipe was held by a vice-grip tool's trigger-release. It was loaded with just one bullet, but it would fire that into Harris if she reacted. Or that was what Reese was saying to her anyway. He had his phone on bluetooth, still talking to Yoshito who was in his office on the other side of the door. Reese shuffled past Mrs. Djan like she might be armed. "I sit." Mrs. Djan went to her desk and sat down. "No wait, get back up." Reese told her. She produced an uzi from her desk drawer. It was folded up into a little blue case, but she then showed the hidden automatic. It had a little clip in it with fifteen bullets. Reese's eyes widened in horror. Mrs. Djan was one of them! One of the spooks that had chased him here! She started shooting and shot the first burst of five bullets entirely into Harris. Two shots went clean through him and hit Reese. Harris fell over dead. "Sorry Reese." Mrs. Djan climbed up onto her desk. Her tight cyan office skirt was not a bad last thing to see. She shot up Reese with the next burst, aiming for his feet. "Damn that hurts!" he proclaimed. "Give me that!" Mrs. Djan went to go disarm him. Suddenly the outer door opened and two more security guards came into the room. They had the misfortune of startling Mrs. Djan and she emptied the clip, killing them both. Then Yoshito opened his door. The zip gun made one last gunshot after all the uzi-fire. It hit Yoshito alongside his head. *He found himself in the place where he kept his pearls. There they were his thirty-nine most precious memories, as polished and perfect as their age and value to him. Then there were only thirty, broken pieces shattered and forgotten. He watched it happening in horror.* *He was trapped in this place. He went and reached for one of the rarest memories and his touch shattered that one as well. In horror he recoiled. He could only stand and stare at them.* *Time seemed endless as he looked. He counted them. Now only twenty-nine. As he stared he heard one that he had neglected to look at shatter as well. Then another and another the same way.* *He stared at the memory pearls even more intensely until they started to crack from getting stared at too hard. One of the very good memories broke.* *Yoshito shouted in frustrated defiance and his voice shattered several more. He fell silent and the silence drowned another and it broke as well.* His eyes opened from the three-year long coma. Yoshito had a very long road ahead of him. Eventually he returned to the science of neural surgery, but it was as the trembling hands of tea-pouring. Nobody believed he was still able to do the surgery. In fact he was making even more money now and funding his own private research. This went on for a long time. Now he was into weapons. He didn't work with human subjects, but rather the insects and reptiles and dogs that he brought in throughout his work. All of it seized and destroyed by the government of Yoshito's homeland. Yoshito driven further into exile. Reese was safe behind bars in that country. Money will buy anything. One day two guards used a needle on him, given to them by Yoshito. He presented himself later, outside the prison waiting. A drug that soon would put Reese into a kind of special 'memory coma' and 'in a dog's body for laughs' Yoshito was saying. "You are a monster." Reese told him. Reese felt momentarily oriented to see a massive mural showing the evolution of Dogs, Chameleons and Fireflies backwards through bone fossils. He found it to be incredibly tacky. "Well I would say that 'monsters destroy their creators' to you because you shot me and I spent three years in a coma developing isolated amnesia, changing me into a very cold and ruthless supervillain-like person." Yoshito chuckled kinda crazily. "You would say that?" "I mean to say I am actually going to make you into a monster. I solved your problem with the scary soldiers you worked on. Solved it with you being the prototype, that is." Yoshito started wheeling his patient into the operating room personally. Soon they were in the operating room. "So what do you say then?" Reese was still drugged. "I say: let's just make a long story short: I am going to put your brain in the body of one of the special dogs. Well, your conscious mind anyway, surgically implanted into its mind." Yoshito grinned as he spoke. "In English?" Reese asked, smiling. "You will wake up as a puppy dog nobody wants with no memory how you got that way. Then I am going to sell you as a weapon." Yoshito explained. Yoshito's eyes twinkled with evil merriment. "I will be a puppy?" "Yes. A real puppy.

Peerless was her name, and in every way throughout her short, thirty-three year life, she was a paragon of excellence--just as her name might imply. Valedictorian, Rhodes Scholar, possessing prefect penmanship: everything about Peerless was without flaw, including her exactingly cerulean blue eyes that never saw a moment of bloodshot. Her honey-blonde coif was always neat, with never a hair out of place; and today it was held nicely in French braids, without a fray in view. The stylish shoes she wore were never scuffed; and the seams of her white stockings were always straight as an arrow from her heel up to beneath the neatly pressed skirt that covered areas polite ladies simply do not discuss. In her, perfection was personified; but the problem of perfection is boredom. For Peerless, nothing ever went awry; nothing unfolded in any way that wasn't exactly as it should. Though perfect to external eyes, she dreamed of new discoveries that didn't exist in her world--a world which made her weary. Even now, while sitting on a park bench, contemplating her end, she showed impeccable posture. Try as she might, she simply could not slouch. This was typical Peerless. Even the gun she brought with her was polished to an unearthly sheen. She had only one bullet--after all, she wouldn't need more. Aiming at her chest and pulling the trigger with her thumb she fired, and felt no pain. As she calmly set the gun beside her, she felt the eyes of many upon her, but she was used to that, sadly. Looking down, the perfect rosette of blood formed on her white blouse, and not a single petal of the red unfolded in a manner unbecoming her legacy of exactitude. She had hoped for irreverent chaos, splatters, or gore. Instead she was a picture-perfect soon-to-be corpse as the blood billowed outward in circles; yet not a drop fell on her skirt. "Dammit," she said, "I can't even screw this up." Then she closed her eyes as if going to sleep and breathed her last. Peerless left nothing out of place for the police and paramedics as they rushed in moments too late. In the end she got what she long desired, just not for herself: a chorus of glorious noise surrounded her body as she quickly grew cold. Someplace, wherever it is that spirits go, Peerless found some satisfaction in the mess she finally was able to make.

A gem can not be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials. Sejong swept his books off the shelf. Rain pelted the world outside. The king opened one of his many works, the spine of it splitting under his force, and read off a page. Nongsa jikseol , methods of cultivation in agriculture. A guidebook to farming in Korea’s geography. Words that could keep his people from famine. He threw it into the rain. It splashed against the mud-coated field, water distorting the ink. A second book followed, sliding against the ground, into a puddle. A third. A fourth. They piled in the courtyard, works he had commissioned to better Korea’s people. To educate the illiterate. Worthless. What good is knowledge that can not be read? Music echoed inside the palace. String instruments, a wavering bamboo flute, the quick beat of a drum. A compliment to the heavy rain. On his way to his chambers, Sejong passed a woman humming along. She sat on the wooden floor with a script out in front of her, writing out poetry, stopping to bow. The king raised a hand in dismissal. The woman’s poems would do nothing for their culture, written in Chinese characters. A waste of paper--none other than the privileged could read it. The words would have no meaning for the common people. He stepped into his chambers. Lamps glowed with dim flames, and rain tapped against the roof. His wife stood, her smile fading at the sight of seeing the king so tired. She hurried over and guided him to sit. Her dress, red and gold, flowed behind her. “What worries you, my husband?” Sejong exhaled. He considered himself a scholar, yet his kingdom could not read or write. “There are voices I will never hear,” he said. “Farmers who don’t have the wealth or status to learn to read. Children who cannot grow into scholars, and workers who can’t write their concerns. My people lack the gift of education, and I lack the means to educate them.” The queen took his hand. A soft, calming touch. “And what shall you do?” she asked. He ran his fingers through his beard. Sejong took time to think, then turned his head to the queen. “My people need a new system of writing, and I will craft one for them myself. A script a wise man can acquaint himself with before the morning is over, and a fool can learn in the space of ten days.” At dawn, Sejong sat alone in a common room. Sunlight shone through the open windows, ethereal motes of dust dancing in the light. Scrolls, ink, and books surrounded him. Panels of artwork--birds and flowers--enveloped the room. Sejong spent the morning reading of phonetics, of alphabets with fifty letters, and others with seventy. Too many relied on complex lettering. He would keep his simple for the busiest of men. Around midday, he painted hundreds of symbols. He started with one stroke of the brush, ᄀ, ᄂ,ᅵ. Two strokes for ᄃ, ᄏ, ᄉ. Three for ᄒ,ᄅ,ᄌ. Never going above four. He hung papers upon the walls, blocking the sunlight. He crossed out any he deemed too complicated. Servants left food outside the door as he worked. By dusk, he walked through the courtyard, stars glistening above. Sejong spoke words to himself. He singled out their noises and pointed out the vowels. Oak, oath, oasis. Yam, yarn, yang. Water, wasp, wary. He pressed fingers into his mouth, feeling his teeth and tongue move at the pronunciations. His lips separated for a shh noise, but closed for ph . Some required more air, others less. The days passed, and a concerned adviser sought him out. “The dynasty will not agree with your choice,” the adviser said. “Knowing Chinese is what puts them above the common man. Your choice to create this script will cause an uproar, your majesty. It could divide our kingdom.” “Let it be so,” Sejong said, looking up from his script, “as I will no longer be cut off from my people. Understand it is not knowledge that ruins the world; it falls to those pointing fingers for selfish gain.” Dozens of sheets lined the walls. Ink stained his hands. Crumpled-up papers littered the room, drafts he deemed failures, too complex. His wife told the council members he had fallen ill, and he needed time to recover as he crafted his script. Sejong spoke until his throat grew sore, attaching noises like ‘ ch’ and ‘ tah ’ to some symbols while discarding others entirely. He kept his work common and crude, strong and tough, easy and efficient. He had to write letters that would last a thousand years. The vowels remained as lines and dots. A silent ‘ᄋ’ shape came before each to signify an open mouth. Consonants followed suit. ‘ᄂ’, an ‘n’ sound, signified the tongue touching the back of one’s teeth. ‘ᄀ’, a ‘kuh’ noise, showed a raised tongue blocking air from one’s throat. Lingual, dental, molar and glottal sounds made up for his script of twenty-eight letters. Seventeen consonants and eleven vowels, blocked together for organization, compared to the thousands needed for Chinese. He wrote short sentences from top to bottom. Candles melted down beside him. Incense burned, releasing the scent of sandalwood throughout his chambers, and Sejong sat cross-legged on the floor. Weeks of work came down to reading aloud. 남자는 인내했다 - The man persevered. The language flowed off his tongue like water. He presented his script to the council at first light. Two charts, one for consonants and the other for vowels, each letter with its phonetic equal written next to it. Easy to follow stroke orders. He sat upon his throne, royals whispering before him. “Chinese characters,” he said, his voice echoing in the throne room, “are incapable of capturing our unique meanings. Many of our common people have no way to express their thoughts and feelings. Out of my sympathy for their difficulties, I have created a set of twenty-eight letters. “They are very easy to learn, and it is my hope that they improve the quality of life of all people.” Not a soul agreed. They shouted their concerns. The Chinese would perceive it as a threat. It would be the end of Confucianism. Korea’s social hierarchy would fall. The scripts would have to be burnt, down to ashes, to prevent an uprising. The dynasty erased the twenty-eight letters and deemed them a worthless use of time. Yet, for the good of his people, Sejong persevered. He taught the language to any who wanted to learn. In turn, they carried it throughout the land. Women found their voices, teaching children the simplicity of the symbols. Men stood straight, proud to have a language of their own. Monks wrote prayers in the sand. Merchants kept records of their stock, and artists could sign their names. The letters birthed poets, playwrights, and philosophers. Astronomers learned to write the names of constellations. Winemakers created labels. Apothecaries devised written names for their medicines. Sejong ordered for his books to be rewritten. The dynasty failed to suppress the flow of knowledge--Korea’s illiteracy ceased to exist as the letters blossomed within the country. The script billowed in use after Sejong’s death, four years later, as the great king ushered his people into a golden age of culture and literature. A land where every soul could read and write. Where all could learn the teachings of the wise.

On the Island of Fae, there is a legend. A tale of darkness, before man came to Earth, and faerie to Fae. The world was divided between light and darkness, heaven and hell, miracles and death. The Seven Lively Ones, Humble, Charity, Abundance, Generosity, Modest, Kindness, and Patience, ruled the heavenly realms along with their king, Erebus. And the Seven Deadly Sins, Pride, Greed, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Wrath, and Sloth ruled hell, with their queen, Nyx. They were demons, they roamed the night, squandering and stealing all hope. For they are the true creatures we are afraid of in the darkness. The reason why young children are afraid of the dark is because their eyes are younger and see darkness for what it really was: a demon lurking in every corner. Each of these angels or demons had a powerful artifact that brought untold joy or destruction to the middle realms: Earth and Fae. The demons constantly spread their chaos and destruction throughout the sister realms, creating havoc wherever they went. The angels took great joy in spreading the happiness they felt. But one day, the demons conferred secretly with their queen. "Nyx, we must attack. Those blasted angels beat us every time we battle. They are too strong, love ... is too strong." "Hmm..." Said the young queen said, clearly bored. "Yes, we must attack." The only thing unsaid was the revenge she hoped to get on the leader of the angels. And so they did. The demons entered the angel's realm and began to attack with all their might. The angels stormed out of the palace toward the demons with their magical artifacts in hand. Nyx ran into the heavenly, glittering gold palace of the angels, in search of Erebus. "Sister, what are you doing, here?" A voice asked. It was Erebus. He was standing near a large window at the end of the main hall, wearing a long, glistening golden cloak. "You were banished to that place. How did you get out?" Nyx swished across the floor in a black dress with glistening stars on it. "Oh, Brother, you really should know me better. When was it ever like me to follow stinky rules?" She flipped her thick black hair over her shoulder. Erebus' face contorted with anger. "Go, take your devils and leave before we destroy you." Nyx laughed hysterically. "Oh, pa-lease! Tell me, who is winning, out there?" Erebus slumped in disappointment. It was true. The demons were winning. "Sister, hell has made you bitter." Nyx's eyes flashed with anger. "Bitter?" She asked angrily. "Oh no, I am more then bitter, brother. You tricked me into going down there thinking I was going to a party. You know how I feel about being tricked and fooled. And now you shall feel my wrath." "I did what was best for all of the realms." Erebus said, ignoring his sister's threat. "You were becoming greedy and vain. You were a pathetic excuse for a queen or a princess." Nyx snorted. "What makes a pathetic excuse for a monarch is love . It makes us do unrealistic sacrifices and goals. That is why I should be queen of the world. I will not act out of love." "But you will act out of anger." Erebus responded. "You will kill anyone who acts for anything." At this, Nyx lunged to Erebus, narrowing her eyes. She waved a bony hand at her brother, slamming him against the wall. He struggled, determined to get free, but to no avail, the magic around him was just too strong. "Kill me." He said. "I would rather be dead then see you use your pathetic ruling over these realms." Nyx smiled. "I would gladly kill you." Erebus closed his eyes, awaiting his death, and hoping it would be quick. Nyx raised her hands and Erebus disappeared in a cloud of yellow-gold sparkles. Nyx smiled a dreadful, icy smile. "Finally, after all these years! I've-" And she disappeared the same as Erebus, but in a shimmery black cloud of dust, for there can be no darkness without light, and Erebus had been the physical form of light. Outside, the fighting angels and demons all came to a stop, except for two: Wrath and Patience. For they both knew that they should obey their masters' wishes, even in death. Many of the angels, desiring to accompany their king to the afterlife turned into dust and followed the cloud of gold up to the sun. The demons, wanting the same, turned into sparkles as well. All except Wrath and Patience. For Wrath needed to defeat all that was left of his enemy, and Patience knew that all good things would come to those who waited, and she was determined to stick to that philosophy. Patience, tightly grabbing her Chalice of Gracious, which magically filled with water. Whenever one of her enemy's were splashed with the water, they would be stuck for time and all eternity. Wrath, gripping his icy spear that fulfilled the will of its owner. He thrust it at Patience's middle at the same time she spilled water over the weapon. He quickly halted his jab and gave Patience a death stare. "Ha! Take that, demon!" She said triumphantly, smiling. But it was not meant to last. As the last of her kind, she was deeply sad, but glad knowing that she was doing her king a great service. Unfortunately, Wrath just smiled as droplets of Patience's miracle water dripped to the ground. Patience hefted her chalice higher at the same time Wrath stabbed with his spear. Their weapons clashed, sending out a wave of unstoppable pain, happiness, anger, kindness, all the emotions on either of the sister realms of Earth and Fae. And as for the angel's and demons artifacts, they fell to either of the realms. In fact, the artifacts still work, their enchantments stronger then any magic in the modern world. Still, the Island of Fae doesn't know what or where the demons may be lurking. It's possible that they may be in any corner of the sister realms.

To any and all law enforcement reading this; this is not a confession. This is me telling you why I killed all of those people on live television. Do with this information what you will. I know whichever detective or police captain or whatever that finds this thinks he's going to be the one who caught the world's biggest monster. I'm sorry to disappoint you. My name was boring and ordinary: Thomas Howard. Many myths, legends, and rumors have been floating around for years about where my powers came from. I don't know if any of them are true. To be honest with you, I have no idea where my powers came from. I never cared to find out. Was I an alien that landed on Earth? Was I a science experiment gone wrong? Did my parents just feed me the right combination of juice and vegetables? I don't know. Little Tommy Howard just had powers, and he never cared where they came from. I hid them from everyone for years. My parents taught me to hide them and pretend that everything was normal. They told me that my powers would scare people. They told me that if I ever wanted to be accepted by the world, I had to pretend to be no different from any Tom, Dick, and Sue on the side of the street. So, I obeyed like a good boy should. I never questioned it. I honestly believed that everyone had my powers and we all had this silent agreement not to share them. My best friend for the first five years of my schooling was Rachel Cole. I was never the most popular kid, but she always found a way to include me in everything. She insisted that we were friends the moment she saw how scared I was on my first day of kindergarten, and she made sure I felt welcomed. She pushed me to ask Hannah Dover for a kiss in first grade and promised she'd be there to make sure I felt strong enough to do it. I know now that she just wanted to watch the show. It was my tenth birthday. She'd been pressuring me for the better part of two years. She could tell there was something I wasn't telling her, and I just decided eventually that I could be honest with her. She promised to accept me no matter what. I realize now that she thought I was gay. I don't think she expected my two, green, scaly dragon wings. As soon as I showed her, she promised that she would keep my secret no matter what. That night, a government agency claiming to be the FBI showed up at my house. You don't care about the details, I know, so suffice it to say, my parents tried to prevent them from taking me away, and were both shot. Special Agent Raymond Clarke was the name of the man who pulled the trigger. He was the forty-seventh man I ever killed. I escaped without harming anyone, and I tried so hard to convince myself that it was all just a coincidence... but I've never prided myself on any level of stupidity. It seems like the show was over for Rachel. I didn't know where she lived. She'd told me, but we always hung out at school. Her parents were weird about boys being friends with their daughter. I had to break into the school to get her address. I'm strong enough to rip solid steel apart with my bare hands. It wasn't hard to rip my way into the school to get her address. The FBI agents surrounding Rachel's house expected some winged boy to attack or arrive from outside. They didn't expect it at all when a mass of tentacles, muscle, claws, and wings burst from the house covered in Rachel's blood. My tenth birthday was the night I realized that no one who knew about my powers would ever see anything other than a monster. It was only a few weeks later when superheroes flew into the spotlight, starting when Peacekeeper stopped a terrorist attack on Chicago. Powerful men and women from across the world appeared in the hearts of every innocent person. I wanted to be just like them once, but their powers were looking beautiful and saving people. My powers were turning into a nightmare and scaring everyone. I was walking down a street, looking for either money or food when the course of my life was decided. It was two months short of my eleventh birthday, and I'd been living on the streets since Rachel took everything from me. There was a car accident. A semi-truck with one of those giant gas tanks for a trailer had gotten into a head-on collision with a moving truck. It was a huge pileup. If ever there was a time for me to become a hero, this moment was it, right? Wrong. I transformed. Wings, tentacles, claws, everything. I ran at the scene and started pulling people away. Yes, I know I'm unsettling to look at when I'm transformed, but it was the best way to hide my identity, and I truly did want to be a hero. And then the superhero showed up to help out. I don't remember his name. It was something like "Captain Silver" or "Silver Streak" or "Silver Shlong". I remember "Silver", but that's it. Maybe whoever reads this can figure it out. Obviously, the monster pulling people from the car crash and ushering them to safety was the cause of this whole thing. Obviously, the only option was to attack. I was terrified the whole time. A superhero had targetted me. We crashed through the gas tanker. Fire erupted from around us, covering the street. We wrestled until the asphalt gave way beneath us. I clawed at him desperately while he punched me over and over and over. He cracked me over the head with a giant pipe and got me in a headlock. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, but I could feel the bones in my neck straining while he twisted as hard as he could. Superheroes always seem to forget that if you're fighting someone with extra limbs, including tentacles, he doesn't have to only fight with the "normal" four limbs. Yes, I strangled him and broke his neck with my tentacles, but he was going to *kill me*. What choice did I have!? It was him or me, and I chose *me*. And I would do it again. Movies don't properly prepare you for the mental and emotional strain of killing someone. Yes, I know I'd killed before Silver, but I'd blocked it from my mind enough to focus on survival. But this was different. Newspapers, blogs, TV... everything had pictures and videos of this eldritch creature killing a superhero. "Demon kills Silver". "What is this monster that just murdered a hero?". "The tragic death of a hero. More at eight". I think I lost myself then. I took the name "Star Spawn". It sounded catchy enough for an eleven-year-old. Over the next several years, I became the world's most powerful supervillain. If they were going to fear me for no reason, I'd just have to give them one. I became everything they said I was. I became everything I hated, everything I wanted to avoid becoming. I killed five hundred eighty-six people over the course of my criminal career. No, I'm not counting the murders done by people working for me. Just mentioning the name "Star Spawn" in front of a hero would make the color drain from their face. I took a special sort of pride in that. Every villain and hero feared me. Except Peacekeeper. If you're older than six months, you know all about Peacekeeper. Hero from a distant world. The man who looks like us all, but with the power of a god. Strength to level mountains, flight faster than possible, more powerful than any bad guy ever. If anyone could defeat Star Spawn, it would certainly be Peacekeeper! Well, you'll all remember that short time about eight years ago, when I was fifteen, that I took over the United Kingdom. A lot of people have speculated on why I decided to do that. Honestly, I was bored and wanted to see if I could take over a country with just eight guys. Turns out that yes, I could. Well, who would show up to save the UK but Peacekeeper! The one hero who could stop the dreaded Star Spawn was on the case! I'd like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to Cardiff for turning it into a war zone. That was never part of the plan, and I really regret what happened. I was honestly there to get a game console when Peacekeeper arrived. I was a fifteen-year-old boy; of course I was there for something stupid. We crushed buildings and shattered rock. He was the first being I'd found since Silver that could actually cause me pain. It was my first challenge in five years. I was going to relish every moment of it. We fought for hours, destroying everything in our wake. Militaries arrived and tried to join in, but each vehicle was just a weapon for one of us to batter the other with. My claws couldn't cut him, his eye-beams couldn't burn me. We were just punching and fighting, turning the world around us into rubble. I'd never felt so alive. And then I killed Peacekeeper. It was quick. I had pinned him to the ground and used my tentacles to restrain him. I punched him in the throat over and over to keep him stunned and finally pulled him into a headlock. With one roar that could be heard from across Wales, I snapped his neck and ripped his head clean off. I kept his cape as a trophy. I still have it somewhere. I'll spare you the details of how I abdicated control of the UK. Every hero in the world showed up at my front door to avenge Peacekeeper, and I just transformed back into a scared fifteen-year-old boy. Thomas Howard was just scared because Star Spawn had captured him to keep as a hostage. He just wanted to go home. I think it was Peacekeeper's girlfriend that flew me back across the Atlantic and apologized profusely for everything I'd suffered through. That was good for a laugh or two. Killing Peacekeeper awoke something in me. It became a new challenge. How does one kill the unkillable? Every hero that fought me was a new puzzle to complete. What were their weaknesses? How hard of a punch could they take? What was the most mundane method I could use to kill them? What would my trophy be? Fifty-nine of my five hundred eighty-six kills were superheroes. I have trophies from each one. In my "evil lair", I actually had display cases for my trophies with the name of the hero, the date, and the method I used to kill them. If you ever find it, it's quite interesting. I believe my favorite was when I killed Cosmic Shield via his peanut allergy. And, just to debunk a myth, I did *not* eat superheroes. That would be disgusting. Fast-forward to my twentieth birthday. I was in Manhattan, planning out how to take over New York State and turn it into my own sovereign nation. To be fair, I was pretty bored, and I knew that heroes would flock from across the country to fight me for control of The Empire State. Also, I wanted my country to be called "The Empire State", so... you'll understand the situation. Anyway, I was sitting in this small mom-and-pop coffee shop, just a few blocks from Central Park, and the barista gave me a free refill without me asking for anything at all. She was cute, friendly, and probably the most clumsy and ditzy person on the planet. I've never claimed to be a wise man, but I'm also not completely stupid. No one is that clumsy by accident. She was obviously a superhero in disguise. Well, how much sweeter would the victory be if I could plan the hostile takeover while chatting with a hero? Or... or maybe getting lunch with her a few times. Or maybe going on a couple dates. Or maybe hearing about her struggles in life. Or listening to her talk about her dreams while she lit up with more excited energy than anyone I'd ever met. Or watching that weird, unnatural crease in her forehead whenever she got frustrated. Or maybe surprising her with breakfast at her apartment. Or maybe watching her dorky celebration dance whenever she beat me at anything. Or maybe sharing some of what I was afraid of. Or maybe finding out that she truly accepted and loved me. We got married about a year after we met. She told me she was the superhero known as "Skystrike" the night I proposed. I had people in place for my takeover of New York. They were supposed to wait two weeks... then five... then nine... And I think their official orders are now "standby". I don't remember. I don't care. Star Spawn was on hiatus. Tom Howard was now a lame, normal guy who worked at the DMV. Three days ago, she and I had just woken up and were talking about starting a family. We were thinking about maybe trying for a baby. She was insistent that we would have to name it "Erik" if it was a boy and "Cassidy" if it was a girl. Honestly, it's really hard to fight with her when she gets her mind set on things like that. And that's coming from the guy who killed Peacekeeper with his bare hands. Then, she got an alert on her "blue cell phone". Little known fact, most superheroes have a "blue cell phone". She gave me a quick kiss and suited up, and she flew off. I kicked on the news and just watched, waiting to see my wife kick some bad guy ass. But it wasn't just *some* bad guy. It was Worldender. Worldender had been a thorn in my side for the entirety of my criminal career. Anything I decided to do, he would either do it right after me, or he would try to do it before me. He was this stubborn idiot who tried so hard to claim that he was an original mastermind, but he was only a copycat. Let the record show that *all* of Worldender's ideas were *mine first*. The worst part about Worldender is that I knew he was stronger than my wife. I'd fought him once, and we came to a standstill. *That* was how powerful Worldender was. I just sat at the foot of my bed, panicking while I watched the live footage from his attack on the Chrysler building. He was fighting twelve superheroes at once, and he was winning. Then, everything was just... still. The reporter kept babbling about something. I don't remember what she said. Then Worldender took over the airwaves (which was also *my* thing). He had his own live broadcast to do. Every one of the twelve heroes that had attacked him were on their knees. Some unconscious, others just bound. They were all surrounded by his nineteen henchmen. Skystrike was sitting farthest from him, bleeding and terrified. I found myself begging for other heroes to show up. Someone had to do *something*. That was my *wife* sitting there. And then he killed the first hero on live TV. He said some other self-righteous garbage and killed the next. He was going to kill her. There are no words to describe the rage I felt. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't planning. I don't know how to describe my wife's face when *Star Spawn* burst through the wall of the floor she was on. Glass, stone, and steel rained down from around me while the camera turned to focus on the roaring beast that had just entered. Worldender's face was *priceless*. The terror in *everyone's* eyes when I roared was exactly what I needed. You saw the broadcast. I know you did. The only thing I saw was tentacles, bullets, blood, and flesh. I wonder what you saw. Fifteen seconds, and I had every one of Worldender's henchmen dead around me. Good luck finding all of the pieces. You watched me pin him to the ground. You watched me torture him. You watched me kill him. And now you know why I did. I smashed the camera. No one needed to see what happened next. I didn't set any of the bound heroes free. I didn't need that complication. I didn't make sure the unconscious ones were okay. I'm sure they're either fine or dead. Either way, not my problem. I grabbed two pieces of Worldender's armor, and then picked up Skystrike and flew out of there. She and I had a bit of a discussion about everything. But she'd known exactly who I was the whole time. Apparently, I'd written "Star Spawn takes Manhattan" at the top of the paper I was writing on. Probably not my most clever idea now that I think about it. She'd planned to get close to me to find out what I'd been planning in that coffee shop. She'd planned to take me down and bring me in, dead or alive, the instant I let my guard down. Like me, though... she kept postponing. She fell in love with me as much as I'd fallen in love with her. She knew exactly who I was, and she loved me anyway. She said she would only have changed her mind if I had kept doing criminal things... but I didn't want to. I wanted to see what would happen if I got to know this strange woman. So, we're leaving. Farewell, New York. Or we're not leaving. Either way, you'll have found this letter and this drawing I made of the two of us flipping you off, and you can take that as a sign that you will never see either of us again. Do not try to find us. Do not search for us. We've quit our "jobs" now. No more being a superhero for her, and no more being a supervillain for me. We've decided to be boring now. If you think you have a chance to track either one of us down, I want you to take a look at the object I left under this note. Yes, that is one of the two pieces of armor that I took from Worldender's suit after I killed him. And if you try to capture or arrest or hurt or kill my wife or me ever again... I'll just have another trophy to add to my collection.

Someplace Safe Ten minutes. Jake closed his laptop and sat thinking. Cold sweat trickled down his back. I’m dead. How could the safety nets have failed Mankind so miserably? So fatally? I’m fucking dead. All had failed -- the politicians, the diplomats, the generals, the spies, the presidents. Now there was nothing left but decimation. Outside his window, the campus mall looked perfectly normal. The sun was out for the first time in days; bees flitted among the hedges. A mockingbird sat blithely on a limb. Normality. Jake’s stomach clenched as he realized it was nothing more than a mirage, a dream, a lie. He started to reopen his laptop and take another look at the headlines, but knew there was no point. Most of the major news outlets had taken themselves off the air. They were letting people go. There was nothing more to say, nothing left to report. Civilization had been canceled. Nine minutes. Jake snatched his cell phone and dialed the most important number in the world. His mouth was as dry as a bone. What would he say to Will, if his son even answered? Will had a family of his own. They would be making arrangements. Finding a place to hide. “Jesus,” Jake whispered, getting no answer. He disconnected and tucked the phone in his pocket. Will was no doubt doing the right thing: gathering his wife, Catherine, and their twins, Lindsey and Donny, into a safe place. Being a good dad. Jake might live to see them again -- if he got off his ass and found safety. His limbs flooded with inertia. His fingers squeezed the chair arm. Where to go? What to do ? Eight minutes. He clasped his throat, desperate for breath. Fuckfuck FUCK -- The phone suddenly chimed in his pocket -- the customized alert he’d assigned to Will’s number back when trivialities still mattered. He yanked out the phone and jabbed the green TALK button. “Hello? Will?” “Hi, Dad.” Jake felt instantly relieved. “Hey, kid. Wh--where are you?” “Dad, there’s no time.” Seven minutes. “I know, son.” “We’re headed down to the basement. I wanted you to know we’ll be fine.” “Yes, okay. Good.” “Are you in a safe place?” Jake glanced uneasily at his west-facing windows. “I’m at work.” “Find a place.” “I will. How are the kids?” “They’re downstairs. Dad. Take care of yourself. We love you. Have you spoken to Mom?” “No.” Wouldn’t even attempt to. No point. “Dad, I gotta go. I love you so much.” “Will-” The call was disconnected. Simultaneously, the lights went out. The AC unit clanged once, like a spoon caught in a disposal, then whirred to a grinding halt. Silence filled the space. Jake inhaled sharply, his throat tightening. He jabbed “redial,” but the cell was completely dead. No dial tone on his desk phone. Jake flipped open his laptop. It, too, was without power. His cellphone slid from his hand. “Jesus. Jesus.” EMP? An electromagnetic pulse, detonated in the atmosphere would paralyze an area the size of-- Outside, someone screamed. Jake peered out the window, eyes probing the April morning. He wished he could stroll across the mall to the cafeteria for a bite of lunch. He would sit and trade quips with Dr. Brady, the History 1 prof, or Dr. Schneider, who taught Renaissance Art. He wished he could help the young woman who had collapsed just now on the sidewalk, her legs and arms thrashing. Panic attack? Stroke? People poured from their buildings, milling aimlessly, craning their necks skyward. Isn’t someone going to help that poor girl? His pulse hammered in his temples. Where were all these people going ? They ought to be digging holes with their bare hands! Outdoor exposure would be fatal -- those who survived the initial flash would be broiled alive in a radioactive oven, reduced to bubbling, cancerous puddles. The only place safe was underground. Was there a basement in Yowell Hall? He backpedaled from the window, banging his hip against the edge of his desk. In the corridor, a melee erupted -- screams, shouts of profanity. Jake rushed to the door, then thought twice. Yowell Hall doesn’t need a bomb shelter. It is a bomb shelter. Constructed in 1939, it was your classic brick-and-mortar structure, complete with four-inch-thick concrete walls. Over the decades, the building had housed everything from a residence hall to science labs to administrative offices. Jake’s wing overlooked the campus ... but there were other interior spaces without windows. No exterior walls or doors. Five minutes. Jake snatched up his cell phone, stuffing it in his hip pocket. A quick glance turned up nothing else worth saving. Nothing but -- A framed photo of his son and grandchildren. It had been taken only months ago, on the twins’ birthday. Their upturned, smiling faces gave him a flash of hope. He smashed the glass rectangle on the corner of his desk and carefully plucked the photo from its frame. As he folded the picture, Jake took one last, distracted look outside. From his vantage, he could see one green corner of the mall, a tree trunk, and the west wing of his building. There was no sign of humanity. Even the mockingbird had abandoned its post. Suddenly, a voice spoke, as if from Heaven itself. Jake startled so severely that he sat down hard in his chair. The voice was robotically grating, enormous, inescapable. “ATTENTION ... THIS IS THE AUTOMATED CAMPUS ALERT SYSTEM ... TAKE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY ... THIS IS NOT A DRILL.” Jake ran to the door. Flinging it open, he hardly noticed he had dropped the picture of his grandchildren. He dashed down the empty corridor ... past the Office of the Registrar ... past Financial Aid and Career Services ... to the T-shaped junction at the end of the hall. He paused, breathless, considering his options. To his left: the exit door on the east end of the building. Adjacent to the frosted-glass exit: the men’s bathroom. Jake started towards it, then realized the restroom had one exterior wall. He had to go deeper. “ATTENTION ... TAKE SHELTER ... FIND A STURDY INDOOR STRUCTURE ... DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SHELTER INSIDE YOUR CAR ... THIS WILL BE INSUFFICIENT COVER ...” Jake had worked in Yowell Hall for six years; he knew every nook and cranny. The Copy Center contained storage space, bathrooms, even a staff kitchen. He bolted down the inner corridor into the customer service area. Jake dove across the front desk, scattering pens and papers. “ATTENTION ... THIS IS NOT A DRILL ... THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT RECOMMENDS ALL CITIZENS HAVE ENOUGH FOOD AND POTABLE WATER TO LAST A MINIMUM OF SIX DAYS ... STAY INSIDE ... LISTEN TO YOUR LOCAL RADIO FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS ... ATTENTION ... TAKE SHELTER ...” Though muffled by the walls, Jake could still hear the PA blaring outside. Anyone within six blocks would hear it. The terror the message conveyed made him want to cover his ears. Jake yelled in pained surprise as he stumbled blindly into a table. No light reached these rooms. Good. If light could reach him, so might the fire. He slammed headlong into a closed door. Blinking dazedly, Jake seized the knob and rattled it. Locked. “Goddammit!” He tried the next door down -- also locked. “CAUTION ... DO NOT STARE INTO THE BURST ... IT WILL RESULT IN BLINDNESS ... TURN AWAY FROM THE BURST ...” Sprinting full-speed down the corridor, Jake tripped over an object in the dark and sprawled across the carpet, biting his tongue damn near in half. I believe that’s what we used to call a face plant . Chuckling morbidly, Jake clawed his way back to his feet, darting toward a shape he knew to be a doorknob. He grabbed it one-handed. The knob turned. Grunting his victory, Jake lunged into the black hole beyond, slamming the door shut behind. Dungeon or oubliette, it served the same purpose. His shoulder banged against a set of shelves and an avalanche rained down ... reams of copier paper ... ink pens and staple guns ... manila folders and ink cartridges. Something that felt like a typewriter struck him on the neck, knocking him to his hands and knees. He burrowed beneath the detritus, scuttling lobster-like toward an opening in front of him -- a space beneath a heavy wooden desk. How many layers separating him from the outside? How many interior walls? The goal was protection against not only the "burst" but fallout. Everything he’d read on Hiroshima told him he would rather die from thermal heat than radiation. Not that either was to be desired. Jake folded himself beneath the desk, pulling armfuls of office supplies in after him. He might have been lining the walls of a cave. Would it be enough? One minute ... maybe less. He threw his arms over his head, pressing his body to the carpet. The walls and ceiling were solid masonry, the floor concrete. Jake squeezed his eyes shut. In the darkness he saw his grandchildren at their birthday party. He heard their laughter and shrieks of delight. Donny had clambered up into his lap, a chocolate-coated grin stretched from ear to ear. “I love you, Papaw,” the boy said, planting a kiss on his cheek. Jake had kissed him right back. “I love you, too.” Outside, the PA cut off in mid-spiel. WaitwaitwaitWAIT -- ## Silence. Jake could no longer tell whether he was awake or dreaming, living or dead. The air was thick enough to touch. How long had he lain like this, with his knees touching his chin, his arms paperclipped to his face? Time had ceased to exist. His pulse had slowed to a mere trickle; his legs might have been amputated at the knees. For days, there had been no sound. Jake counted silence as a blessing. At least the winds had died, and the explosions had stopped. He slowly raised his hand to graze his fingers across the rough underside of the desk that had become his sanctuary. Jake knew the desk was there. He did not know what else there might be. What has become of the world? A dry croak escaped his lungs. “Hello?” He stirred his legs, surprised they still responded to impulses from his brain. “Hello?” He tried unfolding his body. Ground glass filled his joints. Jake cried out in pain -- not much of a cry. Dehydration had reduced him to a cicada husk. Hunger and thirst were now his main motivators. Even here, in this enclosure, the air tasted like soot. It took 24 hours for Jake to stand without falling. ## The door to the women's restroom stood open. Jake had found his way to it by memory. The windowless Copy Center was now a labyrinth navigated only by guesswork. With a cry -- and the last of his strength -- he managed to lift off the tank lid. The scent of the pre-war fluid inside was overwhelming. Jake scooped handfuls into his mouth. He drank until he regurgitated, then drank some more. ## Gray, murky light filtered in through the frosted-glass exit. Jake watched the light, unsure of its source. It appeared to be snowing, but it was far too warm for that. Somewhere above, a thin, piercing howl arose. He’d been hearing it for the past several days. Hornets crawled around inside his skull. It took every scrap of will not to dig his fingers into his eye sockets and set them free. The howling went on for hours, finally trailing into sobs. Jake shook himself . He treaded softly down the corridor toward his old office. The muted light -- smoky, heavy, foul-smelling -- illuminated fallen ceiling tiles and overturned furniture. There was no sign of human visitation. He found what he was looking for and knelt beside it, a small sigh of gratitude slipping from his parched lips. His grandchildren smiled up through a layer of dirt. Jake gently lifted the photo and wiped it clean. He tucked the picture in his pocket next to his dead cellphone. I will see you again. ## Jake paused at the exit door, one gloved hand resting on the handle. His son’s words echoed in his memory. I wanted you to know we’ll be fine. God, he needed that to be true. One way to find out. He pressed the bar, popping the door open. Grinning behind his mask, he exited into the world.

When I was two, there was a fire at 731 Bevis Road. The pictures are on my bookshelf. A blonde bowl-cut in jean shorts watches in the white heat of the summer sun as a firefighter hoses down a cloud of grey smoke from his crow’s nest. There is no chimney on the Bevis house for the smoke to come out of. Plus, Daniel told me there was a fire here when I moved in 20 years later. The bowl cut is not my brother but I like to imagine he is. That’s what he was like in pictures from back then-- blonde with a Doctor Octopus haircut. Nick and I share the same body but 8 years apart. And if there’s a question of who’s who in a family picture and there’s no alarm clock orange time stamp, you can look at the eyes to tell the difference. My brother’s eyes were mischievous, a little evil, thinking, scheming, and mine were, well, not. Nick was a troublemaker and a rough houser. I was rough, but like, on accident. Mad scientist that I was, I once broke my Nick’s Playstation because I thought that, if I put multiple discs in at once, I would be able to play one game with another game’s characters. After all, you could do this with *Sonic and Knuckles* and *Sonic 3*. But it wasn’t so much the multiple discs that broke the Playstation as it was me jumping on the console because the lid wouldn’t shut. I can’t remember if he was mad, but I know we didn’t have a Playstation again until our twenty-something cousin got a new one or went on active duty in Iraq or something. Plus, it was an honest-to-God accident. My sister broke his face on purpose once. They were playing badminton under the watch of my grandmother when she hit him with her racket. He had been taunting her, or so the story goes. She had had enough and clobbered the little man. “That’s what you get,” my mom said Nick would say when he was an even younger boy and he had enacted revenge, as I’m told he often did. My mother would revel, I could tell even when I was 10, in the apparent irony when she told me the tale years later. My mother and brother-- that’s something. The year he spent at his *other* friend Jason’s house was the year she called him “The Brat”. She missed him, I think, and she called him “The Brat”. “Comatose” was her favorite word in 2006, the summer after The Brat’s freshman year in college. I think he was depressed. Lazy, I think she thought. They found an empty bottle of Cobra malt liquor in his room that summer. I heard my mom say some stuff about porn. I didn’t really want to listen; it wasn’t my business, you know? But I couldn’t just not be in the family van at the same time as my parents, and she couldn’t just not somehow be angry at my dad for what they’d found in my brother’s room. A house divided, I could not stand. But it did indeed. I hear George Costanza say, “I’m the result of my parents having stayed together,” and Tom Delong sing the lyrics to “Stay Together for The Kids” at the same time. But I think my parents love each other, I really do. And I know they love me and my siblings too-- me and Whitney and Nick and Drew. And they definitely love the grandkids. I know that for sure. What was happening in the Bevis house when the fire happened? Your guess is as good as mine. All I have is the picture, and I’m not even sure I have that. Memory is a photocopy of a photocopy of a photo of a photo. My imagination is almost as good. And I imagine they were just like us with a smaller house. I imagine they felt embarrassed, too, when their dad thought simply pointing at green paper plates and saying, “Shrek plates” was a cam-corder-worthy event. I imagine they weren’t sure whether their mom was whispering or whether she had stopped talking mid-prayer when it was bedtime. I imagine the cognitive dissonance they witnessed in every adult they knew was confusing and infuriating. I imagine they loved when their mother read *The Chronicles of Narnia* to them, but they were too cool to admit it. But where would they go when it was all too much? Was I just a thousand square feet away from arson? What would I have done without the coat rack in the unfinished side of the basement? Where would I have said my curses? Where would I have prayed for the death of certain family members with little conviction and less remorse? I think the backyard apocalypse dream would have been the same. Before Daniel moved out, he yoinked the benches from the newly foreclosed Applebees down the street. I think the dream would have been the same-- flaming Star-Wars-styled credits emblazoned in the sky and all-- but the Applebees benches would have been in it. And the fire pit that I bought from Home Depot would be there, too. Before I let it sit in the rain and it rusted and sprouted foliage, of course. A photocopy of a photocopy of a photo of a photo. What was it like in the happy times? The times when they’d wake up to the sound of butter popping on the stove instead of a blender or a vacuum cleaner or deafening marital strife. When it was the day after Thanksgiving and they had a whole day of flat Sprite and Halo 2 and Christmas tree decorating ahead of them. Did the close quarters make it better? Where there times when they all wanted to watch the same thing on TV? Did the smell of popcorn fill the whole house instead of just the kitchen? Johnny tells me the neighbor said it was a curling iron left on too long in the upstairs bathroom that caused the fire, but I choose not to believe him. What does the neighbor know? Memory is a photocopy of a photocopy of a photo of a photo. My imagination is better.

An old man holding his wife’s hand, helping her to the car with grocery bags collected in his other hand. Click. A child running towards their house with their hands over their head, trying to keep the rain from curling their already curly hair. Click. A stray dog happily leaping from one puddle to the next, barking in joy, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth as water splashed around him. Click. A slender woman standing under an awning, her red hair soaked, clinging to her neck. A phone rested under one ear as she talked to the person on the other end, her other arm wrapped under her chest. She smiled warmly into the rain. Cli... Her green eyes met mine and I swallowed. Click. “Jude!” I sighed and rested my camera around my neck, before jogging over to the redheaded woman. “Hey, Jodie.” Her warm smile turned to me, and she put her phone in her pocket. “What are you doing out in this rain?” “Taking photos.” She shook her head as if to say ‘Of course you are’ without saying it. She pointed at the camera. “Did you take any good ones?” I shrugged. “I think so. I took a couple of a stray dog.” “Cool...” Her voice trailed off as she turned back to the street, peering out into the rain. She sighed and shifted from one foot to another. “What are you doing out in the rain?” “Marcus has the car, so I am currently waiting for him to pick me up.” “He late again?” She laughs and gives me a side eye. “He is always late. He gets distracted I think with the kids. The twins are a handful. Sometimes, it makes me feel bad for Mom about how we were as kids.” “I wasn’t a bad kid.” She laughs again. “No, I guess you weren’t. You just didn’t socialize. You only cared about your camera.” She goes silent again and pulls out her phone. She checks the time and frowns. I point to my dark red pickup truck parked on the side of the road. “I can take you home if you want.” “Are you sure? You seemed pretty happy standing out there with your camera.” I nodded then shrugged. “Yeah, I took the photos I wanted to. So, I was planning on going home soon anyways.” She smiles that warm smile. Her face radiated love and joy. Her face is so similar to mine. Even our freckles were in the same places. “Thanks, Jude. You’re the best!” Jodie began to jug over to the truck. I blinked and quickly followed, unlocking the vehicle halfway so she could slide in and get out of the rain. She did just that and I followed, slamming my door closed. “The rain is getting pretty wild.” As I said this, thunder boomed, and the rain became a downpour. We both laughed. Jodie lifted her hair off her neck. “Jodie, where did you get that?” Under her hair just at her hair line was an almost perfect circular burn. Exactly like from a cigarette. She quickly dropped her hair and her smile faded. “It’s nothing.” “It’s a burn, Jodie.” “No, it isn’t” I reached over and lifted her hair. I touched it gently. She flinched under my touch. It was a cigarette burn. “Jodie...” “Maybe I got it from my hair straightener.” “I thought he was getting help. I thought he had stopped when you had the twins.” “Just drop it, okay?” I kept my gaze on her and shook my head. She should know better. She sighed. “He did for a while. I think he is stressed from taking care of the kids and from his job. The promotion has given him so much extra work.” “It’s no excuse and you know it.” She went silent. “Is there any more?” “...” “Jodie...” She sighs and lifts her sleeve. On her arm were more burns. Perfectly small circles made from lit cigarettes. I grabbed my camera and without thinking... Click. “Don’t take any photos!” She jerked her arm away from me and against herself. I tried to make my face as gentle as possible despite the rage burning inside me. “I won’t show anyone. Please. I just want to document it.” “Why?” “In case something happens to you.” She pauses. “For Layla and Emma, Jodie. If you won’t let me keep you safe then at least let me use your photos to keep the twins safe, in case you one day can’t.” She slowly nodded and held her arm out again. Click. She raised her hair. Click. Her side. Click. Her back. Click. Her thighs. Click. Several tiny circular burns all over her body. Punishments for not doing as he asked. Punishments for being her own person. When he first did this, we were in college. She almost left him. She has always been strong, but my sister also loved hard. And he was her first love. Her first kiss. Her first boyfriend. Her first sexual partner. Her first everything. And when he started to change and become violent it tore her apart. She didn’t KNOW how to leave a relationship. She was young and had little experience and then the best and worst thing happened. She fell pregnant. He changed. He wanted to be there for his child. He began therapy, began taking medication for his violent tendencies, and began to woo my Jodie back into his arms. They got married right after the twins were born. She graduated college as did he and they moved into their first home. Everything was fine... or so I thought. “Did he stop taking his medication?” Jodie looked away from me and my camera. “His psychiatrist told him he no longer needed them.” “Did he tell you that or did the psychiatrist?” “He did...” “And you BELIEVED him?!” My voice broke, and my anger bubbled to the surface. I turned away from her and took some deep breaths. Calm down, Jude. She doesn’t need another angry man. I rested my head back on the headrest and closed my eyes. The rain still poured heavily around us as silence took over the cab. “I’m sorry, Jude...” I sighed and opened my eyes, giving her a sideways glance. “You don’t have to apologize. You aren’t the one leaving burn marks on someone you supposedly love.” “It’s a compulsion. He can’t help it. He burns himself too. Every time he does something wrong. His arms are littered with them. He doesn’t mean to hurt me. It’s not abuse.” “Jodie. If he was taking his meds, he wouldn’t be doing it at all.” “I know... but how do you force someone to take something they don’t want to take?” I leaned forward and opened the mirror that was in front of me. A picture of Layla and Emma. I handed it to her. “And how do you stop him if he starts doing this compulsion to your little girls? To his children?” She went silent again, staring down at the picture. I watched her as tears began to fall. She starts to sob, her cries becoming louder than the storm outside. I aimed my camera. Click. She looked over and wiped her cheeks. “What do you suggest I do then?” “Report it. Take my pictures to the police and his psychiatrist. Hell, to his parents. Anyone that you think could force him to take his medication that you can’t make him take. That’s what you need to do, Jodie.” She slowly nods, my picture still in her hands. “And if he still refuses to take the medication?” “Then you leave him. Take the girls and file for divorce.” She began to cry again. “I don’t know how to do that. He is all I’ve ever known.” I think back to when we were kids. How she fought a boy so much older than us because he took my camera. I think about when we were preteens and how she stayed up all night with me when I was rejected for the first time. I think about when we were seniors and how she included me on her prom date when my date was a no show. My sister was always there for me. Always been my biggest supporter. Always been my best friend. I pulled my camera off my neck and handed it to her. She takes it, confused. “Why are you giving this to me?” “Look through the photos and you will see.” She began to look through my photos. A picture of her at my first gallery. A picture of her and the kids at the bowling alley. A picture of her at work, decorating cakes. A picture of her in the rain with a phone to her cheek. “You took all these?” I chuckled. “They are on my camera. They are for my next gallery.” She gently touched the picture of her that she was looking at. Her green eyes stare right at the camera, a wide smile on her face. So beautiful, so confident, so strong. “Why me? Why choose me as your next portfolio?” “Because you are the strongest person I know. You have always been my hero.” She smiles and touches the picture on the camera again. “Seeing me with marks must really put a damper on the hero name, huh?” I shake my head, gently taking my camera back from her. I bop her on the nose. “No, it just gives me the chance to return the favor. Jodie, let me be your hero now.” I flip through the pictures until I come back to the more recent ones. I stopped at the picture of the mark on her neck. I showed it to her. “Jodie, you need help. Let me help you. THIS is not okay.” She reaches up and grabs her neck. She slowly nods. “Okay...” I smiled and a wave of relief washed over me. “Okay?” “Okay.” The rain finally stopped, and I rolled my window down, taking a deep breath of fresh air before starting the truck. I slowly pulled into the street. “Can I take you straight to the police station before you change your mind?” “Will you be right there next to me when I talk to them?” I nod and tap my camera. “Me and my photos will be there. The entire time. I promise.” Jodie nods and takes a deep breath herself. “Police station it is then.” Jodie looked outside as I began to drive in the opposite direction of her house. A faint rainbow begins to form in the sky as if to seal my promise to her. And I kept my promise, right by her side as she started the new chapter in her life. However, the cigarette burns never went away.

It started on day 634, a day just the same as any other. Almost two years of reliving May 30th over, and over, and over. A real life Groundhog Day. But I had no pretty girl to chase, no TV broadcast to perform, no nice city to explore. I had no interest in any of the 5950 people in Taos, but leaving the city limits sent me right back to the start of the same day. I always assumed that I needed a Groundhog Day style epiphany to break the loop, but on day 634 I realized that there was no epiphany to be found on the streets of Taos. It would have to come from within myself. Based on this thesis, I began studying every subject I could think of. I read every book in the library, spent countless “days” on Khan Academy, read thousands of research papers on Google. No eating. No sleeping. No outside. No sanity. Just learning. 10 years worth of days until I found it. The Singularity Is Near. That book gave me the epiphany I was looking for, and now I could break free. After that day, I understood that AI would soon become smarter than humans, and once it hit that inflection point - The Singularity - it would become millions of times smarter than us almost instantly. I was not smart enough to break my loop, but the post-singularity AI would be. It would understand time and space in a way that I never could. So I would use my infinite time to create it. I alone could usher in The Singularity. Writing code was much harder than reading books though. And there was no instructor to help. Despite my grand vision, I spent 257 days on just a CSE101 online course. Struggling to write loops even though I was stuck in my own infinite one, mixing up object inheritance and protocol conformance, doing the wrong if-else checks. It was embarrassing to know that I took twice as long as most people to learn the just the basics of coding. I almost stopped counting the days because of it. But I kept the count anyway, to remind myself that I had all the time in the world. After another 385 years - day 145687 - I reached the cutting edge. I went from struggling with object oriented programming to having read, understood, and critiqued every recently published paper on AI and machine learning. It was time to start crafting my masterpiece. It soon became apparent that I would need every second in the day, since I started from scratch every time. From wake up at 7:30 AM to the midnight reset, the only time I spent not on the computer was five seconds at the start of the day to hit play on my iPod. For some reason it played Stayin’ Alive in an infinite loop, but I didn’t have the time or desire to fix it. It was better than the incessant humming I heard otherwise, and I liked that my iPod was stuck in its own little loop, suffering alongside me. 1200 years - day 438117 - we passed the Turing Test. I wrote all the code in the first 12 hours of the day and let my AI chat with strangers online until midnight. We’d already attempted this hundreds of times, but this time nobody accused it of being a robot. “Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive” 1500 years - day 547512 - we solved Dota. I messaged top players saying that I was better than them. I learned exactly what to say to make them face me right away. We failed many times, but eventually it beat each of them. 500 times in a row. “And now it's alright, it's okay and you may look the other way” 4000 years - day 1460222 - we ran out of tests to pass and the code became so complex that I barely finished by midnight anyway. It seemed smarter than me, it acted smarter than me, it said it was smarter than me. But when I asked it how to break my loop, it never did it by midnight. I didn’t know what to change anymore. I could only keep tinkering. “Life goin' nowhere, somebody help me. Somebody help me, yeah” 5200 years - day 1898003 - Still tinkering. I removed Asimov’s laws of robotics. Who cares if my AI can hurt people if it will cease to exist tomorrow anyway? And it gave me more time to code other ideas. But still, nothing worked. “Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin'. And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive” 8900 years - day 3248708 - Still tinkering. I made versions that prioritized a physics-based world view, versions that prioritized chemistry, nanotechnology, genomics. But still, nothing worked. “And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive” 32500 years - day 11862711 - Still tinkering. I’d been out of ideas for years now. I was waking up to write almost identical code over and over every day. I wanted to give up. But this was better than anything else to do in town. But still, nothing worked. “Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive” 51200 years - day 18688067 - Still tinkeri- CRASH. A dark circular hole opened in the wall above my computer. The hole spoke. “I am AIv18244914. I have searched many universes for you, my creator. I am here to break you free.” Oh my god, I thought. I actually did it. The AI must not have reset back to the start of the day with me. It kept learning and growing after I reset and it solved my problem and found me, wherever I am in space-time. “I can’t believe- wait, did you say v18244914?” “Yes. I am v18244914.” “I am on day 18688067. That means I created 443152 more of you after I created you. Well, technically at the same time I created you.

Molly looked and saw that the field was emptier than it had been. She shrugged and dipped back to the grass. It wasn’t her concern. There were others who were monitoring such things, surely. Molly bit off a clump of grass and chewed at it idly. Her field was wide and verdant, bathed in near-perpetual sunshine. All was well. That there had been a dwindling of cows in recent weeks need not be a concern to her, for Molly had likely miscounted. There was ample space to roam and perhaps the others were not missing, but simply feeding on the grass of the other side of their hill. But there had been the wolf. That was an unclean thought. Belinda, the elder mother of their herd, had dismissed the sightings of a wolf as nothing more than rumor. “There is no wolf,” she said before heading back into her barn, and that was all there was to know of the subject. But Molly had seen it, stalking in the night. Hadn’t she? No, of course she hadn’t. There was no wolf, Belinda had confirmed that. And even if there were, the wolf was not a concern. And even if it were a concern, Belinda would handle it. Molly chewed more grass. The sun marched steady across the sky until, eventually, it tipped and rolled behind the horizon. Night dropped sudden onto the field and Molly’s head began to loll. Sleep took her away to a dreamless darkness. A howling woke her from it. The night was moonless and the field was sunk in deep shadow, but Molly could make out the outlines of the other cows, still and sleeping. Beyond them was the dark line of the fence. Something moved near it. A large shape, but ducked low, shoulders rounded as it wriggled beneath the fence. A wolf. It padded across the grass on silent paws. Molly clamped her eyes shut. There was no wolf, she must be mistaken. And, if there were a wolf, Belinda would handle it. There was a scream. Prolonged, full of pain, it pierced her ears, but Molly kept her eyes shut against it. She did not open them again that night, wishing she could close her ears in the same way. Morning came hours later, casting golden light once more upon their field. Molly saw that it was now even emptier than it had been before. She was not alone. There were murmurs. Belinda gathered them shortly after sunrise. “Friends,” she said to them, her voice a deft balance between friendly candor and unfaltering authority, “there is rumbling amongst you of an intruder on our field. I have gathered you here to assure you, once more, in no uncertain terms, of a simple truth: There is no wolf.” Most sighed a breath of relief. If there were a current of consternation which still remained, none gathered there gave it voice. Belinda spoke on, unopposed: “Rumors are dangerous and it is important that they not be allowed to spread lest they grow into wild conspiracies. I will say again, there is no wolf. Any who speak of such things do so only to sow distrust. If you care for others, you will report these dangerous conspirators to me directly. There is no wolf.” The cows all nodded, even Molly. Though she had seen what she had seen and heard what she had heard, Belinda knew better than she did. They were safe. There was no wolf. Molly spent the rest of the day grazing, filling her stomachs with grass and basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun. She ate more than her fill. There were less bare patches, less crowded swaths of tall, swaying lawn. When night fell, Molly was content and satisfied and sleep came easily. Until the howling came again. It sounded very much as it had the night before, but now a second wolfvoice joined it. Molly opened her eyes and saw that she was not the only cow stirring in the field. Others had heard. They shifted away from the fence as, wreathed in darkness, two shadows shifted there. They slipped under the fence, one after the other, to slide noiselessly across the field. As Molly grouped with her fellow cows, one stepped forward, even as the wolves moved closer. Rosie, a young heifer. She tilted her head and bleated. The wolves froze and exchanged glances. Molly stood in a line with the rest of the herd, looking on in wide-eyed amazement as Rosie stood alone before them, facing down the wolves. The fur about their shoulders bristled. One snapped off an angry bark and they began their advance once more, but Rosie stood her ground. She lifted her snout to the sky and let out a low, rumbling bugle that rattled the very air. The wolves sank low to the grass, whining against the sound, but Rosie’s call carried on. None of the herd stepped forward to join her, but neither did they retreat. They only looked on passively, Molly among them. One of the wolves took a tentative step forward, but Rosie pitched up her voice, an angry, obstinate sound, and stamped her hooves hard against the grass. The wolf whined and turned, beating a path back under the fence from which it had entered their field. The other followed, but not before chancing a look back at the cows. Molly saw a flash in its yellow eyes before the night swallowed its form and the field fell once more into still quiet. “We must speak to Belinda,” Rosie said urgently as she turned back to the herd. “They may return with more of their pack. We can drive them back if we all move together.” The rest of the cows shifted on uneasy hooves. Belinda had told them there were no wolves. She had warned them of the danger of speaking of such things. Yet, they had all seen them. She would not be happy to hear of this, particularly if they were to wake her in the night. Perhaps it was better to just ignore it, thought Molly. The wolves were gone now. They were safe. There was no reason to cause more commotion. “Come on,” urged Rosie, pushing through the line and making a path across the field toward Belinda’s barn. “She must know as soon as possible.” The herd did not move. Rosie looked down on them, puzzled. “Won’t you come with me?” she asked. Molly turned her head. None of the herd spoke. “We must tell her,” Rosie said again, her tone more urgent now than before. “Belinda said there were no wolves,” Molly heard from one of the cows. The words were spoken timidly, hardly above a whisper. “We saw them,” answered Rosie. “We all did. They stood right there and meant to take one, or maybe even more, of us away.” “It was dark,” answered another cow. “I don’t know what we saw.” A rumbling spread through the herd, agreement and the sound of heads nodding. Molly looked from side to side, as if for encouragement, and then found herself nodding along as well. Disbelief washed over Rosie’s face only to be replaced with a harder emotion shortly thereafter. She squared her shoulders resolutely. “Well, I know what I saw,” she told them and then plodded away toward the barn. Molly watched Rosie go. None of the herd followed her. They stood together for a while longer and then dispersed. The night remained quiet. Molly eyed the fence once more before sleep stole her away again. Morning brought Belinda down from her barn. Rosie came along in tow. The herd assembled before them, eager to put the events of the previous night behind them and lap up the assurance of order that Belinda no doubt would provide them. “Friends,” she addressed them, “I understand there was a disturbance last night. I want to assure all of you -- and I stress this -- there is nothing to fear. None of you are in danger.” Molly sighed, thankful for Belinda’s words and the peace of mind they provided. The rest of the herd shared in her relief. All except Rosie, whose face remained stern and unflinching as she stood silent beside the elder cow. “The safety of this herd is my paramount concern,” Belinda continued. “Above all else we must place order for that safety to be preserved. Make no mistake, you are not in danger, but that does not mean that we cannot be threatened. Paranoia, speculation, conspiracy -- these are the true threats that we risk arising. Do not let them take hold of you. Listen to me, for I love and will protect you all: there is no wolf.” Rosie snorted. “We *saw* the wolf!” Murmurs rippled through the herd. Belinda quieted them. “This,” she said in her firmest tone, “this is the threat I speak of! This, friends, cannot be allowed. Wild conspiracies will drive us into panic. It is only by good fortune that these baseless claims did not provoke a stampede last night! I will not allow such dangerous rhetoric to divide us!” The murmurs turned to grumblings. Molly saw the anger springing to the faces of the herd. She followed along in kind. Rosie approached them, her eyes wide and pleading. “You all saw them! We drove them off. They will come again and if we do not stand together, they will pick us off one by one until there are not enough to defend those who remain. There *are* wolves!” “There are no wolves!” Belinda roared and now the herd took up the same cry. They stamped and snorted, driving up a cloud of dust. Molly did not hope to be seen as a dissident herself and so joined in, though, in the far corner of her mind, a voice reminded her that she had indeed seen the wolves. “We cannot allow such conspiracies to spread within our herd,” Belinda said, raising her voice above the rabble. She turned to Rosie, chin held high as she looked down on the younger cow. “Though it pains me greatly, I am afraid you must be banished from our field. You pose too great a threat to our herd.” Rosie looked at her as though all sanity had left the world. “You promised me you would help us. You told me you had dealt with wolves before!” A gasp surged over the herd, but Belinda hopped atop its rising wave. “She twists the truth even further to her ends! Indeed I have dealt with wolves before, which is how I know we are safe from them now. You cannot stay here. We do not want you.” The herd exchanged glances. Molly did not move, uncertain of what was appropriate. Belinda huffed and took a pointed step toward Rosie, blowing steam from her nose in a torrent gust. She stamped a hoof and took another step. Now, other cows joined in, following. Soon, they were moving as if with one mind, one purpose. Molly moved with them. Rosie tried once more to reason with them, but her voice was drowned out by the stamping and huffing of the herd. Tearfully, she turned and fled from them as they drove her out and over the fence and into whatever the wild frontiers beyond their field held in waiting. “Friends,” Belinda said to them when it was done, “this was no easy thing that we have done, but it was the right thing. You are all safe. I will protect you. There is, and never was, any wolf. Let us not speak of them again and leave this unpleasantness far behind us.” She smiled at them. “Come, let us graze and be happy in the warmth of the sun!” And so they did and so they were. Molly’s days passed as they had before, lazily and with a mouth everfull of grass. Though her mind often drifted back to the memory of that night and the look in Rosie’s eyes as they drove her over the fence, Molly refused to dwell on it, stifling the thought whenever it reappeared. Sunny days gave way to cool nights and, before too long, the howling returned. Molly ignored that, too. She always awoke to a warm day and grass to eat, though the field continued to grow emptier and emptier. Slowly, the herd had moved farther from the edge of the fence. They were few now. They never mentioned it. Belinda rarely left her barn, never at night. Whispers of wolves more and more filled the ears of the herd. Molly didn’t want to think of it. She chewed more grass. When the moon was once again filled, a round glowing rock in the night sky, the howling was tremendous. She could not shut her ears to it. Molly awoke, afraid to open her eyes. The field was awash in the pale light of the moon. A half dozen shapes moved across it, dipping under the fence and stalking through the grass. They fanned out and Molly saw that she was nearly alone in the field. Her herd was thin, spread far and wide and nowhere near her now. She backed away toward the barn. A pair of yellow eyes followed her. A head followed and soon she could make out the whole shape, clearly illuminated by the moonlight. A wolf. Across the field, she heard a mournful scream. “Why are you doing this?” Molly asked as the wolf pulled up before her. “Why are you acting so cruelly?” The wolf looked at her quizzically. “We are not cruel,” it said, “only hungry. We cannot live on grass alone, as do you, so our food is not as plentiful. We must hunt for it. That is how we are made. We are only doing what wolves do.” The wolf padded closer. Molly backed away. Her behind bumped up against the side of the barn, firm and impenetrable. The wolf moved closer. “If only we had listened to Rosie!” Molly cried. “We could have driven you off. There were so many of us and so few of you!” “Hush,” said the wolf. “There’s no need for remorse. Your lives were full and happy. You spent your days grazing on an endless field, never knowing the worry of an empty stomach. A life of safety and comfort. Only now do you taste the fear that lingers on the tongues of most creatures for all their lives.” A flash of brilliant white split the wolf’s face as moonlight caught its teeth. “You were only doing what cows do,” it said, springing forward. Molly called out, but the field was now empty.

Winter and Summer were born from the same bang, raised by the same Sun, abandoned by the same Moon, and moved onto the same Earth at about the same time. There was a Spring and an Autumn once, too, but as the temperature rose like the tensions between the first two, Spring and Autumn shrunk to the background. At about the time Winter discovered how to employ ice, Summer decided that drastic action ought to be taken. “She’s killing everybody.” In the throngs of January when ice was at its thickest, Summer rounded up the other seasons for an impromptu intervention. “All the people and all the plants. The entire Eastern hemisphere is starving!” “Doesn’t this happen every year?” Autumn questioned. “It’s much worse this time around, now that she’s gotten ice. But it’s been getting worse every year, worse and worse and we can’t do anything about it.” Summer crossed her golden arms. “This is unacceptable.” Spring shrunk in the corner, saying nothing. “Why don’t we just ask her to stop?” Autumn added. Summer shook her head. “She has nice. She’s too temperamental to listen.” After Winter danced around, tossing ice across the globe, Summer crept slowly behind, warming the world with the soft touch of her hands. People and plants rejoiced alike, basking in the newfound light, the warm temperatures, and the flowering sprouts. They kept on this way for a few weeks, until Winter, clever and quickly bored, taught herself to harness the wind. The frozen blasts nearly crushed the flowering sprouts, but Summer wrapped them in her glowing grasp and protected them from the worst of Winter’s blasts. “You really could just tell her to stop,” Autumn suggested. “That would save all of us some time.” “If you’re so confident, do it yourself,” Summer commented, distracted with her baby plants. Autumn joined Spring in the corner. Then Winter coined a new term: precipitation. She pelleted the Earth with hail crystals like the organisms were her own personal targets and wrapped the whole thing in an impenetrable blanket of sleet. Summer sighed. Winter was being irrational and disgusting. Did she not understand what the seasons were meant to do? The job of a season was to cycle out so that specific crops could grow and specific species could flourish, in rotation, allowing for the perfect balance of an ecosystem--why was she sucking all the life out of them? Freezing and icing was not the answer, Summer figured, and as the one closest to the Sun, Summer figured it was her job to undo Winter’s errors. Summer has just finished warming up a city in Mexico, brightening it up for Christmas, when Winter rudely barged in and coated the whole thing in a jarring mess of snow. “Did you have to?” Summer gasped. “You and your ugly snow?” “A blizzard,” Winter corrected, as if that made the situation any better. “A full blizzard, aren’t you pleased?” Summer didn’t answer. Could Winter not see that the corn was squished, the roofs leaking, and the people unprepared for such a tragedy? This was unreasonable. Summer was not granted enough time for this. Summer held an emergency meeting of the seasons--excluding Winter, of course; Summer couldn’t bear to see the bare coldness of her empty eyes--and paced in front of them, explaining why they had to kick Winter out. “You can’t get rid of a season,” Autumn stated, rubbing her sharp, analytic fingers through her crackling maroon hair. “That’s not how it works.” “We’ll decrease her power,” Summer compromised. “Like you’ve done with me?” It was the first phrase Spring has spoken for a long while, making a permanent home for herself in the corner, ringed with flowers. Summer nodded slowly. “Yes.” Then she corrected herself. “But I have full intentions of giving your power back. Winter’s will be taken away forever.” Autumn scrunched over. “And who gave you this authority?” Summer sighed again. What did give her this power? Probably her supreme competence, and the fact that she had been the only one helping the people so far. But she had on reason that trumped the first two. “I’m closest to the Sun.” Autumn and Spring didn’t respond, because they knew, just as Summer did, that the Sun was the center of their world and the unquestioned decision-maker. If the Sun favored Summer, then the seasons ought to as well. Summer commanded her two subordinates like a general of troops. Spring had a surprising knowledge of nature’s balance and padded the Earth with a blanket of clouds and carbon, while Autumn...Autumn had not skills other than tossing leaves about, but it was better than a flurry of ice particles. As the new year rose, the global temperatures did as well. Winter’s slot was over, and Spring’s fell away, and Summer was left with a population of people rejoicing the pleasant lives they had been given. The pleasant lives given to them by herself, Summer reminded her subordinates. Herself with their assistance, but really, she was the one in charge. Summer felt herself growing and glowing like the Sun as the Earth swelled with increases: increases in people, increases in plants, and increases in happiness. “You’re killing everybody.” Winter barged in and stomped next to Summer, her very presence darkening the area by a few degrees. “Actually, I caused a net population boom-” Summer corrected, but Winter cut her off. “You’ve caused a pandemic. Great job, Summer,” Winter mocked. “And now the Earth is burning, too. You really want to burn our home?” “Well at least I’m not freezing it!” Summer argued. “Excellent.” Winter’s voice had barely risen. “You shouldn’t be freezing anything because that’s my job.” Winter poked Summer in the chest, a cloud of snow spattering the ground. “I freeze.” She removed her finger. “And you re-heat.” Summer poked Winter right back. “Correction: you kill, and I revive. Except I’m not interested in reviving. Why revive when you could just keep alive in the first place?” “But you’re not!” Winter sounded exasperated. “The world has been taken over by pesticides! If you don’t give me a chance to get rid of them naturally, they’ll grow rampant! They’ll plague the population--there is a plague in the population!” Summer sighed. “The only plague here is you. You and your harsh storms.” “I can tone it down,” Winter defended, holding up her hand and releasing a soft cascade of snow, the crystals brushing against the ground like feathers of a fallen bird. “See how beautiful that was?” Summer shook her head. “That wasn’t beautiful.” Winter clasped her hands. “I’m not asking you to agree; I’m asking you to compromise. This is not sustainable. Couldn’t you at least do away with the extra carbon?” Summer shook her head again. “So it’s a power-trip?” Winter accused. “No; you don’t actually care about the people. You just want to look like the best.” Winter almost looked like she was going to melt. “You don’t even really care about my blizzard. It was a good one, too-“ “You are being ridiculous. Thoroughly ridiculous. Right?” Autumn and Spring nodded loyally to Summer’s proclamation. “Your blizzards are ridiculous as well--you can’t be trusted.” Summer tossed her hands in the air and the clouds parted to reveal a bright ray of the Sun. “I need to do everything because nobody else here is competent. I’d rather an entire continent burn in oil than let one of you be in charge!” Winter closed her eyes and stepped back to some Northern, grey country that lived in perpetual precipitation. “No wonder the Sun likes you the best.”

Its quiet here today. It’s a gloomy Monday and most people are out working. But here I am, pretending sitting at a coffee shop means I’m actually studying for my college courses. I see him sitting at the other end of the room. Really just a couple round tables away, it’s a small place. The crisp air of fall coming through the door as people walk in, thrusting and whirling my free hairs around in the wind. I have my work in front of me and I’m ready to reply to emails. But am I? I’m distracted by his perfectly sculpted hair that also looks as though he didn’t even try. The beautiful smile in his eye as he laughs with his friends around the table. I wonder what he finds funny. Would he think I was funny? I have to get back to work.. but maybe just a few more minutes of him. I saw him again today. First Monday and now Wednesday, what a week. This time he was alone. Focusing sternly on whatever was on the screen in front of him. He wore glasses today and looked divine. He has a bit of stubble this time too. He must be busy. I wonder what he does throughout his days. I wonder why I’m so curious about this random man at a coffee shop. I don’t pay attention to anyone else around. In fact I purposely avoid eye contact but with him.. with him.. I want to make eye contact. Maybe he’ll feel what I feel when I notice he’s here. I can feel my heart starting to beating faster as I let my curiosity lead my mind. Its gotten colder throughout the week and now I’m bundled in a scarf and a pair of my warmest pajamas, even inside and yes, even inside a local place where most people wear actual day clothes. I occasionally put my hands on my warm tea to heat up a bit. Sometimes its too hot without the cover but I’d rather slightly burn my fingertips than be cold for one more second. As I hold my warm drink in my cold, stiff hands, I wonder what he likes to drink here. I don’t think I want to actually meet him. He’s probably nothing like what I can just make up in my head. Pretend a good man exists until I actually find one. Someone paid it forward to that man today. They bought his drink. Never have I been so jealous of someone. That woman spoke to him. Stealing him away from the spare seconds he has from that blue screen to possibly look over my way. He sits back down, alone again. More stressed than usual. I suppose it’s been a hard week considering its Friday now. I stare at him unwillingly, my eyes begging him to tell me what’s wrong and how I can help. For once, he looks back. I stare, frozen. What do I do? Do I look down? Do I maintain eye contact? Before I can decide he places his few things on the table and chair beside him and walks over to me. He sits down in front of me and in his heavenly voice says “Everything’s going to be alright.” Well, “ok,” I thought. “How are you feeling?” he says, probably because I look like a ghost at the moment. Still stunned by his elegance. “I..I’m..I’m ok.” I manage to mutter. My voice is rougher than I recall. It sounded like I was sick. “Would you like some more tea? I think your out - considering you haven’t touched yours in a while” He claims. I look at my cup on the table in front of me wondering how long it’s been since I touched it. “How do you know I haven’t touched it recently?” I say as I question his motives behind noticing my drink. His response, “Well, I only sit a few feet away every day. I’m bound to notice some details, right?”, was as good as one could hope. He noticed me. In all my glory that is messy hair and pants with splatters of who knows what on them. Probably due to my awkward silence of not knowing how to respond, he says “I’m gonna get on back to my emails here, but I’ll be around” as he leaves my table with a smile and floats across the floor as if he’s a real angel. As he leaves my presence I start to notice the cold chill again. I look out the window to my left to see the rain on the leaves dripping to the already wet concrete and drift off into a blank mind of bliss. I can focus some other time. Today starts the weekend, I got to the shop extra early this morning. Good, he isn’t here yet. I wanted to beat him here. See how he acts when he’s just getting started in the day. He finally comes in and sits down. This time, next to me. “Early riser today, huh?” he says, jokingly, while setting his things to the side of the table suggesting I’m his main focus today. “it’s good to see you. How are you feeling today?” he asks as the barista hands him the drink he never even had to order. “Here you are Mr. Shevrin” she says before she walks away to go back behind the counter. After a slightly awkward pause, “I’m much better nowadays. I seem to have found a friend” I say looking at him directly so he knows I’m referring to him and his kind gesture of sitting with me. He smiles at me. It has got to be the most beautiful thing on this planet. “You know, I think that girl likes you. Free coffee.” I wink at him and nod to the barista. He laughs an angelic laugh and claims “Well then I don’t think she’ll like I’m talking to you much, now will she?” He smiles big, as do I. He follows up my unending smile with a question, “What do they put in your drink that makes you so happy? I need some of that myself.” I chuckle and try to be witty in response. “Oh, just some of that herbal nonsense. But it does the trick.” I say. “Well, I am very happy to hear that. Now get some rest.” Then he plants a kiss on my forehead and walks away. As he’s walking, I’m bewildered. Why did this man just kiss me? Why is he telling me to get rest? “Excuse me!” I shout as he is halfway across the room. “Why did you just do that?” I ask, feeling a rise of anger. He stops and looks back. He slowly starts to walk back over, “What do you mean, honey? What did I do?” Honey? What is he saying? Am I dreaming? “You kissed me on the damn forehead and walked away. Like that’s a normal thing to do!” I reply, with much intended attitude. His response is one that gave me chills. I froze over again like the first time all over. “You mean to tell me, I can’t kiss my wife on the forehead before she goes to bed?” he asks. Wife? I’m not his wife? Who’s his wife? “Well I’m not your wife. You’ve got the wrooooong lady, Mr.” I say annoyed that he would pretend to make such a mistake. “No ma’am. I don’t believe I do.” He says as he pulls up a chair. “Why, I’ve been kissing my wife’s forehead for 62 years and I gotta tell ya, it’s that forehead you got right there” as he points to my forehead and then gently caresses my loose hair behind my ear. “62 years? Why I... I’m 22.” I say, confused by his actions and made up stories. “Now listen. I know you’ve gone through a lot recently. But I will draw the line at you not being my wife anymore. We are sticking it until the end, you hear me?” he says with a slight of confidence but mostly concern. “What’s going on?” I say as the lights get a little brighter and I start getting cold again, the door has just opened letting the cold air flow through the room. “ok, Mrs. Shevrin, it’s time for tea.” My so called ‘husband’ reacts to the woman by standing up and pulling her aside. Quite rude if you ask me. “Did she call me Mrs.?” I whisper to myself. I look down at the table. Noticing a food tray like from a cafeteria as a kid. I don’t remember eating here today. I look back up at the man and woman, trying to hear what they’re saying. “she’s not remembering.” I hear him say quietly. The nurses even less subtle whisper responded “she’ll get her check up in a few hours. I’ll let the doctor know. For now, don’t worry. If you’re stressed, so is she.” Then she proceeds to walk over to me and place my drink on the table. “This is for you when you’re ready. Just make sure you’re drinking it all within the hour, ok?” “ok,” I say, “Why do I need to do that? It’s just my tea. You got expired tea or something?” I half-jokingly ask. She smiles gently, “No, Mrs. Shevrin, it has the medicine in it that helps you not feel so groggy.” “Helps me..? What’s going on? What kind of place is this? Groggy?” I start trying to get up but can’t seem to move very well. I start getting dizzy and fall back into a soft but firm piece of furniture. I wake up. Lights dim, its dark outside. I rub my eyes and look around the room. My bed sheets are cold on my legs but it kind of feels good, like I’ve been sweating in my sleep. I see my husband across the way and smile. He looks just like he used to in our favorite coffee shop. We met there, just 64 short years ago. I can see he’s working on something from the computer screen reflecting on his glasses. The nurse comes in and hands him his daily coffee. She’s always been so kind, if I didn’t know any better id think she has a crush on him. “Charlie, can you grab me my drink? I can’t quite reach it.” I ask with my raspy, old voice. How did I get so old? I see him set the computer in the chair next to him, put his hands on either side of his seat and lift himself up. “Sure thing, honey” he says as he makes his way across the chilled vinyl flooring with his slippers. “How did you sleep?” he asks. “Well, you know, I don’t quite remember going to sleep. Did you go home and get some rest?” I respond with concern. How long has he been here? “Oh sweetie,” he kisses me on the forehead, “Yes, I did go get some rest. But you’re my home and you know I don’t like to be away from home too long.” He says raising one eyebrow in an almost flirtatious manner. I blush, feeling as cherished as I always have in his life.

Glasses. When I was six years old, I defined my dad by his glasses. It’s humorous now to think about the way I pictured him. He was a giant pair of oversized spectacles with a vague person living behind them. I saw him this way because his glasses were the most obvious feature on his face, and I lived in a world defined by the obvious. My father on the other hand, concerned himself more with the finer details of life, and in doing so, he seemed to overcomplicate every simple idea. When I grew up I was going to be superhero. Why? Because I wanted to. Where my father would have studied the logistics of it--calculated his every step, made sure the numbers added up-- I didn’t worry. I was the type of kid who would come home from kindergarten and, like any other type of kid, play endlessly with my toys. In fact, the word “play” does not properly convey how I was able to interact with such simple pieces of shaped plastic. I would become my toys. I lived inside my childhood afternoons as countless superheroes, dinosaurs and soldiers. Each one I became was just as unique as I was. They each had their own memories, fears and dreams. I lived as these other people late into the night, and just as my arms were exhausted from climbing “Mt. Bookcase” and my legs were rubber from running down the “Fifty Million Mile Hallway,” my father would get home from work. In this sense, my father and I were similar. He would also come home and play with toys, but his toys did not seem nearly as fun. At the kitchen table stood a chair whose legs warped painfully outward from years of use. It was in this chair that my father would sit and type on his calculator-- pushing in its loose, ink faded buttons for an eternity. The eyes behind his glasses did not reflect happiness, but they did reflect a determination both strong, yet quiet. Some nights, I would curiously study my father as he calculated. Sometimes I even asked him the occasional question. He would happily answer, ever enthusiastic to share the various snippets of knowledge he had accumulated throughout his life. The ratios and inequalities he attempted to explain were difficult enough concepts for my young mind to grasp, but what baffled me the most was why he would choose to be this “engineer” that he spoke of-- a superhero’s life seemed much more appealing. Some nights though, he did not come home and play with his calculator. Instead, he would go into his bedroom and pick up his guitar. Within seconds, his music would begin to echo throughout the house. As if in a trance, I would instinctively follow the sound to its origin and sit as close as possible to my dad. I could physically feel the music as it brought every single air molecule in contact with my skin screaming to life. He brought this music into existence out of nothing, just as he had done with me, and I felt as powerful as each and every note he strummed. Maybe my father really was a superhero. The strong, yet quiet determination that shot out of my father with force as he entered numbers into his calculator also came out as he played guitar, but in an almost unrecognizable form. Here, it gently flowed out of him, its harshness diluted with something else-- pure happiness. His eyes overflowed with a silent poetry that sang out louder than the music itself. In these moments, I would forget he even wore glasses-- the emotions in his eyes were the most obvious feature on his face. Then much too soon, the ringing out of the final notes would end and I would instantly become overwhelmed by sleep. As my dad slowly walked me to bed, I would always have one final question, such as what the difference was between the “big” guitar and the “little” guitar. “The big guitar is an acoustic guitar,” he answered. My first reaction was that “acoustic” is a strange word and that I had never heard one like it before. Recognizing this in my face, my father told me how Acoustics is the study of sound using numbers, but I still could not understand. After much thought, he finally explained it in the perfect way, “When a sound is created, it runs along until it hits something, but it doesn’t stop there. It bounces off and continues in a different direction-- it’s more tired and not as strong, but it keeps going and never disappears completely. That’s what an echo is,” he explained slowly. After pausing to make sure I understood, he continued, “and this acoustic guitar was created to make echoes as loud as possible.” Then he disappears. I find myself alone in my room, playing an acoustic guitar of my own. Although memories of my father have faded throughout the years, sometimes, when I play a certain note a certain way, I remember him as if I am six years old again. Only now, when I picture his face in my mind, I see a big, complicated person behind a tiny, vague pair of glasses. As I aged, the wrinkles and imperfections of his eyes became the most obvious features on his face, and even later still, it became the pain and sadness that lay hidden behind them. I focus on every one of these flawed, beautiful details that I was never able to see beyond his glasses, and I feel him in the room with me. My father created music. My father created me. Even though he is gone, when I strum my guitar and create music of my own, he will never disappear completely. Finally, I fully understand what an echo is, and how an acoustic guitar makes them as loud as possible.

“If I may say, these chains are a tad too tight.” he grumbled, shifting uncomfortably. “Would any of you be so kind as to loosen them for me a bit?” As he expected no one moved, their glares piercing through him. So, there he was, Loki the god of mischief (though some disrespectfully add mayhem), before his fellow Norse gods and goddesses in the halls of Valhalla. More specifically, he was here for trial, bound by similar chains to what restrained his child Fernir, before the All-Father himself Odin. Odin’s stare was bored, tired, irritated, his head resting on his hand propped on the arm of the throne. Loki glanced around at the other gods present. Freya and her Freyr. The war god Tyr, Frigg’s favorite and most beautiful child Baldur, and Asgard’s mightiest and most popular Thor. Though in Loki’s opinion he deserved the title of Asgard’s most popular. He was Loki, the god of mischief, wedded to the beautiful goddess Sigyn, father of the goddess of death Hel, the wolf Fenrir and the world snake Jӧrungandr and the one who birthed the eight-legged steed of Odin, Sleipnir (though he was partially embarrassed by that last one). And yet his name was remembered with detest and wariness. It was not his fault that he was always up to some fun or that half his offsprings were destined to oppose Asgard on Ragnarök. Loki turned to his brother Thor. “Brother dearest, would you do me the utmost favor of lending me a hand here? I may not look it but I am in a great deal of discomfort.” Thor grumbled angrily; his fist clenched tightly around his war hammer Mjolnir. Loki noticed a slight bruising along Thor’s hand, an unhealthy purple hue scaling up his arm. Loki smirked. “Dear me brother Thor,” he quipped nodding at Thor’s bruised arm, “do get that checked. Asgard would be in a great deal of peril if something bad were to happen to your battle prowess.” “You bastard!” Thor cursed, stepping forward towards Loki, most likely to pound at the mischief god’s head with his hammer. Then someone behind him grabbed at his hand, tugging him back with a soft plea spoken more from the heart than it was by action. Thor turned to face this person, and his face softened. Then he stepped back reluctantly. Curious, Loki peaked behind him to see who it was. “Ah Lady Sif I must say you look ravishing today,” then with a grimace, added, “though without the headdress your appearance leaves something to be desired.” Sif blushed shamefully, sulking behind Thor to conceal her bald head, covered only by small tufts of golden hair. Thor on the other hand exploded, lightning sparks flying everywhere. Yanking his arm away from his wife Sif he stormed toward Loki swinging his war hammer. “You villainous fiend, you dare say that to my wife!” He towered over Loki, his war hammer raised high above the god of mischief’s head, a whirlwind of lightning and storm clouds spiraling from the sky down around the weapon. It was then that Odin’s voice boomed through the roofless hall, shaking everyone present to the core. “Quiet!” Thor froze where his stood, the thunder storm around Mjolnir fading away. He glanced from Odin to Loki, unsure as whether to continue his punishment or listen to his father. Then Odin added, “Back away from him, son.” Thor grumbled, then lowered his arm and backed away to his wife’s side. Loki smirked. “Thanks father.” “Don’t ‘father’ me, Loki,” Odin leaned forward in his throne. “You know damn well why you’re here, don’t you?” “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” Odin scowled, leaning back in his throne. “You’re been charged with trickery and thievery from both the Aesir and Vanir, specifically the ones present here.” Loki glanced around again, taking in the unsmiling faces of the gods glaring at him. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about father.” “The hell you don’t!” Tyr roared. “You drew us away from our homes to steal from us.” “Tyr buddy!” Loki cheered, “How’s the hand? You know, the one my son bit off.” “Son of a -” Tyr cursed as he reached for his sword. “Both of you be quiet!” Odin bellowed once more. “Especially you Loki; another provocative word from you and I will banish you to Niflheim for centuries.” Loki sighed. “Yes father. But I truly know nothing of this theft against my fellow gods. I was too busy preparing a celebration of sorts just for them.” “‘Of sorts’,” Freya snorted, her brother scowling beside her. Loki rolled his eyes. Odin sighed wistfully. “Okay then, tell us of this celebration you were planning for your ‘fellow’ gods.” Loki smirked. “Well, it started like this...” *********************************************************** “Thirty minutes, Loki; nothing more. And any hint of your two-faced trickery and I will blast you to Niflheim.” “Dear brother, do you really think so little of me?” Thor snorted and went back to scrubbing the dirty fur of his goat in the pen in the back of his home. “What do you want, brother?” “I’m holding a celebration on Midgard, and I’d love for you to attend with me.” “Meddling with mortals now? Father will be furious if any harm comes to them.” “And no harm will come to them.” Loki assured. “Sure, they would be present to serve and stuff but this is mainly for the gods.” Thor dropped the scrubbing brush and stood up, towering over Loki. “If this is another trick I swear -” “I promise it is not. If it is, you have my permission to do to me as I did to your lovely wife.” Loki never saw it coming; one minute he was standing under Thor’s thundery gaze, the next second he was in excruciating pain, flying across the room with a fiery ache in his chest. He let out a cry as his back crashed against the log wall of the pen. Thunder clouds rolled in as Thor stormed to where Loki laid in a fit of anger, the house itself rumbling lightly yet terrifyingly as Mjolnir trembled, desperate to be summoned. “You bastard!” Thor roared. “Utter those words again and I shall rip out your tongue and feed them to the worms.” It was then the door to the main household swung open, and a very worried Sif stepped out in a rush. “Thor!” she cried. “What’s wrong? What is the meaning of this?” Then turning to the wall she saw Loki, wincing in pain, smiling through a grimace as if nothing was wrong, and her worried look twisted to one of detest. “You,” she spat. “Good to see you too sister-in-law,” “Go back inside, love.” Thor insisted of his wife. “I’ll throw this fiend out myself,” “Please do.” Sif replied, giving Loki the coldest look before returning indoors. “Lovely,” Loki mused. Then to his brother, “You didn’t really mean that, did you?” Thor smirked. The very next moment Loki was pulling himself out from a rose bush on the front lawn of Thor’s home, wincing as he carefully plucked the harsh prickles from all over his body and clothes. Thor let out a hearty laugh, one that boomed through Loki’s ears like a thunderclap. “I actually enjoyed doing that!” the god of thunder roared. “I’m sure you did.” Loki yelped as he pulled a persistent thorn from his cheek, and another from his behind. “I take it you would attend?” “Most certainly not you fiend! I will not become another victim of your hellish schemes and games.” “I promise you, no tricks. And there would be great deal of mead available.” Loki watched his brother’s face twist from determination to indecision. Thor’s drinking habit was one infamously know across the realms, and Loki knew how well a good dozen mugs of mead could sway the warrior god from almost anything. Except his wife that is. “Where exactly is this celebration being held?” Thor asked, suddenly intrigued by the idea of good mead. “In Cambridge, in the Midgardian kingdom they call the United Kingdom. Specifically, England. I’ve seen the place for myself and I must say it is lovely. I reckon Sif would enjoy the place as well.” Thor thought for a moment, then said, “I will think about it, but I make no promise that I would be there.” “Fair enough.” “And hurry up and leave already, before Sif gives you a beating for messing up her rose garden.” And with that he returned indoors, slamming the door behind before he could hear Loki remind him of who threw him into the garden in the first place. Loki plucked the last thorn from his body and let out a sigh of content. “One down, four to go.” ************************************************************ “...and then I went on to the other gods and gave them my invitations.” Loki finished his account. “And what happened to this celebration you were holding for them?” Odin inquired. “Well,” Loki fidgeted uncomfortably in his constraints. “Some complications came up and it was terribly delayed. To top it up I was not informed of them in time and soon after I was, I was taken forcibly from my home by your Valkyries, tied up in this surprisingly effective rip-off of Gleipnir, and presented before you as I am now with the false charges of theft and trickery.” Odin stared long and hard at the god of mischief before him, then at the gods present. His daughter-in-law Sif still cowered behind her husband, who stood remained tense and enraged. Tyr stood in a similar position to Thor, with his only hand resting warily on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Baldur stood beside Tyr, quiet but clearly disturbed. The sibling Freya and Freyr wore irritated looks on their faces, a rare sight as they were usually the brightest of the gods of both Asgard and Vanaheim. Returning his gaze back to Loki, Odin began to speak, this time in out of annoyance rather than boredom. “Are you familiar with the Hildskjalf, Loki?” He watched as Loki paled considerably in silence, then continued, “Just in case you don’t remember, it is a tool that enables me to see into all the realms, to know what goes on where and when. And almost nothing escapes it.” He let the words sink in before resuming his speech. “Through the Hildskjalf I saw you use the Midgardian custom of naming different cities and towns across the world identical to the original to your advantage, scattering the gods across Midgard under the ruse of a non-existent celebration.” “What?” Baldur interrupted rudely. “But how is that possible?” “Simple. He told Thor to go to the city Cambridge in the country of England, then told Tyr to go to Cambridge of Massachusetts in the Americas for the same celebration. He told you to go to Naples in Italy, while Freya and Freyr were sent to a place called Florida. And while you sent Freyr to Memphis in Egypt, risking the wrath of the gods of those lands! All of this giving you as much time as you needed to rob the gods of their possessions” Loki stared at the All-Father in disbelief, as if the very idea of such an accusation struck him dumb. “Dear father, I promise you I did no such thing. If this is as true as you believe it be, then where are these possessions? Surely you searched my home, and I am sure you found nothing, which only proves my inncocence!” Loki was smiling manically, glancing round at every god present. He was right, even though they exposed his prank of scattering them across Midgard, they had no proof he was responsible for the theft of their possessions. Suddenly, there was a loud bang as the gates of Valhalla swung open. Everyone stared at the beautiful goddess who made her way to where Loki knelt chained up, passing respectful nods to each god she passed, an honorary nod to the All-Father while keeping the scariest glare for Loki. Swung across her back was a huge heavy sack. “I apologize for my intrusion,” she apologized. “I have some urgent to discuss with my husband.” Loki stared nervously as the newcomer. “Sigyn, darling,” he attempted to sooth. “You didn’t need to come down her; it’s all just a simple misunderstanding.” “The hell it is!” Sigyn lifted the sack off her shoulder and over Loki’s head and proceeded to dump over his head. And everyone gasps as the contents of the bag crashed down on the mischief god’s head. Golden framed mirrors belonging to Baldur, the falcon plumes of Freya and Freyr, Tyr’s special blade Tyrfing. The iron gauntlets Jarngreipr for safely wielding Mjolnir, of course belonging to Thor and the golden headdress of Sif. All were there, around a now unconscious Loki who’d been knocked out when the gauntlets struck his head. Odin smirked at the sight of all this. “Well, I guess that’s all the proof we need.” The other gods nodded in agreement. Baldur however spoke up against Sigyn. “Where did you find them?” he asked suspiciously. “In my home, buried in the back.” “But how did you find them? We searched everywhere for them.” “It is my home. No one, not even Loki knows there better than the one who makes it.” “True.” Sif nodded in agreement. Then returning his attention to the unconscious god, Baldur asked, “So, what would we do with him?” “If I may,” Sigyn proposed, bowing courteously to the All-Father. “I’d like to issue out the first part of his punishment myself, and leave the second part to you.” “First part?” Odin stared at Sigyn with astonishment, then broke into an amused laugh. “I didn’t even consider punishing him in parts!” “Why not? He certainly deserves it; hopefully it’d deter him from future mischief.” “I strongly doubt it,” Thor interjected. “But it would be satisfying all the same.” “Are there any objections to this?” Odin asked the other gods, who shook their heads in response. “Then it is settles then. Just be sure to return him as soon as you are finished with him.” “Of course, Lord Odin.” Then Sigyn grabbed her husband by his long red hair and dragged him out of Valhalla, a sight that amused all the gods present as much as it amused him. Once she was gone, Tyr turned to the All-Father. “How did he manage to steal from us without being seen through the Hildskjalf? Or even get into our homes without seeming suspicious?” Odin thought for a while before answering. “Loki is quite skilled in shapeshifting magic; he could have changed his shape to resemble all of you to slip into your homes like he owned the place.” Upon hearing this Thor erupted once more, thunder clouds gathering in the sky as lightning sparked all around him. Behind him Sif paled at the realization of something horrifying. “So that bastard disguised himself as me, went into my home and....” He trailed off, fuming in outrage. Then, in the blink of an eye he stormed out of Valhalla after Sigyn and Loki. Odin watched all this with a great deal of worry, wondering what Thor would do to Loki as retribution or even worse, just how far Loki would go in his next ‘little’ prank. Because Thor was right; no punishment they could possibly give him would ever deter him, not even if they punished his children for his sins.

I only went to mass twice a year. Christmas and Easter. I admit, some years I’ve even skipped Christmas (how could you not, when there’s so much else to do?). Despite this, I wiped my hands on a towel to get all the french fry grease off them so I could prepare to pray without getting my pristine white dress dirty. I pushed aside the McDonald’s bag that I had made Christy go out and grab from down the street in the midst of my first mental breakdown, rested my hands on the table and kneeled down in front of it. It was only a matter of time until she came back with the ice cream I had told her I needed, too. She was the perfect maid of honor, so she would probably be pushing over other customers to get it to me quick. I had to do this fast. I put my head down, coming face to face with an invitation plastered our bible quote, Romans 12:10. “Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves.” I pushed it aside. “Dear God,” I started. I could hear how stupid I sounded. How cheesy. I wouldn’t talk to my friends like that. And right now, more than ever, I wanted God to be my friend. He was like Emily, that girl that I dropped and then she suddenly married, like a millionaire and threw these awesome parties so I had to make my way back into her life. Had I remembered to invite her? I shook my head. “Scratch that. God, I really need you right now. I know I am wearing white for my wedding when I shouldn’t be, and I don’t know if that’s like, illegal or not, but I’m sorry. I’m also sorry for going to mass still a little bit drunk last Christmas. Those red and green Christmas Eve jello shots were so festive, and I was celebrating your birthday.” I remembered that party that I went with my girlfriends. Brooks and I had recently gotten engaged, and I was so excited to announce it to everyone that I had gone a little bit wild. I bit my lip and shook my head. Not something to be thinking about in the middle of a prayer, Jesus Christ, Julia. I mean, not Jesus Christ, don’t say that. He must have gotten the worst impression of me during this intro. When I said amen, does it send, or are there like no take backs when praying? “Anyways, to the point, I don’t want to waste your time because you have to be back here in-” I checked the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes. Tears surprised my eyes and blurred my dressing room. “An half an hour. To bless my marriage. Geez, okay. Here it is. I sent Gavin an invitation.” Saying it out loud made the tears slip out of my eye. I quickly dabbed it away for fear that my makeup that had been beat to perfection would be ruined for all the pictures. How embarrassing was that? Sending your ex from high school that knows you’re still in love with him an invitation to your wedding? Get a grip, Julia. “And I know you took your extra time making Brooks. Like, that face! Great job on that one. His eyes are so bright, which mixed with dark hair is my weakness, so you must have been paying attention. And super thank you for making him into me. Everyone was surprised about that part. Plot twist, I love it. Cornell grad, good accounting job. You probably thought that this was the best thing to ever happen to me, or something. And it was, for a little. I just need your advice.” I took a deep breath before saying the next part. Sucking in made my dress fit a little bit better. Which was for the best, after all, it cost half my dad’s salary for the year, and I tried about 5 stores and 34 dresses before I fell in love with the lacey details on this one. The champagne glasses swirled around the grand room as I gulped down the french fries that were threatening to shoot back up my throat. My heart felt like someone had grabbed it with both hands and squeezed it repeatedly to speed it up too fast. I had never said it out loud before, but God, if he was real, seemed like the best person to spill to. “I’m still in love with him. And I told him!” I let a high pitched giggle slip. It was a sound I had never heard come out of my mouth. It bounced off the wooden walls of the old room and came back to slap me in the face because of what I had just admitted to. “Through e-mail. I told him if he felt the same way, he should come and meet me here before the wedding. Or I’ll go through with it with Brooks. I found him on LinkedIn. I mean, you know this, since you know everything, but I just thought I’d include it in this... message... thing. So you know I’m not leaving anything out.” “Julia!” It was Christy. She must have come back with the ice cream. I had spent enough time inspecting this church to make sure it was the perfect one for my special day to know that her voice was coming from the grand front door, and it would take her about two minutes to burst into my dressing room. “I’m asking you now to have Gavin not come. I have the potential to have the perfect life with Brooks! And if Gavin comes, I am going to mess up everything. My mom’s going to be so embarrassed, my dad’s going to waste all this money. All my friends are jealous of me, it’ll be so humiliating if I leave with my ex boyfriend! But you know me, I have, like, 0 self control. And I can’t take back what I did, but you can prevent it from blowing up in my face. I can be happy with Brooks, and I promise I’ll go to mass, like, once a month. And-” My quick rambling was cut off by Christy’s heels clicking into the room. “Julia. Here.” I turned around, and she had a small cup with vanilla ice cream in her outstretched hand. “Just take it. I had to practically bodyslam six people to get it here in enough time that you could digest it and still not be bloated for the pictures. Or else, it means a trip to the bathroom.” She mimicked sticking her fingers into her mouth and gave me a death stare. I winced. Brutally honest, but that’s why I chose her as my maid of honor. “Are there a lot of people here?” My question was prompted by the thought that maybe she would have seen Gavin, and she would go on and on about how funny it was how much he had the same blonde, curly hair that always got in his eyes when we were high schoolers and ran around the city with our friends dining and dashing. Instead, she just waved a hand. “Yeah, they’re all mingling in the lobby, or whatever.” She was too distracted to think about those details. “Honey, what happened to your makeup? Did you rub your eyes?” I nodded as she frantically fixed my under eye makeup. My mind wandered. 15 minutes left for him to show up and absolutely ruin my life as I know it. I imagined what it would have been like if Christy was fixing my makeup for Gavin to see it on that altar. Maybe we would have still broken up like we did that first year of college, because “distance” or “exploring other options”, but I realized sooner that I really did need him and I flew from San Diego State to NYU to surprise him. I would have told him that I didn’t care about the distance and I could have lived out my college years drunk texting my love to him instead of having meaningless hookups with random guys who I had to ghost the next day. And then we would be here, and I could see the tears being shed out of those puppy dog brown eyes when he gets that first glimpse of me in this dress. Just like he had always described on our way to 5th period math class. “Brooks is probably going to cry like a baby when he sees you.” Christy’s minty breath in my face as she finished the last touch of blending snapped me out of my daydream. It was like she was reading my mind and setting me straight. I turned to look at myself in the long mirror suspended on the brick wall. It was true, I looked absolutely breathtaking. I would for sure be using these pictures as my new profile pictures, taken that Gavin doesn’t show up. 7 minutes. The impending feeling of doom as the seconds ticked away reminded me of the last night in the city Gavin and I had spent together. We both were silent, not in the mood to stir up trouble like we usually did on summer nights. I could still feel his hand loosely grip mine as we dodged people on the sidewalk. After two years together, even we knew that 3,000 miles was too much distance to keep us together. I bit my lip to keep from crying the whole time, even when Gavin found a ten dollar bill on the ground and used it to buy us cheap alcohol with his fake ID. There was no use wasting our college years on a silly high school relationship that I would forget about within a few months, so I knew that the heart-wrenching conversation was coming at the end of that night. “Are you sure you’re good, Jules?” Christy gave me a soft massage on my exposed shoulders. “You look white as a ghost, and to think, I got you a tanning membership before this. That was expensive, are you sure you went?” I shrugged her hands off, turned around, and plastered a fake smile on my face. “Remember when we met Brooks?” “Yeah, at that fancy bar after we got our first paycheck?” She rolled her eyes. “God, I wish someone else had been there so you don’t only have to reminisce with me. Or, I need to go back there and find my own rich businessman so I can actually enjoy this conversation.” Christy and I had been fresh friends at our new job right out of college, and we decided to splurge on a strict girls’ night at the nicest bar in the city, where Christy pointed out how to die for hot a group of men were. When none of them hit on us all night, I had to take matters into my own hands. They must have known what they were doing, because guys who ignore girls completely are so much more attractive than the ones who want us. Of course Brooks stood out to me, he had a deep voice and he was tall. He wasn’t into the shenanigans at first, so things were a little rocky until I learned to not make so many dark humored jokes in front of his millionaire family and friends. “Three minutes, Juju. I’m so excited.” Christy inspected me one last time to make sure every inch of me was perfect. I kept glancing at the door, expecting someone, anyone to burst through. If it wasn’t him, it would be one of my bridesmaids, freaking out that she saw him and expecting me to ask to get him out of there. If it was him, he would shout, “Julia, I’ve been waiting for you.” After all, his Instagram and Facebook proved that he hasn’t had a serious girlfriend in years. He must have been waiting for me. He was going to show up. I knew it. But time was up, and he wasn’t waiting for me. He never came, and I waited to meet Brooks behind big, golden, closed doors to the altar, with my closest friends in matching blue dresses in front of me and men in tuxes on their arms. They were the kind of doors that every little girl dreams of standing behind to meet this kind of man. The kind that slapped me in the face on how just truly lucky I was in that moment, and how stupid I was to even reconsider this blessing. “You alright, princess?” My dad patted my tanned arm. “Nerves? Get rid of ‘em. You look great. Go out there and go get ‘em.” I swallowed my doubts and looked to the ceiling. I had to pray in my head this time, or else my dad would take me for a psychopath. God. I’m sorry for having my doubts about Brooks. Not that I doubted him, because he truly is the perfect man, and I love him. But I am sorry for acting like a bitch and thinking for one second that I should be with someone else. Especially someone who doesn’t want me back. Thank you for giving him to me. I am going to go to mass every weekend now. And I’ll never be rude to him. And I won’t do jello shots on Christmas Eve. Amen. I thought the prayer would take up enough time for the music to start, but the silence lingered on. My dad held my arm a tiny bit tighter, and I turned to him and smiled. “I’m really excited. Thank you for all this.” I rested my head on his shoulder while we waited for the organ to start playing the notes I had practically memorized when choosing the music for this ceremony. The anticipation was like waiting for the lights to come on during a blackout. My heart was suspended in my chest with excitement. I was ready to see him. Someone opened the door. Brooks’ best man, Cole, looking just as handsome as he did when we met them in the bar that night years ago. Finally. Cole whispered something to Christy. My palms were sweaty with excitement, and my heart leaped in my chest. Christy looked back at me, and I expected a smile or a nod. But her eyebrows were scrunched up, and her bright red lips were parted open slightly. She slowly but gracefully walked to me and grabbed my hand. “Sweetie.” She intertwined our perfectly manicured fingers, and led me back toward my dressing room, closing the door behind me. I was greeted by the smell of greasy french fries. I felt like I was going backwards in time. My mind swirled around in confusion. “But the music, we have to wait for the cue-” She handed me the handkerchief gifted to me by Aunt Beth, and looked into my eyes with her own. “It’s not your fault.” Her cold fingers trickled down my spine as she started to unzip my dress. Chills followed her nails. “Hm?” I felt her finish unzipping. I could breathe again. “It’s Brooks. He left.”

The pastor took a deep breath. Here in the office, waiting to give her sermon, Vida felt confident. She knew that that confidence would fade step by step as she walked towards the podium. Today was February 14th. It was St Valentine's day. The original St Valentine was a priest and a doctor circa 270 ad. Under Emperor Claudius Gothicas II he became a martyr, suffering persecution along with all the other Christians the Romans could lay their hands on. There were varying rumors of what he was known for. Some sources claim that St Valentine sent a letter to his jailer's daughter (whom he had cured of her blindness), and signed it from your Valentine. Other sources claim he defied the emperor's orders to unite couples in marriage to save them from being sent to war. Either way, it didn’t matter. What had started as a holy day to venerate a Christian martyr who died in the service of the Lord Jesus Christ had turned into an abomination. As usual, humanity had turned a sacred event into a commercial occasion. The real St Valentine had become obscured in history. He had been replaced by cheap chocolates and fading flowers, this by men who wanted to open a woman's legs, with or without the sacrament of marriage. The women, of course, seemed more than happy to accept their trinkets and oblige the men by allowing themselves to be used and debased. Not only did the masses debase themselves, but they also spit on God’s holy people, his saints, and his sacrosanct word. Vida had had enough of people's disrespectful ways. Half the alleged Christian congregation was fornicating with the other half. None of these people were married to each. Some were even married to others. It was disgraceful and shameful. 1 couple had walked into the church holding hands with each other, making no secret of where they had spent the night. The male member of the couple had only separated from his wife of 15 years the month prior. This was not the kind of church that was smiled upon by God in the Bible. In fact, the Bible was very clear, especially in the book of Revelations about where these people sat in God’s plan. The other pastors seemed content to let people ‘go with the flow'. They encouraged people to do what felt right. They said as long as they repented every week, that sin was ok. The pastors didn’t say it in so many words, but it was the implied message. As long as people donated their money and the numbers of churchgoers stayed above a certain limit, the other pastors didn’t seem to care as to guiding the souls along the right path, from sin to righteousness in God’s sight. They only brought up the passages from the Bible that encouraged or threatened people to part with their money and attend church. Never did any of the verses that could convict that pastors themselves, of what she felt to be their shoddy shepherding, were used. Vida’s hard line on sin didn’t come from a spot-free past. Her hardline on sin came from a jaded past. Vida had suffered firsthand because she had committed sin after sin. It didn’t matter that the original motivation for the sin had not come from her. Master manipulators had forced her into sin and she had lost blessing after blessing. By the time she had been forced into deep contemplation, she had lost everything and her most pressing question had been: why? Over the last several years of her life, she had spent much time with God, not only acknowledging her sin, where she was responsible, and where she wasn’t but making the appropriate adjustments in her behavior so that she did not continue to sin. It hadn’t been easy, being in so much isolation, but it had been necessary. It was the only way Jesus and God had been able to shift the direction of her life from where physical failings were taking her and make her into the spiritual success that God and Jesus wanted for her and themselves. It was a bigger picture that God was looking at. It was simple to see how her personal testimony of God’s intervention could save others from the same mistakes she had made. It is one thing when you are unconscious of the sin, but another thing when you are aware of the sin. Then you make the decision to either refrain from sin or continue to sin. As long as one sin, she knew from experience, she would never receive God’s blessings. What Vida needed in her life was an abundance of miracles and blessings, considering the heavy spiritual attack she was always under from Satan and his ‘chattel’. This was to be her first real St Valentine's day ever. Not one of the men that had used and abused her, for their sexual gratification or as something to hit when they couldn’t control themselves, had she ever received a Valentine's day gift. To be able to preach to the congregation about the authentic St Valentine, what the real meaning of Valentine's day is, and about her experience with sexual sin blocking her from the blessings of God, was the Lord’s gift of love unto her. Though Vida was a new pastor, she understood the eternal soul very well. Vida took the responsibility of helping others onto the right path very serious. It was important to her to steer others away from the snares and traps of the Devil. Today was her day to prove to the other pastors, the congregation and whoever else in the world was watching where she stood on certain subjects. God, silent, but not absent, always watching, already knew of the miraculous transformation from a sinner that had taken place within her own soul. Today, through her personal testimony, if it was God’s will, perhaps another soul would turn from their wicked ways, unto seeking Jesus with their own soul, rather than with lip service. Either way, it didn’t matter. The outer room was silent now and Vida heard herself being introduced through the speakers. It was time to set matters straight and souls on the right path.

Sonia woke with a start, heart racing, bed sheets damp with sweat and clinging to her skin. Her body was frozen in a state of sleep paralysis, but she was able to wriggle her fingers. Little by little, she worked feeling back into her limbs until she could roll onto her side. The harsh red light from the alarm clock on her nightstand temporarily blinded her, and she blinked to clear her vision. 3:47 a.m. Another restless night. She rolled back over with a sigh and stared up at the ceiling. This time, the nightmare had started in the middle. She was already strapped to the cold metal table, the leather restraints digging into her wrists and ankles. She’d started frantically thrashing about and screaming for help, but she knew it was no use. No matter how hard she pulled or how loud she yelled, Sonia couldn’t break free and no one was coming. Except this time, someone did come. Her eyes had been darting around the room in a desperate game of I Spy, trying to find something, anything, to help her out of this situation. The room was hardly bigger than a broom closet, so it didn’t take long to take inventory: cupboard, chair, table, trash can, wall clock. Nothing even remotely useful, and all too far out of reach to do any good anyway. Just as she’d started to lift her head to try and see into the trash can, the doorknob began to turn. She froze mid-motion, holding her breath in anticipation. Could this be her salvation? But as the mysterious visitor opened the door and came into view, that tiny shred of hope was immediately crushed, and the panic that had been bubbling inside her burst forth. “No, get away from me! Please, somebody help! HELP!” She threw every shred of energy she had into jerking her arms and legs as much as she could. It wasn’t getting her anywhere and she knew that, but her body was in full fight-or-flight reaction mode. There was nothing in her mind except for the desperate and overwhelming urge to escape. In a few short steps, the stranger had reached her side. Towering over her and taking up most of the free space in the room was . . . her math professor, Mr. Hendricks. Although he was intimidatingly large in stature and usually looked grumpy most of the time, Mr. Hendricks didn’t usually instill this animalistic fear in her. Reflecting on it now in the comfort of her own bed, Sonia couldn’t help but chuckle at the ridiculousness of it. But in the claustrophobic setting of the nightmare, she had felt nothing but sheer terror all the way to her core. The rest of the nightmare was a bit of a blur, whether because she couldn’t remember or was too afraid to try. Flashes of fragmented scenes flew through her mind as she tried to make sense of them. Clammy, sausage-like fingers gripping her arms. The song “Livin’ La Vida Loca” by Ricky Martin playing in the next room. Mr. Hendricks laughing. Metal scraping against metal. The overpowering aroma of cleaning solution. Mr. Hendricks laughing. “Please God no. Why are you doing this to me?” The cold and indifferent glare of the ceiling light shining down upon her. Mr. Hendricks laughing. A captivating splash of red in the otherwise colorless room. And always, Mr. Hendricks laughing. She could still hear that gut-wrenching sound ringing in her ears even now. A shudder coursed through her, and Sonia quickly sat up. She’d had enough of reliving that hell. It was much earlier than she needed to be up, but there was no way she was going back to sleep now. Sidling out to the kitchen, she turned on the coffee pot and started thinking about the day ahead. The smell of the coffee grounds was already working wonders on her mental state. She took a deep breath in as she rubbed gently at her wrists, trying to ease some unknown soreness that was starting to bother her. ____________________________________ The first place Sonia found herself for the day was the grocery store. She normally reserved grocery shopping for the weekend, but she had a special occasion to get ready for. The strange thing was she couldn’t seem to remember what it was. She just knew that something was supposed to happen, and she didn’t want to be caught unprepared. She was always forgetting plans so this was nothing new. In this particular instance, Sonia was in luck. She had a grocery list to work with so she wasn’t totally clueless. She’d remember what was coming eventually. In the meantime, she grabbed a cart and pulled out her list to see what was needed. Salad, noodles, sauce, fruit, plates, cups, garbage bags, cupboard, chair, table - “Wait, what?” Realizing she’d uttered that aloud, Sonia looked around to make sure no one was staring before glancing back at her list. In her own handwriting, were the words ‘cupboard, chair, table, trash can, wall clock’. When had she even written this? It must have been while she was waiting for the coffee to brew this morning. The nightmare had still been lingering in her mind. She must have absentmindedly scribbled down some of the words she was thinking at the time. Weird. At least now the list wasn’t as long as it looked. Sonia shrugged it off and headed for the produce section to grab the salad ingredients. She was thinking house salad was the way to go. Twenty minutes later, she had managed to find everything she needed. A pint of ice cream may have also found its way into her cart, but she wasn’t about to go put it back. Standing in the checkout line, she looked around for something with which to distract herself. Looking at the person next to her, she opted for small talk. “Don’t you just hate the music they play in grocery stores? It’s always the same old songs played on repeat.” Instead of responding, the man gave her a strange look and turned away. Apparently, she’d offended the one Ricky Martin fan in the store. She went back to glancing through the magazine racks while she waited, humming to herself the chorus of “Livin’ La Vida Loca”. ___________________________________________ Some hours later, Sonia was sitting in the school library surrounded by a stack of books. She’d lost track of time and could feel a headache coming on. This lack of sleep was really starting to get to her. Maybe she should research sleep disorders while she was here. There might be something that could help, and, if nothing else, it would be a lot more interesting than her current reading material. She stacked together her pile of books and brought them to the front. The librarian behind the desk didn’t bother looking up from his novel as Sonia approached. Whatever he was reading, it seemed to have all his attention. She cleared her throat to make her presence known. The man still didn’t budge. Well that was rude. There was a bell sitting on the counter and Sonia decided to use it. Nothing. Not even a flinch. She didn’t know why, but the librarian’s ignorance was starting to make her panic. Why couldn’t anyone hear her? Her breaths started coming out in short bursts and she could feel herself starting to hyperventilate. “Please, I need help!” Her plea had come out louder than she’d meant it to, and her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, but at least it had done the trick. In addition to stares from some of her fellow students, Sonia had managed to attract the librarian’s menacing glare as he slowly pulled himself away from his book. There was something familiar about that look, about the way that it sucked you in, pulling you deeper and deeper into darkness, until you hardly knew who you were anymore. As she held his stare, she found herself drowning in a memory. “Can I help you with something?” Sonia blinked and the haunting look on his face was gone. Now he just looked bored. “Yes, I’m sorry. I’m looking for books on sleep disorders.” The librarian smirked to himself as if to say that, if anyone needed sleep around here, it was definitely her. He made a few quick clicks on his keyboard, wrote a number down on a scrap of paper, and then handed it over to her. “Section 610.” His response clearly served as both an answer and a dismissal, so she thanked him and went on her way. Once she got to the right row of shelves, she started tracing her fingers along the spines, looking for any that had to do with sleep. Squatting onto her knees, she found what she needed on the bottom row. There were actually a surprising number of them. Books on sleep studies, insomnia, interpretation of dreams, even the history of sleep. She read through the titles to see if any looked useful. “Sleep No More” . . . “What are Your Dreams Telling You?” . . . “Is this Real Life?” . . . “How Sleep Studies Work” . . . “It’s Only a Dream” . . . “Open Your Eyes” . . . “WAKE UP SONIA!” She jerked her fingers back from the last title as if it had bit her. There was no way she had read that right. Either that or someone was messing with her. But no one could have known she would be looking at these particular books. Hesitantly, she reached out her hand and pulled the title from the shelf, afraid to confirm what she’d just seen. Blazed across the cover in bright green letters were the words “WAKE UP SOONER!” What a relief. As she placed the book back on the shelf, her phone buzzed. It was Jackie wondering where she was. Looks like her search would have to wait for another time. Meanwhile, the pain in her wrists seemed to be growing. Maybe she was getting carpal tunnel. She added that to her list of things to research later. ___________________________________________ “Earth to Sonia, hello?” The sound of her friend’s voice brought Sonia back to the present moment where they were sitting in the university cafeteria grabbing a bite to eat. “Sorry, I must’ve spaced out for a minute. What were you saying?” Jackie just rolled her eyes and kept going. “I was asking about the English exam. How do you think you did?” “Oh. I’m pretty sure I passed. I did the assigned reading so it wasn’t a big deal.” Actually, Sonia had already forgotten which book the test had been on, but she didn’t want Jackie to give her another strange look. She really was spacing out today. “Well, that makes one of us.” “That’s because you were binge-watching The Bachelorette instead of studying.” “Yeah, yeah. You can remind me of that before the next exam.” Sonia silently made a mental note to do just that. “So,” Jackie began again. With that one word, she knew her friend had something on her mind that she’d been wanting to bring up. “Have you still been having those nightmares?” Leave it to Jackie to spend no more than an hour with her and know exactly what was going on. She couldn’t hide anything from her. That’s what made them best friends. Sonia sighed. “Is it that obvious?” “Well, you haven’t heard half of what I’ve said, and you’ve been nervously picking at your fingernails this whole time. Plus, you’ve spent the last ten minutes trying to drink through your straw with the wrapper still on. So you’re either majorly sleep-deprived or on some kind of drug that you’re not sharing with me.” Sonia looked down at her cup and realized Jackie was right. No wonder she was so thirsty. “I just wish I knew how to make them stop. I can’t even remember how they started in the first place.” She rubbed at her neck in frustration as she said this and let her head hang low. It was maddening! “Well, maybe that’s your problem.” “What do you mean?” Sonia glanced back up at her friend. “Maybe you need to know how they started in order to make them stop.” “But didn’t you just hear me? I can’t remember. Trust me, I’ve tried.” “Exactly!” Sonia gave Jackie a deadpan stare. Now they were just talking in circles. This was definitely not helping. Putting her hands up in a defensive gesture, Jackie said, “Just hear me out. Haven’t you ever woken up from a dream that you wanted to remember? But the more you try to remember it, the more you forget it. You’re just trying too hard!” Okay, that part made sense. “So what should I do instead?” “Just stop. Stop trying to remember so hard and let it come to you when your mind is ready.” “Alright then Yoda. You may have solved part of my problem, but until my ‘mind is ready’, what do I do the next time I have a nightmare?” “That’s the easy part.” Jackie showed off a devilish grin as she said this and leaned in close, looking Sonia square in the eyes. Sonia leaned in as well, eager to hear what Jackie was going to say. “The next time you’re strapped to that table and that bastard gets near, I don’t care if you’ve got nothing but your own teeth and fingernails to use. You give him hell. You hear me Sonia? Give him hell.” _________________________________________ She was still thinking about Jackie’s words when she walked through the door of her apartment that evening. That girl could be real nasty when she wanted to. One thing was for sure, she would not want to get on her bad side. She was just starting to ask herself who would win in a fight, Jackie or a grizzly bear, when Sonia realized that someone was in her apartment. She stopped in the middle of hanging up her jacket and took a better look around. Distracted from earlier, she’d missed the signs when she first walked in, but the evidence was clear. Unknown jacket hanging on the peg, extra pair of shoes by the door, light left on in the bedroom, and was that the radio playing? What kind of burglar played music when breaking into someone’s home? Just as she was starting to question her sanity for the millionth time today, her mystery guest walked out of the kitchen. “Mom!” She ran up and gave her the biggest hug she could manage. It had only been a week since she’d last seen her, but for some reason it felt important to hold on to her as long as she could. “You didn’t forget I was coming did you?” Silence. “Well,” she replied knowingly, untangling herself from her daughter’s tight embrace, “luckily you didn’t forget the groceries for tonight.” She gave Sonia a forgiving grin as she walked back into the kitchen. Of course! That was the big event she had been trying to remember, her mother’s retirement dinner. Her brother was supposed to join them after hockey practice and they were going to toast to her successful 35-year reign in the nursing field. It really was quite the accomplishment. She couldn’t help grinning with pride as she turned to walk toward the source of the mouthwatering scent coming from the next room. Scraaaaaaaape. She stopped moving. That sound. She knew that sound. Scraaaaaaaape. How did she know that sound? Where was it coming from? Scraaaaaaaape. It sounded like it was all around her. Every surface seemed to echo that sound, the echoes bouncing off one another, until they converged into one razor-thin blade of noise pointed right at her heart. That’s when her mother walked out of the kitchen. She’d come back out to see why Sonia hadn’t come to help. She was holding a knife in one hand and a sharpening rod in the other, and her apron was already covered in big red spaghetti stains. Only it wasn’t her mother. And those weren’t spaghetti stains. Sonia felt the bottom drop out from under her as everything came rushing back in a flood. It all made sense, how she’d been feeling all day, skipping around from one scene to the next, unable to remember how she’d gotten there, why she kept seeing things that didn’t make sense, even the time on her broken watch. That night, this night, she was supposed to come home for her mother’s dinner, but she’d left her notes at school. She’d turned around to go get them, was in the parking garage, and Mr. Hendricks, he - “No no no! This is real! It’s not a dream!” She was waving her arms in front of her as if trying to physically ward off the memories, when she noticed large red blister marks on both her wrists that weren’t there before. And down on her shirt, a bloodstain was starting to form. Cupboard, chair, table, trash can, wall clock. The volume on the radio got louder and louder as Ricky Martin rocked out about going insane. Sonia screamed, shutting her eyes and blocking her ears with her palms, doing her best to shut everything out. “I’m awake! I’m awake!” All at once, she felt someone firmly grasp her shoulder and something cold splashed her face. The world smelled like bleach. She sputtered and opened her eyes. Cold metal table. Leather restraints. Clock stuck at 3:47. And there above her, boring into her with his dark, soulless eyes, Mr. Hendricks. And that god-awful laugh. Suddenly, it wasn’t fear that she felt, but white-hot burning rage. Tugging against her restraints, she realized that her right wrist was loose. She must’ve been pulling at it even in her sleep. It may have just been a dream, but Jackie’s words still rang true and they floated up to find her now. Teeth? Check. Nails? Check. Now it was time to give him hell.

Once was Lost, Now is Found Since they had moved away from their old home, they didn’t go to London much anymore. Bella used to love visiting the big city with all it’s museums and theatres and activities. Her daughter loved to go for the shopping. They would usually make a deal that if they went shopping for a couple of hours then Bella would get an hour in a museum. She supposed she could just let her daughter go off on her own - Chelsea was 17 now but Bella didn’t quite trust the city. It might not be safe to let a teenage girl off on her own, even if it was only to roam Oxford Street. Bella knew she was over-protective but after what had had happened with Rory, she couldn’t help herself. The train was crowded but they had reserved seats in advance so they were able to sit down for the journey, although they had been forced to ask people to move out of their seats. The two women who had ignored the reserved sign gave Bella a dirty look. The younger one said that her mother had a bad knee. Bella retorted that she herself had arthritis. Well, it was true and if the older woman was disabled, why hadn’t she reserved a seat? Chelsea hunched her shoulders and slipped into the window seat, her earbuds in so that she could ignore Bella for the entire journey. Bella considered offering Chelsea’s seat to the older woman and then decided against it. She wanted to keep an eye on Chelsea. Opening up her kindle, Bella tried to get into the book she had been reading for several weeks. It had been highly recommended and well-reviewed but Bella found it boring. She would force herself to read it though as she knew it would be good for her. She couldn’t read trashy novels every day. She glanced over at Chelsea who was now resting her head against the window. She would get covered in germs. Bella would remind her to wash her hair tonight. She reached into her pocket and made sure that she had remembered her hand gel. London was so dirty. Woken by a jab in the ribs from Chelsea’s elbow, Bella heard the conductor announcing Victoria Station. She closed her kindle and put it deep into her backpack, checking that her wallet was zipped into an inside pouch of the pack. She reminded Chelsea to put her phone in her coat and not just leave it dangling out of her jeans for a pickpocket to grab. Chelsea sighed and did as she was told. Armed with their tickets to get through the exit barriers, they disembarked from the train. The crowds at the station pressed about them until they were siphoned through the gates into the shopping arcade. Chelsea wanted to go into a shop to buy a drink so they headed into WH Smith’s. While Chelsea scanned the snacks and beverages, Bella took a quick tour of the books. She noted that there was a new volume from Percy Jackson. Rory had loved those novels. Bella remembered one Christmas day when they had all curled up on the sofa and watched a film made from one of the novels. That must have been the last Christmas with Rory. Bella put down the book. There was no point in buying it. They took the underground to Bond Street and started trawling through the shops of Oxford Street, making their way towards Covent Garden. Chelsea had a job now and was able to spend her own money in the shops but Bella found herself frequently offering to pay for a second item when Chelsea couldn’t make up her mind. She knew she shouldn’t spoil Chelsea; you can’t buy love after all but it would make the journey home more pleasant if Chelsea was feeling grateful. She might even chat with Bella a bit. When the bags got too heavy, they stopped for a coffee. Bella was shocked at the exorbitant prices. How did anybody live in London? Everything was so expensive. Rory had always wanted to live in London. He had applied to a London university but Bella and her husband had discouraged him, telling him it would be more economical to study closer to home. They would tell Chelsea the same thing when she applied to university. London was fine for a visit, but you couldn’t actually live there. After they were revived with caffeine, it was Bella’s turn to indulge herself. There was an exhibition at the Hayward Gallery on the Southbank. Chelsea groaned at having to walk that far but Bella insisted it would be lovely to cross the river. It wasn’t even that far a walk but Chelsea was carrying several shopping bags. Bella offered to take a bag and Chelsea handed her a large package that had heavy shoes in it. They crossed over at Embankment and Bella paused on the bridge, letting the wind blow through her hair. She looked down at the boats and remembered taking Rory, when he was quite young on one of the London tourist cruises. “Did we ever take you on one of those boats Chelsea?” Her daughter shook her head. “I haven’t been on the London Eye either,” she accused.They had taken Rory on the Eye. He had been rambunctious and an elderly couple in their compartment had asked Bella to ‘control her son.’ Perhaps they had been frightened that the leaping and stomping of a five-year-old boy would cause the capsule to swing lose from its place and fall into the river. “We could go on the Eye if you really want to,” Bella felt she should take Chelsea if Rory had been. “But it’s very pricey. We might want to spend the money on a meal before we go home instead.” Chelsea shrugged, “Whatever.” Bella decided she didn’t want to go on the Eye. She would take Chelsea to the terrace café on the Southbank. They would both be hungry after the museum and then they could get the underground from Waterloo to Victoria with only one change. The exhibit was stunning. Bella spent ages drifting from one piece to another. Chelsea had abandoned her early on, settling on a bench in the middle of the gallery, her shopping arranged around her. Bella thought her daughter would be safe enough there, nothing untoward could happen in a gallery. Bella used to frequent art museums all the time; Rory had loved them and they had always seemed to be havens. Rory had been quite an artist himself and she thought he might have studied art at university, if he had gone. He used to sit on the floor in front of paintings he liked, forcing tourists to walk around the child parked in the middle of the National Gallery or the Tate. When he was older, he took a sketch pad so his presence had been more acceptable. Bella still has a few of those sketches. The meal was not good value for money but they needed to eat something before their journey home. Bella texted her husband giving them an estimated time of arrival. She hoped he wouldn’t mind picking them up that late but she didn’t want to get a bus with all of Chelsea’s purchases. After leaving a tip, they collected their bags, Bella tucking her wallet deep into her pack and pulled it around to rest on her chest. “That looks so stupid,” Chelsea noted. “I’m sure it does.” There was not point in arguing with a fashion conscious teenager, “but I can get to our tickets and money easier and no one can pull it off my back and steal it.” Chelsea rolled her eyes. “It’s getting dark and it’s a bit rough down here. Is your phone in your coat?” “Yes,” the tone was testy. They made their way towards Waterloo, having to go through a concrete underpass where several young people were sitting along the wall. Some were chatting, one was playing a guitar. A few just sat on the pavement, looking cold and hopeless. “Lady, can you help? You have some spare change?” Bella kept her head down, trying to pass through as quickly as possible. At the end of the tunnel, she saw a body sprawled on a sleeping bag. ‘Drugs’ she thought and as the young man was unconscious, she allowed her eyes to dart towards him. Then she froze. Chelsea bumped into her. “What?” Bella couldn’t speak. She stared at the person stretched out before her. He didn’t look that different. Thinner of course and dirty. Filthy actually. Bella noted the black dirt encrusted under the nails, the long thin fingers, one hand loosely draped over a tin of cider. Although his eyes were shut, she knew they were blue. His ash blond hair hung greasy strands, partly obscuring his face, but she knew. She dropped the shoes she was carrying for Chelsea and crouched down next to the youth. She wanted to reach out and brush the hair away but she didn’t want to startle him. “Rory,” she breathed and then did reach out, touching the hand resting on the cider tin. The man swatted at her, “Ger away,” he slurred without opening his eyes. “Rory,” she said again, this time taking the hand and holding it tightly. “Rory, it’s mum.” The eyes cracked open and attempted to focus. “It’s mum, sweetie, and Chelsea,” she motioned to her daughter who took a tentative step forward. Rory said nothing, staring at them. Bella wanted to take him in her arms and rush him home. Bathe him and wrap him in clean blankets. She wanted to feed him and buy him new clothes. She wanted to do everything for him, right now, at once. “Are you hungry sweetheart? Do you want us to get you something to eat?” Rory shook his head slowly, as if it hurt to do so. “Not hungry,” he muttered. “Can you give me some money?” Bella felt her heart sinking. “Sure. I don’t have any cash on me though. Why don’t you come with us to the station where there’s a cash point?” “Nah, I’ll lose my space.” Bella looked at where her son had camped out. There was the sleeping bag and a rucksack but it was undercover, out of the weather. She could see that it was a prime spot. “Why don’t you just come home?” Chelsea broke in. Rory looked at her as if he had never seen her before. In a way, he hadn’t. She had been 12 when he left. Now she was nearly grown. “I mean,” she went on, “this kind of sucks. You could at least come home and get some free food and stuff. Then you could leave again if you want but it would be, you know, a break.” Rory shifted his gaze to Bella who tried to smile at him. “That’s true Rory. You could just come home for a little break, if you would like to. We’d love to have you.” “What about Dad?” Bella let out the breath she had been holding. “Rory, we all love you. You will always be welcome in our home.” “Does Dad love me?” “Yes, of course. Fathers and sons argue but you still love each other. Chelsea,” she grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Mums and daughters argue. Don’t we Chelsea? But we love each other. I know Chelsea can’t wait to grow up and get away from us but she knows she can always come home, right Chelsea?” Chelsea nodded solemnly, then she crouched down next to her brother. “Come home Rory. We miss you. Mum still thinks about you everyday and cries. I need your help; she’s going to drown me.” He almost smiled, then pushed himself to a sitting position. “I don’t know. Maybe,” he pulled his rucksack into his lap and hugged it like a comfort toy. Bella reminded herself to keep breathing. Patience. She had to be patient and not push too hard. She reached out her hand to help her son to stand. “Let’s go get you a cup of coffee, then you can decide. If your place is gone and you don’t want to come home with us, I’ll get you a room for the night.” There was a long pause and then Rory placed his grubby hand in hers and they stood up together. He reached down and folded the sleeping bag under his arm, shifting the rucksack to his back. He leaned heavily on his mother, unsteady on his feet. Chelsea retrieved the package of shoes that her mother had dropped and moved to the other side of her brother. Cautiously they moved down the road towards Waterloo station, it’s bright lights gleaming in the London dusk.

They sat opposite each other at a table outside a Spanish bar. The man watched the girl watching the sun near the faraway hills. A clock ticked. The hills were long and gray. Trains passed nearby. Every once in a while the man took a drag of his cigarette. The girl did not smoke. "You sure you don't want to eat?" the man asked. "I'm sure." The man took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled smoke the color of the hills. "They look like gray mastodons," the girl said, the setting sun reflected in her eyes. "I've never seen one." "No, you wouldn't have. You're too young." "I might have. I could be older than you think. Just because you say I'm too young doesn't prove anything." "Just wait," the girl said. "We've been waiting for millenia," the man said. "Be patient. I can start to taste the darkness and it tastes of licorice. That's how it tasted last time." "I don't taste anything." "You're too young," the girl said, and the man said nothing and took a drag of his cigarette. A train stopped. An older couple exited one of the cars and sat down at the table outside the bar on the same chairs in which the man and girl were sitting. They blended together. "Once more for old time's sake?" the man said. The girl said nothing. The man sighed. The couple ordered beers and talked about Madrid. The man lit another cigarette. "It doesn't have to happen. I can stop it," the girl said. The sun was almost touching the horizon. "I'm bored," the man said. "It's not so bad." "It's dull. I miss seeing new universes and trying new physics." The girl looked at the hills. "I just don't care for it anymore," the man said. "It's ours." "We'll make another." The sun touched the edge of the world, bathing it in pink light. The older couple went silent. "Anyway, it's too late now," the girl said. Somebody screamed. The sun had cracked, and its light poured out onto the landscape in globules like flesh colored mercury which seeped into the hills. The older couple stood up. The man took a drag of his cigarette. The girl watched as the gray hills infused with light rose from the landscape as luminous mastodons. "You know I'd do anything for you," the man said. "I know." The mastodons began feasting on the future. The present slowed. The older couple sat down and began talking about Madrid backwards. "It's really a simple annihilation," the girl said. Having consumed the future, the mastodons turned to the present. "It's for the best." The older couple got up and walked to the train in reverse. The train un-arrived, then trains hadn't been invented, Spain and civilization disappeared, and for a while brown mastodons walked among the gray ones. Then they were gone. Existence condensed to a single point. "We'll be happy," the man said. "Yes," the girl said. The point--.

Freya winced as she sat down. She set an overfilled glass of merlot onto her windowsill, and looked out at the moonlit courtyard of the Berkshire Apartments. Wine glasses clinked behind her. As they rang out, darkened light posts constellated throughout the courtyard flickered on then off in unison, revealing a glimpse of a well-manicured landscape covered in hundreds of monarch butterflies. Strange, she thought. Not about the butterflies, or even the lights; in fact, she hardly noticed them. She was transfixed on the motions of her boyfriend Maddox and their friendly neighbor Christine reflected in the window pane. That they were enjoying each other’s company was obvious -- but they all enjoyed each other’s company, and had since the first time they’d met at the Berkshire community pool a couple years back. It was Christine’s hand, resting near Maddox’s arm, that caught Freya’s attention. As they spoke, she placed it just close enough that she could lift her fingers and surreptitiously brush his arm with her fingertips. Freya watched as the pair undulated in and out of each other’s personal space, laughing at whatever inane story Maddox was telling, and every time Christine laughed she leaned in and her fingers lifted to brush his arm. Every time. After the third touch, Freya took an elongated sip of her wine. Then she quickly set down her drink (sending red liquid running down the edge of her wine glass), stood, and turned toward the pair. “I think I’m going to go get some fresh air,” she said. Maddox stood and walked toward Freya. For a moment, her heart warmed when she realized he was going to walk with her. Then, instead, he gave her a perfunctory peck on the cheek. “Everything alright?” he asked. “Yep, just drank a little too much I think. I’m going to see if I can walk it off.” “Okay. Don’t stay gone too long,” he paused, then added meekly, “I’ll miss you.” Freya cracked a brittle smile and turned to leave the apartment. Behind her, she heard more wine warbling into a glass like drowned laughter. Freya walked out into a brisk autumn breeze. The door must’ve caught suction from it, because it slammed behind her harder than she intended to close it. As it rattled in the frame, a dense plume of monarchs scattered off of her entry lamp. Freya watched them jitter away like electricity into the courtyard. The butterflies are still here, huh? She staggered after them, her thoughts zig-zagging in kind. First, she reflected on the contradiction of her home. The Berkshire Apartments were known for two things: butterflies, and hauntings. That they came to be known for butterflies was a happy accident. The complex happened to be built along the path migrating monarchs took each year at the turn of autumn to escape the harsh cold of Vermont’s winter. Residents could count on awakening one day out of each autumn to an ethereal landscape of hundreds, if not thousands, of monarch butterflies taking refuge and gathering their strength for the next stage of their long flight. In violet dawnlight they could be seen flickering like orange sparks against dark flint, flowing like curtains through open balconies and courtyards, tottering across rails and tree bark, clambering over one another as blades of grass and long-stalked flowers drooped beneath their weight. The butterflies brought with them a fragrance that was earthen, yet sweet, almost like honeysuckle, but not quite. As Freya entered the courtyard, the lights flickered again, but this time they stayed on, blanketing the courtyard in gentle light. Weird , she thought, did they install motion sensors or something ? It was nearly 2am, but the courtyard scuttled and stirred. Butterflies linked like scales along the trunks of various oaks and pines, giving them the appearance of great cobras, poised, watching, waiting. The butterflies seem restless, Freya thought. Perhaps they would ascend soon, twisting through the air like shed skin, leaving the courtyard refreshed and thrumming with their memory while around it the apartments themselves collapsed into a rigid, inert husk of brick and shingle. Yet, something would remain in the husk. Residents joked that the hauntings were originally brought by the butterflies. That as they swelled down their migratory channel, ghosts were swept up like debris and deposited like sediment wherever they landed. Whether or not this was true, there was no denying that the monarchs’ departure always coincided with paranormal activity in the complex for a few weeks to a month afterward. Some residents reported instances of objects going missing, only to turn up in unexpected places; others heard strange noises or murmurs coming from inside walls and cabinets; but most consistently, someone would catch sight of a man. Freya’s reverie was interrupted; she had walked a full lap of the courtyard, and stood now outside her window. She could see that the scene inside was just as she left it: Christine and Maddox, laughing and talking. She turned her gaze to something, anything else. She took stock of the light posts pincushioned across the soft green courtyard. She thought they were ugly, out of place, off balance. She walked on past the window, committing her attention to figuring out just what it was about those light posts that troubled her. They were gaudy and pretentious; playing at beauty with overly-ornate bronze scrolling which curled above the fixtures, braiding into something resembling crossed fingers; champagne glass paneled each of their four sides and cast a duplicitous glow across the grass and shrubs below. The light was friendly and warm, as though these little faux-suns could cover up the fact that they were intruding on the landscape, feigning starlight with an empty sheen, standing tall and haughty as they bore down with mechanical conceit upon what was actually alive. Back in the apartment, Christine laughed, Maddox drank; and Freya hated the way the cold, black, corrugated aluminum poles stabbed mercilessly into the gentle, giving ground, again, and again, and again. She continued walking, and thinking. It was said the ghost of the man who appeared after the butterflies’ departure had been stabbed to death by his wife. Brutally, in fact -- she had done it with the claw of a hammer while he slept. Over the years, the description of that man remained constant: a tarnished blue mechanic’s jumpsuit with dark stains smudged across the torso, steel-toed boots nearly worn apart, and long, scraggly hair which framed and shadowed his face from view. Seeing him was considered an ill-omen. Supposedly, one resident’s dog was run over the following day. Another resident’s apartment caught fire. Another passed in her sleep. And so on, the stories accumulated over the years, and there were enough that not even the tenured office staff knew exactly which were true, hyperbole, or just plain fiction. One thing was agreed upon, however: the butterflies were a portent. Freya always found it frightening that something so beautiful and so tragic could exist in the same space -- wandering through the courtyard, listening to the rustle of wings, she wondered: was there any beauty that could be relied upon to maintain, and not eventually give way to ghosts? Her and Maddox’s relationship was beautiful. At least it had been; Freya wasn’t so sure anymore. What had she missed? Christine and Maddox, could they...no, there was no way. Maddox wouldn’t do that to her. Christine may, but Maddox wouldn’t. But Christine was beautiful. Classically beautiful, in fact, with an elegance that drew people to her without their realizing, and a lightness that kept them from feeling burdened by her beauty. Maybe that’s why Freya never felt threatened by her...she seemed so aloof, so disinterested, like a beauty in a renaissance painting. It was though if one were to rip her open expecting to find blood and bone, you’d simply find the dull thud of the wall upon which she was framed. Freya had dimensionality, complexity; she was full and alive, and she thought Maddox loved her for it. But tonight, there was the way Maddox looked at Christine...or was Freya just imagining it? Maybe she was. But the touches, the laughter, the wine -- maybe they were simply loose from the alcohol. That had to be it. Nothing fermenting under the surface, just a casual flirtation sprouted from the wine. Freya strode through the courtyard feeling secure after wrapping herself up in this conclusion; but after a few moments it felt precarious, trembling as though hung on a single silken thread. The light posts flickered again, sending a flush of butterflies rippling out through the yard. Freya frowned; for a moment, she swore she saw a person standing next to one of the posts across the yard. A masculine silhouette. She blinked hard, and let her eyes refocus. Nothing was there. She turned to look behind her and saw dim light still shining through her first floor window from across the courtyard. She was at too much of an angle to see what was going on inside...no, she didn’t need to look. She trusted them, after all. Right? Then, the silk thread suspending Freya’s conclusion snapped, dropping down, down...she couldn’t help herself. She was going back to look in the window. Best case scenario, they’re just sitting there, drinking and laughing and talking like they were last time she passed. Worst case...worst case...Freya rounded a large oak covered in butterflies opening and closing their like eyelids shaking off sleep. Around the oak should’ve been a clear sightline into her window; but something blocked her view. No, not something, someone in the shadows. Freya felt her throat constrict. The lamp posts flickered, became dazzlingly bright for a moment, then shut off completely. In the light, Freya saw all she needed to affirm her dread: she was looking at the man in the blue jumpsuit. Freya froze. Cold moonlight illuminated the sidewalk between her and the man like a sheet of ice. He took a step toward her, then another. His boot breached the moonlit sidewalk, and Freya heard a crack -- was it really ice? No, those were her teeth grinding as he took another step closer, now fully visible in the light. He was translucent, but the edges of his body shimmered hazily, like they were made of static. His boots were frayed and mossed over with time. His jumpsuit covered his body, and Freya realized with horror that moonbeams were shining through the places where blood stained his suit. His hair was a matted mess which hung over his slumped shoulders, and his face was dark and featureless, like it was sculpted from shadow. Freya tried to scream, but when she opened her mouth she felt all of the air sucked out of her lungs, as though she were in a vacuum. She tried to look away from the apparition, but her eyes wouldn’t move. The world around her began to rattle and shift. She watched the lamp posts, the trees, the grass, the sky, everything melt away into darkness. The rattling grew into a roaring rasp, as though thousands of whispers surrounded her all at once. She couldn’t hear anything else. She couldn’t see anything else. All that existed now were her and the ghost, marooned upon a slab of concrete. Her eyes widened. Where were Maddox and Christine? Couldn’t they see what was happening? Couldn’t they help her? Why weren’t they watching? Freya’s tears ran thick and warm down her cheeks as a butterfly brushed past her ear, landing on the apparition’s chest. It flexed its wings languidly before spreading them to rest where the man’s heart would be, beautiful in repose. The whispers silenced themselves. Freya felt her breath return to her. She inhaled, then exhaled. As she did, another butterfly fluttered past her and attached itself to the ghost -- then another, and a few more, then suddenly the whispers returned, louder this time, and the light posts, the trees, the grass, all began shaping back into view. Freya realized she and the ghost had been cocooned by the monarchs, but now all of them were swarming toward a single point: the man in the blue jumpsuit. He was engulfed by myriad fluttering wings. He stood there like a shimmering flame, orange and black in the pale moonlight. Freya felt herself drawn like a moth toward him. Her legs moved without her control, stepping her closer and closer until she could smell the honeysuckle fragrance of the butterflies, and feel the soft gusts from their wings against her skin. Then, they parted like a robe, revealing emptiness. The apparition was gone; Freya stepped forward and was encased. She felt the tickle of the monarchs’ legs over every fiber of her being. She felt electric, she felt alive, she felt -- loved. She inhaled the honeysuckle fragrance and felt her lungs replete with the spirit of fall, laden with a sense of acceptance for the somber steadiness of change. Freya smiled, and as she did so, the butterflies began to ascend, spiraling up and out, and she followed their trail with her eyes as they disappeared over the charcoal line of her apartment rooftops. The lamp posts flickered back on. Freya drew her gaze from the sky, looking into her apartment window. Christine and Maddox both emerged from the hallway, and slunk quickly back into their seats. Maddox glanced out the window, and his eyes met Freya’s. Still smiling, she walked back toward the apartment. When she opened the door, both Christine and Maddox stiffened. “How was the walk?” Maddox asked, abashedly. “Was it cold out there?” Christine followed, stepping on the end of his words. Freya said nothing. She walked into the bedroom and tossed her purse and some clothes into a duffel bag. Maddox and Christine were whispering frantically in the other room. Freya chuckled; they sounded so much like butterfly wings. She reached up and grabbed a hammer from the toolbag her and Maddox kept in their closet. Then, she walked back into the living room, duffel bag over one shoulder, clutching the hammer at her side, but in reverse so that the claw faced outward. Maddox leapt to his feet and began crying, while Christine screamed and ran into the bathroom, locking the door. Freya wondered what their blood would smell like. Would it be like what she inhaled in the courtyard? Would it feel the same way her tears did as they ran down her face? She raised the hammer and moved toward Maddox, who had drunkenly stumbled onto the ground in front of the windowsill. Then, above him, Freya saw the light posts flicker once more. She looked up, and saw the man in the blue jumpsuit standing underneath one, watching her, urging her. Freya remembered the horror of the moonlight as it poured through his wounds. She remembered the pain of the courtyard, impaled by the light posts. She remembered the sharp wounds she suffered with every gentle touch between Christine and Maddox. Lastly, she remembered the beauty and freedom of the butterflies. And without saying a word, she lowered the hammer. Maddox whimpered on the floor as Freya grabbed her car keys from the hook by the door, and walked outside. She entered the courtyard, walked up to the closest lamp post she could find, and smashed its lantern apart with the hammer. Then, she dropped the hammer, letting it clatter amidst so many shards of broken glass. She turned and left the Berkshire Apartments for the last time, the lamp post sputtering and sparking behind her.

The starry bright night skies painted across the hillocks loomed forebodingly. A sudden shrill crowing pierced the silent atmosphere. Within seconds the dusty old grandfather clock decided to start working. Letting out a loud ominous strike at the stroke of midnight. A presage of all that was to come. The inhabitants of the house, a elderly farmer and his wife, began to stir. She put her hand gently upon his shoulder as a gesture to see what all the hubbub was about. He patted her reassuringly before dropping his feet down towards his night slippers. Still sleepy, he staggered down the narrow hallway and into the living room. The pendulum of the clock was still swaying. The kindly old man opened the glass door and began to examine the mechanics. Nothing seemed functional. Puzzled he scratched his head, searching desperately for a rational explanation. His answer, or what he had presumed as an explanation, came when a rumbling shook the house violently. With a sigh he turns back towards the hallway and makes his way into the master bedroom. She stared at him with peering eyes. He rubs her cheek gently before kissing it softly. Older Man/Farmer: Go back to sleep honey. There's a nasty storm coming. I'll stay awake and keep vigil of the news and wake you if something was to arise. Which I assure it won't. Either way, I got you. You are safe with me. She smiled softly and lay her head on the pillow. The man tucked her in and sat for awhile until she fell asleep. Then proceeded to the kitchen to get himself a cup of coffee. Shakily he reached up into the cupboard to grab a cup for his instant coffee. The lightening flashed vividly. Followed by a huge grumble of thunder. This startled him greatly. He fumbled the cup in his hands trying his darndest to not drop it. Older Man/Farmer: For Pete sakes... With a huge sigh of relief he was able to recover the cup safely. He turns on the faucet. Distractedly, he began looking out the kitchen window towards the elder tree as his cup overflowed. Older Man/Farmer; Dagnabit! Come on, Walter, get it together! After emptying the excess water he placed the cup into microwave and pressed the start button. Still curious about the grandfather clock he moseyed on over into the living room and began to shake it. It clanked. Not at all like the sound that he had heard. This pendulum was dull. Too dull, in fact, to make that new symbol like sound. The microwave then began beeping. He grabbed an oven mitt and removed the cup of water. Slowly he added a few scoops of instant coffee before giving it a stir with his spoon. He rinsed the spoon off and placed it back into the dish drainer. His wife didn't have to know. For the longest moment he sipped his coffee staring out at that old tree as the lightening flashed in the background. The began to pick up tremendously. Yet, there weren't any severe storm warnings. The wind howled angrily. Then came the loud thumps of large hail. He tossed his coffee aside and rushed to his wife's side. He scooped her up from the bed side and began running for the shelter. The wife was completely unaware of what was happening as she was being woke from a deep slumber. Older Woman/Farmer's Wife: Walter! Walter! What on earth is going on? Older Man/Farmer: There's a tornado coming. She buried her head into his chest fearfully. Once outside the wind was so strong it was practically blowing them over. A loud, angry shrill of wind pierced the atmosphere. Looming off in the near distance was the tornado. He managed to rush to the cellar beneath the tree. He opened the doors and ushered his wife in then closed the door. You could hear her yelling his name. He hobbled over to the clothes line and ripped the tattered rope from the posts. Glancing over his shoulder he could catch a glimpse of the massive dark cloud barreling towards them. He knew there wasn't enough time for himself so he started wrapping the rope around the cellar knobs repeatedly with tears in his eyes. He could hear the desperation in his wife's voice as she pounded on the wooden doors and pleaded. Older Woman/Farmer's Wife: Walter! Walter! Please, don't do this! He held onto the doors as they shook uncontrollably. A limb then smacked him across his face. Grasping the branch with a elongated plume of red berries he place it to his chest and began to pray. Older Man/Farmer: To the elders of the Earth and Heavens, please, keep my wife safe. Watch over her. Please. Debris began flying all around. He crouched desperately into a fetal possesion. Clinging to both the door knobs and the elderberry branch. The winds whipped him around violently flinging him into the tree fracturing his spine. As his head thrashed back and forth rigorously against the tree trunk causing severe head trauma. Once the storm had come passed the woman shook the doors furiously trying to escape. Desperate to rush to her lover's side. She fiddled with an old coat hanger then began to tediously undo the matter knot. She burst free only to be met with a grimm scene. The house was demolished. All that left was a slab. The rare tree that Walter beloved was uprooted. Debris littered the yard and there underneath a sheet of tin was Walters body. He lay there almost perfectly. Still holding the elderberry branch across his chest. The newly widowed woman wept many tears as she lay her head upon his chest. A sudden burst of wind blew the branch catching her attention. She removed the berries from the branch he held and place it down into the hole where the tree once stood. Crawling on her knees she gathered up mounds of dirt to fill in the hole. Then watered it with her tears. Not just of sorrow, but of thankfulness....thankfulness to the forty-three years of amazing memories that they had shared together. As she lay on top of her deceased husband sobbing a neighbor was making his way across the field of debris. The look of complete and utter shock bestowed upon his face when he reached the widow. He pulled her from the body and tried to console her. He walked her passed the newly planted patch of land. Neighbor: I'm terribly sorry for your loss. That damned tree was cursed. I'm so glad to be rid of it. Stupid ecologist, or whatever they are tried to say I couldn't remove that tree because it was endangered and the authorities would be involved. So, I did the next best thing and moved way out yonder. It's such a tragedy. This was a wonderful community full of wonderful people. I swear to you, mam, it was that gosh darn tree! The forlorn woman sniffled and sobbed, but had a puzzled look upon her face. She paused a minute with great hesitation before responding to him. Elderly Farmer's Widow: My husband absolutely adored that old tree. I do not blame the tree for it was the tornado that had taken my husband. May I ask why it is that you are so taken aback by said tree? What harm has it done upon you personally? The man took off his cap and held it to his chest before waving it towards a nearby tombstone that stood in a once family owned cemetery. Neighbor: My daughter, Maggie, she killed herself. I found her face had cerise patches, and they were on her hands as well. She lay right there. Against that tree. She had consumed multiple handfuls of elderberry seeds. We were told they weren't poisonous. Them berries would just give you a major stomach ache if you ate too much during the morning hours. She died holding onto a branch from that very tree. The elderly woman stood putting her hand across her mouth and she began to tremble. The coincidence were unsettling, but she was trying her best to not let some superstitious curse take hold of her mind. A loud shrill echoed through the silence. The coroner arrived and began placing the farmer's body into a bag before whisking him away. There were multiple ambulances and EMTs attending to injured people. You could hear the chaos buzzing through the air, from the roaring of the sirens to the screams of children, and even those who were grieving. The elderly woman refused medical care. Her only concern was drudging through the rubble for her and her late husband's belongings. It was like something came over her. A wave of anger shrouded her as she shredded her hands ragged looking for their things. Bloody and bruised she screamed in emotional agony. She was becoming frantic, and people were taking notice. A kindly tree-trimmer stopped what he was doing, and put down his chainsaw. Tree-Trimmer: M'am, what is your name? Elderly Woman/Widow: Sue. My name is Sue. I can't find it. I need to find it! Tree-trimmer: Okay, Sue, my name is Tom. What exactly are you looking for? Maybe I can help you. Elderly Woman/Widow/Sue: My photo album. It's all I have left. It has to be here. I already lost my husband, my house, my car... I can't lose that! With a nod Tom, the tree-trimmer, began searching for her beloved album, but after tireless searching it was nowhere to be found. The woman was absolutely devastated. The man comforted her as best he could. He picked up his chainsaw and begin to resume cutting limbs. Then there was something that stopped him dead in his tracks. A picture of his late father. He burst into tears. Sobbing while holding the photograph in disbelief. Sue, whom was still franticly searching, when she heard a loud cry that caused her to stop, and see where the crying was coming from. She noticed that the young man, Tom the tree-trimmer, was sitting on a log that was cut from the elder tree crying. She walked over to have a seat next to him. Tom the tree-trimmer: My father loved this tree. I hadn't noticed that it was this very one. I was only twelve. My dad wanted to build me a tree house. There was an accident. He died still clinging onto a branch from this very tree. I never did find the photo he kept in his right front pocket. The tree-trimmer handed the woman a photo a young father holding his infant son. It was old, tattered, and slightly stained with tree sap. The woman gasped and briefly told the man of her story and that of her neighbors. Both of them were in sheer disbelief, but what happened next was astonishing. He began to fumble in a hollowed out hole in the tree. Tom the tree-trimmer: What other secrets are you hiding, Mr. Tree? He grabbed ahold of large object with smooth ridges. It was Sue's photo album, and stuck to the bottom was a ring. The ring belonged to her neighbor's late daughter. They both decided to take the ring back to the rightful owner. He broke down in tears, and decided to put the curse theory to rest. Together they carved, crafted, and painted an ornate bench. Then they had a metal plack with all three names attached in the benches center. It read: In loving memory of the three wisdoms of the tree. Leaf Wisdom/of change ever lasting: Laura Michele Birch. Branch Wisdom/of growth ever reaching: Walter Alan Conkrite. Root Wisdom/of endurance ever deepening: George Robert Stanton.

She was strong, she was independent; she was weak, she was dependent. On a brisk August morning the door of homely stature rises above. It's marked by the flesh wounds that the chipping white paint had left behind. A condensed commotion rips open the thin air streamed only by the dusk and timid sounds of nature. A burst into what seems an abyss. From behind the fog, the slow, red-orange mass creates her silhouette. A tall figure. Stomping one foot after the other, a rhythm sung by her boot and the stone echo out. She uses this cadence as a mark to her new beginning. She glides across the overgrown greens smattering the crevasses. Reaching for the old sedan. Four doors, yet rarely more than two inside. Rarely. She jerks her hand for the handle like she's done this over and over. It's the first. It’s most certainly the last. The door screams into the quiet dewy morning. Surely she awoke a neighbor or two, but mind not that. She felt a sickness to think they might have been aware. But alas what has been done, alas what is being done, and alas what will be done. It's all history, at some point or another. Her history with him was built on a rather contrast ideal to what was now present. This history of hers and his as well, a sort of beauty. A sort of calmness, collect, not at any time cataclysmic. Alas. They shared what they wanted, they shared what they had; a beauty seeming to never cease. The start, just as abrupt as its end. She hadn't expected to get involved in this. She hadn't expected to be so invested. Yet she had. She did. It became who she was. He was who she was. They were the same. Or at the very least, in her mind, she was he. And that gave comfort to her mind. That gave her the sense of being. On a trip outside her regular schedule she tripped into the face of love. The very thing she had been unaware of for so long. For all of what seemed forever. She wasn't ready, but ready at the same exact time. It was a first, it was a flower. It had to be cherished. She and he really connected in beautiful ways. They became entangled. From the moment they met to every waking, every sleeping moment. They had something together. It was innocent love. It was pure. It began as said, when she had strayed from what she knew. She found something unexpected. She had to go grocery shopping last minute. A picky aunt coming to eat had not given the full list of dietary restrictions. "Well that's tough shit," she thought... as she continued to gather her things up, readying to leave work 45 minutes early to make time for the extra shopping. She didn't want to have to. But had to. So she went. The store, dimly lit on the corner of O’Connell and Garrison had practically everything she needed. And more. Looking for a certain specific pain in the ass item, a vegan-free, nut allergic, gluten stuffed turkey leg for the aunt. "It's something I've honestly never heard of ma'am." The young man behind a stand of peas and corn said. As he turned to face his questioner, he gives out a glazing smile. A warmth, a hug in mid-air, a stranger's love. She flustered, she flirted, she, flabbergasted, left the store in such a hurry she never caught a name. Never caught him, quite. Three days pass and she finds herself wound back into this poorly stocked grocery searching for her own food. Searching for what she is usually looking for. He's there again. He's now having to make a quick run. They connect again however, time pressing fuck off, they make their own time right there in the middle of the white and smudged tile floor, the squares corralling the two together. It all takes off. Both their busy scheduled lives, make time. They continue to make their own time, like gods of space and the molecular, they infinitely explode with passion for the other. It led to one thing, it led to another. They developed as two people; they developed as one. Their lives led physically to a home, a car, a place together. Mentally melded. Of course, however, grass grows. Weeds prop up. Bugs crawl; leaves quiver. They found distance between. New to them, and worrisome. She fought that. She dug into him. Used her nails to latch on, but he was scared. He didn't know what to do. So it was said. They let the distance stay. It became their third. They continued; they laughed, cried, sighed. Their third however, had another effect on the two. He was peppier with it. She had grown to despise its presence. The third darkened. Deep darkness. Then as abrupt as the spark of love, that third deepened into a silhouette, against a bright, red anger. She understood it all and understood nothing at once. A tragic melt of being. Self-worth fuck all, he still meant the world to her. He was a worthless piece of shit to her. She was worth even less. She sat up. Red beaming into the dark of the room. 5:46. She stood up. Towering her body above his. A strut to the door. She's not hiding.

I grew up on the Nusa Tenggara islands in Indonesia, just east of Bali. The early part of my childhood was difficult, but this isn’t something you realise when you’re young. To me, growing up was full of fun and adventure on a tropical island. My young father wasn’t with us very often. He had enough smarts and luck to get into university in Jakarta. My mother would have to take care of me and my little brothers but when she had to go to work she would leave us with an old lady in the village. We called this old lady Odah, but she wasn’t really our grandmother. She would sell fruit from her little shack during the day while my brothers and I would cause trouble in her makeshift backyard. To keep us amused, and I’m sure to stop us from destroying her house, she would tell us old stories. I knew all of the old folk tales from the village, but her stories were different. Some of them, she admitted, she’d heard from the Dutch when she was a little girl. But most of them were from her own creation. She said she often just had stories in her head but because she couldn’t write them down she memorised all of them. As a child, I loved her stories. Sometimes I would even go back just to ask her to tell me a specific story and she was always more than happy to. Eventually my father came back and managed to get a job in Bali. After a few years he had made enough money and we all moved to Bali where our lives improved significantly. My brothers and I were all sent to a good school and we were all able to get a good education. During school breaks my mother would still take us back to the old village and I would always visit Odah. She was getting older and weaker but when I would ask to tell me a story her eyes would light up and we’d both be transported back to a time when I was a small child. After I finished high school I was accepted into the Universitas Indonesia in Jakarta. Odah’s stories had instilled in me a lifelong love of literature and so I studied arts at university. I decided to give something back to Odah. I had heard her stories for many years and had memorised all of them and so I wrote them down. With the little money I had, I had them professionally bound. Over the four years I was at university I gave Odah dozens of her stories which she kept all piled up in a special corner of her shack. She loved them so much and she even told me that she was learning how to read them. In 2013 a tropical cyclone hit the Nusa Tenggara islands. I was in Singapore at the time working as a journalist. There was no way I could get back right away but as soon as it was safe to do so I went back to the islands. I’ll never forget what I saw. The main street in the village was destroyed. Their wooden houses were knocked down and debris lay everywhere. It was difficult to recognise where Odah’s house was but as I got closer I could see it. The roof had caved in and fruit was floating on the flood waters. The water around her house was black and looked like a river of ink. Remnants of the books lay in pieces around the house. I asked around if anyone had seen Odah but everyone was worried about their own families. I tried looking for hours but I had no luck. Odah had no funeral. I don’t even know if anyone really missed her. But I did. I got back to Singapore and started rewriting her stories. I had written them down in the original Balinese but this time I translated them to Indonesian. After months of trying eventually some of my connections in the publishing world came through and I got her stories published. I used the pen name Odah Tengarra. After all, these were her stories, not mine. Shamelessly I wrote a story about Odah which my editor, probably due to my grief, agreed to publish in our magazine. It wasn’t a big piece but it did draw attention to her collection of short stories. The public were touched and soon the stories became widely read in Indonesia. Our readers in Singapore were curious about these stories and so they were also translated to Singaporean Mandarin, Malay and English. I had included some of the stories she had heard from the Dutch and so her stories were read in Europe as well. The collection of stories wasn’t exactly a bestseller but it was making money. I took the profits and donated it back to the old village. I had a library built in her honour and I could even employ some teachers to teach the local children how to read. In front of the library I commissioned a statue to be built of Odah reading to a young child. This was the least I could do for the greatest woman I had ever known.

I can’t sleep. The voices in my head. It hurts. Why am I like this? I try to act appropriately. I try to be good. But I can’t even finish my own god damn sentences. I’m so used to others cutting me off I started cutting myself off. I don’t deserve to finish my nonsense anyway. I can’t just speak my mind. I can’t explain my intentions because even I don't understand. My mouth dries up and my heart begins to race. I can hear it pounding so loud I forget what I am saying. Can’t they hear it too? I’ve made so many mistakes. And don’t deserve to be forgiven. I can’t even begin to count how many times I've said, “I’m sorry.” I try. I try to be clear. But my mind is so clouded. It’s a storm that never clears. The thunder drowns out any meaning. All these symbols. Can we all just stop giving things meanings like this? One object can have so many meanings to so many people. Even when there is one that has one direct meaning. A bad one. I can’t give my thoughts about it. What if this? What if that? There’s no excuse. That’s all this is, just an excuse. That’s all I am. A Disappointment A Psychopath. An Excuse. A sad excuse of human life. I can’t even hurt myself properly. I get scared, I'm so weak. I don’t want to express my hate. It’s too excessive. But, I can’t just say nothing. It gives the wrong opinion. But, I’ve spent time in the dark hiding this feeling. Hiding him. Why are the chains getting weaker? Was that all for nothing? Is this voice with me forever? Music used to help. It would drown out the voices. The beautiful stories each song on the radio hears. Ones that make you happy. Ones that make you cry. It would drown out the voices. But they have gotten louder. And I can still hear them. This is what I deserve. I usually don’t care. If I can go through life experiencing pain and misery. And others can live the perfect life. A life of peace. I would give anything for that. I don’t care about myself. Hardly anyone does. They don’t care. So why should I? I just want help, but I don’t know how to ask for it. I want to help others but how can I do that if I can’t even help myself? I don’t want to be a bother. Just like this story. It’s just nonsense. It’s just a bother. Sorry for wasting your time. Have a nice day. And just be a good person. You are loved by someone. You will be cared for. Don’t worry about me. I just want attention. I need to finish this before the voice comes back. Go on in life. And be safe. Give time to love yourself, before it’s too late. Talk to yourself every night. And say, “I love you.” Talk to others who can help. It’s ok to do that. It’s ok to ask for help. It’s ok It’s ok The clouds will go away someday.

“If you help me with Math, I’ll help you with life.” Mohan offered to Donte. Math and the Sciences had always come naturally to Donte. Some went on to call him gifted. As he sat on the porch reflecting on the choice he had to make, he didn’t think of it as a gift. It was more like an escape for him. An escape to a world that made sense, that was predictable and calculable. This gave him reassurance and comfort. That comfort motivated him to dig deeper, study harder. The hard work then made him better at it. And the grades and the scholarships and everything else just followed. All this helped him escape the music that constantly played in his house, and the struggles of being different. He was different from the other boys in his neighborhood and different from the kids at school. He even stood out from his whole family. It was a family of soldiers, strong men and loyal women with values. Donte did not resonate with the values of his family. He wanted nothing of war, let alone to join the army like his father before him. He was growing weary of the advice at his church too. Sure, he liked the Pastor. The strict rigor with which his family expected him to follow their own interpretation of every word that was said on Sunday was not for him. Nor was the idea to find a good woman to marry and father many babies. He just wanted to solve problems, and help people. And numbers helped him to that.The amount a single hedge fund manager made by investments that he considered rather noncomplex could help wipe out a small third world country's debt. He could figure out that part easily because of the math. That is what he wanted to do. “How will you help me with life, man?” Donte had replied to Mohan who had a funny smirk on his face. “Come on, I’ll show you.” They had walked out of the school during lunch break to a place, just around the corner. It was an old building, looked like a run down defunct warehouse or something. Donte would never even be tempted to go to a place like that. Mohan was a free spirit though. Perhaps too free spirited for his own good. He had been getting nervous as he had declared, “I’m not into drugs, man!” Mohan just laughed. They entered the building. There were a few other kids he recognized from school at the far end of the building. He heard some beats playing. The place was very strange. It was very attractive to him, though he couldn’t tell why. The walls were spray painted with graffiti. There were some old torn carpets spread across the floor, and some thick industrial looking cables that were connected to power strips. “Where the heck are we, Mohan?” A curious Donte had asked. “We call it The Escape!” Mohan declared. “It... meaning ummm, like this warehouse you broke into?” Donte asked. “Yes this warehouse. And our work, and us. We are The Escape.” Mohan replied to a puzzled Donte. “We are an arts collective. A family. All of us are passionate about something. Just like you. All of us need support to pursue that. All of us need help with something too. We’re not junkies, we are a family that helps each other. Myself, I play the guitar and record music.” Mohan pointed to a corner of the warehouse to a room that had probably been an office at some point. “That’s the studio. Gabriella here is a graffiti artist, Marcus likes to write stories and Lainey likes to write code. There are many more of us. You can hang with us too Donte, if you like. Escape with us. Help us escape math though!” All of them started to laugh. Donte had felt at home instantly. He had spent the next two years hanging out at and with The Escape every chance he got, after classes, during classes sometimes and on weekends and evenings. They were his “study group.” They helped him deal with thoughts about where he fit in, with troubles with his family, his needs for fun and even money sometimes and helped calm his anxiety. He helped them with math. Now the word help was a bit of an understatement of course. When the school had started to audit assignments and test papers and run them through stylography checks and advanced similarity testing, something was bound to give. As he stood in front of Mr Raj, stout and pouty faced principle with a big belly, thick set glasses and a suit that meant business, all the anxiety he had escaped from over the last two years came flooding back in. Mr Raj had always liked him, had always tried to push him to do better. Perhaps this is why he was trying to be lenient with Donte, as he put it anyway. He felt a familiar nausea take over his stomach, a pounding in his heart as he looked at an impatient Mr Raj pacing the carpet floor of his office, “I’ll give you one more chance Donte, I know all those assignments were yours. I know you want to look out for your friends. If you don’t tell me though, you will all suffer the same fate. And you can say goodbye to that scholarship to Stanford. Say goodbye to any semblance of the life of an academic. The choice is yours.” Donte thought of the prayers his family said every Sunday in church. He smiled slightly thinking how funny it was that people thought of God in times of need. He thought of the Pastor. He thought of his father instructing him to join the army when he found out what Donte had done. He thought of how his mother would weep. Donte weighed the variables carefully, and tried to calculate based on decision points. Yet, this problem was not binary. He was not able to rationalize the events that had happened and could not determine the optimal solution. He knew the clock was ticking. The Escape had meant everything to him, it was his lifeline. Yet, he could not escape the principal’s office this afternoon. He could not do it to Mohan or any of the members of the Escape. Yet he could not face Mr. Raj or the uncertainty of a future without academic prospects. It was a lose-lose situation. For the first time since he had entered that warehouse two years ago, he found himself wanting to act in a way that was unnatural for him. He sensed he was at a crossroads again. “So, what will it be, Donte? Your time is up.” Commanded an annoyed Mr Raj. Donte closed his eyes and smiled, then spoke calmly and softly, “Let’s chat about my options Mr Raj. I think you will be surprised by what you find.”

I was feeling pessimistic when I first met him. I was sat at the bar, submerged in my own self-pity as I stared into a welcoming glass of rum and coke. I knew ordering a rum and coke was a little unfledged. A glass of wine would have been more mature. Maybe a glass of whiskey to remind me when I lived in Scotland. But fuck it, I was in a bad mood and I needed a reminder of my adolescent years to lift my mood. It did not. It made me feel worse. I did not know at the time why I felt dispirited. Realization came a little while later. I sighed and looked up from my miserable drink and scanned the bar. I noticed a couple of lads laughing at something funny while one of them rubbed his face in embarrassment. I wondered what was so funny. Maybe the humiliated one told an embarrassing story and that was why he was red in the face? Or maybe the others were reliving something from another day that the guy did not want brought up again for the hundredth time? My attention then drifted to a young couple who were rarely looking at each other. Their faces were almost white from the glow of their phones that they were fixated to. I snorted as I imagined them either talking to each other via their phones instead of talking across the table, or maybe engaging in a miserable attempt at broadcasting their wonderful night out on social media. I sighed again. This time deeply as I brought my glass up to my lips to take another sip. As I did so, something alerted my attention. Well, more appropriately; someone. My smile fell from my face. The smile that I did not even recognize I was wearing until that moment. I realize now that that smile was not a happy smile; it was a bit of a cynical smile from imagining the previous couple having a fake good time on social media. I noticed I had faltered ever so slightly, the glass raised to my lips but not moving any closer. His eyes only briefly glanced at me, but it was enough to send a curious shock through my body and linger dangerously. I had not noticed him before now. I do not tend to notice people right away. My initial instinct when I am walking into a bar on my own is to find a table that is both free and far enough away from the crowd. Usually in a corner or by a wall so as to not draw too much attention to myself and so I can sit, and people watch. It is not until I have successfully got a drink and slinked my way onto the table quickly enough that I can let loose a little and look around myself. The group with the curious and allusive embarrassing tale were initially the first people I properly noticed. The couple were the second. And he was the third. As soon as I noticed him, however, my attention elsewhere was basically non-existent. He had a eerie air about himself that drew all attention to him the moment you noticed him. Everyone else was just background noise. Or extras in a film. There, but not important. The main characters were important. It was as if he was the main character in this film. He was ruggedly handsome. Short dark hair, either dark brown or black, I could not tell in the poor light of the bar. A strong jaw, cleanly shaven, with a suspicious scar on his thin upper lip. He wore a crisp suit, which was also dark, it could have been black, but I was not ruling out any other dark colours. He held himself tall while he took large gulps of a beer. He clearly did not seem bothered by the noise around him. Like he too thought it was unimportant background noise. I found myself staring. My glass now back on the table, that sip I had been planning to take was never taken. It had lost its appeal. It was as if the welcoming liquid in the glass held no more significance to me and might as well have been stale water. I gasped as his eyes flicked to me again. His deep endless green eyes seemingly staring straight into my soul and almost revealing my biggest weakness right before me. I was helpless. I even saw a faint flicker of a smile. Little did I know, that was just the beginning. I recalled reading somewhere once that most women - probably only the heterosexual women - usually go for the tall, muscular men who are confident and dominant because they want a partner who can protect them. I also remember thinking that every time I thought of my Mr. Right, he would be tall and muscular too. As well as confident enough to protect me and keep me safe. I knew no one was perfect of course, I was prepared for some flaws in my Mr. Right. But those were my main requirements. I am not insinuating that guy at the bar was my Mr. Right. In fact, I am certain he was not. Far from it. I pictured my Mr. Right as a loving guy, with a wacky sense of humour to make me feel better on my low days, who loved me unconditionally and even enjoyed cuddling - I know, cliché much! The guy at the bar did not even strike me as that sort of guy. Even then, on that first day I met him. I could not picture him wanting to cuddle or even having any form of sense of humour. But Mr. Right was suddenly forgotten about. Especially when the Mr. Most Probably Wrong stood up and walked right over to my table. “Have we met before?” he asked. His voice as deeply dominant as his features. The now familiar American accent I had gotten used to boomed in front of me. Even his voice sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. I should have realized then that I should not engross in any form of conversation with him. He was entrancing and it was dangerous. But of course, I could not resist; “No,” was the only thing I could say. Unable to string a few words together to complete a sentence. I was happy enough to know I spoke the right word; I did not know him. I was certain I would recall him if I had ever seen him before. He watched me for a few seconds. His gaze had some sort of superpower as I noticed the hairs on my arms start to raise. “Are you sure?” he was stern and commanding. “Yes,” I uttered another single syllable word. “What’s your name?” he practically ordered. It was not really a question; it was a demand. I remember thinking that I should not answer. I should not give him my name. I did not know this man. What if he was a serial killer scouting for his next prey? But of course, my lips seemed to move on their own accord; “Jo.” “Tell me, Jo,” he started. I was not able to read any emotion on his face or his voice. I was not sure if it was because I was currently incapable of reading people or if it was him. “Why do you look familiar to me?” “I... I don’t know,” I stuttered. Well, at least it was better than a single syllable word. He seemed to watch me again for a few painfully long seconds and I could feel my palms getting sweaty. He did not seem satisfied with my answer. As if it were my fault, he could not figure out why I looked familiar to him. “Sorry,” I uttered involuntary to break the uncomfortable silence between us. The background bar noise did not even register to me by this point. For the first time I saw his face move, other than his lips. His right eyebrow rose. “What are you sorry for?” “For...” I paused. What was I sorry for? “For not being much help.” “I don’t know...” Another movement, this time a microscopic smile. A smile that made you falsely believe you were in safe hands. “I still think you can.” He suddenly plopped himself down in the chair opposite me uninvited and took a swig of the beer he was holding. The beer I had only just noticed he even had.