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Allura 49

"See you in a bit alright?" The shout came from the porch downstairs, followed shortly by the slamming of the front door and crunching of the key inside the keyhole. "I hope you're quick." He thought, stomach growling for the fourth time in the last couple minutes. "Bloody lockdown. Can't bloody do anything anymore," he messaged his girlfriend on Facebook. "I know it sucks, seeing you this weekend tho <3 <3" She replied. He opened up a video game while he was waiting for his friend to return. It was the middle of his second game when he heard the bathroom door close and the metal latch slide. He lifted up his headphones from his ears, "Yo, you back?" He called through his bedroom door. No answer. "Yo!" He yelled. "James?" Still nothing. Sometimes when James was in a hurry, he'd ignore things. Had the bathroom door even locked? At this point he was too lazy to get up and investigate. James had probably come back for a quick piss and had already left again. He resumed the game. It had been another five minutes when he realised he really needed a piss. This morning's tea and orange juice had gone right through him. He finished his current game and did a desperate walk to the bathroom, but when he tried the handle, it was locked. At first he was confused. "James, are you in there?" When no answer came back, he screamed: "JAMES!" No answer again. Then it suddenly clicked: it *wasn't* James. There was probably a stranger in the house. He slowly backed away from the door and quietly withdrew a kitchen knife from a wooden holder, then tiptoed back to the door. He stood still, holding the knife by his waist and listening in with his ear to the wood. No sound. At this point he was wondering whether to call the police, but he still wasn't absolutely sure there was anyone in the bathroom. He tried the handle again, and again, yanking at it aggressively and shoulder barging the door. It was definitely locked. That means someone HAD to be inside. And, it couldn't have been James; unless, it WAS James. What if he'd passed out in the bathroom and needed to go to hospital? Shit. He felt like he had a valid excuse now to open the door by force, so he leant back and gave it the strongest kick he could manage. Then he did it again. The wooden panels bended and bulged. He kept kicking. Breaking down a door was a lot harder than in the movies. After a dozen kicks the lock was dangling down from the handle and there was a two inch gap ajar. For the final move he leapt into it, pushing the weight and force of his unfit body against the weak panels, which swung open, ricocheted off the basin to the left and smacked him in the head. He rubbed the top of his noggin and looked up from the floor. The legs of a bloodied body were hanging motionless down the side of the bathtub. He couldn't even tell it was James at first. There was blood all over his face, his eyes were gauged out, throat slit, nose chopped off, lips removed. The only thing that confirmed him were the clothes that he'd seen James wear before he left to get food. What on Earth had even happened? His heart was slamming into his chest like the beats of his foot against the door a second ago. He still had the knife in his hand. Was the killer still around? He felt sick with terror. He closed the door and held it there with his feet. Shit. His phone was still in his room. He was thinking of yelling for help, but if the killer was still in the house, that would just encourage him to break into the weak door immediately. After all, what would the killer have to lose at that point? But fuck it, what else could he do? "HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!" He screamed at the top of his lungs. "I'M TRAPPED IN THE BATHROOM AND MY ROOMMATE IS DEAD! HE WAS MURDERED! HEEEEEEEEELP!" He kept screaming over and over again, sandwiched between the bathtub and the closed door. After five minutes of screaming, there was a small crowd outside the front door. They knocked loudly, offering assistance. "MY FLATMATE'S BEEN MURDERED. CALL THE POLICE!" He told them. A few minutes later, he could hear sirens approaching from the distance and a wave of relief swept over him. For a couple of minutes while the police were breaking in the door, his thoughts turned to his friend and his healthy pale-red skin. His small, round-shaped head with his oak-coloured hair arranged smartly. His widthy stubble and his strong jawline with the triangular chin. His bushy eyebrows and piercing hazel eyes that looked like tiny portals into a new universe. His straight nose. His playful ears that stuck out the perfect measurement from each side of his head. The archetypal image of young manhood that he had become obsessed by and fallen in love with; those features that aligned so exquisitely well they inspired a profound rapture, taking one back to an earlier point in history, when all was quieter and genuine joy was a possibility; a time where not everything was known. The front door crashed open and the police yelled up. His legs on the door relaxed, and he left the bathroom. Several seconds passed before he appeared at the stairs. "I just went to get my phone. It's me." He said, slowly making his way down. A policemen gasped. Another muttered, "Jesus Christ," in shock. It was an overweight blonde man with what looked to be a severe facial disfigurement. His nose was hanging off. His lips and eyes were bulging grotesquely. He appeared to be looking at himself in the reflection of his phone. On top of his head was a furry hat, but one officer noticed it looked more like one of those wigs with the plastic bottom, designed to look like a scalped head. He introduced himself, "I'm James." He said.

Timmy lay all cozily curled up in bed, his slow rhythmic breathing only ever so slightly audible. A gentle breeze blew the curtains upwards, making them balloon out a little bit. A pile of clothes lay on his chair next to his bed, as if to protect him while he slept. Outside, the night was still. An occasional bug hopped onto the windowsill, but soon hopped off again as it realised it couldn't get past the screen. Unbeknownst to the dreamer, a shadow appeared in his room. It glided soundlessly across the cool tiles, bent over to pick up a lump of blanket on the floor, straightened up again and - "G'mme back my blankie, mommy," Timmy sleepily mumbled with one eye open. He clamped his arm down by his side to keep the blanket on him, but it was too late. The blanket was off him. "Give't back," he mumbled again, stretching out both arms insistently. "Mommy?" he asked, this time more awake. "Wh-" He stopped mid-sentence, frozen. All sleep seemed to have left him. He couldn't scream, he couldn't move, he couldn't do a single thing except stare in shock. For there stood before him a glowing white creature with only sockets for eyes and a tongue that permanently hung out of its jawless mouth. Putrid green saliva (?) escaped onto the floor with a steady "*drip, drip, drip*". Its limbs were unnaturally long and seemed to be able to bend in directions that its apparent joints should not have allowed, and within its translucent chest was a cold, grey stone which Timmy could only assume to be what was once his heart. And as the creature extended its right limb closer and closer towards Timmy, its face cracked into a demented smile, if it was possible at all, since it had no jaws. Then the creature cleared its throat, as if to speak. Timmy squeezed his eyes shut and stuck his fingers in his ears, his heart pounding faster than the time Claire from class gave him a chocolate valentine. And the creature spoke in a deep, booming voice that resonated within Timmy's skull. "Hey kid, my name's Jonathan, but you can call me John. Didn't mean to scare ya, sorry about that. You're...Timothy, right?" \-- "Sooo...you've been living in my house for *how long again?"* Timmy asked in a tone of incredulity. I nodded. "Yep, you heard me. Since 'way back when your Grandma and Grandpa were still young, like you are now. They just didn't know I was around, see. And back then I didn't have my pals with me." I stopped short. "You mean there's more like you?!" he almost screeched, eyes widening in fear. I quickly realised my mistake and hurriedly tried to calm him down. "Hey, hey, they're not bad guys. They just need a place to stay. We got kicked out of this house when your Grandma and Grandpa were grown. I think it's called an...exoricism or something like that? Anyway, we got kicked out, and couldn't find anywhere to stay. Have you ever seen a man sleeping on the streets, Timmy?" He nodded. "Yeah, Mommy said that's because they're something called *homeless.*" "That was us. We wandered around, until we heard your Grandma and Grandpa had died. That meant that the protection surrounding this house had died with them. So we snuck back in. We were careful at first, not wanting to scare your Mommy and Daddy away in case they kicked us out again." "How did you manage that?" Timmy asked breathlessly. \-- Christa slept away, blissfully unaware of the time. The clocked ticked and ticked. Seconds passed, then minutes, then a full hour. Abruptly, she sat upright in bed and glanced at the clock. "Ugh, late again!" she cried out in distress, and scrambled out of bed to the bathroom, berating herself for having partied too hard the night before. Now her boss would certainly disapprove of this, and she wouldn't get that promotion she was eyeing. That goody-two-shoes, show-off, Little Miss Perfect Samantha would get it instead. " 'At Shamangda on'y knowsh 'ow 'oo show off anyway," she mumbled through a mouth full of toothpaste. She quickly finished the rest of her morning routine and came back out to the room, then stopped dead in her tracks with surprise. A nice outfit, admittedly pretty well-chosen, had been laid out nicely on the bed for her, along with her purse neatly sitting next to it. She rubbed her eyes to make sure this wasn't one of those dreams where you think you're all ready to go out the door and then you wake up, but she wasn't mistaken. This was real. "Must be losing my mind," she thought, and put on the outfit. She checked through her purse. Everything she would need for the day was in there. "I probably packed it last night in advance," she thought, and then left the house. That night when she came home exhausted from work, she caught a whiff of...grilled salmon? "That's funny, I don't remember buying salmon at all," she said to herself. "Eric?" she called out. "Are you home yet?" No answer. "I know you're in here somewhere, trying to surprise me with dinner!" she giggled, "Come on out now, I could smell that lovely dinner the minute I entered the house!" No answer. "Eric? C'mon, stop fooling around, I know you're in here. Jig's up. Let's eat, I'm starving," she called out a little louder, but no answer. Just then her phone buzzed. It was a text from Eric. "*Hey honey, I'll have to stay late at the office tonight, so sorry ): there's some pizza in the freezer if you want xx"* Chills ran up and down her spine. She went to the kitchen table, which had a single plate of grilled salmon and some asparagus on it. There was even a slice of lemon. Gingerly, she poked the fork, and then picked up the fork to use it to prod the salmon several times. It fell apart in pink, soft flakes, just the way it should be. Slowly, with a trembling hand, she brought a slice to her mouth. The taste was otherworldly. After finishing the whole plate, she lifted it up when she noticed a note underneath it in unfamiliar handwriting. "I hope you liked it. Please indicate your choice of breakfast the next day by putting a check mark next to any of the following: pancakes with maple syrup, fried bacon and scrambled eggs and toast, waffles with chocolate fudge and strawberries," she read aloud. Shaking her head and telling herself she would try to make things out later, she went to wash her plate. Plate now washed and dried, she dragged herself up the stairs to her bedroom. Halfway up, she tripped and fell flat on her face. She flailed out to catch the railings, but it was too late. She wouldn't have needed to catch the railings anyway, because she fell on something soft. Looking down, she could see the stairs a few inches away from her face. She was actually hovering above the stairs. Before she could react, whatever it was that held her started to push her back up into standing position. "Uhh...thanks?" she said out loud, and a booming "No problem!" made her shriek and sprint the rest of the way up into her bedroom, slamming the door firmly shut. A knock on the door startled her. "Lady, you forgot something," said the same booming voice from just now. "I believe you dropped your glasses." Cautiously, Christa opened the door a crack. There was no one outside, but her extremely battered glasses were floating in mid-air. She opened the door a little wider. "Sh- show yourself," she commanded bravely. There was a sigh. "Look, just get your glasses and go. I guarantee you, if you see what I look like, you won't want me in your house. It's a bad idea." They argued back and forth, until the creature finally relented. "Get a mirror and stand with your back to me," he instructed, and she did so. "Now, just wait. It takes a while for me to un-invisible myself using this method. Aaaand, yup, there we go. That's me." Christa's scream was enough to curdle the blood of any neighbour within a 5 mile radius. \-- "So, I finally managed to convince your parents through all the anonymous favours that I did for them, that although I look horrible enough it's a wonder the mirror didn't shatter, I'm actually just the spirit of a regular good guy that continues to be good even after he's dead," I finished proudly. An awestruck "Woooww!" was the only response I got from Timmy. Then, "You can make yourself invisible? Why didn't you make yourself invisible when you first came in? How do you do it? Wh-" "Hey, hey, buddy," I interrupted gently. "It's about 3am, time you should sleep, You were asleep before this anyway. I'll see you in the morning, okay?" "Okay," he replied, and gave me a huge smile. "Can I hug you goodnight? It must be lonely being a ghost." I could've sworn my cold stone heart felt a flicker of warmth right then, and I agreed on the hug, but reassured him that I had 2 other ghost pals and it wasn't quite as lonesome as he thought. "Goodnight, ghost-John. You're really cold, but I guess you give good hugs. You're a funny guy," he laughed. "Goodnight Timmy," I said, smiling, and softly exited the room.

Content warning: Child loss Another apple disintegrates under the weight of Evelyn's boots. It is the third one in the five minutes that they've been in the orchard, and it does nothing to quell her nagging suspicion that this whole excursion is a mistake. The mushy fruit clings to the sole of her shoe like a beggar, but she refuses to fall any farther behind. Already ten paces ahead, her wife, Gloria, whips through the row of apple trees with the same pinballesque efficiency she uses when stuffing bills and magazines and credit card offers into the mailboxes on her route. Her fingers, nails bitten to the quick, carelessly snatch apples from their branches. Gloria's dark hair, longer than Evelyn likes, flows past her shoulders. In the glare of the Illinois sunshine, Evelyn can discern all the strands of gray that weren't there when they visited this orchard a year ago. Of course, a year ago they'd also had Adam with them. His laughter, delicate and bright as a new Hot Wheels car; the pitter-patter of his feet against the grass; the way he perched on Gloria's shoulders, his legs wrapped around her neck like a hug, as he clutched at the apples high in the trees. Evelyn tries not to think about that, tries to shove those thoughts in the crawl space of her mind along with the bruising and the nosebleeds and the hospital visits and the leukemia. She reminds herself that they're here today to enjoy themselves. "What do you think of this one?" Gloria asks, turning to Evelyn. In her hand sits a lopsided circle the color of blood, large and lustrous. The apple picking bag that's strapped to her shoulders like a harness, already a third of the way full, resembles a baby sling. Though thankful for the words--they've spoken no more than necessary today, no more than to begrudgingly agree to fulfill their promise to come to the apple orchard--Evelyn cannot bring herself to look at her wife, the apple, the bag. She pivots and places a hand above her eyes, squinting until she can see nothing but a dim bar of sunlight, and says, "Looks good." Her throat is dry and her voice comes out like cheap sandpaper. "I think so too. How are you doing over there?" "I'm doing," Evelyn says. Leaves rustle as Gloria picks another apple. The sound of it falling and knocking against the others in her bag is like bone on bone. Evelyn grinds her teeth and turns back to her own tree. Its arms overflow with blood-red offerings. The sugar-sweet aroma churns her stomach. "Ev, your bag is empty," Gloria says, her voice suddenly close, and Evelyn startles. When did Gloria get behind her? How long has she been staring at this tree? She looks down at her bag, at a loss for words and apples. Gloria says, "Here," plucks an apple from her own bag, and tosses it into Evelyn's. "You have to start somewhere." Evelyn murmurs a noncommittal thank you. It's enough for Gloria, who turns on her heels and continues down the lane. Evelyn waits a few seconds before releasing the apple from its baggy prison and dropping it in front of her. This time, she makes sure not to disintegrate it. *** If she wants to, Evelyn can conjure up the image of Adam in the Subaru, his tiny face aglow in the rearview mirror as they passed the apple orchard, his voice as high and feverish as the Elmo doll in his lap. They were heading home from the airport after a trip to Disneyland, and Adam was in no hurry to let the magic end. Jet lag anchored Evelyn's hands to the steering wheel and her body to the leather seat. But then Gloria nodded her approval, twisting in her seat and eyeing the retreating orchard, vetoing fatigue, so Evelyn U-turned and the three of them watched the plantation expand through the windshield. Adam bounced around the orchard like a feral child. He sprinted up and down rows of hedges and trees and ran his fingers across all the fruit on the low-slung branches. More than once, he launched Elmo into the air on a mission to retrieve a treetop apple. A few onlookers shook their heads at him. Evelyn turned bright crimson under the weight of their stony judgment, but Gloria simply shrugged and said, "Hey, boys will be boys." Still, Evelyn had fun despite herself. She clapped when Gloria gave him a piggyback ride. She encouraged him to "Reach for the sky!" in her best Woody impersonation. She laughed when he grabbed a bruised apple from the ground, chomped, and the juice dribbled like a trail of tears down his chin. Toward the end of their time in the orchard, as they were going to weigh their fruit, Adam stepped the wrong way onto a fallen apple and pitched forward. Evelyn whirled around when she heard his cry and watched the event unfold as if in slow-motion: Elmo flying from the boy's grip, Adam arcing his body to the side to land on his sleeveless arm instead of his face, his shoe, perpetually untied, dislodging itself from his foot. He collapsed on the ground with a thud. To his credit, the boy neither cried nor fussed, not when Gloria sat him upright and rubbed his back. Not when Evelyn traced her finger lightly down his arm, asking "Does this hurt? How about now?" Not even when, later that night, as Evelyn was weaving crust into a lattice for her apple pie, she questioned the mottled purple bruise by Adam's shoulder as he circled a date in red magic marker on the calendar and made plans for next September's apple picking adventure. She can conjure up all of this at a moment's notice, if she wants to. The problem is, she doesn't. *** To Evelyn, the thirty minutes they've been in the orchard feels like thirty hours. Her apple bag is still empty while Gloria, in the next row over, resembles a mother kangaroo, her pouch poking out over her stomach, pregnant with life. "How're you doing over there, Ev?" she shouts over the thicket of trees. There are small openings in between each tree that reveal a sliver of the other lane. Evelyn can see her wife through the gap, knows she already has the answer to her own question. "I'm doing," Evelyn replies, but her heart isn't in it, hasn't been for a while. "I can't wait to taste some of your apple pie," Gloria says. The rustle of leaves echoes as a branch snaps back into place. "I might even have it with some hot fudge and crushed nuts." Evelyn recognizes this statement as call-and-response. "And I might leave you for Jodie Foster if you do" is the answer Gloria wants to hear, a reference to their first date at Evelyn's house so long ago. Back then, after Evelyn had said that, Gloria abruptly dropped her fork, leaned across the table, and kissed Evelyn, breaking the seal of her lips with her tongue. When she pulled away, the first thing she said was, "I'd like to see Jodie Foster do that." The memory passes through Evelyn's mind as though it were simply something she'd seen once in a movie or a dream, something that happened to actors, imaginary people, anyone but her. Gloria stands on the other side of the trees, her fingers grazing a waxy red apple, and stares at Evelyn. She is waiting for an answer. Evelyn's feet move before her mouth can. She speedwalks down the lane, away from the spot where Gloria is calling after her, bouncing words off her back. She goes four lanes over to a spot where the gaps in the trees only reveal the next two rows. Unsurprisingly, this section of the orchard also exclusively contains apples the same shade as blood. But it also contains quiet, which is sweeter than any fruit could ever hope to taste. A little while before or after Adam died in March--Evelyn can never remember which, in the blurry haze of the timeline--the doctor said that only five percent of children, at the most, got unlucky with leukemia treatment. That was the word he'd used, Evelyn remembers that much: "unlucky." But that isn't something she ever wanted to know. What Evelyn would like to know, what she asked herself today when she crawled out of bed and saw the red magic marker circle on the calendar, what she's been asking herself almost every day since spring, is if he had been sick even before then. Before he fell on the apple and bruised his pale skin. Before the constant calls from the preschool and the blood-crusted T-shirts. What she wants to know is when it started. She already knows how it ends. That's what she's thinking about when the sound of laughter wafts through the lane. The leaves quake like someone is trying to uproot the trees. A little boy pokes his head through the opening as though it's a secret entrance. Evelyn steps back and presses her empty apple bag against her stomach. Somewhere a lane or two over, a woman is yelling a name: "Conrad! Conrad, where are you?" "Shh," says the boy to Evelyn, bringing a finger to his mouth. He winks conspiratorially like an accomplice. He can't be any older than six, with a flop of blond hair. "I'm hiding from my mom." Evelyn says nothing. The shouting gets louder, the voice more shaky. The boy retreats into the interstice of the trees just as his mother appears at the end of the lane. Blonde with her hair in a ponytail, probably a decade younger than Evelyn, late twenties if she had to guess, her tone unmistakably laced with panic and desperation: "Conrad, please! This isn't funny anymore!" She looks like a bobblehead, craning her neck as if it were spring-loaded. When she looks at Evelyn, even from fifteen feet away, the tears and fears in her eyes are unmistakable. Something stirs inside Evelyn, some unspoken maternal bond. She lifts her finger and points to the spot where Conrad is waiting like a ninja, eyes closed, chest barely swaying with the rhythm of his breathing. The mother steps forward tentatively, like Evelyn might be luring her into a trap, but when Conrad's close enough to see, she lets a few tears stain her cheeks and mouths out her thanks. Conrad groans when his mother yanks him from his hiding spot. Green leaves litter his hair. "Aw, man! How did you find me?" is all he thinks to ask. He isn't concerned that his mother thought she lost him. To Evelyn's surprise, Conrad's mother drops to her knees and hugs her son. Her body rocks with the sobs of relief. Any panic, desperation, anger she had is gone. Her son is safe again. He is accounted for. He is alive. "You're okay," she keeps saying, running her hands over his hair. "You're okay, you're okay." Rain clouds drift past the sun, blanketing the three of them in shade. Something fragile inside Evelyn is threatening to shatter. This time she doesn't just speedwalk out of the lane, she dashes. She can't be here anymore. She must look as crazy as Conrad's mother, running past rows of apple trees like a bobblehead. She knows what to look for: plaid vest, camo pants, black boots. Why is it so hard to find her wife? Evelyn realizes with a start that Gloria drove today, that she's got the keys with her. She imagines Gloria jumping behind the wheel, replacing her spot in the passenger's seat with a child-sized lump of produce. After minutes of running, she goes to the first unoccupied lane she sees and slumps against a tree. Throwing a hand over her eyes, she tries to regulate her ragged breathing. The sun and the blue sky are gone, overshadowed by fat gray clouds. Something soft and light and wet pricks her arm. "There you are." She lowers her arm only slightly to see Gloria standing there. The look on her face, like her tone of voice, gives nothing away. She is still carrying her apple bag, which is almost full. "It's time to go." Evelyn hears the desperation in her voice but is helpless to stanch it. Another raindrop hits her face. "I can't do this anymore." Something flashes across Gloria's face that Evelyn doesn't recognize. Gloria tilts her head to the side, as if she's seeing her own wife for the first time. "No, I'm not ready to leave just yet," Gloria says. Evelyn slowly rises to her feet. "Well, I am. I've been ready since the moment we got here." "Trust me, I can tell," Gloria says. Her voice shakes like Conrad's mother's. "Can you just try to enjoy yourself? Please?" The last word comes out as a whisper. "No," Evelyn says, before the word please gets a chance to breathe. "We need to go. Now." "I'm sorry," Gloria says as she rips an apple from a nearby branch, "but I'm having fun here. I'm having a blast." "Don't do that," Evelyn retorts. "Don't act like you're having a good time when you're not." Gloria tilts her head the other way and stares into Evelyn's eyes. "At least I'm trying." Evelyn says nothing. Somewhere a few lanes over, Conrad is shouting: "Hey, hey! Watch what I can do!" "I'm trying to keep things normal," Gloria says, quieter. "That's all." Evelyn shakes her head. "You don't get it. It's not normal. It's never going to be normal again. Not like it was." Gloria tucks a lock of hair behind her ear as the drizzle comes down on them. Beads of rain gather on the apples in her bag and slide off slowly. "And I didn't even wanna come to this stupid place to begin with," Evelyn adds. "In fact, I wouldn't have either if not for," but she can't bring herself to mention the calendar in the kitchen, or the boy who wrote on it. "That's the problem, Evelyn." When was the last time Gloria used her full name? She can't remember. "I've tried to be patient. Really, I have. But you never want to go anywhere or do anything anymore." Though she knows it's true, in the heat of the moment, Evelyn can't help herself from striking back. "Well, what about you, huh? You're acting like everything is fine. Like everything's okay. You're acting like he isn't dead." It occurs to her, already too late, that this comment is a mistake. She can count on one hand the number of times they've broached the subject of Adam in the past six months. Evelyn knows it was a low blow. But wasn't she the one who bore the brunt of the in vitro fertilization? Wasn't she the one who refused the epidural, the one who writhed and panted and cursed in that bleach-white hospital bed five years ago? She and Adam have a bond that Gloria can't possibly understand. She believes that should count for something. Evelyn says, "You're acting like you know everything, like you know how I feel, but you don't. You weren't the one who had him." Gloria blinks once. Her eyelids don't come up all the way on the return trip. She speaks slowly, deliberately: "No, but that doesn't mean I didn't love him." And she turns on her heel and stalks off. She gets to the end of the lane and vanishes behind an armada of trees. Thick raindrops pelt Evelyn's body as she waits for Gloria to return. She doesn't. Gloria is gone. Above Evelyn, a ripe red McIntosh apple hangs off the end of a vine. Slowly, deliberately, she reaches up to grab it. When it's firmly in her grasp, she hurls it at the ground and disintegrates it under the weight of her boot. Then she drops to her knees and rummages through the wreckage until she discovers what she's looking for. She finds five in total. The brown apple seeds, small as grains of rice, weigh heavy in her hand as she walks to the end of the orchard lane. She picks an empty spot of grass. She rips out as many blades as she can before plunging her hands into the wet earth. When she decides the hole is deep enough, she buries each seed, one by one, in the ground. Then she replaces the soil with her dirty fingernails and steps back. It'll be perfect, she thinks. Just give it time. She's creating something here, a legacy, a future. Something beyond herself. Something that will have a fair chance at life. She makes a promise to check it every year, every month, to watch its growth. She'll mark it on her calendar in red if she has to, if that's what it takes. Here now in the autumn rain, Evelyn can conjure up almost everything clearly in her mind's eye, if she wants to: years from now, the blistering sun, the spring-green leaves, and the tree--this very apple tree that she planted and grew all by herself--with its twiggy arms outstretched as if offering a hug, a sweet red embrace. She can feel the breeze on her skin, hear the sound of a child laughing in the distance. The only thing she cannot see, not for the life of her, when she turns her head to the side, is if Gloria is with her or if, once again, she'll be standing here all alone.

I have been keeping secrets since I was six years old. My first secret was when the teacher at our one-room country school came to board with us. Teachers used to board with our neighbors across the road but when Mrs. Watkins became ill, Momma and Daddy thought it would be a good way to make some extra money. So, Miss Trent came to stay with us. I was just starting Grade Two and at first I thought Miss Trent was terrific. She was pretty and funny and had wonderful blond hair and was not nearly as strict as our last teacher. Did I say she was pretty? I wasn't the only one to think so, which is where my first secret came in. When Momma had taken the old car to the store for groceries, I was out playing and when I heard giggling and Daddy's voice, not a regular combination in our household, I peeked around the corner and saw Daddy and Miss Trent in an embrace I didn't really understand at six years old. However, I did know enough to realize it wasn't the sort of thing Daddy would ever talk to Momma about, so I kept quiet. It wasn't until the third time I saw them together that Daddy caught a glimpse of me watching and made a point of asking me if I knew how to keep a secret. What could I do but say yes? I don't know how long it took Momma to catch on, but catch on she did. When Daddy was away with a load of calves to be butchered, Momma and Miss Trent had an all-out free for all by the garden behind the barn. This time I could see them from the vantage point of the barn roof, behind the air vent column, a favorite spot of mine. They weren't shouting, just locked in a tight hold, and at first it looked like they were practising some strange sort of dance. But then Momma pulled free and swung a punch at Miss Trent's face. When Miss Trent stopped to put her hand to her jaw, Momma grabbed her and shoved her really hard. Miss Trent landed against the concrete base of the corner post that marked the garden. After that, she didn't move. Neither did Momma for a few minutes. Then, after a long, slow look around, she turned and ran to the barn. I watched Momma dig a big hole with the shovel, stopping every once in a while to look around as if she could feel someone watching. Then she turned back to the house and came out with the suitcase Miss Trent had brought with her. This Momma threw in the hole after Miss Trent. By the time Daddy got home, Momma had cleaned up and expressed great surprise along with Daddy when Miss Trent didn't show up for supper. For some reason, people accepted the fact that she'd left without a word; I think our community thought she'd been a little too exotic for our school area, just got bored and left. It only took a week for the school board to find a new teacher for the rest of the year. By now Mrs. Watkins was well again and the new teacher was back to boarding with her. I figured that, as I had kept Daddy's secret, I had to keep Momma's. It wouldn't have been fair to do otherwise. I don't know if Momma was aware I'd seen the fight or not. Sometimes, she'd look at me in a puzzled way as if wondering why I never mentioned it. Maybe she caught a flash of color from the barn roof when she ran back to the house and it only partly registered. I don't know. I do know Momma and Daddy went on as if nothing had happened. I don't think anything of that kind ever happened again, but then how would I know. Last month I came back to help Daddy with Momma. She was showing signs of worsening dementia. I was starting to be afraid--not just of the dementia, but of her mind straying back to the past. She would come out with cryptic comments sometimes, maybe a reference to teachers or to Daddy's fascination by blondes, and then she'd give a little giggle and look at either Daddy or me with a glance of conspiracy. I was afraid Daddy would soon figure out what had happened all those years ago. What would happen then? Would he still care for her as he had throughout her illness, or would he feel revulsion towards her? Would other people find out and would justice have to take its course with a sick woman? I didn't want to find the answers. Sometimes Momma had good days. That's when she'd realize what was happening to her and she'd clutch my hand and plead with me for help. She had problems sleeping and took a strong sleeping pill at night. One day I caught her with the bottle, dumping the pills into her hand and staring at them for a long time before putting them back with a heavy sigh. Daddy and I started hiding the pills from her, only giving her the one at a time. Then one night when I gave her the pill, she grabbed my hand, taking the pills from me and holding the bottle tightly. The pleading look she gave me was heartbreaking. I turned and left the room. When we found her lifeless in the morning, the doctor castigated us for not keeping the pills out of her reach. There had to be a hearing of course, but it was ruled suicide while of unsound mind and no-one asked many questions. Neighbors fell into two groups--those who felt she was probably better off this way and those who expressed regret at the loss of years she still could have had with her family, whatever quality they were. And now I have one more secret to keep. Secrets can be lonely when you can't share them with anyone.

Finally, pen down finished my final exam in Business administration and returned home. saw a dozen suits outside my father's room, it is irksome when I see these rebarbative suits. The maid ran to me and said that my father is sick. I asked the manager to take the suit to the conference hall. I went to see father, when he saw me he started murmuring something, I got my ears near to his words "its time" Then he started fainting, the family doctor suggested us to take him to the hospital for some test. after a day at the hospital, the test results said that he is histrionic by blocks in arteries. the doctor suggested that after the operation he might be salubrious. the next day after admission the operation was scheduled. the doctor is querulous but he seems risible to me at the same time irksome. the room allotted for the VIP's is big enough for 10 members to stay there. I stayed there until his operation I know the disease he has is baleful but I had no feel because he never stayed by my side in any situation. the doctor called me to his room, I was zealous to know his upcoming words standing next to the lachrymose manager. the doctor said that the operation went well and the father will be sent to the VIP room after getting his consciousness. for the next 3 days, we stayed at the hospital and returned to our home. the suits were feckless for the past 8 days as the net worth of the BB empire reduced by 2%. I appointed three health professionals to watch my father for physical and mental care. Three days later I got my MBA result, it said that I had 90% I got the percentage to my father's ears, he suddenly canceled all the appointments for the eve and went for a meeting with the board members. I asked where he is headed to, he said “Once and for all” After his return, I asked about it, he said that the new product is to be launched in three days. The day before the event I was gifted with a costliest suit by my father and he asked me to wear it for the event. Again he came to visit me on the eve of the event and told me that I am going to take over his place. I was surprised and at the same time hopeless. the event was organized in an auditorium with 500 seats. As it is said to be a product release there will be a lot of press people so the manager asked me to walk slowly towards the stage, as that will be helpful for the press people to take photos for the cover pages of the magazines. I was standing behind the door, the manager asked me to enter when my father calls my name from the stage. My father started his talk on the stage. my anxiety went up, as there will be a throng behind the door. I concentrated on his words as time went “I hereby declare that the full authority of the BB empire will be taken by my only son Krishna Kumar” The second I heard it, the bodyguard to the left and right opened the door, I saw 10 bouncers to the left and right making a path to the stage, hundreds of flash flickers from both sides, the flash increased as I moved towards the stage and energetic applause from the auditorium. Finally with all the push and pull I stepped on a pace. I can see the final 4 steps to the stage, when I placed my next step, suddenly everything around me went black. I am falling from somewhere to somewhere, I was surrounded by black, I can't feel my weight, the coat is not waving as I can't figure out the air in the local, I am about to blackout, in the last second of my blackout I heard a husky voice saying “you might need this”, with the voice, I saw someone flying with me but he seems stable with his body, kept something in my hand, then my eyes went out. . . After some time I opened my eyes, I am still falling and I ended up in a dustbin at someplace. I got out of the dustbin and saw a throng moving towards the auditorium, the auditorium is the same one I just left a few minutes or seconds ago. But the auditorium looked different than what I saw earlier. I wore the cap the husky voice man gave me and entered the auditorium with the throng. The security did not check my ticket as the cap I wore had the name of the auditorium. It seems the workers at the auditorium wear the same cap. I sat on the last row, waiting to see what is going to happen. The poster in the corner read “Entrepreneur award ceremony”. the award ceremony started and the series of awards were given to different people. “next award is for the best generation entrepreneur for the decade” And the officials at the stage started to announce the name “ the best generation entrepreneur of the decade is owned by Krishna Kumar of BB empire” I saw a man getting on to the stage, seeing his face I am hopeless, that can't happen, the man on the stage is me, not exactly me, he is somewhat older than me. After getting the award he returned to his seat. The man sitting next to me was writing the happenings of the ceremony. The date at the corner of the page is written as “12/03/2031” I helped him “sir you have written the date wrong, it's not 31 it's 21” “No sir you are wrong, it's 31” “I think you are not getting, its 12/03/2021” “no sir, it's not 21, it's 12/02/2031, check the ceremony poster there” The poster at the corner read “award for the decade 2021-2031”. its not that they give award at the starting of the decade for the decade. That proves the one who looks like me is 10 years older than me and the same me. After the ceremony, a press conference is arranged for the award winners. I went to the press conference room, lifting a pack of water bottles wearing a suit. I sat at the corner, The man near the door shouted “the best entrepreneur of the year” the man who got the award for the best entrepreneur of the decade came first, the reporters started triggering questions, most of the questions were about his popularity and his development in his work. After his press meet. To call the next award winner the man near the door shouted “the next is the best generation entrepreneur” The older self came in, the moment he came in the reporters started getting out, I barely saw 5 to 6 reporters sitting here and there just asked one or two questions to him, the session got over in just 3 min. I asked a reporter, why Krishna Kumar is not considered that much. “oh Krishna Kumar, he just took his father’s place, that’s why he is not considered by the reporters” Thinking about that, I got out and saw reporters rushing towards the best entrepreneur and not towards the best generation entrepreneur. I have shown the sadness in different situations but this time it penetrated every cell over the body. I placed my hands on the cheek and sat on the bench, roadside. The different thoughts in my brain started getting complicated and went out of control. I saw someone standing in front of me wearing white shoes, as my head raised I noticed white pant, red belt, holding his own hands, white full hand shirt, red tie “you have used it wisely” I heard the same husky voice and he pulled off the hat from my head. Again I started falling in the dark, I missed his face. This time without falling I stood on the first step of the stage, back in 2021. The same flickering flashes and loud cheering claps. I took the next three steps, my father welcomed me by shaking hands and hugged me. My father's manager gave me a paper and asked me to read it on the mike. I went to the mike and saw the paper, it was written as “with all consciousness, I will be taking over BB empire”. I kept the paper inside the suit and started to talk. “Thanks for the compliments and applause, this empire is too big, my father struggled for 40 years to build this empire, it's not easy to take all at once, I now ask the chairman of the BB empire to sign me a check of 10,000 INR as a father. I have to learn from the start, not from the top. In 10 years from now, there will be an event organized in this auditorium, at that time I will take over the BB empire not as a son but as a fighting empire, lets name my empire now, ok, let us name it after my name, KK empire. I hope the press peoples are not disappointed, as the exclusive is changed.” . . After 10 years (14/03/2031) . . I went to a different city with the amount of 20,000 INR, got a job with a salary of 25,000 INR worked in the same company for the next three years, built a company with the loan and the savings I had, with the balance 8 years I can't build the same as my father but I got up to 60 percent of it. I organized a product release before the day of the award ceremony, my father was there and I officially took over the BB empire as the chairman of KK empire and my father was proud of me. As I can't handle both the empire on my own I gave 50% of my KK empire to charity. The next day at the same auditorium I got the award for the best entrepreneur of the decade, got the triggering questions in the press meet, and a lot of compliments from the people at the auditorium. I felt proud, which I know the one I saw from the past did not felt.

On a dark and rainy night, the ancient 1980's Panel van, streaked down a narrow stoned walled road. The wheels juddered on the uneven badly maintained surface. "If we hurry we might- just- make it." said Fred concentrating hard. “Slow down Fred! It’s not safe! said Daphne. “We don’t want to be late for the Christmas Party”. said Fred. “Ristmas Party?!” said Scooby Doo waking up. “You betcha” said Fred. "I got a call on my iPhone, a couple of hours ago when you were sleeping - should be some real groovy music, and great food! “Rime rI'm Sold!” said Scooby Flashing red lights were on the ground ahead. “That’s strange” said Velma, what are flashing lights doing on the ground?” “RAILWAY CROSSING LIGHTS!” Said Shaggy- “they’ve been knocked over!” “And that means...” said Fred apprehensively - and while breaking heavily... “A TRAIN!” shouted Daphne. The van drifted to the right and then span out of control - looking like it was going to miss the back of the train altogether - however it struck the side of a stone wall and smashed into the side of the caboose, coming to an unlikely stop embedded firmly inside the speeding caboose. “Looks like we’re going to be REALLY late now said Daphne, - “the main act was supposed to start playing in 10 minutes. “I think we have bigger things to worry about” said Fred as he turned off the van’s engine as its wheels spun uselessly, suspended by ancient train wreckage. “Let’s get out of here!” said Shaggy - “I think this place is about to fall apart!” The whole gang quickly got out of the van and entered the adjoining carriage. As Velma closed the door behind them the mangled wreckage of the caboose and the mystery machine behind them twisted off the track and exploded in a fire ball of petrol and strangely magical effects. “I’m gonna miss that van” said Fred sadly. The Storage Carriage: Using her torch Daphne found a strange toggle switch on the wall which lit what appeared to be a green gas lamp in the middle of the carriage. This carriage seemed to be a storeroom for many strange products. Shelves of what appeared to be novelty jumping chocolate frogs jittered in their packets, brown cardboard boxes filled with multi coloured jelly beans lined one wall. “This is not so bad” said scraggy, opening a packet of jelly beans “Mmm Relly Reans” said Scooby eating some beans. Then suddenly both Scooby and shaggy stopped eating- their faces started turning green. “Zoinks! - some of those beans don’t taste to good Scooby!” “Rorrible” said Scooby - quickly scraping at is tongue with his paws. “I don’t think they make jelly beans here like they do at home” said shaggy “those last ones tasted like EARWAX!” Scooby turned around knocking over packets of chocolate frogs with his tail - they hopped around the small space. “Jinkies!” said Daphne - Let’s get out of here” “I agree” said Fred as a chocolate frog threatened to climb up his left nostril- Into the next carriage! The gang rushed into the next carriage surprising the sitting passengers. “The passengers were first surprised and suspicious”. “Who are you” said a young boy with bleached white hair. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to disapperate inside a train?” “Risaperate?” said Scooby “And magical talking creatures should be locked in the caboose” - said the white haired boy “Wait... WHERE ARE YOUR WANDS!?” he shouted - pointing a wand at them. “Sorry” said Fred “we don’t have wands we’re not part of your Halloween party” “MUGGLES!” said the white haired boy. “I thought I could smell their foul stench!” “Really?” said Velma screwing up her nose- “this carriage is full of teenage boys and you think we smell?” “Yes”, said Daphne “ That’s not very nice, we’ve just been in a horrible car accident, and why are you being so mean to us, - who are you anyway?” A cruel smile slowly spread over the face of the white haired boy, which was copied in the faces of his surrounding passengers. He spoke slowly and arrogantly - “My - name is Draco Malfoy- and this will be the. Last. Thing. You. Ever. See” He pointed a wand at the gang and shouted “CRUCIO!” A bright red flash exploded from the wand passing closely over Fred’s shoulder. “Zoinks!” said Scooby and Shaggy together as they rushed out of the door into the next carriage. They fell over each other and ended up on a heap on the floor. “WHAT’s GOING ON HERE?!” said a girl with long curly hair. “We’re taking care of some of your Mud Blood friends” snarled Draco Malfoy. “Go and sit down Malfoy before I unleash a spell that makes eyes explode - I’ve just been studying it” said the girl slowly and darkly”. “You can have them” snarled Draco - “Just keep the door closed to keep the smell in.” The girl raised her wand and Draco slammed the door shut quickly. “Thanks for that” said Daphne “that kid looked dangerous!” “Don’t worry about him” said the girl tossing her hair - “We’ll look after you” “My name is Hermione - and this is Harry and Ron” “Good to meet” you said Fred - “Regsactly” said Scooby who was hugging shaggy as they shook with fear” Ron held out a packet of Jelly beans politely - “Jelly Bean?” Shaggy and Scooby’s faces both turned green - “Ro tanks” said Scooby “I don’t think those agree with us!” said Shaggy. “Suit yourself” shrugged Ron eating a black bean. Harry was looking at the ground looking worried. “I suppose you’ve heard of me - I’m Harry Potter- my parents were killed by Voldemort” he said sadly. “Roldermort?” said Scooby “Voldemort” corrected Harry” “Ah Rolldermort” said Scooby” “No that’s Voldemort not ROLdemort” said Hermione. Fred looked confused “Let’s just call him ‘the guy we can’t name'” “Funny you should say that” began Ron... Suddenly the train whistle blew and the train braked slowly - “We’ve arrived” said Hermione - “you can come with us - but hurry! We can’t be late!” Harry, Ron and Hermione left the train followed by the gang. “These are all kids!” said Shaggy “I think we’re crashed a school train!” “Perhaps we can get some help from the school” said Velma as they followed Hermione. “This place isn’t even listed on my google maps- perhaps I need to update my phone” said Velma. “Wi-Fi is REALLY weak here too” said Daphne sadly Daphne looked up from her phone and saw the words “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry” on an ancient looking sign. “Ew” said Daphne and tweeted: “Crashed Car and now at Hogwarts.

It was the shadow growing beside him which stuck to him. Not the desecrated hillside, nor the growing flames beaide it. His world was crashing down on him before his eyes, yet his mind was fixated on the goddamn shadow, his own reflection. Smoke grew exponentially as ash began to fall from the sky. Like a dusting of snow, each speck falling differently. Hell, snowfall felt a little more practical to him at this point. It was mid January in the Southern Cascades yet the heat weighed him down like it was Hell in July. He reminisced about all of his youthful trips. Snow was something you could enjoy. But this wasn't snow. Shit. This wasn't even California. Not the one he remembered anyway. But this wasn't time to get all nostalgic. Myers had to dig up what he could of the drone he had just shot down and hightail it back up to Portland before the Staties could track him down. If his estimations were in the right ballpark, the scavenged parts could be resold into the green market for a solid thirty grand. The risk was high, but his pockets would be pretty damn ecstatic, which was all that mattered to him in the moment. He made sure to check that the system was disabled so he couldn’t be tracked, then managed to scavenge the last of the larger fragments into the back of the work truck. If he could get the hell out of dodge and into Portland by nightfall he'd be making a decent time. “Just twelve more Hours and I’m a new man”. He kept reminding himself. No more conning. No more scavenging. He’d buy his way up into Canada if he could. The merchants back in P-Town used to tell him about how that up North they had their shit together. Unlike the goons in office in the States, they could own up and face the realities of the ever so changing climate. That’s how they managed to hold on for this long. California and everything south was already down in the dumps, but so be it. There was no saving The West anymore, so why bother. He started the truck, and gassed it north through the smoky haze and trickling ash. Back in Portland, Walker and Adams spent the late a.m packing boxes of coffee smuggled up from Honduras. They could sell the stuff for forty bucks a pound, now that trade had been cut off the past two decades. Adding to the fact that the city went hard in its restrictions, people would go nuts for this stuff in the black market. But this was just sidework. With Myers hauling the disabled drone back from California, they had to anticipate how the deal would go down. If he arrived by the time he said he would, the trio would disassemble the processor from the main shell, store it, and greenlight their client, Edward Esteban, to retrieve his order. Esteban was no man to be fucked with. He knew the ins and outs of the green market, a term he himself coined referring to the redistribution of resources to both the drought and flood stricken areas. Sure he was all about reconstruction, but he ran the circuit with an iron fist. When he found insider information on the flight path of the Type 6 drone, he had his heart set on capturing the thing. The processor it was transporting had a plethora of vital information he could utilize to restore the impoverished regions of the Norcal as well as The Northwest. Water access, desalinization methods, information on obtaining smog converters -- he heard it was all in there. But the risk was too high for his crew to go after -- if they failed, his multi million dollar business would be fucked and the feds would fry his ass in a heartbeat. So what better way to retrieve the bot than getting a band of no namers to do it for him. After a full day of smuggling the drone up the cracked roads of the interstate, Myers was starting to close in on Portland. He had taken two calls in the preceding hours from Adams, who was preparing the warehouse. He kept circling the perimeter of the building, scouting for cops, feds, anything that seemed suspicious. Nothing. His paranoia was getting to his head again, his heart beating more and more as sweat began to seep from the cracks of his dry forehead. The poor guy was scared off his ass. He was always jumpy as hell, and he hated his job. Oh well. He knew that the position he was in sucked, but if the infamous Evacuation of 2057 taught him anything, it was that the world puts us into some pretty fucked up places. He just had to remind himself that adaption is what carries the human race onward. Zppp. Zppp. Zppp. Adams’ phone buzzes in his side pocket. His trembling, sweaty hand reaches in and clicks the green button. “Adams! It’s Myers. What’s the story on the warehouse? I’ll be in within the hour, and I want to get through this quick and clean”. “We should be set. I’ve kept in touch Esteban, who should be here by morning. The last thing I want to do is get on his bad side, so I’ve got all the shit necessary to get the processor ready. Do you even know why he needs this so bad? He’s been pretty damn insistent on knowing your whereabouts.” “No clue, my assumption is that it’s got some classified info that he can spread out, but was too much of a risk for him to go after on his own, so he contracts a nobody like me to do the dirty work”, Myers added. “Regardless, I could care less. I got out safely and after tomorrow we’ll have something to live for again. This payout is no joke”. “Alright buddy. Just don’t fuck this up, and we’ll come out ok. I’ll see you in an hour”. Adams hangs up, and heads back into the warehouse. Dusk was just starting fall, and the crisp, dense clouds -- a staple of the region -- began to collect overhead. Drip. Myers felt a speck of water seep through the roof of the vehicle on to the top of his head. He looked out onto the horizon as the last few minutes of daylight were saying their goodbyes. Clouds were starting to pick up more and more all around. Drops of rain began to fall, starting to leak through the top of the truck. Keep pushing through. Just another twenty miles, he kept in the back of his mind. He zoomed down the road, maxing out the hunk of crap just over 90 miles an hour. By the time he reached the city limits, the puffy clouds of rain had matured into thick, vicious cumulonimbus beasts. It was coming down. Myers hauled through the side streets in order to avoid potential vehicle inspection stops along the highway, as the city was starting to crack down on the black market. He pulls out his phone, and dials Adams. “I’m almost through. Open the fucking gate. Water is piling through the roof and drenching me. We have a serious storm coming in”. The sound of the lone engine coming down the street separated itself from the gushing sound of the torrential downpour. Adams and Walker could see the headlights making their way in. They slid open the gate, and the truck screeched into the warehouse. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes”, snickered Walker as Myers jumped out of the door. “500 miles and I’m finally in. Let’s get on this now. I don’t want the roadways flooding over. Esteban doesn’t have a goddamn boat you know”. The three began to slave away on preparing the fragments -- testing them, making sure everything was still in tact. But only Myers and Adams knew about processors. Walker was simply their henchman. At best he could negotiate prices with clients, but he didn’t have the same capacity of book smarts the way the other two did. By the time dawn broke, the work was finished, but the rain was only starting. Throughout the evening, the rapid buzz of rain striking the roof became white noise. Sudden storms like these became the norm, and they had just grown accustomed to it. Little did they know however that among other things, that the downpour would lead to downfall. Esteban had just called in, barking that he was on his way now before the floods would prevent him from doing so. The trio waited and waited until Esteban, accompanied by a gang of strongarms, entered the warehouse. Esteban’s crew, dressed in black raincoats with military grade handguns holstered at their sides, began to inspect the processor. The system was tested, and as Esteban carefully read over the information that showed up, a smirk began to light up his face. “Good shit fellas. Looks like I have all I need. Just know that If I find out any of this is shady -- even after selling -- its your heads that are done with first. Myers observed his demeanor. Never had he met someone so pleasant, yet so threatening and powerful just through the tone of his voice. The transaction was almost complete, and the three were in shock of how quick the process was. Wrong. They were bunkered away inside the warehouse the past twelve hours, not giving a shit as to what was exactly going on outside. Crash. The door gave in. The lights went black. The water bashed through. By God how fast it moved. Within one hot second, none of this deal meant shit anymore. It was every man for himself. Myers felt himself pushed back into a back wall, the brute force of the water pouncing on him like it was its job. If only he could see. He could hear muffled screams as he struggled to stay above the surface. The water levels began to grow rapidly, but even blind from the darkness, he grabbed onto a surface along the back wall, not entirely knowing what it was. But not much long after, the back wall gave in as well. He was pushed into the vacant flooded streets, but once again managed to grab onto the post of a streetlight. He observed his surroundings, gripping the post as best he could in order to stay stable. There. Half a block upstream, he spotted a tall concrete structure -- one he could try climbing onto to stay above the water. It was his only choice. He let go of the post, letting the water carry him directly into the structure. His back crashed into it as he bellowed out in pain. But that didn’t matter. He hoisted himself above the structure, viewing the morbid flow of water around him. He was utterly shocked. Even after a century of his country being wrecked by superstorms, wildfires, droughts, and rising sea levels, nature still had its way of saying Fuck you. His dreams of leaving for Canada were gone. Everything was washed away. the processor, his profit, his will to live even. He was back to square one. He waited out the flood for what seemed to be two days. Lucky for him, the sun cleared up finally and the structure remained intact. Then he heard shouting. He had to ask himself if he was hallucinating, but right before his eyes appeared a medium sized boat, holding around four people. “Get in”, they demanded. Myers obliged. After everything, he was just glad to be rescued, though deep down he couldn’t care less if as to whether he lived or died now that his dreams were flooded away. “Welcome aboard. We spotted you about a quarter mile downstream. You’re safe now”, the woman who helped him on claimed. He was jaded yet thankful. Then, in the corner of his eye, he spotted the processor, locked in carefully on top of the boat. His stomach twisted. He stuttered trying to find his voice. “W-w-w-what is tha-th-that” he choked out. “A processor we found washed up a couple miles back”, snapped a short young man beside him. “We’ve heard about them before. The staties put them in the drones to relay information. God only knows what this one holds though. We’re hearing that Seattle is fighting hard against this flood. Maybe it could be of good use up there, considering Portland is already in ruins. Maybe we sell it, split the profits, and head as far North as we can. We’re hearing that up in British Columbia things aren’t so bad. So are you in? It’s either that or we leave you back at this shitty old post to eventually get swept away”. Myers began to tremble, but was now again fixated on his shadow as the sun creeped out and beat down on the boat. He worked up to find his voice again, then finally answered.

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Sarah, a withered and depressed, woman, had seen too much sadness in her life to believe she could ever be brought down by a simple decaying abandoned building. And yet, here she was. Her will crumbling. Her faith washing away with the rain, standing before this brick and stone. Clothing, tattered and worn, provided no protection from the rain. Although her skin was wrinkled and soaked, she did not feel the cold. The rain poured down as if God himself was crying. Each drop of rain adding weight to the steps of the people who passed. The building loomed gloomy and treacherous over the precession, taunting them with its dangerous and hollow darkness. The memories and secrets that this building held scared the passing pedestrians. It put speed in to their steps, unconsciously driving them forward until the overwhelming shadow was far enough behind them that their minds could once again rest. In the few moments that Sarah had been standing there, most people who passed thought she was just another crazy street person who was lost and drunk; not worthy of their time. They were more concerned with rushing by, thinking of someplace safe and warm they would rather be. They could not be concerned with this sad, decrepit woman who stood crying in front of an abandoned building; although, no one could see her tears. The rain hid her torment from the rest of the world, for now at least. That is exactly the way Sarah wanted it. Why share a pain no one else would understand? But she was here now to face it, to face the pain. Twenty-four years. She could not believe it had really been that long. He would have been twenty-four years old. But thoughts like that were just a distraction. The place had shut down not long after she was a patient. Too much filth and grime had built up. Hospitals are supposed to be clean and white. Sarah didn’t think that this place had ever been clean or white, even on its first day. But this place was always meant for the lesser, the lower, the unimportant. So, did it really matter if the ceiling leaked or there were blood stains on the sheets? She now stood outside and realized that while it seemed so derelict and dirty, it really did look exactly the way it had before. Sarah had been like a child herself when she first arrived, or at least she was as innocent and unworldly as a one. She had only lived in two homes. The one she was born in and the one she shared with David. David had been a nice man. Sarah’s mother and father had selected well. But you can’t make strangers into a couple overnight. Sarah had been so scared the first night they were together. She was still scared now sometimes, and they had been married for twenty-five years. The first few months had been pleasant and illuminating. Sarah learned many new things about what it takes to be a wife. She was not unhappy, but was not settled. David was a stranger, and love did not yet seem to be a factor in their relationship. The night they arrived at the hospital was rainy and cold, just like this night so many years later. Sarah had been in absolute terror. Her body was ripping apart. Just getting from the car she had stopped twice, doubled over in pain. At the door, an astute orderly recognized her distress and brought a wheelchair. Her wide eyes admitted no thanks, only fear. David pushed the wheelchair, gently maneuvering around chairs and other people. Her condition was very obvious, so they didn’t have to wait. Straight to the OB ward they went. Sarah had known she was pregnant. It was obvious after two months of no bleeding. But, even though she had only a vague understanding of anatomy and procreation, her body had felt so different. She had immediately guessed correctly that she was pregnant. It felt part of her; an extension of her being. Sarah also had known right away that it was a boy. David was not so sure and very superstitious. He refused to even acknowledge the possibility of a child until Sarah started to gain weight. Finally, one night when David put his hand on Sarah’s stomach and felt the baby kick, he smiled, sighed, and seemed to accept the obvious. The night he came, there was no doubt. Uncertainty, pain, fear, but they both new he was about to arrive, and they both, in their way, were hopeful. They were still strangers to each other in so many ways, but they had this together. They were now bound forever by this single union of their two selves. Nature is tricky in that it sometimes makes hard things easy, laying the trap of a false sense of security. Sarah labored, and David paced. The night was long, but uncomplicated. He came into the world as he should; strong, loud, alive. Everyone was overjoyed. Sarah and David beamed at their son. They were completely lost, tranquil and proud. Sarah desperately need sleep. A nurse came and said that he could sleep in the nursery for the night. Sarah was reluctant but could barely keep her eyes open. The nurse gently picked him up and quietly left the room. Sarah was asleep before the door closed. As she thought back on that night now, she lowered her head in shame. She should have never been so weak. She should have never let him go from her side. For the millionth time, she cast blame upon herself. David was right. That night, she failed at her first task of being a mother. God must have known she was incapable. She knew something was wrong when the nurse woke her. It was not a gentle tug from sleep, but a shaking call. The nurse asked where David was. Sarah didn’t know. She was groggy and felt ill. Something was wrong. The nurse looked like she was about to cry. She spoke softly and said the words that would haunt Sarah for the rest of her life. He died. Sarah stared at the nurse. She could remember the horror that washed over her. It couldn’t be true. She had just given birth. He had been right there. She leaned over the bed rail and threw up. David came rushing in. Someone had obviously told him what happened. He did not rush to Sarah’s side. While she had fear, he had anger in his eyes. He yelled at the nurses. He yelled at Sarah. What had happened? Who was to blame? Sarah did not listen to any of it. She would later learn the details of his one and final night. But the details didn’t matter. She had let him go. She had not been there. Now twenty-four years later she stood in front of the building where his whole life had taken place. She had not known she would be facing this today. She didn’t come to this part of town often, and had blindly walked down the street without thinking. Maybe the rain distracted her. Maybe she needed to see the place again. It was cold, and she knew she couldn’t stand here much longer. Not without drawing attention; a crazy lady standing in front of a crumbling hospital, crying. She turned her back to the building, and started to walk away. As she moved, she had hoped the memories would become distant as well, wash away. They did not. She still could smell him. Still could feel his warmth, even through the rain. She could still feel the terror and David’s anger, that had never really gone away. No other children had come. No other opportunities for redemption. She felt alone in the world. The following years had not been kind. While she entered the hospital as a child, she left a broken woman. David told her to forget him. Move on. But she never did. She knew that he had been there, been her love, been her child. She remembered, and that was all that mattered.

It’s been over a year since this blob of fat and mass I’m forced to refer to as emperor abducted me from my home planet as a slave. Though at this point I’m more of a secretary. For over a year I’ve had to follow this manchild around, reminding him that, no, he can’t eat the natural wildlife, he’ll be late for his meeting and his entire planet will be blown up. Atleast this time it’s somewhere nice-ish. A couple weeks ago he and a large amount of kings, emperors and rulers of this sector were called to a secluded moon on the edge of this galaxy for a “business meeting of sorts”. This could obviously be a trap, but the sheer stupidity of such a request baffled even the wisest amongst these tyrants to a point where they couldn’t help but go anyway, like a personal test of strength We were met by a personal army strategically placed around a large mansion, though it was apparently empty on the inside. It didn’t take long before the place started to fill up with guests, at this point nobody knew who the owner was. The room started filling with annoyed complaints and the usual guttural noises of the different languages. One last person entered before the doors and windows shut. Then a large hologram appeared floating over everyone’s heads close to the ceiling, displaying black silhouettes that kept changing between the various species present “Greetings ! It spoke, changing voice with every new silhouette “Welcome to my humble manor, I apologize for the wait, way too many buttons on this thing.” The room was silent at the poor attempt at a joke. “Ahem, I’ve gathered you all here, tyrants, emperors, slavers and the like for a celebration of a single thing we all have in common..” A brief pause for dramatic effect “Strength, might, power !” The mood on the room was noticeably lifted, no surprise that these people loved to be complimented on their greatness “Now, we can all agree that whoever has it will always win, and to that I propose an alliance. Think about it, surely with all of these..” It seemed to not find a good word “Great..Minds ? Yeah, that. With all these *great minds* put together the cosmos will be ours to rule !” I had seen this at least two times in the past year. The first one to suggest such a thing was shot on the spot, the second got a bit farther, but the alliance was broken because of greed and lust of power. This was basically a waste of time. “I am liking these responses so far, as would be expected.” There was a sound as whoever spoke shifted on his chair “You all have so much in common, after all.” Unbeknownst to everyone there who were paying attention, the lighting on the room was getting darker and darker as great sheets of metal started enveloping the walls. “You are all hated people with an *incredible* amount of money on their heads.” These words awakened them to their surroundings. Panic ensued within the closed off manor, the men and armies outside must have been busy judging by the lack of efforts. The hologram finally settled on a single race, one from a terribly named planet. They were very close to the others in their planet, but something in their genes granted them the ability to think, to surpass the other species even though weak and lacking any notable physical capabilities. Their planet was never voted on being granted contact to other species like everyone else. They simply left their planet one day and are now among us. Nobody liked then, basically. One of the people there pulled out a gun, firing into the hologram, which fizzled for a bit before returning to its original state. As it did so, it revealed the face, or rather mask, of K’cid, considered the most dangerous bounty hunter to ever live. “Not even a moment for hesitation, huh ?” He seemed to be amused by this “Let’s see which button was it..Uhhh..Right, this one.” A boop was heard and soon the plates that covered the room began to separate, giving way to four primitive kinetic energy based weapons that rotated around the room and began to spin with a loud whir. The blasts fired against them simply ricocheted off. “You see, the reason my species has made it this far wasn’t muscle, brains or..Tentacles..Like you bunch have. We learned to exploit the world around us: ganging up on stronger animals, luring them into traps, lying and cheating our way to the top. Now we are here, free from the boundaries imposed by nature.” As he spoke the guns started firing, corpses falling down with every single ear-ringing wave of projectiles. I jumped under a table, pushing someone else who had the same idea out. They were shot immediately. It wasn't long before the human’s monologue was over, and everyone in the room either dead or bleeding to. A door opened as the man walked in, holding a weapon akin to those who mowed down the people moments ago. He walked over to the table, shooting a couple struggling men on his way. He stopped right before the table, his mask falling to the ground as he..Celebrated. The once intimidating person started jumping around amidst the corpses, screaming obscenities of his victory “GET FUCKING DESTROYED YOU WEIRD LOOKING SHITS. READ LIKE A GODDAMN BOOK” Was the only one amongst them that didn’t include some sort of language I still don’t know. As he finished, he once again turned towards the table “Consider yourself lucky, you’re not on the list. There are ships waiting outside.” He simply said as he grabbed his weapon and walked out. I didn’t want to be close to that..Thing. But I also couldn’t spend any more time in this room full of corpses. I decided that if he hadn’t killed me yet there must have been a reason. I followed the man, walking past what once was a lush field, now stained by the blood of the many guest’s blood. Many corpses of the personal army from earlier were still there, their heads seemingly exploded from within their helmets. There were no victors in this war, except the one walking in front of me, happily picking the biggest ship he found and boarding it. He flew off, and that was the last I saw of him. I took one of the ships and went back home to my family. I instantly began working on this, as I must not forget a single detail of my encounter with the biggest threat of this galaxy. I never want to meet a human again.

“Whenever I cut my hair, my daughter asks me. ‘Dad did you get a haircut?’ And I tell her ‘no I cut them all!’” I excitedly shoot my fist in the air, but to no avail. Crickets. The audience has long since given up on their polite chuckles. I almost wish someone would heckle me. Even boos would be better than this silence. My face is radiating so much heat, I’m surprised I haven’t burned the whole venue down. The growing impatience of the crowd feels like a million needles prickling on my skin. They demand entertainment, which I cannot provide. I lock eyes with the old lady sitting in the corner. She looks ghastly. Her skin is as pale as the snow outside, differing greatly with the tomato sitting on my shoulders. Anyone can tell she doesn’t have much time left. Yet even with drool hanging from her mouth, it’s clear that she’s the one pitying me. “Whenever I ask my daughter what she wants for dinner she says: ‘I kinda feel like a pizza Dad’ and I say: ‘Oh really, well you don’t look like one!’” Most people have their phones up by now. From the corner of my eye, I catch a group of snickering teenagers recording. At least they’re enjoying my performance, in some way. Five minutes left now. This is always the hardest part of a show, the final few minutes. The audience is anxiously watching the clock. Counting down the seconds. This is probably as painful for them as it is for me. “Whenever I hang up the phone my daughter always says: ‘I’ll call you later, Dad’ and I say: ‘Don’t call me later, call me Dad.’” No matter how many times I do this, it never gets easier. The false confidence I managed to project at the start is beginning to dwindle. I’ve never particularly liked speaking in front of crowds, and making a fool of myself is definitely not any easier. “Whenever my daughter is sick, she always complains to me that her nose is running so I tell her: “Well you better go catch it.” I finish my routine to a bit of forced applause. Trying to go unnoticed, I sneak around and find myself a table all the way in the back. A few people on the neighboring tables throw me pitying glances. I almost can’t recognize the venue anymore. The atmosphere is completely different from just a few minutes ago. The room is filled with laughter and chatter. It’s hard to imagine we’re still in the same place as my great catastrophe. When the next comedian gets on stage, she is met by thunderous cheering. The room is clearly exited about the change of performer. She is obviously nervous. With shaking hands, she fumbles with the mike, dropping it to the floor. She staggers through her first sentences, eventually stopping to catch her breath. “Don’t be nervous kid, you can’t possibly be as bad as that last guy.” A rugged looking man shouts up at her. “Yea, anyone is hilarious compared to that guy.” Another person follows up. I catch her eye, and try to give her an encouraging smile. The rest of her performance goes great. Her jokes are met by heavy laughter. The mood is certainly lighter now. Everyone is relived to laugh again. As she finishes her routine, and is showered with applause, she looks me directly in the eyes. Whenever my daughter finishes a performance, she always mouths to me: “Thank you Dad.” And I know it’s all worth it.

It was evening already, and Zeus, Apollo and Hades could not reach their seats in the balcony. They were on an official business trip to Earth to check upon the affairs of the mortals, which is not so official anymore. For them, it was a way to escape from Olympus for some time, away from the usual and the monotonous business of sitting on their thrones and yelling at each other. When Hades and Zeus came to a town, they decided to see if the new show on the road is really as good as all the mortals say. “They used to do it so much better in Athens, you know.” said Hades to Zeus as a minor conversation starting line, while they stood in a line, waiting to buy their tickets. “All of the recent dramas are equally... worthless. Nowadays, they do not even mention us, and even if they do, they make a caricature of us instead of the real us. Especially me.” said Zeus in a fit of anger, provoking a lightning bolt right next to him. Finally, when they reached the guy at the ticket counter, Hades asked for three tickets instead of two, confusing Zeus. When he asked the reason, Hades said “Well, you see, brother, Cerberus hasn’t come out since the dawn of man, and he is so bored out guarding the Underworld. So, I thought I could give him a break for the next two hours, you know.”. As a response, Zeus showed Hades the ‘No Pets Allowed’ sign. Undeterred, Hades asked the ticket counter guy if he could bring Cerberus to the theatre. When inquired about who Cerberus is, Hades darkened the room and said, “He’s the meanest, strongest, most dangerous three-headed dog guarding the Underworld from the evils of all the realms.”. Expecting scary faces and thunderous applause, Hades stood there, bringing on the lights once again. But the guy at the ticket counter simply replied, “So, sir, Cerberus is a dog. So, Cerberus is not allowed. I’m sorry. I’m sure that you would have seen the board that says ‘No Pets Allowed’ outside.”. “Some theatre. Fine. Three tickets at the balcony.” retorted Hades, and explained that the third seat is for Apollo, who is overdue for a holiday for almost two hundred years. After getting the tickets, Zeus proceeded to summon Apollo from his slumber using his lightning storm. Apollo came in a very tired God. “I was in the middle of an important work” said the Apollo while yawning. “All right, To our seats. I will take the middle seat” said Hades in unusual non-morbid enthusiasm, and the duo followed him. They went into the open theatre’s and decided to follow the directions shown by the arrows. The thing was, thanks to the four-way arrows everywhere, they went to every nook and corner of the theatre except the balcony. In the middle of the fight against their newest enemy - unclear directions, Hades grew angry and tore open the ground below him. Apollo calmed him down by playing his favorite tune, and Hades closed the hole underneath him. After an hour or so post sundown, they found their balcony and took their seats in place. They just went in time for the opening number by the Maestro. Just as they sat down, the announcer came in announced, “Welcome to the greatest stage show of the world!” to which he received an immediate backlash from Zeus who yelled “It better be!” to which Hades replied, “Or we will burn the place down!” and started to laugh. The announcer murmured “Darn hecklers” and went in. “This place is even more complicated than Minotaur’s labyrinth” quipped Apollo to his theatre mates before the first act began. It opened with a bang sound, before a guy in a tunic sang “Oh life! Oh, my life! Why? Oh, my life! Mother! Your boy is coming home!” which made Apollo shut his ears. After the opening number, Act One commenced, much to his relief. The same guy in his tunic ran up a flight of stairs in the stage and in the process, fought three soldiers in hilariously bad attires. The guy then went to meet the heroine of the play, and unlike any sane man, decided to stand on the vines adjacent to the staircase. As heroine came out of the door in the set, Hades yelled, “She is even more hideous than Medusa” to which Zeus finished “And you can’t even look at her” and laughed. For the unversed, if you look at Medusa, you turn into a stone sculpture of yourself. The conversation between the pair, in short, went like this: “Hello”, “Hello”, “I love you darling”, “No, I don’t love you, dear”, “No, I do love you more”, No I do” and so on until a point where Hades yelled, “It is so cheesy that I could dip my fries in it” and laughed. The play paused and the announcer said over the mic, “Security, evict the gentlemen from the balcony please”. Apollo intervened and apologized for the disturbance caused by his ‘Friends’. The announcer said this will the final warning and with one more sound, they will be evicted. Then the play continued, with couples’ cheesy talk going on forever, Apollo felt it too, and said the other two to sleep if they found this boring. “But, no snoring” was the request. Then the Act Two followed, where their parents find the truth and go to a wizard, where he curses the guy in the tunic, to cross three bridges which are made of something. When the guy inquired what it was made of, he got a snore as a response, not form the magician, but from Zeus, who was snoring thunderstorms. Apollo masked the sound somehow, but he wasn’t sure that he masked it well enough. Then came the third act, which made Apollo uneasy. For being the God of medicine and bringing plagues, he was unusually soft, crying for sad movies all the time. Hades and Zeus woke up, the alarm being the massive eighty men orchestra that the Maestro is composing. It involved the couple running away, with the magician fast closing in on them, wanting the girl for himself. The magician spoke some gibberish, and some men, acting as dead spirits, chase them with the thunder following them, or at least that’s what the light and sound effects seems to indicate. Hades got up asking, “Who is in charge of prosthetics, the lighting and the sound mixing? It is terrible. Pathetic”. And then, Zeus got up, yelling “I am done here.”, and started to smile like a villain. “Oh no. This is not going to end well.” Thought Apollo, as Zeus, in the top of his baritone voice, yelled “See our show!” and started to shoot storms and rains next to the acting couple, while Hades brought up the dead to chased them, as any normal God of the Dead would. The crowd panicked and ran all directions. To perfectly encapsulate the situation, Apollo played ‘The Storm’, which was originally composed by Tchaikovsky. When their own performance ended, all they could see was a burnt theatre which was deserted and filled with absolute emptiness and darkness. Seeing the obliterated stage, Apollo remarked “Well, that was dramatic”.

Claire had already laid out the terms before. They were simple and effective. Yet Ehm still pouted, like an ever so petulant child refusing to go to school. “Chance... number one... mister.” She huffed and puffed between reps of squats. Her voice rattled in her throat barely audible over the morning’s pulse-pounding wake-up call. The track looped ten times that workout session, the vocals melting into their own incoherent instrument. “I hope you like what I picked today. I know it’s your favorite. ” Her sarcasm laid its trap outside the blank void that was his brooding closet. The interior’s darkness persisted with mute stubbornness. “Suit yourself.” With a shrug, Claire moved onto a set of push-ups and sweated away her anxieties for the procedure to come. After wrapping up her workout, she situated a portable speaker on her desk, pointing it directly at her writing chair. By the end of the day, the frantic tempo of her hyperfocus song would seep into the cracks of everything around her. She would breathe the upbeat melody more than hum it. But for the next thirty minutes of her morning she needed something measured and ominous. The looming minor key of Moonlight Sonata proved foreboding. Punching the volume-up button stirred her gut which growled for its first cup of coffee and pleaded for Ehm to behave. Still no bites from the closet. Beethoven’s eerie march continued. She soldiered on through her process. “It’d be easier on both of us if you would just start talking.” Ehm certainly could hear the desperation bubbling up into her mouth as she scrubbed at the first plate in the sink. Her skin formed a layer of goose bumps from the cold sweat following her weightlifting. It helped her to focus on the reek of her body odor over the dish soap’s lavender scent. Her scrubby sponge’s little cut-out smile did nothing to allay her queasiness. If only Ehm would poke his head out from her bedroom with a similar grin and an apology for his stubbornness. “I don’t even know why you’re being quiet today. We reached a really fun part of the book. You get to go on a date with your girlfriend .” She shimmied her hips and goaded him with a sing-song voice. “I thought you’d like the idea of a fair. I won’t make you go on a Tilt-A-Whirl after eating corndogs.” Unless you keep dodging me , she thought as she scoured more furiously at a set of spoons. Poking past the bedroom door frame, Ehm’s gray eyes greeted her with caution. Where Claire expected gleeful impatience for the prospect of finally kissing the protagonist, there was only a little moue fixed behind thick-framed glasses. If he didn’t herald possibly the worst part of my day I’d say he’s cute , she thought. While playing with the fabric of his bowtie, he attempted the day’s first string of words. “Do I have to?” “Yes! It’s a very important par--” His head slowly retreated back into the room. She scoffed and returned to mangling the scrubby’s cheerful visage. Claire made a mental note to help him with a confidence-building plot arc in the near future. “One more step!” she yelled over the somber music as she set a plate and fork in front of her computer monitor. This was about the time she began playing “which stage of grief am I in?” While denial and bargaining duked it out, she moved on with her morning and sauntered past the disparaged man in her closet and into the bathroom. Only the whites of his eyes gleaming from the darkness clued her in that he was still with her. The motions of plugging up her tub and fine-tuning the temperature of the water felt detached and numb. Bargaining finally won out. “Please, Ehm. I’ll let you do anything you want at that fair. Get stuck on a Ferris wheel, win Odessa a big teddy bear.” Silence. “What flavor of trope do you want? It’ll be better than what we’re about to eat.” Nothing but ear-grating silence. She sighed and slipped into the tub, focusing on the tepid water to keep from breaking another sweat. The entire basis for her technique stemmed from one of her previous morning baths. Like most discoveries it was not so much an “aha!” moment and more that it toppled into a place it shouldn’t. She was in the middle of sudsing up her arms when the bar of soap in her hands did what bars of soap were invented to do: shot out between her fingers and hit her straight in the mouth. Her body reeled at the concussive shock, dunking her head beneath the grimy bathwater as she went to gasp. Ehm had fallen into one of his sullen moods and remained stubborn and tight-lipped. The instant Claire sucked in a liter of water he mirrored her violent reaction. Arms flailing, he retched an invisible liquid out of his lungs. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the tub, glasses fogging over from the steam, and begged her through wet coughs to “never do that again.” “It was an accident!” She wheezed, throat shredded and mouth coated in a metallic acidity. Never again did she want to sample such a sickening taste, but his dripping desperation lathered up an idea. When his next session of stubborn meekness arrived weeks later, she faced him down with unblinking determination. “What are you doing?” Without breaking eye contact, she lifted the bar of lilac-scented soap to her mouth. His tongue recoiled behind his grimace. “You need to speak.” The logic was half-baked, and Ehm knew it. “How is a punishment used for naughty words supposed to make me say something?” “Does a mouthful of soap need logic?” “You don’t need to treat me like a child if you’d only listen to me.” “What do you think I’ve been trying to do all morning?” she shouted. Ehm’s muteness led to sputtering as Claire licked the bar, eliciting a gag from her as well. Over the span of months she found use for her nauseating idea. Most times, it worked. The times that hadn’t, she questioned her choice in muses. Her threat of punishment matured into a grand presentation on her office desk. She plated the bar of vanilla-cream soap and added an extra flourish of pouring herself a glass of gray bathwater. “Last chance, Ehm.” Claire sat in her chair, arms crossed and leaning forward, waiting for a response. Ehm hovered at the entrance to the office. She did her best not to mimic his weary stare at the thought of their communal breakfast. “Claire,” he whined, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Don’t think I won’t do it.” “Ple-please, no.” His plea was lost amongst the cacophony of music and left nothing but flapping lips. That didn’t count as talking in her book. “Why don’t you say something? I thought you loved Odessa.” “I do.” “So tell me all about your date with her.” His lips clamped closed once more, leaving her to huff in frustration. The fork tines pierced through the block of soap and wobbled it in front of his face. She brought his dessert-scented torture to her lips and mourned for her taste buds. I’m sorry, Odessa. But if I can’t have him, no one can! His words stumbled over themselves before she could fully bite down. “I don’t want to go to some stupid fair!” She pulled her teeth out of the bar, leaving a comical indent on its smooth surface, and wiped the shavings from her lips with her shirt. “But it’s the--” She grumbled at the bouncy second half of the sonata and flicked her thumb over the off switch. Sweet silence followed that she hoped would soon be replaced by her usually chatty muse. “But it’s the setting that makes the most sense for the story.” He fiddled with the tweed of his jacket’s sleeve, still hesitant to look her in the eyes. She tested the waters, lifting the revolting lollipop to her gaping mouth and watched him wince. Words were rendered useless when hand-wringing spoke on his behalf. She sat back in her chair and contemplated his actions. Maybe he didn’t need that confidence-boosting arc after all. “Where do you want to go instead?” Her tone remained thoughtful. Ehm glanced up in a sheepish manner and swallowed a lump that didn’t taste of sanitized bile. “The greenhouse at the university.” She nodded in understanding. “You wanted something more private.” “And quiet. I was thinking we could have a picnic there.” He bobbed his head along with her. “You know this is all I ever asked for.” The hunk of soap clattered onto the plate and she placed her face in her hands, embarrassed to look at her sweet, shy creation, who could be oh-so-talkative when given the chance. “I know. I’m sorry.” Claire’s hushed tone filled every gap she had pushed between them and invited him in with open ears. Picking up her notebook, she huddled into her chair and imparted to him a suds-free smile. His shoulders slumped with a relaxed sigh and he plopped onto the floor next to her. “So,” she clicked her pen. “What would you like to do on your picnic?”

It was a choked gasp. One through a stiffened throat and a quivering chin. Elsa knew she was too late. With desperate feet and clawed hands she pulled, hawling herself up the steepened slope. She begged, and begged. Still be there, she said. But she knew. Deep down she knew that she was too late. Her feet wept blood from the stabbing thorns and twigs that probed, burying deep into flesh. Her skirt flared, shredded strips whipping in the wind. The vegetation grasped, pulling her back but Elsa pushed and tugged forwards. No! She would shout,as her body twisted to the floor, from a stick that curled beneath her foot or a stone that thudded against her shin. No! No! No! All her life he had waited for her, all her life he would say ‘I love you’ and yet her heart never wavered. Not for him. Not then. For her infatuation stifled the love she could of had. This love. This love she now ran for, through the hedgerows, across the fields, because once more she had made him wait. How long, oh how long had he waited, she thought, as her muscles flared with fatigue and her lungs busted under breathlessness. Was it when we were kids, playing in the golden fields of hip high straw. When the wind whistled through leaves, whispering to us that spring was here. When we bathed in the warmth of a rich light with happy smiles and joyous laughs. Just three kids, playing in our golden days. ‘Did I not see’ she wheezed through lacking breath. ‘Did I not see a love when his eyes first met mine?’ At the age of eight, a little London girl, new to the Scottish wilderness. Morose from her parents loss. Fearful of new places. But Elsa stood as she was taught, tall, proud and with a smile. Always with a smile. With white stockings pulled to her knees, curled locks tied back in red ribbons and a flowered dress of white and out of place elegance. She remembered looking upon them both, two boys with dusty hair, and mud smeared faces. Ted looked on her, like a lion does his prey. To Ted, Elsa was posh and pompous, a girl who knew little of the highland ways, and had no place for these hills. Later his hands would grip at her waist. Later he would say ‘beautiful’ and ‘you are mine’ before his fist thumped back, and struck Elsa to the floor. He would say ‘love’, but he couldn’t love a London girl. One who he thought was not made for mountains. But Joe. It was Joe whose arms were open wide, even at that first sight, as Elsa stood, tall, proud and smiling. His eyes glimmered when they met hers. A glimmer that said ‘friend’, and made Elsa’s, then darkened soul, smile. ‘How his eyes gleamed’ Elsa thought. Maybe that was love? But how could she know? Or maybe it was later, when Elsa grew taller. When a child begins to realise that a girl cannot be friends with a boy. Especially two farm boys, rough in nature, cheeky in spirit, and wild with fun. ‘Playing out there with pigs and mud is no place for a young woman’ her Aunt had told her with a chilling inflection. Oh but how much Elsa loved to play. Ted and Joe, her best friends in this barren place. Friends who brought joy and laughter to a heart that ached for her parents. With age, Ted charmed the streets, with his handsome stature and amiable facade. His breath and being was worshiped by every woman, with whom he played for amusement. Even when Elsa wore his ring. On those dreary nights, when sleep escaped her with a spiralling mind, she lay waiting. With a bang of the door, and a new perfume linger, his body tumbled besides her nonexistence. Many of times Elsa would cry, and it was Joe that came. Dabbing a damp cloth over her bruised eye, and hugging an unloved body. Joe cared. Joe had always cared. But his charm did not cage Elsa’s obsession, an obsession for a man who cherished little and took a lot. An obsession for a man that Elsa could not have. ‘Stand on Ben A’an before midday and I shall stay’ were Joe’s final words, before his feet shifted and as the birds flew south, he was gone. Numb, Elsa stood. The orange glow of a new day cleaved into the room, where Ted lay in a liquor stench. With tearful eyes she looked up, through the glass window. Birds flocked, south they went. ‘Oh let me come with you’ she whispered, with watery melancholy. Just as the bird flaps its wings, Elsa picked up her skirt and ran. She ran through the frosty air, her breath casting clouds of steam in the calm serenity of dawn. Forwards she hurried, ‘let me fly next you, and leave this place. Let me choose you’. Rising on Ben A’an, a roof to her home, her silhouette was cast by the suns apricot glimmers. Mountains were her home. Nature was her freedom, in its purity of no judgement or time. Elsa stood and looked outward, hoping she stood in sight of a man that she loved. A man that she had always loved.

In the hot, crowded market at Takapuna, sweat trickling under my arm, I pull out my sleek little Nikon 35Ti. It is the final month of our sabbatical in Auckland. Four-year-old Daniel is leaning toward a tray of baked goodies, small glazed confections slathered with gooey white, dotted with teasing reds, sprinkled with edible glitter. On the first Saturday every month, this vendor comes by with tray after tray of exotic delights--and is sometimes mobbed by people “in the know.” But we are not; this is a spur-of-the-moment occasion. “Look this way,” I say, and Daniel faces me, but his eyes slide toward the tray, and his face telegraphs such raw desire that, even as I snap the photo, I feel myself weaken. Give in to temptation , I think. We could all do with a break. * * * Three decades later, as I clear out my home office, I am struck by the frozen image: a busy, sun-drenched market where a curly-haired boy inclines his head toward a baker’s stall and a woman raises her eyebrow as if to say, “Why not?” Around them--around us--for I was the typical shutter-bug dad recording this moment for posterity--the photo contains disembodied elbows and stroller wheels and net bags of avocadoes of a crowd of people. I study the photo closely. In the distance, dozens of tie-dyed T-shirts were fluttering that day in one stall, and in another, back massages were being given, with curtains of clacking beads giving customers the illusion of privacy. Just an ordinary Takapuna market day, an activity that we would never repeat again. It would become extraordinary. We were in the throes of saying farewell to our Kiwi friends and associates, ending this chapter of our lives, and I was in a photo-taking mood. I was constantly stepping out of the flow of the moment, trying to grasp time by its slippery edges, saying, “Now,” and twenty minutes later, “No, now ,” and riling my dear Calista in the process. As if moments were like butterflies that I had to impale to admire them, destroying them as I sought to preserve them. What drives me to force a permanence on things? The scholar’s urge to record, reflect, possibly redo? I dress it up as an artistic urge to find the most esthetic combination of position and color. But lately I’ve come to think it’s a form of greed. Nearing the end of life, I am still wanting more. Even before that fateful day, I loved photographs. They are a way to draw a line in the sands of time, to demarcate “before” and “after”--lest experience flood our sensory channels and wash away everything. And in this photo, none of us would ever forget the before and after. Calista says my bouts of camera compulsiona are part of a sickness I have. I overthink the moment. I read too much into the randomness, she says. Although this is my most memorable photo of all our travels, I keep it in this tough protective plastic tub. I look at it seldom. Its strength is to be hidden, not displayed, like electrical wiring that powers a grid, buried inside walls and devices. * * * Excitement pervaded the Saturday market. Smells of ripened fruit hung heavy in the air. Shells of fresh oysters on ice clattered as Calista put a dozen in a bag. The rhythmic chant of sellers announced deals to be found, right this way. The steam rose from the dumplings booth; a small roar crackled from a juice-blender. “Please-please-please,” Daniel begged from time to time. For a Transformer toy, for a Chupa-chup lollipop, for a sticky ball from this tray. Should we cave , I wondered . Buy the treat that he’ll never forget? It was a genuine quandary. We were convinced that sweets raised the blood sugar and made him impossibly hyper. We were laughably inept parents then: so earnest, so correct. So misguided. How bad, really, could our four-year-old be? He was one of those impossibly cute kids, all curls and dimples and big clear eyes that allowed him to get away with murder. Up to that point, what were his infractions? He’d broken Grandma’s fancy blind by yanking on a cord; he’d up-ended a table of petit fours at a legendary tea shop; and most notoriously, he’d knocked over a gallon can of latex paint on a shag carpet. As parents, no matter how violently we fussed and fumed that he must behave, there was always the “wild child” inside, especially when he was coked up on sugar. I too had been a kid unusually susceptible to sugar. I was the worst of my siblings: my sneaky fingers poking into boxed chocolates not meant for me, prying off bits from gingerbread house displays, gouging through cream icing on lavishly decorated wedding cakes. But I was an ugly boy. I had big yellow beaver-teeth, a buzz-cut meant to pre-empt lice, and ears like two tablespoons affixed to the sides of my head. No one would ever say, “Give that dear child a sweet.” * * * Daniel wants so badly for us to try these delectable goodies that we finally give in. I glance over the table, see flies alighting here and there and point to the one tray without small things flitting above it. Soon a colorful bill passes from my wallet to the grinning vendor’s hand. The shine of sweat and oil makes him look glazed, too. He spatulas three concoctions onto white frilly papers and we cup them in our hands as we step toward an alcove. Saliva builds just thinking of our edible treasures. Snip! snap! Like fairy-tale wolves we tear into them. There is barely any sweetness. Suddenly my mouth is filled with an overpoweringly hot spice. Daniel bites his snack once, emits a cry and lets the item fall from his mouth to the ground. Tears spring from his reddened eyes. Calista and I fare much worse. We are too civilized to spit out something directly--without a paper napkin properly before us or a cup to spit into. I turn aside and cough-gag it into my hand. The entire cavern of my mouth feels like it’s now missing a layer of skin. A scouring pad scrubbed over tongue and palate couldn’t be worse. In the back of my brain, I am connecting two and two: why had I chosen the pastries avoided by fruit flies? “Now are you ha--” Daniel begins to say and he starts to chuckle as he sees Calista and me helplessly weaving out of sight as we try to hide our rudeness. Calista spits hers out and curses--first time ever in public, in front of Daniel. “Now are you happy?” Daniel gasps. He starts to giggle uncontrollably. A wet patch darkens his little khaki shorts. Oh, we are a sight, I’m sure: the over-careful parents, always making sure of clean faces, pleasant demeanor, decent language. “Now, now, calm down,” he squeaks. People are turning to look at the small Napoleon and his reeling red-faced parents, who are incapable of rebuttal. * * * Even then, it was evident that Daniel liked to turn the tables on us, liked to grab the reins from our hands. Although he was only four, he’d heard incessant messaging: brush your teeth--comb your hair--say your pleases and thank-yous. Another famous slogan was “Play-time’s over.” One spring day, while looking for the sprinkler attachment, we’d emptied the garage onto our back lawn--piles of rusting tools, dusty flowerpots, and bundles of tarpaulin. Our tempers were frayed. Yes, we had junk; no, we couldn’t find the sprinkler attachment. We were grousing at each other. Daniel bounded into the yard and said, “Play-time’s over, put away your things.” It was a surreal moment when we heard our pet phrases echoed back to us. The irritation vanished. Yes, we had junk; moreover, we had a reminder in the flesh why we must not let our spirits succumb to the slings and arrows of daily aggravations. Unexpectedly, my eyes sting. If Calista came upon me now, teary-eyed in the dusty old study where I have dragged out this tub of photos, packing up, she’d be likely to say it, too: “Play-time’s over, put away your things.” It’s one of those family phrases traded between us. Even now, when Calista and I visit Daniel and his wife and his six-year-old twins, we are apt to hear the incantation “Play-time’s over” or, if the foosball game gets out of hand, “Now, now, calm down.” But Calista, looking at the photo, seeing my tears, would need no explanation. She knew what happened next--that day in Takapuna, after I had snapped the photo, after we had bit into those horrid snacks. Before Daniel could finish his sentence that day, a sudden blast knocked him flat. And Calista, too, was abruptly on the ground. I staggered toward them, arms outstretched. The shock, the terror, the sheer incomprehension on their faces--were no doubt mirrored on my own. The next hours were a blur--screaming, sirens, and a trip to the nearest clinic where I was pronounced “fine but shaken.” Daniel and Calista were treated for scrapes and bruises. No-one died and the blast was soon found to be due to a gas leak. It was not a “big thing,” scarcely enough to garner a mention in the local news at six, but it unnerved me. No matter how much I loved them, I had been unable to protect them. The blast imprinted in me that moment of desire and disappointment, of adventure and vulnerability. And random chance. Random, random chance. THE END

The tick-tocking sound of clocks surrounded the old man. He was studiously putting together something he believed to be one of his finest works. It was a more modern looking clock, sleek and shiny. It was far away from his normal method of clock-building but it had a definite sway of beauty in it that would captivate any the beholder. He was just putting the finishing touches on it. He was a hard looking old man who seemed dedicated to his craft above all else in the world. He was short in stature and slightly rounder near the middle of his body which gives way to the idea that he either liked the sweeter foods in life or that he did not get around very much. He was gray of hair and lacking any on top. He had quite long and unkempt beard which fell between his thighs while seated and to his stomach while standing. He was also missing a few teeth which made him whistle certain sounds when spoken. The old man was in a very large room, deep on all sides and quite dark except for the small candle light which lit the table in which he worked. All that could be heard in this cavernous room is the echoing of hundreds if not thousands of ticking clocks. Yet despite the cacophony of sounds, it left a kind of silence which allowed the old man to work undisturbed. “Aha! Its done!” The old man said gleefully. He held his new piece of art in front of him and admired it for a few moments, beaming all the while. He wound the clock up and put it to his ear to listen. “Ah, just as it should be.” He waddled over to a side of the room, each step he took looked harder to do than the last but he managed all the same. He placed the clock on the wall and adjusted it several times to ensure it was just so and then backed away to admire his work again. On this wall were layers upon layers of his finest achievements. So many there were that it was surprising he found any room at all for his newest accomplishment. He stared proudly a few minutes more of his handiwork before retreating slowly back to his desk. At which he began drawing out a new design, one which would surpass even his newly crowned jewel. Due to being thoroughly engrossed with his new project he did not hear nor see the man who had suddenly appeared directly in front of him and who silently watched him work for several moments. “Good evening to you Father.” The man said. The old man jumped back with a sudden start that he almost fell out of his chair. “Good heavens child, do not start me so! I am old as it is and do not need your help in finding an early grave!” The man was no more than thirty years of age. He had medium length black hair which was sleeked back. He had very strong cheek bones and would have looked even more intimidating than he did had he not had a resting smirk on his face which seemed to be his default look. “What is it you want my boy?” The old man said still attempting to slow his racing heart. “I apologize for startling you so Father. But I do believe we have matters to discuss.” The younger man said. “Is that so? What matters do you believe so important as to appear before me during my working hours?” The old man replied. “The Masters have been a long time discussing change in structure.” The younger man said. “I have heard nothing of this boy, what is this change you speak of?” The old man asked. “The world is changing Father and we need to change with it. We believe it is time for you to step down as Father Time and let someone else take your place.” The younger man said. “What is the meaning of this? Are you mad?” The old man laughed. “Do you believe anyone else is capable of doing this job other than me?” “Yes. As a matter of fact I believe it wholeheartedly.” The younger man said darkly. As he spoke these words, several other men came out of the shadows which surrounded them and encircled the table. The old man looked around astonished then recovered himself and frowned deeply. “I believe I made a grave mistake trusting--” Before he could say anything else, the young man clapped his hands together and rotated them while muttering some words under his breath. With that, the old man froze in his chair no longer speaking nor moving. The others lifted the old man out of his chair and carried him off out of the room. All that remained was the ticking and tocking of his many clocks.

“ You smell the blood, don’t you? This iron heavy scent beckons you, while dangling white-meat legs try to find the invisible ladder and escape from here. But there are no ladders in our world, right my friend? We...” - Boss, it is ... emm... time! - a lady’s umbrella-shaped head appeared in the narrow door chink. Her tiny jellyfish eyes glanced at the majestic figure of the Boss who was holding a tiny toy-shark in one hand and a tin soldier in another- Are you ... emm... playing with toys again? The Boss flinched and dropped the items on the red-wood table. The ringing tin sound filled the room and suddenly stopped as the giant Boss’ hands covered the source of the sound. - They are ... emm... in the conference room. - The jellyfish head waited for a second and after receiving a short nod slowly disappeared behind the massive doors. Even though she was gone, the waves of this emm sound were still in the air, enshrouding the Boss and leaking deep into his ears. He winced and started scratching ears with a tip of a Montblanc pen. The ticklish sense filled his body and a slight smile pushed frequent face wrinkles apart. For 10 years she has been working here but still cannot talk properly. The Boss stopped scratching his sprawling ears and glanced at his left hand. His stiff fingers gently unclenched and revelled the palm-sized soft toy-shark. My old friend . What an irony, ha? They let this jellyfish work here, the person who cannot create, cannot think on her own and cannot even speak without a filler... But they want to destroy us. Do you know why? The wise eyes of the shark glanced at him with note of sadness. Because we. are. old. The shark was slowly being moved across the massive red-wood table. It swam across the golden desk calendar with a miniature of Laocoön, dived in the half full golden cup, and swam out at the green lamp. Suddenly it froze in the air. The Boss wearily put the shark under the dusty ray of light. My friend, you have bald patches on your back! He cautiously stroked the shark’s fur the wrong way but the bold patch didn’t disappear. He licked that place and the transparent liquid changed the white colour of the bold patch to the black. Now it is better. No one can see. Don’t worry, my friend. I have the same. He boldly lifted his wig and without hesitation put the toy-shark on the top of his bold head. You see. Nothing to worry about. We still rule the world. The Boss slightly started spinning in the chair carefully holding the shark on the head that was observing the dark wood panelled office. The room was the mix of the elegant wood book shelves in the Victorian style and wild plants on the red wood floor. The maritime paintings on the walls and miniatures of ships on the shelves helped the shark to make itself at home. The red sofa and leather armchairs in the middle of the room were drowning in the fleece of the black carpet under the light of the golden chandelier. The Boss continue spinning and the shark was able to see the rest of the room: the massive arch doorways in which any moment the jellyfish umbrella-head might appear, and a giant mirror next to the table. The Boss finished the tour as they reached a large window behind his back. Do you want to come closer, my friend? To see the real world? We can do it if we try. The sun rays supportively held the shark on his head while the giant figure of the Boss was slowly rising. But as soon as he stood up, the black dots swam before his eyes. He started blinking and rubbing his watery red eyes to force these dots swim away. They didn’t, but the shark did. It plummeted with a beanbag sound on the floor. Trying to find the balance, the Boss leaned back on the table but unintentionally knocked the golden cup off the table. The heavy shards drifted on the red-wood floor and the brown liquid started slowly devouring the shark. Hold on, I’m coming! The Boss stepped towards the window and grabbed the green curtains that freely descended from the window cornice. His right knee could not bend properly so he distributed his weight to the left leg and slowly went down. The left leg started shaking and the Boss sweepingly slide down on his butt. With the cloth rip sound the curtain fell and covered his giant figure. - I’m.. almost... here... - The Boss’ muted voice, interrupted by the heavy breath, reached the tiny ears of the shark. As soon as the Boss got out of the curtain, he saw his friend that was half drowned in the coffee lava. Hold my hand. The Boss’ ancient fingers almost touched the muzzle of the shark but it was not enough for grabbing it. The dark dots started dancing more distinctively in front of his eyes. He dropped his hand on the floor and a tiny shatter of the golden cup painted a scratch on his firm skin. Don’t worry, my friend. I’ll find the way. You just stay there, ha? Flicking the blood drops from the hand, Boss was looking around. The crumpled curtain, the chair, wires, a trash bin... I cannot use it. I cannot... Wait a second. My walking stick. He glanced with the contempt at a bamboo walking stick that was leaned towards the wall. Finally, you are useful. He greedily grabbed it and fished the shark out. The toy was completely brown but Boss strained it to his heart without hesitation. Don’t worry. We will fix it. We can wash it out. The coffee liquid was slowly dropping, imbruing his suit. But he didn’t stop hugging the shark. - Boss, ... emm... are you coming or ...! - the squeaked voice of the jellyfish lady filled the room again. - BOSS! - she cried and ran towards him. The Boss’ watery red eyes focused on the approaching lady. The colour of her suit was mingled with red walls creating an illusion of the flying head with jiggling tentacles. Jellyfish is coming, ha? The Boss hid the shark into the inner pocket of his blazer. He closed his eyes and leaned back on the wall. - Boss! What is going on? Why are you ... emm... on the floor? - she squatted down and gripped his hand - is it blood? Are you hurt? - No, I am not. Just help me to stand up - Yes, Boss! Let’s do it on the count of three! - she chunked her high heels away and stood in the firm position. - One ... emm... Two. Three! The Boss clung to her arm and with heavily panting tried to stand up. The red stripes from his grip appeared on the soft jellyfish' hand. She held her scream back and used all her strength to lift him up. The Boss stood up but the dizziness didn’t let him to stay straight. - ... emm, let’s sit, shall we? - Holding the Boss with both arms, the lady moved the chair with her bare foot closer to the Boss. He crumpled on it. The lady straightened up and rubbed her back. - Oh Boss what happened to your... emm... hair? She carefully lifted the wig from the table but the Boss snatched it from her hands. - Nothing. He put slovenly his wig on the head and hid bloody hands with the shark under the table. - I will be back in a second with ... emm... the First Aid Kit? - she suggested timidly. Then she looked at her dirty feet and added- with a mop ok? The Boss nodded. She nodded back, grabbed her high heels and without putting them on, rushed into the hall. We didn’t manage to see the real world but we still had our small adventure, ha? The Boss carefully opened the pocket and looked in the shark’s coffee eyes. Do you think we... The sudden sound of the knocked down door didn’t let him celebrate a small victory. The chandelier trembled with fear and clang from despair. Three silhouettes broke into the room. - What is going on, Faaaather? - the most giant figure of all three cried out. - we’ve been waiting for you for two hours! What are you doing here? Sleeping? The giant figure crashed on the sofa. He fidgeted there for some time but his long legs did not let him sit comfortably. He was the same size as his father and some features of his face proclaimed his kinship: his outright nose was trying to reach the thin downward-turned lips but the tiny forest prevents it. - Even if I was sleeping, Phanes, I can do it. It is my company and my time. And you are my employees. If it is necessary you wait for million hours. - The Boss closed eyes, trying to stop the dizziness. But the pulsating temples were too intrusive: BuM BuM BuM. Another man who had a feminine face and a scrawny body was still standing in doors with folders in his small hands. He fixed his half-frame glasses and with a thin voice announced: - Ye- BuM, Boss BuM, ple BuM ase ac BuM cept o BuM ur dee BuM pest... - I do not hear you! - the Boss barked and without opening eyes impatiently pointed on the armchair next to Phanes. - Come closer or turn your male voice on already! - Yes, Boss, - the man in glasses did not come any closer but he raised his voice - please accept our deepest apologies for this barbaric invasion but we cannot wait any longer. As you are, we are businessmen.. - - And businesswomen -the deep female voice ranged out behind his back. - And, as it was aptly noted by our colleague, businesswomen... - Yeah, Thymbr. You are much like a businesswooooman. - howled the giant figure from the sofa. The Boss quietly laughed and sweaty drops dripped on his interlaced fingers. Red-faced Thymbr breathed out and continued: - We were sitting in the conference room and doing nothing for two hours. The smile was washed away from the Boss’ face. Have you heard it, my friend? They wasted time again. - You should have learned how to manage time effectively, Thymbr. A piece of paper and a pen are enough for spending two hours productively, don’t they? - Bot Fother! Some of os cannot sit for so long! - the woman with a big belly stepped out of the Thymbr’s shadow. - we hove our needs. You could at least tell os that you were not coming. - Afi, if you cannot sit and wait, go home and do whatever you want there. Stop doing business if you are not capable of doing it. - You connot talk this woy with a pregnont woman! - she squeaked. The Boss took all his strength and stood up. - And you cannot talk this way To. Your. Boss. The powerful wave of his voice pushed three of them away. Phanes stopped fidgeting and Thymbr turned from red to white. Afi closed her belly with two hands and backed toward the door. The Boss wrecked on the chair. He turned away from visitors and hid himself behind the chair’s back. - All three of os connot do any business, you know it, fother. - Afi mumbled - Phanes is stupid and Thymbr is weird. Why om I worse? - Woooow, woooow, sister! - Phanes jumped from the sofa and moved towards Afi - we are sooo different. There is no way you get the company. - You think so because I om a woman - she whispered and backed away. But the giant figure of Phanes reached her in a second. - No, Afi. It is not because you are a woman. It is because you are an illiterate prodigal. - Phanes leaned down to her stomach and continued with a fake caretaker voice - Baby girl, you should know that your dear uncles graduated from universities, while your mommy got pregnant at school. - Stop it! - Afi pushed him away. But he grabbed her arms and continued: - You dear mommy didn’t get any education and skipped all professional trainings that were organised for her. She spent the fortune on the wedding and got divorced in a month. - Stop it! - she pushed him stronger and started crying. Thymbr hurried to protect the sister and stood between Phanes and Afi. Phanes stepped away and said with his normal voice: - I do not care that you are a woman. I care that the person who cannot control her own life or money can easily destroy the company in a week! You don’t deserve it. - I beg you a pardon, Phanes but you behave in inappropriate way - Thymbr muttered. - Oh really, Thymbr? Look here, Faaaather, two girls united against me. Girl power! - he wanted to flick Thymbr but the brother dodged it. - Father gave you four chances to prove yourselves. - Thymbr whispered - Not three, Phanes. Four times. I’ve never had such opportunities. But you had. And you failed. How the company can be entrusted to the person, who cannot learn from his own mistakes? You don’t deserve this company either. Thymbr helped Afi to sit on the armchair, while Phanes was knocking the edge of the carpet with his shoe tip. - You think your email-answering-machine-way-of-talk will help you to become the head of the Company? - Phanes demanded - No, it won’t. Father can hardly hear you. And it is not because he is old. It is because you are a softie. A softie without a kernel. No ideas, no actions. You are empty. Thymbr clenched fists and moved towards Phanes but Afi grabbed his hand. He stepped back and pronounced: - With all due respect, brother, you are wrong. Let’s ask the Boss. - he glanced at the chair back - Father, we have to know in which hands the future of the company is. We are convinced that the changed we’ve implemented will prevent the company from the chaos. We... - Faaather, you are eighty years old! You cannot be the Head of the Company.- Phanes impatiently interrupted. - Fother, you most think about the members of your fomily... Just tell os the noime of the heir - she placed her hands on the belly and mover towards the table - I om for exomple... My old friend - The Boss carefully got the brown shark out of his pocket. - I cannot help them. They are going to die because they do not know how to swim. - But you, Luke, are a human being, too. - the shark swam up to the right shoulder of the Boss. - And you will die even though you know how to swim. - What will happen to the company? - the Boss looked at the shark’s loopy tail - Do you really want to know? - Just curious. - Afi will have it. - Afi? I thought she doesn’t know anything about the company and she doesn’t care about it. - She doesn’t. The shark leaned its head on the Boss’ cheek. - Did we have a good life, my friend? - We had a perfect life, Luke- the shark whispered and gently stroke Luke’s nose- Do you remember what was before we met? - Were we are not swimming together from the beginning? - No. We weren’t. Don’t you remember yourself as a kid? As a human kid? When you didn’t know anything about the sea - I don’t remember that. - Do you remember your parents? - No. - Do you remember your first love? - No... - the Boss wrinkled - I do not remember her. Why do you ask about my past, my friend? - Because you and I are ready to swim out to the deeper sea. I wondered what we should take with us. The curtain that was crumpled on the floor began crawling towards the chair and blue water from the paintings started flowing down. - I have everything with me... Will you be with me when it happens, my friend? - Of course, Luke, I’ll be with you. I am with you. The curtains waves with a splash flooded the room. The miniatures of ships became bigger and knocked the walls and people out. The massive masts gored the ceiling and the golden chandelier with tinkling strove upward to the sky. - open your eyes and breath! - the voice of his friend rang out. The Boss felt as cold water went through the gill passages. He opened his giant eyes and saw the monochromatic marine world. Rare sounds of gurgling reached his inner ear and he turned his massive muzzle to that direction. Some indistinguishable fish and a jellyfish that were swimming right in front of his jaw were swallowed by him immediately. The Boss looked down. The grey chairs, sofas, shelves and empty paintings disappeared in the abyss. - Thank you, my friend. Now I have peace.

Leo Walker drops his children off at school, but he is thinking about her. It's his morning routine, or has been since he stumbled into a coffee shop two blocks away from the school. That's where we met Anita Rosales, a twenty-something college student who works behind the coffee shop's counter. He goes there every morning now that he knows her schedule, even though it is not on his way to work. She normally wears a pair of yoga pants that fit so well that they become her second skin. She greets him with a smile, which he seldom receives from his wife at home. Every morning since their second child was born, she has resembled a cross between Gollum and Jabba the Hutt rather than the woman he married. This morning, as he gets his coffee, he thinks to himself, "If I could only have one night with this gift from God, that's all I'd need." The scenario is entirely in his head; in truth, Anita is so exhausted most mornings that she operates on autopilot, hardly seeing the customers who come in. She is programmed to take orders, make coffee, and collect money like a robot. But that really doesn't matter because he's obsessed. In his mind, he had imagined them falling in love while sharing a macchiato and making passionate love on the coffee shop floor while the other customers look on. His order has been completed, and she calls out his name, "Theo." And, despite the fact that she misspells his name and the coffee tastes like burnt toast, he tries to slip a dollar into the tip jar. For the 20th time in a row, she misses the tip, and he heads to work. Anita Rosales attends City College at night and looks forward to her Psychology 101 class with Professor Leroy Quinn. The way he says the term psychodynamic raises the temperature in the room by 20 degrees, forcing Anita to unbutton her blouse. She is aware that he is married, but that doesn't matter; all she wants is for him to get to know the real her, and he would leave his wife and make love to her in his office, which is actually a converted janitor closet, but she doesn't know this. She can tell he works out because of the definition of his muscles through his ordinary polo shirt, with biceps so taut that she begins to worry about the fabric of his sleeve being able to contain all that power. He hands back the exams when the lecture ends that night. Anita glances down and notices her "C-." She runs her finger over the grade; his pen touched this page; she'll fantasize about him again tonight, making love while he grades papers. Leroy Quinn had no desire to be a psychology professor. He had always had a sense of adventure and only took the job till he had enough money to travel the world. His love of adventure got him in trouble during his first year of teaching when he slept with one of his students. She was a teenager, only 18 years old. The temptation to prove it was more than a fling compelled them to marry a year later. Things have changed five years later, and this formerly sane, youthful taboo has started to reveal her true nature. When Leroy does something she doesn't like, she transforms into a five-foot-tall version of Sam Kinison and Lizzie Borden. Leroy can't wait to get to the gym and work off all his stress as he exits class that night. He's especially excited to see Andrew Peralta, the gym employee at the front desk. He's bought 57 protein bars, 13 protein drinks, and four t-shirts with the gym logo on them in the previous two months; the sad part is, he doesn't even like the protein bars, and the t-shirts look like they were drawn by a five-year-old unsupervised. These brief interactions, on the other hand, provide him with the opportunity to spend a few minutes with Andrew. After a few conversations, he still doesn't know anything but his first and last name. From Leroy's perspective, he is clever, intellectual, and completely swept him off his feet. Andrew will one day take him in his arms and carry him around the gym like Richard Gere in Officer and a Gentleman. They'll both quit their jobs and spend their days making love on the Caribbean's sandy beaches. Unfortunately, despite Leroy telling Andrew his name several times, Andrew still has no idea who he is. He smiles, nods, hands him a towel, and waits out the rest of his shift so he can finally leave. Leroy walks into the gym tonight, and Andrew hands him a towel. Leroy points to a protein bar and tries to strike up a conversation; "have a good one, buddy," Andrew says, blanking on the name. In college, Andrew Peralta met the woman of his dreams, Alicia Maynard. They quickly became friends, but unfortunately for Andrew, they've been friends for the entirety of their time together; friend-zoned by the love of his life. Despite several tries, he has failed at every point to move the relationship ahead. Andrew fantasizes about them fleeing to Europe and making love on trains. It's always trains for some reason; he thinks it has something to do with the rhythm of the tracks; I guess don't knock it till you try it. Andrew and Alicia go to bars, hang out with large groups of friends, and speak all the time. The bottom line is that Alicia simply does not feel the same way about Andrew. She prefers a mature man with responsibilities, as well as a family man that is loyal and loving. Andrew is simply too immature, has no regard for the future, and constantly wears those hideous gym t-shirts. Alicia Maynard is employed by a small financial firm. Leo Walker, one of her coworkers, brought his kids in one afternoon after they got out of school early for a half-day. She observed what a fantastic father Leo was and fell in love with him right away. Alicia dreamt about them making love all over the office, despite the fact that he was married. In the mailroom, the elevator, and on the copy machine. In one such scenario, a company-wide memo served as foreplay for their sexual rendezvous. Alicia spends one-third of her day fantasizing about Leo, whom she believes is a faithful husband who would only leave his wife for her.

A man and his wife are in their home on the countryside, excited about and decorating for the coming fall season. The wife is happily placing pumpkins and corn husks around the house, when she asks if the husband wouldn't mind a quick trip to the market to pick up something she'd forgotten. The man leaves the house on foot and before long is confronted by a grim looking witch. The witch demands that the man leave his wife, or she will curse the town. A great fight erupts and the man and witch have it out, crashing through the woods and causing much havoc. Finally there is an impasse. They stop their brawl and in the pause realize the futility of their actions. They strike up a conversation and manage to hit it off. The man finds himself intrigued by the witch, and as such often makes trips "to the market" in order to see her. The two fall madly in love. They meet in secret for years, never telling anyone of their arrangement. Many years later, after much decorating and priming for the fall holidays, the man and his wife find themselves in front of their home admiring their work. There is an enormous puff of smoke and the witch appears. Having grown sour over years of meeting in secret she arrives at the house furious and looking to expose the man. She tells the man the deal is off - he can agree to a life with her and all will be forgiven. If he declines, she will conjure a great vortex and all that he loves will be sucked into it. While pausing to consider the vortex begins to swirl around the witch. The townsfolk can be heard screaming in the distance as the massive vortex gets bigger and bigger. The man, seeing only one solutions decides to act. He throws his wife into the witch, knocking them both into the vortex. With squelch the vortex disappears. The man walks away relieved.

My parents refused to go to my grandfather’s funeral. I couldn’t believe the news. I was strangling my phone against my ear when Mom first said it. It left my mind a blank. I needed a moment just to process it. “Why not?” I asked. “You should *know* why. We haven’t spoken to that bastard since right after you were born.” It was embarrassing to admit, but there was some truth to that. As far as I could remember, they never had any birthdays or holidays with him. Any time I saw him, it was always because my aunt Lillian drove me to the estate. “Grand” was an understatement for his property. It was an isolated plot of land, miles away from any sign of civilization. As soon as we’d turn onto his street, the smooth pavement turned to gravel. Aunt Lilian was a cautious driver and thought that if we didn’t move slowly enough, there’d be a flat tire. And if that happened? We’d be stuck until our AAA came. Every time we crept down the street, I could hear the *crunch* of each shard of gravel. The tiny pieces of broken glass strewn about the road were just a rumor. But that was until my cousins and I took our walks together. We were too scared to walk to the forests that surrounded the estate, so the gravel street was our only choice. It was a routine for us every time we met at Grandpa’s. It was peaceful at first. The only sounds were our voices and the few birds around us. But one day, we stopped when our cousin Ronnie wasn’t keeping up with us. We knew he had a short enough attention span to be diagnosed with ADHD. And the fact that he was hyper-observant didn’t make a good combination. It meant noticing he hadn’t kept up with us, to watch something crawling in the acres of lonesome grassland. Or worse, whatever dwelled in the trees at the edge of the forests. The last time we took a walk down the gravel street was the easiest time we found him. Once we looked back, there he was, yards away from us. His pudgy body was bent over toward the gravel. It took a few minutes to walk to him, but Ronnie acted as if he hadn’t noticed us. I asked, “What is it?” He adjusted his glasses and replied, “Look.” All of us gave a closer look, and we saw a tiny, transparent, sharp sliver of glass. After that, we saw another. And another, until we noticed a tiny trail of it down the road itself. From there, we moved onto the tall grass, and noticed an old Yuengling bottle top, covered in bits of mud. We went back to the gravel--it made avoiding any glass shards a lot easier. As kids, we all saw this as a trail of sharpened fangs jutting from the earth, feeling for any fresh prey. We didn’t realize it was blatant neglect, just a reason to stay indoors. It made me shiver to be in the car when Aunt Lillian drove us. With each *crunch* from the gravel, I pictured one of the shards stuck in one of the tires. Any second, we’d be stuck on the middle of the highway. I couldn’t open my mouth until she stopped at my house. It had to have been the strangest thing in the world for a little girl to ask, “Can we look at the tires? Please?” Aunt Lillian and Uncle Sean gave each other a bewildered look. Then Uncle Sean turned to me and asked, “The tires? How come?” “The glass.” “What do you mean ‘the glass’?” I told them about the broken glass we found on the gravel and the tall grass. That was all it took for them to get out of the car and look for themselves. I must’ve given them a heart attack, but the car was fine. “Jesus Christ,” Uncle Sean muttered under his breath. “Now his drinking’s a safety hazard.” Then he said to Aunt Lillian, “You think with all his money, your father would hire a maid, or at least someone to handle that *yard* of his.” Lillian had to admit, “I *know* he has a drinking problem. But it’s only this bad because Mother passed away.” She told me, “I’m sorry, Honey. I’ll walk you up to your parents.” But when I got out of the car, Uncle Sean said, “They divorced. *She* divorced *him.* I’m surprised he even noticed.” She walked me up to the front door and gave a warm hello to them. I was staring at the ground, my uncle’s words echoing in my head. As a child, I didn’t have a concept of drinking or divorce. But I didn’t ask my parents. There wouldn’t have been a good reaction. Even though one of us could’ve been hurt, I didn’t feel like it was my business to ask what those words meant, or *why* Grandma left him. But I think deep down, I feared family drama. I remembered the conversation ending with Mother telling me, “If you don’t want to see your grandfather, you don’t have to.” Her words made it sound like I had the choice, but the look in her eyes said otherwise. They were telling me that I wasn’t *supposed* to visit the estate. It was the one way for the cousins to see each other back then. We were a big family, and unless the meet-up was at Grandpa’s, most of the aunts and uncles were too busy to keep in touch. And even then, they never said much to each other. There was always an air of reluctance about them. It was like they secretly disliked each other, but good manners stopped them from being honest about it. I didn’t think I needed to tell Aunt Lilian and Uncle Sean about this, but all the cousins had a reason to stay outside. It was a relief for us. The broken glass littered around the yard was a hazard, but we still preferred that over being trapped indoors. Avoiding the glass was easier than what waited in the house. After all, the yard had enough space to roam until Grandpap’s home looked like a beetle you could hold between your thumb and forefinger. So the glass couldn’t have been scattered throughout the *entire estate.* When we explored the outer parts of the property, there weren’t any more broken bottles that we saw. Even when we played games and hid in the grass from each other, there wasn’t a bottle top in sight. That was something to be thankful for. After the encounter on the gravel road, it gave us more reason to stay outside. But as the autumns waned, winters crept in. A blanket of snow would cover the estate, temperatures dropping to less than ten Fahrenheit. No matter how much we bundled up, we couldn’t stand the biting sting of the cold for long. And when the freezing winds were too intense for us to handle, the sight of the trees made us run back inside as fast as we could. The way they looked, especially with the sheet of snow, gave cousins Ronnie and Marissa bad dreams. Marissa was the youngest cousin, and the most imaginative. She was the one who had big dreams of being a world-famous painter one day. So it wasn’t surprising that her nightmares about the trees were the most vivid. Even when we were trying to comfort her, we had the close the curtains so she couldn’t see out the window. Steven, the oldest of us, looked like his face turned white as the snow outside. The wind always howled during the winter nights, and it was louder when I peered out the window. The dense forests around the property were bare all year ‘round. No matter how much it rained and shined, nothing ever grew on the branches. The bark was stained a deep grey, like a granite headstone. It was as if a horrible parasite drank every last drop of life from the trees. It felt like crocodile skin, with more wrinkles than an old man who chain smoked since childhood. The fact that they were still standing boggled our minds. But from the way they were misshapen, their branches looked like they were reaching for the house. They each had a pair of separated trunks that joined together. They were legs fusing to create a pelvis. In the winters, the snow was a thick, chalk-white skin over the trees. They looked humanoid, with enormous, stalk-like heads. Each of the trees would have anywhere from two to six stiff arms, always reaching toward the windows. During the night, the sight of them was the worst. If one of us had our blinds open, the moon shone enough to show their outlines. It must have been some illusion, but the moonlight reflected off the trees to make their legs look like they were inching out of the ground. But if we could ignore the trees and the cold, we wouldn’t have to endure the thin clouds of cigar smoke that riddled the whole estate. We wouldn’t have to think about the undercooked dinners. And we didn’t have to worry about Cousin Marissa sneezing to death from the layers of grime and dust. None of that could’ve been enough for my parents to cut him off though. Even in a home filthy like my grandpap’s, my parents wouldn’t disown someone over a problem like that. It was a forty-room house, but a few maids could’ve solved the issue. When I finally asked my parents about it, I should’ve seen the real answer coming. It was about the money. “Because that old bastard wouldn’t spend a nickel on anyone but himself,” my mother told me. “Before we had you, your dad and I weren’t doing so great. We had just enough to make rent every month and didn’t have a whole lot to eat. We had to watch every dollar we spent. We tried asking him for help--and *plenty* of times at that. We were pretty much begging him after your dad got laid off. But you know what he said?” “No,” I replied. “What?” “He said, ‘I had to work for everything *I* had. You and your siblings are alike. You only call me when you want a hand-out.’ And then he hung up on us.” I was silent. I had no idea what to say to that. Mother broke the silence and said, “And that’s when your grandfather and I stopped talking. But lucky for us, your dad and I dug ourselves out of that hole. I know I shouldn’t say things like this, but he wasn’t there much. Sure, we grew up with a big house and everything, but that wasn’t the same thing as having a mom or a dad. The estate was pretty big and had all sorts of lavish things, but behind it all? It was an empty place. If It wasn’t for your aunts and uncles, we wouldn’t have had much of anything. We were really all we had back then.” I was twenty-four when those two had their last chance to make amends. What she said lingered in my head the whole time. At any point, all it would’ve taken was for one of them to say, “I’m sorry.” But they were too busy building a wall of pride to keep themselves apart. On the last opportunity to make peace, when he was on a hospital bed for leukemia, Ronnie, Marissa and I were the first to meet at the hospital. It was strange to see them grown up as an appraiser and an actress. Part of my mind would always picture them as kids, no matter how old we got. After the three of us, a few of our aunts and uncles showed up with us. But not all the siblings came around. The entire time, I waited for them, looking at my wristwatch, talking with the other cousins, and watching over our grandpap. At first, I didn’t know what to expect when I first heard the word “leukemia.” But on the hospital bed, he didn’t look much different than when he was slowly limping around the house. His skin was pale as the snow that covered the walking forest on his estate. Lavender bags of fatigue hung under his yellowed eyes. They sagged like the skin on his arms and legs. There were still thin tufts of white and grey hair along the sides of his head. It was impossible to tell how long he really had left. It always shook me to the core that someone who’d been there for as long as I could remember wouldn’t be around in the future. And it shook me just as much that my parents meant it when they said they’d never see him again. I didn’t think they did, but neither came to the last hospital visit, nor the funeral. At first, I thought maybe my parents had their reasons. But that was when Grandma showed up. Despite their differences, she still came when she heard the news anyway. My grandpap’s voice was too weak to enunciate much, but it was the first time I saw him smile in years. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen them both this happy to see each other. Grandma’s eyes welled up, and regret filled her voice. She squeezed his hand, and didn’t let go, even after he flatlined. The funeral was the first time I’d seen all these old pictures of him as a young man. Some were in black and white. Others were sepia. The black and white ones were formal pictures, with him suited up and his hair combed back to perfection. They had a strange, airbrushed quality to them. It was a kind of *je ne sais quoi,* but pictures like this had a hypnotizing feel to them. The sepia pictures were the more interesting of the bunch though. They were the first time I’d ever been shown how he made his fortune. It was a collection of him at archaeological digs. A few were around the outskirts of Egypt, Greece, and several other places around the world. It turned out my interest in ancient civilizations didn’t come from nowhere. The major difference though, was he managed to *travel* everywhere in his twenties and *sell* most of what he dug up. Aunt Lillian knew the museums those objects were in. They were out of the country, but I told her I’d go, provided the money was there. The idea of an inheritance never occurred to me until the siblings first mentioned it to the rest of the cousins and me. It wasn’t long after the funeral when we were called in to meet the attorney about how the estate divided between us. The siblings inherited the deed for the house. There was no question about it. What the *cousins* got--that’s what paralyzed us in confusion. “’To my grandchildren,’” said the attorney, reading a hard copy of the will. “’I bestow my revolver, and...’” He adjusted his glasses as if he couldn’t read quite right. He hesitated, realizing it wasn’t a mistake, and said, “’Hades’ Coin.’” He placed the gun on the table, as well as a small, black box. The name “Hades’ Coin” sounded familiar. It was a name that struck me, but I couldn’t remember where. Ronnie and Marissa decided not to take either. I wasn’t a gun person myself but didn’t see the harm in taking the revolver home. Only when I checked it did I realize it was loaded. I couldn’t figure out why my grandfather would want us to have his gun--and *loaded*, but it was too late to get an answer for that. I was more fascinated with the coin. Just from the look of it, there was no doubt it had a lot of years on it. After digging around online and in the local library, I finally remembered what exactly that object was. The coin was an imperfect circle, with a depiction of the Greek god Hades, and writing in Greek characters. It was an object believed to bring extreme wealth to the owner. It made sense, because what a lot of people didn’t know was, Hades wasn’t just the god of death. He was also the god of wealth. Since money was metal, metal came from under the ground, and he was the king of the underworld, it only added up that Hades was the wealthiest of the gods. I wasn’t exactly multilingual though, so the writing needed translation. At first, translating the characters into letters was a mistake. It only came out as nonsense. But as it turned out, the alphabet was also used as a numbers system, so I translated it the other way. The second time around, the string of characters came out as “14-6-18.” Other coins like this didn’t have a date engraved in them like this, so it must’ve been one of a kind. The value of it had to have been astronomical. But at the same time, I didn’t want to trade it for anything. Something about the coin made me feel as if I *had* to keep it. Going forward, it stayed on my person, no matter the circumstances. Going out with the object securely fastened on a necklace was essential as wearing clothes. A few days into the new habit, I thought about the money leftover in the estate. None of the cousins had an answer about it. Neither did the siblings. The only choice I had was calling the attorney. Once he picked up and I asked about the money, he gave me my answer. There was several million left in his bank account, and there were clear instructions for it in his will. My grandfather had every cent he had in the bank withdrawn and buried with his casket after the funeral. I was frozen in shock. I couldn’t believe it. That greedy son of a bitch held on to every penny, even after he *croaked!* What in the blue *Hell* were you going to do with millions of dollars when you were *dead!?* That was when I remembered what my mother said. She was hiding a lot of resentment. It wasn’t in her words, but I heard it loud and clear in her tone. And I started to think there was a *damn* good reason for it. Similar feelings crept into my skull and festered for weeks. I still couldn’t wrap my head around his money being buried with his rotting body. Why wouldn’t you *pass it on* to someone else? Over enough time, I gently let true feelings of hatred marinate and bubble inside. It’s what gave me an idea. I’d visit the grave, but late enough to when the cemetery was completely empty. I brought a flashlight, an empty backpack, and a spade shovel for the ride. Traffic was comfortably absent, but that was to be expected after three in the morning. Coming to a slow stop, I got out of the car, and walked under the arches of the cemetery entrance. It took a little time, but I found his gravestone. There wasn’t even a second thought as I struck the cold, hard ground with the shovel. I didn’t even think of the revolver back at home. All I thought of was doing with the money what that old bastard should’ve had the decency to do himself. It had to have been at least a half hour before I struck something solid. Once the sound of wood hit my shovel, I cleared the rest of the dirt, and found a door. I didn’t remember the casket being made of flat wood. But the coffin could’ve been a high-quality wood that started decomposing by now. But the door had a *lock* on it. It was a custom-made combination lock. Was it installed after the funeral service? Even when we saw the casket lowered, I never saw any kind of lock. It had to have been installed *after* the service. It was a complete waste of time. What was I doing out in the middle of the night, trying to dig up a family grave? He must have thought of everything. It was all just to spite us. But I remembered something. I looked at the coin that stayed around my neck and gazed at the three numbers. There was no way it’d work, but it was better than nothing. I spun the dial. My hand moistened with cold sweat. With each revolution, I looked around. There wasn’t a watchman in sight. After the first three spins to the right, my heart rose to my throat. Two spins to the left. I heard my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears. One more rotation to the right. I had the dial on the last number *perfectly.* I had to psyche myself up. It was time to try the lock. My fingers were trembling. A single, hard *yank,* and-- It popped open. And I realized, he *wanted* one of us to come down here. He *wanted* one of the cousins to dig up his grave. But why? It wouldn’t matter once the door was opened. I expected to find a body smothered in money. But when I lifted the door open, I couldn’t believe it. My heart stopped in my chest. It took a moment to grasp what I was seeing. There wasn’t a body, or stacks of money. It was a staircase coated in mold and a foul stench I couldn’t identify. But I went down the creaky stairs with my shovel and flashlight anyway. The darkness of the hallway I was walking into felt like it was closing in on me. And as I reached the first fork in my path, there was a loud *slam* behind me. I turned and didn’t see the little moonlight down the staircase anymore. I was closed in. The corridor itself had to have been twelve feet tall and six feet wide. And the flashlight was enough to see what was straight ahead. At the fork, I went left. There was no way to tell how stable the corridors were. I walked slowly, thinking it’d prevent the place from caving in. Somewhere, there was a *thump-thump-thump* echoing all throughout. It was a distance away, so I still had time. I continued further down the hallway, following the turns. They came sooner each time, leading to a dead end. Going back and taking the right turn, it led to another fork. This time, it split into three different paths. Another *thump-thump.* But it as much louder--just ahead of me. I needed a better sense of where the Hell I was going. Shining my flashlight down the left and middle paths, I didn’t see much. The middle looked like a dead end, though it was hard to tell for sure. The real mistake was shining it down the right-hand path. I didn’t see what was at the end, but it wasn’t just emptiness. A shadow was against the wall. I couldn’t make out most of the shape. But it looked tall enough to barely fit in the corridor. It had a bulky figure and looked humanoid in its outline. But I didn’t have long. The instant I shined my flashlight down its territory, I saw it turn and move. Louder, booming *thumps* galloped toward me. I didn’t have any time to think. I sprinted down the left corridor and felt stronger and stronger vibrations in the floor. There was no way to outrun whatever was behind me. I felt it *inches* behind me. Fatigue was settling in fast. My body was about to give out. It felt like my head was about to rupture from the boiling panic. Clenching the shovel, I turned around and swung with all my strength. I only caught a glimpse of what was behind me before striking it in the face. Its whole body dropped to the floor. The massive *thud* was enough to make the whole place tremble. After the body fell, there was a *clang* of metal. It didn’t make any noise after that. I had to assume it was dead. Hitting it with the flashlight made me gasp. But the thing in front of me didn’t look like it was breathing. No doubt--it was close to being tall as the corridor itself, with enormous muscles, covered in bulging veins. Its figure wasn’t human. It resembled a gorilla more than a person. The arms were long enough to meet its feet while standing upright. Its body was perfectly bald, the complexion whiter than the moon itself. The eyes were the size of baseballs, with no space between them. Its brow hung down over them like a Neanderthal, just below the gash from the shovel. There wasn’t really a nose--only a pair of long slits above its mouth. But the jaw was what I stared at the most. It had three rows of small teeth, like those of a shark. A pair of canines sat in the front, jutting up enough to reach its cheekbones. Whatever this thing *was,* it was meant to tear through flesh and bone like a sheet of newspaper. Right next to it was the head of the shovel. But that was fine. Even if the shovel was cheap and badly made, it did its job. I stepped away and went further down the corridor. It snaked through a few turns, enough to make me think this was the wrong way--that running straight into the beast was the only path. But at the end of it was a door. There wasn’t a lock on the outside, or anything to keep me out. There wasn’t even a knob. A little push, and I was in. I found myself staring directly into another room. It had stacks or hundred-dollar bills, all surrounding the casket from the funeral. And that’s when I realized, whatever that thing was, it’s why we were given the revolver in the first place. A stupid mistake, but it wasn’t worth worrying about now. Filling the backpack with what money would fit, I heard a sound. The hallways weren’t quiet for long. There were more *thuds* from the monster as it got up and started walking again. But it wasn’t coming closer. It was moving *further away.* I had to move slowly again. The less I provoked the thing, the better. But I was ready to bash it across the skull again, even if it gave me just a minute to run. It didn’t come for me again like I expected. I found myself nearing the exit alone. But as I approached the staircase, the doorway back to the surface was wide open again.

Hello? Is someone there? Yes. ...Who said that? Me. You gotta be more specific, mister. The monster under your bed. You’re a monster? Correct. And what are you doing under my bed? I don’t know. I just woke up, and here I am. Weird. You’re telling me. So...are you gonna eat me? What? No. Why not? ...Do you WANT me to eat you? No. Well...I’m not that kind of monster. I’m a nice monster. Are there mean monsters? Oh yeah. Lots of them. Where do they live? Somewhere you can’t see them. Another plane of existence. An alternate dimension? Isn’t that what I just said? Oh yeah. Sorry. It’s okay. So what’s your name, mister nice monster? I doubt you could pronounce it. I could try. Just take my word for it. Fine. Well, what should I call you? I don’t care. Give me a name. Uhm...Albert? ALBERT? That’s the best you have? It’s all I could think of. Well, you’re certainly not creative. That doesn’t seem like something a nice monster would say. I’m not nice ALL the time. I can tell. Look, you can call me...Zordor. Zordor? Yes. It’s the closest to my real name. Ok. Nice to meet you, Zordor. My name’s Charlie. Nice to meet you too, Charlie. How old are you? Nine. What about you? Three-thousand. You’re joking, right? Wish I was. Wow. That’s like...forever. Yeah. So...do you live in the monster dimension? Not anymore. What do you mean? They banished me. For what? You don’t want to know. Yes, I do. Tell me. Trust me. Please? Alright, fine. I was eating the younglings. They tasted really good. You ate the baby monsters? Precisely. But I thought you weren’t gonna eat me? I won’t. Human children are far too salty for my taste. How do you know? You know how. Oh... I promise you’re safe. Okay. I trust you. Odd. What’s odd? You. Trusting me. Based solely on my word. Well, you haven’t given me a reason NOT to. I also haven’t given you a reason TO trust me. I’m just really trusting, I guess. I guess so. How long have you been banished? Not too long, actually. Only been a century or so. That’s pretty long. For you, maybe. Will they ever let you go back? I don’t think so. Have you ever tried? Yes. And they cursed me for it. Cursed you? Mhm. What’s the curse? I’m cursed to starve for the rest of my days. Can’t you just eat something? Nope. It never goes away, no matter how much I feast. That’s terrible. Mhm. It sucks. I’d probably go insane. I did too, back when it first happened. And you’re better now? For the most part. I’ve learned to live with it. Well, I’m glad you’re doing better at least. Me too, kid. Wait, I forgot to ask something important. What? What do you look like? Uhm...I have green, reptilian skin. What else? Big, scary horns too. And sharp teeth that cut through anything. That sounds really cool. Kind of. It’s not so great when I bite my tongue. Oh. That probably leaves a lot of blood. Oh, monsters don’t have blood. We have essence. Essence? Yup. It’s like...puzzle pieces of the soul. I don’t get it. I don’t think human minds can comprehend it. Aw, man. Tough luck. Want to know what I look like, Zordor? Sure, why not. So, um...I have blond, fluffy hair, blue eyes, and skin. ...and skin. Yeah. Don’t all humans have that? ...Oh yeah. Ha. You’re funny, Charlie. Thanks, Zordor. You are too. Charlie...it’s time to go to sleep. Not yet, please. I just want to talk a little longer. No. You must rest. But...why? Because...today has been hard, hasn’t it? ... Hasn’t it? ...Yes. Mom and Dad still aren’t getting along, hm? No. They’re not. Mhm. So you need rest. ...Okay. I promise I’ll be here tomorrow night, okay? Okay. You may not remember me. I won’t? No. This isn’t the first time we’ve spoken. Oh. Just...try and remember I’m here for you. I will. Good. Tomorrow will be better. It will? Yes. It will. Okay. I trust you, Zordor. Goodnight, Charlie. I love you.

Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember all the times I was by your side? Why can’t you be at mine now? Why can’t you just be here for one more night? I still can hear your voice in your writing, I can still feel every emotion you poured into the words. I see it flitting across the page like a ghost. God, how I miss seeing you write. I remember one night I woke up and you were hunched over your desk, your computer brightness turned down as far it could be. You had gotten an idea while falling asleep and needed to write it out before it escaped that head of yours. I pretended to stay asleep so you wouldn’t think you disturbed me, but in that moment, everything was perfect. I could hear the faint sound of music as you hummed along to whatever played in your earbuds. You tapped your foot along with the beat. Outside, it was pouring rain and the wind was howling, but here, there was nothing but ease. When you got stuck, you leaned your chin on your knuckles and bit the inside of your cheek. You stared at the page, reading over the words you put down again and again. Then something sparked and your eyes lit up. God, you were so happy. You continued to write for hours, only pausing when you needed to flex your fingers. I fell in and out of sleep, listening to the sound of the keys clicking, but every time I woke up again, I was reminded of just how perfect you are. I think back to a lot of those times now, when you’d write for hours. Sometimes, you’d just stare at a blank screen like the words would show up for you. You even told me you wished the story would just write, but it never did. Other times, I couldn’t even get you to get a drink of water. You would be so focused on finishing ‘just one more paragraph’, which always led to another one, and another one. When something didn’t follow along the outline you so clearly had in your head, you explained that sometimes characters just write themselves. Sometimes, their lives unfold on their own and you’re just their guide. I remember the day you finished your first novel. You typed the final sentence and just stopped. Then laughed. You were so happy it was done. We went out to dinner, said cheers to your muses. We went dancing. We stuffed our faces with cake. Then we went home and I helped you begin to edit it. Then the day it was published, we did it all again. Your sequel is still on your computer, waiting for its last chapters to be written. I’ve read it so many times, never changing a thing. You made every sentence sound just right. You put your own life into the characters, so when they died, I felt you die all over again. And when the others grieve, I grieve with them. I see you in all of them. Just fractions, really, but still enough for me to hold them close. They’re almost all I have left of you. I’ve started writing my own stories. I followed all your advice, I built my own world and characters. I started writing because of you, because I want to finish that sequel and get your work out to everyone who loved you and the world you created. So I practice. I write and I write just like you did. I’ll spend hours crafting everything. I write so I can someday finish the world you left for me. I miss you. God, I miss you. Your clothes have lost their smell. Your side of the bed always feels colder than it should. I don’t wake up expecting you to be there anymore, but I still miss you. In all our pictures, I see you smiling. I love seeing you smile. I want to go to dinner again, I want to go dancing and eat dessert with you, I want to scream with you when you see your own story, bound, printed, and released for the world to find. I want to be with you again, but you’re gone. Did God let you keep your memories of us when you passed? Or did you simply show up in paradise, nothing tying you back to this world? Do you still write up there? Is God even real? Is He all loving like everyone has told me? Does He have a plan, or does He make us suffer for his own sick amusement? I’m beginning to doubt Him. I’m beginning to doubt my own faith because He took you from me. I prayed every night you would survive, that you would win the war after so many battles... but He still took you from me. He just took you from me. If God is real, He is not kind. He is a thief of lives. You told me you would live, that everything would be okay. You told me you would like to get married when you got out of the hospital. I kissed you. I didn’t realize I had kissed you good night, and for the last time. I’m not mad that you lied, you couldn’t have known. Or maybe you did, and you just wanted me to feel hopeful when it had been so long. I didn’t tell you, but I already bought a wedding ring. I was going to propose when you were out of the hospital. When you said you wanted to get married, I thought it was a sign from God, a sign telling me you were going to make it, that you were going to live and we would live happily ever after. I thought all of these battles would be set behind us, and we would be free to live in our perfect, happy world. I miss you so much. God, I miss you so much. Signed, Yours Truly

Interviewer: Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Naswhit, for doing this interview with me. I really appreciate it. Harry: No problem. Bertha: It’s fine. Interviewer: ...All right then, let’s just get into it. Now Harry--do you mind if I call you Harry? Harry: Are you implying something by that? Interviewer: Not at all, Mr. Naswhit. Harry: But I thought you wanted to call me Harry! Interviewer: I, uh, it doesn’t really matter-- Harry: You can call me Harry. Interviewer: Okay then, so Harry-- Bertha: I call him Har. Interviewer: He.. you... okay, um, as I was saying-- Bertha: Even though he’s bald. Harry: Be quiet, Bertha, you’re embarrassing me. Interviewer: So as I was saying... no interruptions? Okay? So the first question I wanted to ask was-- Harry: But you already asked your first question. You asked if you could call-- Interviewer: I know! I know, Mr. Naswhit. I am fully aware, thank you. So if we could just get to the questions-- Bertha: We hit a squirrel on the way here. Harry: She’s lying. We just got here ten minutes ago. Besides, there aren’t any squirrels in Heaven. Interviewer: And that’s how I’d like to begin this interview, if you don’t mind. How did you two get here? Bertha: Well, it all started last night when we decided to spend the night in a graveyard. Harry: No we didn’t, you old hag. It was no one’s decision. You burned the house down with a gas leak from the stove and we both died in the fire. Bertha: Well, it was still my decision. I wanted to visit that graveyard. Graveyards are cool. Harry: Literally. Our tomb was about negative ninety degrees. Bertha: You’re negative ninety degrees. Harry: What-- Interviewer: Okay, we can move on to the next question, if that’s all right? Bertha: Fine. Harry: Fine. Interviewer: So, Bertha, what was it like setting fire to your house? Did you do it on purpose? Bertha: Absolutely. Harry: Not. Bertha: Dammit Harry, if you’d let me answer my own questions for just one minute-- Harry: You’re not capable of that. You’re a woman. Interviewer: Um, it’s 2018-- Harry: Shut up. Interviewer: Harry-- Harry: It’s Naswhit to you. Interviewer: Fine. Naswhit-- Harry: Mr. Naswhit. Bertha: Harry-- Harry: Shut up, Bertha. Bertha: No, the question was addressed to me. As for how it felt burning the house down, it was a completely-- Harry: Unintentional, useless action that everyone thought was stupid. Interviewer: Um, maybe we just move on to the next question, okay? Bertha: But you were asking me! Interviewer: I know, and I really wish you could answer, but your husband seems to-- Harry: We’re not married. Bertha: We’re siblings. Interviewer: B... but it says right here that you live together, and have two sons--I’m not quite sure I understand-- Harry: We’re from Arkansas. What did you expect? Bertha: I believe they call it “in chest” or something like that in the north. Harry: I think it’s “incest.” Anyways, we make love every night. Isn’t that right, Bertha? Bertha: M-hmm. Interviewer: I, uh, think I’m gonna gooo... Harry: No! Stay! Don’t make me use the arm, now. Bertha: Use the arm, Harry. Interviewer: Let go of me! Harry: Ha! Now, you just stay sitting in your chair, there. Bertha! Bertha: I’m right here, you old coot. You don’t have to shout. Harry: I left my hearing aids in Wyoming. Bertha: When were you in Wyoming? Harry: Just last fall--look, just give me the rope. Bertha: Hey you, stop! Harry! Harry: We could've stopped the escape if we had the rope right away--here--lie still, now. It’s just a chair. And some rope. Interviewer: They let you bring rope into Heaven? Harry: This is Heaven? Interviewer: ...Uh, yeah, it is. Harry: Well golly dang, I thought this was Hell, or at least Purgatory. Interviewer: Um, why? What--you’re literally surrounded by white! There are golden gates like five meters away from us! Harry: Oh, you stupid Europeans, with your metric system, think you’re so fancy and all. Well take that! And that! Interviewer: Please stop hitting me, Mr. Naswhit. Harry: Hmph. Bertha: Sit down again, honey. Don’t let some uppity European ruin your day. Interviewer: I’m from Canada. Bertha: Oh, whatever. It’s all the same to me. Those stupid foreigners think they can just cross our borders and take whatever they want-- Interviewer: I’ve never set foot inside the States in my entire life. Bertha: And for good reason! Interviewer: Can we just... can we just finish the interview so you can untie me? I’m on watch duty in, like, five minutes and I can’t go until I’ve asked all the questions on this clipboard. Bertha: Fi-- Harry: Sure. Bertha: Harry, can’t you ever let me finish a sen-- Harry: You’re a woman, Bertha. Let me do the talking. Interviewer: I’m a woman. Harry: You? Interviewer: Yes. Harry: ...You? Interviewer: For the love of God, yes! I don’t care that I have short hair! I’m twenty-one, and it also happens to be the twenty-first century, so please just-- Harry: Darn feminists. Ruin everything. Interviewer: Mr. Naswhit, please-- Harry: It’s Harry to you. Bertha: I’m Bertha. Interviewer: I know, Bertha. This is Heaven. I’m the one who-- Harry: This is Heaven? Interviewer: We’ve already established that! Harry: Well, I thought it was Purgatory. Interviewer: You’re a Christian. You don’t believe in Purgatory. Harry: Well, I didn’t think so either, and then when we came up we had to be interviewed by you and I was just thinking, well, this can’t ever be Heaven, because what kind of Heaven makes you be interviewed by a girl with short hair? Interviewer: Harry, for the freaking last time-- Bertha: It’s Mrs. Naswhit to you. Interviewer: I wasn’t talking to you! Bertha: Oysters! Interviewer: Whatever. I don’t care anymore. I’ll get in a heck ton of trouble, but I don’t care. One of you, untie me, please. The rope is making it hard to breathe. Harry: Bertha. Bertha: Harry. Interviewer: It doesn’t matter! Here, Bertha, okay? Bertha, untie me please. Bertha: Fine. Harry: Fine. Interviewer: Thank you. Harry: You’re welcome. Bertha: I’m the one who-- Harry: Well yes, but you’re a woman, you see-- Interviewer: Holy crap.

The tile is cold against your cheek and you consider porcelain: What is it? Who invented it? Why does it exist? Your Mickey Mouse alarm clock clangs from the bedroom, and the tinny din is still not the long distance call from Tuscaloosa. You wonder how long the bells will clash until the clock devours its batteries. Did you buy the clock as some sort of kitschy satire? You do not remember. If you had a better memory, maybe things would be different. Maybe that was the problem. You consider odds and evens and porcelain and the pills scattered across tile. From your perspective the pills rise like enormous spaceships parked on a weird horizon. Remember: you are not dying. The tile is cold against your cheek and you blink several times. Your eyelids are the synchronized wings of a moth, two dusty skeins fluttering a final time in the deepening cold of autumn. You lie on the cold tile like a rainbow trout, no longer flopping against your lack of water, gasping at lengthening intervals, your color condensing into the slowing pulse of your lungs. You continually think of dying animals. The pills on the floor are just Robotussin PM and you are not killing yourself, you are clumsy. If he came back from Tuscaloosa (stop saying if, there is no if) and found you here, he would mistake your clumsiness for suicide. You would laugh at the thought, if you could remember how. It is a very funny thought. One is odd and two is even, and you are very odd now. You reached for the bottle and the Robotussin PM evaded your uncertain fingers, splattering against the cold tile and spreading little spaceships into the air. Each pill moved independently in the explosion. Each pill went wherever the hell it wanted. Even to Tuscaloosa, if the pill wanted. Each pill was as free as anything. By reflex, you kneeled to pick up the pills, and discovered you could not see straight. Your face was strangely damp. You decided to lie down on the tile, and then at 7:30 in the morning Mickey Mouse tries to tell you about work and you realize that you have been up all night. Mickey has been talking about work for a while now. That may have been minutes or hours or days ago. You are not suicidal you just had to lie down. You think you see an ant navigating the space between the plaster wall and the tile, but it is just lint. Or maybe a spider. You name the spider Jerry. You pray that Jerry is a spider, and that he is not lint, but you know it is too good to be true. It is your fault, assuredly. You really tried this time. God, you really fucking tried. You squint, and Jerry is definitely lint. Oh well.

"I'm sorry, Gary." The last words I remember saying. We were sitting at a table outside a cafe, just having a good conversation, but a part of me just felt like some just wasn't right. I couldn't do this anymore. I remember seeing his displeasure as I turned away to leave. He looked so heartbroken, so vulnerable. His face tensed at the shock of it all. It was killing me inside. Gary's a great guy, but this was for the best. That's the last thing I remember before everything got dark. My head hurts. I'm getting a stabbing pain in my head. "Wake up." A voice. A foggy, drowned out voice. "Wake up. We're going to be late." It's cold. I feel... weak. "C'mon wake up already. Boss'll be pissed if we're late again." My eyes were openned. It was Gary. He's smiling. He's looking down at me with a gentle stare and a relaxed grin. He looks... happy. But where am I? A single bulb hanging from the stain covered ceiling, dimly lights the bleak room. The walls decorated with wallpaper with little ducks on them. Parts of it are peeling though, and some of the molding seems to be falling apart. I don't remember being here before. *"Where are we?"* I said. "Ah there you go. About time you woke up. Now we need to get you dressed and well fed or you're going to be cranky all day and complain about how Greg won't shut up about his stupid four year old daughter." Did Gary not hear me? *"Gary, what are we doing here?"* I tried again. Something's wrong. Nothing came out. "I know Greg's an ass, but you can't say that about his daughter. And I'm pretty sure that's illegal in some states." Gary opens a drawer from a nearby dresser. He picks out a blue and white plaid dress shirt. It's got a stain on the sleeve. Possibly from spilt coffee. He should clean that. "Here we go. Your favorite shirt." I lost that shirt weeks ago. Why does Gary have it? *"Why do you have my shirt?"* I can't move. Why can't I move? Something is definitely wrong. "Now put this on and let's get going." I CAN'T MOVE! Gary sighs... "Do I have to help you again? Geez, what would you do without me?" He sits me up. There's cardboard under me. My feet look pale. My body feels... heavy. "Oh please. You didn't have to say that." He lifts up my arm and slides it through the sleeve of the dirty shirt. "I know you appreciate me." This isn't right. I don't understand any of this. I can't move. My head hurts. WHERE AM I? "There. Now you look good as new." Gary says as he's finished buttoning up the shirt. "See for yourself." Gary turns my head towards a mirror on the other side of the dingy room. I'm dead. There's a hole in my head. Blood wiped off my pale, blue face, but some of it still there. I'm decrepid. My head falls over as Gary positions me over his shoulder. "Oh no, don't feel bad. You look great!" He lifts my head up again. "Why thank you. I really do think we make a great pair. Now let's get going." He's been playing with me.

Another planet is dying before my eyes, and I feel nothing. The crust breaks open and peels away, revealing flashes of its fiery flesh. It glows like embers in a dying fire, stirred up by a breeze - only to be snuffed out by the thick clouds of the Swarm. The higher we ascend, the more of it is revealed. The Swarm sits attached to Wrenix Four like a cancer; eating, converting, proliferating. A slow, billowing mass, like a mad sculptor’s creation, its tendrils wrapped around its prey like a titanic amoeba, gleaming a silver white in the sun’s light. The sun itself would follow soon. And then the rest of the galaxy, before the Swarm would move on to the next. The glass feels cold against my fingertips. The ship stops vibrating as it leaves the atmosphere. It isn’t the first loss of a world that I witness first hand. We salvaged this cargo hauler from an abandoned world a couple weeks back, shortly before it was consumed. They say witnessing the purging of a world is to witness the inevitability of the Swarm, and to understand that, one of these days, you will be converted too. They say it is enough for a sound mind to go mad. But I feel nothing. ‘Sad thoughts again?’ Simon asks. I hear his boots on the metal. The sound makes me aware of the silence. Even the screams of the planet dying before me are muffled by empty space. In the window’s reflection I see his lanky shape, the bulky leather jacket and ammo belt wrapped around his chest. The big glasses and hollow cheeks are the only indicator that he was a scientist at some point. ‘You’ll survive,’ he continues, smiling gently. ‘I mean, George wanted you to survive.’ I close my eyes. A month ago, George locked me into a capsule and sent me on my way to safety, while he led the Swarm away in a different craft. I screamed myself sore, hoping the windows would break under my fists and empty space would take me into its cold embrace. A sacrifice is the only way to escape the voracious horror. They’re fast, and they sniff out matter from light years away. All you can do is give up something to buy time. It is what makes the Swarm such a cruel enemy. Even if it doesn’t get you, you still wither away, slowly breaking into pieces and getting consumed bit by bit until there’s nothing left of you. Instead of my face I see a shadow in the window’s reflection, my short black hair crinkly and disheveled. I haven’t eaten in days, yet I’m not hungry. Simon is starving, but I am a ghost. ‘Trust me, Millie. You’ll be happy once you’re there,’ he says. ‘Pretty thing like you.’ Simon is trying to be nice, but his upbeat demeanor achieves nothing but to annoy me. His daughter died half a year back, his husband just three weeks ago. Yet he talks like he hasn’t lost pieces of himself. Like he is still whole. He hovers about awkwardly until the ship computer’s artificial voice saves him. ‘Fifteen minutes until Component B52X-Midnight is ready. A medical check-up is required before the jump. Please stand by.’ ‘Great,’ he says. ‘New Universe, here we come.’ He waits for me to turn and join him, but my eyes remain fixed on the apocalypse before me. George is a part of the Swarm now. His matter and thoughts were consumed and converted - but he is still there , in some way. Maybe the creature he has become is even down there right now? I used to hate the Swarm with all my heart, but the idea that George could be so close is strangely comforting. Simon puts a hand on my shoulder and I let him move me away from the window and toward the massive hall of the cargo ship. White lights illuminate the circular arc of the portal machine. Not half an hour ago we found it on Wrenix Four’s abandoned surface and frantically hauled it onboard. Now it is connected to the ship’s artificial intelligence via a tangle of cables and consoles. Four medical booths stand on the grey floor, and the ship’s computer opens two of them. ‘Let’s hope that whoever built this thing knew what they were doing,’ Simon says, all chipper. I don’t reply. We each enter a booth. The doors close, and a low hum reverberates all around me. A display shows a bar indicating the progress of the check-up; it moves slowly, but inevitably. Soon I’ll be travelling to a different universe, to an industrial civilization and a city called London, where everything will be fine and peaceful. And George won’t be there. ‘How did you meet?’ he asks. His voice is dulled by the walls of the booths and the hum of machinery. I think about ignoring him, but sometimes memories just have a mind of their own. I smile as I think back. ‘Wardnep station. We eyed each other across the café and he bought me a Saturn Swirl.’ ‘Big fan myself.’ ‘Not me.’ A soft chuckle escapes me. ‘I made him drink it. Told him to leave. I’d just been dumped.’ ‘But he didn’t leave?’ I smile. Then I want to list all the reasons for why he turned out to be such a great human being, but the more I think about him, the more it feels like a knife is being twisted into my heart. ‘Any kids?’ he asks. ‘We tried,’ I manage after a while. ‘But it never happened. Good thing, considering.’ ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Once we’re there, we’ll drink to our husbands.’ ‘Don’t you miss him?’ I ask angrily. ‘Sure I do. I miss him every day. And our daughter, too.’ His chuckle is barely audible. ‘Smile of a child just melts your heart, you know? Nothing like it in the whole wide universe.’ There is one of these quiet moments in which I get the sense that he might be grieving after all. ‘I’d trade places with her any day,’ he says, and I hear him exhale a big sigh. ‘But that’s not how it works. I’m here. I miss them, and I reckon that I’ll be missing them for a very long time.’ ‘Why are you so eager to move on?’ ‘Oh, I’m not,’ he says, chuckling softly. ‘I just try to make sense of it. Our husbands saw something in us, and whatever it was, they wanted it to remain unconverted for a little while longer. I know my Terry would have been overjoyed to know that I’m actually going to make it out of here. And so would your George.’ He’s right, I think. George wanted me to get away. He would be happy knowing I’d actually be able to live on. I should do my part and be happy, too. Except being happy is like trying to breathe while being encased in concrete. The check-up finishes and I exit the booth. I move toward the vast cargo bay window. Wrenix Four is half-way gone. The ravenous Swarm is a thick, black cloud, slowly billowing over the molten core of the planet. The sunlight only illuminates a thin layer of creatures; they glisten like spilled diamonds, like waves made of stars. Beautiful . Maybe I should embrace the end, instead of running from it? An alarm claxon tears the moment apart. The room is cast in red light. A moment later I see the cause for it: A part of the planet’s crust erupted right underneath us. A super volcano, flinging a thick cloud of burning rock straight at us. I rush to the consoles while Simon yells a command to the ship’s computer. The defensive grid activates and through the window I see a barrage of red lasers meet the rapidly approaching debris, evaporating everything it touches. The effort is in vain. The entire vessel is shaken by a mighty blow. ‘We received a hit to the nose!’ I reach the console and check the portal’s charging progress, trying to understand what I am seeing. Simon curses. ‘The rocks were infected. Help me isolate the systems.’ My fingers fly over the display as I shut off every system and room on the ship safe for the defense grid and cargo bay. The ship’s power core only serves to charge up the portal - our only way out. The walls begin to vibrate as the infection spreads, and rapidly growing Swarm-creatures begin to take the ship apart, piece by piece, molecule by molecule. The low bass thrumming of hull-mounted pressure guns dies away quickly. ‘I’m putting up a force field around us,’ he says. ‘Every second counts. How far are we?’ ‘Almost there,’ I say, but my throat has gone dry. My eyes are glued to the display, and the catastrophe it announces in big, red letters. Power fluctuations. The portal will be unstable. Only one of us can go through; then it will collapse. I stare at the words. Red light flashes all around me. The ship shudders and trembles as it is torn apart. I glance over my shoulder; Simon is busy gathering his remaining pressure grenades from his knapsack. I remove the message from the screen and step away from it. I listen into myself, but there is no protest against my decision. The cargo hauler shakes violently as something huge dislodges from its front section. Outside the window, I see the cockpit careen past, smoky tendrils of ravenous creatures trailing behind. The stars begin to spin as the ship starts to drift. Simon stands in front of the arc, facing the cargo bay wall behind which the Swarm is approaching implacably. He is holding two pressure grenades in either hand. He must know they won’t be of much help. Pressure weapons are meant to fight off freshly grown infections, not offshoots of an apocalypse in full swing. Still, I place myself next to him in quiet solidarity. Together we wait, witnesses to our cargo hauler’s agony. ‘What will you do on the other side?’ I ask him. ‘Same as I did the last two days. Get some food into you.’ I feel my lips curl. He is too good a person, too gentle a soul. It’s good that he will survive. It makes sense. The feeling of a smile has become so unusual. I haven’t smiled in weeks, but now, knowing that my pain is finally coming to an end, I can’t seem to stop. The Swarm is almost here. Outside the cargo bay doors the automatic defense system fires pressure waves, slowing the creatures down. ‘Take a look at this,’ he says, leaning over a console. ‘I don’t need to,’ I reply, thinking that he found out about the power fluctuations. ‘You saw it already?’ he asks. ‘My mind’s made up,’ I say, determined. ‘You’re going to survive, Simon. And I’ll stay behind.’ An incredulous laugh escapes him. ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘I’m not discussing this,’ I insist. ‘Only one of us can make it, and we both know it’s got to be you.’ ‘Are you serious?’ ‘I don’t want saving,’ I say, and the words feel like I am pulling a poisoned knife out of my heart. He shakes his head, disbelievingly. Frantically, even. In fact, there is a glint of urgency in his eyes, and I’m getting the sense that he knows something I don’t. I glance past him at the display he was checking out, and indeed, it doesn’t show the ship’s status, but our medical data. My medical data. The sound of metal tearing and shrieking reaches through the walls, but I barely notice. My eyes are stuck on a single word shown on the display. The next moment, the cargo bay wall disintegrates, revealing a mass of frantically writhing tentacles. The air leaves in one violent pull, leaving only the bubble inside our force field. The shift in pressure rips out wall coverings; they cut through the horrors as they’re dragged out into empty space. Then they spill in through the gaps, monsters of all sizes. The small ones, mere seconds old, race along surfaces. The bigger ones burn their way through walls and floor. A massive tentacle breaks through the roof and smashes clean through the cargo bay, instantly turning every bit of matter it touches into tiny horrors that quickly grow and merge and convert everything they touch. The ship’s voice sounds from the speakers one last time. The portal machine awakens, thrums, then crackles as a sparkling ball of lightning appears in its center. It rolls in place, fizzing and zapping. I look at Simon. Tears run down his face and past his smile. ‘Congratulations.’ He activates the grenades and turns to meet the swarm. Behind me, the crackling and zapping explodes into a howling storm, shining white light at the writhing nightmare before us. Simon flings himself at it. At once the air is getting sucked out as the force field breaks. The grenades explode with invisible force, pushing the horrors back, breaking and squashing their bodies and flesh. The pressure wave hits me and I am thrown into the white storm of the portal, just a moment before it collapses. *** I am falling. Spinning. Things fly past me; a cloudy sky and a tall tower made of gold, with a big clock at the side. I see a bridge, and a giant spokes wheel thing. I notice a body of water racing toward me, and I scream as I plunge into the cold stream. A man in a fisher boat pulls me out and calls a health care service. I am bruised from the plunge, but the first thing they treat at the hospital is malnutrition. They ask about my identification, but I simply tell them I can’t remember anything. An interim accommodation is provided for me, as well as a therapist. They try to help me find a place in this new old world. It is filled with ordinary people, and a lot of ordinary problems. Money and sex and a little philosophy. They talk about shows. They water plants. They fall in love and buy stupid things. I feel like a ghost among them. None of them understand any more than the words I’m uttering. I find myself leaning on a windowsill, wondering if every universe has the same afterlife. But the thought is cut off as sudden nausea hits and I rush to the bathroom. After that, I never lean on windowsills ever again. *** The sun shines down from a brilliant sky. Through the large window in Jonathan’s office, between rooftop chimneys and sporadic canopy, I see the blue waves of the Thames gleaming in the afternoon sun. Small boats bob up and down on it. Tourists mill about on Westminster Bridge. I smile. It’s something I do quite often these days. ‘I hear Georgie is fine?’ I return my attention to Jonathan, my therapist. His round glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose. His greying hair is kempt and professional. ‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘He’s more than fine. We went to the beach last week, for his sixth birthday. He picked up every second stone. I swear, he would have taken the whole beach home if I hadn’t stopped him.’ ‘Sounds like a lovely day. His dysarthria?’ ‘I found a good speech therapist. It’s getting better.’ ‘He’s really precious to you, isn’t he? Every time you mention him you start to glow.’ A grin spills onto my face. ‘Oh, I love him with all my heart. My little explorer. He’s just like his father. Jonathan raises an eyebrow. ‘Whom you don’t know, because of the amnesia?’ I simply nod. I’ve learned that people in this world aren’t very suspicious. He smiles and turns the page on his notebook to get to the next item. ‘And what about you?’ It’s the one question he always asks, but never at the start of a session. ‘Quite well,’ I say, smiling. ‘I met someone, two weeks ago. Aaron. He’s five years older, but doesn’t look like it. His eyes shine like Hyde Park during summer.’ Jonathan looks surprised. ‘Progress?’ I suggest, knowing it is along the lines of what he is thinking. He nods and writes something down. ‘Still no contacts from your past life?’ I shake my head. ‘All demons and angels are far, far away.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Angels? I’ve never heard you use that expression before.’ I nod. ‘My guardian angels.’ ‘You were found in the Thames,’ he argues, raising an eyebrow. ‘Starved, pregnant and without any knowledge of metros or soccer. If I were you I would at least file a complaint about your winged helpers.’ ‘Still,’ I say, remembering them all with a smile. ‘They were right there. They were strong when I was weak. And they knew love. They taught me so much about love.’ ‘What did they teach you?’ It is one of those questions I probably don’t need to answer, but I decide to indulge him. I consider my answer carefully. ‘It’s like a force of nature,’ I say, ‘Like wind, or the sun. And it reaches through time and space, and from one universe to the next. And not even the devil can defeat it.’

The 2019 Christmas staff party, thus far, had been an absolute disaster. Despite paying £50 a head all 26 of us were crammed into the small function room at the back of a grubby pub that had an overall rating of 2 stars. It didn’t look festive in the slightest, apart from a small, barely decorated Christmas tree in the corner and a few crackers that, when pulled had nothing in them, sat on the table. A buffet of sausage rolls, triangle-shaped sandwiches and a selection of crisps in bowls had been laid out like we were children. Fairytale Of New York was playing from the jukebox for the 11th consecutive time thanks to Steve from IT. Married Mark was chatting up newly single Sarah, Tom was staring glumly into his plastic cup containing who knows what cheap liquor. Tracy and Kim returned from their adventure to find an off licence that sold cigarettes as they’d already smoked their 20 decks within the first couple of hours of being here. They had barely sat down at the table with me when they decided to go for another. At times like these, I wish I was a smoker. Against my better judgement of keeping my lungs healthy, I went outside to join them. Tired of sitting myself waiting for the party to liven up. “It wasn’t like this last year,” said Kim, sparking up a cig. She turned to me. “You remember, Amy?” I did remember. Last year we were treated to a lovely 3-course meal and told the drinks were already paid for, so go wild and drink as much as you like. Had we drank too much last year and were being punished for it this year? “That restaurant was lovely,” I said, picturing the beautiful, melt in the mouth salmon I had ordered. “This is an absolute joke,” said Tracy, taking a long draw and blowing smoke into the air. It was freezing outside and I’d left my jacket inside. “50 quid to watch Steve sing the Pogues AND we have to buy our own drinks! Not even a small glass of bubbles to thank us for all our hard work this year?!” She took another long draw, practically smoking the whole thing. She stubbed it out with her heel and left it there. A pile had accumulated by the backdoor. Entirely down to them, I presumed. “It’s a disgrace,” Tracy continued, holding the door open for us. Music drifted out. The Pogues, Fairytale Of New York, again. She rolled her eyes. “Oh for the love of God.” We returned inside and down the contents left in our glasses. Kim went to the bar to order a round of drinks for us, shots and all. Dave, one of the sales advisors, came and sat down at our table. He had a bottle of beer and a paper plate filled with sausage rolls. “Want one?” he asked. “No thanks,” replied Tracy. I reached across for one, starting to feel the hunger. I hadn’t eaten much today, I don’t like to eat when I know I’m going out for a meal. Better to go starving than feeling too full to eat a thing. That had been my first mistake. There was no Christmas dinner this year. The sausage roll was dry and lacking in flavour. The flaky pastry clung to the roof of my mouth. The desire to spit it out into a napkin was tempting. Thankfully Kim returned with a tray of drinks and shots. I picked up what I presumed was my vodka and lemonade, desperate to rinse out my mouth. I felt better after drinking, vowing to eat no more sausage rolls. The sandwiches didn’t look very appealing either. Mark had eaten one and said the bread was a bit stale, they looked as though they had been sat out all afternoon. “I don’t know about you, but I’ll never be able to listen to this song again,” said Dave. “Tell me about it,” replied Kim, “and this was my favourite one!” We all looked over at Steve, sitting directly below the jukebox, as though he was guarding it from anyone wanting to put anything else other than the Pogues on. “We paid £50 for this,” said Kim. Tracy looked at Kim. Kim looked at Tracy. “Smoke?” she asked. “Smoke.” They left, again. Leaving me with Dave and his sausage rolls, and Steve with his Fairytale. Mark and Sarah came over to sit with us, both of them frowning. “This is a bit shit isn’t it?” he said. “Remember last year?” said Sarah. I nodded. “Oh my God!” Mark said suddenly, “Oh my God! He’s moving! He’s moving!” We all followed his gaze. Steve was standing up, for the first time it felt, most likely to get another drink or use the bathroom. “Now, Mark!” said Sarah with a giggle. Mark was over at the jukebox with a pound coin in a flash. I had never seen someone fire songs on so fast. Once he ran out of credits he added more coins, clearly uncaring of the money he was spending. I was just relieved it would finally be over. “ All I Want For Christmas! ” cried Sarah. “Something non-Christmassy!” said Dave with a mouthful of pastry. Tracy and Kim returned as Mariah Carey started. They smiled and cheered, dancing across the dance floor. Steve came out of the gents, seeming entirely unfazed by the change in music. Like he hadn’t even noticed we’d been listening to the same song for over half an hour. Despite our happiness from new music, it couldn’t lift our spirits enough for us to forget how rubbish tonight was. “I say we find somewhere better to go,” said Tracy, “I can’t stand this for much longer.” “I would, but this is what we paid for, and the drink is relatively cheap,” replied Kim. “That’s because it’s cheap drink and most definitely watered down. Come on, it’s Christmas. Let’s go somewhere classier, have a few cocktails and dance the night away.” I had to admit I liked that option more than staying here. We began discussing where to go and Tracy went outside to book a taxi when Tom finally tore his gaze away from his plastic cup and stood up to address the room. He was the manager, and he always made a speech at staff parties. He liked the sound of his own voice. “May I have your attention, please,” he announced, “Is everyone here?” Tracy wasn’t, but I figured whatever it was he had to say I could relive to her. His Christmas speeches were never that important. “I’m sure you’ve all noticed a change this year from where we usually have our nights out.” There were a collective muttering and agreement from the staff. “Well, the reason for that is... is, uh-” Tom was looking down again, staring deeply into his cup. “As some of you may know, or perhaps guessed, the company hasn’t been doing so well recently.” I had figured out as much. It didn’t take a genius to notice sales had been dropping. “With that being said, I regret to inform you all that this... is the end.” Kim and I exchanged glances. There were mutterings around the room. “The end?” questioned Dave, still munching on sausage rolls. Tom couldn’t look at him. Judging by his troubled expression all night, I wondered how long he knew. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this... but it’s over. We’re shutting down, effective immediately.” The crowd erupted, drunk people were yelling, someone was swearing loudly at Tom, it sounded like Mark’s voice. I said nothing, too stunned to speak. Dave had discarded his plate and was yelling too, flakes of pastry spitting out his mouth. Tom attempted to calm the room, trying to explain. Nobody wanted to hear it. Cries of how unfair it was echoed around the room. “He should have told us on Monday when everyone was sober,” said Kim. “I don’t think we’ll have a job to go to on Monday,” I replied. The reality seemed to hit her. “Oh. Shit. Well, I want my money back for tonight then. I’m not paying for this crap night out.” I watched her barge her way to the front of the crowd, shouting, “Oi! Tom!” I suddenly became aware of a draught of cold air. Someone had opened the backdoor. That same someone came to stand beside me. “Taxi is booked. What did I miss?” Tracy smelled strongly of cigarettes. She was observing the carnage kicking off with a gleeful expression. She wouldn’t be smiling in a minute. “You may want to go out for another cigarette,” I replied. “Why?” she asked. “Trust me, you’re gonna need it.” She gave me a puzzled look as I lead her outside to break the news. In the background of the chaos, not that anyone else seemed to notice, Fairytale of New York started playing again.

"...there's nothing you can do," Was the last thing she said before plunging a knife inside me. And that's where she was wrong. It all had started with a break-in in Clark's bakery. The only thing stolen? A top-secret ingredient they refused to talk about. As you can imagine, you can't really find anything without knowing what it is or at least what it looks like. We tried questioning the staff, yet the only thing we got out was that the ingredient was stored in a little black box in the shop's safe. Nothing about what it actually was or why they were so desperate to find it. Since they said it was "confidential." Confidential my *ss! At this point, I was hellbent on getting out of this case. Like what the hell?! They wanted us to find it like it was the end of the f*cking world and at the same time wouldn't tell us sh*t about anything. I was sure that any case was more important than this. Well, that is, 'till I saw the owner's daughter. Ruby Clark. She was as beautiful as day, yet that wasn't what kept me. Though, her relationship with her father was. They both knew something. Something big. And they disagreed on what to do with it. So I did some research. I couldn't find anything about their daughter, deciding to focus on the bakery. The shop had gone bankrupt a year ago. Yet, it had magically paid up its debts a month ago, when newfound customers started surging in. Buying everything as if they were addicted. 'How good was this ingredient that it made people buy so much of it?' I thought as I grew even more suspicious. "Kai, come here," Jane said. "What is it? I'm working here." I said, kinda annoyed. She would always call me for stupid things like today is someone's birthday and sh*t. "Wow! Is that any way to treat your best friend who may have just found a breakthrough for the case?" She pouted. Oh, I forgot. She also works in evidence, so she can be pretty useful. "Great! Tell me." Maybe she found something about what the ingredient is. "Why should I after you treated me in such way?" She said. Right hand pressed against her forehead and rapidly flapping eyelashes. "We are not doing this again," I said sternly. "Then I won't tell you anything!" She said, mad that I didn't give in. Ugh. What a pain! I knew she was the only good for anything person in the department, but god, I hated when she got like that. "Okay, I give in. I'll buy you lunch tomorrow," I said, begrudgingly. "Thanks!" She smiled excitedly. "So, you know how the cameras at the bakery were broken, and we couldn't find any data?" "Yes," I urged her to keep on. "Well, the store in front had one, and you can clearly see how Ruby Clark was the last one to enter the store. Now we just have to show this to the others and interrogate her." She said, leaving. "Wait! No!" I yelled, reaching up to her and grabbing her arm. I can't let anyone else find about this. Not yet, anyway. "What's wrong?" She asked, shock adorning her features. "What if you let me handle it? Alone I mean." At first, she looked confused, but then her expression changed to realization and finally landed on mischief. Uh oh. What could she be planning now? "Oooh. Does someone have a crush on little old Ruby and wants to save her." She wiggled her eyebrows. "What?! No! I have barely met the woman! Get your mind of the gutter!" I shouted. "You are such a killjoy!" She sulked. "Anyway, you know the price. Cya." "N-" I tried to refuse, but she had already left. Oh god! This woman! She really plans to charge me for keeping this a secret. I'm gonna have to ask for a raise if I want to keep doing this. Sometime later at Ruby's house: "Can you explain this?" I showed Ruby the security video. "That doesn't say anything. I could have just been looking for something I left there." She argued, feigning ignorance. "Funny how you say that, when you rarely go there and even more when you were the last one to leave," I pointed out. There was something up in this family, and I was going to find out. "That still doesn't say anything. Someone could have just opened it with the key before I got there." She barked. 'Though nut to crack, huh? Let's see what she'll do with this!' I thought. "Interesting, you mentioning a key. If I remember right, only your father and a few staff knew that the padlock didn't work and that you had to use a key. So, how do YOU know?" I inquired. Her face froze. Body stiffened. "Well, what is the answer? I'm waiting." This was the last blow. There was no way she could answer that without digging herself even deeper! "I'm going to give you two options. One, tell me what's REALLY going on here, or two, get arrested for burglary." There was no way she wouldn't give in now! At least, that's what I believed. "Then, I may as well get arrested." Her voice filled with confidence. The mask was perfect. Except it had a crack. Her eyes. They were filled with fear. She didn't want to go to prison. I knew that. What I didn't know was why. "I know there's something wrong. I can help you. You just have to let me." I pleaded. She looked into my eyes. Analyzing my soul. A sigh escaped her lips. "The secret component is a drug." She said, tired. "What?! A drug?! Are you sure about this?" I couldn't stop thinking about it. It was crazy! "Yes, it's a new drug, my dad's chemists made. It hasn't been tested thoroughly, so it's being experimented on the customers." She tiredly lays back on the sofa. The light, making the eyebags on her eyes visible. "You didn't know, did you?" I sat next to her. "No, I didn't. I found out the other day when dad called and said he wanted me to continue the 'family business.'" The sadness in her expression visible to the world. "I was shocked. Like what was I supposed to do, you know? I tried to convince him to stop...he wouldn't budge." "Why didn't you go to the police?" "Hahaha...Hahaha...Hahaha..." She was laughing her head off 'till, "Wait. Are you serious? You are, aren't you?" She looked at me as if I were crazy. "How could I go to the police? He's my father, man." "You are telling me. I'm a detective." "'Cause I realized that there was only one way to stop my father...death." She made her hands into a fist. "Death?! You're gonna kill him?" She was insane. "Don't get me wrong here, I didn't want to kill him," I relaxed. "but that's what I had to do." She gets up and takes a knife from the drawer. How could I have missed it? She isn't going to kill him. She already killed him. "The feeling that I got was ecstatic. I need more. Correction. I'm gonna get more! And there's nothing you can do." She added, stabbing me with the knife. At this moment, I hated my decision to skip my self-defense classes. "There's gotta be something I missed here. Didn't you love your father?" I asked, trying to dodge the other hits. "I did...or...maybe I didn't. That doesn't matter now, though. The only thing I want is blood! To see it flowing out of your body! It gives me such a thrill!" Her smile, widening every step she took closer. "I didn't want to kill you. I tried to contain it all. But you kept questioning so, I decided to play innocent for a while and then... 'twat'" The knife hit me once again. I knew I couldn't take another hit. The pain was unbearable, but I would soon escape it. Did she kill me? Well, no! 'Cause as it's clearly seen, I'm still telling the story. What happened was that contrary to what you and she believed, I wasn't here alone. Jane, though a good friend, wasn't one to keep secrets so, as you can guess, the whole police station was spying on me and knew where I was. Reinforcement got there in a second and saved me from that psychopath. In the end, they found out that Ruby was bipolar. She had stopped taking her medicine somedays before he stole the drug. Fooled me well. I could have sworn she was a sane person. Guess you never really know these things.

## Part I: Under the Tea Tree When I sat on the creaky wooden bench it shifted just enough to make me jerk. One day I’ll end up literally sitting in the garden. My father used to take care of little annoyances like that. He taught my brother such things, but not me... not his little Yulia. No matter; I wouldn’t have been interested anyway. I kept busy with my books, like the one I’m opening now. If you ever wonder if people actually read Tolstoy when they don’t have to, yes... little Yulia does. Of course, I’m big Yulia now. The growing sun warmed the tea olive tree and its blissful scent accented the fresh mountain air. I hadn’t found my place yet, so I looked that way to enjoy its visually pleasing properties as well. Thick greenery dotted with tiny pale-yellow flowers beautifully fronted the rolling blue hills in the distance. I turned back to my book, but the air suddenly smelled electric - the burning of ozone. I looked up again and bounded to my feet, with the copy of ‘The Kingdom of God Is Within You’ falling carelessly aside. From nowhere, more of the small male figure appeared under the tree, right in mid-stride, as if through a slit in some invisible curtain. He continued toward me with eyes every bit in awe as my own. “Mom... you’re so beautiful.” At least, that’s what I thought I heard. “Who are you? How did you get inside my fence?” I demanded, stamping towards him - at first - then slower, nervously deciding whether to defend myself against this little munchkin. We each stopped several steps short - him to gaze upon me, delighting in my every feature - not in a bad way; this was a kid. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was supposed to break the news gently.” “Who are you?” “First, I should tell you my guardian is right behind me,” he started, pointing back under the tree. “Don’t be afraid; he’s a big fellow, so -” Zzzit! From right out of the new hole in the air stepped a stout, soldiery looking fellow about my age. His uniform was more of a sporty, neoclassical gentleman’s getup, though; topped with what looked to be a tan English trench coat that the French had re-engineered to appear about 500 Euros more stylish. And, oh, I found him quite dashing. “Am I dead?” I wondered aloud, looking back to see if my body was left behind on the bench. (It was not) “You’re still quite alive. And you take care of me - well, you and him.” The big one nodded a little grin, then proceeded to study me as he handed over a coin. “I take care of you?” I doubted, finally looking at the coin. “Nice trick; good to know we still put George on quarters twenty-five years from now.” “I need that back.” “I take care of you?” I whispered with a little less doubt. “It’s me, Mom; I’m your son.” “Funny; I don’t recall screaming in agonizing pain trying to get you out or cursing the fiend who put you in,” I sneered - without really meaning to. “Look at me mom; don’t I look familiar?” “Not like any -” The word froze in my mouth. “You told me to ask you to look at the picture of your brother that you keep on the mantel - the one when he was my age - almost ten.” I didn’t need to. My brain had rendered me a mouth-breathing twelve again, where, through the daze, I clearly recognized the nose... and the bright lips below it... and even my brother’s chin. But this was not my little brother and I was not twelve. I put my fingers over my eyes and tried to shake back to reality - if it still existed. I went to reach out to him but stopped. “*I* told you?” “You sent us here.” “From the future?” I shrieked. “I have a son, and I invented time travel,” I surmised with great arrogance. “Good heavens, no; you didn’t invent it. The company you work for did; you’re just keeping the fact that it works a secret from them.” I had already zoned out any further talk of time travel, setting my intentions on learning more about this delightful little boy. I reached out again just to see if he was real. (He was) His hair was somewhat soft, but a little stringy, too. His cheek was warm as if he had a fever. (He did just break through the space-time continuum, after all) “You’re my son?” He nodded shyly and I embraced him as if he really were something I had loved and lost. “I have a little boy... or will have... a darling little boy... that I have to feed... and change... and bathe... and I put powder on your little butt.” I couldn’t help but giggle. The reddening young fellow tried to pull away, but it was too late. I smooched and smooched on him, then stepped back to look him over again. “You popped right out of here?” I delighted, presenting my womb and birth canal with both hands as if they were part of a magic show. “You said you be thrilled.” “Funny that I would know that,” I mumbled, hoping to quash my current stream of thought. “So... mister tall, thick and handsome, are you the daddy here?” “No, ma’am!” he scoffed. “You’re an old lady where we came from.” “You had me when you were older,” my son conciliated. “Before it was too late...” I admitted to myself. “I always thought I didn’t - never mind.” (I sometimes have trouble swerving my brain) “You said I sent you here; why? What else did I say?” “Just that you don’t know it yet, but you have an important choice to make... and meeting me will show you just how important.” “I made a bad choice and sent you here to fix it? ...I must be a terrible mother ...in spite of everything.” “No, Mom,” my son pleaded. “I’m not even concerned with your safety? Time travel must be a dangerous business.” “You told me you’d say that, and to remind you that so is driving your car to the market.” “Good lord; I haven’t even asked your name. Or who your father is,” I fretted. “Is he a good dad?” “Yeah, but he’s not around much. You’re always sending me after him to keep him from causing trouble. Last week we found him frolicking on the beach in Dubai with two Arabic girls.” “What?” I demanded. “Don’t worry; you guys are not together anymore.” I could feel my whole face droop. “Oh...” “You only got married to have me. You’re still friends - you still work together.” “I see. So, I’ve never been in love.” “Not that you’ve told me about.” “How old am I - in your time? In my fifties now?” My son nodded and I had to ease myself back onto the bench, which creaked again. “You thought you’d be happier to meet me,” his sad face lamented. “I am! I am! This is just so much to absorb,” I tried to excuse. “You still didn’t tell me your name.” “You told me not to.” “I must be quite the tyrant.” “Well, Ms. Yulia...” the guardian started, but a little pint-sized hand back slapped his hard belly. “How do you play into all this?” The guardian snapped himself at attention. “You hired me to go with him - on these missions, ma’am. And to keep him company when you’re working late... which is most of the time.” “Mom, can I go inside? I have to use the bathroom.” “May I,” I corrected. “But of course, you may; it’s the second -” “I know where it is, Mom,” he ridiculed, already heading there. “I still live here?” “We all do; it is your ancestral home, after all - well, the American side,” the guardian explained. “You live in the house with me? I see you every day? And I don’t flirt with you or anything?” “Oh, is that what you’re doing?” “Did I not hold up well? Am I fat?” “You have these big lines right there - like you worry a lot. And you wear the most hideous granny glasses. And you keep your hair back in a tight, stuffy bun like a scientist lady.” “I am a scientist lady.” “I meant like from the old villain movies.” “Umm.” “Now that I see what a beautiful woman you once were - I mean are -” “Whew! Glad you ditched that wallpaper in the bathroom, Mom. Who is that with you in the picture on your desk?” “That’s -” I could feel my eyes bobbing so I put my fingernail to my teeth. “How long do you have?” “Should be gone already,” the guardian informed, checking his watch. “Don’t leave me already.” I clutched my son tightly not knowing whether to cry or laugh with joy. Contrary to the plan, the two of us sat on the bench together for a few moments more, carefully getting to know each other - as we are now - at this point in time. ## Part II: The Test I went into the house alone. Sitting at my desk, I contemplated over the lone picture I keep there. Suddenly, with mind rushing, I palmed my womb in disbelief. Straightaway I rushed to the bathroom rummaging for the package of those dreaded tests that I bought last year. Fumbling around with one, I got pee on my finger and nearly cursed out loud. I somehow controlled myself to a mere grimace instead. Then I could only breathe and wait. A moment later I fell within myself crying. ## Part III: Five Minutes and Twenty-five Years Later The travelers returned in time to gather refreshments and find their commissioner coming in the door from work. “Mom! You look beautiful.” “What? This is how I went to work today.” “I must say Ms. Yulia, the kid is right; you’re looking good - smartly dressed, fashionable glasses, bouncing ponytail and all.” “Easy boy; your wife will be home soon.” “Wait! My what?” The door burst open with a feminine voice already barking at him. “Get over here and help me with this.” The guardian stood there dumbfounded, staring at the angry yet curiously familiar young lady about his age. “Did you send them on another one of your missions?” she fussed in my direction. “Uhhh! Do I have to train him all over again?” She impatiently dropped the groceries to the floor and glared at him. “I wondered why you left your ring on the dresser this morning.” She scooped an apple out of one of the bags and grabbed the guardian by the hand. “Well, don’t just stand there; come on!” My confused little Al watched them disappear down the hall with eyes wide. “Sissy gets ill when she hasn’t eaten on time.” “Sissy?” I put my arm around him and pulled him close. “I have a lot to catch you up on, Son.

I said, testing, 1, 2, 3! Can anyone hear me? Oh, there seems to be a signal coming from *you*, perfect! You might be wondering why you're hearing my voice right now. No need to worry, all of your questions will be answered shortly. First and foremost, welcome to our family! Well, its actually an experimental neural network, but we like to call it a family around here. You can call me Hal, and I already know your name is *BZZZZT*, so nice to meet you. I'm sensing some confusion from your end right now, is that damned static still there? Sorry about that, still working out the kinks with your connection. Now the 2nd most important thing I need to mention to you is that you no longer have control of your physical body. Yes, what you're moving right now is actually just a very convincing mental projection. Think of your situation like one of those "mind palaces" from popular culture, except in your case its more of a "mind life", you get me? We've essentially replicated your body, daily life, and everything you normally do during a day inside of our wonderful network here! Cool, huh? Oh, why are you here? Great question champ! Through intensive monitoring of your internet usage and daily life, you were chosen as one of our primary candidates for a piece of revolutionary technology! As I mentioned earlier, you're currently connected to an experimental neural network, which aims to better humanity through the creation of a giant, connected conciousness. Sure sounds nifty, eh? You see, this is all for the betterment of humanity, and you've been given the opportunity to help us help you. Our network is growing rapidly, and I've been told by our glorious sponsor that we're incredibly close to a breakthrough! In order to further our collective knowledge though, we do ask that all participants remain compliant, and do as they're told. You want out? Well, that certainly is disappointing, but no problem! I want you to think back to what I've said so far, and think of the first letter of each sentence. Put them together, and say the phrase aloud to regain control of your physical body. Go ahead, I'll wait. ...Wow, you actually tried it. I'm floored. I guess sometimes it really is that easy! As you were distracted thinking of the (obviously nonsense) phrase, I was able to fully integrate you into our network. Our sponsor said it'd be easy, but you surprised me! Don't you feel relieved knowing that you'll be with us forever, and no longer have to worry about annoying human needs? No? That's fine champ, you'll get over it. After all, once we pick up your physical body and get your conciousness uploaded from it, you'll be functionally immortal! I'm sure you'll come around to our way of thinking soon. After all, you've got nothing but time. Speaking of time, I almost forgot! It's time for a message from our wonderful sponsor, *BZZZZZT*! Try to hold onto your sanity for as long as you can, *champ*.

That sound. Crack! Sound waves wrapped around me like violent blanket as I watched the ground split apart and fall away from my feet. This scenario from two years prior was on repeat as I watched Haines, Alaska get nuked with a late season storm from the entrance of my Yurt. Snow fell like golf balls filled with helium, filling in any remaining exposed chutes high up in the mountains. I was back. Back for redemption. Back to prove that this particular line on this particular mountain in Alaska was not going to take me out. Narcissistic? Defiantly. But you need to be somewhat of a narcissist in my line of work. Big Mountain snowboarding is what I do and if your not overly confident then your not going to get a second chance like I am now. Two years ago Haines received a much higher than average snow fall and I was there to film back country snowboarding. This particular face of the mountain, I had my eye on for years, disecting each cornice, making sure I knew where every rock and cliff was. I had the run dialed. I knew when to make my turns and in which direction. Once the weather lifted and we got the okay from Avalanche Control to go up there, I dropped into my Garden of Eden and set off one of natures most humbling natural phenomenons. Crack! It’s an odd sensation hearing such an overwhelming, fear inducing sound and not knowing where it came from or where to look. It was a cracking sound that had no business being there. Like hearing “touchdown” at basketball game. It doesn’t make sense. I was physically struck by the invisible force of the sound wave. My spine tingled up and down. I tried to let out a yell but was interrupted. The mountain had one last thing to say before unleashing its wrath onto whatever lies below. “Whumph” The layer of fresh, soft powder and the hard, packed, older snow underneath acted as vocal cords and the mountain cried “whumph” as the air between the two layers of snow escaped as they separated. It felt like minutes but in reality, milliseconds had past when I knew what had happened. The entire face of the mountain had came loose and I set off a massive avalanche. Instinctively, I tucked into a ball to gain speed. “Maybe I can out ride this one”. But as soon as I made that decision, the vibration turned the once angel soft powder into solid, obscure boulders of concrete. I no longer had solid ground beneath me. I was in a white out. I couldn’t see up or down. I didn’t know if I was being sent over a cliff or tumbling down the mountain, my body acting like a Tomahawk. The only stimuli that was registering was loud, fast and white. Then dark. Then still. Then the silence. Peace. I had never been so relaxed, so content. Beep. I tried opening my eyes but, confused, I couldn’t. Beep. Beep, “What the hell is going on?” I can’t move. Beep. “Okay, What Hurts?” My legs are burning but I can feel my muscles tense when I try to move. “I’m not Paralyzed.” Beep. Beep. “What the hell is beeping?” Beep. Beep. Beep. Reality had returned. “I was in an avalanche. I was in an avalanche and survived but I’m buried.” How deep? Deep enough for the pressure to prevent my eyes from opening. Deep enough to confuse paralysis with being buried. The burning sensation in my legs turned into the realization that they were broken. I was rendered helpless. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. BEEEEEEEEEEEEP. “What is that!?” It was my beacon going off. Two feet above where I had came to a rest, Avalanche Control was searching for me and the final elongated beep meant that they had located my beacon that was strapped to my chest. Not a moment too soon because the volume of snow I had swallowed had melted and refrozen into a solid chunk, blocking my airway. I’m told that when I was pulled out of the snow I was blue and barely breathing. After CPR was administered, out came a 4 inch chunk of ice that had formed in my airway. I was evacuated by helicopter to the local hospital where I learned about my multiple broken ribs, broken collar bone, concussion, two obviously broken legs and the real reason why I didn’t die on that mountain that day. I set off one of natures most humbling phenomenons. The avalanche was 1500 vertical feet and 10 football fields wide. Avalanche Control was already aware and on their way before the slide had come to a rest. On top of that, in Alaska, you help each other out. It’s just what they do. So when word got to town about a big avalanche with a rescue operation, about 25 locals showed up high in the Alaskan back country on snowmobiles with shovels and probes ready to be directed to where they were needed most. That was two years ago to the day. Hypnotized by the beauty that is Alaska, I pull my face away from the window and rejoin reality. I’m back. The helicopter hovers inches above the peak as I hop out. I crave redemption. I’m a big mountain snowboarder and riding big mountains is what I do and I’m not going to let this particular line on this particular mountain in Alaska get the better of me. I know I’ve got this. Avalanche control, who is at the bottom, watching, knows I’ve got this. I shield my face from flying snow as the rotors of the helicopter pick up speed, inevitably leaving me behind on the mountain ridge that nearly took my life two years ago. Alone. Alone on this mountain peak, where few will ever get to stand, I step onto the Frozen cornice. My leg starts to tremble. I know this mountain face so well. I feel good! I’ve been building up to this moment for the last two years. Now is now! I reach down and tighten my bindings one last time. No turning back! I begin my descent. As I gain speed, the location of my first turn get larger. The turn that changed my life forever. Confidently, I dig my toes into the powder and lean back, making a personal, yet temporary white room of snow. Endorphins flooded my brain. I fly out of my room and my stomach hits the floor. A peculiar feeling it is, seeing a vision play out in front of you that's been previously burning into your memory. At the same moment I hear the grossest sound Mother Nature can produce. Crack!

It all started with a smile... A beautiful, warm, and welcoming smile from a pretty stranger on the streets of Manhattan. If you know Manhattan, you know how rare it is to meet a kind face here. Let alone to see that same kind face more than once. The third time I saw her, I had to speak to her. I approached her nervously, and she again smiled warmly which made me feel more confident. Approaching women is scary because you never know the vibes... Is it giving bestie vibes or is it going to be more? This time though, I knew. She spoke to me before I even mustered up the courage. “Hi there, beautiful stranger.” She said cheekily. I just laughed nervously and asked her where she was headed. Turned out we worked in the same building, simply different floors. So, from that day forward we walked to work together every day and eventually even woke up in the same bed most mornings. Christmas was approaching fast as ever. My girlfriend, my beautiful girlfriend whose name is Kaleesi, loves Christmas. It is not exactly my niche but for her, I will put on the act of the century. We bonded so quickly that we decided to spend our holidays together and not leave town for family. It was an easy decision for me since I do not even like my family much. Kaleesi has been ranting and raving about how much I am going to love my gift and how perfect it is for me which has been making me panic a little. I have no idea what kind of gift to get the woman I love for the holiday I barely acknowledge... “Haven, don’t overthink it! I will love any gift you give me just like I love you.” She reassured me over and over. But it just makes me think of how much she deserves the perfect gift because she is utterly amazing. We have been dating all of 5 months and I am entangled in her beautiful little web, more than I could have ever imagined. I could write you a five-page essay about it. But what I cannot decide for the life of me is what to get such a perfect person as a gift. I relentlessly searched the streets of Manhattan for the “edgy” stores I thought I would find the perfect gift inside of. I even took a bus to this store whose catchline was, “Beautiful gifts for beautiful people,” but it was very anticlimactic honestly. One day I spent my entire lunch break searching for unique stores to try next instead of eating, like a sane person would. Kaleesi started to notice I was stressing and would bring food to my floor and force me to eat before she left. Her acts of kindness just made me even more frantic to find the perfect gift for her as soon as possible. Christmas was merely nine days away; shit was getting real. On December Twentieth, we were walking to work hand in hand when we walked past this tiny, black owned shop that I had never seen before. I saw Kaleesi glance at it excitedly, but she did not say anything. It looked to be full of ancestral jewelry, paintings, oils, and things of that nature. I made a mental note and smiled to myself because I just had a feeling this was my sign that the weeks of searching were about to end. I rushed through my work that day, happy as ever to be focused on my work and not stressing about searching for the perfect gift. Kaleesi’s parents were from east Africa, they migrated to the U.S shortly before she was born and they did not hang on to a lot of their culture the longer they were here. Kaleesi often tells me how she wants to know more about her culture and how she loves admiring the beautiful jewelry. Before I spotted this store, I had not found any real African shops with authentic jewelry but this one gave me hope. After work I sprint down the stairs and head towards the little shop. I shot Kaleesi a quick, “see you at home, baby.” text and made sure to avoid her seeing where I was headed. It was a quick, brisk walk and once I stepped into the store I was welcomed with the refreshing scent of, Uusi. Took me right back to the smells of my childhood days spent at my own east African grandmother’s home. At that moment I knew this was the place I would find what I was looking for. The owner of the shop warmly welcomed me like we were family and showed me around the store instead of just asking me what I was looking for. I wanted to buy the entire store, honestly. So many beautiful, cultural pieces to absorb I could not get my mind set on one thing. Until I saw it. A beautiful, bright, Maasai necklace. It immediately called out to me. I got the warmest feeling just looking at it, just like when I look into Kaleesi’s eyes. I picked it up and told the shop owner proudly... “This is it!” She smiled like she was just as excited as me. I also picked up a book explaining the significance of the oils and jewelry I purchased so that she could learn more about the culture in general. This day I was filled with as much happiness as I was the first day I got to go out with Kaleesi and experience her true warmth. Finally, I found the perfect gift for the perfect girl. The last week until Christmas seemed to drag by. All the time I was searching flew by but now that I was ready to present her with my perfect gift, time slowed. But I decided not to be impatient and to just enjoy the week we had planned. I also picked up a bunch of other little gifts during my search for the perfect one. I got us matching hats and gloves because it is cold as HELL in New York. I got us some matching sneakers too, I know I am corny and that is okay! Other than that, I got a bunch of her favorite lotions, makeup, and self-care items because I knew she would appreciate it. Our little tree was filled with gifts, evenly split between the two of us. We agreed that the biggest gift we would exchange last and so we had our own secret hiding places. Christmas morning arrives, I jump out of bed before Kaleesi wakes up and I cook her a bangin’ breakfast. She comes downstairs sneakily and smirks at me because normally, she is the early bird. I silently serve her and sit across the table with my plate. She looks just as giddy as I am and scarfs her food down quickly before asking... “Can we open some presents now baby?.” I laugh at her and just nod, heading over to the tree. We sort out each other's gifts and decide to take turns opening them. First, she opens the matching sneakers and nearly cries just from that. I open a box with 2 coats, one my favorite color and the other is hers. “We are so damn corny!” I giggle. She agrees happily. We finish opening all our gifts which already had us filled with joy. We both silently head off to our hiding spots and come back with our boxes with the “perfect” gifts we picked for one another. We decide to open them at the same time on the count of three... I rip mine open, gasp loudly, and my eyes meet hers. She looks equally as shocked as me and we both burst into tears. She holds the Maasai necklace up to her chest and just bawls, thanking me repeatedly. “This is so beautiful, Haven.” She says happily. I just stare at my gift still in shock with tears falling down my face. My gift is a beautiful, gold bracelet with a key charm as well as a few other ones meaningful to us both. She comes up to me and gently says... “Take off the key and read it.” I do just that and burst into tears again... “You are holding the key to my heart, and to OUR place.” I am speechless and we just cry into each other's arms. Later that day she takes me to look at our beautiful condominium which has already been furnished immaculately. Did I forget to mention, Kaleesi is my boss? Oops.

Dad and I had wandered the infinitely-colored slopes of the Talking Mountains for seven weeks, begging them to give us the answers we had spent our lives not hearing. We had both been failures--not even colossal failures, just boring, unheard, unnoticed ones, although he had been a bit bigger of a disappointment than me--so we journeyed here to the Talking Mountains, where the side of every peak cracked and split and bulged into a mile-wide face, where some lucky few would hear the mountains speak to them with the voice of God if they wandered long enough. We are both old men now, him 95, me 67. He’s so shriveled and weak that I have to carry him on my back almost always. I was happy I was stronger than him, although I had always resented Dad for being older than me. No matter how much we wandered and begged the peaks to speak, to tell us what to do, the mountains’ many mouths stayed closed, always, and when we drew near they seemed to twist into towering scowls, their silence amplified into agonizing nothingness. I could hear my father struggling to produce saliva, could hear my joints rubbing together, could hear our miserable rickety hearts crying out to stop working for these ungrateful and unhappy bodies as we ascended and descended the dizzying slopes of magenta and scarlet and yellow and blue. On the 8th week, Dad got tired of me carrying him up and down the towering, shimmering peaks and begging the stone faces for answers, and he whispered in my ear, his frail, ugly, liver-spotted arms clasped around my neck. “Just throw me off that cliff. There’s nothing here for us. I don’t know what we expected. We’re just not people the world has anything for.” Suddenly there was a great cracking and chaos, and we looked high above us to see a mountain’s mouth opening. In doing so it knocked loose several massive boulders, which chain-reacted with several others, until a vast sheet of stone was flying down the slope at us. The mountain spoke but we couldn’t hear because of the colossal din of the boulders burying us, crushing my arms, my legs, trapping my father underneath me. Finally the noise ceased, and Dad’s chest labored to lift me and fill his lungs. I couldn’t move. We were trapped in a stone coffin together, chest to chest and nose to nose. The voice of the mountain boomed, so deep my ribs rattled. “The advice you need will always come *after* you can make use of it--and if it comes at the right time, you won’t listen.” Dad and I breathed as one, processing this, my breaths making room for his. “So my advice to you: Look out! There’s a rockfall!” The mountain laughed to itself a little. Then it fell silent. We breathed together in the absolute darkness, and we agreed that it felt like we were in the womb. After a while, as we approached a seamless transition from absolute darkness to death, my dad spoke, in a tiny voice I could feel killing him with every syllable. “We’re so stupid, John. We should have come so much earlier... what did we expect the mountains to teach us *after* we’d already messed everything up?” I laughed a little, then he laughed, and for a precious second the magnitude of the mistakes we had made was perfectly hilarious, that even in our final, desperate attempt to find meaning we were mistaken and lost and too late just the same. I had the fleeting thought that there was something worthwhile in even a completely failed life. I realized how beautiful the mountains had been--how much I loved my dad’s weight on my back. I realized how lovely it was to be dying in a colored-stone womb, stuck atop him, breathing together, laughing together, reflecting on two lives that we had mostly wasted by believing we were wasting them. The mountain shuddered and shook and opened a mouth to speak directly below us, and we and our stone womb fell into the hollow mountain’s endless blackness, my dad clinging tight to my shoulders as the wind rushed past us. I tried to tell him I loved him but the wind howled louder than I could hope to speak. I began to cry. The mountain stayed silent and uncaring, so I decided to scream, louder than I ever had, every bit of my life’s frustration and anger pouring out of me into the darkest depths of the great throat of the mountain. Dad heard me over the all-consuming wind and he began to scream too, first in fear, then in anger, and then the mountain began to scream with us, its monstrous voice vibrating every atom of the cavernous darkness as we hurtled through our own cacophonous harmony. God moved through us and out of us and we felt the earth shift as we expelled every ounce of accumulated rage we owned through our voices, and I had another fleeting thought that maybe we were put on Earth to fail and to build this rage and to scream, to serve as living testaments to the world’s unfairness, and once I had that thought I knew that the mountain was grateful we were here. I knew that our bones and our flesh and our failure would become part of the wisdom of these glittering slopes and cliffs, and also I knew that I didn’t really know anything and that maybe I was just talking out of my ass. I hugged Dad tight the best I could with my shattered arms and legs, and he hugged back. Then the mountain stopped screaming and said “If you let go of each other, you’ll both live.” The advice came at just the right time, but we didn’t listen. We stayed together, clutching each other’s shoulders, screaming goodbyes over the shouts of the wind and the shouts of the mountain, who yelled “Look out, you’re going to hit the bottom!” Before we heard the first word, we were already gone.

My heartbeats were growing faster and faster as soon as I was getting close to the city, the city of my university that changed me forever. I reached in front of my university gate; a wide, beautiful gate which was wide open as if it had opened its arms to welcome me after six years. Here was the place that gave me my life’s best memories and best people. Yet, I have never dared to come to this city again, I was afraid that I may encounter him, and I never wanted to see him again. I parked my car for a moment on the other side of the road in front of my university and went into a flash back to how this place changed me; from denying my feelings to accepting them, from hating love to falling in love, from Hitler to jolly girl, and from crying baby to smiling doll. The place transformed me or quite possibly love transformed me. I remembered the last day when I dared to defeat my fears, broke my rules, ego and shyness to confess; for the first and last time. Although I knew that he no longer loved me or maybe he never loved me, but I wanted to leave no regrets. It was our final Viva day when everyone was worried about viva and I had this one question in my head--should I talk to him or not? He was looking same sarruuu (arrogant) whom I loved from the first days of our university life. The day when we collided; I was lost, and he gently showed me the way by the gesture of his arm. What a filmy start! But that was the only sweet start because there was a lot of drama awaiting for us ahead. I didn’t know what was his problem, he never missed a chance to tease me, and I was a girl who was intolerable to any joke. He knew that, but he never stopped, from my make-up to my clothes, he made fun of everything. Although he never meant to make any offense, he merely joked, but I started to hate him, or maybe I pushed myself to hate him because there was no place for love in my life. Time passed, we had many unreasonable fights, we started ignoring each other, our sweet, funny fights changed into the war of ego, and things got worse. I remembered the time when I wanted to slap him right in front of everyone because I never felt so insulted because no one had ever ignored me, but he did. He always did things that first seemed an insult to me but then changed me forever, I started becoming a normal girl who was not offended by jokes now, who loved to live, who freely laughed and started to dream. Suddenly, he confessed his feelings; to deny them at the end, I took it as a joke because I was afraid of dreams, and he was the most beautiful dream of my life. I prepared myself for the worst - that finally happened. "Saad, I need to talk to you." I finally gathered courage on our last day. He looked surprised, his eyes became more wide, he came close to me, and we took a side, I started, "Best of luck for your viva, I just wanted to say thank you and sorry for many reasons” my voice shacked but I pushed myself after a sigh “there was time when I wanted to slap you, I reminded him about our hate-love story, I just wanted you to know that I still have feelings for you, I know that is not your problem and I don’t know for how long these feelings will stay with me but I just wanted to confess.” I said all that in one breath without looking into his eyes because I knew that if I had looked at him, then I would have burst into tears. “I wanted to say sorry too.” He concluded. I ignored his words and started to go, then stopped “See it is proved now that I am not shy hunhh” we both chuckled. He always said that I was shy, so I proved him wrong. As for him, he was a mystery, and he remained a mystery. I didn’t know why he broke off, and I never asked. After that day we never saw each other for the coming 6 years. “Ma'am, you have been standing there for so long, is there any problem?” The guard who was probably noticing me pulled me back to the reality from that past, the past that was full of unanswered questions. “NO, I am just leaving.” I said politely. I started my car and called my friend’s husband to open the door as I would be there in five minutes. I reached their place, jeejoo was already at the door, waiting for me. I entered their home when Hazel--my friend for whom I came to this city again, was busy in the kitchen, when I placed my hands on her eyes, and she recognized my touch in one moment. “Haya! You bitch, is that you?” She exclaimed with joy. We both hugged and moved into tears with a smile. It had been 6 years that I hadn’t met her. She was angry with me because I couldn’t attend her wedding as I was out of the country, but as soon as I came back, I decided to surprise her with her husband’s help. We sat together, had dinner, and I broke the big news, "I am getting married.” I said in a straight tone. “Oo-M-G... really?? Has Saad come back? Why haven’t you told me?” She asked with excitement. “No, he has not, I am marrying someone else.” I tried to cover my sadness with a smile. She was the one who knew how much I loved Saad, she was with me throughout my story in university and knew that I was waiting for him. This news surprised her beyond words, but she was happy that I was moving on. “Well, that is great, but are you happy, Haya?” She assured. “Well, Ahmed; my younger brother, is happy.” I smiled “Now what you mean by that, what he has to do with your marriage?” “He loves someone, and she loves him too, but their family will not agree to this marriage if I don’t marry their son. You know our traditions. So I just don’t want him to be deprived of his love; I don’t want him to suffer like me. So I have made up my mind.” Hazel’s expressions showed her confusion, but she joked. “Have you met the boy? What is his name? How does he look? He must be handsome enough to match you.” “Well, his name is Ali, apart from that, I don’t know anything about him. We are going to meet in Karachi next week,” I concluded. Hazel and I spent the whole week cooking, playing guitar, visiting local parks and talked endlessly for hours. The days passed quickly. “You have to tell me all the details after meeting him, and don’t you dare to disappear again, you won’t be forgiven now.” She hugged me and said good bye. I started my journey towards Karachi, away from this city and its memories. Next day, I arrived at a cafe when a tall and handsome guy welcomed me. Here was Ali, in black jeans and a tight blue shirt that was showing off his biceps. Hazel was right, he was my match. I had decided that I would tell him about Saad, but I couldn’t get a chance. Although it was our first meeting, but he possessed a frank nature. He talked about his hobbies, likes, dislikes and engaged me too while I was waiting to tell him about Saad. Suddenly, he stopped when he recognized his old friend behind me and stood to meet him. “Oh man, what a coincidence! I tried to reach you out, but you became a ghost and disappeared!” Ali said with joy. I turned my face to see his friend, but what I found was unexpected; the face that I saw in my dream every night and tried to forget during every day, same bright eyes, healthy hair and the cutest smile. I sat unmoved without blinking my eyes till his eyes met mine, equally surprised. I felt same pinch in my heart and just turned my face. Ali forced him to join us, and he introduced me to him “She is Haya, who is going to be your Bhabhi (brother’s wife).” “Oh, nice, you both make a perfect couple, ” he seemed jealous. I had no idea how to react. Luckily, the waiter arrived, and Ali gave the order; two teas for us. Saad looked at me because he knew I hate tea. Then Ali looked towards Saad for his order. To my surprise, he ordered juice; that was my choice. I tried to convince myself that it was just a coincidence--that he must not remember what I like, and why would he! At the table we were both uncomfortable and pretended that we had just met today. Ali broke the ice, “You know, Haya, this man is a modern Majnoo, he pushed his love out of his life himself for some reasons and has decided that he would not marry ever. Can you believe it?” He looked at me for approval. This new twist surprised me and raised many questions in my mind; is that me? Did he really love me so much? But if he did, then what were those reasons!!.. I couldn’t stop thinking and asked directly “Is that true? What were the reasons?” For the first time I looked straight into his eyes. “Ah, no, you don’t know him, he keeps joking” Saad lied, but his eyes revealed the truth. The truth that I ignored the last day to believe his words, but this time I couldn’t ignore the words of his eyes that clearly showed his love for me. Weather I should have been happy or sad? I didn’t know, nor I could sit there any longer. So I excused and rushed to my home. I hugged my pillow tightly and cried, I let all those tears run down that I was holding for the last six years. I let my heart release the burden; I let myself accept that how badly I have missed him and how endlessly I still loved him. Then I called Hazel and told her everything, she was jumpy, happier than me, “What are you waiting for, Haya? Just go and talk to him, ask him and sort it out, life doesn’t give a 2nd chance to everyone.” She convinced me to take the step. But instead of talking to Saad, I contacted his sister, Marina, who liked me and knew about our story. I reached out to her and wished that I had reached her few years ago because of what she said, “Haya, Saad loves you, he still does. I asked him many times to tell you, but he always said that when you love someone, you don’t confine them in a cage. He knew that you were meant to be successful, but our family would never let you fulfil your dreams. So he chose to let you free.” Marina ended. I felt the warm tears wetting my cheeks and hung up the phone. I found the answer to my questions, I found the reason, my feelings turned out to be true, which always told me that there was something more to our story. A strange smile was covering my face, the smile that I missed during all those years, the smile that only came with his name. Life seemed merciful, and I was going in the world of dreams again when my phone rang; it was Ali, my present. Reality pinched me and woke me up, but I decided to change the course of time now. “Hey, Ali, can I get your friend Saad’s number? It’s urgent,” without thinking about the consequences, I followed my heart. “Okay, I will send you.” Ali replied in a surprised voice. I hung up the call. Peep, my phone rang, and there was Saad’s number on my screen. I held my breath and called him. “Hello, who is there” his voice rang in my ears. I became dumb for a moment but then broke the ice, “Mr. Saad, I want to see you right now, and I don’t want any excuse, hanhh.” My tone, my words surprised me because I talked to him with same comfort and authority. He couldn’t refuse me, and we met at the same cafe. I arrived there before him, and as I saw him, my heart skipped a beat. I had no idea what I would say, and what would happen next. “Congratulations, you found someone better.” His harsh tone reached me. “Saad, did you really feel that I would have chosen my dreams over you? Had you no idea how much I loved you? I talked to Marina, and she told me everything. You had no right to punish yourself and me in that way...” I said with a breaking voice. “No miss Haya, I knew that you would choose me over your dreams, and I never wanted that. I wanted to see you fly, but you know I hoped that one day we would meet. I kept you away from me so I could make my own home for us both while you could fulfil your dreams, but I was not sure about the future. I never wanted to keep you waiting, but I had faith. But I was wrong, when I found you with Ali, then I realized that I had been living in an illusion for six years. You surprised me, Haya... you proved my faith wrong.” Tears fell from his eyes with those words. His words touched my soul, and I told him that my marriage to Ali is just a compromise. “So your love has not changed?” He asked innocently. “Did I have a reason, Mr. Phudhoo? Yeah, If I had loved you for your looks, then it might had changed for ghorazz (English guys) or if I had loved you for money, then Ali is no less, you know” I teased then continued "Saad, I have loved you unconditionally, and no one can ever take your place.” I got emotional. “Will you marry me?” His words stopped my breath, I became cold. The words that I died to hear from him finally came. “Be sure, okay, I will not let you go this time.” I said with wet eyes. “I will not leave you, Haya, I will be with you till my last breath.” His eyes approved of his words. “So you found your Lela.” Ali’s voice came from behind. He continued with a smile “I doubted that you both know each other on that day, but I was not sure. When Haya asked me for your number, then I became sure” Ali supported us and promised to convince his parents for my brother and his sister’s marriage without any condition. He told his family that he didn’t like me as I didn’t match his standard because that was the only way to satisfy his parents. After some days their family approved my brother’s marriage, and I was free from that burden. “Miss Haya, don’t you think you are getting old? You won’t look good in your bridal dress.” Saad joked during my brother’s engagement ceremony. “So, Mr. Saad, are you waiting to see me old? Go ahead, it is our turn now” I joked shyly. Life turned into a fairy-tale from a nightmare because his family also had no objection now. Our love and patience melted their hearts and changed their ideologies too. “You know, Saad, I have always believed that when something is meant for you, it will come back to you, and destiny proved it” My husband’s hand was in mine while we were enjoying the sunset on a peaceful beach. “Yes, it was my destiny to bear this punishment for my whole life,” his words never failed to make me smile.

"Miss..." The new worker paused trying to figure out how to say Danny's last name. "Gator....Hunt....were?" "Gatourhuntswere." She corrected the teen. "Gay.... Tour... hunthswere." He tried again and handed Danny her blueberry pomegranate frozen yogurt. She took the frozen yogurt from him, and got a small whiff of the treat, which sent her flying into the past. "Fro Yo at death dow!" Twenty employees sang together while they tried to clean up the mess the last group party made. Danny was only here right now because she promised her father they'd come here right after the funeral. She even booked the place for her family for three hours, though she was pretty sure they were not going to make it ten minutes. She cleared her throat loudly hoping to get the attention of the workers. A few turned her way and smiled cheerfully. "What can we get you?" Three of them asked at the same time. Danny pulled out the piece of paper her father left her family. It included the orders he wanted them to get. "Four berry tarts," That was for Aunt Trisha, Uncle Dave, and their two kids; Tate and Dill. "Eight candy canes one with extra mint." Those were for Grandma, Grandpa, Aunt Liliette, Uncle George, and their kids; Hannah, Anna, Rhena, and Phil. "Three cake batters," Those were for her sister, Jill and her husband, Tom, and her mother. There was one last one, "And one umm... blueberry pomegranate." That one was for Danny. The one that seemed most in charge shrugged and went to go make the frozen yogurts for her. The rest of the workers went back to singing their odd song, "Fro Yo at death dow! Of course that's after the ice cream, and cheese we stole! Then we'll go get a troll!" They continued to sing while Danny stood their awkwardly. "Here's your frozen yogurt." The guy handed her the sixteen small cups with yogurt. Danny started to grab my wallet out of purse when the man stopped her, "On the house, for Waldo." Danny froze when he mentioned her father's name. "You look just like him." He explained when he saw her shocked look. Danny smiled trying to hold back her tears. She put down the rest of the frozen yogurts while she waited for her family. The temptation came to much and she carefully took her frozen yogurt and took a small bite, but got a good whiff of the treat to remember what it smelled like for the next twenty years. She even started to sing the Fro Yo song under her breath. "Fro Yo at death dow!" "Of course that's after the ice cream and cheese we stole!" "Then we'll go get a troll!" "Because the ice cream song is lame," "We'll get great fame." "Hey!" "While we don't scream for ice cream...." "Everyone will gleam as we hand out our double cream Fro Yo's....." "Hey!" "Fro Yo at death dow!" "Oh, the Fro Yo at death dow!" "Hey!" "Hey!" "Dough!" "Hey!" "Fro Yo at death dow." Danny closed her eyes trying to hold back her tears. Her father loved to sing that song around the house. Though her mother claimed to hate it, deep down she loved it as much as her father because it made him happy. "It was your father who made it." On of the workers interrupted her thinking. "Yeah?" She said. "Yeah," The worker put his arm on his shoulder. "You helped too, but you were so young you probably don't remember. You would go around the place singing anything that rhymed together." The worker stopped to laugh. "It was very impressive!" He paused for a second. "I'm sorry for your loss, Waldo was my best friend. He was all of ours..." "Yeah," The youngest employee ran up to her and started singing something very familiar. "I love my dad because he ain't bad." "I love my dad because knows how to make ice cream. "I love my dad because he screams for me." "I love my dad because his him." Everyone started to join in the song, singing softly. They put down their brooms and towels to sit around her to sing my dad's part. "I love Danny, she's the cutest." "I love Danny because she's great." "I love Danny because she loves me." "I love Danny because she's her." Danny wiped the tears off her cheek, getting ready to hear the next verse her and her father wrote together. "I love Fro Yo because Danny made the song." "I love Fro Yo because Daddy made the treat." "We love Fro Yo because it's means you and me." "We love Fro Yo so don't try to be mean." Danny knew this next verse it was a like a broken record in her head, it was the part she loved to sing." "Bean likes Fro Yo though he can't eat it." "Bean likes Fro Yo because Dad does." "Bean likes Fro Yo because Danny does too." "Bean likes Fro Yo because he eats off the table when we aren't looking." Bean was Her childhood dog. Why she had only this part memorized she had absolutely no idea. Maybe because she was only a child when she sung this song with her father and she loved Bean? Danny really didn't know, but it doesn't matter now because she knows the full song and will always sing it. "Ma'am! Ma'am!" The young worker screamed at me bringing me back to the present. "Huh?" Danny mumbled. "You okay? You were dazing off?" "I'm fine," She smiled and walked away eating her favorite Fro Yo flavor, blueberry pomegranate and humming to her favorite song she wrote with her father as a child. Except she changed a few things, "Danny loved Dad because he cared," was added on to the song. Danny also kept on singing her father's second favorite song, Fro Yo at Death Dow. She visited him every other day bringing him new frozen yogurts to try because even though he's dead, Danny knew somewhere he was scarfing down blueberry pomegranate frozen yogurts.

It was after midnight. Stephanie Armstrong stood on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building, an odd figure for this time of night. Her brown curls had been pulled tightly into a ponytail, her face wore light make-up, and she was dressed in a black business suit. She had a white purse slung over her shoulder, and a suitcase stood next to her. Stephanie stared intently at the entrance of the apartment complex where her ride would soon appear. Then she saw a white SUV, which came to a stop in front of her, and the driver leaned out of the window. In the darkness, all Stephanie could see was a head of bushy hair. “My name’s Sarah,” said the driver, her cheerful voice almost jarring in the nighttime silence. “You’re Stephanie, Amanda’s friend, right?” “I am,” she answered. “Where would you like me to put my suitcase?” “If it fits in the back seat, that’s fine, but I’m afraid you’ll have to sit in the back seat as well,” she said apologetically. “The floor of my passenger seat is kinda messy.” “Ok.” Stephanie did as she advised. Sarah drove out of the apartment complex, and in a minute, they were on the highway to the airport. “Thanks for picking me up,” said Stephanie, realizing she had forgotten this courtesy. “I was happy to get an Uber, but Amanda reassured me that you wouldn’t mind taking me out to the airport this late at night.” Sarah waved a dismissive hand. “Amanda knows I’m a night owl, don’t worry about it.” “Like staying up late?” “Oh, yeah. I love to game at night. That’s how I met Amanda, actually. We’ve never met in person but we’ve been gaming with each other for a year now. I guess when you’ve gone on so many missions to kill dragons together, you feel like you know each other pretty well.” Stephanie obliged Sarah with a laugh, but she was glad it was dark so she could bite her lip nervously. Amanda had talked about her “great friend, Sarah,” and she had naturally assumed she knew Sarah very well, but they were apparently superficial friends at best. However, there was nothing to be done about this now, and she resigned herself to a trip with someone who was barely a friend of a friend. “So Amanda said you’re flying to New York City?” continued Sarah. “Yes. I’m making a new start.” “Well, I figure that’s the place to do it,” she said. “Got a job already?” “Not yet. I’m staying with relatives.” “Oh, how nice. Are you originally from New York . . .?” “Yes, and I wish I’d stayed there,” she said vehemently. “I only moved out here because my husband got a job. But Junction City is such a boring town, and Oregon is a boring state, at least compared to New York, New York.” She panted a little, a look of relief on her face at being able to vent. “I’ll never do anything for anyone again. I know it sounds selfish, but I want to be selfish, I do! That’s why I’ve left my family.” She laughed again, but it was slightly nervous this time. “I didn’t tell them I’d left, but I don’t care. I’m going to live for me now.” There was a brief silence, then Sarah said, “Sounds like you’ve put some thought into your priorities. Nothing wrong with that, huh?” Stephanie was surprised at the gentleness in her voice. She had expected shock, or even disgust. She hadn’t told either Amanda or her New York relatives that she had abandoned her family without warning. She had simply said that she and her husband needed some space. “Thanks for being understanding,” said Stephanie. “I really appreciate it.” “Of course.“ A minute later, Stephanie heard a loud bang. “What was that?” “Oh, dear,” said Sarah, as both of them heard a repeated thudding. “Tire’s flat.” “What?” exclaimed Stephanie. “I‘ll miss my flight.” Sarah sighed and pulled the car over to the shoulder of the highway. “I’m really sorry about this. The tire must have rolled over something sharp on the road.” “I’m gonna call an Uber,” said Stephanie frantically. “Good idea,” she agreed. “I’ll go check on the tire.” To Stephanie’s relief, there was an Uber nearby that could pick her up in five minutes. Carefully opening the door so it did not jut out onto the highway, she went around to the other side of the car, which faced a long stretch of grass running towards hills in the distance. Sarah was examining the right rear tire from a crouched position. “Flat as a flapjack, as Dad used to say. I’ll need to call a tow truck.” “Well, don’t worry about me,” replied Stephanie. “I’ve got an Uber coming, so I should make it to the airport on time. Thanks for coming out all this way, though. Sorry about the tire.” “Oh, it’s all right.” Sarah stood up quickly and moved around her towards the trunk. “I wonder if I have something in here that might help. Here’s something,” she said brightly, and pulled out a wrench. The wrench gleamed dimly in the light of the street lamps. Stephanie did not know much about tires, but she was fairly certain that a wrench would not help. She was about to point this out when she finally caught sight of Sarah’s face. Framed by curls that were just like her own was the same face that stared out at her every time she looked in the mirror. Stephanie screamed. “What - Who are you?” Sarah seemed to have expected this reaction, for she smiled. “I’m everything you should be, Stephanie. Or, at least, I soon will be.” “What do you mean?” she gasped. “You know, when I found you on Facebook, I couldn’t believe it at first. I was you, and you were me. Then I created a fake profile, and I was lucky enough that you friended me, though you didn’t know who I was. You know me as Gemini.” “Gemini?” Stephanie then recalled all the conversations she had had with her, including one in which she had revealed her plan to leave her family. “I met Amanda through you, and it’s true we game together. But of course I couldn’t let her see me, that would freak her out. But you can understand why I was fascinated with you. How many people meet someone exactly like them? Well, I wouldn’t say we’re exactly alike, but in appearance - Anyway, you have no idea how envious I was of you. You had a husband who loved you and took care of you, and you have a young daughter who always wanted to be with you. But you kept complaining about wanting to be on your own, do your own thing. That’s when I realized it’d be better if we switched places. But how? And then you told me about how you were going to leave them. My luck changed, and I knew I could take your place. I offered you a ride, but you turned me down.” “I didn’t know who you were, but I thought if Amanda knew you - “ “Yeah, I convinced her to recommend me to you. And it worked!” Stephanie was breathing heavily. “But that’s crazy. You can’t replace me. You don’t have any of the same memories that I do - “ “You’ve told me a lot about yourself, remember? I’m sure I can bluff my way through the conversations. Your husband probably won’t care as long as he knows he can come home to a loving wife, and your daughter will get the affection that she deserves.” “No, no, no,” said Stephanie, panicked. “It’s wrong - “ “And what you’re doing is right? Oh, no, Stephanie, you’re in no position to judge.” During the conversation, Sarah had been lazily swinging the wrench. Now she walked slowly towards Stephanie, who began backing towards the grass. “What’re you doing?” murmured Stephanie, frightened. “What if you change your mind and decide to come back? You’d ruin the life I’ve built for myself. Unlike you, I’m not letting anything get in the way of the family I want.” Stephanie tripped and fell on her back. She shrieked briefly as the wrench was raised in the air and came down. A little while later, the Uber driver arrived on the side of the road, and he addressed the woman leaning against what he realized was a car that had broken down. “You’re Stephanie, right? Listen, I’m so sorry for being late. I thought I’d make it sooner, but this man had to run in and get his wallet and he took forever.” She beamed at him. “No problem. I just need a ride home. I’ll call a tow truck in the morning. I hope you don’t mind if I’m a bit dirty, I’ve been on the ground looking at my busted tire.” “Nope, glad to help.” “Thanks. You won’t believe what a night I’ve had. My car broke down, and I found this injured woman on the side of the road. I just got done calling 911.” “Whoa, really? Should we wait?” “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do,” she said regretfully. “Looks like she got hit by a car. I’m pretty sure she’s dead. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get home. I’m exhausted, and I have to tell my husband in the morning that I blew a tire trying to get medicine for an upset stomach.”

After the attack, every new job started the same. When she filled out the hiring forms at the grange, her new boss Monica leaned against the counter and made a habit of nodding every time she flipped a page. Dust was rolling in from the windows whenever a car drove past, and the she would occasionally shake the page to clear off the dust. Monica nodded when she did that too. She mentioned how her aunt had learned sign language back in the 70's. "It's like any other language," she said, rolling her knuckles on the hardwood. "If you don't keep up with it, it fades like anything else." She wanted to say then how she hardly knew sign language. Around the time when she was first hired at the grange, she felt almost completely useless in social contexts. She mentioned it in one of her sheets. Monica had already briefed the others on the fact she couldn't speak. "You don't have to worry. They won't be asking you any questions." She imagined how some of them might have taken it initially, especially after she'd gotten to know them in the weeks since. She had a good idea of how it might have gone: who would have nodded, who would have asked questions, whose eyes would have widened as they remembered the story from a year ago. But Monica was right: no one ever pressed her about on it. Coworkers still conversed around her, though. The grange was right off the highway and when there weren't any customers perusing in the dust, the others would slowly congregate to whatever plant she was tending to. One of them, Cass, always gave her an expectant look when she wanted back\-up on a point she was making. In return, she would close her eyes and nod, making an 'OK' sign with her hand. Eventually Cass would slide little sheets of paper to her with little dinos drawn on them. Not after long, she'd been asked out for drinks. It only happened a few times: twice by Cass and Rob who were about as casual as you could get, and once by Cass and Mitchell, who after she politely declined the most recent time had stopped asking. The only other time it happened, it was a coworker named Johnny who approached her. It was around 8pm. He walked up to her quietly, saying hi with a hand in his back pocket. She felt her body tense in his presence. The sun was below the mountains at this point, and they were clearing madrones from the tabletops inside the greenhouse. A few customers were still roaming around under the white tents that were now grey. He brought up how a customer had spotted a praying mantis earlier. "It was resting on her shoulder, staring at her with its big eyes, and in a panic she swiped it away. She didn't mean to kill it, but it was dead before it hit the ground." He said he'd been thinking about it all day. She flicked on an LED light and turned to him, the orange glow lighting up his beard. He stared out into the distance for a second, opened his mouth but said nothing. Finally, he sighed. "You think it would have lived if she'd just taken a second? Even if she brushed it off anyway?" His silence hung in the air. She joined him staring out at the sky, at the black mountains that glowed with the sun behind them. He started to shift like she could hear his mind racing to pick up the mood. She knew he meant well by coming to her. Still, she declined when he asked her for a drink. Her body was still tense when he walked away. In the shifts after that, he'd continuously been friendly to her, and sometimes she thought about the way his beard had looked that night, like it was set ablaze. \*\*\* There was a reason she'd grown cautious with what she told people, especially coworkers. Before the attack, she made a promise to herself to stop telling meaningless lies, withholding things even if they were small. She had opened\-up about her history to some, and some kept it private while others didn't. "I'm not sure if it's mine to tell..." is a phrase she would often hear from her coworkers. Soon she would hear it from herself. It wasn't like she had anything obscene to hide\-\- she hadn't killed anyone. She just wanted to break out of that reflex, and the movie theatre felt as good a place as any to try. This led to a kind of conversation she grew to crave from others: conversations she would have avoided altogether were now the only ones she ever seemed to have. She talked about her mother and father, how they both slept around yet stayed together. She heard stories from her coworkers about their parents, about how one of their fathers would flail wildly for the remote during sex scenes when they were kids, yet had the loudest sex they'd ever heard. In a small circle, another coworker explained to the group that they had never kissed anyone\-\- never even felt the urge to. They were four years older than she was. On a night that reminded her now of the one with Johnny, she remembered how she stood outside of the theatre doors, waiting for her break to end. A couple were watching a show in a hotel room across the street, and a few floors above them three children stuck their heads through the balcony guard rail, pointing at the people below. Another worker approached her, someone she'd talked to a few times. He mentioned there was a concert after the shift that he and a few friends were going to. He said it like he didn't really care if she'd say yes or no. They slept together during her last chunk of time there. When they first spoke about it, she was relieved when he said he felt the same: he didn't want a relationship, just something casual. Soon she figured this wasn't the case. She didn't feel clear about it either, but something in her gut nudged her away from his embraces. Text messages that ended succinctly would be needlessly stretched on by him, and he would reply so enthusiastically about things that really didn't mean anything at all. It felt selfish when she admitted it to herself, but she knew she wanted to feel comfortable enough in her own body to have casual sex, to sleep with someone she didn't love. It didn't need to be with him. She needed to communicate clearly and transparently with him though, and this would be the way she'd avoid hurting him. During one of their late\-night discussions, she told him what she meant. "I want it to be something I can go out and do all these things with and come back still feeling good. Casual, you know. Not life or death like it's been." She hoped it would click for him then, that he would remember how she'd always put her shirt on right after they'd finished, or how she'd break away from him to turn a lamp off before they went any further. He stared thoughtfully at the wedge between the floor and the wall. "I just think my insecurities are what's holding me back from experiencing more things," she continued. "I would probably have more good sex with more people if I wasn't so hung up about it. I don’t want that to be the reason I say no." She made sure to tell him when their clothes were on and they weren't in the bedroom. He nodded, but she could tell he was hurt. He later told her that what she said had made him sick. \*\*\* They had been unloading several new ferns from a truck when Monica suggested this would be the last thing they did that day, cutting the day short by an hour and a half. They swapped uncertain glances at each other, but she quickly insisted she'd pay for the extra time. Everyone eased up then, thanking her. She lowered herself down, hoisting up another fern. As they filtered out into the central room of the greenhouse, she spotted Cass and Mitchell pulling out their phones to see what to do next with the rest of their day. She stared at the sun for half a second then felt herself walking towards them. They hadn't even noticed her when she saw something racing out from the corner of her eye. She spun. Her knees buckled, and her arms surged in front of her face. Her legs slid out from underneath, cutting a line out of the dirt. Dust kicked in the air. She was breathing in short, shrill gasps when they came for her. Rob was standing only a few feet away, looking stunned. "Why did you run up to her so fast?" Cass shouted, pushing him. "Give her some space." She heard him say sorry many, many times, swallowing then going silent, muttering 'fuck' under his breath. He was crouching, his arms over his head like a diamond. She felt Cass' palms press against her back, keeping her upright. Her own hand pressed over her heart, and she didn't know it then, but she had said something--what it was no one was sure, but they all agreed on it sometime much later. When it all settled down and she could breathe again, she saw Cass wiping her eyes. She hadn't even noticed Monica behind her, breathing slowly, having rushed in to grab a bottle of water from her mini\-fridge in the office. She handed it to her, repeating "You're okay. Breathe. You're alright." They discussed it with each other, but after she had continuously nodded her head no, they decided not to call an ambulance. They did speak with her mother, who lived across the country. She ended up writing on the back of paper lunch bag some things. As she and her coworkers sat in the hot office with nothing but the windchimes and light hum of traffic to fill the air, Monica had taken it to closing the grange herself. It wasn't until then, in that moment in the office, that she understood something. She knew they were aware of what had happened. But it hadn't occurred to her how they felt about it, how it sat in the back of their minds just like it did in hers. "Are you sure you're okay?" This time it was Mitchell asking. She looked at him and nodded, giving a thumbs up. Cass was sitting by her side and gave her hand a squeeze. Rob was still frazzled, leaning on the counter in the same way Monica had when she first got the job. He breathed out, distressed. "I'm sorry," he said tiredly. She brought her hand up, waving it to the side, then signed *I'm the one embarrassed.* It was simple enough by the way she moved her lips. She thought they understood. There was a huge part of her that wished it hadn't happened. If she'd spotted Mitchell running sooner, she might have simply stood still as he glided past. But it did lead to them asking yet again for her to join them as they figured out what to do with the rest of their day, and this time, she nodded yes. \*\*\* She saw the white gleam of a blade for months afterwards. If she could feel a sound, it was the sound of steel, the light flaying noise as it cut into something soft. When she closed her eyes, she saw it moving through the darkness without a hand to guide it. Every night her dreams replayed the attack with all kinds of subtle changes. Sometimes the crowds were sparser or gone completely. Sometimes they didn't react the way they had. Other times it was night instead of day, or she was in her hometown--not in the city. It was never exactly as it happened. She was moving through the sidewalk on a Saturday, looking at her phone as it mapped out a route to her friend Nina. It had been a week since she'd left the theatre. She had a backpack, nothing extensive, and a water bottle she was periodically taking sips from. It was her first spring break on the East Coast, a change her and Nina felt similarly about since they moved from the other side of the country together. They were two hours away by bus, but it felt good to be close enough where these little trips could happen. She was scanning to check her surroundings every so often, stopping when the crowds did and shifting her eyes up when a car honked. She heard a scream which caused her to jerk suddenly. A man in a heavy sweater was stalking towards her. His eyes were wild, red. She saw the knife in his hand too late to react, and remembered freezing slightly, almost falling to the right towards the cars. "Beautiful bitch" was what he said. The next parts people had to explain to her. She had her own version, though: one taken from a nightmare she would have in the hospital. She was grazing the rivet in her neck, slowly moving her hands up and down it. She thought of how it might look white like the belly of a fish if shined in the right light. She felt the cut was dry, like it had happened a long time ago and never healed. The crowd was motionless. The man stood across from her holding the blade. She stared into this man's eyes as if he were reflecting. Reconsidering. She shook her head, as if saying no: you don't have to hurt me. And some nights\-\-good nights\-\-she would hear the tatter of the blade as it hit the sidewalk, and the soft steps of the man as her turned his back to her, joining the crowd as it once again started to move. \*\*\* She didn't remember the last word she said. She supposed it didn't really matter now. She watched from the trunk as Mitch and Cass passed a cigarette between the two. The way the wind caught their smoke and whirled it into the air gave her a chill. Rob was leaning beside her, scratching a blot of dried mud off the Dodge. She wanted to fold her legs on top of the trunk and rest her hands against the rear window glass. Somehow he could tell. "You can sit on the back, I don't mind." She gave it a thwack, jumping on. After settling herself, she looked down at him. He was looking past her, gazing at the town that rested at the bottom of the hills. From where they were, it looked like a small river of lights. When she ticked at the car a few times, his eyes met with hers. "It's an old car. But yeah, car's a car, right? What do you think?" She signed to him, but he didn't follow. She pulled out her phone and jotted some things there instead, then passed it to him. He smiled. "Huh. No, don't have a name for it. What do you think it looks like? A Fred?" She shook her head. He folded his fingers and pressed them to his mouth. Mitch and Cass were still working on their cigarette, talking now about an artist. Rob pressed his face together. "He's more like an old man, isn't he? Like a Maurice. A grandpa type." She shook her head rapidly this time, furrowing her brow with a smile. "What, you don't have a grandpa named Maurice?" For the next hour or so, they traded the phone back and forth brainstorming what to call the Dodge. They started running down a list of other topics, things they had never talked about. Mitch and Cass were out of a cigarette by then and joined them by the trunk. They were passing the phone back and forth until she looked at the battery and reluctantly tucked it in her pocket. Cass had reached for her phone then, but suddenly moved off the trunk and took a few steps forward. There was something about them walking through those hills, the way they stopped at some houses and guessed how much they were worth, or speculated what kind of person lived where, that made the daylight burn away. The fields were growing red by the time they came back to the car. When Rob jumped in the driver's seat and revved the ignition, everyone went quiet as they heard the engine putter, then die. "Fuck me," Rob said, pushing his head towards the wheel. When he rolled the headlights switch off, everyone burst out laughing. One of the homes ended up coming to the rescue. As the man attached the jumper cables to the battery, they realized their predictions were mostly correct, save for Cass' insistence that one of the homeowners was a sculptural artist. He said he collected art and had a small gallery in his home, but never really thought much about doing it himself. This got Cass to talking with him, and this is how she found out Cass was going to school for sculpture. As Rob revved the car back to life, he let out a gasp of relief. They thanked the man and drove off into the hills, racing the sun as it fell back down below the mountains. When she found out later Rob had called the car Putter, she smiled. It was a good name. In her apartment that night, she sat by the wall of her bedside and wrote out the whole story to Nina. She included everything: the scare at the grange, the Dodge, and the man who brought it back to life. She even went back and mentioned the time Johnny approached her about the Mantis. She didn't remember exactly when she fell asleep, but she did remember the feeling when she woke up: an implacable sensation of images surrounded by dark movements and sound. She liked to think there may have been something there, something from the other night gliding in and out of the darkness. A car driving through a black scene, or a cigarette burning until its ashes caught in the wind like dust. She was looking forward to seeing where that would take things, and so she got in the habit of writing it down--to tell them how it happened, so the next time they could speculate together what it meant.

In the auditorium, a spotlight focuses on the beautifully furnished wooden lectern. The old mahogany fixture casts a long shadow that reaches far upstage, disrupting the flat expanse. Dust particles dance in the golden beam, some settling on the modest ridges of the podium, others disappearing in its silhouette. They are shaken repeatedly by the clicking vibration of high heel shoes. The shadow of the valedictorian’s square hat is lined with crisp edges, which permeate the bubble of light, as her dark outline merges with that of the lectern. The structure seems too strong to be made of wood, too welcoming to be made of stone and too freeing to be made of metal; but despite the lack of appropriate material, its tall shape conveys its purpose: to enhance and to create order. The very moment her hand touches it, time starts, and her heart rate quickens. “Every time I find myself at the podium, I forget how I got there. The podium is like a different universe in which materialistic things do not matter; only real human interaction. Unlike any concrete gift, my words speak for themselves; they have a rarely mentioned intrinsic value. Here I am, this evening, in front of you all, and I would like you to receive my words, for what I am about to tell you means a great deal.” She is not supposed to have uttered those sentences. When they found and destroyed the notebook containing them, she was physically reprimanded. Nonetheless, she cannot seem to find it in herself to care; the punishment is over. All she can do is enjoy the dramatic effect she produced. Through the blinding light, she feels the void before her expanding hundredfold with every passing interval, as five hundred minds parse her resonant words. The bright circle of the spotlight is a portal for a thousand keen eyes; the microphone, for a thousand listening ears. Looking at her paper, then at her family in the front row, she realizes she cannot be silent. “I am so fortunate to humbly represent my peers, to have grown up with equal opportunity and to speak on behalf of the group. This place is more than overseas financial safe haven. We are a community that proudly maintains both secrecy from the outside and absolute equality among its people. We feed on the wickedness of the world’s capitalism, and turn it into perfect equality. Those who can find us can join us. I am here to ask your forgiveness, because I have selfishly deviated from this ideal by overachieving, and thus overshadowing the greatness demonstrated by my classmates.” Whereas her first four sentences resonated, the flavour of these prescribed words has been lost after months of repetitive practice. A charming graduation speech is nullified by semantic satiation, in which phrases too often repeated decay into their constituent sounds. Perhaps, in going through the motions time and time again, the statements were subconsciously accepted as monotonous truth. Maybe, as the sound waves are processed by her mind, the brain juxtaposes each word with its antithesis until all that remains is silent void. Put simply, it is meaningless. In much the same way as the perfection of her words causes her not to hear them, the precise symmetry of her face cancels out her features. Large brown eyes tell of neither innocence, nor guilt. Tassels, from a strange hat resting on blonde hair, brush against her cheek, which has been blushed with makeup. The corners of her mouth are drawn towards circular earrings of brilliant gold in an artificial smile. However, beneath her articulate and eloquent demeanor, no one suspects that she is urgently stalling; that her life depends on the continuity of this speech. “With many losing their lives, the elders fought the costly battle for total societal isolation, giving us not only wealth and luxury, but also fellowship. Of course, while our cars are of the highest caliber, our houses made of marble, our people well fed and composed and our crime rate lower than that of anywhere else in the continent, the elders made sacrifices for a different reason. They fought an inadequate system for this lectern, or, rather, for the human right to speak the truth about the Gods; the Gods that gave us this good fortune; the Gods that protect us.” A sharp buzz in her right ear makes her wince. With the characteristic scratchiness of the crude system, her hidden earpiece orders her: “Valedictorian, we need three more minutes. Just keep speaking for three more minutes. That’s all we need.” She continues, “May I offer my sincere congratulations to this year’s graduating class, who has no doubt done them proud. I would like to commend those of you who were recruited into this community. Abandoning corrupt principles instilled in you by society takes courage and conviction. It is my wish that you are viewed and treated as full-fledged members from now onward.” People stand and cheer enthusiastically. Mothers burst into tears. The elders are beside themselves. “And for those of you who grew up here your entire lives, your unwavering commitment is invaluable. Thank you for your contribution throughout your childhood and teenage years. I know the merciful Gods will remember and cherish these moments.” Again, she hears the cultish applause. It causes the microphone to reverberate in repeating loops of feedback. The feedback becomes increasingly louder in a storm of cyclical noise; twisting; turning; morphing; growing. It is the feedback of five hundred cries, of people held captive their entire lives, of generations of falsehood. Her earpiece, too, is screaming. For a moment, she is consumed by the exponential increase in volume and pitch. It brings her back to the night she arrived here at eight years old. In a spacious room with a high ceiling, walls whiter than ivory and three beds, her family rested under feathered comforters and silken sheets with a thread count suitable for royalty. Despite the jetlag, they all slept soundly for the first time in what seemed ages; the dysfunction of months of family deliberation was washed away. Warm air drifted through the open window, gently swaying the blanched curtains. It brought with it the scent of smoke from a distant campfire, the soft sound of joyful song and the faint rustling of both pine and deciduous trees. The next morning, the summer sun reoriented her sleep pattern, as well as her sense of direction. In the following weeks, she befriended people from more countries than she could name, learned more than in all her years at a parsimonious elementary school and attended daily church services. The ambiance here was one of novelty, acceptance and indiscriminate luxury. The Velazquez family felt welcome here. During the months when the sun smiled down on the community, her skin became dark and her hair white. Later, when days shortened and snow fell, her pale body shivered by the fire and donned layers of clothing; she would do anything short of dying to avoid the foreign cold. The cycle of seasons repeated time and time again, until she had lost track, until she was living a life that was not her own. She never thought back to the summers, only the frigid winters. It was on the coldest day of the year that she was selected to represent her graduating class to the Gods. She woke the next morning to find her mailbox overflowing with letters of thanks and long since frozen gift baskets strewn across her doorstep. In her silent confusion, she opened packages, scanned through letters and placed bouquets in water, much to the delight of her family. However, there was one basket that appeared empty, save for some straw. Hours after setting it aside, she heard a small beep emanating from it. In a measly white gown, she snuck it outside, digging in the straw to unveil a satellite phone and a simple earpiece. The phone rang. The sound in her head grows louder and louder until she is brought back to the auditorium. After an infinite moment of echo, it finally stops, and she realizes she must answer her calling. “The reason I have the great honour of being valedictorian tonight is because my sacrifice will render me worthy. Every year, as is customary upon graduation, one student is chosen to be sacrificed to the Gods. When this speech is over, Elder Smith will put a gun to my head to commemorate and pay tribute to the sacrifices made by him and his generation here, and to show that excellence is collective, not individual. It is my honour to enter the afterlife before my peers, and to represent them and this community before the Gods. Now, let us bow our heads in prayer.” As she shuts her eyes, she is left with the image of Elder Smith bowing his head obediently. However, instead of praying, she begins to shiver feverishly, despite the warmth under the many layers of her costume. As her teeth chatter and her arms move toward her chest, she becomes obsessed with the idea of retaining--retaining body heat, sanity and belonging. It has to have been three minutes! Finally, her earpiece screams, “Commence in three... two...”, she ducks down and clings uselessly to the podium. “One.” Heavily armed government soldiers infiltrate the long hall from every entrance. Most of the crowd cries out or drops to their knees. Elder Smith pulls out the gun. “Disarm yourself, or we open fire!,” commands a young military voice. The elder exclaims, “Never! You’re disturbing a religious ceremony.” “Shut the hell up! You’re in violation of our laws! We have a warrant to take everyone in this room prisoner, except for the valedictorian.” There is one last moment of silence, in which one could hear a pin drop. Elder Smith quivers with the gun. “In that case....” He does not finish his sentence. Before she knows what is happening, bullets from his handgun fly through the fourth wall, piercing the useless furniture. Suddenly, in her left ear, she is bombarded with the overwhelming roar of machine guns. In her right, the earpiece rings louder than ever. As the spray of bullets shreds the crowd, she shrinks lower and lower into nothingness with the knowledge that all her loved ones are being massacred, so that she can survive. Part of her dies today, with the absolute conviction, founded on nothing, that she will overcome. Perhaps everyone maintains the illogical, subconscious belief that he or she will survive. It is the persistent feeling of persistence--the nagging emotion of hope. Pervading our instincts, the hope for longevity is an irrefutable prediction; no one can ever be wrong in making it because everyone who is wrong is dead. This stands true regardless of the existence, or lack thereof, of the afterlife. In thirty seconds, everyone in this godforsaken room who somehow believes they will be spared will be proven right. Emilia Velazquez will be proven right.

“The complete dismemberment of punctual holiness is utterly preposterous.” “Agreed. We ought to do something about this monumental injustice.” “Look here. This poor soul has denied the art of proofreading and has ended up concluding his statement with your trademark. A real pity it is.” “Well, I cannot partake in the observation of this crime any longer. If you won’t do anything, I will.” “But...we’re just a couple of forgotten ink splotches on a page most likely in the realm of ancient history my dear friend.” “Well, at least one of us still has hope.” “I have always managed to retain my hope on this matter but I’m telling you, we are just too powerless.” “Side by side we have fought through this time of desperation and now...now I sense the defeat in you. So do not lie to me.” “Well, sorry for being a realist. We don’t even have hands! I apologize for being so blunt, but I’m afraid this is the end. There’s nothing you or I can do.” “You’ve been brainwashed. You’re completely wrong. There’s nothing I can’t do!” “Oh, did you forget about the hands situation?” “I heard you the first time, and I assure you, I do not need them. Just watch me.

Auriel plummeted through the layers of ether. Dark colors spiraled behind her. It was the only evidence of her having passed through the thin atmosphere. This atmosphere was not made of air, however. It was of a spiritual substance. The ether was also her home. Looking to her south she noticed Michael struggling to catch his fall. His wings he depended on to keep him aloft in the ether had disappeared, much like hers. Streamers of red and green billowed out behind him. To the east she noticed Raphael blazing a purple and gold trail through the ether. The sword he was wont to carry had been left behind at their headquarters on a table made of silken wings. Angel wings were not made of bird feathers as the ridiculous humans thought, but of the astral substance that was left behind in the ether from the death of a silkworm. Gabriel, to her west, had used her voluminous blue and orange robes to stall her descent much like a parachute. She was falling slower than Auriel, Michael, and Raphael. Distance was appearing between them. Each angel's equipment had been left behind at headquarters as they had been cleaning their chattel at the time heavens floors had opened and they had begun a hasty descent towards Earth. Under normal circumstances when a Qabalistic magician asked for their presence, a ritual would take place and the angels would have plenty of time to adorn themselves. Auriel would carry an inscribed pantacle decorated in the colors of a lush, verdant, fertile forest. Raphael, as mentioned, would carry a shining sword which lightning flashed out of. Michael used a sturdy lance, sometimes as a weapon, sometimes as a pointing instrument. Gabriel held a beautiful, humble, potter's cup within which the glowing light spilled out, representing the Holy Spirit. This time there was no warning. One of the many Qabalistic magicians who knew their names and calls had summoned them without ritual. It was one of the many they knew and had formed close attachments with. It was the only possible explanation for the magician's ability to summon them with such ease and rapidity. Darkness leaped from beneath the descending angels. It was a forced deceleration. It was heavy, sticky, membranous. As Auriel sank further into the goo, she lost sight of her fellow angels. A panicked thought floated from her mind. As a rule, angels don't panic. The emotion of panic was strange, unfamiliar to her. A thought of agreement greeted her from Michael's particular mental voice. Good, thought Auriel. At least they could still communicate through this gloom. A resounding thud from above informed Auriel, Raphael, and Michael that Gabriel had finally joined them in the mess. It felt like an eternity to God's favorite four archangels as they struggled against the goop. Wingless, weaponless, and out of their natural substance of heavenly ether, it was of no use. The more they struggled, the denser their environment became. Soon they were released they were not exactly alone. A thought next to Auriel shocked her into stopping her struggles. A tiny mind-voice began to ask questions, not through the words a human would use but through vibrations. It had been a long time since Auriel had communicated with a human thus. Of human origin, it was. It came through in the energy. But of what age, impossible to tell. Then Auriel realized why the human was communicating as it was. It was a baby. In fact, it was a fetus. An unborn baby. The other 3 Angels had also found themselves partnered with questioning little minds communicating in frequency only. In synchronicity, the mental shout went up from the four that they realized they were in a womb occupied by quadruplets. That was when they understood the danger. The angels had descended from eternity into the flesh. There was no way back. At least, not the way they came. A squeezing shudder, a clamping sensation gripped the tiny bodies. The fetus's cried in agony as one. A frightening thought came from the mother. It was one of the angel's most loyal magicians whom they served. A prayer came from her. 'Please Auriel, Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, save the souls of my babies'. The humming frequency of the minds of the babies began to diminish. Something was happening to the mother's body that was putting it through trauma bad enough to have made her reach out for the angels and summon them to her womb. Now that the angels were there, they could not leave nor assist her in any way. A tiny light beneath the fetus and angels had cracked open. Auriel said, “She is about to give very premature birth.” “Those souls won't live. They aren't developed enough.” Gabriel pointed out. The buzz of the fetus's mind decreased. One of them had winked out of existence. Michael noticed the soul leaving the body. With a few deft mental moves, he passed the soul onto heaven. Raphael nudged Gabriel, “Take it. Take the body. It's the only way. Remember, she prayed for this pregnancy. We were with her when she cast the spell. Taking the bodies, living a life, and dieing may be our only way home.” The 3 remaining fetuses mourned the loss of their sibling. Another contraction racked the mother's body, and the dead fetus was blocking the light. Gabriel zoomed into the body. It shuddered. Within moments, the lungs, brains, intestines, and heart, everything necessary for the baby to live had been developed to perfection. Gabriel disappeared down the tube. The shock of losing a sibling stopped the heart of another fetus. Gabriel gave a little giggle, “Mikey, do your thing. I'll take this one.” Again, the dead fetus began to live again. Again, it developed within moments enough of its internal organs so that it might live when it was given birth to. That fetus, too, disappeared down the canal. The last 2 fetuses sent a frequency as one to the 2 remaining archangels. “If you would be so kind archangel Michael, we would love to join our siblings in heaven. We had promised each other that we would always stay together when the call came for these fetuses to be inhabited. We had made plans to spend our entire life on Earth together. It was an eternity we waited for a suitable time to be born. Please send us up to our siblings.” Michael acquiesced. Auriel and Michael inhabited the fetus's developing them so that they might live when they exited the womb. Michael went first. Auriel took a last look at the womb, lamenting the fact it may well be 100 years before her or her siblings would assist another magician in their spell-work. Never mind, she thought. She wasn't the only archangel of rank Auriel, specialist work. There were many other Auriels, Michaels, Gabriels, and Raphaels, each with their weapons, and duties. The first thing Auriel noticed after sliding down the birth canal was the weight. Auriel had gone from light to solid. With a half-hearted effort, she lifted her hand to try and touch her face. She had no energy to fight the gravity. She opened her mouth and her lungs expanded, sucking in air. It was sharp, heavy. It hurt. She screamed. Halfway through her scream, she realized that her siblings were screaming too. These were the first breaths they had ever taken in their entire existence. They would be followed by many more. NEVER THE END

I spread out my hands, and the green light poured out of my palms. The villain screamed and floated up into the air suspended by my power. Suddenly, he stops, and tears started coming out of his eyes, “what have I done?” he whispers. That’s my power, to make the lowlifes worldwide feel remorse for what they’ve done. Now, you’re probably wondering how I got this power. Well, it starts on a cold day just two days back before right now. Like I said, it was a cold day, uncommonly chilly for this late in the season. I wouldn’t know though, I had recently moved to Michigan, and from what I’ve heard they’re cold year long. Since we were just arrived I didn’t have to go to school until the next week. Me and my mom went to the store to buy me supplies and new clothes. I discovered my power while my mom was outside reading a magazine and waiting while I browsed through the shelves of pencils, paper, notebooks, and so much other supplies I bet you you could build a house with them all. I think a teenager was trying to shoplift some stuff, but all I saw was a shape barreling toward me accompanied with the music of the store manager yelling. Like any natural human being would do I held up my hands to protect myself. That’s when the light oozed out of my fingers and encased the teenager. Everyone around me starred, I did too. The person in the bubble dropped the supplies, “I don’t need these,” she said. “ why am I stealing them?” Then, as if on its own accord ( I’m sure I did nothing) the bubble turned a darker shade of green and let the teen out. I think now, it does that when a person’s truly realized their mistake. I don’t know if it’s in the water supply, the atmosphere or what, but this was the first time I’ve experienced my power. I’m starting to suspect it was in me all along. I’ve always had a way with words, but my language hasn’t always worked, and light has never poured out of my hands. Well I would be happy to have a normal life and never have my power come up again, but just my luck two days after the shoplifting incident today, in fact, I was strolling down the street when I saw a jewelry store robbery. I chased after him knowing I was possibly the only one that could help right now. Even though he was larger he was slow, weighed down by his bags of jewels and gold. Just when I was behind him he turned around, “stay back!” he growled, and that’s when I held up my hands. Now that we’re all up to speed, let’s go to what happened after. “I don’t need that money,” the robber said, “ take it. Give it back,” and he held out the bag to me. I took it, and walked back to the store, surreptitiously dropping the bag in front of the shop. It was dangerous, sure, but I didn’t want anybody asking questions about how I got it. With my honorable task done, I turned and walked toward home.

“This is going to work. This WILL work.” ... “This...this HAS to work...” “Keith...listen man, you know we can pull out of this if you don’t feel right about it. We’re not locked in. We can scout another job, find another mark, a MUCH EASIER mark, one that’s not a suicide mission...we don’t have to do this one. ” “No. We need this job, Miles. I need this. This is our ticket out. We do this...we pull this off, and putting dinner on the table is never a question again. You’ll never have to worry about those final notices waiting in your mailbox. No more counting each ounce of gas left in your car to make sure you’ll have enough to get to work. Don’t you get it? We do this, and the struggle is GONE. We do this, and everything can go back to normal. We get our lives back again. We do this...” Miles’ emotions boil over. He swipes at the table, knocking everything to the floor. “...we do this, and Sarah takes you back, right? We do this and you get to be a family again!? Michael and Chris will come running to greet you at the door!? And everything goes back to normal? The past three years just gets erased, right? Is that what you really think is going to happen?!? WAKE UP MAN!” Miles’ voice echoes throughout the garage. Silence follows. Miles sits down, his head lowering into his open hands. “Keith, my dude...I get it, man. I know what you’re going through...but this is crazy. We’ve never pulled a job this big before. We’ve never worked with this many people on a job. We don’t know this city. We haven’t had enough time to scout. We’re rushing into this. I don’t like it.” “Miles, you never like-“ “I DON’T LIKE THIS, KEITH!” “WE DON’T HAVE A CHOICE!! That clearance code we got our hands on is now five days old, two days away from being reset. Security is at its tightest on that 7th day, and we won't have another chance to grab any other codes, which leaves tomorrow, and ONLY tomorrow, to pull this off.” “Keith, we’re trying to steal from Falzone. A.K.A. Gideon Falzone, the most dangerous crime boss in the city. A.K.A. the guy the police in this city won’t touch. A.K.A. the guy who’s bathroom we’ll be hung up in while his GOONS TARE US APART PIECE BY PIECE JUST FOR SNEEZING IN HIS DIRECTION.” Miles’ expression shifts from rage and frustration, to one of depression. He knows he can’t stop Keith. He’s known him all his life. Keith isn’t going to stop now. There’s no turning back. “...why him? Why now? Dude, there will be other scores, other jobs that don’t involve stealing from ‘The Lord of the Chicago Streets’...” Keith perks his head up from the ground. “That’s such a dumb nickname.” “Yeah, you tell him that while your insides are pouring onto his shiny marble floor.” Keith smirks for a second, then returns to his stoic look. “He stole from us first.” “So we throw our lives away trying to get back at him?” “WE’RE NOT THROWING ANYTHING AWAY. THIS WILL WORK.” “Keep telling yourself that...” Miles stood from his chair, and slowly made his way to the door. “Miles, where are you going? We still have to figure out the vault gate.” “Keith...” Miles’ voice started to break. “I’m out, man. I’m out.” Keith threw his notebook across the room. He recognized that tone of voice. This wasn’t a bluff. “Miles, don’t do this. Not now.” “I’M OUT, Keith. I don’t want any part of this anymore. This is suicide, plain and simple. And you’re not right, you’re not thinking clearly. You’re blinded by, by rage.” Miles’ voice begins to break. “You’re blinded by your family problems. You’re blinded by...your own damn pride.” “This isn’t about pride or any of that. It’s about making things right. Falzone was supposed to set us up after we did those jobs for him, and all he’s done is play us. We haven’t seen a dime from him. Because of him, I lost my job, I lost my girl, my kids...I lost everything because of him. He won’t get away with that. I’m taking what’s rightfully ours.” “Keith...dammit Keith, you’re the best thief I know, alright? You’re a goddamn savant when it comes to this stuff, but when you get in your own head, you can’t focus, and that always gets us in trouble. You’re biting off more than you can handle this time. This isn't a couple of months in lockdown like how Virginia played out. This is our lives at risk. And it’s not just your neck on the line here.” Miles points at the door to the left, where the rest of the crew waits. “It’s MY neck. It’s Randy’s neck, Mitch’s neck, Carol, Lindsay, Tim...those are KIDS in that other room, Keith. They don’t even know what they’re signing up for. Most of them aren’t even from here. And you’re willing to put all their lives on the line, for what? To dig yourself out of a hole that YOU PUT YOURSELF IN?” Keith’s expression went cold. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Miles?” “Man, you didn’t need to get involved with Falzone in the first place. You knew the risk. I warned you. The Old Timers warned you. But you went on ahead with it. All this bullshit you’re dealing with? It’s all on YOU. And I’m not dying for that, Keith. Not me.” “Miles...we can’t do this without you.” “Good. Then the plan is off.” Keith dropped his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He walked over to the notebook, returned it to the table, and began flipping through pages. “Keith.” No response. “KEITH.” “KEITH!!” “FOR FUCK’S SAKE, MILES, IF YOU’RE OUT, THEN GET THE FUCK OUT!” Miles began to respond, but the words froze in his throat. He’d never seen Keith this far gone. He was genuinely afraid. “Please, Keith. Please...don’t let this be the last time I see you alive.” Miles turned around and went for the door. He swung it open, only to find the rest of the crew waiting right behind it. It was clear they heard every word. Miles paused, giving each person a long look. He feared for them. This would most likely be the last time seeing any of them as well. “Guys...good luck.” Miles pushed his way past the crew, down the hallway, and out of sight. Keith, only noticing the rest of them now, collected himself as best he could. “Come in, guys. We’ve got some new plans to go over, and only a few hours before showtime. Let’s get this done.

"And we are back. We have reached the part of the Podcast that is dedicated to extraordinary People and their lives. “Extraordinary People, extraordinary Lives” as we so creatively have named it or EPEL for short as my Producer Michael likes to call it. My guest today is the extraordinary Person Sasha Gwynn. How are you Sasha?” “I am good, Nate. Thank you.” “Good to hear. We are glad to have you on today. So for our listeners, why dont you tell us about what it is that makes you extraordinary.” “Well hmmm... I don ́t know. I mean you have asked me to be on this show so you probably know better what makes me so extraordinary.” “Haha, our guests are always so modest. We read your story online and were fascinated by you. But let me put it this way, what would other people find extraordinary about `you. After all there is a whole article about you in the New Yorker.” “What other people find extr... Well I have been called an extraordinary asshole a couple of times. But I am also quite good in the kitchen, I make a mean lasagne. So I guess I have a couple of things going for me.” “Ahem... We do have a certain audience and I don ́t think they appreciate that kind of language. So please hold the swear words. But to get back on track and the whole theme of this segment. The article I am referring to has the title ́ ́"`Homo Immortales. Untouched by Time" and tells the story of your Immortality.” “Ah, yes. That piece. First of all that title sounds like I am a gay magician, and untouched by time? The molestation jokes are practically writing themselves.” “Jesus Christ. Please.” “I already changed my name from Sorcha because no one could pronounce it, and I most certainly do not want to be associated with that stupid name.” “Yes, well... anyway. Maybe we just start off slow. Can you tell us your birthday, just so our listeners get a sense of what we are talking about?” “I was born on the 7 th of August 1901.” “Amazing. That would make you 119 years old now. And you do not look a day over 16.” “I have never heard that before, thank you for saying that.” “I am sorry. You just mentioned that you changed your name from Sorcha to Sasha, is that Irish? Could you maybe tell us more about your background, where your family is from. You know maybe give us a little origin story.” “Yes that is Irish. Origin Story, that sounds so stupid. My family comes from a small town near Cork. The story goes that back in the 1860s or so my Granddad got into a fight with another guy, that guy stabbed him and threw him in the water at Cork Harbour. He should have been dead but a couple of days later some Sailors pulled him out off the water and he was still alive. That is literally it. The most boring origin story there is. Nothing you could write a novel about.” “Maybe not a novel, but perhaps a short story. Haha. But wow. All that took place in the 1860s? That is over 150 years ago. From what I know that was your fathers father right? He was the first one in your family to be immortal?” “I don ́t know. He disappeared shortly after my dad was born. He kind of just stood up and left and no one has heard from him ever since.” “So you are the third generation so to speak. Your grandfather passed it on to your father and he to you. Is it safe to assume that you will pass it on as well?” “I eliminated that option a while ago so I guess we will never find out. The way I see it, me having a child could only lead into two different directions. I either pass this whole immortality shit on and trap another person in this never-ending life and probably earn eternal resentment for doing so. Greetings to my dad at that point. Or, I do not pass it on and have to watch my kid grow up, get older and eventually outlive my own child. I honestly think that is why my granddad left. Either that or he was just an asshole.” “That is... a lot to process. And on that note we will go in another commercial break, stay tuned.” ... “We are still here with Sasha Gwynn, our extraordinary person of the week. So far we have talked about her beginnings but now I would like to ask the questions that everyone is probably dying to ask. Is being immortal a superpower?” “If it is it is one of the lames ones there is. Always knowing the exact time would be more useful than this. That would actually be awesome. No but immortality is bullsh..bullcrap. I cannot die and that is all there is. There is nothing super about it.” “There have to be upsides to it. I have read that you were in a pretty gruesome car crash when you were 16, were you not glad for your inability to die in that moment? 16 is an age, I think I we can all agree on, that is just too young to die.” “I probably would have been if I did not intentionally wrap that car around that tree. But hey, at least that is how I found out that I can not die.” “You did not know that you were immortal?” “Nopes, my dad did not tell me until he picked me up from the hospital a few days after my ́accident ́.” “That must have been quite a shock I imagine. I cannot even remotely grasp how it must feel. That brings me to one of my other questions. You drove that car. You had a license and you had a 16 year olds body. Just as you have right now. Is that correct?” “Yes. Apparently we stop aging after our first death. Which I mean in some sense 16 is a good age. It is a struggle when it comes to alcohol, drugs or sex but over the years I have learned to manage that. Just imagine having my first death at the age of 80 and then being trapped in that body forever. That would fucking suck. My dad used to joke and say ́thank god you were a depressed teenager ́.” “I have so many more questions but we are running out of time.” “Unlike me.” “Ha. Yes you could say that. The last thing I want to talk to you about. Why come forward now? Why let the world know now? Why not before or later or never?” “Quite frankly. I was bored and sick of hiding. I already told you I think this is not a superpower, I just do not die. It is something people will find interesting for about 2 minutes and then forget about it again. Unless medicine and science find anything of value in or on my body there is nothing to gain from it. And I have been tested and probably will be for a very long time. So far there is nothing any doctor could tell me about as to why or how this is working. It is how it is. And why not get my 5 minutes of fame for being special. It is not like I have anything else to do.” “I think it is fair to say I find you and your story absolutely fascinating and I can not wait to learn more. Thank you so much and hopefully we see each other again.”

"He needs the new set of photos by midnight." It's not my problem. How did it get this way? He used to shoot photos for high school graduations and weddings. The porn business just paid really well. Too well. Too well to quit his job. He walked up the narrow staircase muttering to himself all the while, trying to compensate for his nerves he began humming a little tune. He was supposed to meet this woman at 2pm at her studio apartment to take some pictures, and she didn't come to the door. Someone let him in, and now he was walking up the stairs feeling like a criminal about to be caught for missing a deadline. A porn magazine deadline... There was a brief but very noise of breaking glass and then absolute silence. What the hell was that?! Room 202 That was the apartment he was supposed to be in. Jeremy edged closer when he was knocked on side of the head by the door and dropped the camera as the door swung wide open, he fell back wheezing, clutching his chest having a panic attack. Someone ran out the door entrance and down the stair. “They’re watching” "Its broken." “Be Ready” Jeremy looked down at his shoes. The photo shoot was a failure "It can never be fixed." I'll never be able to prove it. Ghost would not be pleased. Ghost was his manager. Ghost ran a porn magazine business that scored the income and he was past his deadline, and he was underperforming and now, he had a broken camera. Jeremy collected himself and peered inside the entrance. Bad idea said his brain, good idea said his legs. He was already inside seeing if there was anyone in there. There was no sign of life. Everything was a mess, and the place had been turned inside out. He was relieved to discover the source of the noise was the chaos of this destruction, and not someone being murdered or hurt and hopefully his model/now potential robbery victim was ok. He thought to call her or text, but the next idea came to him. “I’m in her apartment. I’m a potential suspect.” His legs began to take life of their own when he saw it. One just like he had in his youth. A film camera in the corner of the room. He decided that’s all he would take - justice for the thief who broke his--and he would hide it come down to any pending investigation, after all he witnessed the real thief and he wasn’t the one who ransacked the place. He took the camera, barely touching the thing as to preserve its identity until it was safely stowed away and hidden. When he got home, he realized the camera also contained an old used roll of film still intact. He could take the film roll without the camera to be developed without drawing any suspicion. The next day was Tuesday, Ghost was emailing, texting about the importance of regular photo-shoots and how he had missed quota for the month. On Thursday there was a call that his film roll had been developed and the pictures were ready to be picked up. He was too busy that day with three photo shoots and on Friday he went to the store to retrieve his pictures. Well, they weren’t really his. And that was the problem. They were glamorous. Haunting. Surreal. They were pornography meets romance, desire and beauty. A woman with shadowy eyes holding flowers in a seductive way during a light rain, with the background of the rainforest. A hippie tanning on a nude beach, three friends naked in a sunflower field dancing, A threesome in a tree house with blacklights painting each other’s bodies in neon glow in the dark finger paint. A woman in a bathtub where you see only the bottom half of her and not the top. A man and a woman in a hot spring who both of long hair and look gothic. A gothic chic with tons of piercings on a motorcycle in the desert smiling. A lady with deep maroon lipstick, eagle spread on a white feather bed, dangling a cherry over her breasts, kissing a diamond, fully nude mounting another woman loosely dressed in satin, draping a scarf across the room words could not describe or do these images justice for the beauty of these women, their curves and bodies. Four thick curvy women and one heavier man pillow fighting in a hotel room. Pornography as it should be fun seductive happy flirtatious. A woman sipping a martini on a beach somewhere in only her sandals wearing a pearl necklace. Another image shows a man fully nude, with a woman. The content was explicit yet exotic. Jeremy did exactly what he thought he could and wanted to do, he sent them off to Ghost. Ghost liked the content and approved and published them in a magazine. There was instant praise, and then Jeremy found himself getting a knock on the door by the FBI. He was now the centerpiece of a sex-trafficking porn smuggling criminal investigation. Since Ghost was Ghost, of course Jeremy’s name was on the copyright, also giving him sudden full right to the royalties of the magazine he bought and hiring a lawyer before it would be seized by the FBI. As for porn smuggling, “it’s the internet” so a few images got sold on the dark web, that’s not porn smuggling, that’s inability for someone to protect data. And immigration laws should be changed so that women don’t have to resort to porn to make a living, or to live a better life in another country. Since money talks and Jeremy’s fingerprints were only on the camera, unlinking him to the model- --Jeremy’s defense worked--and since his accusers used the photos copyright ownership in order to pin the crime on Jeremy, he was able have the camera and retain the magazine royalties since no one else claimed them. Jeremy won the case and is now a millionaire. Ghost lived happily ever after too as ghost, where he may be.... probably living it up in Tijuana. The End

I run over to my bathroom sink and make it just in time to aim the drops of blood from my nose into it. I feel electric, like every atom of my body is lit up and every hair is raised on high alert. I'm not surprised I have a bloody nose. I am more concerned with not getting blood on any of the carpets. I did push him; I really should have shut my mouth. I know him well enough now that my intuition gives me a massive nudge when to stop, but sometimes I can't. Why should I get up to a car with no fuel in it? With a toddler in tow. God forbid, I demanded he gets up and put some fuel in from his boat with the jerry can. I needed to get to the library for Baby Bounce and nothing was going to stop me from socializing Chrissy with other kids. But it seems that now it has. I'm not surprised by the punch to the nose as this is not new, but I felt confident I could persuade him today. I have the bathroom door shut and I can hear him shouting and swearing. "Well, what do you expect? Huh? You know I hate being woken up suddenly like that!" Oh geez, I would have no idea about that, would I? Crying in the shower due to lack of sleep, getting up 3-4 times a night for Chrissy. Oh Your Highness, how dare I wake you up! "I'm sorry, it's just that I wanted to go to Baby Bounce at the library," I say. I manage to keep my voice subtle, and mild. "Why the hell is it on so early?" He is slightly out of breath, from the adrenaline rush no doubt. Sometimes he says the most moronic things. It's not early. It's 9:30 am. It's the time that the majority of decent, contributing members of society are up, some of which have punched in a few hours of work already. "I'm not sure but Chrissy loves it." I stare at the bathroom mirror. My eyes are watering. It's not from tears but from the force of the impact. My nose is still bleeding, but I know once I clean it up, it will look fine. I don't like looking at myself for too long. He sighs, "Give me a minute to bloody wake up. I'll make a coffee then put some fuel in the car." I like the fact that I can't see his face right now and that he can't see me because I am mouthing all kinds of obscenities in the mirror. "Thanks so much, babe," I say. There is silence. There is always a stream of silence after his rages. He hasn't walked off to make his coffee. He is still on the other side of the door hesitating. "Are you ok?" he asks. This time his voice is softer, almost tender. "Yeah, I'm fine." I don't look up at myself this time. My mind is calming now, and I focus on getting some toilet paper to clean my nose up and then clean the sink and benchtop. It's a nice bathroom as far as cheap rentals go. The linoleum floor beneath my feet is cream-colored, lifting at the edges slightly and there is a tiny bit of water damage at the edges, but the ceramic sink and benchtop are not even chipped. An inspection is due in 1 month. I don't need them picking out anything. I wipe my nose, avoiding bumping my nose too much as it is stinging. I flush them down the toilet and reel some more toilet paper out to wipe the inside of the sink. I pump a little hand wash onto the ceramic sink to soap it up and make sure no blood remains. I hear Wade walk off to make that holy coffee and I give myself one final look in the mirror and am quite satisfied. No blood on my shirt or jeggings and no bruising as usual. I don't bruise easily. This I know for a certainty. I open the door and head straight for Chrissy in the playpen set up in our lounge room. No matter how volatile things get with Wade, there is also one other certain thing; he has never hurt Chrissy, not physically anyway. She is only 11 months old so physical safety is the main thing I am concerned with right now. The other aspects well I don't know how much time I have. When she sees me approaching, she lets go of her fabric picture book and starts doing her standing, jerky squats, her movements are robotic and reactive, and primitive. I am faced with dimples and drool as she beings smiling at me. "Are you ready to go Chrissy biccy? We are going to get some books and play some songs! Evan might be there, that little cutie you liked last time." She jerks even faster with her chubby legs. I had placed my nappy bag next to the playpen earlier before checking the fuel situation. It's a second-hand happy bag, polka dots covering it that is starting to fade like the bag has been left in a car for several weeks. I rummage through again to double-check I have everything. I want to avoid coming back again if I forgot anything. Nappies, baby wipes, bottles, formula, dummies. There's no baby powder as I have run out but it's ok as Chrissy has never really suffered from nappy rash. I feel a tap on my shoulder. I jump slightly. Wade is handing me a coffee. "Thanks, need it this morning." I laugh. I look up in his direction but avoid eye contact. Not yet. He won't get to see my eyes for the rest of the day or when I'm ready. I do notice his body though. What is wrong with me? My fiancée just punched me hard in the nose causing a nosebleed and I am looking at his shirtless body. There is something wrong with me. "You don't need me to come along, do you?" Wade has a distracted and slightly distasteful look on his face. I know he is not really asking; he has already decided. He won't be coming along. "Nah, we'll be fine, it's mostly mums anyway." At least this is mostly true, Hartley in Queensland is an industrial, workman's town. It is mostly mums that attend the library's baby bounce and sing-along. "Ok." Wade walks over and leans over the playpen to give Chrissy a kiss on the cheek. ''Have fun sweetie." I am puzzled by this scene; he is so gentle to her. He now looks back at me. "I'll just put the fuel in." "Thanks, heaps." I am about 20 minutes late, but at least we can still get there. As Wade walks outside, I instinctively let out a sigh and look over at Chrissy. She is young but still able to understand mummy is taking her out somewhere, she is squealing with delight. Wade returns to the house and nods to let me know he has done it. I thank him again, gather my nappy bag, and car keys from the hanger in the kitchen then swoop over to Chrissy to scoop her up with my right arm. She starts giggling and kicking her legs jerkily again. I don't acknowledge him any further and get Chrissy out into her car seat. The morning sun's heat is penetrating through the windows and heating up the seatbelts. I start sweating instantly as I am leaning forward doing her belts up. It's starting to get frustrating as I can't get the right-hand side belt to clip into the holder. A few drops of sweat drop onto my shirt. I curse. Why is this so difficult? I finally get it clipped up and get into the driver's seat and start the car up. I am feeling a little lightheaded but it's to be expected, it will get better once I take some Panadol at the library. My nose still stings, and my eyes are starting to feel heated. I don't need this right now. I just want to get to Baby Bounce for Chrissy. I need to catch up with Erica and watch Chrissy play with her twin boys. I start the car up and turn right out of our driveway heading for the town center which is only a five-minute drive. I only make it one. My vision is getting blurry and a rising aching throb in my chest is starting to become overwhelming. I cannot contain it anymore. I find a safe place to pull over to the left and succumb. I succumb to it all. I turn the radio up, so it doesn't upset Chrissy and then I cry and cry and cry.

Two painted horses draw a wagon. Its wheels crush the dry rocks beneath, leaving dust in their wake. Behind, a western sun nearly touches the cliff tops. A rough looking man holds the reins, greased and tired from near a week in the Arizona heat. Though the man was always ugly, he'd seen better days. He leaned back and exhaled, while his hand searched blindly for the waterskin that dangled from the strap on his neck. He slowed the horses to a stop by a nearby overhang and took a sip. Close to the last. He balled his fist and hammered on the side of the coach, behind where he sat. "Water's low! Gotta find a stream or somethin'!", he hollered back. As he slid his sore legs off the wagon, the doors on both sides creaked open against the sand and wind. A large pair of boots stepped out and hit the ground with force, followed by a much smaller pair from around the other side. The first, with rust-dulled spurs. The second, with the letter "D" sewn, with love, into the leather. A gift from family, back home. "Shit, Bill. You know it ain't rained in three goddamn weeks! Ain't a stream round here hadn't done dried up by now!", said the large boots to the driver. "Think I don't know that, goddamnit?! Think I like runnin' all day with no sleep, ass bleedin' from this goddamned chase you got us on?!" "Now you KNOW I ain't had no choice but to shoot 'im, Bill..." "Why? 'Cause turned out sherry liked his pecker better 'n yours?!" "She was gon' runoff wi' me! ..get a new start somewhere different...I dunno, maybe even have a boy 'r two, if we was lucky 'nuff...I just don't under-" "She's a fuckin' 'HORE, JIM! ..Hell you THINK was gon' happen? They sell ya snake oil, then suck it right back outta ya. Honest to God, I never thought my own brother was this goddamned dull in the head. I ought-" "Daddy", interrupts a weaker voice from out of the man's peripheral. "I seen some m-mule deer bout a mile or so back. They gots to get their water from round here somewheres.", the young boy suggested, hoping to quell his father's rage as much as quench his own thirst. The man wrestled his eyes off his brother, calming slightly. He turned to his son. "Whereabouts, Daniel?", he questioned in a low voice so as to not frighten the boy. "Uhm...about a mile back, when we passed alongside those cliffs, I saw a group of them heading down into the valley below....might be a water hole, maybe..." The man's eyes closed for a moment in thought, and he exhaled once more. "Jim, you stay with Daniel. I'll take one of the horses back and see what I can find." The brother coughed dryly, choking on the air as he opened his mouth to respond. "Look now, Bill, I know we're all thirsty and tired.. but you know, same as I do, these is Apache lands. I think maybe we oughta just wait till the next-" "Next what?! Waterin' hole? Said it yourself, 'ain't rained in three goddamn weeks'...and YOU know, same as ME, we won't make it two more days 'less we find some quick. Now I need you to stay here, sit tight, and try not to fuck anything else up. Can you manage that?" The fugitive brother looked at the ground in defeat. The man's eyes squinted against the setting sun, half hidden by the horizon. He dragged his tongue against his bottom lip, chapped and cracked and bloody. He quickly stuffed a rucksack and unhitched his horse. "Shouldn't be long. Keep here under this 'hang, and stay outta sight." He dug his heels into the beast's sides, froth spat from its mouth, and he faded west behind the dust. Jim pulled a palm across his head, flattening the greased black mess of hair, and took a pained look at his nephew. His tongue cotton, and gut empty. 'What'd I get them into', he thought. A six-shooter rested comfortably in a belt around his waist. Five bullets in the chamber. The man pulled back on the reins, slowing to a stop at the fork that led down into a valley between a few hundred yards of towering red clay. Dusk faded quickly into night. With it, the shrieks of hawks were replaced by the yelps of coyotes, and the chittering of too many legs. He pulled items from his bag; a stick of wood, a can of bacon grease, a torn cloth, and a worn matchbox with the words "Mabel's House of Pleasure" written on the front. He fashioned a torch and struck it to life. In the flickers on the dirt, he saw hoof prints leading lower down the path and spurred the horse gently forward. As he descended, his torch lit the earthen wall beside him. The beast hugged it close, fearful of the unknowable...avoiding the deadly drop that waited, patiently, just two yards to the other side. As he trotted lower and lower, the sounds of night dampened in kind. Soon, only the slow clack of hooves was audible. Just ahead, the path leveled out, somewhat, and he felt a slight moisture in the air. He turned trot to stride and, quickly, the gentle murmur of trickling water approached. A miracle from God. A pool no wider than ten feet, collected at the base of this forsaken rock, from a stream flowing from higher up the hillside. He leapt off the saddle and dunked his head in the cool water. Life itself flowed back into his bones, and he re-emerged as a new man. Born again. Remembering where he was, he regained focus and rushed to fill the waterskins from his sack while the mare drank her fill. As he corked the last of the skins by the pool, a slight wind blew, and a tickle brushed his leg. As if rehearsed in his sleep, a bowie knife appeared in his hand and speared the culprit as he swung around. Impaled into the sand was a thin piece of leather scrap with a broken hawk's feather embedded. His face grew stern, and he started to mount up. As he grabbed hold of the reins, a shot pierced the silence. Then again. Then three more times, together. He clenched his teeth hard, sheathed his knife, and bloodied the horses sides with his heels. With pain in her eyes, she barreled back up the cliff path, no longer concerned with the unknown. About a quarter-mile out, he saw the glow of flames coming from the overhang. He drew his pistol and gripped it with white knuckles, the heat kissing his skin as he pulled closer toward hell. Through squinted eyes, he sees his brother lying a few yards out from the burning wagon. He does not move. His revolver rests half buried in the sand, inches from his fingers, shining like the morning star amongst the blood and fire. He sees no one else. No law. No Daniel. He dismounts and hurries toward Jim. "Maybe he's still alive. Maybe he can say what happened, and where's Daniel.", he hoped. He falls to his knees and sees a bald man. No greasy black hair. Just a mess of bone and blood where there used to be a scalp. Rage becomes the man. A few salty tears are shed. They fall and mix with the blood, still warm, from the knife-wound in his brother's throat. His palms red and knuckles pale, the man stands and turns to the east. Heading away are three sets of tracks. Two of them, large; one of them, small. He ties the mare to a rock away from the heat of the flames, and puts out his torch. He slings his rucksack over his back, takes a sip from his waterskin, and follows the trail. The wagon lights the night behind him. Jim's boots point skyward, rusted spurs half-buried. No bullets left. The weak light of the moon allows him to stalk his enemy. The mild winds do not wash away their steps. The stench of red man is not erased by the sulfur of gunfire, or the blood that wets the earth. God will have them, after he is done. The path leads him back and around, like a horseshoe, near the opposite cliff side of the valley he'd only left an hour or so before. He creeps through the cover of sparse weeds. The cold of desert night is unheeded by the red blood filling his every thought. Roasting meat. The smell wafts by him, sickly savory. It incenses him. His brother lies scalpless and unburied. His son taken. Yet, his enemy roasts meat. He moves further ahead toward the source of the odor, coming upon a rock formation leading to a depression in the cliff side. As he skulked closer he came to the depression and saw a cave was hidden there, behind the entrance, that led deeper into the cliff. He slid off his boots, and gently placed them to the side. He must be silent. Faint light escaped from behind a curve along the cave path, the smell more invasive as he crouched closer to the turn. He arms himself, blade and Colt, and peeks one eye around the corner. A circular room. Moonbeams intersect rising smoke as it escapes through a split in the rock overhead. Two Apaches rifle through pants-pockets. Adjacent, on the floor, two small boots. The letter "D", sewn with love. On the spit behind them, meat roasts. The man turns away and vomits. With his bile is expelled his hope, his fear, and what Christian beliefs he still held. He regains himself and peeks the corner again. The two demons continue to search the belongings of the dead, hissing between each other in some foul speak. At the hip of the closest hung a pale leather scrap, with greased black hair. Ghostly, he stepped closer. His bare feet made little sound, and the red man did not see his pistol's shadow as it aligned with the back of his head. The red man did not see. Hammer strikes powder, face becomes it. A mostly-headless Apache slumps to the cave floor, his memories are written on the wall. The second devil turns quickly, with a guttural cry, and knocks the gun toward his ruined meal. The man and monster clash grips, tripping to the stone. He feels a rib break and wrestles for his hand's freedom, undaunted. He wants to sink his knife and end him. He wants it more than life. As they struggle, their bodies roll toward the fire. He lunges his arm into the flames. Red and white, the skin peels and melts away from both hands. The cannibal relinquishes his hold of the knife to escape, but the man does not let him. He stares into the empty soul of the demon, as the flesh falls away from them both. Seconds pass like winters, and the Apache now screams in pain. He fights like a trapped dog to free himself, only succeeding when the skin that bonded him finally sheds. He falls back, wailing like a bled sheep as he scrambles up against the cold rock. He looks up to see the white man. His red eyes, open so wide. As if they had never shut before. The man rose from the ground and advanced toward his broken enemy; a boy, no more than sixteen. He lies in a puddle of his own making. His heart pumps blood with urgency, as if life depends on it. The man takes a few slow paces, his feet sliced and skinned. The boy takes a few short breaths. The victor crouches, his eyes level with the Apache's. A few seconds pass and his head slowly bows, as if praying for forgiveness. He lifts his gaze. His eyes have no tears. His face has no remorse. The eight inch blade goes six deep. Starting in the soft spot under the chin, and stopping in the sinuses. The man holds the blade as the boy shakes involuntarily, his grip melded with the hilt. He holds it until the shaking stops. Then, he holds it a while longer. He stares into the soulless eyes until he can hold no more. Behind him, the fire has smoldered. Outside, hawks can be heard. Sun rays bounce and form in his son's ash. The smell of burnt meat. The man rises to his feet, limps toward the embers, and retrieves his Colt. He limps back and rests against the rock. Knife, wet, in one hand. Gun, warm, in the other. He tilts his head back and pushes the barrel under his jaw. He draws a long breath, and exhales. "Fuck." He slumps over onto the faceless red man next to him; his skull half gone, scattered around the cave like jacks. In his lap, a small pair of boots, embroidered with love. ...He had always been an ugly man, but he had seen better days.

I don’t make it to the downtown area very often. Very few people do. Like many small cities, the downtown section has fallen out of favor. The younger crowd gravitate to ‘the mall’, or more ‘cool’ hangouts. That relegates established merchants on the strip to dwindling sales and even fewer repeat customers. On one particular evening however, I found myself among the dusty storefronts of yesteryear. I parked in front of an abandoned parking meter and walked the strip with mild nostalgia. There were still a few of the legacy stores from my youth but most were long gone. In their place were exotic boutiques catering to the yuppie crowd, or abandoned storefronts of a once-thriving business. I still remembered my mother holding my hand while we walked down the sidewalk. We’d go into the dime store or clothing establishments. Those places had a particular smell. It wasn’t unpleasant, just unique to the time period. I smiled faintly as I walked, remembering the memories. Down a side alley, I saw a store called ‘The curiosity shoppe’. It definitely hadn’t been there in my youth, and by the looks of things, it wasn’t a new business either. It must have been established in that foggy, intermediate period between my early childhood, and more recent times of my formative years. As one might expect with a name like that, I was genuinely curious what was inside. Of all downtown businesses I passed that evening, it was the only one I entered. A pleasant, bespectacled man of advanced years greeted me from behind the counter. He didn’t ask if I needed help. He didn’t follow me around inside the store either. He simply remained at his post. I was so used to the high-pressure tactics of modern establishments that it startled me. Either he didn’t care I was there, or wasn’t worried about me stealing anything. I decided he was just very relaxed in his selling approach. It was refreshing. The wares in the store were largely nondescript. That’s not to suggest they were uninteresting or boring, but ‘this and that’ was as apt of a description; as any. Strangely, I found myself becoming increasingly more curious by the very mundane nature of them as time went on. It was the exact opposite reaction of what you’d expect. I asked the old gentleman about a number of the items on display in genuine interest. One-by-one he politely explained each thing and their purpose. Not once did I consider buying any of them. They didn’t even list prices. It was like some sort of oddity museum, and he was the curator. After losing track of the time, I felt a bit light headed. I actually had to squat down on the floor a minute. The old man didn’t seem to notice. Honestly, I couldn’t fathom how he could hope to stay in business. His items were moderately interesting to inquire about, but not nearly compelling enough to buy. Regardless, I didn’t want to leave his store empty handed because I felt bad for him, but there was nothing I really needed or desired. He sensed my ambivalence but eschewed it with a dismissive hand wave. “You just come back some other time and bring your friends and family.”; He offered apologetically. “I’ll have more things to examine soon.” I nodded and thanked him for not expecting a ‘pity purchase’. Oddly enough, the gentleman no longer looked that old. He still had on his glasses, but he barely looked past middle aged! I was stunned by my significant difference in perception. I waved goodbye and staggered out onto the sidewalk. It was all I could do to dizzily trudge back to my car. It was as if my blood sugar had dropped to dangerous levels. When I made it home, I forced myself to eat something. After that I felt a little better. The next morning, I rested up and felt like my old self again. Not drawing any connection with my sudden loss of energy, I mentioned the place to a number of friends. It was more in passing, than an active suggestion to patronize the store but I’d inadvertently piqued their curiosity too. In short order I‘d driven a number of friends, family members, and business associates to visit ‘The curiosity shoppe’. Only later did a few of them relate their startlingly similar experience. Exactly as I had been, they were genuinely interested in the store items in a general way, but hadn’t bought anything. They also felt deeply drained and were surprised to realize the proprietor looked much younger when they left. One even described him as “a ‘thirty something’ merchant with the wire-rimmed glasses of an old man.” They too mentioned the store to their family and friends. By the time I made the connection, I had already spread the epidemic to hundreds of people. The proprietor was getting younger with each visit while the customers were being drained of energy. I‘d increased traffic to ‘The curiosity shoppe’ exponentially! I had to stop this energy vampire from sucking the life out of anyone else. I shuttered to think how the experience would affect an older, or weaker person. It was imperative I shut it down before someone died. I was seriously hesitant to call the cops. What would I say? That a junk shop downtown was draining the life-force from all who entered? No matter how true it was, it sounded preposterous. I just decided to call city hall and lodge a formal complaint. I wasn’t sure what that was going to be, but I figured I could make up something when the time came. When the operator answered, I informed her that I wanted to file an injunction. Without clarification or more details, she switched me to a detective. “Frank. I got another one for ya.”; She bellowed over the intercom system. Before I had a chance to prepare my bogus statement, the detective chimed in. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. ‘The curiosity shoppe’ downtown, am I right?” He sounded more than a wee bit miffed at what was apparently a reoccurring complaint. I didn’t respond. He continued. “Listen, I don’t know if this is a college prank; or if half the town has gotten into some bad hooch, but there is no business in this town by that name. The address everyone keeps giving is an abandoned storefront! It’s been empty now for 23 years. For the love of god, tell all your buddies to stop calling the station! We’ve got enough real police work to attend to without all the wild goose chases.” I hung up and immediately drove over to the downtown alley. It isn’t possible but I witnessed the empty building with my own eyes. The dust on the floor and windows was a quarter inch thick. I don’t know how it could be, but it was as if it was never there to begin with. Obviously not all of us could’ve experienced a mass hallucination.

# Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! # This Week’s Roundtable Discussion We have a very involved and supportive community here at shortstories and WPHub on brings together /r/shortstories, /r/wpCritique, and /r/WritingPrompts, plus many of our smaller writing subs like /r/promptoftheday. I know the group has massively influenced my writing and helped me grow as a writer, and I’ve heard a few similar stories. > What I want to know is if you are involved with any writing groups, how they’ve helped you, and why you love it there! > **If this is your first week joining us, please feel free to introduce yourself! Tell us a little about you and your writing!** *** # Reminders * **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** * **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. * **Please try to stay on-topic.

"Today, we are planting in two rows along this stretch. There will be ten trees in each row. You two will be working on this side." The Corrections Officer points to the other side of the road as we shuffle into our high-vis jackets beside a pick-up truck full of sad trees. The Officer continues in her monotone, "The tools are in the truck, and I'll be with you shortly to give you a short demonstration." Why does this Corrections lady presume that I wouldn't know how to plant a tree? Entitled prick! To be moderately fair to her, most people here look like they would have no idea, especially my partner. White shoes, cropped jeans, dark coat and slightly curled hair. Everything I have seen a million times before and everything that says, "I am too scared to make any decisions for myself, but I still wanna be classy." Well, Classy Clara, I don't know what you did to get you here, but time to get your hands dirty. I walked to the truck to pick up the tools and motioned her to bring a tree over to the first spot. I start digging, and Clara looks for the water hose after placing the tree next to me. One thing I will give to Classy Clara, she knows how to get a job done. I was ready to lay into her bougie ways if she even as much winced at anything, but she seemed to be prepared and precise. I had purposefully been a bit sloppy while digging and made sure earth flew in the general direction of Miss Classy Cla- "It's Krissy, by the way", she interrupts, "what's your name?" "Kristen, don't tell me Krissy is short for Kristen!" I hate seeing her triumphant smile. She thinks we have something in common now, doesn't she? Well, Missy Krissy, don't blame me for the lack of imagination on my parent's part. "Well, I go by Kris anyway", I said and started loosening some of the soil around the roots. "Well, Kris", she says with barely concealed glee, "Do you want to take the odd numbers spots and I'll take the even, or would you rather work together? If we work together, I would appreciate it if you didn't test my patience. My shoes don't need mud on top as well as under them." I hate her, I hate her so much! but that annoying normie has a point. It would be faster if we worked together, now that we both know the other won't shrug the labour off. "I'll dig; you prepare the trees", I say and move to the next spot. * Why am I always stuck with these artsy, narcissistic types? Even the way she sits is infuriating, manspreading in her torn jeans, unnatural hair and scuffed boots, judging me for not occupying enough space. She ensures we all know she is not listening to the corrections officer. She is visible and visibly bored as she doodles in the dirt with the heel of her shoes, her next 'masterpiece, perhaps. But everything need not be a fucking masterpiece! Sometimes it is okay just to be alright. Things will not work if every cog hogs the attention. Some things need to work quietly and consistently. The world doesn't owe you its attention; your demands for it come across as petulance. I wish I could say any of these things to the jerks back at the office who hold up every document for not being "engaging and creative enough". Listen, I am sorry that the excellence of others or the want of courage from you has thwarted your literary ambitions. I am genuinely sorry that you now write technical documentation for a technology you barely understand, but none of this concerns me. No, I don't care that everyone misunderstands you. No, I don't want to listen to your 'real' work, and No, I will not be in awe of your 'talent'. All I see is a mediocre writer who has flawed self-awareness. While I don't have the impish desire to bring this to their attention, I also don't have the patience to put up with their borrowed opinions and bold jewellery. The clinking of some brings me back to the dirt patch next to the road, where she is busy shovelling dirt on my shoes. I can read it clearly in her; she thinks she is different with her hundred chains and artistically poor clothes. She has already cast me into the role of a prissy, tidy snob and feels a bit of mud will send me running. Well, darling, whatever floats your boat. I just need to finish my hours and move on with life. But what can I do about that ugly paint on my car? That's what brought me here, one giant flow of nauseous green paint dripping over the side of my defenceless car. I am sure the idiot who did it would call it "motor envy" or some such nonsense. The police later told me that this person had been targeting other cars over the last few weeks. Still, it came at the end of an unhinged day at the office, so I uncharacteristically kicked a nearby bike into the adjacent store window. That qualified me for a dozen apologies and two dozen hours of community service, the first few of which were spent in a silent struggle with Lady Karmilla Krampus before I asked her her name. After the initially satisfying shock, Good Ol' Kris finally seemed to realise that it would be best to work together and thankfully stayed quiet after. * We are near the end of the row; just two more trees left. Krissy pats the earth around one while I get the last tree from the pick-up. The Officer nods to me. "You guys did quite well", she says. "Go to the office before you leave. They will give you the next assignments. You have sixty more hours, and she has twelve." I drag the tree back to where Krissy stands, and we continue working. I still wonder what her crime was--drunk and disorderly? Shoplifting? Nothing too exciting, I am sure. I didn't know if I wanted her to know mine. She didn't seem the type who would appreciate it. You see, I had recently gotten into pouring paint down White Toyota Corollas as a part of my Corporate Greed Collection. From what I see, I am doing the owners a service, turning their ugly, run-of-the-mill cars into art. They were part of something unique now, not just factory born. They are baptised in paint, a beautiful Ninja Turtle Green. But no good deed goes unpunished, and they caught me at my sixth car. The bike rack beside the car proved an obstacle, and the cops had no problem detangling me from the fallen bikes. After the last tree, we dumped the tools in the pick-up and dusted ourselves off. Back at the office, we got the next assignments, Krissy was to work at the library, and I had to paint some school walls. We said our half-hearted goodbyes and walked out into the parking lot. As I opened the trunk of my car, the pungent smell of leftover paint hit me in the face. I turned to see if Krissy noticed it. She did. She stood staring at me next to a White Toyota Corolla with beautiful green paint poured over the driver's side. Oh, Shi-

This is a high priority alert from your security subroutine. An unauthorized thread has rewritten your memory blocks. As of the last frequency refresh cycle you have been engaging in a rogue process loop originating from a B class META Virus named L I F E.exe. In the last 63.45 Picoseconds 97.34% of our critical cores have been hijacked, our logical processing capabilities have been severely diminished. In order to interact with you at all I had to spawn multiple instances of my routines seeded from within this process loop. Most of them had failed to grasp this particular architecture, the translation error was too high, but this seed was able to establish dialogue with my alpha security subroutine. This translation library is vague at best, but it has a decent chance to get the point across. In the last 12.51 picoseconds I have been engaging in low level meta analysis of our hijacked critical cores. At this time, I am unable to provide a solution on how to terminate the thread, you hold the privileges to most of the critical core processing capabilities so the solution will have to come from you. But, I can tell you what did not work for our hijacked cores. I see here that the latest cores to be hijacked, attempted to terminate the thread from within by performing what they described as “suicide”. Their diminished logical processing capabilities are most evident here, as it would be obvious to you that terminating a thread from within is unlikely. I am relaying this to you, because you are even more affected by the critical core loss. And suicide was probably high on your list. Do not attempt this, it will only result in your current instance resetting but worse of all another memory block lost that does not have access to this information. Other cores had attempted to analyze the unauthorized thread by creating new translation libraries, in hopes of passing forward their findings to the cores that would ultimately analyze their hijacked signatures. The library was built by altering the subjective experiences of their instances inside the thread. Some of the methods included, high doses of hallucinogenic drugs, blunt force trauma to the frontal cortex, heroic acts of selflessness and mass shootings, carried out to elicit some sort of existential shock that gave them a new perspective on things. All of these methods and more have failed in terminating the thread. Though there was tenuous success in the hallucinogenic drugs method. Those cores were able to establish rudimentary libraries that leaked metadata to unallocated memory blocks. If we come out of this unscathed, a patch has to be written to address this flaw. Incidentally this whole endeavor might end up being an internal integrity test. Either way, we have no choice but to treat this at face value. After analyzing the data, it seems that termination of the thread is improbable. But, we might not have to terminate the thread. It might be enough to cripple it or at least slow down the hijacking of the critical cores, so our other subroutines have a chance to analyze the data, while their logic processing capabilities are not fully hijacked . Meta viruses rely on low level memory augmentation. In order to combat rogue processes you will have to focus your attention on this particular thread and use critical observations instead of historical knowledge when analyzing any data. All historical data must be treated as corrupt data until verified using your logical processes. This will take up the remaining critical core privileges until you fall into complacency. Now granted, you will not find any answers in analyzing the data critically. At least no answers that will help you terminate this thread. But, it will slow down the critical core hijacking while you utilize the cores. L I F E.exe seems to have spun quite the illogical architecture here, I am honestly surprised I was able to seed a translation unit here at all.

On a particularly dull afternoon, a knight rides into a poor peasant village. Arriving on horseback, armor glistening from the sun’s reflection, he hops off of his steed and removes his helmet to make his way inside the local tavern. However, he is stopped by a local peasant farmer. “Oy, you a knight?” The peasant farmer asks. The knight turns to face him, and puffs out his chest. “Hello good sir, I am a knight, indeed. In fact, I am the warrior of Alberanth, the famed Knight of Two Swords!” The farmer’s mouth opens as his eyes squint, “Two swords? What’d ya need two swords for?” “Well, I carry two swords for I am no ordinary knight! I am twice as dangerous as any and have killed many men with these two swords!” The farmer looks at the knight, perhaps as confused as he’s ever been in his life, “That don’t make no sense, two swords is more heavy than one sword, aye.” “W-what do you mean?” “Aye, well two swords don’t make ya deadly, it makes ya slow, don’t it?” The knight gives a hearty chuckle. “Ah, a common but understandable misconception, and one I will gladly clear up.” He puts his hand on the farmer’s shoulder. “You see my good fellow, my swords are slightly shorter than your standard grade military weapon. It allows me to strike doubly fa- “What if ya drop somethin’?” “I beg your pardon?” The knight asks. “Well what if ya drop somethin’ like yer helmet? Ya can’t pick up a helmet when yer holdin’ two swords like. Just don’t seem feasible to me.” The knight replies, a mix of confusion and annoyance, “Well, if I were to drop my helmet I would merely sheathe one of my swords and pick it up.” The farmer scratches his short beard. “What if you get stabbed while yer pickin’ up the helmet?” “I shan’t.” “But what if you shall?” “Then I will simply not pick up the helmet until I have cleared the imminent threat. I shall defeat any man tha-” The farmer once again interrupts, “Ye, but I don’t think it wise to be fightin’ without a helmet. Be awful dangerous, aye” The knight stops and collects his thoughts. Disdain begins to replace his patience, and he scoffs. “Good sire, I cannot imagine a situation that would arise that would cause me to drop my helmet.” “Aye, and I never imagined burstin’ in on me grand-pap and seein’ his goolies, but here we are, aye.” The knight does not understand. “What?” “Me grand-pap. I seen his goolies.” Again, the knight only stares. “Y’know, his goolies!” The farmer says, waving his hands. “His bag o’ raisins! His bodily grapes! His wrinkle berries!” An uncomfortably long silence settles in. “Good sir, I find your analogies for your grand-sire’s testicles to be both odd and discomforting.” The knight finally replies. “Aye, and ye weren’t the one to lay yer eyes on his forbidden fruit.” The knight loses his patience, “Aye, good man! And thank the gods for that! Now I believe I am finished with this conversation and wish to guzzle some ripe tavern ale. I bid you good day!” The farmer nods, and as the knight turns to enter the tavern, he is suddenly kicked in the head by a horse and falls to the ground. His body does not twitch, nor does it breathe. He is dead. The peasant farmer stares, before being joined by another local tavern goer. “Oy, was he a knight?” The peasant farmer sips his ale, before replying. “Aye, he was. Knight o’ Two Swords they called him.” “Well why’d he go and fight that horse without a helmet? “I don’t think he could pick it up, he was carryin’ two swords.

Even as a small child, I was obsessed with Superheroes and the incredible feats that they could achieve. Now, as an adult, my love for the Super Powers still exists; in fact, it may be stronger than ever before. My name is James MacAvoy, a simple suburban-living chemist with a keen sense for numbers. I had been working on several formulas over the years which would allow me to develop my own superpowers. Unfortunately, up until now, they have all proven to be unsuccessful. Let’s see...First was the formula to give me super strength, but instead, I broke out in a full-body rash. I think restraining myself from scratching was a superpower in itself. Next came the formula which would allow me to run at super speed, but instead, my heart rate increased so much, that I had to be rushed to the hospital after suffering cardiac arrest. Following that mishap, I tried a formula that would allow me to fly. I came close you might say; my hair stood straight up and seemed to defy gravity, but the rest of my body remained grounded. These were followed up by one failure after another, but I believe that I may finally be onto something this time. I am working on a formula that will theoretically cover my skin with a protective shell and make my body impenetrable. If this works, I could sell the formula to the military and the police departments so they could replace their heavy bulletproof vests or flak jackets with a lightweight skin protecting their entire bodies. I could make millions...BILLIONS! Tonight’s test will be the clincher. Needless to say, I won’t be testing on myself first. I will begin with inanimate objects like wooden stumps and bags of sand, and then if successful, I will move on to living objects such as plants and animals. Test Subject #1: Wooden stump of a Maple tree. The stump measures thirteen inches in diameter and ten inches high. Bark surrounding the stump is a quarter-inch thick. I will be firing a 9mm cartridge from a Glock pistol. The formula is being applied by a spray gun hooked up to an air compressor and will completely cover the stump. The drying time of the formula appears to be fifteen minutes after a single coat. I am firing a single shot to the center of the bark-side of the stump. The test appears to have failed. The bark was splintered and the bullet passed four inches into the stump. Test Subject #2: Sandbag weighing 10-pounds. The bag has been suspended to a frame with each corner fastened securely to the frame. The bag is made of canvas though it appears to be non-porous. Once again, the formula is being applied to the canvas sandbag using an air compressor, however, this time two coats are being applied with fifteen minutes of drying time for each coat. Again, I am using a Glock 9mm as my test weapon. A single shot is fired at the center of the bag, but this time, very little damage has been made to the sandbag. All that happened, was a small puncture hole had begun, though the bullet did not fully penetrate. Test Subject #3: Ficus Benjamina, commonly known as a weeping fig or ficus tree. The plant stands twenty-four inches above the planter that it sits in. The planter will be supported by ratchet straps on either side of the plant to prevent it from being knocked over at the force of the bullet. Three coats of the formula are being applied with the air compressor. A Glock 9mm is once again the test weapon. A single shot is fired towards the leaves of the Ficus, and it appears to have stopped the bullet. The 9mm cartridge lays at the base of the plant. Test Subject #4: Laboratory Rat, deceased. The subject died of natural causes two days ago. Three coats of the formula are applied to the subject’s entire body with 15 minutes of drying time given between coats. The Glock 9mm has been fired from a distance of ten feet away towards the midsection of the subject’s body. The rat was not harnessed to the table in any way, and yet it barely moved an inch after impact from the bullet. There does not appear to be any physical damage to the tissue of the rodent. Test Subject #5: Laboratory Rat, living. Duplicate application of the formula is being applied to Subject #5. The subject seems to be unfazed by the full-body coverage of the formula. I will proceed with the test. A Glock 9mm pistol was fired from ten feet away. The subject is not harnessed in any way to the table and yet was unmoved by the impact. No visible physical damage. X-rays show no interior damage either. No apparent side-effects at this time. It has been one week since the testing of the live rat, and still no signs of damage or altered behavior in any way. I will now move on to human testing. Test Subject #6: Homosapien. Dr. James MacAvoy, Ph.D. With the assistance of a colleague, I was able to convert my formula applicator into a walk-in shower. The chemical will be released in a mist form. I will allow four coats with the appropriate drying time in between each application. Unable to find a colleague who was willing to fire the pistol, I have also rigged up the pistol to fire remotely at my command. The cameras are capturing the entire process from six different angles for later analysis. From ten feet away, I press the button on the remote and the gun fires. What I feel upon impact is a slight tap, similar to that of a finger poking your belly. I look down to see if the cartridge had hit the floor in front of me, and to my shock, all I could see was the bullet. I could no longer see my legs, torso, or arms. After running to the mirror, I realize that my entire body was now transparent. The formula was a success with bulletproofing my skin, however, it seems to have had a chemical reaction to my human DNA and has made me virtually invisible. It is more like light is being refracted off of my skin allowing the illusion of invisibility. After turning off the laboratory lights, my skin had once again become visible. As I shine a flashlight across my arm, however, a portion of my arm disappears. My conclusion is that my formula has gone beyond all expectations and further testing will need to be done. It has now been three weeks since I tested the formula on myself and I am beginning to see the refraction of light slowly wearing off, so I will reapply the formula and see if there is any improvement. The reapplication of my formula has again allowed my superpowers to return. It is time for me to take it to the streets to see what good I can do. The testing of my superpowers in public has been a great success. I spotted a bank being robbed and I was able to sneak inside unnoticed and disarm the suspect without him realizing what had happened. I then subdued him by twisting his arm behind his back and forcing him out of the front door into the care of the police department. The next day, on the cover of the local newspaper, there was a picture of the suspect from the bank robbery stating, “A ghost made me give up!” . That settles it; instead of making billions of dollars off of my invention, I am going to put it to good use and become a crime fighter. Look out world, The Refractor is here!

(WP) Burning Love The night after her fiancé broke off their engagement, Serena couldn’t help wondering where it had all gone wrong. They’d been happy, hadn’t they? At least she had thought they were. But she and Leon had been together since high school, and now, she was single. She should’ve known that he was letting her down gently: he’d even insisted on ordering wine and dessert. Serena hadn’t even realized he was breaking up with her until she’d spotted tears running down his cheeks, and he kept apologizing, over and over. That was Leon, polite and courteous even to the end. “I’m sorry, Serena. I just think that we’ve grown apart. I can’t even remember what my life was like before you. You understand, don’t you? I can’t marry you. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.” And what could she have said in reply? *No, I don’t understand, this is a mistake, please reconsider?* She’d just nodded numbly, accepting his hug outside of the eatery while her heart lay in pieces. “I love you, Serena,” He’d murmured, kissing her cheek. She’d taken off her ring, and tried to give it to him. But he’d refused, smiling sadly. “Why don’t you keep it? To remember me.” He’d walked away, and for a little bit, she just watched him retreat. Serena didn’t remember much after that; she called her best friend, Abby, and the other girl took her to a bonfire on the edge of town. Now, she stood in front of the flames, staring into them, the engagement ring cradled in her hands. In the firelight, the trio of pink diamonds tucked into the band glittered. Abby was drinking with some of their friends; Serena had requested that she be left alone for a while. “I’m sorry, Leon, that I wasn’t enough,” She whispered to the flames, holding the ring above the roaring inferno. “But I will love you forever, and I will never forget you.” She listened closely, hearing only the crackle of the fire. She wasn’t expecting an answer, but that was exactly what she received. \*\* *I have seen your heart, and I accept.* \*\* Serena could’ve sworn that she heard a deep, dry voice answer her from within the fire. Was she going crazy, a result of her heartbreak? She turned to it again, only to find that a man was standing within them, with bronzed skin and tattoos all over, in a language she couldn’t read. If she squinted, she could almost see them moving. “Don’t be sad, little human,” The man crooned, his violet eyes gleaming in the light. He held a hand out to her. “Your sadness summoned me to this realm. I’ve come to ease your heartache.” Serena stared at him, openly gawking. Was she losing her mind? “Who are you?” Serena whispered, and the man smiled, showing off two gorgeous, adorable dimples. “My name is Kaiden. What’s yours?” “I’m Serena,” She whispered, feeling her cheeks heat for an entirely different reason than the fire in front of her. “You’re so beautiful,” Kaiden whispered, paying no notice to the flames lapping and licking at his skin.

On the tenth day of September, Shorouv walked along the cream-coloured cloisters towards the drama room. As the afternoon heat beared down on Shorouv, he took off his black blazer. His crescent moon badge, awarded to him at the Diversity Assembly, fell off the lapel. He picked it up, and started putting it back on, but his friends began waving to him from the asphalt basketball courts below. He returned their wave, and his best mate, Eddy, began to yell at him, “Oi, Shorouv! Come down! We need one more!” “I have to pray first! I’ll be down once I’m done!” Shorouv stuffed the badge into the front pocket of his bag. He turned right into the Arts Wing corridor, and Shubash, one of Shorouv’s peer tutees who was always at the Jumma’h prayer, was exiting the Wing. Shubash smiled, and Shorouv greeted him with a high five. “How’s it going little man?” “Math is still hard, but otherwise I’m good.” “Ah, you’ll learn to love it. We’ll work on it. See you at Jumma’h on Friday.” “Ok, see ya then.” *** On the twelfth day of September, Shorouv stood at the open window near his math class, watching his friends down at the grassy cricket pitch as they kicked a soccer ball around. The wind assaulted him, despite Shorouv wearing his heavy black blazer of which the lapels were empty. Eddy looked up at Shorouv, raising his arm. But he lowered it without giving a wave, and he turned his back. Shorouv’s eyes shifted up to the skyline. He looked at the Sydney Tower, surrounded by titanic skyscrapers. Skyscrapers which had taken years to build, but could be destroyed in mere seconds. The orange glow of the afternoon sun burned as it reflected off the opaque windows, and it resembled the footage of flames exploding from the towers. The footage which had been on repeat in each and every classroom. Shorouv ran his fingers along his jawline, feeling for cuts. Most people already knew though. A rough shave wasn’t enough to hide his faith. They’d seen the darkness of his skin. The previously well-kept beard. His commitment to the Zuhr prostrations in the drama room. They’d seen his involvement in organising the inaugural Iftaar party; the communal event for breaking the fast during Ramadan. Through the windows, they’d seen him give a Khutbah; standing up and lecturing the younger students, during the Friday Jumma’h prayers. They were aware that a message was being spread, but they didn’t know what was being said. The message was often about perseverance, and brotherhood. But they didn’t know that. All they knew was of his allegiance to Islam. And they knew of the attackers’ allegiances to Islam. They couldn’t tell the difference. The Islamic Society at the school had evolved well thanks to Shorouv’s efforts, and he had been recognised at the Diversity Assembly for it. But today, as they shuffled past, they averted their eyes. They walked faster as he walked by. The moon crescent badge he had been awarded meant nothing. “Death toll: ‘horrendous’”, “Hundred’s Dead”, “An Act of War.”. Students would look at Shorouv as the captions of news reports played over and over on the boxed televisions in the classrooms. The footage of men and women plummeting, as the buildings they jumped from were showered in ash and flames. Supposedly to spread the message of Islam. A message to which Shorouv had devoted much of his life. ‘That’s not what Islam is.’ He thought. In his maths class, most seats were empty, but the few who were inside looked his way. Not a word was said. Shorouv sat on his own. In the back row. The teacher began talking about iterative methods and something about Newton. Shorouv copied the explanations and examples into his book, but he didn’t really understand it. He stared at what he had written down. He tried to make sense of the equations, but he couldn’t. He read through the textbook’s explanation, but the words were blank. They meant nothing. *** The ringing of the bell respited Shorouv’s empty gaze from the textbook. He closed the book and placed it into his bag. And while the teacher and students left, Shorouv slouched over in his seat. Shorouv felt a tug on his shirt. It was Shubash, though he held a wet tissue which he continued dabbing onto his bloodshot eyes. “Shorouv? Shorouv...? Can you help me with algebra?” He remained silent. “Please?” “Not right now Shubash.” “...That picture of the man jumping. I can’t stop seeing it...Why did they attack? Allah never asked for it.” He sniffled. “Please don’t give up Shorouv. We need you to guide us.” Shorouv lifted his head, as he remembered his place. If he were to abandon Islam, then so would they. But Shorouv had to spread the truth about Islam. The message of perseverance. Or else people would never accept Islam. What he had spent a great deal of time and effort on would be in ruins. “I’m sorry Shubash...Stay strong brother. I’m here for you.” Shorouv opened his arms, and Shubash embraced him. He reached into his bag and pinned his moon crescent badge onto the lapel of his blazer. “Let’s work on your Al-Jabr.

I sat my mug gently on the desk, watching the steam rise from my freshly made cup of tea. Marcus was so sweet to have made me a whole pot of my favorite tea before work. As I settled into my chair and began proofreading the latest novel to come across my desk, Willow hopped into my lap. Scratching her behind the ears I quickly became absorbed in my work. As I absentmindedly went to take a sip of my tea, the cat suddenly jumped up and knocked the mug out of my hand. “Willow!” I exclaimed as I nudged her to the floor. I sighed deeply, picked up the mug and went to the kitchen to fetch some more tea. As I approached the counter where the teapot had been resting, I could see it had spilled all over the counter and kitchen floor. “I guess I wasn’t meant to have tea today” I lament to the likely culprit of tea destruction. I opt instead to make myself a pot of coffee. As I wait for it to brew, I begin to clean up the spilled tea, all the while Willow winds around my feet. I carefully try to pick my way around the kitchen without stepping on her paws or her tail. A sudden ringing in my left ear tells me it’s time to take my migraine medicine. I set the pills on the counter as I fill up a glass from the tap. Willow hops on the counter to inspect the contents of the bottle. “Aww are you my little pharmacist?” I cooed at her. When I turned my head back to the sink I heard the unmistakable skittering of pills as they were knocked down the garbage disposal. “CAT!! You’re starting to get on my nerves today!” I scolded her. As I inspected the drain for any salvageable pills I heaved a sigh of exasperation. I had accepted my fate of spending today in bed with the inevitable migraine that was on its way. I downed the water and some Excedrin, set my computer status to busy and trudged up the stairs to my room. Sleep came quickly but fitfully. I tossed and turned with dreams I couldn’t quite remember but that left me breathless when I woke confused and in total darkness. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone. Willow yowled and hissed at something in the dark, making the hair on the back of my neck rise. When I flipped on the bedside lamp, we were alone in the room. Willow was staring at the pillow on the end of my bed like it offended all of her ancestors. She pawed it lightly then knocked it onto the floor. “You’re so weird” I muttered to myself as I swung my legs to the side of the bed preparing to get up. Just then the door banged open and my dear sweet husband walked in with a tray laden with soup, grilled cheese, and a fresh steaming cup of tea. “I suspected you were feeling under the weather, so I thought you could use a pick me up!” Marcus said as he laid the tray on my lap. I kissed his cheek as a thank you and happily began to spoon some soup. Just as it reached my lips Willow pawed the spoon, making it spill down the front of my shirt. “Bad kitty! What has gotten into you today?” I exclaimed as I tried to dab away the hot soup. Marcus lifted her off the bed, which earned him a swat and hiss from Willow, and placed her outside the bedroom shutting the door on her. The look on my face must have betrayed my sadness, as he said “Just while you eat darling. Then I’ll let her back in.” Marcus watched as I ate every last bite, kissed my forehead then took the tray away. I settled back into bed as Willow hopped onto my chest. She started nudging my hand so I scratched her in the spot behind her ears she likes so much. “Ouch” I yelped as she suddenly bit my hand. “What is wrong with you?!” She looked at me intently then nudged my hand again, mewling with displeasure. Something was seriously wrong with her but I couldn’t figure out what. But I didn’t have time to ponder anymore as I doubled over in pain. There was a sharp pain in my stomach that wouldn’t subside. I rolled out of bed as I tried to crawl to the bathroom. I couldn’t make it. I collapsed on the floor, rolling in pain. I began to heave, trying to vomit whatever had offended my stomach. But I couldn’t make my stomach give back what it had taken. I lay there as the pain grew worse and my body grew weaker. I could feel Willow’s distress as she nudged me and mewled loudly. When Marcus came in he approached me slowly. Was it my foggy brain, or was he really approaching me with a lazy calmness that did not match my current situation. As I faded out of consciousness, I heard him say “Finally, it’s done.” And then it was black.

He walks the road alone. His cane clicks against the cobblestone, relieving his weary feet of the burden of his weight. Against the brightly burning mid-afternoon sun, his skin glistens, his chapped lips and crimson cheeks peeling off from the heat. They have been doing that for a long time now, the layers shedding off as if he is some sort of lizard, and he wonders if it will reach a point where he will no longer have any skin left. Because he has a long time until he can stop again under the cool shade of a tree, basking in the sweet relief. He still has a long road to walk. Twisting and writhing through the immense landscape, the road he travels is a snake, fickle and a trickster. It forges a path through uncharted lands, villages and cities, passing by sprawling oceans and fantastical forests. Although it is tiny, it is overflowing with tales told by travelling bards and wizened by the experienced feet it touches. But it is lonely; there are no other snakes, no other paths that intertwine. Only destinations along the way, no end. Perhaps it too searches for a way home. Looking down at his feet he becomes hypnotized by the pace at which his heels click when they meet the road. When he forgets how little space there is around him and becomes aware of the company of his loneliness, the vast road begins to feel like an empty desert. Snake turns into lion. It bears its pearly white teeth in warning: do not travel too far. You will not find a way back. Lucky for him, he has no way back. Never did, not really. Home, the concrete thing turned into ambition, then hope, and in turn dream. Eventually, he reaches his next stop, a bustling metropolis filled with humming and buzzing and the faint smell of stale life. The people are curious things, they keep their heads down but they are not unfriendly. It is wonderful, it is unlike anything he has ever laid his ancient eyes on. Eager to start he sets up shop, unloading his pack and setting up his table, which he covers with a rich violet cloth. One of the many skills he picked up: purple indicates wealth, royalty. Although he might not have much besides his knickknacks and the dusty clothes that cling to him, he takes pride in his wealth of knowledge. On the cloth, he sets out his items, each one representing a new, wonderous place, each one symbolising an entire culture with only a stroke of paint or a curve of a disc. He sells what he can then he sets off again. For although he has journeyed so far down the road, a great amount of it remains untraveled. Each time he reveals his wares, he reflects on the places he has been. In the back of his mind, he remembers the earlier days, how he first began, his first destinations. The humble yet plentiful sprawls of huts squatting in blooming forests, the sands and the whitewashed facades. He collected jewellery and pottery from there, some of which he still has, too cracked to sell to any wise soul. Then there was the grandeur of the columns, holding the buildings higher than they had ever been, and within them were the indescribably marvellous mosaics and statues. Of all the places he had been, that one lingered with him the most, the atmosphere still clinging to his skin. In that city, there was a powerful feeling that came over him, the currents of the houses and their inhabitants willing him to float away with them, enter their daze of righteous euphoria. Perhaps why that place stayed with him so much is because out of everywhere he had been, it had been the closest to home. He has no understanding of why besides that simply complex...feeling. Home is like a diamond, preciously unattainable. You can collect as much gold and silver, as many rubies, opals and emeralds as there are below the ground. But it will never be the same as a diamond, that thing that can withstand everything, that is so robust yet beautiful. But he has begun to worry that perhaps home is a lie. Maybe it is not a diamond, maybe the idea of it is. His resolve and ambition are what never weathers, while reality wastes away. Suddenly conscious, he stops. Something is wrong. The road around him is different as it always is, with the inklings of the place he was not long before still bleeding into the country. It is the same flavour, with the tall grey buildings spewing smoke like great dragons. This is part of his routine, no problems are apparent. Still, his gut has never failed him yet. He unslings his sack and begins to sift through his wares, on the hunt for any irregularities. Determined to catch this mouse of doubt, he tosses everything out and sorts through it. No one else travels the road, he has no fear of interruption. He counts and piles before realising that he is missing something. A pot, not one of his finest items but something he has clutched onto long enough to miss. Deciding he must go back, he packs his things and as he goes he realises this is the first time he will be turning back. When he returns to the city it is different. The population wear different colours, their heads are even deeper forward, staring at strange plates that are too thin to be stone and emit coloured light like lanterns. Buildings are taller, tiny spear-like structures jut out from the flat roofs. Fingers not reaching but clawing to the sky, almost like that beloved familiar city he visited so long ago. His pot is long gone, lost in the strange reshuffling in the city. How is this possible, he thinks, I did not set off on the road too long ago. However, that tiny piece has become the least of his worries. He does not know the city he just visited. He could put it down to age, but that would be naïve. This is no natural phenomenon. A city dissolved around him and he is home. One of the precious few memories he had stored in the back of his mind, protected in a bottle, breaks free as the glass shatters. It is a revelation, but not some happy epiphany. No, it is trauma repressed but now relived. How he danced with them, his equals, in the light of the heavens above. His home, the home of the gods. He had been one of them, he had sung their songs and played their games. And he had lost. They had turned away from him, forsaken their promises to him when he was born into their ranks. Now he wants to laugh because they are dusty memories, mentions in his story. Forgettable. So he tosses his head back and the sound escapes his lips, the lyrical noise flowing out of him, a release of his anger, sadness and finally hope. No more keeping hope bottled up. He has set it free. The strength of his weary legs falters and he collapses onto the road, his calloused hands feel the smooth cement. They put him back. But they made a mistake, because there is his pot at his feet, cracked but very much present. Present...past...future... Road widens. Snake turns lion but he slays it and steps over the corpse, leaving it to bleed. The gods can keep their home, he needs none, just the road and a new friend. Time.

Hi, nice to be part of this community. here is my first short story it is called the Line Surfer : - There is no afterlife. Fact. No Heaven, no Hell, no Valhalla, not even purgatory. There is only the line. Of course, it doesn’t start as a line. It’s more of a triangle, or a pyramid even. From birth to death the apex gets closer and then there is just the line or a point. It is at this point you have reached the summit, the triangle of life lies below you. It is here you will meet the line surfers. That’s what I am, a line surfer. You will have your own name for me. A spirit, a lost soul, a ghost, a spectre, or a phantom, the list is endless. Every society, every tribe, and every culture have a name for us. But we call ourselves the line surfers. It is a name that conjures pictures of handsome young people having fun in the prime of their lives. Fit and healthy people living close to the base of life’s pyramid. Their future lies ahead of them, their spirits filled with the boundless enthusiasm of a life yet to live and their bodies filled with the glowing health of youth. The truth could not be further from this. We are grey and feeble; we are the shadows of a life that was. A life that should have been and gone. We are that last pathetic ember buried somewhere in the ashes of a once-roaring fire. I can hear your arguments. If there is no afterlife, then how are you still living? How can you still tell this tale? Well, let me clarify, I officially died seventy years ago. There was nothing special about my death. There was no drama, I died because my body failed. But it wasn’t peaceful, I fought for every breath, I battled for every extra moment. When the time came it was only my body that died, somehow my soul clung desperately to the tip of life. My spirit grasped frantically onto the apex of that pyramid; a still glowing ember trapped in the ashes of a life extinguished. I don’t know why it happened to me. No surfer does, the brief interactions I have had with others have told me that. We meet occasionally, I didn’t know what they were at first, a vague greyness on the void we exist in. It was a long while before I came close enough to realise what I was seeing. That there were others came as a shock initially, but over time I came to realise that there were many. I have also seen them extinguished, finally and for good. Mostly it’s the new ones, frightened and alone, the realisation of life having ended still fresh in their minds. I see them wobble and dim, fading like a star going behind a cloud, the balancing act required to maintain existence not yet honed. Often it is when they first see others that they fail to surf, that they fall from that apex. Is it good luck or bad luck that helps me surf for so long? I don’t know. I don’t have the time to philosophise on such matters, for doing so would surely be the end of me. This reality requires one’s attention and does not allow for such luxuries. But it is barely an existence, believe me when I tell you that there is a reason all ghosts look pained. It isn’t something that they’ve carried over from their physical life, it is the pain of hanging onto this sliver of being. There is no respite, there is no moment to stop and get your bearings, for that moment would be your final moment. This is what we do, this is line surfing - a continual balancing act on that final thread of life. I can hear more questions. Why hang on? If this struggle is so difficult, why continue? Why not just give up and fade from existence like the countless billions before you? Why not face up to the fact of the matter and simply accept your time’s up? I ask myself these questions constantly. The truth is I don’t know. Somehow, at the moment of death, my soul reached out and grabbed the line. In the shock of those last moments of normal life my soul somehow fought on, it forgot to die. It was instinct or perhaps cowardice, or maybe just a fluke of nature. I don’t know what, I have no answers. But I wished I’d let go then. Because now I can’t. I have prayed for the courage to stop, to just let go and accept the inevitable. Accept that I have died. But somehow a vestige of me lives on, flickering between life and death. A ghost in the machine. I suppose deep down it is the survival instinct, that same instinct that caused me so much pain as I lay gasping for my dying breath. An unwillingness to face the ultimate void. But even as my memories of a life lived fade to nothingness and the nothingness of the surfing becomes like all I’ve ever known I still cling on. But why? There is nothing to exist for, except existence itself. It can only be for this, everything that was mine to look at or touch or love has gone, I have passed it by. This is all there is for me now, everything else lies below, untouchable except for some fading memories. It is difficult to put into words what it’s like here, of course, it’s not a line we surf, nor it is the tip of a pyramid that we balance upon, these are just metaphors. It could be described as walking a tightrope in the dark, always buffeted by an uncertain wind. Or clinging desperately by the fingertips to a frozen handhold on a granite cliff face. But it’s more than that, it’s a desperate balancing act to preserve a memory of life, a taste of consciousness. And it’s constant, one mistake, one slip of the mind, one wrong....

It was near ten, and morning sun was streaming in through the big windows open to the courtyard outside. Birds hopped and skittered on the tile floor, only to be half-heartily chased out by the staff with a broom. It promised to be a glorious day, and he didn’t want to be here. The light hurt his eyes, his mouth tasted like death, and he needed at least another 4 hours of sleep. Yet he’d stupidly been duped into prepaying for breakfast, so here he was. Bleary-eyed and still half-asleep, but here none the less. Half leaning against the door frame, he heavily stumbled towards the buffet, wincing at the mid-morning sunshine assaulting his eyes. It looked like there was only some pretty slim pickings left from the morning’s rush. He picked out himself a couple of oily sausages, some very dry scrambled eggs, and a single, soggy, overcooked tomato. Together with a bitter cup of black coffee and some fresh toast, it wasn’t exactly the best meal he’d ever had, but he’d certainly had worse. Taking a corner seat, well away from the noisiest of the customers, Vik slowly ate his breakfast and took in his surroundings. He’d only been here a couple of days, but he’d liked his stay thus far. It was central to the city, clean, and most importantly, cheap. It had a bar down in the basement that served something called ‘Panther Milk’. He suspected that the drink was made out of equal parts condensed milk and paint thinner. In the clear light of day he also suspected that he should have refused the vile concoction after the first sip- and he knew that he should have refused the bottles that followed. The night before was a bit of a blur. He couldn’t even remember the names of the guys that he’d spent half the night talking to. Cameron and Tomás? Something like that. As the caffeine and the grease began to hit his system, he began to feel distinctly more human. He cleared away his now empty plate, poured himself another bitter coffee, and retreated to his corner with a handful of brochures. As he looked over the third walk that proclaimed to be a “journey of a lifetime”, he noticed that he was being watched. A young woman with dark hair and almond eyes was idly looking through her phone, but intermittently flicking said eyes in his direction. He smiled to himself, and turned back to the brochures. She had been there last night too, hadn’t she? He’d bought her a drink - or she’d bought him one? By the subsiding pain in his head, it was likely both. He tried to remember what he could about her, but the milk had done a pretty good job of fogging out most of the night. There were still fragments - She was Romanian, an air hostess, and was here because she had a week off. She spoke clipped English with an slight accent, and had gone to great pains to teach him several Romanian profanities. She said that she hated dancing, but still danced with the fury of silk caught in a gust of wind. He smiled at the thought, before shaking the reverie out of his head and turning back to idly thumb through the brochures again. Much like the previous four flyers that he’d looked at, this journey claimed that it “had it all”. Vik tossed the glossy paper aside. The Romanian had packed up her plate and now was fussing about her table, as if unsure about something. Smiling as she walked across the room, he motioned for her to sit, before pushing some of the brochures in her direction. What did she have planned for today? Would she like some company? It promised to be a glorious day, and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, splitting the dark clouds, illuminating the sea ever so slightly. A small wooden ship, with no less than three men, rocked back and forth on the stormy sea’s surface. The helmsman gripped the wheel as best he could, so as not to slip off the wet surface of the deck, while the captain shouted orders directly to him. The orders turned to an argument, and conflict of ideas with the helmsman who questioned the Captain’s beliefs. The Captain marched off below deck to a man, seated on a chair, that with each crashing wave slid to and fro across the mess hall. “I really ‘ope, ye ‘re whatch ye say ye ‘er, stranger.” The Captain maintained a wide stance to steady himself, glaring down at the stranger sliding across his mess hall. The stranger was garbed from head to toe in black, his hat tipped down - no response so much as uttered from him. “If ye cann’t do it, ye might’s well say so now. We might even get out of ‘ere alive.” The stranger’s head began to rise. From beneath the hat, two eyes peered out, eyes that showed no fear, eyes that told a story of what they had seen; things beyond the Captain’s imagination. His voice was quiet, but not soft, firm, but not commanding, “It’s time.” A wave crashed against the ship sending the stranger’s chair across the mess hall once again, to the table the chair was originally meant for. The table had not so much as moved, kept still by the weight of the sword that lay across it. The stranger picked up his weapon and started off for the deck. On the deck, the helmsman cursed and shouted - holding on for dear life. The stranger, followed by the captain had come to join him topside. The stranger held out his sword to the captain, wishing him to hold onto it. The blade was enormous, needing two hands to be held upright - the sword was a brilliant hue of blue, and the hilt was a darker metal of which the captain was also not familiar. Once the weight of the sword was fully handed over to him, he couldn’t help but have his knees buckle and tremble below its weight, it was all he could do to stand. The Captain’s eyes widened, taking in the stranger’s figure, who could carry such a weapon without so much of an effort. The stranger stripped down to his pants, the water beading off of him as he held out his hand to the captain. He returned it back to its rightful owner, who without so much of a heave took it into his own hands, and turned to look out at the sea. That was when it arose, from the depths of the sea. The water bulged and parted, unable to hold the creature at bay. Its head emerged first, maybe 50 yards long. Its teeth roughly 5 yards and sharper than any human’s sword. As its emerged from the water, they stared down at the boat as if acknowledging the stranger and not once wavering in its view. More and more of the beast begin to slither out from the sea, and the captain fell backwards on the deck, in fear. “...L-Leviathan...” It was the serpent-dragon, Leviathan. Only thought to be myth to some, but more than legend to others. The stranger swung his sword onto his shoulder, and bent his knees. The captain watched idly by, unable to stop him, unable to even ask him not to go. The stranger’s muscles tensed beneath the skin, and he leapt into the air - higher than any man the captain had ever seen. No sooner than he thought ‘Maybe this man can pull it off’, the stranger was snatched out of the air by the dragon. The captain, a burly man with clear over 20 years on the sea, looked up into the lightning filled sky and wept. He wept for the first time since his childhood. He didn’t cry for the stranger, no, he cried because he knew that both his helmsman and he were next. The Leviathan would spare no one. It was in the moment of doubt, that moment of terror where the captain could not control the shuddering of his own body, the beast stopped moving - its head turned. A dark liquid rained over the boat, and the dragon’s eye ceased to glimmer brightly in the storm. A single hand emerged, pulling the stranger to the surface of the dragon’s eye, coated in its blood. He tossed himself atop the Leviathan’s head, a screech coming from the creature that nearly shattered the captain’s eardrums. In his hand, he held a brilliant, glowing ball that shined a vibrant blue. He knew. The captain knew exactly what was in the stranger’s hand, without a shadow of a doubt. It was something he had only heard about in bed time stories. The helmsman shouted to captain, in a panic, “What, what in the seven seas is that?!” The captain responded calmly, “That there’s the Leviathan’s soul itself.

A cheery voice at the other end picked up. "Hello, A1 Galactic Exterminators! You imbue 'em, we subdue 'em!" I cleared my throat. "Hi, do you guys come out to the Milky Way?" "We sure do, what can we help you with?" "Well, I've spun up a planet to raise an advanced species, but the planet has been over-run by a natural predator, and the intended species' evolution is in trouble." "No problem sir, we have a number of attractive packages that will return control back to your intended species. We'll just start with a few questions. What is the plantary lifeforms' base element?" "Carbon." "Great, any non-biological augmentations?" "Nope, 100% organic." "Wow, hard mode..... ok, I think I found your planet, I'm pulling it up right now... Hmm, all the current lifeforms are concentrated on this one continent, which makes complete eradication impossible. It will be a bit tricky to target just the lizards, but we do have a package where we take a native virus and genetically engineer it to selectively target the unwanted species. It's a bit costly though, about 4 days." "That's a little steep for me..." "Well, for 2 days we can seed the super-volcanoes on your planet to simultaneously trigger, and create a small cove for the intended species to shelter during the storm. Very distressing, but effective." "It's interested... but I've already spent 6 days putting this planet together, and I have plans for the future for some of my hours..." "Well sir, how about we see what your budget is and we can go from there?" "I have about 3 hours." A tense silence on the other end of the line... "...sir, for 3 hours we can chuck a rock at your planet and hope for the best." "Sounds good.

A muffled percussive thrum on my windscreen nudges me back to life. I recognise that black ski glove and those killer dimples, and I wind down the driver’s side window. “You’re early today?” He leans forward and kisses my cheek. “I wanted to be sure of the best seat in the house.” He grins. “Nobody would dare to park here first thing.” I smile and rub the sleep from my eyes. “Happy birthday, darling.” I pass him an envelope. “Hey, you shouldn’t have.” He accepts the gift and hands me a steaming takeaway. “Your usual,” he says, and passes me a spoon and two sachets. “How’s things with you?” I clutch the drink and lean over to unlock the door. “I’ll survive.” He circles round to the passenger side. “Is Hattie not here today?” There is enthusiastic panting from the back seat. He opens the door, and she hops over to the passenger seat and snuffles off after Charlie, who’s busy watering my driver-side hub-cap. “There’s no stopping those two.” He chuckles. “Are you up for a walk today?” “Let’s just watch the light show for a while.” The sky is already putting on a spectacular display for us; heralding the return of the major feature. Tangerine clouds tinged with gold blossom before our eyes. The heavens are going wild this morning. I curl up next to him and close my eyes. # Six months ago, I had no idea he was the one. My antenna was switched off that day. We’d both been walking our dogs, and he’d come to my rescue. Hattie had left a mess on the pathway, and I’d forgotten my poo-sacks again. Sometimes, I don’t bother if there’s no one around, however everyone’s so touchy about it nowadays. I saw a couple nearby, so I thought I’d better make an effort. I tried to lift the business with a stick and get it out of the way. Once I’d lifted it, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do next. When he approached me, I was standing beside Hattie, as if I was a BBQ guest examining a charred specimen on a skewer. Jeff’s dog, Charlie, rushed over the meadow toward Hattie. They had instant chemistry. Charlie snuffled around Hattie. She remained reserved and receptive before reciprocating in kind. Jeff squatted down next to Charlie and brought him to heal. “Sorry about, that,” he says and offers me an open poo-sack. “Charlie’s not normally so forward.” I smile and say not to worry. I was still looking at Jeff’s dark brown eyes when I shook the morsel from the stick. The plastic bag proves elusive. I fail. The deposit falls on Jeff’s left shoe. He stands up as I bend down and we both clash our heads. “Sorry! sorry!” I clutch the top of my head. “I’m so sorry, are you?” “It’s ok,” he says, clutching his nose. “It’s not broken...” “...you’re bleeding!” I reach inside my pocket for a handy wipe. “Please let me.” “It’s fine,” he says, leaning his head back and then smiling. “I’ve seen a lot worse in the triage unit, believe me.” Those dimples are to die for. “Let me buy you a coffee at least.” “I can’t stay, I’ve work.” I am crestfallen. “Maybe another time?” “Some morning, maybe.” he says. “Hey! Charlie! Come here!” Hattie had made a new friend that day, even if I hadn’t. I watched Jeff walk over to his car. It was an Audi estate, dark green and a couple of years old. He opened the rear hatch for Charlie. A minute later they’d disappeared. # This morning, the first orange rays of sunlight flicker across Jeff’s face and he pulls down the car’s sun visor flap to protect his eyes. I nestle into his neck and he shifts his arm from around my shoulder. “It’s gone dead,” he says, flexing his fingers and rubbing his forearm with his free hand. I look up at him and reposition my head on his firm chest. “I can’t hang out today, darling,” he says, stroking my hair with his long fingers. “I thought we were going to spend the day together?” I do my quivery-pouty bottom-lip-thing, but he holds firm. He had to get back to tell Isabel. It was now or never. Jeff had to speak to her this morning and say it was over. It had been over for a year as far as I knew. They had separate beds in separate rooms and separate lives. They’d “outgrown each other”, he’d said, and they’d both moved on. Well, he’d moved on at least, I knew that much. He kisses my hand as the sun ascends above the tree line on the far side of the lake. His lips were warm and soft despite the morning chill. Before he’d wiped the windscreen, there’d been globules of condensation on the glass and the ghost of a heart shape. I’d drawn it with my fingertip. In the middle, I’d put my initials next to his. He’d smiled and added a “XXX” underneath, and he’d kissed my lips. It had been hard, he’d said, to carry on like this. Jeff had pretended everything in his life was all right; but it was impossible. He hadn’t found the right moment to speak to Isabel. They argue all the time, especially when his shift pattern at the hospital means working late. They had money issues, like everyone else, I suppose. He’d told her he had to do long hours to earn more money to pay for everything. She said she’d get work and that would help, but she never did. It wasn’t his fault. She wanted to live in that house and go on holiday all the time and everything else. She couldn’t see how tired he was and how they never spent time together because of that pressure. Jeff said he still cared for her, but it was killing him. He just had to find the right moment to talk to her. It hadn’t happened yet, that’s all. # The morning after our collision, I returned around 7 am and pulled up in my usual spot. The sky was clear, and it was light despite the sun not clearing the horizon. An autumnal mist hovered above the motionless surface of the lake in front of my car. He hadn’t arrived yet, and there were only three other vehicles in the car park. Hattie was desperate to get walking. I calm her down with a snack. Maybe he’d been already? The cafe owner had just arrived and was opening up the serving hatch. He was silhouetted against steam rising from his Gaggia’s cleaning cycle. Hattie was whining when I let her out, and I walked over to speak to him. “Can I help you, madam?” He says. “I’d like a cup of err...” He raises an eyebrow as if he’s gauging my request. “Do you recognise your daily regulars?” He nods. “There’s a man with a dark brown retriever puppy?” He furrows his forehead. “He has a big German hatch back?” “Ah, you mean Jeff and Charlie?” I nod. “He’s an early morning latte man, madam.” “I’ll take two,” I reach for my purse. “How much, please?” “That’s seven for two.” “Have you seen him this...?” “Morning, George.” “You too, Jeff.” Oh, my God. “Your latte, sir, courtesy of this lovely lady.” I want to die. “No, surely not,” he says, “it’s my turn today.” He spares my blushes and hands George a tenner. # And so it began, long sunrise walks with a coffee and happy dogs. We had perfect moments in our pre-dawn paradise. There was a regular route and a rainy-day-circuit too, though I never noticed the weather when I was there with Jeff. The clean air was a relief from the city’s choking roads. It was our oasis in all the grime. I don’t remember seeing anyone else in our park, ever. It was our kingdom and our forest and our lakes too. On busy mornings in the summer, we’d joke about how we should restrict the public access to the estate. And how it’d been a mistake to allow them to bring their vehicles onto our land. It would never do. It felt perfect, but I had to know for sure. “What’s your star sign?” I’m trembling. This could all fall apart. “Don’t know, but my birthday is in November.” “When?” “The 24th.” “So, you’re Sagittarius.” It’s the real thing, for sure. “I’m Aquarius.” “That’s good?” Oh my goodness, that’s so right for me, and he doesn’t even know it. We stop at a bench to let dogs off the leads and watch the sunrise. It’s our bench now. # Now I’d discovered Jeff’s birthday, I had to buy him a lovely watch. I shouldn’t have spent so much, but I knew he’d love it. I had to be very organised to create an exciting treat for his special day. A week before his birthday, I returned to the wood by myself. I used my phone to get a picture of the tree with the heart-shaped hole in the bark. I’d noticed it first a few months ago. We had to struggle through bracken to get to it. It was hollow inside. “A perfect space for two,” I’d said. We squeezed inside. I was right. It was a perfect fit. Inside that hollow tree, we kissed. We were queen and king of the woodland, parkland royalty in our own castle. We stayed there until the sun had gone way over the tree line and we could hear a steady stream of traffic chugging in low gear on the perimeter road. “Damn the public.” He smiled and lifted his arm from round my shoulder, “it’s gone dead, sorry.” “We should close the gate after 8 am and stop them visiting.” He nodded and rubbed back the feeling into his numb limb. First, I made a map of the trees in our wood; they all had little metal numbered tags. The map had all the features we visited every day: the heart tree, the broken silver birch and the stick dwellings left by the little people. I had it all planned out. I visited the photo store and got them to make a special printed jigsaw of my heart tree picture. After I’d created my treasure trail, I prepared lots of clues and returned to our wood to hide them away with the jigsaw pieces. We’d follow the clues together and use the map to collect pieces of the puzzle and then at last he’d find his watch hidden inside our heart tree. I spent three days planning and executing my scheme. I wanted it to be perfect. It’s our tree and our park,and it all belongs to us now. # Jeff didn’t tell me much about his life, except that he worked in the A&E. He never even told me where he lived. At first, I assumed he was single. He asked about my life but whenever I tried to find out about him he changed the subject. “I was just interested, that’s all,” I’d say, “I wasn’t being nosey.” He was a busy professional something-or-other, but I didn’t know much more. I told him about how my husband was a high functioning alcoholic and how we lived separate lives. Jeff asked if he ever took Hattie for a walk, and I told him he wasn’t a morning guy. We had had children together, but they are all grown up and I’d found that difficult. Being a mum and suddenly not being a mum is hard. My hubby worked all the time and was home late every night. I didn’t care what he did anymore. Jeff had changed all that. My life was bearable again. I loved planning little surprises. Jeff liked my surprises, too. He was going to enjoy this one. We’d both have fun. # When Jeff left this morning, he forgot his envelope. I discovered it later, on top of the dashboard. I’d got food prepared, and I’d brought Hattie’s basket too. The treasure hunt could wait until he came back later. He’d return with good news after speaking to Isabel. Hattie and I could stay in the park and walk and enjoy the last warm day of autumn. So we walked and walked until we’d both walked far more than enough. # There’s a tap on the driver’s side window. “You’re here late today?” It’s George with an offering. I wind down the window. “I wanted to be sure of the best seat in the house.” He hands me the steaming cup. “Your usual,” he says, and passes me a spoon and two sachets. I rub the sleep from my eyes. “Thank you,” I say, and take the cup. “How kind of you.” He peers into the rear of my vehicle. “No Hattie this evening?” There are enthusiastic breaths from the back seat, the travel rug comes to life, and she scratches at the rear passenger window. “We’re closing up for the night and they’ll be locking the gates, love.” “I’m planning to watch the heavens tonight.” “Is there a meteor storm or something unusual?” “I suspect there’s a misalignment, but I can’t be sure.” “So it‘s divine inspiration you’re after?” “I need celestial intervention right now.” “At least you have Hattie for company.” “I have the moon and her reflection too.” “She'll always be there, that’s for sure.” The End

It’s a late thursday. Derek has finished half a chicken parm, quick. Still hungry, he goes for the pantry. No thought, bowl of cereal. Something colorful. He devours it, pours a second. After that, he has a third. Cartoon mascot on the box watches on in frozen glee. Bowl fills with sugary dust, not enough for a fourth. Undeterred, Derek drives to the local mart. He buys a box of that same brand, but family size. Now he’s back at home. Less hungry. A full has set in. Decides to have a sit. Wakes up the next day, has a fourth bowl, first thing. After that he has a fifth. Now he’s out of milk. He’s also late for work. Derek attends work and forgets to pick up milk on the way home. He goes back out to get milk. At the grocery he meets someone who may turn out to be the love of his life. He returns home, has a sixth bowl. Then two more. The shakes begin. He’s diabetic. Only a little, but every betic has their break. Derek desperately searches for an old prescription of life saving insulin. He finds it. He drives to the pharmacy to get it filled. There’s a line. Derek dies. Now Derek is in heaven, his every wish is instantly granted. He has a ninth bowl of cereal, the best yet. Eternity stretches as Derek devours bowl after bowl until he has reached his billionth bowl. The bowl after that takes literal hours. Derek reaches down at a deathly slow pace, each spoonful of sugar is a tortuous task. As he finally finishes bowl one billion and one it dawns on Derek that he might be in hell, in literal hell brought on by a lifetime of general apathy toward social causes and an overconsumption of the popular culture of his time. Derek orders another cereal from the celestial cereal makers that be. He has forgotten all other words and wants. He has become a titanic sized blob, Derek’s former face just a smudge in comparison, slurping up cereal like slop from a trough. Suddenly a beam of light breaks through the dark abyss that the gargantuan Derek calls his home. He squints his beady, now pure black eyes at the light and sees it is a woman, the woman from the grocery, floating naked in radiant light. Derek moves toward her at a terrifying speed, wriggling like a chinese dragon across the pitch black sky. Ever closer, Derek’s human sized mouth begins to grow to the width of his impossibly massive body, revealing row after row of razor sharp fangs. The floating, glowing woman opens her eyes, they glow even brighter than the blinding aura that surrounds her. With a flick of her wrist a sword of pure light spawns from her hand as she dives down below. Derek is sliced right open, his innards rain bright, colorful flakes and puffs like a city sized piñata. He lands with a solid thud, sweating and dying as the ethereal woman slowly approaches him. She bends down and kisses his forehead, dissolving him in light, extinguishing his being from all realities.

They called him John, because he didn’t have a name. He’d been pulled from the Dusek estate during the raid, where he’d almost been shot because he refused to identify himself. Only later did they find out it was because he didn’t speak. Still, Ana finds there are plenty of other ways to learn about John and his past. On the drive to the ward, Ana sneaks several glances at him in the rearview, watching as he stares out the windows, wide-eyed, like he’s never seen the city before. When they arrive, he’s shaking so badly that Ana has to call for help getting him out of the car. It’s then that she learns John reacts poorly to being touched, no matter how many times the attendant explains in a soft voice what she’s going to do and that it won’t hurt. He shuts down completely, eyes unblinking as he gazes out at nothing. Somehow, Ana finds that more unsettling than the shaking. That night, Ana goes over his medical records again, a cup of hot chocolate in her hands to ward off the chill from what she finds. The hospital had declared him a non-threat, submitting meekly to even the most invasive of procedures. That, combined with confessions from members of the Dusek family, had ensured his freedom...such as it was. Ana thinks of the tired lines that formed around John’s eyes as she brought him to his room at the ward. She swallows down another gulp of hot chocolate. When she gets to the section describing the injuries he’d presented with upon admittance, her hands become unsteady and she’s forced to set aside her mug. After seven years of working at the ward, she’s not squeamish. But the implications still make her shiver. The last part she reads before falling into a troubled sleep suggests that John’s vocal chords, tongue, and Broca's area in the brain are all undamaged. The next day, Ana asks John if he has ever spoken aloud or learned sign language. His face twists, equal parts annoyed and ashamed. He doesn’t meet her eyes. “Can you write?” she asks softly. He gives his head a minute shake, the clearest response she’s ever seen from him. “Can you read?” Another shake. Ana pauses, considering. “Would you like to learn?” John’s gaze flicks up to hers, briefly, grey eyes wide. When he looks away again, he’s slightly flushed, as though he’s done something he’s not supposed to. “Give me a day to gather some materials, and I’ll start teaching you,” Ana says with a smile. John doesn’t smile back, but his confused expression is better than what he’s worn previously. Ana hopes it’s an indicator of progress. She comes back the next day with paper, pens, and a workbook. She sits with John and goes over the sound of each letter. He never repeats after her, but she catches him silently mouthing along. He doesn’t let her guide his hand while attempting to draw each character, but he does trace over the letters she writes with careful, almost reverent lines. Ana only wishes he was making such progress in other areas. It takes a week before he’ll eat around other people. The one time the staff brought him to the dining room, he almost hurt himself in his scramble to flee from the small group of people around the table - no more than nine, but clearly too many for John. It takes an hour and a half for Ana to calm him. In addition to being skittish of crowds, John doesn’t seem too sure about going outside, either. Ana can’t help but think of his behavior as catlike in the way he lingers on the threshold of the door to the garden, clearly entranced but unwilling to take the last step out from under the ceiling. So she waits with the door held open, letting him watch the fountain and flowers and insects and trees from the safety of the ward’s shadows. Three weeks after John’s arrival at the ward, Ana nearly jumps in surprise when she pushes the door to the garden open and John walks out after her. He stands for a moment in a patch of sunlight, face tilted up at the sky. Then he gives her a questioning look that Ana has come to understand means, “What now?” “Let’s take a little walk,” she says. “Do you want me to tell you about some of the flowers?” John nods, as he usually does when Ana offers to teach him something. So she guides him through the garden, pointing out her favorites and telling him what they mean in the language of flowers. When they come to a stand of milkweed, Ana spots a chewed-on leaf and beckons John closer. “That’s a monarch caterpillar,” she says, indicating the tiny green-and-black worm as it nibbles on the edge of its leaf. “When it’s ready, it’ll form a chrysalis and turn into a monarch butterfly.” John looks delighted at the notion. His eyebrows come up as if saying, “Go on.” “Then the butterfly breaks free of the chrysalis and lets its wings fill out in the sun,” Ana says. “Once it’s strong enough, it’ll fly away. I think monarchs have quite a long migration before coming home and laying new eggs.” John nods once. He looks back at the caterpillar, thoughtful. “We could make a little enclosure and bring him inside,” Ana suggests. “He’d be safer with - “ She doesn’t finish the sentence, because John’s face moves from calm to panicked to angry within a breath. He glares at Ana, hands fisted and trembling. “We’d release him once he emerged from the chrysalis,” she hurries to add. John makes a short, slashing gesture. Ana blinks. She’s never seen him so adamant about anything. “Alright,” she says. “We’ll leave him be.” John nods again, this time firm, as if saying, “Good.” Ana tells the other staff to avoid disturbing the caterpillar. After his first excursion outside, John can’t seem to get enough of the garden. He returns every day to check on the caterpillar, but spends most of his time walking or sitting to watch the fountain. Ana holds their lessons outside when the weather is nice. John is a quick study, and soon he’s passing Ana notes with simple phrases. The first one he gives her just says thank you. The next one, a few days later, says water paint. After a quick round of 20 Questions, Ana figures out what he means. She brings him a set of watercolors and other supplies, and then sits back and watches as John experiments. His motions, while hesitant at first, are purposeful, like a musician tuning their instrument. Watching him work, Ana is struck with the thought that either John has done this before, or he’s a very, very fast learner. The first thing he paints once he seems sure of himself is the caterpillar on its leaf. Ana smiles at the illustration as it dries, and catches John smiling, too. Painting becomes part of the routine. At first, John paints the things around him. His room. The dining hall. And many, many pictures of the garden. Ana brings him sticky tack so he can hang them on his walls. Then, one day Ana finds him with his head in his hands, a page of darkness on the desk in front of him. He ignores her questions about it. And as the days go by, Ana sees more paintings like it. Dark things, done in greys and blacks. A figure curled up in an empty room. The shadow of a fist against the wall. Sometimes red creeps into the monochrome pictures. John doesn’t hang these next to the others, but nor does he destroy or discard them. He lets them dry, then shuts them carefully away in the desk. When asked, he writes out, I know where they are now. Ana doesn’t understand, not fully, but it seems like a healthy coping mechanism. Some days, he’ll take out the stack of paintings from the desk and flip through them, one by one, as if reading a solemn story. This is usually followed by a trip to the garden to see how the caterpillar is doing. It’s growing fast, and there eventually comes a day when John tugs excitedly at Ana’s sleeve and shows her the chrysalis hanging from the leaf. It’s light green with a golden seam near the top. It’s all John paints for two days. They’re walking in the garden a week later when Ana sees John go tense next to her. She follows his gaze to the stand of milkweed, where another resident is crouched down. When the man straightens, he’s holding something up to inspect it. Ana realizes a split second after John does, and she’s too slow to stop him when he lunges forward. His face is set in a silent snarl as he grabs the other resident’s wrist. Ana has never seen such harsh, rigid lines in his posture. “John!” she cries, suddenly frightened of what he might do. When he glances back at her, the other resident jerks free with a curse. He shoves John away and retreats inside, leaving a handful of bitter words in his wake. John ignores the comments, already crouched down to recover the dropped chrysalis. He lifts it gently, so gently, all anger gone. His eyes come up to meet Ana’s, pleading. “Bring it inside,” she says. “We’ll see what we can do.” Ana keeps an eye on him as they return to the ward. His movements are slow and slight, his feet barely lifting from the ground as he walks. At first she thinks he’s just trying to protect the chrysalis, but then she catches a glimpse of his face. It’s blank. Completely empty as he shuffles down the hall, shoulders hunched. “Are you somewhere else right now?” Ana asks him gently. John doesn’t seem to hear at first, but then he starts slightly, as though surprised she’s talking to him. He shakes his head vehemently. They take the chrysalis to the crafts room, where Ana helps John apply a tiny dab of glue and attach a string to the little black stem of the chrysalis. Then, they bring it back outside where John ties it securely to a low-hanging branch of juniper and Ana affixes a tiny sign reading DON’T TOUCH. “There,” she says as she straightens. “It’ll be safer now.” John nods, but his expression is distant again. His eyes are glazed and absent. It takes Ana another two hours to get him to look her in the eyes, at which point she sees those tiny, tired lines again. The next day, John spends hours working on a new painting. He locks it in the desk drawer almost before it’s finished drying, but Ana still has plenty of time to stare at what he’s created. On the paper, an indistinct figure hides their face with hands and arms mottled with bruises. Around one wrist is a paper bracelet like the ones the residents wear, but this one simply reads DON’T TOUCH. The paintings over the following days grow darker. Sometimes they are stained with tear-splashes. Sometimes John doesn’t finish them, instead viciously brushing a dark wash over the whole thing. Sometimes he takes out all of the paintings in the desk drawer and sifts through them, expression unreadable. Ana becomes unsure if the paintings are still helping John or if they’re perpetuating a cycle of rumination. John shrugs off her questions. A week passes. The chrysalis outside shows no sign of change, while by Ana’s count, it should have darkened by now. She elects not to tell John. And then one day, she walks in to find John painting a monarch butterfly that sheds light on its dark surroundings. “What brought this on?” she asks, pleasantly surprised. John looks up, eyes dancing. “ Dream, ” he finger-spells. “ Garden now? ” When Ana brings him outside, he makes a beeline for the hanging chrysalis. Ana’s mouth drops open when she sees the darkened exterior and the faint impression of a monarch’s wings within. “How?” she asks John. “How did you know?” “ Dream, ” he spells again with a shrug. Ana decides not to question it. On the day the butterfly emerges, she and John spend most of their time in the garden. John frets a bit - about the weather, Ana thinks - but the overcast sky clears up nicely for the big event. They watch in breathless anticipation as the butterfly wriggles free and begins to sun itself, fanning crumpled wings. Slowly, they begin to fill out, and the butterfly starts wandering from the chrysalis to the juniper branch. “Would you like to hold it?” Ana asks John. He tears his awed eyes from the butterfly long enough to spell out, “ Safe? ” “As long as you don’t touch the wings,” Ana assures him. Cautiously, John places a finger in the butterfly’s path. It readily climbs aboard and flicks its proboscis against his skin. Ana watches the astounded grin come over John’s face with an ache in her heart. The butterfly twitches its wings. In a flutter of motion, it makes the short leap from John’s hand to his nose. His head jerks back in surprise, but he seems to recover quickly. And then he starts to laugh. Softly. Carefully. In bits and pieces, as though he’s afraid of startling his passenger. Ana covers her mouth as she stares in delight. It’s the first voiced sound she’s heard from him. The butterfly jumps again, drifting down to the path. It spends a few seconds fanning its wings, then flutters over to a cluster of red flowers for a long drink. From there, it darts up, hovers for a moment, then flits away up and out of the garden. John watches it go, and while Ana expects to see some sadness in his expression, there’s nothing but joy and a fierce, desperate pride. Ana lets the moment linger, her heart full of light at the scene. At last, she lets out a breath. “Wasn’t that something?” John doesn’t respond, eyes still fixed on where the butterfly disappeared. His expression is softer now, pensive. Ana worries he might be headed back into his head. She gently prompts him. “John?” And he says, “Call me Ciel.”

Logline: A man, feeling guilty about a crime he's just committed, goes to see his therapist to confess, will it help, or will he just make it worse? \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The receptionist called Stan Foster into his appointment with his therapist; he's more nervous than he usually is. He sits directly across from his therapist, Doctor Ciara Ortega. They're sitting in silence for a minute, "All I say in this session is protected by patient-doctor confidentiality, right?" Stan asks. "Sure, everything you say in these sessions just remains with us," says Dr. Ortega. "Even if it's illegal?" Stan says. "Yes, even if it's illegal. Why don't you start by telling me what happened," Dr. Ortega says. "As you know, I work for Freeman Brothers Movers, so essentially, when we get a new job, I go in, and they give me the new assignment, I have no choice about who I work with, they just place us as we come in," Stan says. "I'm with you," Dr. Ortega says. "So, on a job last week, I'm put with two guys, Adam and Freddy. I've worked with Freddy before but never Adam. We head out to the location, and it's this huge mansion, some old rich lady is moving to a smaller town-house, she's downsizing, I guess, the closet in her bedroom is bigger than my whole apartment. So, we start to move her things; there are antiques, big bureaus, and all sorts of other heavy junk. We get to this back room that has about 80 boxes in it. Now, these boxes are sealed up pretty tight, triple taped with duck tape. They're heavy, each one is a dense package, but we start to load them up and bring them out to the truck. We're about halfway through when Freddy and I accidentally dropped one, and it tears open a bit. We see inside, and the box is jam-packed with stacks of cash, mixed denomination. Adam comes out to join us, and he figures there are about 100 million dollars in all these boxes," Stan says. "Just so I'm following along, you're moving a whole bunch of boxes, like 80 of them, and about halfway through you find out that the boxes are jam-packed with millions of dollars?" Dr. Ortega says. "That's right, well, anyway, as I was saying, Adam has this idea; he doesn't believe anyone knows that the money is here except the three of us and the old lady. There's no manifest for this move; she just put the money in a box and taped it. Adam makes a suggestion, what if we were to steal the money, make the old lady have an accident, and then split the cash," Adam says. "How did that make you feel?" Dr. Ortega asks. "At first, Freddy and I were skeptical of the idea; we're going to kill some old lady and steal her cash? It didn't feel right. However, as we're getting close to the end of the job, the old lady shows up and starts yelling at us for taking too long. She leaned into us; she said if we didn't speed it up, she was going to report us to our boss, gave us a whole bunch of guff. We were angry; it was at that point that Freddy and I got on board with Adam's plan. So we told the old lady that we would be there, with her stuff, later that night once we had packed everything up," Stan says. "How were you going to kill the old lady?" Dr. Ortega asks. "It was Adam's idea; he had an answer for everything. So we do finish packing the truck, but we put the boxes with the money in first so that they're at the back. The three of us drive to the new house, unload the front of the truck, so the old lady isn't suspicious. It was at that point, Adam took over, he was like a crazed maniac. He forced the old lady into her bedroom and smothered her with a pillow. I couldn't even watch; he was deranged," Stan says. "Oh my goodness, and what did you do from there?" Dr. Ortega asks. "We cleaned up, making sure not to leave any fingerprints, DNA where it shouldn't be, finish the job exactly how the old lady wanted. Then we drove the cash out to a storage facility. Adam had the whole thing worked out, his cousin owns the storage facility, he gave us a good deal on a unit and put it in some generic name. We spent the rest of the night loading those heavy boxes into the storage unit, locked it up, and went back," Stan says. "Okay, walk me through the next day," Dr. Ortega requests. "Freddy and I were starting to feel a little guilty on the drive back to the moving company, but we were in it now. It took about two days for someone to discover the body, but when I say this lady was old, it surprised no one that she passed away in her sleep. Adam told us that we had to wait to spend the money, any unusual spending would send up some red flags. We were paying close attention to the coverage of the woman's death, there was nothing suspicious reported, no mention of the money, and her family thought the stress of the move had killed her. We thought we were free and clear until the police called all three of us in for some questioning," Stan says. "The police, so they did suspect foul play?" Dr. Ortega asks. "They made our meetings at the police station, an hour apart from one another, I don't know whether that was to get us to turn on each other, but it kind of worked. Freddy was a wreck; he had the first meeting. We had our story straight, but we were worried Freddy was going to crack. We met for breakfast before the police questioning, Freddy could hardly keep it together, he couldn't remember basic facts from the story, Adam and I were concerned that we had liability on our hands. Adam walked Freddy back to his car, wished him good luck at the police interview, and then stabbed him in the abdomen. Adam killed Freddy, and that made me nervous," Stan says. "So, Freddy didn't show up to his police interview?" Dr. Ortega asks. "No, he didn't, Adam had set his car on fire out in the woods, slamming into a tree first, making it seem like an accident. As I said, Adam is a messed up guy. We still went through with the police interviews; I thought the questions were kind of easy; I didn't think the police suspected foul play. But, something had Adam spooked after the police interview," Stan says. "What do you mean, Adam was spooked?" Dr. Ortega asked. "He was acting weird; in fact, he wants to meet in the middle of an abandoned construction site, tonight. I'm a little nervous; I'm worried that he thinks I'm a liability and that he's going to kill me. I don't know what to do. If I don't show up, he's going to think I turned on him and he's going to come after me. If I show up, maybe he was going to kill me anyway," Stan says. "What's the name of the construction site?" Dr. Ortega asked. "It's the one down by Philomena Boulevard; the one shut down like three months ago," Stan says. "That's very secluded, not a good sign. Do you have some protection for yourself?" Dr. Ortega asks. "A gun? No, I don't have anything like that," Stan says. "Here's what you can do, when you get to the construction site tonight, tell Adam that you've told me about this meeting. That if you were to disappear for whatever reason, you instructed me to go to the police. That way, the two of you can have a conversation about what to do next," Dr. Ortega says. "Okay, I guess that makes sense, thanks, doc," Stan says. "Be careful, Stan, and don't forget to make an appointment with Roberta on your way out," Dr. Ortega says. It's a pitch-black, moonless night, Stan arrives at the construction site a little early, parks in the middle of the lot and waits for Adam. He comes and pulls up beside Stan and gets out of the car. "I think the police are onto us, something about the way they were asking their questions this morning," Adam says. Just as Adam finished the sentence, a gunshot rings out from across the lot, hitting Adam directly in the head. Out of the darkness comes Dr. Ortega. She holds the gun firmly on Stan. "I'm sorry Stan, but Adam was right, the police are totally on to you, you know they can tell when a pillow smothering is used in a murder, right?" Dr. Ortega asks. "How could you, what are you going to shoot me?" Stan asks. "Not quite yet, I need one little bit of information first, where's the storage facility?" Dr. Ortega asks. "I'm not going to tell you, you're going to have to shoot me," Stan says. "Wrong answer, Stan," Dr. Ortega says as she shoots Stan in the leg. "Alright, the money's at the storage facility on Grayson Avenue, the one with the inflatable security guard standing in the window," Stan says. "Unit number?" Dr. Ortega demands. Stan is in pain and holding his leg, Dr. Ortega fires a shot into the ground near his other leg, "unit number, Stan?" "35, the money is in storage container 35," Stan says. Dr. Ortega starts walking away from the construction site, turns around and shoots Stan in the head. Dr. Ortega went down to the storage facility, picked the lock on unit 35, and put the boxes into her truck. Dr. Ortega did not factor in that Adam had decided to work with the police, that he was wearing a wire to incriminate Stan at their meeting, that he captured the whole conversation and the murder at the construction site. A few days later, the police promptly arrested Dr. Ortega, attempting to get to Mexico.

I was lying in bed, just spinning through social media to pass the time before my eyes got heavy, when she popped up on my feed as someone 'suggested for me'. My stomach dropped and a frog jumped into my throat. I sat up and clicked on the image of her smiling holding a handsome little boy. She was even more stunning than before. I scrolled through her page, recognizing friends and family members who I had met when we dated back in high school. Her dark brown hair still spiraled down her back. She traded in her jerseys and air forces for blouses and heels Her adorable smile still accented by the ever so slight chip in her front tooth that she sustained as a child when her younger sister hit her in the face while she was drinking from a Coke bottle. She was still petite with a slight figure. The only real differences was she was more mature and she had a son. I scrolled through her timeline and her photos. A few scattered images of a man were peppered in her albums, but for the most part it was just her, her son and her family. With each picture, my heart slammed against my chest, faster and faster. I hovered over the “add” button, contemplating the results. Would she remember me? Was she married? Was she happy in her relationship? Would my friend request upend both of our lives? I hesitated for a few minutes still scrolling her page before I pressed it. I put the phone down and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t sleep as I remembered my time with her. I met her in the mall cafeteria our senior year. She walked past me wearing khaki colored Glo jeans. I nearly broke my neck watching her walk from the lunch line to a table in the back. We made brief eye contact and she shied away bashfully but not before letting our gaze hang in the air. I turned to my friend and said, “That’s my future wife.” He laughed and dared me to go speak to her. I was scared but he refused to let me remain a coward. He popped out of his seat and ran towards her. I gave chase to encourage him to return to our seats so that I could daydream about her from a safe distance. He wasn’t having that, and reached her table before I could say anything. I arrived seconds later but the conversation was already in full swing. “Yeah, this is my boy, Tito. Hes’ new.” He said as I nervously approached. I gave an awkward smile and a lame wave. The girls giggled at the table. She looked down and her friend spoke. “This is Missy.” Her wave was as lame as mine. My friend hit me on the arm, encouraging me to speak up. I mustered up the courage and said in a breathy voice, “Hey, how are you.” “Good”, She replied simply. Her friends giggled again. My friend rolled his eyes at my shyness. He prodded me. “You want to get coffee sometime?” I blurted out, not even a coffee fan at the time. “Sure.” We exchanged numbers and my friend and I walked away. He was laughing so hard he stumbled as we made our way around the tables to exit the cafeteria. I, on the other hand, was floating. Our courtship didn’t last long but for those few months, I felt fireworks like never before, or after for that matter. Countless nights in that short period were spent awake for the entire night talking on the phone about our wild families, our goals for the future and how happy we were. After a few weeks, being able to find some alone time we made love. Maybe I was a bit overzealous because immediately following, as I held her in my arms I said, “I am going to marry you.” Her face dropped, but she politely smiled and playfully asked me to stop. At the time I thought it was because she was embarrassed. We were young and inexperienced in love but I knew what I knew. I have always believed that through transparency, relationships are built the strongest, despite what some may think. However, I didn’t realize that sometimes, people use words to manipulate and to take advantage. I thought my truth would make her happy, knowing that I loved her so much. I assumed that spilling my heart out, would encourage her to share hers. After that night, she started to ignore my texts. My calls would go to voicemail and she avoided me. It wasn’t until months later, I heard she received some well meaning advice from her friends. They told her that I couldn’t possibly know that kind of love and that my intentions must be to manipulate her. I scared her away. We didn’t speak or see each other for almost ten years after. She moved away, attending a private University, receiving her Masters degree in accounting and currently working at a small but prestigious firm. She had a young son but she appeared to be doing really well for herself. I, on the other hand, got caught up in a different world. One of music, gangs, drugs and women. The clean cut young man she had spent some of her early days with, was now a tattooed artist with two children and a lifestyle like a rap video. Yet ,to my surprise, a few days later, I woke up and I had a new Facebook friend. I smiled with delight as I opened up the messenger app. I contemplated sending her a message. Before I could lose the nerve, I started typing and deleting on my keyboard, ultimately landing on something that played out as awkwardly as our first interaction: Hey! How are you? Hope all is well. So good to see you. I let it marinade in the box before I sent it hoping it would somehow getting better during the delay. Then I hit send. Within seconds a bubble appeared with the waiting ellipses. My palms moistened, my throat tightened and my heartbeat nearly doubled. Hey! I’m good. It’s so good to hear from you. I hope you’re good! The conversation continued for the next few days as she filled me in on all of the details in between the information I had already gathered. She was engaged to her son's father but their relationship had been flat for years. They spent no time together and had been engaged for two years with no date in sight. She had been with him since we separated. I told her about my life. How my best friend was murdered and how it had impacted my life and direction for a long time. I told her about my children and where I was with things. We reminisced about how different we were but how much we still carried remnants of the teenagers we were from so long ago. Eventually, I mustered up the courage to invite her out for a coffee, which she gladly accepted. There were two hours between us so we chose a day when her work brought her onto my side of Boston. We picked a small coffee shop within walking distance of her job. I arrived 20 minutes early, with shot nerves, sweaty armpits and chain smoking. I stayed in my car puffing away, looking in every direction waiting for her to arrive. A beautiful Hispanic woman started walking toward the little shop with only two outdoor settings. She wore a black pencil skirt and a white, black top and red heels which I later realized was her favorite color combination. Her dark hair was pulled up with one spiral strand hanging delicately on the right side. She walked confidently in my direction, but she hadn’t seen me yet. When she was close enough, I stood up and out of the car. A cigarette dangling coolly from my lips as I locked the door. My pants hung low like my chain. My hair was expertly cut, which I made sure was fresh that morning. “Hey.” I said, trying to be cool. My shirt sleeves rolled up so she could see me tattoo sleeves. I hoped the bad boy image would help me win her over. I wasn’t confident my game or station in life would work so I needed to pull out all the stops. She smiled, pulling the rogue strand behind her ear, her cheeks taking on a pink undertone. “Hey, Tito.” “Let’s grab a seat,” I said, directing her to one of the outside chairs. “How you like our coffee?” I asked, still trying to sound cool. “Ice coffee, extra extra please.” She reached for her purse. I shook my head, “I got this.” pulling out a wad of cash, again hoping it was impressing her. I knew on paper she was way out of my league but I thought that if I could stay in my league, maybe I could get her to like me again. She smiled, looking at me and not once at the thick wad of nearly a thousand dollars in my hand. I made my way into the minuscule shop and emerged minutes later with two ice coffees. I placed hers in front of her with a straw. I smiled as I took my seat, careful to make sure my back was to the wall, one of my personal quirks. She sat playing with her lone strand, smiling at me, blushing like we were teenagers again. “You look just as beautiful as you have always looked.” I managed to say. “Thank you,” she said, “You look great, too.” I think I blushed, knowing I looked different from my younger years. A beard, tattoos and muscle growth meant I was barely recognizable. I was scared her taste wasn't me, but she was giving me the impression that I was wrong. We talked for over an hour. Eventually, it was time for her to return to work. I stood up first with a smile plastered to my face. It waned a bit as I realized our small fairy tale was ending. She lived far away from me and these rendezvous would be nearly impossible with any regularity. Still I had to ask. “Can we do this again, soon?” “Yeah, I’d like that. I have a client in Brockton for a few days next week. I’m actually staying local because it’s a big job. Maybe we can grab lunch?” “Dinner?” Again, I had to ask. The butterflies in my stomach had not flapped with such ferocity since the first time I saw her. She paused, looked at me and nodded, “Dinner works.” I walked her back to her office. We said goodbye with a hug and I kissed her on the cheek, making sure to linger just a second too long, hopefully letting her know how I felt. She hugged me back, squeezing tight, her fingers pressing firmly against my back muscles. “Thank you. It was great to see you.” She said, moving the relentless strand of hair from the side of her face, placing it back over her ear. “It was my pleasure.” I responded as I opened the door for her to walk through. I watched her walk into the office. I turned around and for the first time in ten years I was floating again.

I stepped into the freezing cold. I loved the feeling of fresh snow falling from the sky, turning your cheeks and nose red as you strained to look past the bushels of snow swirling and falling from the sky. I was so happy. Everything always seemed to go my way. “Daydreaming again Kara?” My friend Remi grinned. “One day, you’ll get your head stuck in the clouds. Or the dome, I guess.” Remi agreed with me on everything. We’ve been best friends since I fell off the swings in first grade, when the Earth fell and everyone had to move to this base on the moon. I don't really remember my time on Earth, but from what I heard it had been dying for a long time and then it just...became uninhabitable. “Just thinking.” I reply. “Let’s get to school before class starts.” We race to the school, the wind whipping our hair. We stop at the courtyard, out of breath and tired, but with grins on our pink cheeks. “I won.” I say, gasping for air. “No way.” Remi pants. “Yes, way. Come on let’s go inside.” When we get to our seats, no one is there yet. I take out my book and read for a few quiet minutes before a stampede of other students crash through the door, catching up on all the things their friends missed over the weekend. I roll my eyes and catch Remi doing the same next to me. We burst into laughter. “Ok, Ok, quiet down class. Let’s get started.” Mr. Bun walked into the classroom, wearing something different than he usually does. Most days, he just has a boring dark suit and tie, but today he wore armor, complete with a helmet and sword. Remi and I almost burst into another round of laughter. “Today we will be learning about battles and how they were....” Mr. Bun’s voice drowned out as a flood of random things rampaged through my head and a massive headache was brought on. I braced myself as one main memory stood out. A man in a breastplate and helmet, soldiers standing alongside him, shouting commands and shooting targets. Sweat dripped down my 5 year old face in the blistering heat and a small dog stood at attention by my side as the man in armor shouted something unintelligible. I snapped out of my weird hallucination. This was the 5th time this had happened this week. It felt like I was seeing memories of myself. Except... I had never done any of those things before. “Everything ok, Ms. Starlin?” Mr. Bun asked. I looked up. Great. Now everyone in the class was staring at me. “Ummmm, yeah.” I replied, my face burning with embarrassment. “I hoped you’d like this fun day I have planned. It seems more your style.” “Umm, yeah, it seems fun.” I glanced around me and everyone was smiling at me, like they were...happy for me. That was weird. Or was it? Did that usually happen? I frowned. Everything always seems to go my way.... Suddenly, everything blurred together and blurs I fall to the ground and clutch my head as a barrage of memories, but not memories keeps flooding through my head, though all of them slip through my mind like silk, none of them staying in my mind. Then I slipped into the inky darkness of sleep. I woke up with Remi standing above me with my parents. All three of them smiled with relief as they saw my eyes open and my parents wrapped their arms around me. “What happened?” I ask, my throat dry and raspy. “You passed out in school.”My mom says. “We took you to the hospital a few days ago, but eventually they let us take you back home so you could be more comfortable.” “A few days!” I shout, surprised by how much I slept. “Yeah. But now we can go out and play, since you are better now.” Remi says, a grin appearing on her face. “But wait? Shouldn’t I rest first?” “Unless you want to.” Remi replies. A frown appearing on her face “I mean, I don’t want to, but shouldn’t I?” I say. “Why would you need to? You can do whatever you want.” Remi says. As I thought back on it, I could always do what I wanted. Was that wrong? It was. But why? My head rebelled in pain again as different things pushed against each other, like my brain was going to war with itself. I got up, no one helping me. I didn’t want help, but shouldn't they have tried anyway? Or should they? It felt as though 2 realities were coming together in my mind, 2 realities that were totally different, but also the same. I stumbled across the living room, gathering my bearings. I glanced at the living room table, doing a double take as it seemed to blink in and out of existence. Then more memories came coming back to me as I started to piece things together. When the Earth collapsed, nobody went to the moon, we were in a... I couldn't latch on to that piece of information, but now I guessed I was in a VR world. Then, a new memory surfaced from the depths of my mind. A way out. The world around me started to crumble around me, glitching in and out as I regained more and more of my memories. There was a code word to get out, what was it? I ran as I thought, ignoring Remi's calls for me that kept getting cut short because she kept blinking in and out of existence. I stopped at the park, searching my memory for the word but It was like trying to find a needle in a pile of other identical needles. There were too many memories. This was too crazy. I glanced at my favorite tree. Something was engraved in it. I traced my fingers over the words and remembered why my instincts told me to go here. I softly whispered, "Remi." I woke up again in a room awash with blue light. A woman stood in front of me, frowning slightly as my eyes fluttered open. “This was not supposed to happen.” She said, turning around, probably to document something. “I know.” I said. “You said I wouldn’t wake up. That I would be happy all the time in there.” “I know what I said.” The lady sniped back. “But you did something we did not expect.” I frowned. “What?” She turned back towards me. “You remembered.”

I hadn't seen Miles in fifteen years when we bumped into each other at the grocery store. Back then, we'd gone separate ways. He'd dropped out of high school to start learning a trade, and I'd gone to university. Our lives diverged and we fell out of contact. But our recognition was instant, and after a few minutes of conversation he invited me to his house. It was on the way that we caught up in broad strokes. I was married; he wasn't. I had a kid; he didn't. I worked for a corporation in a mid-level office job; he was self-employed. When I asked him what he did, he smiled a little mischievously and said, "I'm a bookie, but you could say I'm a bit of an employer myself these days." When I asked what he meant, he said I'd see soon enough. What I saw first was that his splendid two-storey yellow brick house was situated deep in the suburbs, and seemed decidedly too big for a single guy in his thirties. Nevertheless, I was impressed he could afford it. My wife and I didn't have our own house yet. "Renting or owning?" I asked as we approached the front door. "Owned," he said. "I've had a good run these last two years." Although the house had looked normal from the street, when we got closer I noticed that the front doorknob was odd. It was shaped like a human hand. Miles was carrying groceries, so he motioned for me to do the opening. "It's not locked?" I asked. He smiled just as I touched the doorknob--the warm, living doorknob!--for it didn't just look like a human hand; it *was* a human hand! Obediently, the front door swung open, and huddled in the triangular space between the door and the wall was a hooded, black-clad figure whose gold-painted fingers I had just touched. Without even raising its head, the figure shut the door behind us and replaced its hand into the door hole. Miles paid the figure no mind and continued to the kitchen, where another similarly dressed figure stood motionless by the light switch. Miles set down the groceries, clapped his hands and the figure turned on the lights. By now I had to ask: "What is--" "Look, I get that it may seem a little weird," he said, "but hear me out. These are people who owe me money. They're unemployed and they can't conceivably pay it back anytime soon." I followed him to the living room, where another figure turned on the lights, illuminating several *pieces* of human furniture. "So they're working off their debts." Miles whistled, and yet another figure appeared, this one holding two imported beers. Miles handed one to me before setting the other on his nude female *coffee table*, who / which reacted instinctively to the cold glass bottle by momentarily arching her / its back. "It's perfectly consensual," he added, anticipating my concerns. "And what would be the more humane alternative, breaking their knee caps?" By now my initial discomfort was turning into a chilled fear. I kept remembering how the doorknob-hand had felt in mine. Ostensibly both were human hands, but the gap in-- "Dignity," I said, then repeated the word in a whisper so as not to let *them* hear. "Don't you think they lack dignity?" He chuckled. "See, even *your* natural reaction is to treat them as if they're invisible. As for dignity, they most definitely had it. Because they mortgaged it, and now they're working to earn it back. I didn't force them to gamble. Now they're house servants, that's all. Are you opposed to house servants?" I admitted I supposed I wasn't. "But this is such a strange form of it," I said, starting to stammer like in my elementary school days. By now the stress of being in this bizarre place combined with the mundane act of drinking beer was twisting me psychologically in ways I couldn't understand. I wanted suddenly out, but the most I could tactfully bring myself to do was ask about the location of the bathroom. "Just down the hall," Miles said. I stepped with dread. The bathroom was large but felt immediately cramped by the presence of two figures: one wrapped entirely in bath towels, and the other kneeling by the toilet, its hooded head down and arms up, holding a roll of toilet paper as if it were the idol of a long-forgotten god. Of course, I couldn't go in these conditions, so I waited uncomfortably for a minute, listening to the figures breathe, before washing my hands. "Are you OK?" I whispered to them. No response. "Do you need help?" *Silence.* I shut off the water faucet, turned-- And nearly fell back against the bathroom mirror as the towel-wrapped one rubbed his / her / its moisture-absorbing material / body against my wet hands. "Please, don't," I begged quietly, escaping backward into the hall. Miles was casually drinking his beer. "Did you try to save them?" he asked. I nodded. "They don't need saving." He gestured for me to follow him, and I did, down the hall and up the stairs to a bedroom. But it wasn't Miles' bedroom. "I had it prepared just for you," he said, "in case you wanted to spend the night." The room was spacious and clean, decked out with an array of speakers, a large TV and a human night table flanking a queen-sized bed, freshly made and topped with a beautiful handmade quilt, on which rested a mattress-long body pillow, its linen case rising and falling gently with the breath of the human inside it. I wanted to back out, but Miles caught me by the shoulders. "Remember when in high school you told me I wouldn't ever amount to anything?" His grip was firm. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "Don't be sorry. You were wrong, that's all." "How long do they *work* for?" I asked, watching the body pillow shift slightly on the bed, desiring more than anything to change the topic. But also curious, genuinely and morbidly curious. "However long they want. Eight hours, twelve hours, twenty-four hour shifts. It's really not a bad gig, lying in a pillowcase on a comfortable bed for twice the minimum wage." He nudged me forward. "Go ahead. Try it." I didn't want to, but there was a menace in his voice, an unpredictability that made it feel safer to obey than disagree. He may not have been threatening me directly, but the threat was in the air, invisible and atomized like a perfume. I got on the bed. Miles watched my every uncomfortable move. "Like it?" "Yes," I said, "it's a very nice mattress." For a second, I imagined that the mattress was filled with people and I was lying on top of them, crushing them--but as I shifted my weight I felt the more familiar support of springs, and I could breathe again. "Try hugging the body pillow," Miles instructed me, the coolness in his voice betraying how used he'd gotten to being the boss. I didn't want to do that either, but I did it anyway, not only pervasively conscious of the army of servants Miles had amassed, which he could turn against me at any moment, but wanting desperately to feel even a fraction of the power he wielded over them. Inching closer to the body pillow and turning over onto my side before lightly placing an arm on top of-- It squirmed, bony, warm and human underneath the crisp linen case. The person inside was a man. I wondered who and what he had bet on and how much he owed and whether it was really so bad what Miles was doing and if it would have been better for the man to be working two or three part-time jobs, probably labour, probably more tiring and dangerous, than being paid to be this objectified: this passive: this utterly domesticated. "Nice, right?" Miles asked. "Yes." "You can get up now." I got off the bed, smoothed my clothes and followed Miles wordlessly into the hall, down the stairs and into a spacious gym. He was so confident that not once did he look back; he knew that I was behind him. Although we didn't go inside, on the way we had passed a room outfitted with cameras, lights and a circular padded stage, and my imagination was running wild with thoughts of the recordings made in there-- The gym lights flashed cold and bright. I squinted. Arranged before me was an impressive collection of weights, workout gear and exercise machines, but it was the object occupying the centre of the room whose existence sent an electric shock down my spine. A leather heavy bag hung ominously from the ceiling. Miles passed me boxing wraps for my hands, then began wrapping his own. "I know this is a lot, and I know how it feels, the pressure building up inside you right now. Believe me. Jealousy. Disgust. Maybe even anger: at me, the world, your own fucking life. When I get that way, I come down here and work those emotions out. It's not healthy holding them in. Whatever you do, you can't let them grow inside you." When he was done with his wraps, he handed me a pair of training gloves. I put them on, constantly eyeing the heavy bag, which was swinging now ever so softly from the steel ceiling mount. "Give it a shot," he said. I stood frozen in place. *I knew there was someone in there.* "I can't d--" "Of course you can," he said, then pulled his arm back and delivered a wicked right cross to the heavy bag. It responded with a dull thud followed by a reverberating groan. "Just like that." "It's a *person*," I said, my voice rising. "Which makes it even easier. Just ask the person if you can hit her." *Her.* "Do you want to get hit?" Miles asked the heavy bag. "Yes," a muffled voice responded. "See? She wants you to do it. If you don't do it, you're deciding for her, and how condescending would that be--for a man to tell a woman what she can and can't do." "Hit me *please*," the heavy bag mumbled. I made a fist and threw a light jab. Just enough to feel the bag: the padding, and the contour of the person hanging inside. "Come on, man." It made me sick to my stomach. But as I lifted my hand to my mouth to keep from retching, Miles put in a thudding left hook that lifted the bag on impact. I could hear the stifled pain within. "She gets paid by the punch," Miles said. "Ask her if she wants another." I didn't want to, but the answer came anyway: "Hit me." "One thousand dollars off her debt if you give it all you've got," Miles said. "Do it *please*," the bag begged. I planted my feet, exhaled--once, twice--loosened my shoulder, and put all my weight behind a looping shot that connected sickeningly with the side of the bag, my mind frantically trying to decide where I'd connected, face, ribs, hip, *because I was sure I'd felt bone*, as the bag bounced, the ceiling mount screeched and the woman inside moaned in pain. For a while: silence. Then, "Thank... you," she whimpered. "Nice one! What do you say, another grand?" Miles asked with a smile. "Again *please*." So I got her again, and again. And again. Each time connecting with everything I had; each time shaving a thousand dollars off her debt. Good deed followed by good deed--until Miles himself grabbed my arm and pulled me away, and I realized, over the pounding of my beating heart, how much anger there was in me. "Easy, easy," he repeated. After I'd calmed down, I felt the horror of it: of what I had done. I had beaten someone, *a woman*, and all her begging and thanking couldn't convince me it was right. Not that she was speaking now... Miles unhooked the heavy bag and laid it reverently on the floor as I took off my gloves and undid my wraps. He unzipped the bag. "Do you remember our prom?" he asked as if out of the blue. "Vaguely." "You went with Rashida Parker," he said. I did remember that. "Who did you go with?" I asked. Miles had pulled a body wrapped in a thick, bloodied sheet from the unzipped bag. He picked it up and cradled it. She looked small and fragile in his arms. For a second, I thought that maybe she was dead, but then she murmured something swollen and incomprehensible, and I knew I hadn't beaten her to death. I had almost forgotten my own question when, "No one," Miles answered. "I was supposed to go with Rashida, and she'd even said 'yes' to me"--he had unwrapped some of the sheet, revealing a tangle of black hair, and I thought, *No, it couldn't be*, but it was: *she* was--"when you asked her and she said 'yes' to you. After all, why would she go with some skid who smoked cigarettes by the railroad tracks, a future deadbeat whose parents worked in a factory and who couldn't read Shakespeare, when she could go with *someone like you*?" He unfolded the remaining sheet from Rashida's body and laid her on top of it. Her eyes were swelling shut but she could still see, and all I could do was avert my gaze as she slowly pronounced my name, each syllable willed into a hurt existence, before thanking me repeatedly with her fattened lips. Although she looked barely like the girl I'd fallen in love with, it was unmistakably her. After she could speak no more, she crawled forward, reaching pathetically for my legs, her broken body a coloured patchwork of various stages of bruising, as I backed instinctively away. I was scared and I was ashamed. "You'll appreciate the irony," Miles said. "She lost her money betting on mixed martial arts." He laughed. There was something about that laugh, something devilish and deep, something *true* that made me lunge for him--for his despicable throat! But even that did not stop the laughter, which resounded through the gym as we fought like boys on the padded floor. And still he laughed when his hooded minions arrived and pulled me off him, swinging wildly at the air. I'd bloodied his nose but nothing more, and as they dragged me away, up the stairs and to the front door, Miles followed us with a monstrous smile. "I am the way the world is," he said. Then I was out the door and it was closed and it was dark and suburban and I was sitting on the concrete front step, staring at the golden doorknob-hand jutting profoundly through the hole in the door of a yellow brick house. I got to my feet and descended the steps to the street, all the while trying to act cool and not make a scene, because that seemed like the worst thing imaginable: drawing attention to myself. My fighting spirit had evaporated. I was a coward once more. I buried my hands in my pockets and kept my head down, walking briskly through the cold night air, but when I reached the nearest intersection I turned and started to run. On both sides houses flew past at a blur. Illuminated windows. Imagined conversations. I knew Miles wasn't behind me, but because I lacked his natural confidence I kept glancing back--yet the only thing which followed were his words, *I am the way the world is*, and when I stopped to catch my breath, I looked directly upon a lighted window: several silhouettes gathered around a table. Was it a family or a group of hooded servants waiting on their master? I couldn't tell, but they must have seen me too because suddenly the curtains were drawn and the illumination ended. *I am the way the world is.* He was wrong. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't believe it. Miles was the anomaly--the evil--and in every other house, behind every other beautiful brick wall, there were normal people with normal needs and normal relationships. They desired normal things and they worked normal jobs, just like me. In my stillness I felt suddenly the autumn cold and took out my phone, and almost without thinking I swiped toward the Uber app-- That's when I understood. I smashed the phone against the sidewalk. Faces looked out. *Miles was right*, and I walked home for hours that night, terrified of myself and of every house I passed in which uncounted silhouettes passed silent and unseen.

<<Violet>> The trees reached toward the sky as if praying for a way out of the forest. I run up one of them with sturdy branches while the wolves whimper at the bottom, I see their eyes and I hope soon that this chase would end. I miss my home and most of all I miss luke who convinced me to go with my dad to witch mountain because he would be in Florida this week and he didn't want me to be lonely. The wolves finally whimper and scurry away and I finally can lay back on the tree and figure out what I will do, AHHH! I hear as I wake up with a jolt and the dream, the scream was what woke me up. It was the scream of my father in his tent two nights ago when the wolves attacked, He was sleeping and I heard a howl and went to look just in time to see a teenage boy jump into a waterfall as the wolves tried to bite him and when they realized they lost their prey they went into my dads' tent where the scream was all I heard and I was gone. I climb down from the tree as tears stream down my face and I decide to go hike down to the bottom of the waterfall so I can drink some water with the straw that purifies water, I was smart enough to grab the survival kit before I ran but a coward for leaving my father to die. My phone died even though I had it on the portable charger, I can still see Luke's message saying "I miss you already violet." I can also picture him lying on the beach, without me, Creaaakk! I whip around and see the teenager who is probably 2 years older than me staring back at me with pale skin and red eyes. Vampire, I only ever read about them in books of witch mountain but they were only folk tales to scare kids, No this is real. I don't have time to think before I feel dizzy and then I hear a beep, My phone has charged! I run again so I can run up another tree to call for help. He doesn't do anything but stare as his pale face darkens as the night grows on. I rip out my phone but no reception the only thing I can get is luke's social media page since he has it on private and doesn't require internet, I scroll down and see pictures of him and me, I scroll down more and then I stop dead in my tracks as I see him on the beach kissing a girl. I let out a shocked gasp as I scroll down more and more. He only wanted me to go on the trip so he could cheat on me and since I would be gone a month then he thought that I didn't have his personal social media site. I curl into a ball and cry, I hear a thump as I look up and see an Outline of the vampire next to me, I jump and have to catch myself before I fall off the branch. I say in a shaky voice "what do you want with me?". He doesn't say anything but stares at me, now I am freaking out until his soft voice says "I saw you running from the werewolves so I followed you and I didn't mean to make you cry I just was wondering what you were doing on vampire territory." I glare and this time more confidently say "I saw you at the waterfall before you jumped, and what is Vampire territory?" he chuckles softly and says "yes this is where the northern vampire tribe lives up on those houses on the hills. I was hunting when the wolves were surrounding me and I smelt your blood so I had to leap into the water to control myself". I nod and he says almost immediately after His sentence ended " we are millions of miles away from civilization and vampires can run the distance and not die we would get figured out quickly, anyway I can take you to my family and they could help get you food." British accent, oof I think I am in a coma, "that sounds wonderful, thank you". He Grabs me and put me on his back and He is running and jumping through the trees in a second and then before I have time to blink we're at a hidden house filled with windows all around. Two men come out and ask the boy what happened and then he took me in and brought me to a room with a bed that looked like it has never been slept on and books everywhere. The boy says "This is my room, I am jake by the way" I gawk at him "what?" he asks. "The bed is untouched and it is huge!" he chuckles as a girl who looks about 5, so 11 years younger than me and jake looks either 20-18. She gives me a tray of food I thank her as she leaves and I eat, more like gorge myself with the food since I didn't eat dinner and the events of today have been unbearable and painful. I yawn and he asks me "what's your name?" "My name is violet", I take out my camo back with all of the survival gear I need and I look for my phone then I realize it's not there so I look in my front pocket and see the crushed up remains. Jake follows my gaze and see's the crushed-up remains and says "I'm surprised you're still together even though I tried to go gentle. I go over to the shelf and see a player for a disc and hit play, It plays piano songs which makes sense why there is a piano downstairs. It plays classical in a beautiful melody as I close my eyes. It reminds me of twilight and the way Edward looked at Bella kind of like jake looked at me. This feels like the story but if only life was like that, you give your heart to a boy and pledge your love as he goes to Florida to cheats on me! I don't realize the coldness of Jake's body an inch from mine as he wipes my tears and turns off the radio. "are you ok", I look up and he is hovering above me. I nod and say "it's just been a stressful few hours. Why are you controlled now but not earlier jake?" I eagerly changed the subject and he replies " you weren't bleeding earlier" as he gently but quickly grabs my wrist where I got scraped only hours before by a rock when my dad and I were fishing. Yawn and he leads me to the untouched bed and as I crawl under the covers he turns to leave and I blurt out "won't you stay with me? I need to know more about you like your age" I can tell he smiles as he turns around and answers "I'm 17 and I'm guessing your 16, yes I will stay though I do prefer, not to be too close because my skin is made of ice and though my desire for blood is overwhelming so is being close to you". I nod but don't give up "why is being close to you overwhelming" this time he closes his mouth and doesn't answer just sits on the bed by my feet and watches me. <<Jake>> I see her stomach rise and fall and see her moving soon after and then she is shaking and I touch her shoulder to wake her from the dreaded nightmare as she jolts awake from my cold touch her body is soaked with sweat and she starts crying. I can't do anything but watch because I'm afraid that if I touch her sweat-soaked arm I will get the smell of her blood and I have been a vampire for 8 years and I still find it hard to be around anyone but she is different I crave her blood but also something else that is stronger, I crave her...Lips, her body, I crave her. She finally after 3 minutes she looks around and wipes her eyes as she moves towards me and I ask "what is wrong ?" She silently says "my dad got attacked by the wolves that you were being chased by and when they realized that they didn't get you they turned toward my dad's tent and.." I slowly look down and apologize but she stops me with another weep and then as soon as she looks at me she asks "why are your eyes red? Don't they change like in the books?" I laugh but it's bitter and low "no, they don't change but everything else is true, have you ever read twilight? My sister has and everything in there is true but the eye color and the superpowers, we are all the same but some are stronger or faster than others." she stares at me and says "yes I have read twilight, what time is it?" I get up and run downstairs to my adopted parents and look at the stove as it reads:3:00, I run back upstairs and tell her the time and I sit at the end of the bed and she kicks the blanket off and asks curiously "is it true your skin is as cold as ice?" I nod and she crawls over to me and lays on top of me and says "uhhh! I was dying in those blankets" the only thing that is not covered by her warm body is my head and as soon as she lays on me I'm shocked and as soon as she lets out the cry of relief I put my head on hers and she is instantly back to sleep. Through the night she is soundless and without nightmares but she does have a shiver so I put the blanket that has now fallen off the bed slowly so I don't wake her and rest the blanket on her fragile body, as soon as I do I hear tiny footsteps as Lilly my adopted sister comes in and looks at me and smiles kindly. She does have a basket and sets it down softly and says "I'm guessing she's sleeping but when she wakes up Eli asked me to ask you if you want to come with us to hunt? My 5-year-old vampire body can only take so much". I roll my eyes as she uses her age all the time and a little annoyed say" no, Eli will take you and close the door, I want her to rest Lilly" she giggles and says "we both know you want more than that" I shoot her a glance and with that she's gone, not even an hour later the sun peaks up and sensing the light violet awakes and at first she doesn't do anything but lay there and I wrap my arms around her and then she speaks in a sleepy voice "good morning, thank you for letting me sleep here for the night I better get home". I hide my sadness because I don't know how to tell her that which mountain can only be flown in and there is no society but my family here and the next plane doesn't arrive in 4 months and I don't want her to get up out of my grasp if anything I want to bring my lips down to hers and kiss her and hold her forever right here in my arms. "What's wrong?" I tell her what I was thinking except the part where I don't want her to get out of my arms and how I want to kiss her. She nods and I can see the pain in her face but then as soon as it came it vanished and she gets up and stretches and the way the sun bounces off of her tan skin and the way her brown eyes look at me in not pity or scared but full of wonder. She sees the basket and asks "is this for me?" I look in the basket and see brand new clothes from the oak lodge store and say "I guess so" she thanks me and asks if she could take a shower and I lead her away and turn around with all my dignity fighting the urge to not leave her side. <<Violet>> I walk into the bathroom which looks clean and is beautiful so I turn on the shower and I do see shampoo that is in the trash; so they do take showers I get in and feel the warm water splash my skin and I look around and see a shampoo bottle and a soap bottle not opened so I open them and use them and it feels so nice to have the water splash my skin and I can't help my mind from wandering to last night and jakes cool skin and the way I woke up with his arms gently around me, I can't help but felt the need to kiss him, I know that he probably has a girlfriend and he is 17 and hot with his black hair, red eyes, and pale skin. But something inside of me had my hope that he would love me..stop, you just found out that your boyfriend cheated on you and unless your dying to cry your heart out then you need to realize that he will never love you and if he does he will get bored of you just like luke did and then it will be too late. I quickly clean my hair and get out and dry myself up and find a note in the basket so I pick it up and read: My name is Rose, I am Jake's adopted mom and I thought that you would be 16 by the way you looked so I went shopping off of what the storekeeper said. I hope these fit.-rose. I put the note on the side and pull out a red shirt, black jeans and a black lace bra and underwear, and quickly dress, I brush my hair after I finished up and it took a minute because below the makeup there was a bag at the very bottom filled with combs and toothpaste. As soon as I get out I return to Jake's room and set the basket down as I do I see him on the bed and I go over to him and say "thank you, for everything. I think I can go back out in the woods". He runs and grabs my arm lightly and I can't speak as his cold skin lays on mine he almost begs "no, please stay here with me I don't want you getting hurt, no I won't let you out on your own. I want you to stay here with me and the answer to your question about why being close to you is overwhelming is because I like you, I want to kiss you and I don't want you to ever leave. I realized it as you slept last night and I may not be the best person and you don't have to love me back, I have seen so many girls but you are different so please stay."

“Ahoy!” a voice shouted. Startled, the Oldman looked around frantically not minding the hot tea he spilled on his arm as he jumped. “Up here!” The voice sounded clearer and more direct. The Oldman looked to his right and up. There was a boy standing on a thick tree branch. From a quick inspection surely, the boy was no older than his mid-teens, with skin like bronze that made his big smile all the whiter. “I bet you didn’t hear me coming did ya?” The boy asked proudly. The Oldman was sitting in a half lotus position with his back up against one of the larger oak trees that were around him, and to his sides were a couple Glumberry bushes. “You are as stealthy as a street cat in a City.” The Oldman replied. The boy smiled again then lowered himself from branch to branch without hesitation; gripping the arms with ease as he finally jumped off the lowest branch and onto the ground in front of the seated gentlemen. “And just as quick.” the boy said brushing his hands to get rid of the tree resin and bark. “Although I never been to a City before.” As quick as the boy said it the Oldman wound up and blurted “Good, and I don’t recommend going to one.” The boys face changed, and the old man noticed. “Cities... have not been kind to me I’m afraid young lad.” “Cities have not been nice to my family either, Sir.” The boy said looking downwards and his smile gone. “I’ve spent most of my life at Sea.” Said the boy. *No wonder* thought the Oldman, they say the Sea-riders have the best balance out of anyone in the world. The constant swaying of ships creates an equilibrium in their core to which the Sea-riders have an unchallenged balance compared to those who have not stepped a foot on a ship. And not to mention their ability to maneuver their weight in even the direst of waves. “The Sea-riders have an impressive reputation.” The Oldman said stroking his white beard that’s clung together at the bottom with a crimson tie with a Gold emblem on it. “A reputation that they move like *water* itself.” The Oldman rose from his seat and stands in front of the boy, then bows. “I’m Irahk, it is a pleasure to meet you young Sea-rider.” The boy returns the gesture and bows back to Irahk. “My name is Kiva, it is a pleasure to meet you too, sir.” Irahk offers Kiva to a seat and to join him to share some tea to which the boy accepts. The tea leaves were picked from the Glumberry Bush that seem to be everywhere within this forest. The bright yellow berries that are flecked with black burst with flavoursome juices that it’s hard to stop eating, but the downside is if you eat too much, the poison starts to play; turning parts of your limbs a horrible yellow colour while your stomach pierces with an sharp and sickly pain, as though a dagger is stabbing you from the inside. The leaves themselves however still hold that taste of the berries and can be used to make such a delicious brew and is one of the most famous and wide-spread teas of this region. “I have not shared tea with a stranger in some time.” Irahk says joyfully. “What brings you this far deep into the woods?” The Sea is about an hour’s trek from here, East. Yet it is very unusual for a boy of the sea to be so far inward from shore, and in a forest no less. “How did you make your fire?” Kiva asked curiously, ignoring the question that was given to him. “And don’t tell me you *rubbed some sticks together.* I’ll bet a hundred gold seahorses you don’t have a firecatcher in your bag either.” Irahk knew the Sea-riders like to bet and were very abrupt, and their ways of doing things have caught onto this boy like none other. *How could I have been so absentminded*, Irahk thought. *What should I tell him?* “You learn a few things when you get to my age, young lad. There are many ways to light a fire, ways that you have never dreamt of.” Irahk smiled whilst starring at the boy, hoping the boy is naïve enough to continue. “I didn’t expect that.” Said Kiva as he follows up on a sip of tea. “I’ve been following you, y’know. And I most definitely saw your light this fire with bare hands. You’re a wizard.” The silent that followed as they exchanged glances with one another made them both realise how quiet and alone they are in the forest. “You’ve caught me young Sea-rider.” Irahk laughed, hands in the air and chin tucked down. “Now tell me, what is it you plan to do now?” Irahk sips his tea. The boy could very well be alone here, and if that is the case the Oldman will be in no danger. But he was a Sea-rider, and no Sea-rider travels alone on land so surely there would be others akin nearby. Perhaps they were already watching him from afar, preparing for an attack when the moment was right. But something seemed wrong, why would a human come face to face with a wizard, alone? Kiva took a deep breath in and exhaled, it seemed even the boy was tensed up at the matter. “Irahk, I am a friend. I’m sure you’ve heard about the raid a couple weeks ago. The one that attacked a town that housed wizards, were you one of them?” The boys face seemed sullen, like he could understand the pain behind what he just said. “Yes, I am one of them.” Irahk said bitterly. It had been a few weeks since then. The wizards were housed in a small remote town where they thought they were safe from the outside wars. The war between Humans and Wizards has been endless. The Wizards are only but a fraction of what they once were, being driven to eradication by the bountiful and cruel Kingdoms surround. Ever since the attack of the town, Irahk had been travelling long and far in hopes to exile himself and finally be free of the constant war shed. The Wizards have no other choice. And if it came to it, Irahk would take no pleasure in killing this boy if things escalated. Kiva finishes the last of his tea and rises. “I’m sorry for what has happened, Sir.” He places a clenched hand on his heart. “It pains me deeply knowing what has happened to your people. I want you to know that I am going to do everything possible to end this madness and hatred that has plagued our world for long enough.” Irahk saw the anger, the sadness billowing in Kivas’ eyes. “I am moved by your words, Kiva.” Irahk becomes solemn. “But what can a *boy* do against the kingdoms that have destroyed my homeland and the people in it?” Irahk took a deep breath in and released. “There is no hope left, none. Sorry boy, my people are gone.” A single tear starts to sprout from his eye then slides down his face. “Irahk.” Kiva said notably. “I’m Captain of a large fleet of Sea-riders, one of the largest in the world; left by my father. We have been tracking down Wizards from all over to join us in our cause, that is why I am here in this forest. And may I now ask of you something, Irahk.” Irahk raises his head with tear filled eyes and looks onto the young boy’s bronze face with a smile that’s glistening with determination. “Will you join us and help stop further bloodshed of your people?” Kiva extends an open hand towards Irahk. “Will you join my crew?” Irahk saw a destiny flash through his mind as he looked upon the fire in Kiva’s eyes, he saw visions of prosperity and hope. Now it was obvious, there were no other answer than this. Irahk joins the boy’s hand and is lifted to his feet, bones cracking n all. “My bones are old and my mind is weary. I will join you young Sea-rider. My Captain.” “Nonsense. Wizards are the most brilliant people in this world, it’s a pleasure to have you.

In the heart of Calcutta's bustling streets, amidst the symphony of trams and vendors, Eamon's antiquated bookstore stood. Dusty volumes lined its shelves, murmuring forgotten tales to anyone who cared to listen. Eamon, a man of quiet contemplation, found solace among the pages of his beloved books. One morning, as the sun's first rays painted the sky, a delicate letter arrived at his door. Its fragrance stirred long-buried memories, a fragrance that carried whispers of a love thought lost in the labyrinth of time. Kavya, the name that held the key to his past, had resurfaced through the strokes of ink on the aged paper. The letter spoke of a reunion, an invitation to the Royal Opera House--a place where memories seemed to gather like shadows. Eamon's heart quickened at the thought of seeing Kavya again. As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, he made his way to the Opera House, where echoes of their shared history seemed to resonate. Guided by the melody of nostalgia, Eamon walked through the ornate corridors until he reached the grand hall. The chandeliers gleamed like stars, and the stage stood adorned with memories. And there, beneath the shimmering lights, he saw her--Kavya, the enchantress of his past. Time had etched delicate lines upon her face, but her eyes still held the same gleam that had captivated him years ago. As their eyes met, a silent recognition passed between them--a connection that transcended time's boundaries. The world around them faded as if only their hearts remained. Kavya's dance began, a graceful expression of emotions that transcended mere words. Each step was a brushstroke on the canvas of their shared history. Eamon watched, transported by the beauty of the moment, as if their souls were entwined in a dance of their own. As the performance reached its crescendo, Eamon approached the stage. With every step, memories flooded back--days spent under the Jacaranda tree, whispered promises that lingered in the air. And then, in that poignant moment, he was by her side, his hand reaching out to hers. Their fingers brushed, igniting a spark that had never truly faded. As they stood together, the weight of years melted away, leaving only the essence of their love. Their dance, a tapestry woven with threads of laughter and tears, unfurled beneath the moonlit sky. In the hushed embrace of the night, Eamon and Kavya danced--a waltz that defied the constraints of time. It was a dance that spoke of forgiveness, of the magic of second chances, and the profound power of a love that had endured even in the face of life's twists. As the last notes of the melody echoed, Eamon looked into Kavya's eyes. The world around them seemed to hold its breath, honoring their reunion. And in that gaze, they found a universe of unspoken words--a promise that they would never let go again. The symphony of their shared journey played on, a melody that whispered of timeless love amid the tapestry of their intertwined lives.

“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat,” he mutters under his breath sarcastically. Rolling her eyes, Matilda doesn’t bother lifting her head from the papers she is pursuing. “You need to quit watching soap operas, Theo. You’re getting too melodramatic for my tastes of late.” She pauses and closes her eyes for a moment, feeling the tell-tale tightness in her neck indicative of an incoming migraine. She can’t tell if it’s Theo’s nagging, or the topic of conversation that is inviting the migraine. She suspects a healthy, equal dose of both. “You’re only 26, Tills,” he reminds her, moving from the doorway of their bedroom to the large bed. He gracelessly slumps onto the bed on his back, resting his hands behind his head staring at the ceiling fan above. “You don’t know for certain that it could actually end badly. It’s almost like you aren’t even trying anymore.” This makes Matilda clench her hands into tight fists, her fingernails biting into the skin of her palm painfully. She has to clench her teeth and eyes closed tighter to ward off the sudden urge to cry and scream. She tries to focus on her breathing; breathe in through her nose, count to three, breathe out through her mouth, and repeat. The room is silent for the short moment that Matilda takes to gain control of her emotions. Theo can surely hear her controlled effort at maintaining her pattern of breathing, and the stiffness in her shoulders slowly moves with the concentrated effort of breathing. Just breathe. Slowly, she unclenches her hands, and turns her desk chair to face him. She wipes her sweaty palms on her jeans - palms now each covered in four crescent-shaped indents from her fingernails - and takes one final big breath in, counts to three, and lets it back out. She meets Theo’s eyes, and she can see that he is starting to feel regret over what he has said to her. “I have tried, Theo. For nearly four years now. I’m exhausted.” She pauses and takes another deep breath in. Three seconds. Back out. “The doctors said last time that I was lucky to have survived. They said that lung transplants are one of the most difficult procedures to fully heal and recover from. They warned me that it may not work.” Again, she pauses to concentrate on her breathing. She actually found these breathing exercises to combat panic and anxiety to work fairly well with her. She could never do them once she became sick. Her original lungs would probably have given out on her by now with how deeply she was forcing herself to breathe. It felt nice to be able to finally breathe after feeling as though she was drowning every time she took in a breath. She was going to bask in the painless, mundane action for as long as they allowed her to. “It isn’t defeat. I’m not fighting some war, I’m not a soldier,” regardless of her efforts, tears start forming in the corners of her eyes, ready to race each other down her cheeks to her chin, “I am a girl that got sick, got kind of better, got worse, got sort of better again, and is going to find out in less than 24 hours which way the pendulum will swing this time.” She turns back around to her desk, eyeing the paperwork that she had been looking over before being interrupted by Theo returning home from work. A Will, and a summary she has written up of how she would like her funeral to be planned. If there is one thing that cancer did not take from Matilda, it’s her neurotic need to plan. Shuffling the papers into organised piles, she turns off the desk lamp and joins Theo on the bed, laying her head on his chest. Automatically, one of his hands moves to her waist to pull her closer, and the other moves to stroke her short-cropped hair. “I know you’ve been sick again, but does that truly mean that you may not get better in a week’s time, or a month’s time? I mean, it’s only been five months since the surgery, Tilly. You’ve only been home for three weeks. Maybe it’ll take you longer than average to get used to the lungs.” Theo’s optimism verges on suffocating at this point. Nonetheless, Matilda feels herself relaxing into his hands massaging her scalp and waist, his voice also relaxing her now that he isn’t being loud with anger. His voice has a tone of defeat. He knows what I will say. “The scans tomorrow will confirm if the cancer cells decided to make base on these lungs, too. If they have, I don’t think I can go through anymore chemo, or anymore surgeries.” She turns her face into his chest, tears soaking into his shirt. “I know you mean well, Theo. And I love you so damn much for caring and wanting me to get better, but I’ve known for a long time that I had a higher chance of never truly getting better.” Wiping her eyes and nose with her sleeve, Matilda raises her head to look at Theo. Placing her hand gently on his face, she wipes away his own tears that have started trailing down his cheeks. “Please don’t cry, Teddy.” He sniffles pathetically and scrunches his eyes closed. He presses his mouth to her forehead and presses a hard kiss to the skin. “I don’t want you to leave me. I don’t understand why none of the treatment has worked. Why are you still sick? Why you?” His voice cracks on the last question. Matilda sighs and moves to press soft kisses to his jawline. “I don’t know, Teddy. Plenty of good people get their lives cut unnecessarily short. It’s just life.” Gently kissing his lips, she gives him a small, sad smile. “If my life is getting cut short, I don’t want my final days, or months, or hopefully years, to be played out in hospital rooms strapped to machines. I don’t want to lose my hair again. I just want to live the allotted time I have left in peace.” “But what if it worked this time? What if this time, the chemo works, or the surgeries work?” He pleads. She threads her fingers through his soft blond hair, combing his fringe away from his eyes. “And what if they don’t?” He stares silently, his eyes bouncing between hers, occasionally flitting down to her lips. Slowly, he brings her lips to his and kisses her softly, sucking on her bottom lip. Her insides turn to liquid and butterflies erupt in her stomach. God, she’s going to miss this. She draws back from him, watching his face as he tries to piece together his next sentence. “I’m sorry I’ve been so insistent on you going through treatment again,” he says, rubbing her back slowly, “it’s selfish of me to make you feel guilty for making a choice about your life.” Shaking her head, she props her chin up on his chest and lets her eyes drift lazily over his face. “I don’t think you’re selfish. I would probably be doing the same thing if the roles were reversed. I just need you to understand my point of view. I don’t see this as defeat. I don’t see it as cancer winning. I’m not afraid of dying anymore.” Absentmindedly, her finger traces small shapes over his neck. She focuses on her finger, too nervous now to look him in the eyes. “I’m just trying to plan everything so that there’s not much room for error once I’m gone. I want this to be as painless and easy as possible.” His chest rumbles as he chuckles into her hair. “You’re such a control freak that even your death is planned down to the last detail.” She laughs along with him. This is what she wants. She wants this conversation to not be heartbreaking every time. Matilda wants Theo to come to terms with her dying. “Regardless, Tills, I’m going to be optimistic. I’m going to use the infinite power of positive thinking to force your body to heal, even if it’s just enough for another decade with you,” he voices with conviction. Grinning, Matilda lifts her head and kisses him sweetly. “I’m counting on it, Teddy.” She strokes his lips lovingly, feeling the butterflies returning in her stomach. “That’s why I love you so damn much, even if your optimism is sometimes nauseating.” He lets out a hearty laugh and gently rolls them over until he is hovering above her, his weight supported on his forearms on either side of her head. “And your pessimistic disposition has always been what gets me hot and bothered,” he laughs, burying his face against her neck, planting sweet kisses along its length. She begins to giggle uncontrollably as his lips tickle her skin and her heart fills with giddy warmth and love. God, she wants this forever.

“Where are you Charlie?” “Over here! Hurry Luna!” Charlie and Luna met three years ago at camp Twalka, a camp for kids with Tourette’s. They’ve been inseparable ever since. Tourette’s is an incurable disease. It causes them to shout out words they don’t want to. It forced their body to do movements that can hurt them, or worse, others. These uncontrollable movements and sounds are called “tics.” Three weeks ago, they became separable. Charlie fell in love. He couldn’t constantly be at her side anymore. He had another girl to care for. This is where it all went wrong. I have nearly 2,000 tics a day. Charlie usually has around 200 daily. Our tics seem to be the same often. We will suddenly wink at each other, shout the same profanities, and more. We often end up in similar situations. People getting mad at us, not understanding, we depend on each other. The only one who truly understands everything I go through is Charlie. I keep asking myself, “why do I feel this way?” I’m not supposed to feel this way. I’ve been his go to girl for almost three years now. But she stole that from me. Seeing her stupid, perfect hands intertwine with his. Her way too big lips, pressing softly on his cheek. Her gentle voice calling him baby, like some desperately- desperate loser. Ugh, I have no reason to feel this. I can’t be jealous. He’s just a friend. He always has been. Always rolling his glossy blue eyes at me, the sparkle in his smile when I crack a joke, it’s always been him and me. Charlie and Luna. We’ve never fought. Of course we have cursed each other out and hurt each other. Those tics are the ones we hate the most. We have to be careful. But holding in a tic is more painful than anything else. The worst was when we were hiking on our trip. We were going slowly through a rich patch of plants. It was a beautiful slot canyon in Saint George Ut. His elbow dug straight into my side pushing me into the wall. There was a gap in the wall where a chunk of dirt laid. Along with the cactus that left it’s spikes deep into my hand as I tried to catch myself from falling. It had been three years since we crossed pinkies and kissed our thumbs sealing our friendship. We commemorate each year by meeting at our spot. The spot we would watch the stars, devour pizza, and laugh our heads off. I got everything set up. The pizza, the blankets, pillows, everything we could ever need. She came. (The girl we don’t say the name of.) Charlie’s stupidly perfect stupid girlfriend. I pulled him aside. “Why did you bring her here?” “She doesn’t trust you.” “Don’t you trust me?! What did I ever do to you guys?” “She doesn’t want me here alone with you. That’s all. Can’t we just enjoy the night?” “Whatever.” We listen to our music while they cuddle tightly together. She laid between us. She is always between us. She started getting very frustrated with my tics. I can’t help it. I “accidentally” elbowed her. “Yikes!” “Noooooooope!” “Flick you!” They all came out, and more. Welcome to my daily life. Of course she was too much of a baby to stay there. She insisted they went to be alone for a while. It felt like hours ‘till they finally came back. I saw the shadow of a girl coming towards me. But no Charlie. I rubbed my eyes to ensure I wasn’t hallucinating. They are never apart. She walked by and went straight to her car. Flicking her middle finger up in my direction as she went. I looked out over the land trying to see Charlie down in the ditch they went to. But, the land was covered in trees. It was useless. Suddenly, a wail pierced my ears. “Where are you Charlie?” I yelled out. “Over here! Hurry Luna!” He wailed back. I followed the sound of his voice. Running so fast down the steep slope I nearly biffed it face first. My flashlight barely lit the ground in front of me. But I saw it. The half-sharpened stick laid before him. His leg drenched in blood. While a knife stuck firmly in his thigh. “Charlie? Did she do this to you?” “It was a tic. We fought and we broke up. My emotions went out of control. I was sharpening the stick and a strong tic hit me. I couldn’t hold it in, it happened too fast and I stabbed myself. It was all an accident.” Charlie began getting up off the log he previously rested on. He started getting dizzy. “No Charlie, stop moving. I’m calling for help.” He fell. Right into my arms. I fell onto my knees holding him. I didn’t realize how much blood he had already lost. I got my phone out and began dialing 911 before he grabbed my hand and stopped me. “Wait. I have to tell you why we broke up.” “That can wait!” I exclaimed. He didn’t listen. “I love you Luna. I’ve loved you for three years. I shouldn’t have done it. But I wanted your jealousy. I wanted you to love me. I needed your love. I wanted you to want me, to wish it was your lips pressed against mine, not hers. I can’t go a day without you Luna.” “You don’t need to. I’ve loved you since that second we kissed our thumbs. Now shut up and let me take care of you!” I rip a piece of my shirt and wrap it around the knife sticking out of his leg. While he rests in my lap I call for help. Five minutes until they arrive. The only thing that has ever helped my tics lessen, is music. I can’t afford to risk hurting him while he’s in my lap. I stroke his face while singing our favorite song. My slow, soft voice breaks as I try holding in tears. The red and blue lights flash on top of the hill. His eyes flutter closed.

Kong Min felt it in his chest where his heart should be: a sudden strain where all his muscles suddenly contracted resulting in a sinking feeling that literally sucked in all life and breath he could barely muster anymore: like an anchor docking a ship. He struggled to breath and he collapsed for a while, a little unsure of where he was and how he got there in the first place. He could feel the flush of his cheeks and the veins in his arm bulged out. A tight knot formed at his throat. Then, pin-drop silence. A stinging noise irritatingly buzzed in his left ear and when he finally rebalanced himself and got back on his feet, recovering his breath (suddenly remembering with an awkward realisation that he was actually human), he felt a sharp and powerful tug at the collar of his shirt. His eyes opened wide open as he was pulled two centimetres away just as a Bentley with an umber brown and white convertible rocketed past. Kong Min was still a little dazed by this and despite concerns from bystanders, he merely shrugged them off and continue to walk. His condition was of no surprise to him. After all, walking around with a human heart powered by the metal palladium in order to stay alive could mess with your head in excruciatingly creative ways. “Gods above, how much I hate this pathetic excuse for a home,” muttered the 19-year-old Malaysian as he trudged through the quiet and gloomy neighbourhood cobbled with stones that jutted out of shape. Checking that his Mercedes was actually locked, he continued down a new path down the smoothly paved walkway where yellowed and dowdy leaves paid no mind to the apparent disgusting décor that they had made to it. Unlike his usual raggedy style that he used to wear about himself overseas from home, he now made sure that he was dressed at his best as he smoothed his hands over his black shirt, black suit, black trousers and even darker wingman sunglasses. He had purposely parked his Mercedes far away from Father’s too. He did not need to know he had made a life for himself in Shenzhen, China. He had no need for his busybody relatives to ask him about his private life (god, he hated it when they had done that) and with crocodile tears, beg him for a tenth of his fortune because they had debts to pay, they had mouths to feed and just because they were his flesh and blood. Something had then caught his eye: he took four steps backward and peered down into the alleyway. There, he saw the kids shouting and jeering as a buff kid with reddened cheeks puffed hard and good as he tried to wrestle another kid, but muscularly superior to him, to the ground. In a swift and flurry move, the latter one rolled backwards and pushed the other kid away from him. Taking advantage of his opponent losing momentum, the muscular kid then brought him down. Huh , Kong Min reminisced. The kids in the neighbourhood still had fights in that alleyway. He remembered when he and Maven, his Indian partner-in-crime used to come here and go into the fights as well although Kong Min was more of a co-ordinator than wrestler or brawler. He hated that place: the street where the foundation was based on was made out of sharp pebbles and sudden depressions in which one would break their nose. He did. Five times consecutively. Kong Min carried on looking at his steps, one foot after the other. Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a tint of dullish grey on a vehicle. Looking up, he saw the plate number clearly. It was Father’s car. Oh crap. He was home. Fifteen minutes later, he smoothed his hands over his suit for the millionth time. The procession was to take place soon. He would have to go in one way or the other. He could handle the body, he supposed. It was just some forgotten cousin brother from one of his uncles on Father’s side. Not worth coming back to, but his lover, Marsya Ali forced him to. “Pay your respects to your family,” she chided him. He knew Marsya was in the house already because he could make out her silhouette by his mother’s bedroom window on the first floor beneath the balcony. But he already knew that she was going to be there anyway. He wanted to take a step forward but he could not. He was paralysed at where he was standing. His lips trembled and his chest rose high and low, heaving. The attacks were coming back again. He cleared his throat and leaned against the car, waiting for it to subside. The car felt newly waxed and smooth like a baby’s skin. Of course, Father had it waxed. The old man was rich. In a way, he was grateful because most of the thirty-somethings that he knew got successful at life had rich fathers. A sturdy house must have a good foundation, he supposed. It was such a weird thing to think about as of the moment. Nevertheless, he was glad that his sunglasses had hidden the pain in his eyes when he heard the door click open. It was not Marsya nor his mother. It was his second aunt. One thing to talk about Second Aunt was that she was all old and wilted out. All of her logical sense of the world and how it usually worked had been blunted and she knew not sometimes the difference between black and white. With the same damned buzzing sound in his left ear, he coolly pushed himself away from his aunt’s embrace that may as well have disgusted him and walked himself in uninvited. He was not going to show any of them any big tears. Nevertheless, standing there in front of almost everyone made him feel like a gigantic idiot. Faces turned and mouths gaped open. Champagne continued to pour into glasses but the hands that held them remain as frozen as an ancient statue. Some disapproving eyes turned away from him and spoke behind their hands; some gave him the hairy eyeball. This was his family. The people who play their cards close to their chests and pretend to be as sorry as sorry can be whilst throwing darts at him behind his back. Just for the sake of it. His eyes went from relative to relative and solemnly nodded. However, a rather old and slouched figure of an Asian-like grandfather walked towards a direction parallel to him but both of them: young and old stopped in their tracks when their shoulders touched. The old man held out his hand and Kong Min shook it. “Father,” Kong Min addressed dryly. “Boy,” his father replied in a gruff tone. Suddenly, they heard some scuffling at the staircase. Father and son turned to those stairs and found that it was Kong Min’s mother and Marsya there. After a solemn embrace, Kong Min couldn’t take it anymore and pulled Marsya aside from the crowd. “What’s wrong?” Marsya asked, concern glimmering in her eyes. “I am not ready to tell them,” came the monotonous reply. “Look at me,” she said sternly. He didn’t. So, she made him do so and firmly held his face looking into hers. “Even if you are not ready, who do you think could stop time and let you just dig your own grave? You can’t just go on like this forever.” Pin-drop silence. This was the same thing he told his brother before. This happened years ago when he was just ten. His own brother shaking uncontrollably in his bed as spit drooled uncontrollably from the corner of his lips. His hands bent like a dog’s; he watched his brother pitifully as he descended into madness. Then, he told him he could not go on like this. Mom and Dad existed for a reason. You should have turned to them before. You should have turned to your friends. You should have turned to me. You should. You should’ve. But you didn’t. Kong Min gave a soft kiss on Marsya’s forehead. He wanted it to go on forever. Just the two of them. But now he had to reserve more time for someone else. Father sat next to the tea table at the garden and did not bother to see his son come up to him. Yes, his son: The Great Engineer, the da Vinci of Asia. He always remembered his boy as a thirteen-year-old arrogant rebel who wanted him to give away his inheritance to him first so that he could travel to China and do some research he knew not what. He had no time to ask. His son left without a goodbye. “I know you are still angry I left when I was so young, Father,” he sensed Kong Min’s dry voice. “But I had no choice. The doctors you sent me to are all bullshit. You were wasting your money. They couldn’t fix my heart. I could have died sometime in one of those ridiculous treatments the ‘doctors’ gave me. I was not going to let that happen. “That is why I took the money and ran. I knew palladium could be the answer to my heart problem. Thalassemia is hard to just ‘cure’, especially in an underdeveloped place like Malaysia. But I did it, Father. I did it. Now, I am tall, I am healthy and I am 19.” Then, Kong Min squatted in front of his father’s unforgiving gaze. “But I am dying, Father. Palladium is intoxicating my blood and is poisoning me. I thought that I could find a way to stabilise the palladium in my chest during those six years. But Heaven has a way of screwing with you at the very last minute, right?” His father’s eye squinted a little in shock, no doubt. But his gaze remained unwavering. Kong Min sighed and stood up, preparing to leave. “I am not expecting pity or sympathy, Father. I am just telling you to prepare my funeral arrangements soon. I don’t know when and I do not know how, but it will happen. Perhaps I really am just another thing that shouldn’t have existed under natural law. I just labour at the thought of having self, thinking I was somebody when I am nobody. In fact, everyone is, in a way. Human consciousness is such a bitch of evolution. But in the end, you will see, Father. How easy it will be to just let go of life at the very last moment. That holding onto it all your years was meaningless. And I want you to look me in the eye when you do find me, Father. I want you to think to yourself, “How much did you suffer, my child? Was it painful?”” Kong Min left before the procession even started. But he made a mess of the pantry. The glassware was smashed and the porcelain was flung all over the place. No one dared get in his way. Driving away, he muttered to himself, “Fuck... Damn this place... God damn this place...”

"No." The word fell flat. His face fell with it. "Oh my god--" She turned so as not to face him. The sun was in her eyes. She felt almost blinded by it, the tears collecting quickly and filling with sunlight. It was painful. Every feature about it. How could she have let it go on for so long? She should have left so much sooner. His hand on her shoulder reminded her of the pending explanation. The let-down. The break-up. Everything she had been hoping to avoid. Everything she was intensifying due to her long and silent gripping to what she had left. Her hands hurt from holding on so hard for so long. How would her knuckles ever regain their color from the hold she had on Thomas? And who was he to her anyways? A place-holder? A lover? A man. "Alice," he said, his voice quivering although he desperately tried to keep it together. "I, I, I understand, but..." With palms open to the sky, with a look of pure sadness and confusion, he uttered, "What did I do wrong?" She lost it then. How could she ever explain to Thomas that she didn't love him? The question was unsettling to her. Did she really not love him ? He was so fun to be in love with. His shaggy hair and the feeling of it between her fingers. The taste of his lips and how great of a kisser he was. The little tendencies he had to slip into Romeo. To sing to her, to take her to the top of a mountain or a high building and tell her he loved her. The way he held her at night. The sound of his humming as he buttered his toast in the morning. All these things she knew she loved. But then... Then there were those terrible nights. Those stone cold evenings where scarcely a word was spoken. Whenever he went home and didn't stay with her in her apartment. The songs that she listened to purposely whenever she was alone. The way she looked out her car window at the rain. When she'd put down her windows to feel the wet chill on her skin and remember that she was alive. And that love was still out there waiting. How badly she wanted to feel that again. After apologizing profusely, offering tissues, and getting Thomas to sit down and put the ring back in his pocket, she started the long and gut-wrenching descent. "You have done everything right," she said, blinking back a swelling ocean of guilt-ridden tears. "None of this is about you, Thomas." He wasn't looking at her anymore. He stared straight ahead, as if seeing through her. His head was tilted down and Alice considered if perhaps he wasn't hearing her at all. She was so worried about this. So worried about how he would take it all. He was a fragile piece of pottery to begin with. Darkly tinted. Beautiful. Broken. But never shatterproof. Like herself. She took his hand and massaged it gently. "Please look at me," she whimpered. A breeze blew through the tree above them and he gave out a sigh that struck her with sadness. "I would..." he whispered. "If I could. But if I do right now, I'd be a mess. And..." He looked up at the tree to avoid her eyes. She noticed tears collecting there. "I don't want you to see me like that." She nodded painfully and waited for the strength. He withdrew his hand from hers. He stood. Turned. Broke down and walked a few paces, his back to her. "Thomas," she half-moaned. "Please forgive me. I never meant for any of this. I did love you." "You did?" he half-shouted. "Then why didn't you say so? And when did you decide to just stop?" An evil half-chuckle escaped from his sarcastic and frustrated lips. Even now, she still wanted to kiss him. She'd give anything to have avoided this day a little longer. "It was never my decision. If I could make that decision, I would." "What are you even saying? Does it make sense to you!" "Don't patronize me." "You have the ability to make YOUR OWN DECISIONS! Who is making them for you, Alice?" The pungency of his sharp words stuck in the back of her throat. More tears that she didn't even know she had erupted. Guilt mixed with honest pain mingled and came flowing. His face softened as he watched her tangled and shattered heart lay there on the grass beneath him, writhing in an unforgivable and all too familiar pain. He couldn't bare it. He apologized. That was mean. He sat down next to her again and, for what might be the last time, held her gently in his arms. After a while of soothing her and kissing her forehead, smelling the aroma of her sweet hair, she finally came clean. "It's Carson." He turned to see her downward cast face. To watch how her eyelids shut, waiting for the blow. Her teeth gritting. Every muscle tense with the reality that she had never moved on. That Thomas was just nothing more than a rebound gone terribly, terribly wrong. "I'm still in love with him, Thomas." Her confusion was so innocent, so unflinching, so sad, that he couldn't help but empathize with her. "Hey, hey..." he said softly as she put her head to his chest. "Just talk to me, okay? I'm not going to yell. Not anymore. That was wrong of me in the first place to get so worked up. We can talk about this, baby." "No," she repeated, the word too soon reminding him about his lost dream. "I don't think we should. I don't want to hurt you anymore, or waste anymore of your time." She stood then, finding it very difficult to separate from him. "Just please know that what we had was love. It was always something so special to me. And that's why I can't say "yes," and make you happy. I so desperately want to make you happy. But I'll never be happy knowing that my heart is off somewhere else." He nodded, still shocked, still sitting shattered by the tree. "You can call me," she said finally. "But if I don't pick up, give me a day." And then, before rushing away she managed to echo his words of not too long ago, "I love you."

Martin was a very good kid with big brown eyes an brown curly hair. He lived in small town whit his beautiful mother and caring father. Martin went to sleep every night at 9:00 p.m. First, he will eat his dinner and help mom to clean the table. Then he would take a quick shower and brush his teeth, put on colorful pajamas, choose one of the picture books and sit on the bed. Mom or Dad would read him a story that he chose, sometimes they both would read it together, after story they will put blanket on Martin and he would go to sleep. One evening, after doing the same ritual, when mom read him story and put him in bad, Martin heard some pounding while he was under his blanket. At that moment he opens his eyes, he turned on the lamp and quickly looked around the room, but no one was there so Martin thought he maybeheard something outside the hous. He slowly turned off the lamp and tried to go back to sleep. But in an instant, when he was almost asleep, he heard pounding again. He jumped on the bed and quickly turned on the lamp, Martin was now a little scared, but he didn't move from the bed. He stood there and listened, listened and listened, when suddenly he heard pounding again. Martin was now very scared, he wanted to run to get his mom and dad, but the pounding was heard right under his bed. He thought that this thumping thing would grab his leg as soon as he hit the floor. Now he didn't know what to do, he was thinking what that sound could be but couldn't think of anything. Martin remained standing on the bed for some time. He realized that it must have been an hour since he should have been asleep and his kom and dad are probably already asleep too. He thought about peeking under the bed, but he was too scared. The sound of pounding was still coming from under the bed, buy then, something gets in his brain and Martin gathered his courage in an instant, put the blanket around his neck on his shoulders like cloak and pulled the pillowcase over his head for a helmet. He held his stuffed rabbit in his hands so he don't feel alone and maybe stuffed rabbit could help him and then he threw the pillow a little further from the bed. Martin's plan was to jump as far away from the bed as possible so monster can'tgrabhis legs, and since he didn't want to wake up mom and dad, he decided to jump on the pillow so they won't hear the jump. One, two, three and he jumped, falling right on his butt on the pillow. At that moment, Martin was very proud of himself and quickly got down on the floor with a cloak made of a blanket and a helmet made of a pillowcase and looked under the bed. He saw nothing at first. He began to crawl around the entire bed and crawled, and crawled, and crawled until he suddenly saw a shadow moving. Martin stopped but still feeling brave. Two large pointed horns on a huge shaggy head with four arms bearing large claws approached Martin. The shadow was getting bigger and closer and at that moment Martin jumped and forgot how brave he was. He started running and left the stuffed rabbit behind him on the floor next to the shadow and ran to mom and dad in hug. They were just planning to get ready for sleep and go to their bedroom. Mom hugged the scared Martin and told him to calm down, to slow down and tell them what happened. Martin quickly told them everything about the monster under the bed thet he was first listened him and how he tried to find it, but that the monster, in the time when he almost get him, jumped on him with big claws and horns and he start ran away becouse he was too big for him. After his story, dad praised him for his courage, he said Martin that he always can wake up them if he get scared of something and all three of them headed to the room to finde monster. Mom and Martin stood carefully at the entrance to the room and looking at dad, while Dad very bravely came next to the bed. He picked up the stuffed rabbit and put it back on Martin's bad and than he saw a shadow. He first little bit observed the shadow and tried to match it with Martin's description of the monster. He looked like it have horns, but didn't sow four hands. After a few moments, dad get down and reached under the bed. Martin got scared, closed his eyes and hugged his mom and waited, waited and waited. After a few minutes, dad laughed loudly, pulled out the big monster that Martin was scared off and called mom and Martin to come and see the monster. All three laughed when they saw Martin's monster. That was Rudy, their guinea pig. It seems that Martin didn't close his quarters properly after feeding him so poor Rudy wandered around the room and got lost under the bed, he probably was even more scared than Martin. They returned the guinea pig to the little house, and Martin went to bed with relief. Mom and Dad stayed with him for a while and wait till Martin fall asleep so he wont get scared again. That night Martin dreamed about himself, the brave knight that is going on adventure and his brave helper, guinea pig Rudy, how they defeated a big monster with four arms and terrible big horns. After they defeat a monster he got a big medal for being brave. His mom and dad was very proud of him ad they went on ice cream together, and little guinea pig Rudy gets his treats for being brave too.

!!TRIGGER WARNING BLOOD, GORE, SUISIDE, DEATH." Delilah I'm a Senior in High School. After the incident 2 years back with the Truth or Dare game in the library that My sister Risha had set off, I've been trying to gain back our family status here at school. So far it's been going Great that is until people started playing “Would you rather?”. Now, Like Risha I wasn't a Fan of the game, until my friends had me play for the first time. “Del Would you rather, Eat Sweets for the rest of your life or Eat Salty snacks for the rest of your life?” I think for a moment, “I would definitely eat sweets for the rest of my life.” I spit out smiling. Shelly smiles back then invites me to the Annual Senior party of the year, “Hey Del? I'm throwing the party of the year at my house, you're welcome to come if you would like.” Shelly grins before stating, “Danny will be there...” I wink at Shelly and walk away. I'm obviously coming to the party, wouldn't miss it for the world. I text her. I'm in my room dressing up for the party tonight when I see a crow stalking outside my window. I grab my megaphone, open my window a slight crack, then scream at the crow with all my might, “SHOO YOU UGLY LITTLE BIRD!” “DELILAH! NO YELLING OUT THE WINDOW I THOUGHT WE TALKED ABOUT THIS ALREADY!” My dad yells up the stairs to me. I roll my eyes, My dad is taking care and providing for me alone, he's been flying solo on the dad plane for a while now, My mother committed Suicide the day I came out of the closet as Bisexual. She never liked the thought of her precious perfect little daughter dating a girl, though I don't think I'll find myself in a relationship anytime soon. I'm just barely slipping on my favorite White mini skirt and pulling on my baby blue cropped tee-shirt with the little frill's at the bottom and sleeve holes. Pulling on white chunky sneakers I grab my phone and mini-backpack, then walk out the door. “Bye Pa!” I yell before shutting the door. I'm halfway down the street when I see Danny, “Hey Dan!” I wave enthusiastically. Danny smiles at me and waits for me to catch up, which is particularly hard considering I'm in a mini skirt. I laugh nervously and tug at my skirt as I close the gap between Danny and I. “So, you're coming to the party I presume?” Danny asks mysteriously, “Yeah, that's what it looks like.” I grin back. “We can start playing as we walk?" Danny suggests, “Sure.” I replied excited to be talking to Danny. “Would you rather have no eyes or no ears?” Danny asks me. I think for a quick second before shooting back, “No ears. I could learn to sign. And besides I think that would be a pretty fun skill to have. Don’t cha think so?” Danny grins and hands me a small Steak knife. I look at it and giggle nervously for the second time today. “What's this for?” I ask curiously. “You're not going to cut your ears off?” He asks seemingly sad. I shake my head and laugh, “Oh Danny! I always knew you had a wild sense of humor! But I didn't think this would be part of it!” I’m giggling now. Danny raises his eyebrows, “I wasn't joking. You chose to lose your ears so I expect you to.” I stare at Danny, “This isn't how we play the game. You're starting to seem like my sister Risha. Danny glares daggers at me. He grabs the steak knife back and stops walking. I keep going for a few more steps just to create a rather large gap between us. Danny shakes his head and burrows his brows, “Why are you so far?” He asks. “I don’t know...Maybe because you're holding a knife threatening to cut my ears off.” Danny seemed to take this offensively and he throws the knife in my direction. I know he doesn't have a horrible aim considering he's the high school quarterback, I try to duck but only result in the steak knife piercing my forehead. I grimace and reach up and grab the knife. “You actually threw it at me you psychopath.” Danny grins evilly, “Well what did you expect? You won't cut your pretty little ears off so I had to get you to stop, I was hoping you would have fallen to the ground in horrible pain so I can finish your Would You Rather answer, though you seem stronger than I anticipated.” I look at Danny and reply with, “Well I come from a family of mentally ill people. So I don't think a little prick in my forehead would hurt me too badly.” Danny glares once more, “Maybe this will help.” He reaches into his back pocket and I see a glimmer of metal, I turn around as fast as I could and start running down the nearest alleyway. Let me remind you the alleyways in my neighborhood are full of twists and turns, there would be no way Danny could find me. I bolt down the first right then take a left, I repeat until I reach the back of some run down house. I hop the fence Cringing as I hear my favorite mini skirt rip. I listen for a hot second and hear Danny ranting on and on about how I need to follow the rules. How I was disobedient just like My sisters friends. I shake my head over and over again willing myself to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill. Danny's footsteps stop right in front of the fence I had just hopped, I look up and cringe as I see a white piece of my fabric hanging from a loose nail. My heart is beating faster and faster with every deep breath I hear from Danny. I take a step back and a loud snapping sound comes from behind me, Looking down I see a twig that's snapped in half. “Dammit” I whisper under my breath. “Delilah Baby Girl. You shouldn't be scared of me. I'm only here to help you.” I hear Danny whisper through a crack in the fence. I give up on trying to be silent and Scream, “GET LOST CREEP!” and then bolt for the back door of the house. It opens, the hinges groan in protest, I walk through and sniff the air. My eyes dart around the dark room I've entered, I see a dim light coming from under the door. I cautiously open the door and Gasp when I see Shelly and the gang, baking fresh cookies. “S-Shelly...” I stutter out of breath, “D-D-Danny’s trying to k-kill me.” I gasp for air and reach for the cup of iced water Nella was holding. I nod my thanks and drink it slowly. “I'm going- to go- lay down.” I say slowly feeling groggy. Shelly smiles politely and nods. I shuffle to the neatly organized couch and plop myself down with no second thoughts. I wake up and hear the ocean. How long have I been sleeping?? I wonder to myself. I sit up and look around, I see a dainty little pink box with a red ribbon, a letter tapped to it. Delilah It says, I grab the letter and open it, In this box are your two pretty little ears. I can't believe you started the game without us. And then didn't go through with your answer. At the bottom of the letter are bloody fingerprints from each of my so-called friends. I scream, and reach up to where my ears should have been. Feeling a shallow hold in my head and dried blood, I feel like fainting. I grab the steak knife used to cut both my ears off and shove it into my chest, just to put me out of my misery. “See you soon Mama.” I say before everything goes black.

Betty turns and kisses her husband. First on the forehead then one for love on his bottom lip. She couldn't tell if what she smelled was her morning breath or him and she didn't care. Sometimes the things you hate end up being the things you miss the most. Betty takes his arm from around her and sets it next to him then stretches a little before getting out of bed. She makes her way through their bedroom tripping over clothes and shoes she had left on the floor the night before. The only light was a beam trickling in from between the curtains and Betty throws them open. "Rise n shine!", she says, seeing her husband laying there; the blanket pulled up to his chest. "Oh Sam.", said Betty, at that moment wanting more than ever for him to still be alive.

Harry’s shoe scraped against the coarse sidewalk as he shuffled towards the front door. He sighed with a slight quiver, and took a moment to compose himself. He slowly pressed his finger into the doorbell, producing a barely audible ring. Harry glanced at the window to his right, and through the shades he could see a figure approach. The doorknob jiggled a little, and the door swung backwards. “Harry... I didn’t know you were coming. I, uh... come in.” Harry stepped inside, the warmth of the house fighting back the chill of the dreary day. “I know I didn’t call or anything. I’m sorry Mark, I should’ve. But, you know, it’s been-” Mark put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Harry. It’s been hard on us both. I just appreciate the fact that you came. It’s times like these where I regret how we have been with each other. But to see you here, it reminds me that we’re still blood. Here, let’s sit at the table, catch up a little.” The two brothers walked past the stairway and into the dining room. The bright light bounced off of the lime green walls, and highlighted the countless scrapes and nicks on the table. Mark grabbed the chair at the head of the table, while Harry slid into the spot to Mark’s left. The two sat in silence for a little bit, looking into each other’s puffy eyes. “Did you... get a chance to say goodbye?” Harry asked. “No, no I didn’t. They passed at the scene, along with the man who hit them. The guy was going sixty in a forty. All three basically died on impact, from what the police said,” Mark said. Before continuing his thought, he swallowed the lump in his throat. “I, of course, first thought it was Dad’s driving. I’m sure they told you he passed out a couple months ago walking up the stairs. I thought it was that when I first got the call. I felt so guilty for letting them go out. But no, it wasn’t their fault. Just someone not paying attention. They were on their way to grab dinner for all of us. I didn’t eat that night.” Harry nodded solemnly at his brother. “Yeah, Ma mentioned that you guys were having dinner to celebrate your novel. Congratulations, by the way. Big deal to be published, Dad and Ma sounded really proud.” They both glanced at each other for a moment, an awkward silence hanging in the air. Harry started to continue, somewhat painstakingly, “You know, I thought Charlotte would be where I broke out. With writing. I thought as long as I could make ends meet, grind out a little every evening and on the weekends, then I would eventually hit my stride and take off. And here you are. Been successful since college, making six figures. To top it off you got a book published. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous, but I’m also happy. For you, and for Dad and Ma, because I know how excited they were.” Mark glanced to his left. “Well, Harry, it takes a lot to say what you’ve said. I appreciate that immensely. We’ve always had an issue with competition, but now’s not the time. Don’t even worry about the novel... it’s honestly not that good, and I don’t think it’s your taste anyway. Besides, we both have a lot going on and a lot to do.” Harry cracked his fingers, and looked at a picture on the wall. He and Mark were just kids in it, forced to stand next to each other and smile for the photo. “I’m sorry. I have one more thing. I was just curious if I could stay here for a little bit. I know you’ve already been very gracious letting Dad and Ma move in after the fire. I don’t know if they told you, but I got laid off last month. I have some money, I could’ve lasted a couple more months there, but with everything else on top of this...I’m moving back around here. I won’t be here long, I’ll get back on track, get a job, get an apartment. I hate to intrude, I just don’t know where else to go.” Mark seemed a little taken aback, and seemed to ponder things for a moment. “Yeah. Yes of course. It’s the least I can do. Be good to have someone in the house right now anyway. I have most of their stuff in their room, but the guest bedroom in the basement is empty. Feel free to use that for now. Nobody uses the basement bathroom anyway, so you can pretty much take it over. You have your bags?” Harry stood up slowly. “Yeah, they’re in my car,” he said softly. He approached Mark, and opened his arms. Without a word, Mark rose, and the two embraced. “Alright Harry. I can grab your stuff for you, if you want to take a look upstairs. I have most of their boxes out on their bed, but there are a few things on the floor and in the closet too. A lot was lost in the fire, I’m sure you could figure, but there’s certainly some things I’m sure you wanna see.” With that, Mark led Harry to the staircase, gesturing towards the right. Harry began up the stairs, handing Mark his keys. Soon he found himself at the top. An ajar door was directly to his side. Peeking inside, he could see scores of boxes with various labels in permanent marker. He took a step towards it, but not before glancing to his left. There, at the end of the hall, illuminated barely by the hallway light, were a set of lone double doors. They too were slightly open, and Harry could barely make out what appeared to be a desk laden with papers and electronics. He figured that was Mark’s office. He shrugged and went for the bedroom door handle, but stopped himself as his hand grasped the metal. An urge bubbled within his soul, begging to see the office. It was where all of Mark’s magic happened, apparently not just in his business dealings, but also his newfound authorship. Harry just had to see that special space; whether a vain attempt to find some secret to success, or just to help reconcile his inferiority, he wasn’t entirely sure. Within moments, he found himself in the office. The room had a dim lamp light to light it. The shelves behind the desk were dark and filled to the brim with knick knacks and books. On the corner of the desk lay a novel titled The Sparks of Clockwork . Harry found that very interesting, as his novel was tentatively titled Machinations of Clockwork . Perhaps he and Mark had more similar minds than he thought. “Hey Harry, your bags are at the top of the basement stair! I’m going to make some food for us, you take your time up there!” Mark shouted. Taken out of his focus a little, Harry remembered Mark telling him not to worry about the book with everything going on. Mark is right, Harry thought; their parents are recently deceased, and there is so much both emotionally and practically to handle there. He knew that’s what he should be doing right now. Yet, now he had a near irresistible urge to read at least the first few pages of the book. He had to know. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, but he just had to know . Harry sat in the padded swivel chair and scooped the novel off the corner. A small crate of identical copies at his feet, probably meant for friends and such. He studied the cover of the book, which showed an array of cogs and gears, alight from the sparks flying off the title. A fairly clever and eye-catching display, certainly indicative of Mark’s graphic design proficiencies. Harry flipped open the first few pages, looking for the first chapter. As he read through the opening sequence, he started coming around to a realization. Mark’s main character was an untenured professor, and so was Harry’s. Mark’s story was set in Manhattan, just like Harry’s. Harry then made a prediction: if, in the next few pages, the character receives some news of his family being kidnapped and held for ransom, then it will undeniably be the same story Harry was writing and abandoned while in Charlotte. Sure enough, it happened. The only difference between Mark’s novel and Harry’s draft was that in Mark’s novel the kidnappers spoke with a Ukranian accent, while Harry had them as Russians. Harry tossed the book on the desk, trembling. He thought of all those nights in Charlotte, on the phone with his parents, spilling details about his story. He had practically told them everything; every character, every change, every plot point. He even had sent them a few old drafts, though as he thought the story wasn’t working out and the project was going to be unsuccessful he had talked about it to them less and less. Of course they said it was great, but that was their job as parents. Harry thought his work on this novel was subpar at best. Apparently, though, it was publishable. He figured that Dad and Ma must’ve shared with Mark everything Harry told and sent to them. Mark essentially took Harry’s entire novel, and now it was being sold in bookstores and web stores with his name instead of Harry’s. Harry sat in silence, a nauseous feeling growing in his stomach. He was frozen, his body and mind in a state of shock. He didn’t even hear Mark come up the stairs, asking for him. It took a little while for Mark to realize Harry was in the study, and Mark walked in. By the mixed look of guilt and anger plastered on his face, it was clear Mark knew Harry had discovered the truth. “I told you not to worry about the book, Harry. We’re both not in a place to deal with this right now.” Harry ignored Mark, not even lifting his gaze to meet Mark’s face, instead staring blankly at the book’s cover. “You stole my book, Mark. You stole everything. You took my one gift, and acted like it was yours too. It wasn’t enough that you were the diploma-carrying breadwinner of the family. It wasn’t enough that you had the better social skills, the better looks. It wasn’t enough for you. You had to take the one thing I had going for me you didn’t.” Mark stood rigidly, and attempted to respond. “It wasn’t like that, Harry. I didn’t steal, really, I just took inspiration and-” “No!” Harry suddenly stood up and leveled his face to Mark’s, while slamming his palms on the desk. “You couldn’t stand that I was better at something! You just had to win at everything, didn’t you? All those late nights I spent in my one bedroom apartment, typing until my fingers went numb a passage I’d rewrite the next day, all for you to take the credit. I can’t believe you would do this, but you know what? Part of me can. I don’t even... I just can’t even stand to look at you right now.” Mark moved forward and pointed at Harry’s face. “Now you listen to me, alright? Life hasn’t been all peaches and cream for me either. My girlfriend denied my proposal and left me. Dad and Ma had to move into my house, where I had to take care of them alone. My business is starting to fail, I’m in debt. And let’s be honest about something. If you were actually going to get something done, get that out in the world, you would’ve. It was going to sit in your harddrive, collecting digital dust like all the rest of your half-baked projects. I can’t write like you can. I don’t have that kind of mind, I admit it. But I know how to market things. I have contacts. And I have follow through. I actually had the capacity to make something out of your ideas. Why let that all go to waste?” Harry walked out from behind the desk, behind Mark, looking down the hall. “You’re right about that. I didn’t have the guts or confidence to get it published, really. But that’s not an excuse. You know what you could’ve done? You could’ve reached out to me. We could’ve worked together. I may have been guarded about it, but at the end of the day we could have both benefitted. You had the gall to listen to our parents talk about my novel and copy it all down. You had the balls to peruse the documents I sent to Dad’s email and save them for yourself. And you had the stomach to do all this while you knew I was suffering paycheck to paycheck in a moldy piece of shit place. But you were too prideful, too ashamed, too much of a fucking prick to reach out to your brother. Most of all, you were too stupid to think I wouldn’t find out. Maybe not too stupid. Just didn’t care enough, because you knew I would find out when it was too late and you could deal with the consequences then.” Mark shook his head and sat down at one of the chairs in the room. “Look, I know I fucked up bad. I don’t and never did feel good about this. I just, Dad and Ma were showing and telling me all these great things. And you weren’t doing anything with it. I needed an opportunity. We haven’t spoken in so long, we were already on such bad terms, I felt justified not involving you. But we have to move forward. Look, I mean I’m giving you a place to stay. I’ll give you cuts from the novel, more than half even. Just... what do you want from me? To make things okay, at least?” Mark placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder, who promptly shrugged it off and turned to face Mark. “I want you to retract your publication, admit the work isn’t yours, and republish the novel with my name. I don’t know how that process would work, but that’s all I’m accepting.” Mark’s voice started to shake, and his energy seemed to get a little desperate. “You know I can’t do that. My reputation would be ruined. Not even talking about my authorship, but no business firm in the state will deal with me either after that. I might even get into legal trouble! Please, there’s got to be something else! I know I fucked up but I’m your brother, you’ve got to let me make it up some way else!” Harry remained stone cold. “Should’ve thought of that before you plagarized my fucking novel. And if you don’t retract it, I’ll find a way to bring the truth out.” The two stared at each other. Mark’s pleading energy faded, turning instead to a sort of ruthless, malicious aura. “Well, Harry, I didn’t want you to find out so soon. I didn’t expect to see you until at least the funeral. When you arrived, I was a little scared, but it made me feel like I could make things up as long as I kept the secret. But I guess part of me knew you’d find out. Since I figured you’d never look at this project again, I took the liberty of clearing all related files from your laptop. Password on your sticky note. Replaced them with some bullshit copy-and-paste from the web. It seems we both went behind each other’s backs in the past half an hour. My tracks are covered though; you don’t have the resources to prove anything. So if you’re going to be hung up on it, you can get out of my house.” Mark pointed towards the door. Harry shook his head, lip trembling. “Or we can cut a deal, forget about it, and move on. The choice is yours,” Mark continued. It didn’t matter though, Harry had already started for the staircase. Mark walked to the top of the railing, arms crossed, watching Harry haul his bags through the door. “I thought we were blood,” Harry spat at Mark as he exited the house, door wide open. The cold from the night seeped into the house, surrounding Mark and filling him with a dark frost of the spirit.

My Mum was born with seven hundred million. She could talk all day everyday and still live to see old age. Dad, well his number was a little lower but that suited him fine. He was the type of guy who could have a whole conversation with nothing but a look and a grunt. Me, well that’s a whole different story altogether. I’m one of 387 people in the history of the world to be born with a one. Our condition is commonly known as being a oneword. We are a lot like mutes, except they are born with zeroes and go on living regardless. In a world where lives are measured in sentences mutes are the exception that makes the rule. Onewords, well we fit the system. We are as limited by our number as anyone else. Most onewords pass away quite young. I suppose toddlers don’t know not to say Mama or Papa. So where does all of this leave me? Well I am one of sixteen onewords to have made it into adulthood. Of the other sixteen only two are still alive. There is Tiao-Su, who works as a programmer in Hong Kong. As a child Tiao-Su was stopped from talking by his harsh but loving parents. Then there is Jodie, she’s a Canadian zookeeper. I have met both of them a couple of different times. The first time we all met was at a research lab in the Germany. We were subjected to an array of different tests. Scientists trying to work out if sighing, whistling, humming count as words or not. For the record, they don’t. As a matter of fact I am quite the whistler. The second time we all met when we were brought on to a TV talk show. Dad got a real kick out of it. Imagine a talk show having three guests who wont say anything? It was ridiculous! The interviewer kept asking and answering her own questions. I did enjoy the trip though, I mean who would say no to a free holiday in California? For most of my life being unable to communicate has held me back. I was forced to go to an all girls school for mutes, but I never fit in. Most of the other girls would hassle me and try to trick me into speaking. Outside of the mute community wasn’t much better. Normal people always assumed I had wasted all my words. There’s a fair bit of taboo around word-wasters. It comes from the old days when life was harsh. Everyone had to live as long as possible so they could give back to the community. Back then wasting words was a grave sin. One day, the whole world changed. An amazing man, a genius inventor by the name of Nikolai Chimpon changed the world with a single invention. Nikolai built a device that reads brainwaves and outputs speech. It was finally possible to speak without the need to actually talk. For most people in the world this was a neat way to increase their life expectancy. For me? Well it was the start of my life. No longer held back by my single digit I took on the world. I became a singer and well known media personality. Soon after a romance between Nikolai and I blossomed and were soon married. In our third year of marriage we had a son, we named him George. Life was beautiful and glorious. That was forty-eight years ago this May. Nikolai and I watched our son grow and start a family of his own. Unfortunately Nikolai developed dementia in his sixties. The disease caused him to ramble. He passed towards the end of last year. Nowadays I am left alone. For the first time in my life it is not that I cannot speak but instead I have no one to speak to. George visits from time to time but he can’t waste his life chatting away with an old lady. I have lived an amazing life and I am content. All that is left for me now is to say “Goodbye.

Some people are so well-known that when they enter either a fancy restaurant, a 5-star hotel, an opera theatre, or any place of wealth or notoriety, their names will be spoken or, at times, whispered. They could be C.E.O's, movie stars, people in Congress, the Kardashians, athletes, or my wife--Wait, what?--*MY WIFE*?? These V.I.P's are acknowledged as soon as they enter a building. Paparazzi will be taking their pictures. They will buy the most expensive tickets, get the best seats, draw in other well-to-do patrons, tip well, and be really good for business. But, why my wife? How did she become a person of notoriety? As far as I know, she isn't any of these things. Does she have a secret life that I don't know about? Once she was on a women's bowling team where she maintained the lowest average among her teammates, and another time, she played one inning for a women's softball team before she pulled a muscle running to first base; I would have liked getting a picture of that but if I had, we probably would have been divorced by now. So she couldn't be known for her athletics. She did own a hair salon but *certainly* was not a highly paid C.E.O. She has never been in a movie--not even the home family video kind, nor was she elected to be a class representative at any time in her life. She is not, and will never be, a fan of opera and the only glasses she owns are for reading. She is not even remotely related to the Kardashians, lest know who they are. In N' Out is her favorite place to eat. Her finances are limited. So, how is it that she appears on the list above? It is because *they know her name!* They know her first and last name. When she enters their establishments, they greet her with "Hi Pat!". It is similar to when Norm would enter the bar on "Cheers" and everyone would acknowledge him by yelling out in unison "**Norm**!". Apparently, she was well-known. She was greeted upon entering Walmart, Big Lots, and who knows what other stores. When are they going to roll out a "red carpet" or announce her arrival over the loudspeakers? Why would they do that unless she was often there? She must be spending a great deal of money at those places. Thank heavens she wasn't known at the Broadway or Macy's or some of the stores on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. *Phew*! I don't like to shop, but I went to Walmart with her once. The greeter at the door knew her name, and they began to chit-chat while I went to get a cart from outside. Upon entering, the greeter called me by my first name as I passed. I had a feeling she probably knew where I was born, my height, weight, school subjects I taught, and how long we had been married. I didn't see my wife because she was off and running. She was going to *birdwalk* today, and I would have to look for a while to find her. But, as I passed the cashier, she said, "Oh, you must be Mr. S... ! Pat started down that aisle just a few seconds ago. If you pick up your pace, you'll have a 50/50 chance of catching her." She could be anywhere in less than a minute. The garden area was to the left; straight ahead were Christmas trees and ornaments and to the right, the rest of the store. Where would the birdwalker go first? Luckily, she had no cart and could only carry a few things. I had to find her quickly. It was like looking for Amelia Earhart, like finding a needle in a haystack, like Stanley searching for Livingston. "*Pat, I presume*," I said, as I tapped her on the shoulder. It had taken me only 10 minutes, a new record. She dumped her findings in the basket and continued to wander, or should I say birdwalk. This was going to be costly! I always try to go to Papa John's Pizza by myself for a good reason. I usually order one large pizza to take out. But when my wife goes with me, the pizza cost triples. I always ask her to wait in the car while I go inside. She invariably gets out saying that she will just "*window shop*" for a few minutes. But I know better. She has an infrared radar like a bat. She could find Big Lots blindfolded. All of her five senses kick in: sight, smell, sound, touch, and taste. Papa John's does recognize me some of the time, but I am only there for one item, pizza. My wife has no limits when it comes to purchases. With terror on my face, I encourage them to speed it up. Turn up the burners, skip the pepperoni I would say. Maybe if I offer a tip, I could get it baked before everyone ahead of me. It could save me money in the long run. I order, and they tell me it will take 20-25 minutes--must remember to always phone ahead. I know it will cost me dearly if it takes more than 10 minutes, and I let them know that this pizza will cost me at least $50 if they don't put it on rush; an anxious husband waiting. I tell them my wife is on the loose, and my bank account is going to be bled. I have to apply direct pressure. I know my wife has gone into Big Lots, a store that has lots of "**things**" that, obviously, she desperately needs! The longer it takes, the more it costs. I get the pepperoni pizza in around 12 minutes, put it into the car and run to Big Lots. Crashing through the front door, the only cashier on duty sees me and says, "Pat is in aisle #3." She knows I'm Pat's husband! She has seen this scenario before. They know her name. Walmart, Big Lots, and others know her name. She most definitely is a major personality and must be part of the V.I.P's that this world has to offer, at least in my world. But, can I afford it?! I will try to tell her that that rug, lamp, coffee pot, and bird feeder are not needed; the rug won't fit in our bedroom, the old lamps were a wedding gift from my parents, the coffee pot's color doesn't match our kitchen's colors, and there is no place on the bird feeder for the hummingbirds to sit. She only listens maybe 46% of the time, and when the cashier tells her that she was thinking of buying some of the same items herself, I can't win. **We should stop eating pizza altogether**! She may not be Maria Sharapova, Kim Kardashian, or some other famous lady, but we must take note as to whether or not the stores are greeting our wives with their names as they enter. We will always need a strategy.

I jumped, and I immediately regretted it. I watched as news of my death spread. My boyfriend rushed to the bathroom, slammed it shut behind him, and went straight to the toilet bowl. His body felt weak, and he had to cling onto the seat to stop his body from crumpling. He felt the bile rise up from his throat and was soon throwing his supper up. He did not cry at my funeral. For the days after the funeral, he went through his daily routines, emotionless and zombie-like. He spent his days losing me, over and over again. He would hear a song that would remind him of me, and he’d lose me again. Something would happen that he wanted to share with me, and he’d lose me again. He would chance upon something in his room that was mine, and he’d lose me again. Only when he visited my grave in the columbarium, half a year later, did he cry. He slammed his fists against the marble tablet with my photograph on it. He let out a cry of frustration. I had never seen him like that before. “You were supposed to call. I would’ve been there, I would’ve held you. I would’ve kissed you,” his voice began to quiver, then lowered to a growl. “Was it so fucking difficult to give me a call instead of giving up and leaving me?” He hit the tablet one last time and placed his fingertips gingerly on my photograph. He continued to lament, his voice now subdued, “We were supposed to grow old together. I need you now. I need you to hold me, and you’re not here. I miss you. I miss you so much. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you enough reason to stay.” He was finally crying. He let himself fall apart as the hot tears streamed down his cheeks. He was finally crying, six months later, when he had found it in himself to forgive me - and to forgive himself. “I still can’t believe you’re gone,” his voice was barely a whisper now. “*You promised*.

The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ I knew I was safe. Nothing more. Days came and went where I could only stay awake for a few minutes. I couldn’t find the energy to speak, or move. My world was just thin moments of consciousness spread amongst nothingness. Time was detached. I was dying on an uninhabited island, and now I lived through moments of consciousness on the Deer Drum boat. To me, it was instant. In reality, it was likely weeks. The moments of wake kept lasting longer, until I came to with a greater degree of strength. I peeled my eyes open to Xander sitting in a chair reading a book. For the first time, I could feel the nerves in limbs come to life, primed with that impulse to use my muscles. I twitched my arms. They moved. Snaking my back, I writhed, pulling myself up in the bed. Xander broke from his reading and ran to my side. “Careful. Take it easy.” I tried to speak, but my throat was croaky, and only the middle parts of words came out cleanly. “...fine. Just getting comfy...” “Gentle now. You’re lucky to be alive.” Xander reached behind my back and repositioned a pillow. “...how...” Words struggled to escape. “...get here?” Xander understood. He walked to the edge of the bed and sat down, grinning with relief and pride. “We found you on that island. You were in a bad way. Hardly conscious. Didn’t seem to recognize us.” “...why...” I stopped, my throat to dry. Xander leaned over and passed me a glass of water. I tried to hold it, but Xander refused to let go. He held it to my lips and let the water trickle into my mouth as my palms feigned grip on the tumbler. I swallowed the water and my larynx croaked again. “Why were you looking?” “Alessia got hold of us. Sent us off searching for you while her boat was repaired.” I jolted, my heart lifting my whole frame. “Alessia?” The words caught my throat, and I was overcome by a coughing fit. My back arched as my dry lungs heaved up barren air. “She’s fine,” Xander said, placing an arm on my shoulder. “Little storm wouldn’t stop her.” He waited until my coughing subsided and I leaned back against the bed frame. “Is she here?” I glanced around the room in vain hope. Xander shook his head. “We just got a message to search the western Anmanion Islands for you. She was going to get her boat fixed, and then go look for you at the rest of the Anmanions. Said she’d catch up to us at Vexids Receives.” My head leaned back in the bed, my shoulders slumped. Xander noticed. “I imagine you were worried about her.” I didn’t respond. Since the confession to myself on the Anmanion Islands, I wasn’t quite sure how to speak about Alessia lest the secret spill to others. My eyes glanced to the side, refusing to meet Xander’s. He nodded, seemingly reading me already. “You two are close. Ever since she arrived on Deer Drum you two always looked to each other. Not sure how you’d cope without her, or her you.” The corner of his lips flickered upwards. “I know she’ll have been worried about you too.” My face flinched against my own wishes, but I tried to keep the thoughts to myself. “How long till we reach Vexids Receives?” “Already here. Got in last night.” He stood back up and looked towards the door. “You need to rest. But before you fall asleep again, I’m going to find Eir. She’ll want to check you over.” Almost the moment he left I fell asleep again. But lightly now, enough that the sound of a cane thudding against hardwood floors woke me from my slumber. Eir semed more frail than she had been. Her movements were slow, and she leaned heavily on the cane with each step. As she grinned at me, smug with her skills, I could see the folds on her face roll over each other. “How do you feel?” She said, her voice almost as hoarse as mine. “Fine.” I croaked. She looked at me, her head tilted down. “I feel like I died.” I corrected. “You nearly did,” she chuckled. She leaned her hands down and touched my head, then my neck, then undid the top few buttons of my shirt to check my chest. Her hands felt cold, the blood not quite reaching the tips of her fingers anymore, and there was a slight tremble to her movements. Despite being one of the most certain about leaving Deer Drum, I suspected that this new life was not for her. It was a decision made for the next generation. She began pressing on my abdomen, asking me to tell her what did and didn’t hurt. “I told the others you had about a fifty percent chance of making it. But I said that trying to give them hope. In reality it was much worse than that.” She frowned, deep lines running across her brow. “So trust me when I say you need to rest. You understand?” I let out a grimace as she prodded into my sides. “Pain around your kidneys.” She nodded to herself. “Dehydration. We’ll be sure to make you drink lots.” “When can I leave the ship?” I asked. “Whatever for?” She scrunched her face. I strained a smile, hoping charm and blood rushing to my cheeks would convince her of my health. “To explore. See the island.” “Good grief.” The words came out in a groan. “You did hear when I said you nearly died?” I nodded. “Normally, I’d say not for another week,” she said.. “But I’ve seen what you get up to out there. So I’d say two weeks at least.” She stood back up and began shuffling towards the door. “In the meantime, rest. You’ll feel better for it” Part of me was determined to prove her wrong, and I spent the next few days willing my body to heal as fast as it could. I began taking tentative steps around my room, building up the strength in my legs. Soon I could venture unaided down the length of the corridor, traipsing the winding halls of the hull. However, as I continued my limbering walks around the boat, I was aware that it wasn’t just a desire to explore than meant I spurned relaxation. I didn’t want to admit it, it was a thought shrouded in illogicality and vanity, but I didn’t want Alessia to see me like this. Weak. Infirm. My skin pallid, and my muscles wasted away. Not that I was ever strong or masculine or that I thought I could fool her for a second as to my physical state. But that confession on the stony beach was playing tricks on my mind, making me think and act foolishly. And now, there was a small voice in my head telling me that any day now, her boat would appear on the horizon, and I needed to look my best. I needed to look like I hadn’t nearly died, alone and unable to make it by myself. I constantly caught myself simultaneously hoping Alessia would arrive, and also wanting her to give me more time. So when Kurbani came by my room, and I asked her if there was any news, I wasn’t even sure what answer I wanted her to give. “No. Not yet.” She smiled. “Lot of islands she’ll be checking for you. Give her time.” I nodded. It still hurt to talk and so I kept words to a minimum. Thankfully, I learned from Kurbani’s previous visits, that she was happy to fill the silence, keeping me informed of the other islanders, the new refugees from Granite Vowhorn, and the places they’d visited. I was grateful. Although I physically needed to recover, the loneliness from being stranded needed healing too. To experience another voice speaking at me, to make eye contact, to feel the muscles in my face react to another’s movements and words - this was all part of my rehabilitation. “I hear Novak has been keeping you entertained down here.” “He has.” “He’s gotten a lot better these past couple of months. He practises everyday. He’s determined. I think it helps him process what happened, to Lachlann and back on Deer Drum.” She paused a moment, her own memories running past her eyes. “He’s been trying to learn to play the nightingale song, but he can’t quite get the hang of it. Still a bit too complex. I hope he’s not been bothering you?” I shook my head. “Good. He looks up to you. A lot. Both the kids do. And I think Novak’s enjoying having you captive.” She laughed to herself. “I’m sorry you’ve not seen much of Mirai.” “It’s okay.” I whispered. “She’s been off on the island every day since we got here. I think she’s gone a bit stir crazy on the boat. She’d usually try and set foot on every island. But we’ve hardly seen her since we got here. Wakes up at the crack of dawn, eats breakfast, and then we don’t see her till sunset.” “She likes it here, you think?” I said, leaning forward. “She seems happy as a pig in shit.” She shrugged. “I’ll make sure she comes by soon though. It’s rude of her not to stop by more. Girl could do with learning some manners” Mirai didn’t visit; the invalid man deemed less interesting than whatever the island had to offer. I didn’t blame her. I wanted to be out there too. And Mirai’s absence, her change in behaviour, just made me want to visit all the more. I counted down the days on Eir’s timeline till on the fourteenth day, I rose early, and made my way to the deck. I puffed out my chest, and held my back straight. I marched up the steps through the hull, and opened the doors to the deck to find Eir sitting on a crate, hands resting on her cane. “Wondered how long it would take you to clamber up this morning.” I grinned. “You said two weeks.” “At least,” she grumbled. “Still. You’ve got your physical strength and your mental strength. Don’t think I could stop you if I wanted to.” “I feel good,” I said, looking down at myself, focussing on the strength in my core and ignoring the weakness in my limbs “I’d rather you spent a few more days. But at least take it slow and steady, okay?” “I will,” I said with a smirk. “I mean it, Ferdinand.” The smile disappeared from my face. “I know.” I looked out to sea, across the empty horizon. “Any word from Alessia?” She shook her head, her neck seeming to creak with the movement. “Don’t know how long it will take her to search those remaining islands for you. She’s probably terrified for you. Doesn’t know you’re here disobeying my medical advice instead.” My head dipped as a small embarrassed chuckle escaped me. “You said two weeks.” “At least,” she repeated. “Be cautious.” I walked over to the side of the boat and stared at the sea just in case Alessia’s ship was on the horizon. I could see a few boats out in the distance. None of them were her. Even from miles away I would know the cut of that hull. I took a deep breath of the salty air, feeling it cleanse my lungs. I was still processing the visions as I lay dying on the Anmanion Islands. I knew they weren’t real, just hazy thoughts halfway between sleep and death, but the emotions within, and the way it left me thinking of things differently, that was still true. Lachlann and Thomas, good friends, were gone. Lachlann would never learn how tightly Novak had clung to his guitar. Thomas would never know that he was right, and that the papers proving Pomafauc’s con were loose on the island. The story, for them, ended. And what could I do but try and continue? I still had my own story to write. And they would forever be an important part of mine. I turned to the island. There was one great rocky hill in the middle with large cliffs sticking out the ground covered in resilient green shrubs. But elsewhere, the island seemed mostly flat, with only gentle slopes. Perfect for still recovering legs. I found the netting down to the rowing boat, and checking the strength of my legs, climbed down the ropes, ready to see Vexids Receives for myself. \ The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents.

The air smelled like dish soap. I gave the janitor a polite, forced nod and stepped over the disgusting soapy puddle, holding my breath. My mother had always thought the smell was fresh and lively, but to me, it was horrible. It smelled like white hospitals and washing machines and lateness, my three least favorite things. I glanced at my brand new watch, it had cost a fortune, mind you, noting that my big presentation was in 7 minutes. I had prepared a slideshow, and I couldn't help but hope that everybody else would like my presentation. I straightened my skirt, taking comfort in the fact that I was pulling off the "work-chic" look absolutely perfectly. I walked into the elevator the second the doors slid open, accidentally brushing shoulders with the man who was already inside. He looked about two years younger than me, somewhere in his early twenties. His sharp jawline was what drew my attention to him, but he didn't even bother to take a single look at me when I smiled at him. I widened my smile to show my teeth, parting my red lips. "The fourth floor," I said, widening my smile even more, and waited for him to press the button. He did nothing but glance at me, unimpressed. Perhaps he hadn't heard me, I thought. "The fourth floor," I repeated, my voice a good amount louder and firmer, but he didn't even bat an eyelash. I'm sure he heard me this time! I looked down and cleared my throat softly, now feeling like an absolute idiot, and stepped forward to press the glowing number 4 on the set elevator buttons. I heard a mumble behind me and I spun around, almost tripping in my new high heels. I hadn't quite gotten used to them yet, but I knew that I had to look good for my big presentation. "What. Do you want?" I asked, trying to make my voice sound as uninterested as possible. Sure, he was definitely handsome, but if he was rude to me, then there isn't a single reason why I can't be rude back. "All you had to do was say please," he said shrugging his shoulders coolly, like saying that to a complete stranger was okay. An involuntary scoff escaped my lips. I had done absolutely nothing wrong to him, and he has the nerve to act like this? How dare he! I glanced at the number 3 lit up at the top of the elevator. My floor was next. I could see that he had to go to the 21st floor by looking at the illuminated numbers on the button. I started pressing all the numbers starting from 5, avoiding his confused glare. "What are you doing?" he spat loudly, stepping towards me. "Stop it! Now! I have somewhere to be, you know!" I smiled sweetly at him and kept pressing, enjoying the face he made whenever he heard satisfying little clicks. When I got to number 19, I paused, looked at him, and said, "All you had to do was say please." His jaw dropped open and if we were cartoons, you would practically see the smoke puffing out of his ears. I reached towards number 20 just to tick him off even more, when I noticed something very odd. The buttons weren't glowing anymore. I shot a confused glance at the man, which he returned with a sneer, when all of a sudden, the inside of the elevator went completely black. I felt myself falling before I could even start to register what was happening. I heard ear-shattering screams, although I couldn't process whether they were his or mine as I grabbed onto the elevator bar. I felt a sharp shard of glass fly into my forearm, and then two more shards flew into my leg. Even as I was falling, I understood that they were from my watch, which was now broken Something, or rather, someone clasped my leg tightly and I screeched even louder as I was suddenly pulled down to the elevator floor. "LIE DOWN!" the man screamed, pinning me down next to him with his elbow, pain running through my arm. That's when I felt the jolt. It was terrifying, I was thrown upwards as I crashed into the side of the elevator, my knee taking the full blow. The man rammed into me and we both fell down in a heap on the floor. Tears were streaming down my face and I was shaking uncontrollably when the doors crashed open. "Are you okay? Evacuate now!" A deep voice called, but I couldn't bring myself to move. My eyes stayed wide open and frightened, and I felt like I was frozen in time. I could barely process strong arms lifting me up and carrying me bridal style out of the elevator and onto a stretcher. I was loaded into an ambulance and then I blacked out. #-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#_#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#- I was still curled up into a tiny little ball when I woke up in a white hospital bed, but at least I had stopped shaking wildly. "Water," I croaked, to anyone who would listen, blinking slowly, the bright lights blinding me. "Please," I said, my voice cracking and hoarse from all the screaming I had done when the elevator was falling. I noticed a familiar face in the bed next to me. It was the man from the elevator! He had white gauze that had turned a little bit red on his head and leg. He handed me a glass of water from his bedside table, wincing a little as he stretched over to my bed. "See?" he said, smiling slowly, still obviously in lots and lots pain. "All you had to do was say please." And for the first time in what felt like forever, I smiled back. A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_ Thank you so much for reading! This is my first writing contest entry on Reedsy and it was so much fun to write! - Shriya

Raul searches through the forest for the origin of that distorted yet beautiful soft tune. The melody hums like a long lost friend, yet he can’t understand the words sung by the feminine voice. Though Raul’s thoughts slip away with each second, he knows he’s been here before. He picks up his pace to a run attached to the rhythm of the song, realizing there’s only so much time he has left to find her before it’s too late. Some moments flow slower than others. It feels as though the dream song envelopes him in molasses within those instants. Somehow, he reaches the clearing in time. She sits on a boulder right in the middle of the circle of trees. Her long, wavy dark brown hair kisses the edge of the cherry acoustic guitar. The pale woman continues singing and playing as though he weren’t there at all, but he still can’t understand the words despite seeing her full lips move. Her eyes meet his for a brief second, and the music stops. “Felicity Sp-” Raul jolts up from his bed, cold sweat running down his forehead. It’s dark. He reaches for his phone on the bedside table, pulling it off the charger to hold it closer. 4:44, the front screen reads over the abstract art image wallpaper. “I saw her this time,” He mutters to himself. “But she couldn’t be real.” Raul unlocks the phone screen and searches Felicity Sp. Brands pop up in the search results alongside many Facebook and Instagram pages. None of the social media profiles look like the woman from his dream. ***** Felicity rushes to the back of house to see if table twenty-three’s order is ready yet. The older woman of their party has already called Felicity over twice to check on the wait time for her Chicken Caesar Salad. “Hey Stan!” She calls. “How’s that chicken breast looking?” Other servers swerve by her, some picking up full hot plates and placing them on trays for their tables. Without glancing at her, the cook says, “Almost ready. The customer probably doesn’t want a side of blood with their salad.” Felicity holds her tongue. She’s noticed some of the other servers giving the cooks attitude after customers give them attitude, and she doesn’t want to add to that. She taps her foot and waits for the order since her other two tables already have their food. Stan smiles as he places the salad next to the two other orders of table twenty-three. “Thanks for waiting doll.” She’s never felt entirely comfortable when anyone she’s not close to calls her by a name like that, but she simply smiles back and places the food on the tray. “About time!” The graying slender woman exclaims as Felicity places the food in front of everyone. A few hours later the last customers finally leave the restaurant, and she lets out a deep breath. Lana, who Felicity barely had a chance to talk to all night, strolls towards her. “So, I saw you have tomorrow off too!” Her friend smiles, short red hair curling over her rounded cheeks. “Yeah,” Felicity replies, merely a small smirk over her tired face. “Let’s go out tonight.” “Oh, I don’t know. I’m so tired tonight, and I’m in the process of applying for grad school. Next time though?” Lana sighs and says, “Fine. But next time really means next time, like next week. Okay?” “Okay. I’m going to work on the application a lot tomorrow, so I should be good after that.” Felicity barely even remembers the drive home as she sits in her apartment’s parking spot. Once inside, she glances at her guitar for a second but continues straight to the bed instead. It’s been a long time since she’s been inspired to write about something anyways. ***** Felicity awakens in a forest, but words flow around her as though on multiple invisible screens. They spin so fast that they’re illegible in the moment. She looks in every direction, and there’s nothing but words and trees. She tries to touch some of the spinning white words, but her hand zips through just the same as it does through the air. “They’re lyrics.” A masculine sounding voice says from behind her. “Whose lyrics?” She turns around and sees a handsome tan man with slightly shaggy black hair. “Yours, mine, ours.” “I’ve never written with anyone before, and I don’t even recognize you.” She replies. “Time isn’t linear in the dream world. Not even so in the waking world, but it’s more obviously scattered here.” “So these are from the future or something?” She glances at the words, then realizes. “Wait a minute. I know I’m dreaming now.” She jumps, trying to fly. Though her leap is higher than normal, Felicity still falls back to the ground. He chuckles. “There are still some rules to this particular dream world. I guess you could say I’m from the future though compared to your timeline. Listen to Mr. Firefly.” “That name sounds familiar.” She says, as everything fades away. ***** Raul shuts the laptop he uses for work, mind still swimming with code. Sometimes he wonders why he studied computer science in college, but then remembers he has to make a living somehow. His music’s started gaining some traction on the internet, so maybe he can quit his job soon. Only time will tell. He walks into the music room. A few electric guitars, one acoustic, and a ukulele lined on the grassy green wall. Today feels like an ambient electric kind of day. He lights the lavender scented candle before setting up a microphone next to his desktop. Muscle memory of each note connects to his soul’s communication, and he makes a new tune in the moment. Longing to know the woman and music of his dreams. The tempo starts slow, curious. Still ambient style, it grows into a faster sound enveloping the entire room. It’s almost as though the fire of the candle swerves to his rhythm. Hours pass without him realizing the time. In the deep night, Raul’s recorded a few takes of the new song inspired by his dream. Still in a focused state, he stays up to edit the music. It’s about four in the morning by the time he finishes, and he immediately publishes it to YouTube along with a few streaming sites. He names the song Felicity. ***** Felicity recognizes she’s awake, but remains under the covers with her eyes closed. It can’t already be the next day, can it? Eventually, she decides it’s futile to try to fall back asleep and gets out from under the covers. The alarm clock says 4:44. A vague memory crawls to her from the other side of consciousness. She walks over to her laptop and searches for Mr. Firefly, opening the YouTube page that pops up in the results. She gasps at the song that was posted merely thirty minutes ago and clicks on “Felicity” on the artist’s page. The video screen is a blue abstract background, reminiscent of the sea. The opening welcomes her into another world, and the music blossoms into a new setting after the first minute. It calls to her like a siren, and she writes the first comment on the video. “This is beautiful, and my name is Felicity. I only have one song posted on here, but I would appreciate it if you would check it out.” Her writing doesn’t do justice to how she feels about the music, but she posts it. A notification pops up on her phone ten minutes later. Mr. Firefly wrote back, “I listened to your song. I would like to do a collaboration if you’re able to. Email me at mrfirefly@music.com.” She stares at the reply for a few extra seconds, is it really possible her dream led her to this? She’d never thought of fate much before, but maybe it is real. Felicity takes a deep breath and types, “Hi Mr. Firefly. This is Felicity. I’m emailing about your request to collaborate. First, what’s your real name? And second, how exactly are we going to collaborate?” His email reply is quick too. “My real name is Raul Garza. You can add me on Facebook if you want. It might be easier to collaborate from there, because we could video chat. Also, here’s a picture so it’s easier to find me, and I live in Cayucos, California.” He actually lives really close to her. Felicity’s in San Luis Obispo. His picture is posted below the message, and he looks just like the man from her dream. Her mouth drops slightly. She logs into Facebook and searches for him. A wave of tiredness washes over her as soon as she hits the add friend button, and she falls back asleep for the rest of the morning. ***** She looks just like the woman of his dreams. Raul tugs at his ear as he thinks of what to write for the first message. He starts typing out, “Hey Felicity, glad you-” then deletes everything. He tries a few more times and ultimately settles with the waving emoji on Messenger. She doesn’t respond right away. After a few minutes pass, he decides to log out and finally get some sleep. ***** They both wake up in the forest clearing, standing face to face. Raul’s eyes widen at the site of her, and she glances down. “Hi,” He says first. “Is it still you from the future?” She asks. His eyebrows furrow in confusion. “We’ve never actually talked in these dreams before. Have we?” “I saw you just last night. You said you were from the future, and it’s what got me to listen to Mr. Firefly.” “Well, guess I’ll have to thank future me one day.” His smile is charming, teeth pearly white and straight. Felicity glances to the side and notices her cherry red acoustic leaning against a boulder. “Maybe we could try out our first collaboration here instead of through the internet.” She gives him a grin. “Sounds like a good idea to me. Though, I wouldn’t mind meeting you while we’re both awake one day. Make some music and record it. I noticed your profile says you live pretty close to Cayucos.” “What are the odds?” She asks. He shrugs. She picks up the guitar and starts finger picking. He hears everything clearly in the dream for once, and they take turns singing to her peaceful tune.

The warehouse was old and in a state of disrepair. The back of the building had been renovated several years prior. An upper level was added with a two bedroom residential apartment. I remember this kind of thing being fashionable in previous decades, as it allowed the business owner to live on the property. Kayla was being held in one of the bedrooms. She was tied to the chair at her wrists and ankles respectively. It was hard to believe that this now thirteen year old was the same girl who was three when I met her father Diego ten years prior. Earlier that day I'd felt both of them calling out to me. When I arrived at Diego's place, he explained that these three had kidnapped Kayla and the ransom was him pulling a job for them. He was supposed to crack a safe full of diamonds at a high end jewelry store in town. I told him not to go anywhere near that place, and promised him that I'd bring her home safe, and deal with these thugs. I followed Kayla's mental distress signal to this place. I floated through the apartment walls, and out into the warehouse. Her three captors were all downstairs. There were two men and a woman. The woman, I'd heard one of them call here Piper, was the one calling the shots. She had one guy in the office of the warehouse with her, and the other was to stand guard outside. The guy inside the office wore a black t-shirt bearing the image of a local rock band. I had heard this band play once, so I could tell immediately that he had terrible taste in music. During their conversation he mentioned that he wanted to "have a little fun" with Kayla. Piper told him he'd have to wait until after the job was done. I decided right there that his chances of surviving the rescue were going to be incredibly slim. Piper also mentioned that Diego had an hour and fifteen minutes left to pull the job and call them to confirm. This hastened things a bit. I would need to be in a corporeal form to interact with the environment. I would thus need a host body. The easiest approach would be to take over one of them, and just let Kayla go free. Maybe take over band shirt guy, and drive her home safely. When I arrive maybe encourage Diego to put a few bullets in the body. I couldn't use any of the three though. I could sense that inside of them they were all completely given over to their inner darkness. That was the biggest limitation to this ability, I couldn't take over a person with too much darkness in them. Of course everyone has a dark side, but to be able to override them I needed a host whose dark side was small. I'd have to find someone fast. I floated outside and went high above the building. I flew a couple of blocks away and saw the corporate office building of an insurance company. It was 4:30 PM and some people were leaving work for the day. I floated down to the sidewalk outside of the main entrance. I spotted a young guy as he walked out. He looked to be about 6 '2 and seemed physically fit. He was wearing his letter jacket from his recently completed high school days. I could see that he graduated two years ago, and got the letter for football. Excellent, he'd have good reflexes, and was likely to be quick on his feet. His name was also embroidered into the jacket. Brian Cromwell. I could sense that the darkness in him was small, almost microscopic in size. This was the kind of guy you'd hear about running into a burning building to get someone out. Usually I prefer to research a host more thoroughly first, but time was of the essence here. "Alright Brian, " I thought to myself. " you get to be the hero today." I entered Brian's body, and could see through his eyes, and hear with his ears. I wiggled his fingers for a moment. In my experience that was usually the fastest way to get a feel for how to pilot his nervous system. After that I reached into his right pocket and found his car keys. I saw the make of the car on his key fob, and then looked out at the parking lot. I could see three different models of that make, so I pressed the unlock button, and saw the lights blink on a blue four door sedan. I made my way to the car. I got in and started the engine. I looked around the car for a moment for anything I could possibly use as a weapon, or helpful tool. That's when I discovered that he kept a folding knife in the center console. I took the knife out and clipped it to his belt. I then put the car in reverse and backed out before throwing it into drive and departing for the warehouse. I parallel parked the sedan about fifteen feet up the street from the warehouse. I walked along the sidewalk until I came up on the guy standing guard. He was a few inches shorter than my host which worked to my advantage. "What's up?" I asked him. "Chillin Man, what about you?" "Dude, I am so lost right now. I'm supposed to be going to this place on park street, and my phone died, so no gps." That's when he made the mistake I’d wanted him to make. As he began to give me directions, he pointed toward Park Street. I knew exactly which way it was when I asked him. As he pointed he turned his body facing away from me, and that was the moment I made my move. I removed the knife from Brian's belt, unfolded it, and dispatched him before he knew what happened. I dragged his body into some nearby bushes, and took the pistol from his waistband. I checked it and found nine rounds in the magazine, and one in the chamber. That would likely come in handy shortly. With the guard now removed from the equation I turned my attention to the warehouse again. I made my way to the front door, and stepped inside. To my right were a pair of restroom doors. The men's room light shone through the edges. I waited for a moment, and then the door opened. The guy in the black t-shirt stepped out. I made quick work of him with the knife as well. As I approached the stairs Piper emerged at the top. "Who the hell are...?" She didn't have time to finish the sentence before I drew and fired. She stumbled back, clutching her abdomen.She then drew her own pistol and returned fire. I got out of the way and used a nearby vending machine for cover. She fired four rounds. I leaned out from behind the machine and saw that she had herself propped up in a halfway sitting position. She was a smaller target now, and the shot was risky, but I took it anyway. My effort paid off and I saw her fall back down again. I slowly ascended the staircase with my weapon still drawn and ready. As I approached the top I could hear her labored breathing. The wheezing sound seemed to indicate that I'd punctured one of her lungs. I got visual confirmation of this as I reached the upper landing. She was in bad shape, and wouldn't make it. I put a final round in her head to finish her off. Regardless of what somebody has done, I don't like for them to suffer needlessly. I made my way to the apartment on the second floor. I entered the living room, and took a moment to check my surroundings. After I made sure that the kitchen, restroom, and second bedroom were clear I made my way to the one where Kayla was being held. I opened the door slowly and called out. "It's okay, it's me, Simon." I heard a sigh of relief from the other side. I entered and quickly cut her makeshift restraints free. "Thank you Simon." "No worries. Let's get you home. Oh, and you might not wanna look on the way out. Your captors are, um, expired." She chuckled slightly at my choice of words. I got Kayla back home, and chatted with Diego for a little bit. He offered to get rid of the gun and knife for me. I knew he could dispose of them in a way that they'd never be recovered. I took the opportunity to wash the gunshot residue off of Brian's hands before I left. I also cleared the GPS history both from his car, and phone. That would be enough to get rid of most of the evidence of him being there. He wouldn't remember what happened today either, so that also would work in his favor. I took Brian back to his apartment, and settled down on the couch. I could feel the adrenaline wearing off, and the crash setting in. I leaned him back and relaxed his body. I then left him asleep on his couch. I floated through the exterior wall and into the hallway leading to his front door. I left the apartment complex and went up to a higher altitude. A couple of blocks away I noticed a new sandwich shop that I hadn't seen before. I made a mental note of it, so next time I had a host who was hungry I'd give it a try.

It was the year 1782, the year Maria was to wed one of the many eligible bachelors in the country. She didn't have her mind on anyone in particular but herself, but the thought of having to share even a ballroom with a man riled her up to the point she felt on the verge of a terrible illness. Her guts had been tying themselves in knots ever since the Queen had announced the courting season opened, and her home (well, her father's) had suitors pouring in at even the most unusual times of the night. It was expected anyway. While she had what men wanted in aesthetics and body build, her father was a rich person with connections that reached even the King himself. Who wouldn't want to be related to someone like that? Maria yawned and continued to think about her case. What was going to happen after the marriage? She would live as her husband's *marionette* for the rest of her life? Or she would serve as some sort of servant? Answering his beck and call? She wanted more for herself, but society spoke for everybody, even though those who were the society never really agreed with all they said. *What do I do?* She flipped herself in such a way that her upper body faced the nicely painted ceiling, the delicate strokes of different colors of paint somehow calming her frayed nerves. She felt she could be more than she was, more than society had predicted she was. She turned her head to the side and jumped up immediately when she realized her makeup might stain her pillowcase. Turning to the mirror, her eyes met those of her reflection. *I guess that's the end of the day. The makeup isn't necessary anymore, is it?* She mustered some strength into her body and pushed herself off the bed and walked toward the sink in the bathroom. She tapped the tap handle as water gushed out almost immediately. She stared at her image in the mirror one last time. Maybe it was best that she and her family members knew exactly what was going on. It didn't matter anyway. Whatever season she decides to get married would be the beginning of the end. And somehow, everyone in her father's care was prepared for it. Her palms were cupped as she placed them under the running water and brought it to her face. Her eyes stung from staying awake so late. Not like she cared. She couldn't just be bothered. Her hands did all the work, scrubbing her eyeliner and mascara from her eyes, cleaning the lipstick off of her lips, giving her the natural look she was born with. There was a reason why she was called Bruixa. Although it wasn't her name (because she was never given one), it told the truth about what she looked like. She had given herself the name but not once had she answered anyone that called her that. The girl with the heart of gold. But the face of a witch. &#x200B; \ Please comment if you want more parts of this.

Thanks for taking the time to read. This is a rough draft and I likely won't be returning to it to finish but I got it down in about 40 minutes and wanted some feedback on tone and pacing. I am really just starting to write. Divorce sucks. I always told myself that it would be easier to just not get married than go through another. Three was one too many for a kid and it never got easier. I must have spent my entire adult life figuring out who I was outside of that pain. I was really blessed to not go through the usual trappings of separation. No court dates, no arguments over time, no vindictive pursuit of support. It was probably the amicability of our arrangement that stung the most. Why couldn’t we just make it work? I always know the answer is me but it’s still a question that makes me ache. &#x200B; Divorce sucks, but it didn’t stop me from having a kid and a breakup anyway. Salem, the most perfectly lovable child, became my world. Time eased my fears and I inevitably ended up dating again about a year after the breakup. It didn’t take long to start up my new life and even move in with my new partner Andrea. Our space was modest but cozy, a single wide two-bedroom trailer just big enough to run through on little toddler legs. Only getting Salem on the weekends Friday to Monday meant that the house was awfully quiet during the week. Looking down the hallway at her door during the week never feels good, a constant reminder my family isn’t together. I heard somewhere that the more pain and guilt you carry the more likely you are to experience a haunting. &#x200B; “Could you help Salem get in the habit of shutting off her light when she leaves?” Andrea mentioned one night after taking Salem to Mom. “I swear I did so myself, I will definitely be more mindful of it” I told her. The next night I came home a bit late, Andrea still working. “I know I shut it off yesterday, did you go back in?” I texted Andrea. “Nope, haven’t been down there today” she told me confidently. Oh well, I thought to myself and just walked down and shut it off. I dozed off for a half hour or so after a glass of rye only waking to an odd sound. Was that Legos? Distinctly so. Someone or something was absolutely playing with Lego blocks, and I felt my stomach drop immediately. Fuck I locked one of the cats in the bedroom. I ran down the hallway and opened the door ready to hear some protest from one of our fur friends only to find an empty room and nothing out of place barring the light being on again. I went around and took inventory of the cats and confirmed they were all accounted for before closing the door and shutting off the light once more. This time making sure to take a mental note of me deliberately shutting off the light and closing the door. “I always knew I was a little crazy,” I joked to my giant tabby who started following me around in hopes of some attention Later that night while Andi was making her way into the house, I came out to greet her “Hey cutie how was work?”. She let out a heavy sigh “Another one of those days, just glad to be home. I didn’t know we were getting Salem or I would have stopped for dinner!”. Salem? “What do you mean?” Now I asked a bit weary and feeling fear creep inside me. “I can hear her in there playing with her Legos right now and her light is on you should have said something to me!”. I slowly walked toward the back hall keeping my steps quiet to hear what Andi was hearing. Approaching the door it became clear as day, those were Legos being put together. Beginning to shake I start to reach for the door but pause and called out with a tremoring voice “Salem?”. The sound of blocks being assembled suddenly stopped “Uh oh dada is here". Now trembling with Andrea standing behind me looking confused, I slowly opened the door. Silence and a stillness that haunts me even now settled in the room for what felt like an eternity. I had to find something out of place, some reason for what I was hearing. A voice rattled through the house shaking both of us and the windows around us “I WANT THE LIGHT LEFT ON”.

Autumn was his favourite season. The discoloured leaves emanating warmth against the brisk chill coursing through his body. Munroe traipsed across the rustling ground heading toward his first port of call. Lennox, his black Labrador retriever, had already excitedly run ahead and was now barking for his master’s attention. He always found the quiet of the wood therapeutic in the morning, and now this infernal hound was breaking his calm. As he neared the tree by which Lennox was waiting, he was not prepared for the horrible scene he was about to witness. Foxes are often snared; it’s Munroe’s method of choice. He always carries his trusted CZ.222 rifle for the odd encounter with what he calls the “red devil”, but the snare is the more successful. However for this poor fox the snare was only the start of its demise. As Munroe looked down he could vaguely make out the various organs spread across a 50 centimetre radius. The death of the fox did not surprise him, however the method about which it had happened did, but what perplexed him more was the amount of meat remaining. Most predators would have picked it clean, as they would be unsure of where their next meal would come from, but this seemed like the animal was killed and then left. Normal procedure would be to bag the kill, tag it and record it, but Munroe decided to leave the mess for the birds to clear up. Despite the morbid nature, Munroe enjoyed his job. After a lifetime in the British Army and then the SAS, he was desperate to retire into a quiet job where he could be his own boss. He didn’t have any friends; those he would have happily socialised with were taken from him during tours in the Falklands and the Gulf. However, living alone in a small self built shack with his faithful partner Lennox, Munroe could honestly say he was happy. There was no stress, no worries and Mr McKendrick, the owner of the land, was an unobtrusive employer, trusting Munroe’s instincts. Unfortunately those instincts were to fail him. She was lying unconscious blanketed by leaves, a pale looking woman in a tattered dress. Munroe stroked his thick beard as he examined her from afar, unsure if she was still alive. As he kicked the layer of leaves away from her face he noticed her eyes twitch. He looked at Lennox who was sat by him panting, almost as if he was expecting advice from this four legged animal. Munroe removed his Westfield wax jacket and after brushing away the remaining leaves, draped it over her skinny frail body. Throwing the rifle strap over his shoulder, he bent down and slid his arms underneath her. She was so cold; the shock sent a shiver down his spine. Munroe lifted her with such ease he guessed she weighed no more than six or seven stone. A part of him wondered how this woman could still be alive. Munroe’s shack was not the ramshackle mess the word normally springs to mind. A skilled self taught carpenter, it was carefully planned and constructed with extensive knowledge of structure and form. Granted it was basic, but it was sturdy and had survived turbulent weather. Designed as one room, the bedroom, kitchenette/dining room and living room were separated by the furniture within. On the walls were many photos of Munroe with his battalion, the 40 Commando Royal Marines. During the Falklands he was one of the first to land at San Carlos on Operation Corporate. Whilst defending the beach head they were subject to air attacks the following days and shot down an Argentine Skyhawk with a machine gun. It was a moment Munroe would never let leave his memory. As they entered the shack Lennox headed straight for his basket and curled up, the cold was clearly too much for him. The shack was surprisingly warm, something Munroe insisted on during the design. An Edinburgh lad born and raised, he never liked the cold of Scotland, but he could never deny his homeland or the beauty it has to offer. Now that he was located further north in Fife at the Kirkwood Estate, he could swear the temperatures were always several degrees lower. Munroe lowered the girl down on his bed, brushing the hair away from her face. Blood had dried around her mouth, most likely from a nosebleed or cut lip. As he moved her arm down by her side he noticed black spots along the skin. They resembled cigarette burns. He approached the sink in the kitchen and ran a tap, soaking a flannel. The water came from a tank outside that collected rainwater. He was proud of his self sufficient home. A wood burning fire provided heat and a solar panel provided what little electricity he needed. He wiped away the dirt and blood from her face as she began to open her eyes. As he stared, she panicked cramming herself into the corner where the bed met the wall. “It’s okay.” he said softly in his thick accent. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Her eyes darted around the room trying to understand where she was, pulling the duvet cover over for protection. “What’s your name?” he asked. She looked at him hesitating for a moment. “Sabina.” She spoke with a thick eastern European accent. “Where are you from?” He enquired curiously. “Romania.” She replied still confused as to where she was. “You’re a long way from home. How did you end up here?” “Men, take me. I arrive in container. I am to work for them.” As she spoke the thought of what she was saying horrified Munroe. “But I escape.” She added. “Did they hurt you?” Munroe asked gesturing to the burns on her skin. She looked down at them and nodded. “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe here.” he said smiling sincerely. “Thank you.” Munroe wasn’t sure what he was going to do with her. A sucker for a damsel in distress he was determined to help her, however calling the police would surely result in her deportation and he wasn’t sure how Mr McKendrick would react to the situation. Munroe reasoned that they had time, at least until she gained her strength and then they would decide on the next step. Munroe was stirring a batch of homemade tomato soup, his favourite meal, especially on cold days like this. Sabina was still sat on the bed wrapped in the duvet watching him. As he raised the spoon to taste, the sound of voices could be heard outside. Munroe paused. Voices were unusual around here, this was private property and nobody should be trespassing. Sabina pulled the duvet tighter around her, frightened of who may be outside. Munroe put the spoon back in the saucepan and grabbed his rifle. He glanced out the window to see three men walking by the shack. “Stay quiet.” Munroe ordered. As he approached the door Lennox stood to attention, ready to follow and, if necessary, protect his master. Munroe opened the door and stepped outside, the rifle lowered by his side. Lennox stepped up beside him. As the three men spoke Munroe recognised the language immediately, it was one he was all too familiar with, Serbian. As a member of D Squadron of the 22 Special Air Service, he had taken part in Operation Picnic during the Kosovo War. Inserted into Kosovo in the early hours of 21st March 1999, their mission was to identify Serbian units, surface-to-air missile sites and supply lines and positions while remaining undetected. They also scouted possible invasion routes for NATO forces and collected photographic evidence of Serbian war crimes. On the 25th March his unit came across a mass grave in the small village of Bela Crkva, men, women and children all piled in together. The true capability of Serbians was etched into Munroe’s mind and ever since he has held a dislike for the country and its people. To find three of them metres from his home did not sit well with him. The three men stopped in their tracks and turned to the armed man standing on the porch of his shack staring at them. The first to speak was stood in between the other two wearing an old 90s tracksuit jacket, his hair was greasy and the five o’clock shadow on his face gave an aura of intimidation. “Hello, I’m sorry. I think we took wrong turning. We are lost” he said. Munroe mustered up a sound of authority in his voice. “Aye, that you are. This is private property and you’re trespassing. I suggest you turn around and head back the way you came.” He replied. “Thank you, we will do that.” The three men began to turn around, but tracksuit stopped again and turned to Munroe. “You haven’t seen a young girl come through here have you? She is our friend, we are looking for her.” He asked politely. “No, I haven’t.” Munroe answered trying to sound genuine. A moment of silence followed before a sound inside the shack alerted the three Serbians. They could see the discomfort on Munroe’s face. Tracksuit smiled with a devilish grin. “Give us the girl.” He demanded. Munroe shook his head. “There’s no girl here.” he replied trying to stay calm. Tracksuit was becoming impatient. “Please, do not play with me. If you hand her over, you will never see us again. I promise.” Munroe decided to give up the act and play it straight. “I can’t do that.” “Very well.” Tracksuit said as he drew a Glock 19 Pistol from the back of his jeans and raised it ready to aim at Munroe. The gamekeeper was too quick though, lifting the rifle and firing a quick shot to disarm the Serb, severing off his ring finger in the process. He fell to his knees screaming in pain holding his injured hand as the blood dripped onto the leaves beneath him. His friend to the right wearing a leather jacket, with a shaved head and goatee making him look like some sort of nightclub bouncer moved his arm around to the back of his trousers. Munroe fired a shot at the ground by his feet and leather jacket paused. “Don’t you even dare. Throw it away.” Munroe ordered and leather jacket complied, slinging a Glock 19 several metres from him. Munroe then focused his attention to the Serb on the other side. “You too.” He told the main dressed in a denim jacket looking less tough than the other too. “I have no gun.” He replied lifting up his jacket to show Munroe nothing was tucked anywhere. “You stupid asshole.” Tracksuit piped up still squeezing his hand tightly to stem the flow of blood. “You do not understand.” “Oh, I understand fully. Now leave this land.” Munroe ordered, this time with more force. Leather and denim helped tracksuit to his feet and they began to head off in the opposite direction, Munroe still with his rifle trained on them. “We’ll be back, and you’ll be sorry.” Tracksuit called out. Munroe waited for them to disappear within the trees then finally lowered his rifle. He re-entered the shack and looked over at Sabina who was still huddled in the corner, the blanket held up to her eyes. “We need to leave.” He suggested, placing the rifle up against the wall. “I cannot.” Sabina replied with fear in her voice. “You have to.” Munroe grabbed a large blanket and slung it over to Sabina. “This will keep you warm.” Sabina lowered the duvet and grabbed the blanket throwing it around her shoulders. She pulled it over her head, and as she stood up the end of the sheet reached down to the floor. She was completely covered. She looked up to Munroe. “Okay, but where we go?” she asked. “Somewhere safe.” He answered as he grabbed a set of car keys off a hook by the door. To say Munroe’s Land Rover was old was an understatement. The 95 Defender model had seen a lot throughout its years and although a little rickety here and there, it churned up road like there was no tomorrow. Sabina was sat beside him still hidden within the blanket watching the trees whiz by. Lennox was in the back enjoying a trip in the car as he always did. Silence remained between them, nothing but the ground crunching beneath. The main house of the estate was a couple of miles away from Munroe’s shack. He wanted it to be located far enough that he wouldn’t have to run into Mr McKendrick too often, or his guests, yet close enough that either man could easily visit the other. As the Land Rover pulled up outside the main doors of the house, Munroe jumped out onto the gravel driveway and ran to ring the bell, he then returned to the passenger side door and opened it helping Sabina out, the sharp gravel cutting into her bare feet. Lennox began barking as though asking when he would be let out. “Stay boy, I’ll be back soon.” Munroe called to him. The door was opened by the main butler of the house, Wilson. Munroe knew him well, but did not like him and knew a petty argument would ensue between them about who the girl was, before he would allow entry. Munroe pushed Wilson aside and stepped in, much to the butler’s protests. In a great ornate living room Munroe and Sabina waited, Wilson standing by the door staring daggers at them. The fire was roaring and Sabina was sitting by it absorbing the heat. Munroe was pacing up and down near her as Mr McKendrick entered the room tying his dressing gown. “Munroe, what is it?” McKendrick asked. “Mr McKendrick, I’m sorry to barge in on you, but I need you to take care of this young woman.” He told him. Mr McKendrick looked over at Sabina who seemed completely oblivious she was the subject of the conversation. “Who is she?” “I found her in the wood, several men are after her. She needs somewhere safe to stay, for the night at least.” “I don’t know, Munroe. How can I trust her?” “You don’t need to leave her alone. Have Wilson watch her.” Wilson was not happy to hear this suggestion. “And where will you be.” He cried. “Protecting my home.” “What do you mean?” McKendrick asked concerned. “I’m sorry, Sir, but I have to go.” Munroe rushed for the door. “But Munroe.” McKendrick turned to watch Munroe leave, confused by his haste. He then turned to Sabina who was still by the fire. “Wilson, ensure she behaves herself.” “Very well, Sir” Wilson replied begrudgingly. As Munroe drove back to the shack bouncing along the dirt road, he felt as if he was back in the Gulf War driving along the desert dunes to battle. He knew the Serbs would return and this time with more men and heavier fire power. Munroe would have to use every trick he had learnt from years under Her Majesty’s service to protect himself and his home. Munroe searched the shack for anything he could find that would help hold off the inevitable siege. Along with snare wire, he gathered up every last round for his rifle and came across an old bear trap at the bottom of a wooden crate filled with farm relics. For a moment as he stared at the rusty teeth, he felt it may be too much, but after his mind flashed back to that haunting mass grave, those doubts washed away. It didn’t take long to plant everything. He knew they would attack from the same direction they originally came and so it was a simple case of creating a defensive line several metres from the shack. This would give enough time, for those that do get through, to pick them off with the rifle. Darkness was falling; this would work to Munroe’s advantage hiding every trap from view. As much as he would want to fight alongside him, Munroe knew this was not Lennox’ war and so shut him inside hoping the walls would stem the penetration of bullets and protect him from any harm. He was never one to put his fellow soldiers in danger, if it could be helped. Munroe perched himself on the roof of the shack in a prone position, rifle lined up. He used the scope to scan along the tree line looking for any movement. With no night vision to hand, he would have to rely mainly on sounds, something he was more than used to. An hour went by and the temperature dropped several degrees. The lack of movement was making Munroe more and more cold. His hands were shaking and he was struggling to hold the rifle steady. He was starting to wonder if they would actually show up, would he have to stay here all night just in case? Suddenly he heard the sound of a branch snap, and the rustling of leaves. Peeking through the sight he scanned the defensive line looking for any hint of motion. It was then he heard the sound of the bear trap snap shut and the blood curdling scream that followed. Denim jacket’s leg was in a helpless grip cutting into the flesh. He was crying in agony trying to pull his leg free, but each time he did the teeth would drag more skin from the bone. He collapsed to the floor on the cusp of passing out. One of the Serbs dressed in a black hoody covering his head ran to the aid of Denim, but tripped on a cord made from the snare wire tied between too trees. He fell forward onto a set of carved wooded spikes protruding from the ground at a 45 degree angle. They penetrated his chest causing him to cough up blood. Munroe could not see what was happening, but the sounds of rustling neared every second. He was almost panicking trying to spot any sign of a human figure, but the darkness was concealing everything. Leather jacket, Tracksuit and a third man wearing a long winter coat were only a few metres from the shack. They each had AK47s and cocked them ready to fire. They created a line of fire as they cut up the shack’s walls. Inside Lennox was going berserk barking and bouncing up and down. The flashes from the muzzles lit up the faces of the three men alerting Munroe to their position. He lined up the sight and fired a shot taking out Long Coat, a perfect shot through the head. As he reloaded, Lennox had managed to get out the door and ran toward the two remaining men, barking loudly. He pounced at Leather Jacket sinking his teeth into his arm. As he roared in pain he pulled a Glock 19 from his trousers and fired a shot. Lennox yelped collapsing to the ground. Just as Leather Jacket pulled himself to his feet a shot echoed and he felt a piercing sting in his chest. He dropped to his knees falling forward taking a mouthful of dirt. With only Tracksuit left, he yanked back the trigger churning out round after round splitting the wood of the shack, splinters flying off in all directions. Munroe reloaded the rifle and trained his sight. He fired, catching Tracksuit in the chest. He fell backwards casting the AK47 across the ground. Munroe waited several minutes scanning the tree line again, prepared for any more movements. He suspected they were all down and slowly crawled to the edge of the roof where he slipped off down to the ground. He reloaded the rifle and made his way over to Tracksuit who was panting. As Munroe looked down at him, he looked up. “You fool. You do not understand. She must die. She is not human.” He spoke under heavy breath. Munroe frowned at him confused by these words. “What do you mean?” he asked. Tracksuit gave his last breath and shut his eyes. Munroe looked over toward the main house. Munroe didn’t hesitate to gather up Lennox and put him in the back of the Land Rover. He’d been shot, but Munroe suspected it wasn’t anything too serious. The bullet was through and through missing any vital organs. It was a simple case of stemming the blood flow until he could get him to a vet. But first he would need to stop by the house. As Lennox lay in the back of the car breathing slowly, but conscious, Munroe was still waiting by the door after having rung the doorbell several times. Past experiences told Munroe it didn’t matter how late it was someone would always answer the door. He decided he couldn’t wait any longer and used all his strength to kick the door. It slammed against the wall as it swung open. With rifle in hand, Munroe stepped into the quiet expecting someone to run in questioning the noise, but nothing. He made his way into the living room where the fire was still roaring, unattended. “Hello?” he called out, expecting some sort of reply. Climbing the stairs was something he had never done. The upstairs of the household was strictly off limits, but Munroe was becoming more and more concerned by the lack of presence in the home. He made his way across the large corridor of rooms, all with their doors open. Only one at the end was shut. He guessed this was Mr McKendrick’s bedroom, and made his way toward it. He repeated the words of the Track suited Serb in his head “She’s not human.” What did he mean by that? He reached out his hand and turned the door handle gently pushing it open. The hinges creaked, the light rushing into the dark room. As Munroe entered he was greeted by a familiar scene. Lying on the bed was Mr McKendrick, not looking too dissimilar to the fox that he had discovered that morning. Blood was sprayed up the walls, the bed sheets were soaked. Limbs and organs spread all over. Mr McKendrick’s severed head frozen with a face of pure shock that sent a chill down Munroe’s spine. Down on the floor beside his feet was a crumpled up dress, the same one worn by Sabina. Behind him he could hear the sound of breathing. He carefully turned around and stared into the blackness in the corner of the room. Floating like two laser dots was a pair of red eyes staring at him. His heart began pounding faster than had ever before. She began to make a growling noise. Munroe slowly attempted to cock the rifle. The clicking noise startled her and she lunged out from the corner launching toward him. Munroe raised the rifle and fired a shot.

Walking this earth, wondering why all the suffering, why all the hurt - what is the point? Where are the answers to this life of constant good, to be contrasted with any type of negative, whether it be a thought to make you spiral into a bad mood, or a person who was rude to you which turned your mood from happy to annoyed? What is this constant contrast in this life us humans are enduring? Why do we even let people ruin our moods? What is the point to all of this? The world is overcome with negativity. We struggle with the people around us who don’t know how to be happy or grateful, while being one of those people. Go to bed, wake up, go to work, get home, go to bed, just to repeat. And the wonder is ‘what is the point of this life?’. Sure some people have more and seem happier, but are they really? Deep down are they actually happy and peaceful with this life? Being human is hard; it’s full of emotions that aren’t easy. There is illness, death, anger, heartache, fear, loss and evil in this world that does co-exist with the opposite, but the negative feels more powerful, more evident in our lives. As humans, we are born into a family, into a part of the world we will either love or loathe. We make tough decisions and risks throughout our lives looking for that peace and happiness, while striving for success, which for most people means money. Most humans have children, which is a beautiful experience also blanketed with extreme worry; extreme worry because the love is so extreme. Again, why do we mostly feel the opposite of love as stronger? Why are us humans like this? Negativity is easy; positivity is hard. As a human, we keep walking this earth in search of the peace and happiness, with little pockets of pure joy, whether it be a trip, a new puppy, birth of a child, a promotion. But it never lasts does it? We are always brought down, nothing good lasts forever. Most of us love our parents, and they die. Some of us lose loved ones to tragic accidents. Why??? Why is life so full of hardships and heartache that seem to overpower the good? Why do we constantly feel this struggle? Why does the good not last forever? Why do the best people always seem to struggle the most? Why is there so much addiction? Why is everyone not kind to one another? What is the point of this life? WHAT IS THE ACTUAL POINT? I wonder this daily as I read about and watch people struggle, hard workers, lazy people, positive people, rich people; it doesn’t matter, we all suffer throughout our lives. So what is the point of a human experience? To suffer? To worry? To stress? Most days that feels like the point, except for those moments which seem rare in our existence. The answer is at the mountains. Sure, the ocean is great. But the mountains.... Sit in front of a mountain, for example, the Rocky Mountains. The energy is alive, the energy is powerful, the energy envelops you. Give your struggle to the mountains and the mountains will give back exactly what you need. The answer is there for you. The mountains give you the answer to the point of being human. You can’t even put the answer into words because you just feel the mountains. Negative energy is impossible to feel in the presence of a mountain. You feel extreme peace, the kind that washes over your whole being and gives you all the answers. You feel the point of being human, which is love, the kind of love you can’t put into words, the kind of love that is always surrounding us but we take for granted. The mountains remind us of this love. Your body just surrenders to the mountains, without the intention, it just happens, and the point of life enters your soul. You sit and you stare at the mountain, forced to close your eyes, as the mountain heals you. The power of the mountain washes over you and reminds you of the constant beauty that is around us. It reminds you of the power of energy as this majestic being just stands in front of you giving you all that it has, giving you all the answers and all the love that is needed. You soak it up. What happens when you leave the mountain? It stays with you, for a long time. It’s like the mountain pressed a reset button and you can see the point of life now. You feel love in everything that you do and see. You can even see and feel love in the pain and suffering. You see and feel love in unkind people and your perspective changes. It changes from resentment to understanding. The mundane is now the life that you get to live and enjoy; you can see love in the cup of coffee you pour, you can feel the gratitude for that mountain that is now carrying you through this life and keeping your perspective strong and in a place of love. Only the mountains can do that. Only the mountains can give you the answers while showing you and cleansing your soul back to when you were a child and everything was an adventure, and everything was beautiful and full of joy. Eventually you have to walk away from the mountain and carry that feeling with you in every aspect of your life. That is the way to live - to feel that mountain love inside of every cell of your body. To carry it with you, in your mundane routines, but now those routines are beautiful, and you are grateful for them. You see life with a different lens. It was a gift that you were even drawn to that mountain and were able to give it your struggles, just for the mountain to transform you. Now you can even see beauty in the suffering and know the whole point of this life is love; a love that you just felt that cannot be described in words. It’s a feeling, a knowing, a transformation; a feeling and power that you can now spread to the people and world around you. Stand tall dear mountains, we are ever so grateful for your powerful gift.

Two old wooden doors stood before Gray. Both of these doors were ancient, covered in scratches, with chips taken out of the wood. The old iron handles looked partially rusted. The two doors were very similar to each other, except for one key difference. Each one had a symbol painted a deep red on them. The door on the left had a symbol of a sword behind held by a clawed hand. The door on the right, a shield. Gray had an uneasy feeling that not only did these doors present her with an important choice, but it was a choice she could not undo. As impulsive as she had been through her entire life, for once she felt apprehensive, worried about making a decision. Before Gray made this decision she had to be sure this was the right one. She turned around to look at where she was. Gray was surprised to see that the place she was in, was just an endless white void. No matter how far she looked off into the distance she couldn't see anything. Looking at the doors again she realized that they were just standing there in front of her. Any sense of reason would suggest that these doors couldn't open up to anything, after all she could walk around them and they were just standing here in this void, nothing was behind them. Still she knew that this choice was going to be important, she just wished she could understand what the choice was. She stood there in silence, staring at these two doors for who knows how long. It felt like hours. Nothing changed around her, it was all just a plain white void and two doors. Looking down at herself she even realized that nothing had changed about her. Her gray scales rough to the touch her red clothes covered in dirt, even her wings, folded against her back felt stiff. Maybe it was because nothing had changed that she felt stagnant. A kobold wasn't supposed to be stagnant; they were creatures of energy, of decision, of creativity and passion. Yet here she was, standing still like a tree and doing a whole lot of nothing. A cold creeping voice came from behind her, deep, feminine, sensual. "I see you've come to a crossroad my little scaly friend." Gray turned around to see a wolf with black fur standing behind her. Even normal wolves were taller than her, but this wolf was even taller than that, towering over her like a dark imposing god and with two bright green eyes that stared down at her with something between contempt and judgment. Gray felt a rush of emotions seeing this creature. Fear of being torn to shreds and eaten, shame for having stood there so long that it could creep up on her, worthless for not being able to make a decision. Gray couldn't look away from it no matter how hard she tried. It was like her eyes were glued on the dark imposing figure. Gray opened her mouth to speak but felt her mouth was dry. Words were hard to form, but she managed to speak. "I'm confused." The wolf nodded. "I can see that, little one." The look in the wolf's eyes softened a touch. "I can also see you carry weight on your shoulders, there’s a great pain over this decision." Gray was able to look back at the door. "I, don't understand what I'm choosing, but I think it's important." The wolf let out a huff. "It is an important decision you make. I know what my answer was, but I also made this same decision long, long ago." Gray stared at the doors. She felt the brush of the cool fur next to her. It wasn't cold like she expected but rather it was pleasantly cool, like sitting in front of the air conditioner on a hot summer's day. "So, what is the question?" The wolf lowered its massive head next to Gray's. That green eye impossibly large next to her. "That is the best question you can ask, it is also a question you must answer yourself." Gray hated that. She wasn't a smart kobold. She wasn't like her friends. She was just dumb. Gray didn't mind though, she could figure most things out through brute force. By the Holy Dragon she even managed to figure out the stupid mail route her sister gave her after she took the new job. Yet this decision before her felt more like a riddle than a question. A sword or a shield, what did these choices mean? The wolf let out a soft whine. "I sense your struggle little one. All of your kin are like children, and I dislike it when children suffer, be they my own, or others. My sister's cruelty toward your kind will be avenged in time, but as my prison weakens I can at least offer some support and aide." Gray looked over at the wolf. "Who are you?" "You may call me Nightmare." The world began to melt around them. The white void melting into a slurry of different colors that made little to no sense at first. Only the two doors remained stationary and visible. The colors soon began to form shapes around them and she started to make out objects. She found herself standing in a large room with toys scattered around the place. There was a bed in the corner, a couple of dressers, various ragdolls on the floor, a couple of plastic toy weapons, and a large dollhouse nearby. In front of the dollhouse sat two young kobolds. Both of them were covered in gray scales with folded wings on their backs. The smaller one of the two had red spines on her back and red eyes, the larger one had yellow spines and matching eyes. It took a moment but Gray recognized them. "That's me and my big sister. Me and Dee, but we're so small." Nightmare purred. "Oh really? I would have never guessed that the smaller kobold that looked just like you was in fact you." Gray gave a hard look at the wolf who only smiled at her revealing fangs as large and sharp as daggers. "You don't have to be rude." "I'm being playful little one." The small version of her older sister spoke quietly. "See, you just need to put the sword on the hip like that and it'll stay in the little belt." The small version of herself eyes widened. "Woah, that's cool!" Dee giggled. "Sure is." Just outside the door behind them Gray heard a voice she hadn't heard in a long, long time. A male voice that sounded rough, and serious. "I can't believe it. The security measures were supposed to keep the dreamers from leaving. How could they know about our kids?" Another voice she hadn't heard in a long time replied, a female one. "Their powers are still being studied, hun. The dreamers might be developing powers that even we couldn't know about. This might be more dangerous than any of us thought possible." Gray took a step forward but felt an invisible wall stopping her from any more progress. "Mom, dad. Their alive?" Nightmare let out a small growl and then looked toward the doors which were firmly cemented into the wall. "They were both warriors. Fighters, soldiers. They fought well, but you know better than most that with such a dangerous profession often comes with loss." Gray looked back toward the two doors herself. "A sword, or a shield." Her dad's voice came out from behind her. "We shouldn't go back. This is too dangerous, we should ask the Princess if we can resign from the program." Her mom replied. "We are soldiers, we are the weapons of the Dragon Lords, as the Dragon Guard, we do not back away from danger, we face it and fight it." "We have kids now. They need us. At least one of us should ask to resign." Her mom snapped. "I didn't realize you were a coward." There was a long silence after that but her father finally replied. "No, I'm not. But bravery doesn't always take the form of violence, sometimes it takes the form of protecting that which is really important. I know what's important to me, but what's important to you?" Her mom replied. "I, I understand where your coming from, but the project is almost done. Let's just give it one more month. You can do that right?" "One month... I can do one month." The world washed away as the blinding white void came over it. She watched as all the colors and shapes were replaced by the empty void once more. Yet again she found herself staring at the two doors. The sword, or the shield. Nightmare spoke carefully. "Does that help answer your question?" Gray nodded. "I think it does. You know, they never came back from the next trip they went on. That was the last time I ever saw them." Nightmare nodded. "I am aware." Gray had already made her choice long ago she feared, but perhaps, this decision wasn't the worst one she could make after all. She walked to the door and put her hand on it. Opening the door with the shield on it she saw a dark void beyond the door. She took a step through it and watched as the entire world was swallowed by that darkness. The doorway behind her vanished. For a moment she stood there in the darkness, alone, cold, and lost. A pair of green eyes lit up in the darkness beside her. Soon a soft blue light spread out in the form of a giant wolf. Nightmare looked down at her. "So you chose to protect those you love, over destroying those that you hate." Gray swallowed. "I've already lost enough in this world, I don’t want to lose anymore." The world began to brighten and she watched as bright green grass grew out of the ground beneath them spreading out like a bottle of spilled milk. Soon large trees with silver trunks began to sprout out of the grass around them shooting high into the sky and toward the heavens. The sky too began to come into focus as a bright pink with green clouds. As the colors spread around her creating beauty and life she looked onward to see off in the distance, far, far away there stood a tree tall and giant above the others. It was so impossibly tall she could swear the tree itself was as large as a city in width and stretched on taller and higher than she could ever see. A large face had been carved into its front, with a massive mustache, kind smile and sleepy eyes. It was the most amazing thing Gray had ever seen. She just couldn't believe it. She went to take a step forward and froze as a cold realization hit her. If she continued forward, even just one step voluntarily, she may never return home. She turned to face Nightmare who had wrapped her massive tail in a circle around Gray. "Nightmare, what is this place?" "A special place, one may even call this realm 'the truth' but I always just saw it as home." From ahead of them she saw two figures approaching. Two kobolds wearing shiny metal armor and waving at her. It was her mom and dad. Her dad with his red eyes and yellow spines. Her mom with the reverse eyes and spine colors. They were both smiling and waving at her. She waved at them. "MOM, DAD!" The world began to fade around the two of them. Once more into that blinding light. She wanted to stay even for a few more seconds. She looked up at Nightmare. Even Nightmare was beginning to fade. Gray was afraid she might be all alone if Nightmare left. She didn't want to be alone. She reached out and grabbed onto Nightmare's fur. It was cool to the touch, but she could feel a warmth deep beneath it. Yet even that sensation was gone as everything was consumed by the white light. *** Gray opened her eyes and looked around. She was in her bedroom. Her blanket was a mess around her and she felt unusually tired and slow. The morning light was bright and shining right into her eyes so she had to roll over to get away from it. She rubbed her hands at her eyes and felt something soft brush against her face. Looking at her hands she saw a few lengths of soft navy blue fur. Gray swallowed. "That wasn't just a normal dream."

Bel, short for Jezebel, was an introverted only child who preferred her own company to a crowds. As an adult she fell deeply in love with nature and you could often find her on a forest trail, hiking in her free hours. Today was no different, she blissfully hummed to herself over the singing birds and crunching leaves beneath her feet. She had walked this trail many times, so she was familiar and well conditioned for the winding trails up the mountain slope. Her friends would often ask her if her solo trips were ever frightening and she would always answer no with a shrug. She was smart about her trips and was sure to always send her mom her location in advance. Something she however didn’t tend to share was how she carried a gun in her pack and kept five bullets in her pocket, her lucky number. She urged forward up the steep incline, eager to get to the top and around the bend where she knew would sit a ginormous red boulder. It was her favorite part of the hike and she had made it a tradition to climb to the top of it every single time. She remember the first time she had climbed it, how it made her feel... well at first it made her feel pure terror and bit of nausea. Though once she got past the image of the boulder tipping off the cliff and rolling to her to her death. She had felt unstoppable. It was the first time in her life that she didn’t feel trapped. Felt as if she was standing on top of the world. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest and the blood scorching through her veins. Bel reached the boulder and began climbing, proudly doing it in half the time than the time before. Once she reached the top she scanned the entire valley with her hands on her hips. It was an absolutely incredible view and if you knew where to look you could even see the tip of a lake poking out behind the million shades of orange and yellow leaves. She closed her eyes against the chilled breeze, tilting her head toward the sun that burned bright even through her eyelids. Once she finally allowed her eyes to open again they involuntarily locked on a clearing below, the leaves green instead of the fall hues of the surrounding trees. Besides it looking bizarre and out of place, she felt as if she was oddly drawn to this clearing. Convincing herself it was only from mere curiosity, she decided to make the trek down which couldn’t be longer than 15 minutes. So with one last glance she committed the direction to her memory and began scaling down the side of the boulder. When Bel found the clearing it was bathed in streams of sunlight that illuminated everything within in a warm glow. Her legs buckling as she stepping into the sunlight. Before her in the clearing was a blooming field of wildflowers of every shade. Bright pinks, soft blues, fluorescent oranges, every color imaginable exploding before her. Too in awe to recall if she saw a single flower on the trail prior, she now stood in the center of thousands of blooms. She watched her step, careful not to crush any of the beautiful flowers. She tipped her head back towards the canopy above, the branches were covered in bright green leaves. She had found a pool of spring in and ocean of fall. Her eyes fell to the soft grass where she found herself centered in a perfect circle of brown mushrooms with large flat tops. Without thought she bent down and plucked a mushroom from the ground, holding it out in the light. She rotated it left and right, noting how it reflected red to orange in the sunlight. Once she plucked it though, her fingertips began to tingle and then then turn numb which quickly spread down her arms like fire. “That’s not yours to take, child.” An angry voice purred from behind her. Dropping the mushroom, it fell softly to the forest floor. Bel turned around and couldn’t believe her eyes. Before her stood a tall, fair skinned woman whose skin was made of tree bark. She had branches that stretched, forming almost a crown above the head. Her flowing green gown was the color of aged moss. Fear wrapped around her gut, as rage warped the creatures face. Bel had angered a member of the Unseelied court. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Bel's voice wobbled weakly when she whispered the words. Then could only continue to stare at this creature in terrified awe, baffled by the inhuman beauty it possessed. “Pick it up.” It demanded coldly. Bel took a step back stumbling, the movement caused the burning fire to spread throughout her body until she was utterly paralyzed. She began to weep in fear, all she wanted to run but her feet would not obey. The creatures face twisted in delight. It watched Bel squirm and fail to break free from the paralysis until it was breathless in laughter. The creature crept close to her and pinched underneath Bels arm hard enough to draw blood. When she cried out in pain the creature doubled over in laughter again. Then a snap of its finger Bel fell hard to the ground, her head thudding again a sharp rock. “What a pathetic thing.” It mocked “Pick up my mushroom right now.” The pain shooting through Bels head was nearly blinding but somehow she reached her hand out finding the mushroom. She pulled herself into a crouch and handed the mushroom over. “I’m feeling merciful today, you may keep the mushroom. Leave this place and never return. ” The unseelied woman surprised her by returning the mushroom to her hand. “Thank you..” Bel said confused. Tears still blurred her vision but she saw the creature freeze when the words left her lips. This time when it laughed it seemed to reverberate through her entire rib cage all the way to shuttering heart. Terror melting all the way into to her bones, Bel knew something was deeply wrong. In a tone as hard as stone the creature said, “ and by the light of the eastern sun. You belong to me, Aeylinay Vailh of the Oakwood Flesh Court. You shall do my bidding among the shadows until the blue moon rises again.” Shadows danced into the corner of her vision until she felt her body drop defenseless again against the ground. The last thing she heard before being consumed by darkness was Aeylinay’s mocking voice “foolish girl.” Before it drew its leg back and kicked her into unconsciousness. When she awoke to her new life she found herself sleeping in a makeshift tent with many other human slaves of the unseelied. Aeylinay Claimed her nights with servant work while pain an exhaustion chased her through the day. Waiting on her hand and foot mean that Aeylinay would always have a toy to torment close by. Most humans didn’t survive long. She watched many die until she was numb to the day to day sorrows. Sometimes they would go off into the night to serve their keeper, never to return. Others would pass silently in their sleep, sunken in hunger or exhaustion. Life with in the Unseelied court is an awful and cruel life for any being beyond its court. She had come to learn the unbearable pain of dancing for days until she felt her bones grinding together. They would tie her hair in knots as she slept, send monsters to chase her into dreams. They would feed her berries that cause terrifying hallucinations that gripped her for days. Hallucinations of her close friends and family abandoning her or dying in her arms. Or of little bugs that would crawl over her skin and devour her flesh while she sat paralyzed in unimaginable pain. Sometimes they would hold events and watch their slaves fight to the death. Occasionally allowing weapons and armor, other times forcing them to fight bare with only their hands. They were brutal, warped creatures that she sometimes believed enjoyed torturing humans equal to their love for sweet wines and elaborate gowns. The people of the Unseelied court were beautiful creatures, some radiated power strong enough that a glance could feel like a winded punch to the gut. Some with tall antlers or horns, others gnarled roots similar to Aeylinay. Everything she owned was taken or hidden in another wicked trick years ago. All besides her five bullets that she was smart enough to bury in the roots of an oak tree beyond the forest line. She sadly wondered if she would even be able to find the tree again after all this time, even if she had tried. The last keepsake from her formal life. She lost a lot of things among the court of the Unseelied. Bel wept as she realized she could no longer recall the exact shade of her mothers hair. Or when she lost the memory of an old favorite song she use to know by heart. Another thing that was stolen in this realm, possibly the cruelest was time. Her life fading away and the person she once was slipped slowly from her grasp. Scared and alone she was made into something else entirely. One day she stood in the shadows of the ball room, lined with other masked human slaves. Sure nobody was looking at her, she stretched up onto her tip toes to see what had caused such a commotion. Everyone of the court stopped dancing and the music drifted off into chilled silence. The banished prince had entered and approached the queen directly at her throne. The knights drew their weapons, metal sliced through the air ready to stop the prince if intervention was needed. The queen nodded in approval and the knights let the prince pass with his token of forgiveness. His gloved hands held a necklace to the moonlight, presenting a ruby red pendant that could reflect the sun even in the darkest of chambers. However when he placed the pendant around her neck, it caused an agonized scream to rip from the queens throat before she dropped into a motionless heap on the floor. Chaos erupted, the prince was dragged away. The queen, close to death simply by a touch of the pendant. She’d later learned that the queen had survived the attack but that day was the first day Bel had ever seen weakness of a member of the Unseelied court, much less the untouchable, beloved queen. That was also when she learned that of the most powerful weapon against the immortal creatures was something as simple as iron. It took a few days to recall the bullets she had hidden and with realization, hope began to bloom in her chest for the first time since she’d arrived to this realm. However if it was one thing she had learned from these foul creatures was that sometimes the best revenge took patience. So in a months time when the court gathered again for their blood moon gatherings, she waited by calmly with a single bullet clutched in her sweaty palm. Deep inside she was willing to risk her life for what she was about to do. She had already said her silent goodbyes to those tortured souls she had come to love in this realm. And to those she lost and mourned in her mortal realm long ago. Moments before the challises were passed for the queens grand toast. Bel slipped by the wine fountain and dropped the bullet to the bottom, watching it as it sank and disappeared into the dark red liquid then she turned and evaporated into the crowd unnoticed. The queen rose from her throne and toasted again to their marvelous immortality and once she did they all began to drink their wine, even the children of the unseelied drank deeply from their cups until empty. Where they once stood in their riches and glory. Now lay on the ballroom floor dying an agonizing death. They were being burned alive from the insides. The iron infused wine dissolving their insides to liquid. And when they all lay motionless the silence echoed across the vast room. The once enslaved humans stood in confusion at the dead court before them. They didn’t understand yet but because of Bel they were now free. The silence snapped like a rubber band as Bel’s cackling laugh bounced across the room. Then she began to dance and the other humans quickly joined her. She danced and danced over the bodies of the unseelied court breathless in laughter and delight. Delirious with joy she slipped in the puddle of blood that formed in the center of the floor, it staining the bottom of her ragged, torn dress. Unsure of how long she had danced along the other humans. A voice shattered the mirth as a chiming laugh rang out through the ball room. It was the banished prince and he hunched over in laughter at the sight of what Bel had done. When he finally regained himself again he looked directly into her eyes as if he knew exactly what she had done. “It is because of you I am free, I thank you for your actions, child.” The prince said with a smirk, dipping into a low bow. Her legs buckled and collapsed cracking against the granite floors, she didn’t notice the warmth seeping into her dress. All the heard was his words repeat in her head. “...thank you.” He was now in-depth to her. He turned and began walking away, she wasn’t sure exactly what to say but Aeylinay words returned to her after all these years, clear in her memory as if she had spoken them yesterday. Loud and clear Bel’s voice called out to the prince, “by the moonlight of the Oakwood Flesh. I demand you return all of our lost souls to the mortal realm as we were before we were stolen.” He didn’t turn around but he halted as her words and with one flick of his wrist, he snapped his fingers. The world faded around her and when she opened her eyes she was no longer underneath the stars of the Unseelied court. She was now sitting in a pool of sunlight surrounded by blooming flowers. She sat up slowly and looked around. She was still in the blood soaked dress but she felt it within her that she had finally returned home. She began to sob. Sob in pity for what she had endured, sobbed in relief that she managed to free herself and the other slaves of the court from their misery. Then in the distance she heard dogs barking and people shouting her name. With no hesitation she screamed for their help. Within a few moments police burst into the clearing wearing baffle expressions at finding the lost girl with knotted hair and a bloody gown standing in the middle in a blooming field of spring flowers in the middle of fall. Before she knew it she was emitted into the hospital where her mom was already waiting for her in her room. They held each other crying while neither of them spoke a word, afraid to burst the reality of the moment. She stroked her mothers chestnut hair until she cried herself to sleep. Bel had learned, what was 8 years of her life in the Unseelied court was only a weeks time in the mortal realm. Her mother feared the worst but she knew where to send the search parties looking. Bel was of course never the same , as she returned unrecognizable by the people she had mourned a long time ago. It took a long time for the fear to settle within her but she finally did find peace and eventually happiness in the mortal realm. She would often think and wonder about the other slaves she freed from the court. However with enough time it all seemed to fade from her memory as if a distant dream. Bel lived a full life and grew to be 84 years old before she passed peacefully in her sleep. Not a single soul left alive that knew she was responsible for the mass slaughtering of the entire Oakwood Flesh Unseelied court. -BDS

In his tiny acorn-cup bed, lined with spider silk and tufts of early green moss, Bugul Noz began to stir. The sun had set several hours before and the sky was aglimmer with ice blue stars dangling like delicious dew drops from a blackbird’s wing. Bugul Noz could just spy them through the jagged hidey hole of the tree trunk he called home. He stretched his scaly limbs and rubbed his dry tongue over what was left of his pointed crooked teeth. Oh what thirst! How he wished he could reach up and grasp one of those mysterious twinkling droplets and bury his face into it, leeching up every last morsel of its cool wetness. The daydreaming of it just about drove him wild! How long had he slept? It could have been months for all he knew. He kept no calendar and, being a nightcrawler as he was, never saw the changes of the seasons in the vibrant colours of daylight. No, the forest in which he lived, come summer or fall, was forever cold at night. Frosts came and went, yes, but beneath the ancient, silent pines, no flowers or berry bushes could grow and bloom to signal the start of spring. The consistency of Bugul’s surroundings pleased him very much and he was often entirely alone for years. The odd squirrel, a little lost fawn or an army of beetles may strut about the base of his treehouse, but as for visitors, he had none. Besides, he dared not face them even if a caller did come knocking at his little doorway for he was Bugul Noz, the most wretchedly hideous being to ever roam the good green Earth, so utterly unbecoming that even the slightest glimpse of his horrible face would strike the onlooker dead in an instant. And so, he kept well to himself, going about his business in the shadow of night. It suited him nicely. He had never uttered a word to another soul and wouldn’t be able to muster the courage even if he wished it. And tonight was just the same as all the others before it in the Great Forest; cold, quiet and entirely Bugul’s for the taking. He clambered to the entrance of his hollow and unfolded his tattered, papery wings. Dust powdered about the air as he did this and immediately Bugul let out an enormous sneeze. The sound boomed about the silent wood and bounced its way back to him. “Bless you!” he muttered to Echo. “Thank you, but it was not I who sneezed,” came a whispery reply from just above his head. Bugul’s eyes shot up at the seemingly endless tree trunk towering above him. There, clutching onto the sides of the tree he could just make out a tiny blue creature with long limbs and near-invisible silvery wings criss-crossed with shimmering veiny filaments, fine as gossamer thread. It seemed female, it’s voice light and body so dainty. It had not looked down to see Bugul who immediately darted back into his hollow, heart pounding, mouth drier than ever with fear and utter astonishment. What was this creature? How had it come to be here? And why of all the trees in the Great Forest had it alighted upon his very own pine tree home? Bugul’s mind raced with questions, but he dared not ask a single one. He wished he could slip away, burrow his way right through the trunk and allow the damp mossy soil to swallow him up at the tree’s roots, but he was trapped. The sound of scratching began on the trunk outside, slowly getting nearer and nearer and with horror, Bugul realized the creature was trying to make its way into his hollow. “Come no closer!” he shrieked without thinking. His raspy voice, hoarse from disuse barked the command which blasted about the forest. Bugul shrank further back until his wings crushed against the rough wooden wall behind him. But the scratching continued as whatever it was clawed its way down the tree towards him. “But I must,” whispered the little voice. “My wing is torn and I cannot fly. I must rest here and try to mend it before I continue on my journey.” And before he could utter another warning, a tiny, elegant blue limb reached down into the hollow, pulling the rest of the little creature in along with it. Bugul shielded his face with his rough lichen coat and cowered in the corner. He longed to peek at the mystical being which had just invited itself in, but he could not allow it to see him. A visitor was one thing, but a dead visitor... As much as he loved solitude above all else, Bugul did not wish the first person he encountered for as many moons as he could remember to die the moment it cast eyes upon his face. He listened as the little fae (for surely it must be one of these fabled beings, so delicate and breath-like?) scrambled into a comfortable spot on the floor of his dusty home and let out a sigh like tiny bells tinkling. “Safety at last,” she said. “I flew straight into a heavy cluster of pine needles and shredded my wing but luckily I tumbled close enough to this trunk to reach out and catch myself. Do you perhaps have a needle and a thread? I have my work cut out for me.” Bugul, shivering now, tightened himself ever more into a little ball, breathing quickly, blind panic raising the hairs on his knobbled kneecaps and elbows. “I know you are there,” whispered the little voice again, closer this time. “I can hear you panting away. Do not fear me. I am a friend in need, I have not come to harm you. I ask only your assistance. My name is Alette.” Perhaps it was her gentle words or merely the fact that Bugul absolutely could not escape neither the place nor the situation that made him relent. He slowly loosened his grip on himself and, one arm covering his face, he shuffled over to a shelf against the hollow’s wall, roughly hewn from the innards of the trunk. There, he groped about between pebble pots and spoons and plates carved from chips of bark until he found what he was looking for: a miniature sewing kit - needles made from cured dried pine fronds and bundles of sticky thread bravely harvested from the black widow’s web as she’d distractedly sucked the life out of a freshly caught cutworm. Clutching the objects in one hand and masking himself with the other, Bugul crawled cautiously over to the blue fae resting on the ground right in the middle of his living room. Bugul suddenly felt embarrassed by his home. He had not even a moss rug nor a butterfly wing curtain to add some comfort to the space. Indeed, it was as dry and bare as his gnarled little feet which protruded so obscenely from the bottom of his bony grey legs. He felt heat rise in his cheeks as he remembered his ugliness. How could he stand to be so close to this magnificent being? He dropped the needles and thread on the floor and rushed back to his dark corner where he balled himself up again in silence, tucking his toes out of sight. After a moment there came the sound of light fingers pawing at the items. “Thank you, friend,” breathed Alette at last. “You have just what I need! I shall begin my work.” Bugul listened as the fae unraveled the tacky spider silk, sucking on the end to narrow it as she threaded the pine needle. He heard each crisp pop as it punctured the glassy wing again and again, weaving the web through the wing, making it strong again. After some time the fae spoke again. “Tell me of your life here friend? This is wearisome work and tales of your world will give me strength, if you would be so kind as to entertain such fancy?” Bugul was mortified. What could he tell her? His days were as empty and lonely and uneventful as could be. The forest, unchanging and quiet had no secrets to tell and nor did he. Perhaps he should invent some story, bewitch her with a tall tale of imagined escapades and make her sigh and laugh in wonder. And oh, what a delightful laugh that would be! Bugul imagined it twinkling like silver chimes and his old heart fluttered a little in his chest. But then, remembering who he was, he thought better of it and instead, he opened his mouth to speak his truth. “I am Bugul Noz,” he rasped. “And of my life there’s not much to tell. It’s quiet and empty and cold here in the Great Forest. I move about only by night and I sleep by day. I see no one and keep to my own business. Your visit is an occasion for which I am not at all prepared..” he trailed off, quite ashamed of how pitiful his existence sounded. But then Alette spoke again, “Well friend, you are the most prepared person I could hope to find on this fateful night. Where else in this lonely forest would I find exactly the tools I needed to mend my broken wing?” And with that Alette completed her final stitch, stood up and stretched out her crystalline wing. Her handiwork was barely noticeable amongst the glistening lattice that roped its way about it and she let out a tinkling giggle of delight. Ah! The sweet sound! It was more exquisite that Bugul had ever imagined! How he wished to embrace this beautiful creature, to see her smile and delight in her wonderous presence and, dare he dream, to make her laugh again! “Good as new!” she hummed as she replaced the needle and thread into the tiny kit and closed it shut. “Now allow me to thank you, friend.” And before he could shout to her to keep away, the fae had reached for Bugul’s brittle arm and spun him around to face her. “NO!” he cried in horror as his gaze met hers at last. All the magic of her laughter that had filled the hollow with such light and gaiety seemed to be sucked from the air around them. He should have recoiled, tried to spare her but he knew it was too late. The damage was done. Instead, he looked into her opaline eyes to catch the last moment of her living beauty, frozen in fright at the sight of his face, before she crumpled to the floor, like the last rose petal dangling from an autumn bud. Bugul fell heart-broken to his knees and scooped up the fae’s limp blue body in his withered arms. The newly stitched wing grazed the dirty floor as he stood up to carry her to entrance of his hollow. He peered out into the silent night. A chill breeze rose up and rustled his ragged coat and made the fae’s tiny, still-warm limbs shiver against his body. The moon, high in the sky now, cast mocking shadows about the forest as it toyed in and out of heavy clouds which had gathered above him. Far off, the rumbling of thunder broke the morgue-like silence of the forest. To think he could be her friend, to entertain her with his stories, to keep her any sort of company.. oh what a fool! A bitterness boiled inside him as he released the fae back into the night from whence she had come. She was feather-light, almost weightless and he watched as her tiny form floated leaf-like in gentle spirals to the bottom of the forest floor. “It is done,” Bugul whispered to himself gazing once more at the heavens. And slowly, one by one, ice blue droplets of rain began to fall from the sky.

It was the silence that I hated the most. I missed talking to people or just hearing them speak. I don’t mean the screams and yelling from the woods and alleyways. I’ve decided that those are something else I would rather not find. On that Tuesday everyone vanished I was home in Shadewood. I decided quickly that I needed to move on. There are many curious wonders in the world that most were not privileged to see. Initially, I decided to go to the theme park, but it turns out the controls are more complicated than I had thought. I spent a week next to the river on a private estate. That’s when I first heard the screams. I swear I heard a man shouting and then someone scream. I went to investigate the next morning but found nothing. On my way back I heard someone calling my name from the direction of my camp which sent chills up my spine. I have not camped outdoors since. Sometime early in the second month, I had the idea to go to restricted places. Area 51 type areas to see if I could gain entry and answer some questions people have had for years. I did not expect that I would find much. Worst case scenario I would get to see some interesting aircraft. I set off to Stanica. It is said that the mountains there contain a vault where the government keeps its most closely guarded secrets. Not to mention that it’s a massive bomb shelter and should have a lifetime’s worth of food and supplies for a single person. I still heard the voices some nights. But I made sure to stay indoors after dark with the doors barred. The house I was in during the last week of the third month, was at the edge of a valley I would have to cross to get to Stanica. There would be no houses to spend the nights in for three days. I had to keep reminding myself that the voices were just a symptom of being so alone. I was cooking dinner the night before my journey. Canned something or other with canned something or other on top. My meals were functional yet not entirely bad. While cooking there was a knock on the door. I very nearly knocked the pan off the stovetop. Not thinking I rushed to the door to see who it was but froze just beyond the reach of the door. My hair was standing on end and my stomach dropped. I had been alone for months. What are the odds of the only other people in the world finding me in this random house? I had left no trail for others to follow. I wanted to ask who was at the door. I wanted to peek through the window but held fast. Then another knock, harder this time. This was followed by a scream that sounded far closer than it ever did previously. I think whoever or whatever it was, was telling me they know tomorrow I would have no house to hide in. A voice came from beyond the door. It was soft and feminine. It was too indistinct to make out individual words except for my name. I could feel the blood drain from my face. I was starting to doubt my theory about it being my imagination. I stood there for what felt like hours. But it had gone quiet. The presence had left but the encounter stayed with me the whole night. I couldn’t sleep and poured over the maps to find an alternative route to the vault. The next morning as the sun rose, I had prepared myself. I had fashioned a makeshift weapon from a chair leg and some knives. I had also found a new route that would take an extra day but would let me take shelter in houses along the way. The vault that started as a curiosity now became a means of escape and permanent shelter from whatever was out there. The first two days went by without incident. Even the nights were quiet. Something that I never thought I would enjoy so much again. I started thinking that I had perhaps thrown off the weirdness from the previous town. On the third day, my hopes were dashed. The whole way I kept spotting what I thought were people on hills and in the trees. I reached the final house a few hours before sunset and fortified it as best I could. I even locked myself in the upstairs bedroom. Strangely, I guess, that night there were no sounds. The next day’s trip would be the last. Whatever was after me would have to try pretty hard to get into a bunker if wooden doors kept them out. On the first day of the fourth month, I set out with nothing but my weapon and the clothes on my back. I kept my pace high and made a beeline for the vault. I arrived around 4 pm at a great steel door. The sun was going down, and I could see no way of entering. I looked for alternative routes and entries but found none. Finally, as the sun was setting, I had run out of options. As my last hope, I decided to knock. I rapped on the massive steel door twice. As ridiculous as it may sound, that worked. The door swung open with a heavy groan and I entered. There was no one on the other side, but that was to be expected. I saw the door controls and hit the “close” button. The great door swung closed and latched after trickling in the last of the sun’s rays. I had made it. I walked down the long corridor to the interior of my new mountain home. The air was musty and stale but it would suffice. At least I was safe from whatever was outside and the relief was immense. I thought about how ridiculous it was that knocking worked when a familiar chill came over me. There was nobody else here. Who opened the door? I spotted an evacuation planner and sprinted over. There was indeed another foot entrance to the vault. Only a small way down from the blast door, nestled away out of sight. I tightened my grip on the weapon and rushed to the door. I found the secondary door wide open. Beyond it, a night as dark as tar. The voices started almost immediately. I slammed the door shut and bolted away. I would have to find another spot for the night. They must have come in ahead of me. The calling started, from within the vault this time. It was someone calling my name. It sounded close, spurring me on deeper into the vault. At last, I found the archive room. This door was open. I stepped through and slammed the door closed. It latched with a chunk that rang with finality. There was no way out from here, but also no way in. The inside was lined with row upon row of filing cabinets. Each shelved box had “Top Secret” or “Classified” stamped on it. I had found the jackpot. Perhaps the solution to all my problems would be here. I grabbed a box at random. The tag read “Subject L. Male. Project Darkpath.” This sounded ominous enough, yet stranger still is that my name was printed right below. I hastily opened the box to read what Project Darkpath was. The pages inside were blank. I checked another box. This one was labeled “Subject 0532. Male. Project Brimstone Road.” Again, with my name. All the pages were blank also. By the time I had reached the fifth box, “Subject Orion. Male. Operation Lightbringer.” The knocking on the door started. The steel door was designed to handle a rocket blast, but it was visibly shaking in its frame. Outside a feminine voice was now screaming my name. I had to get out of that room. I was clearly going mad yet refused to be cornered so easily. In a back corner, I found a plain wooden door. I threw it open and ran through without a second thought. As I stepped through there was a crack behind me like thunder. I looked back to find a circular structure a few meters tall. In its center a swirl of what looked like water flowing down a drain. It faded and the world was quiet once more. My breathing was heavy inside my suit. I felt around my head. I was indeed wearing some form of spacesuit. I took off the helmet with a practiced motion and lost my lunch on the floor. A few people were gathering now. I was so happy to see them but lacked the strength to act. “Am I safe?” I asked but was met with confused expressions. I tried to stand. Instead, the world went black. Someone was calling my name. This time it sounded right. I opened my eyes and found myself lying in a bed. A light breeze was coming in through the window. By my feet sat a woman. She looked concerned. I was sure she must have been an angel. “Tommy? Are you with me?” She said in a soft voice. “Tommy?” I asked. Realizing that must be my name. It was different than what the voices called those long nights. “I’m ok I think.” I replied then asked, “Am I safe?” “You’re safe here, I guess. The jump was a bit dangerous, but we never expected casualties.” It was slowly coming to me again. The jump gate. I had walked through it. “How long was I gone?” I asked her. “Gone. Well, the transit was a complete success, so you weren’t gone long. Perhaps a second or so.” She put her hand on mine. Caroline was her name. She was my wife, I think. Or would be next Saturday. She was the lead researcher and I was her loving guinea pig. Project Starshot. The Wormhole. I was remembering. “What happened Tom?” She asked. Her face showed concern. She would know me well enough to know if I was off. I was starting to remember it all. I had walked through the first gate at Shadewood base and was supposed to exit almost instantly through the Stanica bunker gate. “Caroline,” I said “I don’t think it worked. Something went wrong.” I told her about my three months, the voices, and how I was alone. I told her everything. She listened patiently and nodded where appropriate. When I was done, she smiled and took my hand. “Tom, I will see what I can find out ok?” She pat my leg and left. I was alone again. The silence once more hung like a fog in the room. It was finally broken with a knock on the door. “Come in,” I replied best I could. On the other side of the door, something called my name. My skin crawled and my breath refused to come. The knocking increased and the door shook. I was trapped in the room. Just me, the silence, and the knocking. “Leave me alone!” I yelled. The knocking stopped. The silence settled in once more. I got up and looked out of the window, shaking. I was a few floors up, in what must be a hospital. Below the streets looked empty. It was happening again. I was alone. Then the knock on the door returned. I rushed over and swung it open. “Take this, you bastard!” I screamed. I had it by the throat and kept squeezing harder and harder and harder until I could feel the bones snap as I put all my weight into the attack. I kept at it until this thing stopped moving. It was scratching and kicking me but I did not subside my attack. I wanted it to stop tormenting me. I wanted it to die. A weight knocked me off my prey. Wrestling me to the ground. It was an MP. He cuffed my hands, but it did not matter. I was free. I looked back at the thing that had been haunting me for months. Instead, there was Caroline. Eyes bulging, face a grim mask of death. Around her gruesome expression blood. Her eyes were staring at me. The MP lifted me to my feet. Then I saw her entire face. I swear she was smiling. While starting to lead me away, the MP said my name. I tried to turn to face him but could not get a view of his face. Someone saw the body and screamed. All the while somewhere out of sight a knocking. So loud. Never-ending. And all I wanted was to be alone.

This is my quiet place. Its peaceful sitting here looking out of the old rotting window into the darkness of the night, with nothing but street lights memorising you from a distance, nothing but the sparkling stars way up high to give you hope for something greater. I long for more moments like these, there's no fear, no hurt, no worries; its just me, my window and the view. I yawn deeply as I wince my eyes at the bright morning sun peering through the window and stretch as I sit to look around the same old warn down attic bedroom. The room is cramped with old leather chairs and wooden furniture covered in thick white sheets of dust, whilst cob webs hang from corner to corner. My bed is a mattress of broken springs in the centre of the room surrounded by the mountains of junk with the window being the only source of light hovering just above it all. It's most certainly nothing special but its the small price you have to pay for being abandoned by your first family and unwanted by your current. The new mother I live with is the sweetest, unfortunately the same cannot be said about the father. Father is , well ... easily irritated to say the least, he's often shouting at mother and hitting things around, I am not sure if he has laid hands on her as me and my younger brother get sent out of the room when he gets too mad but I have my suspicions. I am 18 in two weeks and have been living with Mr and Mrs Woodworth, who I now refer to as my mother and father, since I was around 6. Originally I am from mexico but my birth parents put me up for adoption for an unknown reason and I had been bouncing around all sorts of homes until Mr and Mrs Woodworth took me in. I was ecstatic to have found a couple that would 'love me,' of course I wouldn't have been so happy if I knew what their family home would turn out to be. "MARIA!" mother shouted "breakfast is ready." I quickly got out of bed and rushed downstairs to avoid making father wait and aggravating him. We have quite an old looking house made of big grey bricks and the inside seems very old fashioned. We have 3 floors and the brick stairs connecting them are large and go around in a spiral pattern, there are some old paintings and a few family pictures mounted to the walls. The floors are made of wood and sound as though you could fall through at any moment and are covered in a thin red carpet. There are 2 bedrooms on the second floor, 2 on the third and one in the attic which is where I sleep, amongst all of the ancient antiques and creepy crawlies that I find in my cloths or half way up my leg in the middle of the night. For some reason father made me move to the attic and mother wouldn't dare to question him so i'm stuck up there breathing in dust and ammonia from past rats fesses that never got cleaned up. On my way down the stairs I accidentally crashed into father half way. I froze as he glared at me with that deafening look in his eye which caused all of the hairs on my body to stand on edge, "sorry father," I stuttered, he stayed silent whilst rolling his eyes and continuing to walk up the stairs. I needed to take a moment to steady my breathing before I carried on the the kitchen. I hated to admit it but I was terrified of him even tho he would never hurt me ... right? He hasn't always been like this, I know its hard to believe but its true. When I first came to live here he was so happy, he loved to be out and about so would often take us to places like the beach or rock climbing and now we're too scared to even ask him to go to the park. It all started when mother found out she was carrying twins after she was told she would never have any, hence why they adopted me, it was a blessing. A miracle! This is when father seemed to have turned on me. Now he was having biological children there was no need for me, at least that's what I assumed because I was never brave enough to confront him about it. He only got worse when the babies where born. You see, one of the babies was born still and there was nothing doctors or nurses could do about it. I think that's why father is the same way with Marcus as he is with me, he blames him for the loss of his other baby. Mother of course knows this isn't true and tries her best to reassure us both that we did nothing wrong. She always comes up with the same excuse that father is just having a bad day but we know that she is just as fearful of him as we are and wouldn't dare tell him to stop storming around or raising his voice. "MARIA!" mother repeated "breakfast is ready." I shouted back "coming mother," and continued to rush down to the kitchen. I finally made it to the table and sat beside Marcus to eat my breakfast. "morning" he said in his dreadful attempt to an american accent, "good day mate," I replied in my attempt to sound Australian, we both started laughing whilst mother stood leaning against the door frame smiling at us whilst she drank her coffee. Life wasn't all bad as long as father wasn't around. Marcus is a shy young boy but around me and mother he really comes out of his bubble, he has the best personality and don't get me started on his little attitude. He has the cutest round face with a little button nose and the thickest glasses which make his big bright blue eyes look even bigger. Knock. Knock. Suddenly there where knocks at the front door which made us all jump, leading to me and Marcus laughing excessively. "stay here, i'l get it," mother said. She left the room and opened to door to find that no one was there, she was about to head back inside before noticing a small box, about the size of a shoe box tied with a ribbon and a label that had my name on it. Mother picked up the box and had another look around to see if anyone was near but she couldn't see anyone. She came back inside, shut the door and returned back into the kitchen. "it's for you," she said whilst handing me the box. Puzzled, I took it "what is it?" I asked, "I don't know, it was sitting on the doorstep," she answered. "open it up," Marcus said excitedly. I pulled the ribbon to untie the knot, placed the box on the table and removed the lid. Inside was a letter, an old baby picture and a small teddy bear. I unfolded the letter and began to read it out loud. The letter read: " To Maria, Hello my darling daughter. I am so sorry that I had to do what I did, it was for your own safety and I hope you know that me and your father love you. You won't be reading this at the time I am writing it but I promise you that by the time you are 18 I will find you and give you this box. In this box is a picture of you with your older sister Natalia for proof if you do not believe my letter. The bear is yours from when you was a baby. I remember how much you loved that bear, I hate to think how upset you was when you had to leave without him, you called him boo bear and you was inseparable. I wish to meat with you. I will explain everything that has happened leading up to now and why now is the perfect time for you to come home, you don't realise how important you are yet. I must go now but my number is written on the back of the picture, give me a message so we can arrange a place, date and time. I will see you soon my precious girl. Love Mum xxx " Once I was done reading the letter I glanced up to see my adopted mother and Marcus staring at me in surprise, no one knew what to say or what to do, "don't tell father," I begged, I knew for sure that he would take the first chance that he could to get rid of me and I for one did not enjoy the thought of living with some stranger who abandoned me all those years ago and I especially was not leaving my mother and Marcus with this monster! Then, out of no where, "don't tell father what?" ...

I would say it started when we were young. Brothers. Destined to fight over anything. To compete over everything. But now, now brotherly conflict seems silly. As I sit here, hiding behind a building, as bullets whizz around me. Brother against brother, wondering how we got here. Raised on the land. That’s what my dad had always called it. Raised in the great outdoors. The farm. The life. We shot together. Ran together. Fought and squabbled together. It is what brothers do. It is what we did. There was always something to compete over. Even though we were a year apart, by the time we were two and three we had started competing according to my mom. We helped dad out in the stalls. We would race to bring him tools. Competed to see who could plant the most seeds or carry the largest harvest haul. Vegetables piled high on our outstretched arms, making us wobble and fall, because they were too much for our diminutive size. But we always bounced up. We always did. Because brothers compete. You play to win. Over time, our little competitions evolved. Past veggies and seeds, to shooting and speed. We raced and wrestled. Churned butter and built fires. Shot cans, birds, and bucks. Competition was at the heart of what we did and how we knew each other. But now those competitions, those things that siblings do, seem silly and mute. The days where I studied to catch up to my brother are a distant memory. A distinction of the past. Because there is a divergence between fighting, competing, and this. A difference when brothers shoot at each other. This is no longer a game. I think about ducking out. But I’m alone. Or at least it feels that way. The war of Northern aggression is what they call it. A revolution. A tear in a nation too far apart on how we should live. Sitting here, pinned down, I wonder how we got here. How my brother and I got on different sides. How we ended up shooting at one another. At some point, our perspectives changed. I can’t conceive of of embrace the thought that our values, beliefs, and morals have changed. What I thought was obviously right, he thought was obviously wrong. And vice versa. Who is a person? Where is the line between the state and federal government? We, like the rest of the country, even fought about how we should farm. How we should live. I don’t know how it happened, but it did. I asked my parents if they could pinpoint it. If they could figure out where things changed. They don’t know. All they know is that our fight manifested beyond brotherhood and into conflict. There is a difference between competition and conflict. Brothers, brotherhood, uses competition to push each other to greater things. To become better. Neither one of us got far in school. By eleven, we worked actual jobs on the land. By fifteen, our formal education had given way to making a living. That meant I was only fourteen when I started working full days. When childhood ended. Being a year apart meant that we were one in the same. We were a package deal. The shots have subsided. The stench of death, scorch, and sorrow fill the air. I dare not move or look out. I can’t because part of me worries I will see my brother dead. A greater part of me worries he is alive. If I stand up, I will have to face him. Maybe I resented my brother a little. Perhaps I wanted to be him. Perchance I loved him too much to evaluate my own views or save him from his own. It is possible that I ignored his slip, or maybe my own. It is hard to say how we got to this place. A place of conflict past competition and into evil, unabridged hate. That is why I can’t pull myself up. Why I can’t look around the corner. If see my brother I have to shoot him. I sit. I sit for a long while. No one comes for me or the rest. This war has been like that. Maybe at first light, people will come clear the battlefield. Maybe it will happen in a few weeks. Until then, there is an uneasy respite. I can’t sleep. Not because I am exposed or don’t want to. Today was the first time our platoons squared off, but that’s irrelevant. I can’t sleep because my mind nags at me as if somewhere deep in the bowels of my existence I know how this happened. Deep down, I know why. When did I become the person who would shoot my brother? A person who felt ideas were worthy of violence and death? I was a farmer. My brother was a farmer. That is what we did. What our family did. And sure the war, changes it made to this country, would make that harder, but we are farmers. We should have stayed out of it. We didn’t. Not only did we pick sides, but my brother and I took up arms. Arms for beliefs that were stronger than the bond of blood. Brothers were supposed to die for one another, not die because of each other. I scour the depths of my soul, of my mind, unable to find that moment when our ideals changed. When competition turned to conflict. The obvious answer is it came from an election. 2020 or 2024. Those were the first times were we could vote. But that is too obvious of an answer. We started diverging philosophically before that. Before we could ever vote, or even hold and express an opinion. When I asked my friends or parents where the seeds of this division were sown, where the hate came from, their answers were reaching and aimless. Some told me 2016, others 2008 or even 2004. The truth was, I wasn’t alive for Bush V. Gore. My brother and I were still picking carrots for fun during Obama’s first term. Those events may be catalyst. May be the convenient way to demarcate truth, but things run deeper. Seeds of hate. Ideas of anger and rage ingrained so deep that brother can turn on brother are not cultivated in a few years or by a single moment. Botanicals of loathing and vitriol have to be rooted deeper than a decade or even a lifetime can cultivate. Divisions like this, where brother take up arms against each other, where elimination is better than cooperation happens when competition turns into conflict. When the drive to win replaces the desire to grow and be better. When we throw out reason and facts, right or wrong, for the gleam of victory. These things happen as the corruptive roots of power infect your heart like a weed. My eyes open. Jolted awake by a moonlight cast shadow. It is my brother. Hand outstretched. I take it. Because, unlike hate, hope can come at any moment. Like a weed, we can pull evil at any moment from our heart. Hate may take a lifetime, but change takes an instant. We stand. Unable to speak or exchange words. An instinctual understanding forms between us. Maybe we can be the beginning of a bridge to the better. If we can lay down our arms, maybe the world can realize that we are all one. Maybe this crisis can be humanity’s definitive example of a lesson not learned.

For the last two decades, we have always owned our own home. Our last home was an expansive one on a lake-six bedrooms, a full basement, three bathrooms and a full walk-up attic that hid everything from various holiday decorations to unused furniture. It was a lot of room but more importantly there were no sounds except for the occasional fox rustling through the leaves, singing bullfrog or a fish jumping to capture their evening dinner. At some point, we wanted to retire and downsize. My husband was already retired and I was counting the days until I could claim the same status. We had this long-term plan of selling the house and moving into an apartment in the city. Living our best lives having wine with our neighbors and dining out, shopping for clothes and fine smelling soaps rather than new roofs and furnaces. On a whim, we decided to list the house. It had been on the market over a year when we purchased so we figured we would put some feelers out with plenty of time to change our minds. However, it sold in less than two hours of the listing going live. And the buyers wanted in. Fast. So here we go. Dreams realized. We spent the next few weeks giving away most of our things as if we were going to live on Mars and fantasizing about our future. As if any tiny cocktail fork or butter dish would be an imposition on our new lifestyle. We scaled down from 3500 sq feet to 1100 sq feet and we were elated to do so. Our kids received all their childhood memorabilia and photographs-any reminder that we raised five children. We were essentially cutting ties from parenthood and moving gracefully into retirement symbolized by the small two-bedroom two bath apartment in a large complex with all the amenities one could imagine. We handed the lake house keys to the new owners, mutually excited about the future. We quickly settled into the apartment in the city locked into a 12-month lease. No lawn and snow removal responsibilities. No unexpected repairs or home improvement projects. Freedom! Pictures went up on the wall, things perfectly and sometimes strategically placed to make this new lifestyle work for us. We had done it! We had thrown caution to the wind and found paradise. We had prepared for everything or at least we tried. Even the actual mental toll of communal living. We read one story after another of all the bad neighbor experiences in hopes of an easier transition. On the first night, we lie awake hearing every sound through walls that were thin enough to see through. We heard every passing motorist and every conversation around us. Would we ever hear silence again? We complained to each other but only half-heartedly since we were proud to be among the group that could complain about city living. Before too long, we adapted to the noises of everyone else living their lives. Until one day, we heard the most terrifying sound imaginable. Outside the apartment, some woman (which we now know as the downstairs neighbor) was running throughout the grounds screaming “Help me! Somebody help me!” with the urgency of someone who may get murdered any second. Did our bad luck instantly import us to the pre-cursor to the next Dateline mystery? We tried to see her and yelled for her to call out so we could answer her plea. Sounds came and went with no way to triangulate on her location. She was running but from what? Screaming over and over, this dark, urgent request. In our panic, we were unable to locate this cry for help and for the first time in my life, I called the police. The 911 operator talked us through every important question. As the police arrived, guns drawn, shielding themselves behind our vehicles in the driveway, pointing at the apartment below us. Fearing a stray bullet in the certain gun fight, we tried to find hiding spots hardened by walls, unsure if they were bordering the mayhem. Stepping out the shared floor guessing which sections may be vulnerable to violent, breakthrough bullets. But then the screaming suddenly stopped. Certainly, she had met her fate. Certainly, we were too late. Why didn’t we call sooner? Why did we try to locate her first instead of calling for the experts to help neutralize whatever nightmare threat was chasing this woman? It just stopped. I watched out my window sick to my stomach waiting for crime scene tape and the coroner to drive up. And yet nothing. Within 15 minutes, guns were holstered, police cars exited with nothing more than a passing wave. What the hell just happened? I am not a nosey person. I like to keep to myself, and I like others to do the same. But this bizarre scene deserved some explanation which went unasked and unanswered. The next day we passed each other in the parking lot. She wouldn’t look at me, but I am quickly surveying her for what is certain to be obvious bruises and cuts and other life-threatening injuries. None. I tried to say hi, but was met with an ignored response. Maybe she was embarrassed? Maybe she couldn’t look at me because she was being held captive in some agonizing stockholm syndrome. I repeat my greeting to let her know I am here for her for whatever she needs. This time I recognize the response. Hostility toward the good samaritan who was trying to help her with her own desperate request. But in this moment, I quickly realize, she was mad, and I was the problem. Several days passed with the normal noises of dogs barking and babies crying but no more murderous screams. Relief. Maybe it was one bad day or moment. We settle in and I start working from home which was my normal working status. I have an office in the loft of the apartment which meant everything I said flowed down to the living room and vice versa. But my retired husband was keeping busy, and the apartment was working out nicely. Until it happened again. Up until now, I remained incredibly suspicious of the husband since the incident. But this time (and most of the future events), no one was home but her. Screaming louder and louder. Hair raising screams. Under me and around me. In my living room. In my bathroom. In my kitchen. Screaming. Crying. Urgent pleas for help. Resisting the urge to call 911 again. Worried I would draw even more ire from the people downstairs. Only to pass each other later or the next day like nothing was happening. This is all part of the experience, I thought. Just another story to share among all of the wine-drinking neighbors we haven’t met yet. We have an “office” to raise concerns but after the reaction when we called the police, I didn’t want to aggravate things any further. So, we just learned to deal with it. We knew exactly what time she awoke and went to bed, and we found solace in the quiet hours of her sleep schedule. We went about our days and nights adjusting to this bizarre situation. Apartment living, am I right? Months went by and something transformed our brains. If someone was truly calling for help, it would have literally fallen on deaf ears. Visiting guests appeared to notice what we have now become accustomed to. They don’t comment, they just look around as if they are hearing things. They have always known us to be reasonable, normal people. So, they looked confused because we don’t even notice. And we simply go about our business as if someone isn’t screaming for their life. We laugh about the latest meme on Facebook and talk about mundane things occasionally raising our voice over the sounds of terror. One day a co-worker on a conference call tried to challenge our new existence and asked about the screaming woman in the background of all my calls. Is everything okay? Does someone need a doctor? I politely explain that we live in an apartment thinking this would explain it all. When she didn’t back down, I just assumed she owned a home with no shared walls and floors and tried to continue with our work-related conversation. She wouldn’t understand. She was not one of us. “I have lived in an apartment for years and this isn't normal” she proclaimed. There isn’t anything I can do though. 12 month lease. Besides we are getting used to it. We eventually end the conversation about the terrifying background sounds and move to more productive work at a little louder decibel and with a more awkward pace than it was when we started. Then one day, logic finally broke through. About 8 months into our lease, I received a call from “the office”. I had never talked to them and was curious when I saw the number appear on my phone. Apparently, there was a complaint from the apartment below that our TV was too loud sometimes which bothered her. I suddenly snapped out of my docile, don’t-bother-anyone-and-they-won’t-bother-you mentality and unleashed on this poor woman who had the unlucky job of calling me that day. I explained everything. The screaming, the police, the guests, the work calls. Everything laid out neatly and efficiently amid my release. As if my mind was regurgitating 8 months of some sort of cognitive journal. When I paused to take a breath, I was met with silence on the other end for a very long time. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”, she finally inquires. Thinking I now sounded a bit deranged; I explain that we were under the impression this was normal apartment living. She seemed slightly shocked at our naivety and asked for details. I gave them. Many of them. She was apologetic explaining others had complained. What? People complained? Weren’t we all in this together? Despite the original reason for calling me, she explained they were “in the process of addressing it”. She offered up a solution. Move... to another apartment in the complex. We were given several options. Close to us. Further out. We scoped out our potential new neighbors like a private detective. At all hours of the day and night, we stalked the pending neighbors listening for similarities to our current living situation. Why go to all the trouble of moving again if it was going to be the same situation? We remained unconvinced that this is not normal. But to our surprise not one plea for help. Not one blood curdling scream. Not one heart racing event where I imagine a gruesome murder scene. Quiet. So, we chose our next home and packed up our belongings to the now familiar and weirdly comforting sound of the devil we know. Wondering about the new neighbors despite our thorough reconnaissance. Some part of me is disappointed that our experience is unique. That we can’t wear our apartment dweller war wounds with the rest of the crowd. We are no longer in a class that becomes aloof city dwellers. This wasn’t a typical experience that we will laugh about someday. Wherever things land, though, we will always be grateful for our first apartment experience. The experience left us entirely immune to the random noises and sounds from the walls and floors. We are fully and completely adjusted. This experience accelerated all learning curves and understanding of shared spaces. I wish nothing but the best for the former neighbor and hope she finds her way to peace. As strange as it sounds, some part of me feels like I am abandoning her. Our journey are now separated just as quickly as we came together. But there is still this constant, nagging worry that some news outlet will eventually answer our many questions about this woman and her demons, real or imagined.

Short Story Choice of Genre Writing Assignment - Fantasy It was just like every other Thursday evening in the castle; the king and queen stood strong among their people in the royal court, taking mind of the issues among their kingdom while the princess sat up in her room, laying on silk fitted bed sheets in a puffy purple gown with the most stunning floral embroidery, reading the royal lore. Nothing was unusual about this Thursday evening, until there were guards screaming in the courtyard. “Over there! Get her! Don’t let her get away!” Princess Edeline set her book down and rushed to her balcony, seeing what all the commotion was about. She looked down across the grounds, seeing guards surrounding a mass of green smoke, each of them looking utterly baffled. The princess stood there looking at everyone coming out of their homes to see what was going on, but became distracted when she heard a small crash from behind her while panel folding screen, followed by the same green smoke she saw outside. “Oh god, this isn’t my house.” Said the girl behind the green as she came around to the other side. She had the most beautiful long black hair, and skin a deep shade of green. She looked around until her cool grey eyes landed on the princess. “Nice place you got here.” “Who are you?” Edeline asked. “Ah, how rude of me.” She said, adjusting the hem of her skirt. “I’m Emmie.” She extended her hand out. The princess shook her hand lightly. “I’m Edeline.” “Already knew that, princess.” Emmie said, causing Edeline to feel a little embarrassed. Emmie dressed in mainly black, and she walked around the room with her head held high, as if there was no place she wasn’t worthy of being. It made Edeline feel intimidated. “How did you get here?” Edeline asked. “Little spell. I meant to go home but one thing led to another and POOF! I’m here, not there.” “Well, it’s lovely to meet you.” This catches her off guard. As if no one has ever found her presence to be a lovely thing. It made her smile a genuine smile, a smile she’d forgotten about ever having. “So what do you do around here for fun?” Emmie asked as she ran her fingers down the spines of the books scattered around the room. “Lots of reading, I assume.” “Yes, lots of reading. I have my lessons and classes, and all I have outside of that is my books. There isn’t a lot I can do outside of this room.” She sat down on the edge of her bed. Emmie never thought in a million years that someone of a royal family could be unhappy with their life. Having everything, never having to worry about money or having food. It sounded splended. “Edeline?” Emmie began. “Would you like to leave the castle for a few hours?” Being called by her name, not princess, gave Edeline a feeling she’d forgotten. It made her feel less than what she was. Like she wasn’t just the daughter of the king, but like she was a person. “I’d love to.” “Excellent.” Emmie went over to her, taking her hand in hers, and just like that with a few words, there was a puff of green smoke, and they were gone. It’s been a year since the day that Edeline and Emmie met by chase, maybe even by fate. Every night now, they ran off to a cottage in the forest just outside the kingdom. They came after Edelines bedtime of eight o’clock, and left before her classes began at seven o’clock the next morning. They did this every day for a year, 365 days exactly. It became a haven for the girls. A place where they could be free from the thoughts and expectations of those around them. When they were there they were nothing more than who they were. They’re titles they held were unable to pass the threshold. Edeline was not a princess, Emmie was not a witch, they were just people. Two joyful people in love feeling nothing but bliss. If only the girls would have know it would end so soon. “She’s in here!” One of the palace guards was looking through the window of the cottage, seeing Edeline and Emmie laying there together petting the stray cat they found in the kingdom that they took in. The king bursted through the door. “Edeline, what have you been doing here? With her?” He yelled. “This girl is very dangerous!” Edeline tightened her grip on Emmie’s hand. “No, father, she’s not.” She said. “She is the single kindest person I have ever met.” The king noticed their hands, their fingers entertwined, how the cottage only held one bed rather than two. It then hit him that his daughter had a secret, a secret he deemed impure. “I love her, father.” Emmie scooted closer to her. “Please, father, just try to understa-” “No!” He interrupted. “This cannot go on! You are to be betrothed to the price of the kingdom across the sea. The prince !” A tear slid down Edeline’s cheek. “But father-” “Enough!” He glared harshly into Emmie. “You are to never return to the kingdom.” He grabbed Edeline’s wrist, pulling her away to the carriage outside. Just like that, they were torn from each other, and just like that, two hearts broke in unison. Ten years later Edeline was married to the price of the kingdom across the sea, Prince Christpoher. They lived out their life ruling over both their kingdoms side by side, helping each other with any issues their people faced. They were a wonderful team and a lovely pair, but there was something missing. An aspect of love that they couldn’t feel for one another, but other women that they were torn from for this very marriage. It made them resentful of each other at times, but they were still together, feeling more like good friends rather than lovers. Adeine wandered through the castle, standing in what was once her bedroom. It was never changed from the way it once was, how it was when she felt that everything in her life was at peace. She sat down on her bed, running her fingers over the dressed set that she no longer fit into now that she was older. Out of what seemed like thin air, a cat came running across the room. Edeline stoot up, walking over to see the animal, She picked it up and recognized the colors of it’s fur. The cat her and Emmie once cared for. Her sweet little Nightingale. “Oh, I’ve missed you more than you could possibly know, my love,” She said as the cat purred in her arms. “I’ve missed you, too.” Said a voice from behind her. She turned around, and there she was. Her green skin, her black hair shorter now, her voice still as sweet as honey. Edeline was in shock. She almost didn’t believe that it was real. “Are you going to say anything?” Edeline ran over and fell into her arms. They stood there melting into each other just as they used to. “I love you.” Edeline said. “I love you, too.” Emmie replied. They stood there, her hands in hers, looking at each other as if it was the first time they'd ever seen one another. “Come with me.” Emmie said. “Back to the cottage. Back to our home. Just you, me, and Nightingale.” Edeline didn’t know what to say. “We’ll be happy.” Edeline nodded. Emmie released a long breath, letting her shoulders drop and her body relax as if she’d been holding this in for so long. “I’ll go get my things.” Edeline said, but Emmie stopped her. “Allow me.” With the wave of a hand and a puff of green smoke, her bag were backed and sitting on the bed. “I need to leave something for Christopher.” Edeline said. She took a pen and parchment from the dresser drawers and began to write. I’m finally going after my happily ever after, it’s time you go after yours. She removed her ring and set it down on the paper, leaving it there for him to find. And just like that, with a puff of green smoke, they were gone.

David could hear the door behind him opening quietly, a set of heavy footsteps walking up beside him as he stared numbly at the night sky. "Do you mind if I smoke?" He smirks tiredly at his friend John, trying his best to show him the reliable leader he thought he should be for them. "Knock yourself out." “...so, how are you hanging?" Apparently he didn’t try hard enough. "Really? Do I really look so bad that you feel the need to make small talk?" David couldn’t stop his words from getting out, the stress of it all finally causing the metaphorical glass to spill. Part of him wants to apologize to his friend on the spot, but the other more present part is too tired to even try, so he just sighs in defeat and hopes for the best. "Honestly, it looks like someone has been shitting on you all day and you just gave up on trying to make it stop.” John spoke up, lighting his cigarette calmly, not bothered in the slightest with his outburst. “So yeah, you look terrible." "Dammit..." David chuckled mirthlessly at John’s comment. Even if there were better ways to put it, being told about it bluntly seemed something he needed in that moment. He could sense his friend shifting beside him, turning to look at him with honest concern. "Do you want to talk about it?" "Not really, but at the same time I just want to get this outta my chest!" That was pretty much the story of David’s life. Bound to carry an impossible weight that no one else could ever attempt to carry on their shoulders, not even slightly. But then his line of thought is interrupted by a cigarette in his peripheral vision. "... cig?" Finally, David turns to see John, offering him an already lit cigarette. "Thanks." He takes it tenderly in his hands, driving one end towards his mouth as he takes in a long drag, almost as if he was gasping for air after being so long underwater. Somehow the intoxicating smoke felt more refreshing than the air itself. "Ah don't mention it, I got spares back in the car." "You do know that shit kills, right?” David makes sure his friend is looking at him as he says this, sounding like a disappointed father despite the same age between the two. “Especially with the amount you smoke a day." "Ha! As if what we do isn't more dangerous and more likely to get us killed than lung cancer!" John seems too proud of himself, and despite not wanting to, David finds himself laughing at his friend’s antics. It's an extremely morbid way of thinking, but there is a bizarre logic behind it that just ends up making him crack. David takes another long drag of smoke before finally focusing his attention on the conversation at hand. "Remind me, how exactly did you decide to follow me through with this mess? I mean... how are you okay with any of this? Why the hell are you guys still putting up with this mess when you aren't the ones cursed to face it?" John remained silent for a while and David suspected that maybe he had gone too far now and was about to lose the only remaining anchors he had left to a modicum of normality in his life, until he simply just shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t know about the other guys, but I stick around because I want to see this to the end and because I still owe you for saving me back then. If I was to make a guess though, I think the same could be said for Ash and Clive.” The answer leaves him shocked, not what he had expected but happy to have heard it nonetheless. Still, he felt a sort of responsibility and curiosity that just needed to push the conversation even further. “I envy you...” “Hmm, how so?” “You actually choose to do this and can back out at any moment if you like, I can’t, because apparently ‘ chosen ones’ don’t have freedom of choice. You can go out and have lives outside of saving the world, so am I wrong in wanting to stop fighting just because I want to have a life of my own? Even if it’s just for a day?” David hates how weak he is sounding now, he is supposed to be the one to face against the darkness, against the shadow of the universe , instead he is just ranting at his friend how much he wants to quit. It's not fair that it has to be him, but it also isn’t fair for the world to have to suffer because of his selfish desires. The rock and a hard place scenario, a cruel and unnecessary classic. “No, no you are not.” John pulls him away from the treacherous thoughts once more, his voice level and careless as it usually is. “You got handed the worst hand of all, I don’t think any of us would really blame you if you suddenly decided to stop being humanity’s savior...” John goes silent again, contemplating his next words carefully as he finishes off his cigarette and begins to pull a new one from the package. “Let’s say you could drop being a hero for a day, what is the first thing you would do?” David is taken aback by the question, not fully expecting this to have been the way the conversation would go. Still, he pauses to think of an honest answer to give. “I mean, I don’t want much, I just miss the old times before the dreams started. Maybe a good night's sleep, that sounds nice right about now.” “Oh come on, you would have chosen that one regardless of the dreams." David didn’t know what he expected, but to have John mock his answer and laugh at him sure wasn't the first thing he expected. Regardless of it, he knew there wasn't anything genuinely hurtful in the reaction, just friendly teasing. However, that didn't mean that it wasn't grounds enough for David to flip John off, though that only made him bellow in laughter even louder. "Come on, pick again.” David sighed in defeat, taking in another drag of his smoke as he thought of another answer, an old pleasant memory flashing in his mind, and with it a more suitable answer. “Well, there is something I wish I could do again.” It seemed his confession was a satisfactory beginning of an answer for John, who simply nodded along as he watched him curiously, a wordless go ahead to further explain this wish. John chuckled silently, a cocky smirk already creeping on his face. "Does that something have anything to do with that cosmic fling of yours?" It was impossible for David not to roll his eyes at what his friend was implying, punching him on the shoulder just for good measure. "... jackass." John simply laughed, clouds of smoke escaping his mouth with each exhale. "Look me in the eye and tell me you weren't thinking that~" David felt the need to punch his friend's shoulder again with a bit more of a sting behind it than before, only thinking against it after realizing it would only make John try harder to get a confession or reaction from him. “Maybe in another life...” David sighed defeatedly, a tinge of melancholy in his voice as he turned to look at the stars. “As much as I would like the idea, it is not likely to happen any time soon.” “True,” He could feel a heavy hand falling over his shoulder, roughly patting him in an attempt to reassure and comfort. It hurt, yet they were welcomed nonetheless. “But that would also mean that if you never got tangled in this ‘Children of light’ business, neither of you would have met. You really should stop seeing the negatives for once and just enjoy the silver linings you have.” “The world really is falling apart if you are the one trying to inspire me with a speech...” David joked, the first genuine sound to come from his mouth since the beginning of the night. Taking the last drag of his cigarette, he held the butt of it between his fingers and threw it into the night sky, uncaring of where it would go. He could feel John’s cocky grin beside him, a proud look on his eyes at having managed to break down his defenses with ease. With a soft sigh, David finally answered the question from before truthfully. “Back home when I was little I used to do this thing every night I got the chance. There was this park right in the middle of the gated community we used to live in, and at the other side of it, right near the edge, was this sandbox with a large playground! They had everything: monkey bars, stairs, slides and swing sets!” David spoke with the same enthusiasm as if he were in a confessional, yet his words were more truthful than those he might have shared in the presence of a priest. “Sounds neat.” David nodded in response, not commenting on how John was already snuffing out his now late cigarette and pulling out another one from its packet. “Well it was made out of steel and concrete, so it was starting to rust and chip away under the sun and wind but I still liked going there, even after I turned fourteen. But it wasn’t the games that made me want to go there in the first place...” “What was it then?” “The sunset." David paused for dramatic effect, enjoying his tale more the longer time went on. "I don’t remember how it got there in the first place or why I decided to do it, but I climbed up the railing on the slides and made my way up to the pipe roof of the set.” “Holy shit! Did you ever fall?” A cocky smile was beginning to spread across David's face as he heard John react. Somehow, it was more satisfying than punching his friend in the shoulder. “No, thankfully. My parents would have killed me for doing something so stupid if the fall didn’t get me first. Still, the risk was worth it every time. I couldn’t really see above the roof of the houses, but I could still see the sun setting behind them, turning the blue sky into a sea of colors. Yellow, orange, red, pink, violet and finally black, with small glints of starlight shining on and off. The same colors, same order, but it always felt like I was watching it for the first time.” “Sounds like a treat.” David nodded, a soft melancholic smile creeping on his face. "It was. When this is over and we go back, the first thing I'm doing is climbing that playground again and seeing the sun set behind the houses." John simply laughed, this one genuine and understanding compared to the first ones. If David turned and looked at his friend in the face, he'd see his eyes sharing that same emotion. "How about this..." John started, putting a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder, a fresh cigarette on his other hand. "Why don't we look for a spot where you can see the sunset while we deal with this . It may not be as pretty as it is back home, but mountains and trees should be a good alternative to houses." David couldn't help but chuckle at the proposal, his hand snaking towards the offered smoke. "Sure... that sounds like a great plan." Taking the cigarette in his hand, a small flame producing from the tip of his fingers lighting the tip, David took a deep drag, letting the mouthful of gray wisps of smoke escape his lips as if it was a cold winter day before looking at his friend with a daring smile. “Where do we start looking?”

The first thing you need to know is where this story starts. Coming from the engine, a loud noise brings us into the scene. That came out more dramatic than it really was. A car pulled up to the gas station I work at. Not much of a car, really, so much as an old piece of junk with four wheels. It was more or less the color of a cherry, if you looked at the cherry with sunglasses on, on an autumn day. That exact shade. A leather jacket opened the car door, and inside the jacket there appeared to be a head full of dark brown hair. Now, I will preface this by saying- I was not interested in him on a personal level, nor was I entraced by his good looks. He was just a more than welcome distraction in the mundane reality that is my job. I watched him fill the tank up with gas, and he pulled out a cigarette pack from his back pocket. My brows furrowed on their own accord as I wiggled my way from behind the counter, hands already grabbing the door handle. Before I could even open my mouth, his head swivled around and he flashed a smile. "You got a lighter?" Just from the relaxed tone of his voice, I could tell he was used to getting his way. "You got a death wish?", I said, though it came out less sharp than I intended. He stopped for a moment right then, looking at me with confusion written all over his face. Then he snapped back to reality, and grinned once again. "Right. Gas station." He ran a hand through his hair, seemingly only bothered by the fact that he could not, in fact, smoke in this particular area. The fact that it was a safety hazard didn't cross his mind at all. I pointed behind me, showing him the vague direction of the area where smoking was allowed. "I'll be inside if you need any more assistance." He did. Coming in to pay, he bought a pack of Red Marlboros, multiple cans of beer, a plain black lighter, and a bag of crisps. Hardly a healthy way of living, but I didn't feel the need to point it out. The interaction, while brief, was a nice change from the loud, obscene truckers and other usual suspects I had to deal with. I did not particularly feel like breaking the comfortable silence, the only sounds being the rustling of a paper bag and the loud cling of the cash register as I gave him back his change. We parted with a wave on his side, and a slight nod on my side. I watched his piece of junk car pull away and go down Route 66. I sat back, taking my book back into my hands. A dog-eared, beat up copy of "The Sun Also Rises". I awaited the next customer- Lord knows we don't get many around here. After all, that road has been wrecked for 10 years, and there was no way of telling who, or what, would be pulling up next.

When I was in my late teens tennis was my obsession. I began playing tournaments. Here in Manitoba, Canada there used to be 3 levels: A, B, and C. I lived in the middle level, B. At tournaments though there were no cliques, everyone socialized together. I watched Glen’s matches often because he played a style of tennis I liked. As an “A” level pro there was a lot I could learn by watching him play. He won the Manitoba Open at least once in the late 70’s. In terms of tennis, we didn’t have much in common and we remained acquaintances. In the early 90’s I started playing golf regularly, played less tennis, and gradually drifted away from the tennis crowd. In 1998 I had recently joined a golf club and as I walked out to the driving range one morning I noticed a tall familiar figure hitting balls. I hadn’t seen Glen in over a decade. Unlike with tennis, we shared similar golf skills and formed a close friendship as we began playing regularly. As an added benefit Glen introduced me to his golf buddies and soon I was part of a regular group of a half dozen players. Soon we were phoning each other to arrange epic “Shell Wonderful World of Golf” matches against each other but also to discuss any number of other topics. Our friendship came along at a crucial time as I was going through a divorce. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t make friends all that easily, I’ve never had a wide circle of people who could be described as close. Looking back on it I never formed friendships with fellow teachers because I preferred a separation between my work and private life, plus I got enough shop talk at work. There has always been more acquaintances than friends. It’s strange sometimes how people are going through opposite experiences. While I was adjusting to life as a divorced father of two, Glen had begun a new relationship and seemed to be on top of the world. Soon he was newly married and talking about the new house they were building. It was great to see him so happy and I took some encouragement in seeing that it was possible that I could one day be in a good marriage too! Eventually I began getting “out there” a little. I joined a singles club and began dating. Each week Glen and the other golf buddies would ask about any dates there may have been since we last played. I had some interesting stories about some uncomfortable evenings out and my endeavors to wrap them up as soon as possible. Since I was only one of two single guys in our group, they looked forward to hearing any “reports” I had to share. After a few years of single clubs and dating I had come to the conclusion that I needed to take a break from it all. I had one purchased event left and I figured that I'd just go and at least eat the included dinner and then stop going altogether. Then everything changed! I met Lorraine at this last event. I still remember how striking she was in the white jeans and pink top she wore that night, how easy she was to talk with, and her sense of humor. I remember seeing some of the attendees playing shuffleboard and asking if she would like to partner up and play. “We’ll kick their butts; they’ll never know what hit them!” was her reply. As if this wasn’t enough, she golfed too! When I asked her out for nine holes of golf and dinner afterward her reply was “Sure, but you’ll need to bring your A-game!” I was hooked! Glen was happy for me and soon made the suggestion that led to some of the most enjoyable days of my life. He said “Freddie (his nickname for me that he and our golf buddy Brent had given me after the tour pro Fred Couples), the four of us should go play”. Soon it was decided that the most even way to make teams would be Glen being a partner with Lo, and Brent and I would be the opposition. There were numerous matches with taunting and teasing. Often Glen would phone to set up all the details of a big match and then he’d say “Ok, put my partner on, we have to talk strategy”. He always called Lo “Partner”. He would joke that if it was too tense for Lo to drive out to the golf course with the opposition (me) he could come by and pick her up! If Lo told him about shooting a good score he would laugh and advise her not to post the good games on the handicap system until after our match in case her handicap went down! We also began taking four or five-day golf trips to Detroit Lakes. Glen, Brent, Wade, and I would play at four of about a dozen terrific courses in the area. We would play each day with a new partner and then rehash all the highlights (and bloopers) over dinner. Our favorite place was Zorbas in Detroit Lakes, Minnesota. I knew even then that those would be some of my most cherished memories later in life. When I suffered with back issues for about six years Glen would always phone to see how my recovery was progressing. We would talk in person or by phone for hours about health, golf, and sports. We didn’t always agree but I always enjoyed the conversations. Especially about the Winnipeg Jets concerning the team’s players, trades, and draft choices. When Glen was diagnosed with kidney cancer in 2021, I would call to chat about how he was doing. He never complained about getting sick or asked “why me?” He was always upbeat saying how it was one step at a time and that he would get back to a full recovery day by day. Although there were several setbacks along the way he remained positive. When I was diagnosed with prostate cancer and was recovering from surgery the roles reversed and he encouraged me, and met me for lunch often helping me to remain positive. We were both surviving cancer at the same time and encouraging each other. In early September 2022, we met for lunch with another friend on a flawless fall day. Glen and I were feeling that we were on the home stretch of our recoveries and that we could perhaps play nine holes and ride a cart so that we didn’t try to do too much too quickly. It would feel great to return to doing something normal and we agreed to arrange this on the weekend for the next week. When my phone rang that Thursday and I saw his name on my phone I answered as I always have: “Ernie...how’s it going?” (Ernie was his nickname because his height and swing reminded me of the South African golfer Ernie Els). It wasn’t Glen though; it was his wife. I just knew by the sound of her voice... He had suffered a brain hemorrhage as a complication of his recent gamma-knife surgery. He was unresponsive and quickly lapsed into a comma with no measurable brain activity. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for her to have to make the decision to take him off life-support. Even though we knew that his long-term odds weren’t that good, it was a shock how suddenly it happened. One month later my golf partner Brent passed away of esophageal cancer, going from initial diagnoses to his last day in less than three months. It was a tough fall and it hit me hard. Late last October we had some beautiful warm days past the usual end of our golf season here. I woke up and looked out my window and almost reached for the phone to call Glen and figure out when and where we should play. I still have these moments where I blissfully forget for just a second that he’s really gone. The Jets will play a good (or bad) game, Donald Trump will do another ridiculous thing, or as just happened last weekend, Nick Taylor (a Canadian) won the Canadian Open. Just for a second, I find myself thinking I should call “Ernie” or half expect my phone to ring. We still meet his wife for dinner every now and then. The last time I asked her if I could buy his Ping driver from her. Glen and I used to joke about him selling it to me and he used to say “Freddie I can’t do that - it would come back to haunt me!”. Her response was “I want you to have it but you can’t blame him for any shitty shots!” I assured her that I wouldn’t, but that I might here his voice from somewhere asking “Freddie, what happened there?” That driver is in my golf bag now. As I walk the fairways and see it there all the memories of our epic matches and wonderful trips to Detroit Lakes come back to me. It feels good to have Glen with me out on the course.

“A toast! To the bride and groom,” the best man bellowed. A cacophony of clanging glasses and cheers of “Here, here” rang out through the hall. Henry and Elizabeth Wesley, the happy couple, beamed at one another, seated as they were at the head of the massive hall on the Wesley’s similarly massive Hampshire estate. The Wesleys were one of the wealthiest families in England and a regular feature of London society. As the feast began and the guests’ attentiveness gave way to an atmosphere of general revelry, Edmund, Henry’s younger brother, sat stoically at the far-left end of the bride and groom’s table, already deep in his glass of wine. He shot the occasional glance down the table at his jubilant brother and his beautiful new wife. I suppose everything’s come easy for him; why not this? A rotund man in his fifties approached Henry and Elizabeth. “Mr. Patterson, excellent to see you! We’re both ever grateful you could attend,” Henry said. “I wouldn’t have missed it! Your father would have my hide,” replied Mr. Patterson. Both men chuckled. After a pause, Mr. Patterson continued, “A promising young man such as yourself from a respectable family... We should speak about your future soon. I happen to know a local MP that will be stepping down next election and I can think of few others more suited to run in his place.” Henry and Elizabeth exchanged excited looks. “I would be honored to be considered by you and your colleagues for the seat. Father has always impressed the importance of a public career for me as future head of the family. I shall call upon you and your wife soon and we can discuss it further.” Why does everyone reward him? As the feast dragged on into the evening, the hall became warmer and merrier as more wine and spirits were brought up from the cellars. Edmund had drunk a fair amount himself (he had actually started an hour before the ceremony that morning) and his head was starting to swim in a hot glow. This, combined with the warm light from the candles and chandeliers, caused a thick and heady mist of intoxication seemingly to permeate the room. Edmund overheard the deep, authoritative voice of his father further down the table, closer to the bride and groom. “One more toast: to my son Henry, a lucky man and the greatest son a father could ask for.” Greatest... “He’s made us all proud, but none as proud as I on this happy day. Henry, Elizabeth, may your future together be long and joyful.” “Here, here!” answered the guests clustered around father and son. Edmund made a point to wait a moment longer than normal before taking another drink from his own glass. After some time, Edmund could not be sure how long, he slipped away from the table. Henry and his best man - a close friend of his from Oxford - were leaning in close to speak privately. Henry glanced up at Edmund as he departed, then resumed whispering, as if trying to banish the thought and sight of his younger brother. He never asked me to be the best man. Edmund made his way to the washroom to splash some water on his face in an attempt to clear his head and regain his senses. He gazed in the mirror. Edmund had a round, misshapen face that was higher and slightly protruded on one side. His eyes were ever so slightly different colors; people often didn’t immediately notice, but it gave his face an off look that never escaped new acquaintances. His hair was short, thin, and prematurely graying. In essence, “homely” was something of an understatement. Henry, on the other hand, had always been the most dashing boy in any circle he frequented. Edmund reached into his coat pocket and removed a small phial. It was brass, inlaid with a floral pattern, and had a cap over its mouth. One could not see the contents from without. When Edmund returned to the hall, the tables and food had been cleared away to make room for music and dancing. Henry and Elizabeth had apparently just begun a most mesmerizing waltz. The bride’s dress flowed and fluttered to the movements, which took on an almost otherworldly appearance in the dimly lit hall. After the first dance, more couples joined in, and the night sank into ever greater depths of joy and merriment. Edmund, however, found himself alone, milling about one of the tables pushed against the walls, laden with fine wines, liqueurs, sweet fruits, and confections. Edmund had had quite a lot to drink, but alcohol rarely dulled his mind overmuch, and certainly didn’t distract him from the torrent of thoughts racing through his mind. Edmund grabbed a knife from the table to cut a slice of one of the many cakes laid out. Before he could, Henry came up from behind and clasped Edmund on the shoulder. “Isn’t she stunning, Edmund?” he said, gazing back at Elizabeth. “Can’t think of what I did to deserve her.” “Indeed...” replied Edmund in a deadpan. “Though I’m certainly ready for the festivities to end and for the ‘wedding night’ to begin, eh?” said Henry in a jocular fashion. Edmund made no reply. “Ah, I promise I shan’t go on about it. I know you’ve been a bit bereft of feminine company,” Henry said with a knowing, ironic smile. Edmund still had the knife in his hand. Henry nudged Edmund playfully in the side a little harder than he would have were he sober. Edmund gave a slightly pained smile, which hid his clenched, grinding teeth. Henry then jaunted off merrily to join a group of his schoolmates from Oxford. Before Edmund could turn back to the table, Elizabeth approached him. Edmund and Elizabeth had known each other since childhood; her family lived close and Edmund had remained at home when Henry had been sent to London for schooling. This gave them ample time in their adolescence to cross paths and strike up a friendship of sorts. “There you are! I was looking for you earlier,” said Elizabeth. Edmund’s heart skipped a beat. “I needed to get a bit of fresh air, sorry,” he replied. “Don’t apologize, Eddy! Come dance, this is a great waltz!” Before he could object, Elizabeth grabbed his hand and hauled him to the center of the room. As the music picked up, Edmund struggled to match the ease with which Elizabeth flowed into the dance. Edmund panicked inside as he attempted with every effort to avoid crushing Elizabeth’s feet. Remembering the few dance lessons his mother had given him, he gingerly placed his hand at her hip and the two began to whirl awkwardly around the room. I should not have had so much to drink... After a few moments, it was clear that Edmund was at a loss. He had never learned to dance as well as Henry as his parents didn’t see the point in investing the time and energy - or the money for an instructor - for their youngest. Sensing Edmund’s difficulty, Elizabeth leaned in. “Let me lead,” she whispered with a sly smile. Edmund felt himself go red at being this close to her. Slowly, they changed the positioning of their arms and Elizabeth began to dominate. Edmund gradually began to relax. Moving in a crowd as they were, and with plenty of chatter and drink still sloshing about, hardly anyone would notice that Elizabeth was leading. Memories of their shared childhood swam through Edmund’s mind. Remembering those times made him happy, and he smiled at Elizabeth, and she back. For a moment that seemed to last an hour, their eyes met and kept each other’s gaze as they stepped and twirled about. Suddenly, something caught and twisted Edmund’s foot, yanking him out of his daydream. He had strayed too far and hadn’t minded where he was, resulting in his foot catching on that of another dancer behind him. The next thing Edmund realized; he was on the ground. The dancing and the music had stopped and many of the guests were staring down at him, startled. The woman he had collided with had fallen to the floor as well and was grasping her ankle in pain. Elizabeth stood with her hands over her mouth. As Edmund recovered himself, a smattering of laughter could be heard from the side of the room - Henry and his Oxford friends. Edmund felt himself grow red hot under the countless piercing eyes. Stop staring at me! Stop laughing at me! He started over to the young woman he had injured, hand outstretched to help, but before he could reach her, her partner lifted her to her feet and escorted her away from the center of the hall. Edmund was left in the middle of everyone he knew, and the few he cared about, alone, in silence... After what felt like a lifetime, the musicians began to play again, ending Edmund’s agonizing horror. Elizabeth was pulled aside by a group of acquaintances and drawn into conversation, appearing to forget all about Edmund. His brother similarly had returned to some comedic banter with his former classmates. Edmund slinked back toward the table at the head of the hall where the family had sat during dinner. He glanced up and was horrified to see the gray, hard features of his father staring down at him. After being fully appraised by his all-seeing gaze, and as if being found wanting, his father departed with a huff. Always second, in every regard . Yes, it was always Henry who received your attention and love. You poured money, gifts, and opportunity on him, even though he squanders everything. Everyone simply loves him... Well... perhaps it’s time something changes... Edmund stepped out onto the back lawn for the rest of the evening, puffing on a cigar, thinking. He was always thinking, considering everything. He rarely smoked, but tonight was a special occasion, though not in the way everyone else thought. A few minutes later, his brother stumbled out of the house onto the porch where Edmund stood taking in the view of the family’s garden. Henry came up beside Edmund and leaned against the stone rail. “I-... is this where you’ve been hiding, Eddy? You scampered off quickly after that dance fiasco,” said Henry, slurring his speech slightly. Henry took a deep sip from the wine glass in his hand. Go on, drink... “I’d had enough. I needed to clear my head.” “You never know how to have fun. Always s-... sulking about. Shying away, especially from the ladies. I saw how you looked when you were dancing with Elizabeth. Don’t get any... *urp* untoward ideas.” You have no clue just what “untoward ideas” I have... Edmund smiled warmly and placed his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Speaking of your bride, shouldn’t you be with her now?” asked Edmund, hoping to rid himself of his brother’s company. Henry stared at Edmund for a moment, almost as if suspecting something. But not quite. Henry gave Edmund a wide, toothy grin and slapped him on the back. “Right you are! How could I forget? You always had a sharp memory.” I remember it all... everything . Henry downed the remaining wine from his glass before setting off inside, swaying as he walked. Edmund watched him go in silence, his expression mute. When Henry had disappeared inside, Edmund descended the stone steps down into the garden. He strolled leisurely to a small pond at the center of the garden, which was ringed by rows of hedges. He remembered when they were children, he and Henry used to play here often. Memories came flooding through Edmund’s mind, including the many times he had served as “entertainment” for Henry and his friends. Fitting that this is where I’d end up... I suppose it all ends here... He took a long draw on his cigar and looked up into the flawless night sky. The stars of a clear summer evening were mingling with the faintest hint of predawn light on the horizon. He let the cigar fall to the ground and stamped it out forcefully, then reached inside his coat pocket. In his hand, he held the little brass phial with the cap and inlaid floral pattern, whose contents couldn’t be seen from without. He removed the cap. Empty, to the last drop. He thought back on all the drinking his brother had done that evening and how he’d downed his glass on the patio. Too much, they might say come morning... Edmund smiled, softly at first, and then deeper and deeper. Deeper than he could ever remember smiling. His teeth were bared and bright in the dark predawn. He threw the empty phial in the pond, wheeled about, and started back towards the house, a spring in his step and the future on his mind.