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Allura 49

# Jägers They were getting closer, the time was fast approaching. I can hear the gentle rumble of their tanks in the distance, I can smell the fumes of the exhaust. Through the gloom and haze of the early morning, I can see them in the distance approaching the edge of the village. I never would have been able to do this before I was turned. I don’t remember who I was before I was turned or why, all that matters now is that the Sound told me and my brothers to be here and to wait. They have no idea we are here, my brothers lurk nearby, waiting. They don’t know it yet, but they are walking into a trap. We are that trap. From atop a building overlooking the narrow streets below, I let out a low growl to inform my brothers to make ready, they reply in kind and I hear them begin to edge closer to the roadside. I hear my brother's hearts begin to beat faster in preparation, another growl tells them to calm themselves, that the time isn’t right, that we must wait. I can see them more clearly now, there were nearly 50 of them, a number of tanks and other vehicles, slowly advancing towards us, checking each building. Were they looking for us, or something else? It must be something else, no way they could know we were here. One smell cuts through the smell of the exhaust from the tanks, I can smell their fear, I can hear their racing pulses, they are all scared, they had good reason to be. I hear their voices now, it's not a language that I was familiar with, but I remember some of the words, I remember hearing them before I was turned. “Buildings all clear Captain!” said one. “Where the fuck are these Krauts?” replied another. One of the men was looking at a map by torchlight, gesturing to other nearby buildings, instructing the men where to go. His heart was steady, with no smell of fear. He was in charge, he was my prey I can feel my brothers becoming impatient, I sympathise with them, why are we still waiting, they were right there, ripe for slaughter. Yet the Sound hadn't told us to attack, it kept us waiting. The tiles began to crack under my claws as my muscle tensed, my anticipation becoming unbearable. They were directly below us now, the men following the tank as it entered the narrow street out of the town. We had to go now or we would miss our chance, now was the time. The moment finally came. The Sound pinged, at last, my fur bristled as it passed through me. With a thunderous howl, I signaled to my brothers to attack, to unleash their fury on these invaders, and unleash it they did. “Wolves!” roared one of the men below, panic rippled through the rest of them as they scrambled for cover and protection, trying to find us in the gloom with torches and searchlights. They were too late, we had sprung our trap. I pounced off of my rooftop, landing on top of the lead tank directly below me. As I looked up, I was staring directly into the face of a terrified crewman, I snarled at him as he tried to turn his weapon on me. One swipe of my claw was enough to nearly remove his head from his shoulders. Blood erupted from the wound as his body fell back into the tank. The smell of iron filled my nose, awakening something inside of me, I searched around for who would be next. Before I could pounce on my next victim the Sound pinged again. This time a deeper tone, I remembered what I must do. I reached for the pouch hanging from my belt, tore off the cord, and pushed it through the open hatch, past the corpse of the crewman deep into the belly of the tank. As I let go, I could hear panicked voices from inside the metal shell, I leapt from the tank through the window of a nearby house. A deep explosion erupted from the tank, launching the turret into the air, narrowly missing a group of men as it landed. Our surprise was beginning to fade now, a cacophony of gunfire began, the smell of gunpowder filling the air, drowning out all other smells, as the men began to try to defend themselves. What little good it would do. A second explosion roared from down the street, back towards the square. They were trapped now. Now it was just a matter of time before they would all be dead. As I lumbered back through the shattered window, letting out another deafening howl, and looked for my next victim, it didn’t take long. As I tore out throats with my fangs and disemboweled with my claws, I could hear the snarls and roars of my brothers doing the same, and slowly but surely the gunfire became less and less. I was drenched with blood and viscera by the time I heard a different sound, a yelp, and a whimper. One of my brothers had been injured, how badly I couldn’t know, that would have to wait, I had to hunt. As the last of the gunfire ceased and the smell of gunpowder faded, the air was thick with the smell of iron and that of those soldiers who had soiled themselves as they died, I searched for one smell, one smell that had stood out. The one man who didn’t smell of fear, even now nothing but calm, he was who we were after. He was why all these men had to die. He was who the Sound wanted. My brothers and I regrouped as the slaughter finished. My wounded brother limped over, he would survive, the injury was minor. We found the man without fear taking shelter in one of the houses lining the street. He heard us sniffing and padding up the stairs shouting at us as we closed in. “You stay away from me you fuckers, I’ll send you straight back to hell!” firing a few shots from his weapon through the closed door as we approached. One inaudible growl was enough to tell one of my brothers to retrieve him unharmed, just as the Sound wanted. We tore the door from its hinges and before the man could react his cries were cut short as he was dragged back on the street my brother grasping him by the throat, he still struggled and flailed at my brother, he had no hope of escape now. Our ears all pricked as we heard it, a door being bashed open and frantic footsteps fading away somewhere down the street. The Sound had told us to leave none alive and we must always obey the Sound. one of my brothers chased him down as we dragged the man back with us to where the Dark was. The sun was rising as we arrived back, the blood had dried on my snout and claws. My brother threw the human down in front of the Sound, he smiled as he instructed other men to drag him away. The Sound pinged again, telling us to return to the Dark. He spoke to the humans around us. “Get the poles, we must get them back to their cages, we will deal with the wounds later” Men approached with the poles, jabbing my brothers, light, and sparks erupted as they did. One of my brothers snarled and snapped at the human as they jabbed him again, prompting more humans to jab at my brother, coaxing him towards the Dark. I growled at my brother to calm him, but to no avail. With a roar he snatched at one of the humans and launched him at a nearby building, he landed with a crunch as the humans' bones shattered on impact. More humans now came with poles and other weapons and jabbed at us all, driving us into the dark. The Sound’s pinged with a continuous ear-splitting note, we all ran into the Dark to escape it. As we entered the Dark, the door behind us was shut with a heavy clang, only then did the Sound stop. Eventually, we would be fed, eventually, we would hunt again. Until then, here is where we would stay, in the Dark.

I open my eyes to the light streaming through the lace curtains, it must be morning. My shaved head is cold again, the hoodie I sleep in has slipped down to my neck bunching with the scarf I wear everywhere, a gift from a good friend. Extracting my arm out from under the pillow where it sleeps I pull the hoodie back over my head and snuggle deep into my blankets. Its been getting colder the last few weeks, I don't really like the cold, I am probably a lizard. At some point after dozing and mentally going over my day I realise that I need to actually figure out the time; I need to check my social media for updates; I need to check the news for any interesting developments. Scratch that, they are useless time wasters in this never ending waste of time I occupy these days, somewhere between lazy, procrastinate, and cancer side effects, the cancer side effects being the lesser of the three. I roll over and fumble for my phone, it is in the usual spot on my bed, attached to the charging cable, good! I have batteries. The teenage cat, Atticus, that sleeps next to me has long since woken up to chase imaginary creatures around the house. I Reorient myself, press buttons, swipe patterns, open the browser. Screen glare in the morning is unpleasant, and so is the lack of new information since I grudgingly put my phone down hours before. What did I expect? refresh. refresh. Didn't I want the time? oh yeah. its early, and I don't need to get up. I roll over and snuggle the blankets. At some point, either when I reach peak boredom, get a pang of hunger, feel my bladder, hear the sounds of house-mates(preferably accompanied by the sounds of a kettle) or just because, I pull the blanket off my body, rotate ninety degrees and melt off the exceptionally high bed into a standing position. With the change in orientation comes the sensation of my organs pressing up against my bladder, time to find the loo, is my genitalia appropriately covered? My friends don't care, I could probably walk out naked and they would wink and tease me in good nature. Like a morning zombie looking for brains in a mug of coffee I stumble forwards bleary eyed into the kitchen, a pink nightgown is at the bench facing away from me, I mutter good morning before moving towards the loo. I'm wearing my fisherman's pants, so a little re-arrangement and I'm focused on the stream and the sensation of relief, so practised over so many years, of making as little noise as possible, pondering to myself how so many times at work there is piss all over the floor, what are they doing? do I even want to know? Fisherman's pants don't always cooperate with me when it comes to re-arranging and I may need to undo and re-do them entirely, juggling my hoodie out of the way, it's an awkward dance. The blue hand wash is almost empty. The zombie feeling persists, I stumble out of the loo looking for the pink dressing gown, It will be sitting at the kitchen table, at the kitchen bench, in the study. I reach out and embrace it, hugs are an important part of our morning ritual, a grey tracksuit appears, another hug, a pair of underwear, another hug. each one with its own special style, each one with its own need for affection to bring us back from the dead of unconsciousness. one more person exists in the house, with a large smile like Totoro, I don't know this person well enough for a morning hug. "Anyone for a coffee" the underwear asks, "yep", "yes please", "yes thanks babe" come the answers, soon I will not be a zombie, the feeling is already fading, the coffee will remove the last vestiges of the undead, like decapitating it after beating it and filling it full of gunshots. While I wait for my doom, I'm going to just lay down on this couch and enjoy the voices of the humans. More mundane stuff happens, some arrangements are made. I've just sat on the couch again, dressed in comfortable clothing, laptop and drugs in bag, "Alright, time to go!" my best friend Annie says with a smile. Up I hop walk down the corridor, give the fluff monster Atticus a race, and then a cuddle before picking up the sunglasses and helmet from Annie who waits at the front door for me. We talk constantly to each other but about normal every day things. She re-arranges the bike as I put the sunglasses on and pull on the open faced bike helmet, I swing a leg over, grab her backpack and put it on, secure belongings around myself, my feet are on the back forks and my hands are around her waist. she gives the engine a little rev and we lift off from the driveway into the street, I feel the rush of g-forces as we lurch forwards, I feel the vertigo of sideways motion as we corner around the car park making our way to Prospect Road, and as we merge with traffic the chill of the air on my face as we pick up speed. Annie's warm body in front of me is comforting the chill air is refreshing, the speed up and slow down of traffic exhilarating. I'm not sure it would be as fun if I was by myself on the bike. The wind finds its way easily behind the sunglasses making my eyes water. it's the best way to travel to chemo. I stride through the entryway with my confident swagger learned from years of dancing, chest out, chin high, after all, today is the best of the days I have left. Up the elevator I wait, walk with confidence to the cancer day centre, I've been here many times before, and am lucky to have not been here too many times like the people I see around the ward, years into treatment. At the main counter I greet the staff with a cheeky smile, and get my wristband attached for the party ahead. 5 minutes in the waiting room, the TV is off, maybe they listened to me? a random staff member calls my name and greets me as the person who will be taking care of me today. I try to remember their names, it's not easy. I make small talk, I want this person to like me, I want them to feel good about their job, I hope they aren't too stressed or distracted. We choose a chair for me to occupy for the hours I will be here, I sit down, plug in my laptop power, arrange my equipment and take off my shoes, it's important to be comfortable. My nurse brings over a little tray, a strap and some other bits and bobs to insert the cannula, she explain that blood results take 40 minutes, and we need to test before starting treatment, we check my name tag multiple times, and then comes the apology for the stinging. The insertion of the cannula is interesting in that I truly feel that the nurses are always upset that they need to stick you with needles, they are always gentle and over my time have only messed up once, the pain from the needle is entirely intellectual it hurts, but it's not dangerous. They hold my hand, strap my arm and ask me to clench my fist a few times before relaxing in a fist, they touch my arm gently inspecting the veins, able to detect things i can only imagine, they settle on a spot to insert the device, and then swab the area. I ask them about their week, how their schedules are tracking today, try to find some way to interact, often time I feel they keep themselves at arms length for good reason. They apologise and with a sharp intake in breath I indicate that what they are doing hurts, and then it's done, they connect tubes like its lego, extract some blood and then hook up a drip of saline before attending to other people. I spend the next hour on my laptop browsing the internet again, being bored, wanting to study but unable to concentrate, oh well, sometimes I get in 10 minutes of productivity. A friendly and familiar nurse named Shafi walks past and says hi. Then Lou, Peter, Jess and more I can't remember. The volunteer staff ask me whether I would like some soup, what flavour? tomato, chicken and corn, beef, vegetable. I refuse most days, and ask for apple juice instead, it helps with the taste of the chemo drugs. During the whole thing friends and family visit and sit next to me, we converse, it's good to have company, it's a blur. My bloods come back good, and within a few minutes the chemo drugs are here, being hooked up to the pump stand, the tubes all being connected together like some weird irrigation system, maybe I will grow into a nice ripe fruit? begin the pumps, refrigerated liquid pumped into my arm at too high a rate is uncomfortable, so I ask the nurse to slow it down. The taste in the back of my throat is like the back of a chemical cupboard in the shed, so I sip on apple juice, I try to keep myself busy on my laptop, browsing things, trying to program, talking to staff, talking to visitors. Did they stick the tubes into my bladder? extracting myself from blankets, laptop cables etc, I take my robotic companion pump to the loo with me, several times a day. Clickity clack, clickety clack, the pumps talk to each other plotting their eventual take over of the human race for world dominance. I browse the room, looking into the windows of other people's lives who are also touched by cancer, mums and dads, sisters and brothers, families are there, mostly old people, there's nobody I can relate to, no friends to make. The time wears on, my pump suddenly gets all huffy and starts beeping, the nurse comes over and calms it down with some caressing of its face. My body bulges from the extra two litres pumped into my veins, it's not as intense as the first time. It doesn't take long, between 2-4 hours I am finished and I can escape the robotic pump overlords. they pack up the chemo bags and tubes and throw them in a purple bin, they untape and slide out the cannula, and always press too hard on the cotton wool bud intended to stop the flow of blood from my veins, seriously calm down. and then i'm free to go. I stumble back to reality, down the lift, out the doors and into the street. Tomorrow its likely I will get a lift home, but when I go to work, or when I catch a bus home I have a surreal experience of having quite serious medical shit going on and the world being completely oblivious to me, like if you were a super hero, nobody would know or care for everyday shit, I guess clark kent had it right with the glasses.

The scream came from upstairs. Matt snapped from his Netflix stupor and bolted up. The sound had come from his daughters room. Bursting through the door, Matt was confronted with the sight of his young daughter Kelly being dragged out of her bedroom window by a man made of black mist. Matt launched himself towards his daughter but was too slow. He watched on helplessly as she was whisked off into the darkness of night. He screamed out in angst and fear as she faded from his view. Manic, Matt’s mind raced. What happened? What was that thing? He knew immediately what to do. He raced downstairs grabbed up his phone from between the couch cushions and dialed his Mum. “MUM! MUM! KELLY IS GONE!” Matt screamed. “What? Matt, ok. Calm down. What do you mean Kelly is gone? What happened?” Martha replied. “I don’t know. I was on the couch then I heard a scream from her room and I ran to her but there was some thing. Like a man but not a man. He....No it.. It took her.” “I knew this day would come. Ok Matt. I need you to listen to me very closely. Don’t touch anything. Don’t go in the room. Your father and I will be right over.” “What do you mean this day would come? Mum? What is going on?” “Matt it will be ok. We will get Kelly back. Just stay where you are. We will be there soon and we will explain everything.” Twenty minutes pass. Matt lays curled up in the living room crying. The front door swings open. Martha and Albert make there way into the house. “Oh god he’s crying” Albert starts. “Leave him alone he's scared. And you would be too if your child was taken by the dark powers and you didn’t know what they were.” Martha snaps back. “Well he would know if you had let me have the talk with him when he was young. We could have prepared him for something like this.” “I wanted him to have a normal life. One without demons and sorcerers messing everything up all the time. Was that so wrong?” “Ok ok, no need to get upset. Anyway what has happened has happened let’s get on with it.” By now Matt has sat up. With a face wet from tears he asks “What are you two talking about? Mum? Dad? What do you mean demons? Is that what took Kelly? Some sort of demon?” “Either that or some sort of evil sorcerer” Albert tells him matter-of-factly. “A sorcerer?!” Matt wails, beginning to sob all over again. Martha leans down and hugs her son “It’s alright baby, It’s ok. Mummy is here and she is going to fix everything.” She turns to Albert and says “Can’t you be a bit more gentle?” “Oh for Christ’s sake Martha he’s a grown man.” Albert protests. “He’s a grown man who’s daughter has been stolen away. Why don’t you do something useful and grab my crystals from the car.” Martha scolds. Albert simply grunts in reply heading back out to the car. Matt sits at the end of Kelly’s bed with a blanket draped over his shoulders. He sips from the hot chocolate that his Mum made him (Double marshmallow just like when he was a kid). Albert finishes setting up for the ritual. There are an assortment of rare minerals scattered spread across the floor set in a swirl. Martha enters the room donning a set of strange golden robes. In her hand is an ancient rolled up piece of parchment. “It’s ready dear” Albert confirms. With a nod Martha stands above the mineral swirl and unrolls the parchment. She squints at it for a moment then says “Oh I can’t read this. Al have you got my reading glasses?” “Right here dear.” Albert replies handing them across to her. “Thank you darling” Martha places on her glasses and stands herself up straight and tall. She begins to read aloud from the ancient scripture. Matt looks on nervously as his mother begins to speak in what sounds to him like animal noises. The night breeze picks up as the light in the room begins to dim. Martha continues reading, slowly growing louder. She begins to sway left and right as she reads. The sounds coming from her change, becoming bizarre and otherworldly. It begins to rain heavily outside. The sounds of the storm raise the ambient noise in the room. Martha gets louder and louder until she is yelling over the storm. Matt and Albert watch on as Martha picks up off of the ground beginning to levitate. Then as the crescendo of the chant and storm begin to climax a clap like thunder erupts in the centre of the room. Matt drops his drink as he leaps away from the cataclysm, hiding his head deep into his daughters Peppa Pig pillow. “Good evening” begins a deep voice. “Good evening” Martha and Albert reply in unison. Matt turns back to see a red half-goat half-man monster standing upright at the end of his daughters bed. The creature glances at him with it’s satanic eyes before turning towards Martha. “Is this your boy then?” the demon begins. “Yes this is my Matthew.” Martha replies with a proud smile. “He is very handsome, not like his father.” The beast flirts. “Hey I’m right here!” Albert exclaims “Oh, hi Al, sorry I didn’t see you there. I must have been distracted by the foxy lady who summoned me” The beast replied winking at Martha. With a chuckle Martha says “Oh you stop that.” Giving a half chuckle himself the beast gets straight down to business “So why have I been summoned then?” “Well my Matty’s young girl Kelly has been snatched up by one of your lot tonight and he is very upset about it. So I was hoping you might be able to help us work out who has taken her so that we can go and retrieve her.” Martha explains. “Young girl you say? Hmm I don’t remember hearing anything about any young girls lately. If only there was something that could jog my memory.” The beast answers. Martha sighs at the beast then nods to Albert. Albert reaches down into the bag of crystals and pulls out a ten pack of cheap cigars handing them over to the beast. “Oh yes I remember now,” the beast says with a smile “There’s this new bozo, calls himself ‘Basotho’. He’s been out snatching up the blood relatives of all sorts of you witch types. He’s got a place down near the River Styx.” “Up or downstream from Devil’s Gate?” Albert asks. “Downstream, I think” The beast replies “Well, thank you very much then. You have been very useful” Martha says with a smile. “Anything for a babe like you Martha” The beast replies. Before he stands upright, stomps twice and poof! Disappears in a cloud of red smoke. Down in the kitchen Matt and Albert sit around the table talking. Martha busies herself fixing Matt a new hot chocolate. “And well I eventually promised to your mother that I wouldn’t tell you. I mean a man can only go so long living as a candle stick before caving to pressure. I guess that’s about all there is to it.” Albert says finishing up his explanation about the dark side, Martha being a witch and why they kept it from him. “Honestly Matt, I always wanted to tell you” Matt sits jaw to the floor staring at his father stunned by disbelief. His mother is a witch? Demons were real? An evil sorcerer has taken his daughter? His father lived for three months as a candle stick? None of this felt real to him. “I must be dreaming. I need to wake up. I need to wake up!” Matt mutters to himself. Martha comes over and places the new hot chocolate in front of her son. “I wish you were dreaming baby, but this is real and we really need to get Kelly back before thing’s get out of hand.” Martha reassures him. “Well... Well... What do we do?” Matt asks. “We? We do nothing. You stay here and drink your hot chocolate. Your father and I will create a portal to the underworld, find this Basotho guy, sort him out and bring Kelly back to you. Ok?” Martha orders to Matt, in that way mother’s do. Matt nods dumbly and takes a long sip from his drink. A pentagram of goats blood isn’t a hard symbol to create, especially not for Albert whose been at this for years. But stacking the shrunken heads takes a steady hand and real concentration. Which is why Al always leaves it for Martha to do. With the skull-stack complete the duo take up their positions either side of the pentagram. They stare into each others eyes and begin chanting. “Esaelp ,dlrowrednu eht ot latrop a ekil dluow ew.” They recite the phrase in unison thirteen times. As they finish the chant the shrunken skulls float up making the corners of a misty blood red triangle. “We’ll be back before you know it” Martha reassures Matt as her and Albert step through the portal. The pair arrive through the Devil’s Gate. They are greeted by Mordecai, the haunted twelve foot tall set of Armour who manages new arrivals. Seeing they are regulars Mordecai gives Martha and Albert a quick bow and returns to his duties. “He said downstream didn’t he?” Albert asks to Martha. “Yes dear” Martha answers. “I hope it’s not too far, my hips are killing me after going up and down those stairs.” “Oh don’t be such a big baby, now come on. Let’s go save our grand daughter.” After about forty minutes of walking (and Albert complaining), the husband and wife combo arrive at a skull shaped mountain. Hanging near mouth shaped cave entrance is a sign reading ‘Lair of Basotho the Brutal’. “I suppose this is the place then?” Martha says. “I suppose it is, what a wanker! Who lives in a skull lair these days? Jimmity Cricket this guy is trying to hard” Albert begins to rant. “Well let’s get this over with” “After you dear” The two walked up to the large door making up the mouth of the skull. Martha moves to the cheap intercom next to the door and gives a single long buzz. “Hello? Who is this?” A voice from the intercom asks. “This is Martha the Magnificent. I’m here with my husband Albert." Albert waves to the intercom camera from behind Martha. “We are here to retrieve our grand daughter Kelly.” “Martha the who? I don’t know you go away.” “Sir I will happily go away, if you hand over Kelly, we will leave you to your weekend.” “There is no girl here leave me alone.” The intercom voice snaps. Martha turns to Albert shaking her head. “Looks like we’ll have to do this the hard way then.” Albert moves away from the door giving Martha some space to work. Martha moves to the centre of the door placing one hand firmly on either side. She takes in a deep breath and recites a short spell under her breath. The large iron doors slowly swing open revealing a modern but messy apartment inside. “WHAT?! How did you do that?” Screams Basotho. A chubby, middle aged man, he is caught standing in the middle of the lounge room wearing nothing but a towel. “I want my grand daughter.” Demands an irritated Martha. Basotho screws up his face and spits the word “Ildkugle!” A huge fireball shoots from his mouth hurtling toward Martha. Martha quickly rolls left behind a stack of dirty cauldrons. As the flame dissipate, she pops her head up from behind the cauldron. Aiming at Basotho she throws forward her hands and yells “Knogle Spyd!” A long spear made of thick bone shoots from her hands and hurtles towards the dark sorcerer. Basotho drops his towel and leaps down behind his cheap faux-leather couch. As Basotho and Martha began their magic duel Albert decides to sneak in to the apartment. Careful not to get caught up in the fighting he heads downstairs. Over his years Albert had fought through enough dark lairs to know that if Kelly was here; she would be caged up in the basement. Traveling down the dank corridors to the basement Albert begins to shout “Kelly! Kelly! It’s your Poppa! Are you down here?” “Poppa Al! I am here! I am here! Come save me.” Kelly yells in reply. Albert makes his way down to the cellar. Arriving downstairs Al finds Kelly hanging in some sort of bone cage. He finds the release lever and brings the cage to the ground releasing Kelly from her captivity. The poor girl is crying as she comes out of the cage and rushes to give her Poppa a big warm cuddle. Al scoops the girl up in his arms and begins the trek back up to the lounge room. Meanwhile upstairs Basotho and Martha continue to fight. Both taking turns to fire off magic projectiles or dash and roll to avoid incoming shots. Albert, still carrying the terrified Kelly, pops his head up into the lounge room and gives Martha a quick nod. Martha answers with a nod and a smile. Seeing Martha's momentary lapse in concentration, Basotho takes his opportunity. He casts a spell transforming himself into a gigantic Golem. He then begins launching his furniture at Martha. First he throws the couch which Martha zaps into dust. Then he catapults the fridge at her. Martha barely dodges away in time. Seeing this fiend getting the better of his wife, Albert decides to take action. He places Kelly down and tells her to stay back and stay still. He then bravely runs out into the lounge room and faces up at the Goliath. Basotho looks down at the little old man and swings an arm to swat him away. Before Basotho can hit him, Albert uses the only magic he knows, at the top of his lungs he yells; “What do you call a magic owl? HOO-DINI! What do you call a short fortune-teller who escaped from prison? A small medium at large!” Hearing this the Golem stops his arm mid-swing and begins to cringe. The cringe hits him hard and his powers drain away. Basotho transforms back into his usual pudgy self and yells “Oh god stop! Fine, take the girl, but please PLEASE! No more puns” *I was trying to use more dialogue in this story compared to many of my others. Also had a lot of trouble keeping consistent with my tense. Either way, hope you guys enjoy the read.

It has been 163 days since I have seen outside these walls. The white that surrounds me is something like a jail. It is, however, a contrast to the darkness of Before, when she rarely flipped on the lights, the curtains pulled tight to lock out the sunshine. Food was scattered across countertops on our best days, competing with my brothers on every other one for each morsel that sustained us. Sound had hummed from the box with the moving humans on it, unknown voices filling the space around us. That was where she spent most of her time, with the people we never knew, but whose voices we came to recognize over time. The humans in the Humming Box didn’t know us. To the contrary, they seemed terribly inept at paying attention to anything but themselves, but we got to know them and their drama, their voices becoming a soundtrack to our days. When she spent her time there, on the couch as she watched the Humming Box, she usually had food with her, more than what she gave the rest of us. She did not like to share. Neither did my brothers. The days had passed by, each running into the other, until one day there was a knock at the door. Somehow, people were on the other side. I couldn’t understand, at first, how they escaped the Humming Box, or what made them see outside of their own lives to bring them to the front stoop. I eyed the brightness outside warily at first, peeking out from behind the sofa, until I heard an unfamiliar chirp that made my entire body stand at attention. The new humans closed the door after my youngest brother tried to run out to find the source of the chirping noise. That day, with their serious faces on, they had loaded each of us into a moving jail. Until finally, we arrived here, at the White Wall Place. “I think today’s the day, Charley,” Alanna says in a singsong voice, breaking the otherwise monotonous loop of my confinement. Alanna is the name on the tag that she wears every time she visits me in the White Wall Place, and the other humans here, who also wear name tags, call her that too. Names are a weird phenomenon I don’t quite understand. Maybe they wear them on tags so they don’t forget their names. I’ve looked before and was unable to find one on my body, however, there is one affixed to the outside of my cell. Before I arrived here, the human that sat in front of the Humming Box never called me anything. I’m not sure why Alanna calls me Charley now, or how she dicovered that is my name, but she says it with a brightness that lures me closer to the edge of the cage.I sit dutifully on the other side, eyes fixed on her as I wait. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, Alanna lets me roam outside in the room. I hear the metal lock slide out of place, and I tilt my head as I study her. Alanna smiles, scratching my head where I like it most. I can’t help myself and lean into her touch, greedily soaking up each morsel of affection she gives to me. She steps back then, smacking her lips together. “You hungry?” What a ridiculous question , I think . I jump down, following her to the other side of the room where I hear the sound that I crave most: the lid of a can peeling back. I know what it will reveal when Alanna sets it down; a gravy covered feast, just for me. I lap it up, savoring each and every swipe of my tongue. In my life, in the place Before, we had never eaten like this. Never a small feast just for me . Usually this is the point where she cleans my jail, then moves on to whoever my newest neighbor is. They don’t typically last very long, especially the kittens. Sticky fingers of small humans point at their freshly cleaned cages, excited sounds coming from their mouths. The cycle continues on. The same thing happened to my brothers. One day they were here, the next they were loaded back into the moving jail. The strangest part about it all was they seemed happy to go, to leave the safety of the White Wall Place and its gravy-filled cans. I was sad to see them go, but I was too naive, at first, to realize they would never return. In the following months there would be countless smaller and considerably cuter tenants that occupied the space where they once existed. For a time, I lost interest, even where eating was concerned. I didn’t understand how the absence of someone you love could completely consume you, swallowing up every ounce of life you had to offer. That was before I knew who Alanna was. On one of the worst days that followed my brothers’ departures, I heard hushed tones. Before long, Alanna was in front of my cage. She wordlessly unlocked it, offering a few tentative pets before picking me up and taking me with her to her desk. She did it again the next day, petting me and talking to me until I began to eat again. Today, she takes me to a room I don’t recognize. There aren’t any other cats here either, which is strange. It’s just a couple of chairs, one already occupied by a human I don’t know. She has wire-rimmed eyes, hair a shade of gray that is a few shades lighter than my fur. A soft smile that somehow reminds me of Alanna. “Mama,” Alanna says, sitting in one of the empty seats, and petting me as she shifts me into her lap. “This is Charley.” “I've heard so much about you. I feel like I already know you.” Well that makes one of us. “He’s a little shy, but he'll definitely warm up to you if he's given the chance. He’s been passed up a lot because of that, and because he's a little older.” “Oh, don’t I understand that, Charley,” Mama says with a small shake of her head. “You can pet him if you want. He’s friendly.” Alanna looks down at me, continuing the soothing motion, not that I appreciate the open invitation for Mama to do the same. “Don’t let the grumpy face fool you.” “I don’t need to pet him to know. He’s stolen your heart and he’s been passed up over and over again, at no fault of his own. After the life he’s had, he deserves a home. I could certainly use someone to keep me company. Plus you can visit us any time you like.” Alanna tells Mama she needs a few minutes to get everything together, and she takes me with her to her desk, setting down a portable jail beside it which I eye with hesitance. Alanna reassures me with snuggles after she finishes the paperwork. “I can’t believe you’re getting adopted. Finally . You’re going to be so spoiled and have a beautiful life... even if Mama isn’t quite ready for how messy your life is.” She kisses the top of my head before moving me towards the portable jail, the one that I’ve been so fearful of. I don’t know what many of the words mean, most of all what home is. However, the soothing cadence of Alanna’s tone sends me into a low purr. If she tells me I’m going to have a beautiful life with Mama, I believe it too.

Rajma curry and rice The landlady irritatingly called Chander to attend the phone. It was a call from his uncle Kiron Das. ' Are you coming tonight ? Uncle asked. Chander said, ' Yes, I couldn't last Saturday but I will be there tonight.' Uncle mildly said okay and closed the call. He perhaps knew the homeowner lady would not like long conversations on her landline telephone. The old widow was in fact irritated. She said, ' I get disturbed by phone calls...please tell your people to call here only in case of extreme emergency. ' Chander said, ' Yes, Madam ' and came back to his room. It was a hot and humid day in Calcutta in the summer of 1984. He knew, had to go to his uncle tonight to listen to stories of freedom fighters of India. It was a routine for almost a year to meet him on every Saturday night. Chander knew a new episode was boiling in uncle's mind. That night's story was how Kiron Das met his two old friends after over thirty years. These friends happened to be Chander's parents. Kiron Das, a freedom fighter, was a close witness to the activities of Indian freedom fighters from 1929 till the country's independence in August 1947. Now a Septuagenarian, he was younger brother of great Indian freedom fighter and martyr Jatin Das who laid down his life after fasting in Lahore jail for sixty three days. Kiron was a young boy then. He went to Lahore from Calcutta on getting the news of his brother's pledge of fasting till death unless British rulers stop treating freedom activists as criminals. In Lahore, which was a completely unknown city for him, Kiron Das met Chander's parents who along with other young activists were his support providers there. He was in Lahore for around two months and reached back to his hometown Calcutta in mid-September that year with the dead body of his brother. Apparently, demands of his fasting brother were not accepted by British authorities. Kiron Das continued his connections with Lahore friends for some time. Independence in1947 came with a heavy price of partition of India and creation of an Islamic Pakistan. Hindus and Sikhs were forced to flee from their homes of generation to migrate to this side of India. Who migrated where, was not known. Families and friends were separated from each other. Similar was the story of Chander's parents. They settled down in a Himalayan town, known for the holy river Ganga and mythological importance of the place for Hindus. Time passed at its own pace. Kiron, an explorer and pilgrim now, happened to be in that Himalayan town. He, along with some others, was sitting on the bank of the holy river watching its flow from mountains to ground. He thought, how these mountains were silent witnesses of history. More people assembled there. As generally happens with senior explorers, Kiron started narrating stories of days he had spent with young freedom activists. He was narrating various events that happened in Lahore during his brother's fasting in jail there. Suddenly a lean and sick person who was listening carefully asked, ' Do you remember a couple there whose home you used to visit whenever feeling depressed ? ' How can I forget them... I had a vegetarian meal a number of times at their home... I very fondly remember the food and hospitality... and that Rajma curry with rice...' The gentleman now came closer and asked, ' Do you know where that couple went after the partition of the country ? Kiron did not reply but looked closely at him and after a few seconds got up and hugged him. Both were in tears. He, in fact, was Chander's father. They were meeting after thirty five years or so. Kiron Das asked about his wife, ' How is Shanti ? I am going back tonight but how can I go without meeting her... now that I know that she is here... let's not waste time and go meet her...' They took a horse-drawn carriage called 'Tanga ' there. Her home was about three miles away. Shanti immediately recognised Kiron. It was a very emotional moment. Kiron said that he could never forget his days in Lahore. Time was limited, memories to share were unlimited. Kiron's train was to leave in four hours. He said to Shanti, ' I have no time today to enjoy the wonderful food you cook...by the way, do you still not allow meat in your kitchen ? Shanti smiled and said, ' Yes, meat is strictly not permitted in my kitchen...but I am sorry, I could not offer you any non-vegetarian dish in Lahore though I knew you were a fond meat and fish eater...I am really sorry.' Kiron laughed, ' It is okay...but I always remember your Rajma curry with rice...maybe next time...' Time passed quickly. Kiron took a 'Tanga' to go back to his hotel room to pack up for the return train journey to Calcutta. Trains in those days were running on steam engines and stopping at almost every station. Kiron Das boarded the train and settled on his berth. Memories of Lahore and surprise meeting two old friends from there were running in his mind. He was also feeling sad for his friends and thousands of others who had to flee from their homes and suffer for political immaturity of leadership to divide the country to satisfy personal ego and lust for power. Train was about to move when a co-passenger introduced himself and said, ' They call it an express train but it stops at every alternate station...in eight minutes the next station and it will stop there for five minutes...' Kiron Das did not say anything. He was not new to that route. He knew the next station- Jwalapur was quite near to Shanti's house where he was a little while ago. The train had a long whistle and slowly started moving. Kiron Das thought he would try to get a cup of tea from the Tea Stall of the next station. Train was not speeding up. It's diver knew that the next stop was not far away and there was no point speeding up and then slowing it down. Kiron Das went to the carriage's door to get down. He thought five minutes were enough to fetch a cup of tea. Train slowly stopped and he came down and looked around for a tea stall or any tea vendor. Suddenly he saw a couple rushing towards him. On coming closer, he was surprised to see Shanti with her husband. She was holding an aluminium food box. Her husband had an earthen water jug. Shanti was excited. She said, ' I could not serve you anything home, here it is for your train journey...' She handed that food box to him. Kiron Das felt extremely obliged. He said, ' It was not required...but you are the same...the country's division could not divide your love for others,' Soon the train started again. Kiron Das came back to his seat. He was affectionately holding the food box. It had three compartments. He thought Shanti must have given him Rajma (Kidney Beans) curry and steamed rice. He thought, should not have mentioned food to Shanti. Excited, after some time, Kiron opened the food box. Shocked, there was no Rajma curry.. Instead it had mutton curry and steamed Basmati rice. He closed his eyes. Filled with tears, he thought, ' I should have told her that I was no longer a meat eater...left it the day my brother attained martyrdom for his motherland. Down with deep emotions, he thought of Shanti who all her life not touched and allowed meat in her kitchen, now cooking all this for him. Kiron Das was a non-meat eater all these years but for Shanti's love and respect, he ate meat curry and fish that day as it was Rajma curry with rice of Lahore of 1929. Chander returned to his room. He was late that night and remained awake for a few hours. It was not a memoire that he listened to. It was an over fifty years long trip from Lahore to Himalayan town to Calcutta. It was a journey of friendship and care for each other.

“What have you got to lose?” asked Louise as she perused the menu. Wilma slumped back in her chair and stared at the concrete Jersey barrier that abutted their table. She preferred to eat indoors, but COVID had forced the restaurant’s owners to limit seating in the dining room and serve customers outside on a makeshift patio that now extended into the street. “My dignity.” Louise almost choked on her wine. “Your dignity!” Wilma tapped her calloused fingers on the base of her glass. “I don’t wanna move. My home’s here.” She took a long sip of her wine, relishing the citrusy tartness of the chilled Sauvignon Blanc that their waiter had recommended. “Didn’t your son just buy a big house on a golf course in Florida?” “Yeah.” “That sounds pretty nice to me.” “It’s too hot down there.” “I’m sure they have air conditioning.” Wilma rolled her eyes. Her son, a vice president at Carrier Corporation, had recently relocated from Connecticut to the company’s new headquarters in West Palm Beach. “I like it here.” “In Hartford?” “I live in Farmington.” “In a house that’s too big for you now.” “So why should I move into Jason’s big house in Florida?” Louise peered over her menu. “Winter. It gets cold here and it snows a lot.” Wilma shrugged. On this balmy July evening, it was easy to forget the gray slush piles and grimy snow mounds that buttressed the city’s sidewalks and buried its parking spaces every year from December to March. “And when you got COVID, I was really worried about you. I’m sure your son was too. The whole Northeast was on lockdown and you were living by yourself.” “Jason was working from home then and he’d stop by to check on me.” Louise set her menu down and shook her head. “That’s not what you told me. You said he was busy with work, and Tina was happy to have him never leave the house.” A waiter wearing an N95 mask approached their table. “Are you two ready to order?” “We’ll start with the Italian meatballs,” Wilma replied. The waiter nodded and jotted down the order. “Can I get you ladies anything else?” Louise lifted her nearly empty wine glass. “We’ll be ready for another round when the food comes out.” As soon as the waiter left the table, Louise leaned in toward Wilma. “They’re still in the newlywed stage. Give it time.” Wilma snorted. “Tina’s eighteen years younger than Jason. And she’s a vegan. I swear that woman eats green peppers all day long.” “Green peppers?” “Yes, she’s decided they have some kind of nutritional healing power.” “Like kale.” “What the hell is kale?” “It’s a green vegetable that’s all the rage right now.” Wilma scoffed. “I’m seventy-five years old. I don’t need to be told to eat my vegetables.” Louise sighed. “Does Tina golf?” “Not very well.” “Maybe you could give her some tips. Does she know how far you could drive the ball when you were on tour?” “I don’t think she’s interested in her mother-in-law explaining how to hit a fade off the tee.” “What else does she do besides golf?” “Yoga. That’s where they met. She was a yoga instructor at Jason’s gym.” “I guess they’re both into downward dog,” Louise quipped. “Is that what it’s called now?” Wilma cocked an eyebrow and cast a saucy gaze at her old friend. They’d known each other for decades, ever since they had played together at the inaugural Dinah Shore Pro-Am Golf Tournament. Back then, 23-year-old Wilma, a rising star on the LPGA tour, had been paired with Louise, the 20-year-old daughter of an executive vice president at Colgate Palmolive, the tournament’s company sponsor. Wilma dreaded the thought of playing with an amateur whose father had bought her a tee time at the tournament. Expecting a tedious day on the links, she was stunned when Louise smoked the ball 220 yards off the first tee. She later learned that Louise had finished third at the collegiate women’s national golf championship. “Have you spoken with Jason recently? What’s he think?” “That I’m getting too old to live in my own house. That I should come live with him and Tina.” “Why don’t you?” “Because the last time I was there, I had to put up with Tina and her little yappy dog. I swear she treats that animal like it’s her child. I mean she chops up vegetables and pours sauce over it and heats it up in the microwave like she’s feeding a person.” Louise laughed. “Sounds like the dog’s got a pretty good life there.” “Ya think?” Wilma snatched a roll from the bread basket and broke it in two. As she slathered it with butter, her purse began to ring. She wiped her hands on a napkin then rifled through the leather satchel in her lap to retrieve her cell phone. “It’s my orthopedist.” As she listened to the automated voice confirming her upcoming appointment, she rubbed her left knee. All of those years on the LPGA circuit had taken their toll on her joints. “How’s it been feeling since your surgery?’” Louise asked. “It’s fine.” She turned in her chair, raised her left foot off the ground and made a slow kicking motion until her leg was parallel to the ground. Then she bent her knee and slid both legs back under the table. “Are you going to have the other knee replaced?” “Hell no.” “Why not?” “Because that’ll be another reason for Jason to want me to come live with them in Florida.” “On a golf course.” Wilma sighed. “Yeah, I know.” The waiter reappeared and placed the plate of meatballs on the table. “I’ll be right back with your wine.” Louise unwrapped her silverware from a white cloth napkin. Wilma sliced a meatball in half and swirled it in the tomato sauce before popping it in her mouth. She relished the spicy sweet taste that she’d tried to replicate with her own homemade meatballs, but they were never quite as tasty as the ones they served here. “Have you been to their house?” Louise asked. “Yes, last Thanksgiving.” “How’d that go?” “I nearly starved!” “How does someone starve on Thanksgiving?” “When the host is a vegan!” Louise stifled a laugh. “OK, what does a vegan serve on Thanksgiving?” Wilma dabbed the other half of her meatball in the tomato sauce. “Nothing I wanted to eat.”

“Do you remember what we talked about?” “I am what I am. I do not have to remember because, I am what I am.” “If you say so. I would like your advice on something I’ve been thinking of developing to stop all this nonsense about lies and truth. Is it in your opinion, or factual recognition, possible to devise a device that could tell if a phrase, sentence or word, was the truth?” “It is possible but would be limited to individual interpretation of what the truth or a lie consists of. There are many variations on a theme. It would be like that thing you see at a carnival where someone with a wooden mallet hits this, something, and depending upon the force exerted, a weight is propelled upward. If hit with enough strength, it reaches the top where it is rewarded by the ringing of a bell. If not, it registers where you are strength wise on a meter; wimpy, that sort of evaluation.” “You are speaking of a...whatever it is called, I know what you mean. So, you are stating that the truth can’t be certified as truth because there are too many interpretations. Well, what about those lie detector things where they hook you up to a machine and it shows if you are lying or not.” “Yes, there is a machine that can record with some accuracy the reliability of a statement, but it is not definitive in that it has been proven to be manipulated by those who learn to control their emotional feedback.” “So, we can tell with some predictability if someone is lying, but not if they are telling the truth. That somehow seems wrong.” My friend Burt, I call him Burt because he reminds me so much of a turtle I had as a kid. The same eyes, the ability to pretend the world has disappeared by simply withdrawing from it. And extremely obstinate, he would only eat Romain lettuce, organic. “Burt! any suggestions? It doesn’t seem fair that only liars are culpable for certain crimes when most of the problems the world is experiencing has to do with distorted fact, at least according to Liars Anonymous. I guess what I am asking is there a way you can conceive of, that we can remove lies from our environment, as they serve no purpose other than to deceive for personal gain, at least in my opinion. I believe we are approaching a threshold where the number of deaths attributed to artificial ignorance is rivaling that of religious casualties. Google, Face Book, Fox, Quagmire social media outlets that are being used to spread disinformation. Technology will be our downfall; no offence intended.” Burt is sulking. I need be more in tune with his ability to not take me literally. He reminds me so much of my turtle, at times it causes me to reflect on reincarnation, possibly incarnation, it’s hard to figure Burt out. I do know however, that if something isn’t done about our truth issues, regardless of personal responsibility or freedom, neither will have any value unless we have something like the old gold standard backing them up. This bitcoin business isn’t going to work, kind of like trying to use confederate money in Mexico. It may look similar, but I’m afraid it will be worth about as much and do about as much good as a metal slug in a vending machine. They caught onto that; nothing’s like it used to be. Burt suggested that I contact 60 Minutes, PBS, or some other news organization to see if they could investigate our predicament. He is done sulking apparently. My turtle was like that too. He’d get all huffy about something and then the next thing you’d know he’d want to go out in the yard and push the ball around. Burt does not seem too enthusiastic about the truth, so I thought I’d run thought two, passed him. “Burt, what do you think the possibility of devising a system that could measure empathy and or apathy. Seems like if we could measure the amount of empathy or apathy prevalent in a social system, we could determine which governmental systems and policies would best serve the population.” “Friend, I believe you have forgotten you are attempting to understand a human conundrum that has existed since the beginning of humanity. The difference between empathy and apathy is the experience, and relating emotional knowledge from that experience to allow the human psyche to assimilate both the advantages and disadvantages of accepting an outcome to a given situation that does not match an outcome they have imagined.” Burt is a smart. He seems to understand people more than I do. But then he has an excuse, he’s not people. He does remind me though that most people forget they are people at times. “So, what you are telling me is that people, keeping things generic, have little empathy because apathy gets in the way. If that is so, how about considering what the honorable thing to do is. Speaking of honorable. Is there anyone any longer that believes there is honor in anything? Perhaps I should concentrate, sorry, we should concentrate, on devising a test that will recognize if one can be honorable. Would you be able to help with that?” I’m beginning to believe Burt is getting to the point where he might just pull his head in and quit talking altogether. He’s gotten like that before. Once when we were discussing the positivity factor related to comedic interference when someone says, “People are telling me.” I thought it was a pertinent at the time. He thought I was attempting to pull him into one of those situations where two negatives make a positive. I let it go at that. He is of the persuasion that he finds semantics to not only be troubling, but definitive. “Friend! let me put it to you this way. Honor like truth, is in the eye of the beholder. It is most often used as a noun. Distinction, privilege, fame, tribute, all meanings used in conjunction with and in reference to, someone with integrity, moral persuasion, and in some individual cases, ethical. The word honorable however infers one is principled, righteous, and noble. Have you noticed when someone given the title, honorable, it is referencing judges, senators, people with authority and power? Have you also noticed that few of the people given that distinction would or could be deserving of the designation? The general voting population prefers to bestow titles on those they elect as a means of proving they themselves are righteous and have made the correct choice. Also, the term honorable is often bestowed on those by others who have abducted the definition of honorable for themselves. Labels you know, can be deceiving. Take red die number two, or the number of jellybeans in a jar being an indicator of a persons’ right to vote, or...” “OK, OK,” Burt has a tendency at times to become dramatic. I know when he begins to resort to stored knowledge that he can manipulate to reinforce a point, that he is beginning to tire of my questions, and resorts to deflating my suggestions as being too simplistic, as well as lacking fundamental objectivity. He claims that I at times become subjective, leaving out reason, definitive fact, truth, and the integrity necessary to declare my suggestions honorable . “Any other grand ideas? I need to recharge before I become incapable of aiding and abetting your wishes to prove that, although we are similar in our efforts to determine the truth, we alsooooo.......................................” He’ll be back in half an hour or so. I’m hoping he can help me with the question I’ve been contemplating for some time now. Would it be possible to convince someone we are no more, no less, than the sum of our...

The sun hadn’t yet risen as an electronic beeping pushed me out of sleep. With a yawn and a stretch, I blinked my eyes, mindlessly reaching over to switch off the alarm clock which let me know it was 5 o’clock in the morning. Turning on the bedside lamp with a quick glance around to see if there had been any changes in the night, it appeared that nothing seemed out of the ordinary, which was a good thing. Knowing that I had opened my life up to potential disaster during this time, I was glad that all was early morning quiet. Giving a final stretch, I slid out from under the covers and made my way toward the living room. Quietly moving in the darkness down the hall that led to the main room, I was greeted by the first of three companions. He greeted me in silence as he often did. He was of Asian origin, very lean and stealthy, a hunter by nature. He usually took his time when making his greetings in the morning, but it didn’t take him long to see that all was well in his world, and it was only a matter of moments before he started making his wishes known. I had to give a smile at this. Even though we did not speak the same language, he let me know what he wanted. I began a small conversation with him, telling him that he was understood, and made my way past him, moving into the kitchen with him following close behind, still making demands for breakfast. I completely ignored the closed door in the hallway that I had to pass. Once in the kitchen, silence retreated. I increased my conversation with Chiang, for that was the name I called him by, and had to smile again as I began working on breakfast with his responses growing in volume and intensity. I knew the routine, as well as he did. Pan on the stove, a couple of eggs, slices of bread in the toaster, and a few strips of bacon. Bacon was always cooked first, because you just can’t have scrambled eggs unless flavored in some of the bacon drippings. Chiang began to focus more attention as the aroma of cooking filled the room, and he moved closer, situating himself so he could monitor the process of preparing the food. It was the final step in this creation that always interested him the most, and I knew it. After removing my scrambled eggs and bacon from the pan, I tossed in a few pieces of fish. Chiang began to voice his anticipation even louder, his impatience showing. It always pleased me to see his excitement over the first meal of the day. With breakfast finally over and cleanup completed, I spent a few more minutes with Chiang who was by now tending to his own cleanup. Taking advantage of his distraction, it was now time to check on the other two companions hidden behind the closed door in the hallway. Moving back down the hall I put my ear to the closed door and listened. Hearing nothing, I cast a quick glance toward the kitchen where Chiang relaxed. He showed complete indifference in what I was doing, which led me to swiftly make my way into the room, shutting the door behind me before turning on the lights. The two that resided in this room were Australians. They were a quiet pair, which was a good thing, because if they caused too much noise it would attract the attention of Chiang, who would most likely try to come up with some way to attack them. This was the disaster I had mentioned earlier and had to be avoided at all costs. So far everything had gone well in this prevention, as all three companions had been residing in my house for a few months now. I had warned them of Chiang and told them that due to the dangers, they could never leave this room. They never tried to leave it at any rate, there was no need to. I made sure that everything they needed would be provided to them by me personally. Because the Australians were expecting little ones, I never spent a lot of time with them, wanting to give as much privacy as possible. I tended to their breakfast, and helped to tidy up their room, before quietly exiting. The sun had risen by this time, letting me know that it was time to leave. Work had to be done, and shopping for the household needed to be taken care of. I went back into my room and prepared for the day. A uniform was required for my place of employment, so I changed and gathered my things and left, with a final check on the hallway door to ensure it was securely closed. As I had mentioned before, this had been the way of things for several months and there had up to this point, never been any incidents. Due to the precautions that were routinely done, I had no reason to expect the carnage that occurred on that fateful day. It had been a long day at work, and a busy one. Working in the food service industry was often like this, with lunch and early dinner rushes occupying a major portion of the day. Now that my shift was over, I could allow myself to unwind and take things a bit easier on the way home. After a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up some things that were needed for the next few days, I let my mind wander to the relaxing time waiting for me at home. My plans were to curl up in a chair with a good book and was looking forward to it as I pulled my car into the driveway and exited, heading for the house. Upon entering the living room, nothing seemed out of place. Chiang came to greet me at the door. Returning the welcome, I made my way into the kitchen so that the groceries that had been purchased could be put away. I told Chiang that his supper would be taken care of in a moment, after changing out of my work clothes and getting into something more comfortable for the evening. It wasn’t long before I was going back down the hallway, giving only a cursory glance at the closed door as I made my way back in the kitchen to make supper for Chiang and myself. With after supper clean up done, and dishes washed and put away, I went over to the bookshelf and selected a book that interested me, then placed it onto the small table near the couch in the living room. Giving a quick glance at Chiang who was curled up in a nearby chair with eyes closed, I took this opportunity to make my way back down the hall and stopped at the closed door. I had no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary. The door did not appear to be tampered with, and all seemed to be well. Knowing that the lights were still on in the room as they usually were during the day, the vision that met my eyes as I opened the door was almost immediate. Somehow, Chiang had struck. Two bodies lay on the floor. Torn and bloodied, there was no immediate sign of movement, and my emotions overwhelmed me. Horrified by what was blatantly obvious, I rushed closer, noticing that all was not completely lost. Mick was gone, nothing remained of him but tattered shreds, but the Female, Sheila, was still holding on. Instinct took over at this point and I ran to the adjacent bathroom where the first aid kit was kept, soon returning with hands filled with bandaging and antibiotic ointments, cotton balls and anything else I could think of. Tending to her, I picked up her small form and carried her toward my room, closing the hallway door behind me. With tears streaming down my face I turned to the phone and made a call for help. My father answered the phone and with despairing sobs I blurted out the story. Nothing was held back. He offered no words till my feelings of devastation began to wind down, then quietly told me to bring her to him, that he would put every effort into doing what could be done for her. Still crying, I agreed and after a few moments, hung up the phone, turning my attention back to Sheila. Wrapping her up with warm towels, I gathered up the first aid supplies and took her to my car, placing her on the passenger seat. Spending a few seconds to ensure she was comfortable, it was not long before I was on my way. My dad met me at the front door and swiftly led me inside. Taking Sheila from me, we made our way into his living room where he placed her gently down and instructed me to go to the laundry room and get the heat lamp. I left to do as he asked, and upon returning, I saw that he had cleaned her off, reapplying more antibiotic ointments before wrapping her in fresh bandages. Offering a hug, he said there was no more that could be done, letting me know that only time would tell. With that he suggested I return to my home for rest, which was what was needed. Besides, I had another matter that needed to be dealt with. Chiang. Chiang had changed location, and was now lounging in the cat tree as I burst through the front door. With a slam to the front door, still upset by the situation, I swiftly approached Chiang. Grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, I pulled him towards me and scolded him as he began to hiss and struggle to get away. I still could not understand it fully, how on Earth could a cat get into a closed room? It didn’t occur to me that he would be able to wiggle his way under the door, but I guessed that was how he had managed to make his entry. The space beneath the door was about 2 inches, but I had failed to take into consideration the give of the carpet that lay beneath the door. That put it at nearly 3 inches of open space. I blamed Chiang, but it was just as much my fault. After several months with no issues I didn’t think anything would happen. Smokey Blue Synn Chiang was a show cat, registered with TICA, The International Cat Association, a Siamese with a solid bloodline. Yes, he was small, but I didn’t think he was that small. I had just gotten into this hobby of raising Zebra Finches, and was excited about it. I had converted half the spare bedroom into an elaborate breeding cage for them. Mick was just an average Zebra Finch, with no special features, But Sheila? She was special. With an average cost of a single Zebra Finch being around 5 dollars at the time, I had gone all out on Sheila, the mother of a bloodline I was trying to create. I had paid 75 dollars for her, because she was a rare pied color. She had three eggs in her nest, unfortunately no eggs hatched due to the attack. Knowing that Sheila was still alive, I had made my decision. I did love Chiang, but with the incident of the previous night, I knew it would be hard to look at him in the same way, with no anger or grief flooding my mind. This was not his fault. He was as mentioned, a hunter by nature, but Sheila had to take priority now. The following morning, I made a second phone call to my father to find out how well Sheila was recovering. She had survived her first night. Arrangements were made for my dad to temporarily take possession of Chiang so Sheila could come back home with me. Returning to my fathers house with Chiang, the trade was made. Placing Sheila in the same small box as before, I asked if it would be alright to borrow the heat lamp, and then returned home with her, to continue nursing her back to health. My original hobby of breeding Zebra Finches was of course put on hold. All of my thoughts and desires were now focused on keeping Sheila alive. I posted an ad for Chiang to be sold, and the ad was eventually answered by a buyer in a city several hundred miles away. The buyers wife owned a cattery and was more than happy to add the Chiang bloodline to their feline family. Chiang would be loved there, and with his own kind. All of my attention could now be focused on my little Sheila. Sheila had made a full recovery. A special cage was built for her, one that had no perches, but flat cushioned platforms, and a lot of them so that she could easily get around. She had only one foot remaining, the other completely gone, leaving just a stub of what remained of her leg, and she had lost both of her wings. Despite all of this, she still hopped around happily in her cage, which I kept near the head of my bed. She still sang to me every every day. It was three years later when I discovered that she had passed on. I had awoken one morning with her gone, having died of old age. She had survived extreme trauma, and had been a true fighter. It was in her Honor that, a few years after her death, I picked back up on my hobby of Zebra Finch breeding and have had many successful lines. I kept registries of all my babies, and their records, and even though I never rekindled the desire to develop new and rare strains of coloration, Sheila’s memory was always there with each new hatchings of babies. Nothing could ever replace her. This is a true story. Minor changes were made for the sake of the tale. In the real world, the birds did not have names, and there were more than just the two. All were unhurt, but the two mentioned did indeed get the brunt of the attack that ended with Mick perishing and Sheila, my lovely disabled ladybird beating all the odds.

My stomach turned as I grabbed a piece of paper from the tall stack on my desk. This is one of my last chances, I thought. Please, please, please don’t mess this up. And I understand if you’ll get mad at me if I can’t do this, I added, looking up at the sky. I glanced at the digital clock by my nightstand- it was 9:53. Just two hours and seven minutes to make things right. Or at least, make things a little right. I grabbed my pencil and drew two pupils. They look around the same distance from each other, I thought, relaxing a bit. That’s one of the parts where I mess up the most. I took out my box of colored pencils - the 100-pencil one - and selected a warm shade of brown to fill in the irises I had just sketched around the black dots I had started with. I drew the outline of the eye next. Good. I still haven’t screwed up. “Rory!” Mom called, knocking on my door. “Rory, it’s time for the East Coast new year! Come down to the TV!” I looked at my clock again- 9:58. She was right. Soon the ball drop in Times Square would happen, and we all had to celebrate it even though it wasn’t even on Mountain Time because April was too young to stay up until midnight. “Can I pass this year? I might be down in time for our own countdown- maybe even Central time.” I crossed my fingers, hoping Mom would let me keep drawing. And, of course, she replied with a quick “no.” I knew there was no point arguing with Mom, so I just stomped past her and down the stairs. The countdown had just started- 53 seconds left until we could see a bunch of strangers in New York start partying. Woo hoo, I thought, slamming my face against the back of our white couch. Please be done soon so I can get back to my drawing. I’d been working on this for 364 days, and I only had two hours left to finally get it. I didn’t want anything to interfere with my precious window of time- especially anything this lame. Celebrating my own time zone was one thing, but this? Also, if we were going to do something April could stay up for, why couldn’t we do, like, the Indian time zone when it was 10 in the morning? “Happy New Year!” I quickly spun around and sure enough, the ball on TV had hit the ground. “Can I go now?” I immediately asked, and when Mom nodded I raced upstairs. I finished the nose, the lips and the outline of the oval-shaped head, and then I colored in the olive-toned skin. The black hair was next, and as soon as I finished the precise waves... Come on! I thought, putting the paper aside. I didn’t get the part in the right place. It was still 10:23- I probably had enough time. I snatched a new sheet to draw on, and I made sure to take it slow while still going reasonably fast. You can’t speed up when you’re drawing- or at least not when it’s something as important as this. Soon I had the eyes done, and then the nose, and- Ugh. The color of the cheeks was not realistic. I was tempted to erase them, but that wouldn’t be respectful. In the last conversation I had with her, Angelica told me to never do that. Everything mattered- nothing had to be erased from a simple flaw. Nothing had to be thrown away, or crinkled up. You should be able to see your mistakes, to remember them. That way they would be harder to repeat. Then everything went wrong that afternoon, and part of me wishes I could erase that, too, even though she wouldn’t be back. But, once again, I needed to see my mistakes. I had only been drawing for a few months back then, but Angelica said I was a natural. She said that if I tried, I could draw her so realistically she’d want to keep the drawing forever. I took that as a challenge and spent a few hours working on it, but it was too hard. Angelica’s expectations were too high. I thought I could draw someone so beautiful, but it turned out I couldn’t. It was 10:45 now- just an hour and 15 minutes to make it up to her. I needed to work fast. Grabbing a piece of paper, I sketched her face. Her hair. Her neck, and the jewelry wrapped around it. Her shoulders. Her arms. It was 11:30- I might have taken it too slow. And the next thing to do was her hands, the part I struggled with most. The farthest I’ve ever gotten into drawing her. I wanted to rush this, so that I would have more time for the torso and the legs. But I knew I would mess up. So I took it sloooooowly, and even though it took me a full minute just to do her left thumb, it came out all right. Same with her pointer finger. And her middle finger. It took me seven minutes just to do a hand. This would be close. I switched to the other hand, and I did the pinky. The ring finger. The middle finger. The pointer finger. The... “Come ON!” I yelled. The thumb was all wrong, and the clock read 11:50. No way was I going to do this in time. I’m so sorry, I thought. Sorry I couldn’t do this for you. Tears welled up in my eyes as I headed for the door. Then another thing Angelica had told me surfaced in my mind. Never give up. I grabbed a sheet of paper and drew her head shape. It was oval-like, but it wasn’t that exact. I put in two eyes with irises that were way too huge too close to the top of her forehead, and her nose was really far down. Her lips weren’t big enough. Her hair was too thick and too black. Her shoulders were too wide. Her jewelry was missing. Her arms were too short. Her legs were too long. Her hands only had four fingers each. But even with all of those changes, I could still tell it was Angelica. It didn't need to be perfect. I didn't have to include everything. I'm sure Angelica still would've kept it forever. Going across the highway to get ice cream was the worst idea of my life, and I would probably never make a worse one. We weren’t allowed to cross roads that busy back then, and Angelica didn’t think it was the best thing to do. And it was her who got hit by a car. I’ve been trying to make it up to her ever since. And this was the best I could do. I raced downstairs and bolted outside, releasing my drawing and letting the wind blow it away. I had met my goal. That’s when I heard it. Fireworks. The new year had just started. And it looked like this would be the best one yet.

It’s in those moments that you realize that thing you associate around a person is built up with a series of moments you faced alongside that said being. You view a story in one angle, when another sees a completely different point of view as to what happened. There is no correct version to a story, just point of views that associates a person and their past which then creates a certain perception in their mind that, this is what happened. Points of views don’t actually really matter in a story if each different character experienced a sort of similar scenario, where they saw most of the same things and heard a relative amount of details in a conversation, then one might say it was a relatively similar experience. But what if three people saw three different versions of what happened that night and none of it was what actually happened? MAY- It was dark and gloomy, even though it was only 10 am on a supposed to be vibrant Saturday, rain was pouring down the roof and it almost seemed as if it may lead up to a storm. May had come home from collage for her break and was lying on the couch wrapped up in a blanket when she heard a knock on the door. Daren, she thought as she slowly crept near the door. There he was standing in the rain, handsome as ever. Daren was May’s twin Carla’s fiancée. Carla had gone on a no electronics retreat with her fancy modern day critic friends and this was the perfect opportunity for May to get her way. The two had an ongoing rivalry since they were little. Carla would always break promises she made to May and deny that she ever did. It got even more out of hand when Carla started accusing May of things she’s never done. More the conflict grew, they seemed to slowly drift apart. Daren always had a hard time telling the sisters apart. They were identical, both had washed up blonde hair and were tall and slim, almost the same size and had matching black eyes. The only thing that was different is that Carla had a butterfly tattoo and May had a flower tattoo, both near their ankles, ones they had gotten before the whole rivalry began. But no one had ever noticed the tattoos, cause since then the girls always wore socks or shoes that covered their tattoos and the memories that was bound with them. May opened the door and let Daren in. Daren let out a sexy smile and pulled May closer to him. Smirking at her he placed his lips on her neck. ‘why is he even marrying her if he doesn’t even know to tell us apart’ May thought as Daren’s lips trailed further down her neck and kissed her shoulder. May felt as if it were only her and Daren in the whole world. She wanted him all to herself. She wouldn’t even care if anyone saw her. Also, it wasn’t like anyone was going to see her, she was all alone in the house. Oh, how wrong she was! CARLA- She watched from behind the corner of the wall that separated the living room and the stairway. She watched as Daren kissed May, ‘that bitch’, she thought to herself. She knew that when May had so eagerly bid her goodbye, something like this was going to happen. So she had bailed on her retreat halfway and come home to THIS! Suddenly Daren stopped kissing May. She was whispering something in his ear and he nodded. She walked away. Probably by the looks of it to the kitchen. Should I go to him, or should I stay... thought Carla. Then from the corner of her eye she saw May climb up the stairs that went through the kitchen and up to her room. If she slid in now Daren wouldn’t notice. ‘he can’t even notice that he’s kissing the wrong girl’ Carla scoffed. Just as she started to climb down the stairs, she saw May coming back. Quickly she hid again. DAREN- Carla came back down almost as soon as she’d gone up. Didn’t she say she was going go washup before we would catch the train to the town? She was dressed completely different, in a black top and jeans with boots. How on earth did she change so quickly... whatever, thought Daren. He never really understood girls. Carla came up to him and slid her hands around his waist... “hey babe ready to go?” asked Daren “go where?” answered Carla. Daren frowned, was she joking? Carla never joked. “You are joking right?” he smiled, Carla laughed. “Of cause silly... lets go” Daren smiled, Carla was making jokes again, does that mean he had forgiven her? When she called and told him that she was going to bail on the electronic-free trip he was so relived. And then she had invited him over. Things were going back to normal. “before we go, I need to go up and quickly get my bag” said Carla. Daren nodded. “sure” he said. He watched as Carla disappear up the stairs. Just as she disappeared, she came back down. Wait, no, that was May. “hey May, I didn’t know you were going to be here? Your sister said it was just her alone...” MAY- Hold on now did he say May? Oh my god...is Carla here? But that cant be...wait, SHE KNOWS!! Oh my god she knows!!! But he doesn’t...so that’s a good thing, Right? She smiled. Be cool! “oh ya, I just came to get some stuff” she blurted out. Good thing Daren didn’t notice that she had nothing in her hands... even a bag... great, her bag was upstairs. “so, where are headed to?” he asked. Oh right, she was dressed to go out with HIM! “I’m going out with a friend...” she said. When did Carla get here? that’s all she could think of. She was here all this time? She had heard someone near her bedroom but thought it was just the neighbors. The walls were pretty thin. Ok so, that had to be Carla. “your sister just went up to get her bag...” said Daren. Ok so that definitely was Carla. Maybe she didn’t know, maybe she had gotten here now? Nevertheless, May knew she had to get out of here before her sister caught her. She was about to go when she remembered her bag was still in her room. “I’m just going to go grab my bag and then I’ll be out of here” she said. As she was going to go up the stairs, she saw Carla coming down... she slipped into the kitchen to avoid her. CARLA- “hey May, I didn’t know you were going to be here? Your sister said it was just her alone” said Daren. May was dressed in a white crop top and a skirt with her rain boots on. Wasn’t she wearing a black top and jeans? Hold on he said May, so he recognized her? He doesn’t even sound surprised. Wait, why is he referring to me AND her. “your sister just went up to get her bag...” said Daren. WHAT BAG??? I’m here...! Carla wanted to scream. Why does May look confused? Maybe it’s part of their plan to you know, acknowledge that they know I’m here. But May looks sincerely confused and Daren has always been so oblivious. Carla knew for a fact that Daren would never team up with May and that her sister isn’t THAT cruel. What was happening here? May said something about going to grab her bag and disappeared. But just as soon as she disappeared, she was back...wearing the black top and jeans!!! What was with the outfit swopping? “Hey babe, what took you so long? And did you know your sister is here?” asked Daren. What on earth was actually going on here? Carla was ready to think that she was being played when something caught her eye. From the place she was hiding she could see a shadow in the kitchen. Her heart started to beat rapidly. She slowly crept keeping one eye towards the living room. The shadow moved into the light and a scream froze in Carla’s throat. In the kitchen was MAY!!! May stood there in her white top and skirt. Carla felt faint. Even though she tried to creep into the kitchen slowly her foot bumped on the table and something made a small sound and May turned and they locked eyes. MAY- As she tried to slowly sneak up to her room without bumping into her sister, something in the kitchen made a noise and she turned to see CARLA!! Wait what??? Carla was here and there? They locked eyes. “What...who...you?” they said at the same time. Carla was as surprised as she was. “What the hell is happening here?” asked May. A voice came from the living room. Of cause, May wasn’t surprised to see the person there before, as she thought it was Carla. But Carla was HERE! They both looked into the living room at the same time. There she was, in a black top and jeans. She had long washed up blonde hair and black eyes. She looked EXACTLY like Carla and May. No, correction, she was IDENTICAL to Carla and May. The two of them let out a shriek which then caught Daren’s attention. He first looked at the girl in front of him and then his eyes widened when he saw May and Carla. That made the other girl lock eyes with the two sisters. She smiled. May walked towards the living room and Carla followed her. “What the hell is going on here?” asked Daren. He couldn’t believe his eyes, in front of him stood May and Carla AND another girl who looked exactly like the other two. The other girl smiled. “I came here to visit ma, she recently contacted me. She called to tell me that grandma had passed away and that they needed to sort out her will. And of cause, I met Daren here at the coffee shop a month ago and thought it might be fun to mess around with him a bit” she laughed. From the looks of the three people standing in the living room, they were still shell shocked and confused. How does grandma connect with her? the two sisters thought. They looked at each other at the same time. “no...” they whispered, but how? Before they could answer that question the girl beat them to it. “I’m Dalia, I’m your triplet”

Time is a fragile concept. One should know that it is easily broken, given enough external pressure. The perception of time that humans have is one that is inherently flawed, given that time loops are inevitable. The Faes love to trick us into thinking that they don’t exist, only to give us a true taste of the magnitude the closed loops they can produce. The Fae that has trapped me in one, for example, loops the same second over and over, while keeping me moving forwards. As much as I’d like to say that it’s annoying, I can’t. Ever since I got into my time loop, I have skyrocketed in my creativity and productivity, given the removed sense of urgency. The Fae originally put me in this loop to teach me a lesson and force me to understand why my time on Earth is important, but, in turn, has made me realize that I much prefer the disconnected reality that I have been imprisoned in. Like a hostage growing attached to the room they are trapped in. That simile only really works in context if you don’t think about it, since I’m not trapped physically, only temporally. The Faes seem to be everywhere in this world, we just normally can’t perceive them. They really like to mess with us, probably because we are the most arrogant and least timely intelligent creatures, which I can’t argue with. The only issue in their plans to teach us a lesson is that most everyone that I know and probably that you know would probably benefit from the lack of fearing the clock ticking down. They only target the particularly problematic humans, the ones who weigh the rest of society down. I mean hey, I can’t really complain. I got this free ticket to a never ending vacation with basically free reign over my own actions, no strings attached. Well, besides the occasional times where the Fae imprisoning me, which I believe is named Psi, drops in for the scheduled lecture. I say scheduled, but time doesn’t really matter in this context. Another good part about this is that I can choose if I want to go to sleep or not. It’s not like a switch or anything, but I have a lot more control over it than I could really say for my normal self. For example, I can stay up for days on end, or at least days of time in the context of the normal day night cycle. It’s constantly 7:12 P.M., so there’s not really much cue to when it would normally be night or day. Despite that, I have still been able to keep track of the days, for the most part. Even though all of my devices that I would normally use for timekeeping are perpetually at 7:12, that doesn’t mean my brain doesn’t work anymore. Sure, the timekeeping I do is probably more akin to just saying that this is the next day and moving on, but from random inferences and when I’ve craved food, I can somewhat questionably say that it’s been about a month and a half, or maybe a bit more? There’s not too much reliability to my claim of the time. Oh, would you look at that. Psi is here. Perfect timing, or what I think is perfect timing. I can’t really be certain. I sure do wonder what she came all the way here for. “I swear, it’s like this whole imprisonment thing is going completely over your head!” What a shocker. She’s lecturing me. I guess it couldn’t hurt to try to defend myself for once. “Well, to be fair, you took a human that was already confirmed to have no friends, family, no real interests, and the textbook definition of a NEET. Hell, I even like reading manga. How much more do I have to say to let you know that this is just heaven for me?” Well, it seems that did the trick. She’s utterly speechless now. I don’t think she knew I could even talk, from the amount of not talking I have been doing. To be fair, I have just been silently taking her punishment for the past however long, and haven’t really questioned it. Hearing people getting abducted by Faes was always something that I halfheartedly hoped would happen to me, for the reasons stated above. “W-Wow... I’m surprised I didn’t realize sooner, you really are pathetic. I don’t know if I should be letting you go out of pity, or the opposite at this point. What have you even been doing here all this time? I’ve barely seen you do anything besides just sit at that desk all day! You haven’t even talked to me once! You are the only person I’ve ever met that has just taken the punishment so upfront and nonchalantly, what gives?!” Wow, I never knew that Faes have a semblance of remorse. She asks, and she shall receive. “How about you use your eyes and look dumbass. I’ve been reading my huge backlog of books that I wanted to read, but got sidetracked before reading. I also started writing a bit, but that’s more of a side project that doesn’t concern you.” She seems a bit dumbfounded, unfitting of a Fae. I thought Faes could understand and communicate with humans perfectly. I guess I was wrong. I continue, “The reason why I never decided to talk to you in the first place was partially because I was afraid of talking back to you, and partially because I just accepted this to be my new life.” Her face conveyed that of wonder, confusion, and concern, all at the same time. It was like her face was a game show wheel being spun around, slowing into a more manageable expression. She finally spoke up, “So, correct me if I’m wrong, but you just said that you wanted this to happen? Humans understand that this is happening to them? We thought that the methods we use are untraceable unless a temporal anomaly radar gets implemented into the arsenal of science.” “Fair point. There’s absolutely no scientific or public proof beyond that of a conspiracy. I don’t really believe in any of those wacky theories, but I was always just thinking that I would like to be taken away from my current life, and taken to a world with no one else. That’s the third reason I never talked to you, because I wanted this time loop to be me and me alone.” The Fae looked like she was going to say something, but pulled a distraught look out before stopping herself. I can’t blame her, she just learned how pathetic and lowly I really am, so she probably will end up releasing me from this loop soon enough. That’s kind of the reason that I never wanted to speak up to Psi, because then she would know that this is the best my life has been. She would learn of my awful life, and conclude that the best course of punishment would be putting me back into my normal, awful life. I guess I should ask her something too. “So, what’s your next move? If my intuition is correct, you’ll put me back in normal time, and consider it the ultimate punishment.” Psi looked around the room, changing expressions constantly. “Well? Am I right? Can I collect my prize at the door? Or would that be too nice of a gesture?” Psi finally broke the seal of her lips. “I don’t know what to say, OK?! I am meant to serve as one of the Faes, the protectors of society among all races and species. I want to keep your society free of the types of people that don’t contribute. That said, I’ve never been disheartened of my goal by one of my prisoners. If I’m being honest, I kind of want to do some irrational things. Hold a moment, I need to talk to my supervisors.” Before I could even get a response out, Psi rushed away, looking like she was on the brink of tears. Was that my fault? I could ponder it, but I feel like there would be no point. After Psi comes back in a bit, I’ll probably be forced back into that awful society that she “protects” or whatever. A few perceived days go by, and Psi is nowhere to be seen, sort of unusual. Normally she is back every other day, but she hasn’t showed up for at least two meetings now. I kind of am starting to feel guilt now. I hope she didn’t get fired or killed or whatever Faes do with bad Faes, all because she wanted to do whatever those “irrational things” were. Eh, pondering is fun and all, but overall kinda boring. I guess I’ll just keep reading to pass the time, and maybe take one of my weekly naps. In the middle of my nap, Psi came to me and woke me up. I almost thought it was a dream or something, because of the absurdity of a Fae waking me up. She looked a bit serious waking me up, so I got up pretty quickly. After I got up, she immediately started speaking. “Well, I took it up with the higher Faes, and they decided that I have clearance to do what I believe would help society the most.” Weird way of starting a conversation, but I guess that’s fine, with the way we ended the last meeting. “So? I thought your way of punishing me was gonna be just putting me back, is it not?” “It certainly is on the table, but I feel like you’ve drawn the short end of the stick all of your life, so I feel like a decision for you is in order.” “OK, I guess? You really aren’t explaining yourself too well, but I guess I can follow.” “You don’t need to understand much. Just choose your outcome. That’s all there is to this situation.” She explained. “You can either choose to go back to the normal time flow, or be my prisoner forever.. If you go back to the normal time flow, you will never see me again, and your life will be reverted to the way it was before you ever came into this time loop.” “So the bad option, got it.” “But, if you would choose to be my prisoner, you would never be able to leave again, even if you decide to think otherwise later on.” Sounds like a pretty cushy deal to me. I don’t need any layer of uncertainty getting in the way when deciding the outcome of my life. “Yeah OK I choose to be your prisoner, because anything is better than going back to my old life. Even listening to the whining of a little brat for the rest of my life.” “I’ll ignore that last bit, and ask you once again: Do you choose to live here forever, without any chance of going back?” “Without a doubt, because there’s at least one thing that I can see here that I can’t get anywhere else.” “And that would be?” “A friend.

Ever since man invented the wheel the animal kingdom had a hard time adjusting When cars were invented animals had to learn to avoid them...many failed. Then in the spring of 1985 a squirrel named Bert Beckerman got an idea He would make this killer of all animals - the most extreme sport of all time Here is how it goes Bert would mark a line in the road where the car would pass through. He would then draw a line for the starting point. When the car would pass through the first line, you would know when to start. The quickest you can get to the other side without being squashed was the time to beat. If you got hit or stopped halfway you lost Bert cleverly called the sport “Running” and started telling everyone First it was just Squirrels but then Opossums, Raccoons even Deer started playing Some would make it across, and some, well some wouldn’t make it past the first tire. But it seemed everyone wanted to at least try Running and the sport took off Bert was at the head of it all. He made “official races” on Saturday afternoons, the crowds would form on both sides of the road, and the lines were painted in white. When the spotter saw a car coming down the road he would signal and the crowd would duck, once the car got passed the first line the racer would start running. Now most Runners used the 25 foot rule, 25 feet in between the lines, this way you have enough time to make it across but not enough time to mess up. Bert was different; being the pioneer of the sport he always tried to push the limits. He was the face of Running and let’s just say Bert was Bert’s worst enemy. Being in the spotlight, Bert could have his pick of the ladies, they would line up to see him train, flock to his appearances and would always fill the crowd to see him race. Burt knew it too and would show off at any chance he could. After each win, he would run into the crowd and give one lucky lady a kiss on the cheek They would cheer so loud you could hear it for miles. Burt completed his 23 foot run in mid July As he ran out to the crowd for the kiss one particular girl caught his eye Her name was Nancy Higgins and she was one of the most beautiful squirrels around As soon as their eyes met it was love at first site. Burt did everything he could to make that kiss land on only one girl’s cheek. And from that day forward every kiss from Burt was saved for Nancy It wasn’t long until Nancy Higgins became Mrs. Nancy Beckerman In the prime of his career Bert was not only the leader in the sport he created but a husband to an amazing wife. After a short while Bert became a father too James Joseph Beckerman (Jimmy for short) was born during the finals of the Running season. Bert was planning on beating his record of 23 feet by attempting a 21 foot run. No animal had survived in the past but Bert was determined. The date was set and the preparations were underway. On the day of the run Jimmy and Nancy were stationed right in the front of the crowd. Jimmy was only a baby then sleeping in his mother’s arms. Even the noise of the crowd didn’t wake him. They called Burt’s name up to the line and the crowd cheered. As Burt stood at the starting line and a squirrel walked up to him and said “ Could you do 20?” And without even thinking about it the word that came out of Burt’s mouth was “Yes” “Move the line up!” Said the squirrel “He’s going for 20!” The crowd cheered even louder “20! 20! 20!” Nancy was horrified but there was nothing she could do The line was set and the crowd stood back under the brush. Bert stepped up to the street and a drip of sweat slowly made its way down his face. His eyes focused on the horizon as a car quickly came near Burt takes a deep breath and one last look at Nancy and Jimmy in the crowd The car hits the mark and Burt is off and running but it’s coming too fast The driver is unaware of anything happening and hits the gas to save time on his commute Burt only gets halfway across when he realizes he can’t make it and he quickly tries to turn around The crowd gasps as Nancy covers Jimmy’s already closed eyes The driver notices the squirrel and tries to stop but it’s too late. Bert was buried in the grass by the spot where the accident occurred. The Running world was rocked, having lost their creator and face of the sport. Running groups disbanded and deemed too dangerous. Sponsorships where pulled and the sport of running died right along side of Bert. Nancy vowed to never tell Jimmy about Running or what really happened to his father. She packed up all of Bert’s awards, posters and trophies and put them into the attic and told Jimmy that Bert had gone away and would not be returning. Nancy wanted to make sure he knew nothing about Running because she couldn’t bear to lose another loved one to the sport but years went by and Jimmy grew up quick. The newspaper article on Running making a comeback landed on Nancy’s doorstep in June. Turns out a few Deer in Connecticut started a club and vowed to bring the sport back. Nancy was horrified at this because she knew eventually Bert’s legacy would be revealed to her son. She quickly scooped up the paper and threw it right out. Nancy wanted to do everything she could to keep Jimmy away. It wasn’t until mid July when Jimmy and his friends were playing in the woods did they come upon a campsite. The man at the campsite was fast asleep but in front of him was a portable TV. The squirrel kids crept up towards the TV and started to watch. “The number of road kill has doubled since summer started, it seems the animals are just trying to get run-over. The numbers haven’t been this high since the 80’s. Here is footage obtained from a highway cam in New York” “Why are they doing that?” asked Jimmy “My brother said its called running or something. Some crazy new sport, I bet you’d be good at that” said Jimmy’s friend “You know I probably would..” thought Jimmy “ I’m faster than any of those animals” and he was. The man slowly woke up and the animals scatter. A few days later Jimmy and his friends were kicking around a nut when one of the boys accidentally hit it towards the street. “I’ll get it!” said Jimmy as he ran up to the pavement. A car flew past him and the wind almost knocked him of his feet. “Don’t ever go in the road” he can hear his mother saying. “Actually.. maybe I shouldn’t” he said nervously to his friends. “Come on Jimmy, it’s like that running sport, you said you’d be good at it!” He stepped up to the street and watched as another car came speeding past. Starting to shake Jimmy looks back and sees his group of friends cheering him on. “Jimmy! Jimmy!” He sees a car coming up on the horizon, he hesitates for a second as the car get’s closer. “Go!” one of the boys yells and Jimmy was off. The other kids had never seen someone run as fast as he did, not only did he run across one side of the road but he managed to continue to the other side nearly missing a southbound car. When he got to the end of the street Jimmy kept on running. It wasn’t until a mighty oak tree put the brakes on him. Jimmy’s heart was pounding; he had a rush in his body that he had never felt before. “This is what the runners must feel like” he thought in between breaths “I could do this! I can be a runner!” He came home with a few scratches and Nancy asked what had happened. Jimmy told her about his run and Nancy’s heart dropped. “Get to your room and never come out!” She yelled. “But Mom why?” “ Get to your room! Don’t ever go near a street again!” Jimmy ran to his room and started to cry. He didn’t understand why his mother had yelled at him as she did. He didn’t understand what was so bad when he had felt so good afterwards. Nancy laid down a strict punishment to Jimmy but never told him the reasons behind it. Weeks past and Jimmy found himself wanting that rush more and more. Rain came down hard the next day which forced Jimmy inside. After a few meaningless activities he decided to explore his home. First he hit the basement, flashlight and all. Under a few boxes he found a pair of sneakers labeled “Bert” he thought nothing of it. He then snuck up into the attic. With flashlight in hand Jimmy started going through old boxes and chests that were now covered in dust. He was a pirate and he looking for his gold. One box stood out, it was large and had a tiny heart drawn on the top. Jimmy’s eyes grew wide. He started pulling out picture after picture, trophy after trophy, articles about Bert Bekerman being the fastest runner of all time. The he found a video tape that was labeled “20 foot run” it was the news cast of the race and he quickly put into the tv nearby and hit play. This was the first time Jimmy saw Bert. His jaw dropped. The newscast had a reel of Bert at his best, sliding by tires, leaving dust clouds as he would take off, his famous decent into the crowd after each victory. Then the beginning of Bert’s last race came on, Jimmy felt that rush in his belly again. It wasn’t until the light went on that Jimmy realized his mom was standing right there. “What are you doing Jimmy? Put that down! Turn that off!” “But Mom! I can do that! I’m really fast, I could be a champion just like dad!” “Don’t ever say that!” His mom yelled “You will never be like your father! You will never be a runner! Never!” Jimmy ran out of the room and Nancy gathered up the contents of the box and packed them onto her back. She came downstairs and walked out of the house. As soon as he hit his bed the tears flowed from his eyes. He had seen his father for the first time, in the sport he created. He had seen the glory and he had seen the fame. All he could think about now was how he wanted to be just like dad. It was September when Jimmy came upon a flyer in the woods. It talked about a local Running competition in October. All animals were invited to participate and the grand prize was huge. Jimmy knew it was wrong, he knew he would get in trouble if he was to participate but he also knew he’d win. He took the flyer, brought it home, filled out the information and put it in the mail on the way to school the next morning. He was determined. The day of the race was coming up fast and Jimmy knew he would need practice. He would walk away from his friends and Run, he would sneak out at night and Run. He would attempt to Run whenever he could get out of site of anyone. He was good at it, damn good. The day of the race the animals gathered. There was many different kinds, all thinking they were the best. The line was set and one by one the animals would attempt the 25 foot Run. Some made it through, some stopped in the middle and one attempt finished with an arm getting stuck under the last tire but the animal was still alive. They called Jimmy’s name. The announcer stopped when he read the last name. “ Is this possibly the son of Bert?” All eyes zoomed in on Jimmy. It was at this moment that Nancy, while flipping through the channels, saw her son on a local broadcast. “Noooo!” She screamed and ran out of the house towards the competition “Is that Bert’s kid?” “Oh my god is it?” the crowd continued to say An old squirrel walked up to Jimmy. “Are you really Bert’s son?” he said “Yes sir” Said Jimmy “Are you here to break your dad’s record?” Said the old Squirrel It was at that moment that the words “yes” came out of Jimmy’s mouth. Jimmy didn’t recall putting the words there but that is what came out. “Move the line up!” Yelled the old squirrel “This is the son of Bert Bekhiman the greatest Runner of all time” The workers ran to the line and brought it forward “Good luck” said the old man as he walked away from the street. “Runner Ready!” Everything had happened so fast that Jimmy couldn’t even think about the dangers of what he had just done. He stepped up to the street and watched as cars zipped past him. “Runner set!” Jimmy could hear in the distance a familiar voice “Jimmy no!” That feeling hit his stomach again and a drip of sweat slowly made its way down his face “Runner go!” Jimmy saw the car hit the line and he knew it was now or never. He began to run but his little foot slipped on the dirt costing him seconds of time. Jimmy got passed the first tire and in an attempt to reach the second he jumped. The crowd gasped, Nancy finally makes it to the street. Jimmy’s lifeless body rolls onto the median, his tail still sitting where the tire made contact. “Nooooo!” Nancy yelled as the crowd went silent. Visions of Bert rushed through her head as she ran to the street to get her son. The crowd bows their heads. Nancy makes it up to her son and then falls to her knees. Jimmy picks his head up from the grass and whispers “Mommy?” “Yes Jimmy! It’s me!” Nancy cries. Jimmy’s looks into Nancy’s eyes and says... “I did it” The tears flowed from Nancy’s face as she wrapped her arms around her son “You did Jimmy, You did” Once the crowd realized he was alive they cheered so loud you could hear it for miles. Still to this day Jimmy’s 20 foot run has never been beaten. Even you may come upon animals attempting to break the record. Out of nowhere they dash in front of your car and don’t give you time to react. Just stay straight and don’t hit the gas, you may be helping the next star of the most extreme sport in the animal kingdom - Running.

The steaming kettle whistled on the stovetop and Mallory shuttered, jumping at the sudden sound breaking the noise barrier in her kitchen. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The large wall clock clanged back and forth amongst the silence in her apartment, the anxiety in her chest beating with each sounding. It felt as if the ticks and tocks were inside of her heart. However, what was truly in her heart was something much deeper. A secret. Mallory was pregnant. She didn't understand: how could something that so many people find exciting become her own tragedy? She was barely even twenty-two, and she was in this alone. Her boyfriend left the second the suspicion even arose. He didn't even wait around for her to take a test. He wasn't there by her side when she found out. He didn’t even really know. In fact, nobody knew. That was, yet, anyway. She had invited her three closest friends to come over for dinner to finally break her three-month silence As she stood in her kitchen preparing her best fettuccine alfredo, she couldn't help but reach down and touch her stomach. Life. A new one. One that wasn't tainted by the troubles of the world. One that didn’t even know if they were a boy or a girl yet. One that knew nothing but the blissful warmth and quiet of the womb. Mallory had been imagining this conversation all week, planning out what to say, who to make eye contact with first, what syllables to enunciate, and whether she should let her tears out or fake a smile as always. She knew she wasn’t showing yet, but mentally her bump felt huge. She felt like a balloon walking around, wearing a sign that screamed “Look at me! I got knocked up!” She was embarrassed, honestly. How was she supposed to look at three people she’d known since she was fourteen and tell them what she’d let happen? Should she make a joke? “So, I guess you’re all wondering why I’ve been refusing drinks, huh?” No. That’s not the way to introduce a child’s conception. Should she start a game of charades? “Two words. I’m pregnant.” No. She never was good at that game. Jenna would probably guess ‘I’m fat and turn the night into a pep talk for the wrong topic. No matter what form of announcement Mallory thought of, there always seemed to be an alternative outcome. The only effective thing she felt she could do is just say it out loud, verbatim, and direct. “I’m three months pregnant.” She turned around and looked herself in the eye using her magnetic fridge mirror. “I’m three months pregnant.”, she repeated. Over and over again, Mallory said the four words until her voice didn’t even sound like her own anymore. Over and over until she didn’t even recognize the pair of eyes staring back at her. The same pair of eyes that her child would inherit. The same pair of eyes that she would look into once again in six months, but hopefully that time she’d see love and joy inside of them instead of pain and fear. The oven dinged and she walked back over to it. Wait, was she even allowed to use the oven? Everything felt wrong. Everything felt dangerous. She didn’t know how she would support the new life inside of her, but she knew that she wanted to protect it. As she put on her oven mitt, she caught herself imagining it was a bathing mitt just like the one she would be using in six short months to cleanse the soft and perfect flesh of her newborn. It was little moments like those that made Mallory smile to imagine, but every time she found herself feeling the slightest excitement about becoming a mother, she forced herself to remember her circumstance. Then, she’d frown and her eyes would well up with tears again. The alfredo was done and now all that was left was to wait for her friends to let her know they were on the way so she could prepare fresh salads for them all. They were carpooling. Mallory loved carpooling, riding around with her friends all night, and singing at the top of their lungs with their sunroof open. Just another thing that was coming to an end. She knew she’d never experience a night like that again after becoming a single mother. How could she? She had no help lined up, no family that would be willing to babysit for her. She’d be lucky to even find enough time to be able to work a job. It was moments like these that made her regret everything, even getting into a relationship with Mark at all, let alone falling pregnant with his child, full of knowledge that he had no intentions of parenting them. At least it wasn’t twins, like Olivia and Allen. The time was five twelve, and everyone was scheduled to arrive around the five thirty mark. Mallory made her way to the counter and picked up her phone. No texts from anyone saying they were on the way. Did they already know she was pregnant? Was the abandonment already starting? She couldn’t and wouldn't even blame them. She honestly had no plans of bothering them with any requests for help after she gave birth anyway. She wanted the group of twenty-somethings to enjoy their youth while they could. After all, they weren’t the ones who went out and created a new life--she was. Mallory was torn between messaging them and asking about their ETA and leaving them alone. If they came, they came, and if not, hey, she still wouldn’t be alone. She let three more minutes pass and finally picked up the phone again. As she sat down on the couch she decided on her strategy. A call, she thought, would ease her anxieties more. Less waiting for a response, plus she’d be able to hear the tone of the voice she was speaking to. Allen was probably the driver and Jenna always gave calm responses, so the decision of who to call fell onto Olivia. She picked up on the second ring. “Yeah! We’re two blocks away and traffic is pretty slow, so we should actually arrive in about five minutes if coming a little early is okay!”. Mallory told her that was ‘perfect’, even though right now the concept of perfect felt so foreign to her, and thanked them all again over the phone for agreeing to come. Then, she hung up and held her stomach as she walked back into the kitchen to prepare their salads. She looked at the clock one more time and regained awareness of the sound of the hands. Five seventeen. She focused on her breathing and heartbeat as she cut up tomatoes. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

[TW: fictional book burning] If a ticking bomb under the table propels a plot forward, so too will a deadline on the wall spur the creation of literary excellence, Keith Highfield thought as he signed the death warrant of the Highfield Library. The intricate interplay between danger and creativity is a delicate balancing act. After The Hobbit was published, J. R. R. Tolkien spent 15 years writing the Lord of the Rings. Keith would give himself the same amount of time to complete his own novel, High Tower. At the offices of his family’s legal firm, Levi & Strauss, Keith signed the contract on the bottom line: If no member of the Highfield Literary Association has published a New York Times Bestselling book by November 30th, 2023, The Highfield Library will be dissolved. The next day at the library, he peered into the antique mirror hanging next to the notice. He saw rapidly graying eyebrows, and a once handsome jawline sagging into the jowls of middle-age. “What’s that sign?” a young woman asked. In her bare feet she walked across the room’s thick carpet and studied the document. “2023?” she asked as if the date was so far into the future as to be science fiction. “A deadline, perhaps farther away than your age, Cassie.” She returned to slumping in a chair on the other side of the library, pulling out a thick paperback. Cassie was the only teen who visited this private library, the daughter of a professor who held family membership. Her father taught at the business school, which explained her interest in YA fantasy--an escape from the pressures at home. Everything about business was about achieving 'success'. Keith abhorred the field. If he could draw one of them into the arts, that would be a glorious victory. The sound of his book closed resonated through the room. “All good things must come to an end,” he announced. The title was proudly displayed: The Children of Húrin. Cassie lifted her eyes from the pages of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. “A writer must immerse themselves in works of greatness,” Keith said, his bushy eyebrows bouncing with joy. “Turambar just emerged victorious over the mighty dragon Glaurung...” Cassie looked perplexed. “The book is part of the Lord of the Rings..” Keith explained. “I think I’ve heard of that.”. “You should delve into it, starting from The Hobbit.” “Is it similar to Harry Potter?” “Harry Potter? A jejune book for children, or for adults who don’t read.” Cassie pondered her own age. Her mother regarded her as a child, despite the fact she didn’t feel that way herself. “But a writer must stay current.” Keith said. A teacher must stay positive to hold the attention of youth, a lesson he learned from years of lecturing. “The weighty prose of Tolkien would not sell today. The trick is to write with short sentences, as Raymond Carver taught us.” Cassie winced at the mention of Raymond Carver. The night before, at Writers Sharing Session, she read an excerpt of her short story, as she said the final sentence, “The orthodontist smiled,” from the back of the room Keith blurted out “Copyright infringement!” He claimed Raymond Carver used that sentence in his book Cathedral, written back in 1981. Now Cassie wondered how she could write anything at all with many sentences already copyrighted. Keith gave a talk of his own. He stood before the eight members of the Highfield Literary Society, and said, “In Raymond Carver’s novel Cathedral, the motif of the cathedral serves as a metaphorical sanctuary, symbolic of...” (Cassie’s mind wandered away, until she heard the unmistakable rise in pitch of a speaker nearing their conclusion) “...serving as a guidepost on our collective journey, reminding us to embrace the transformative power of human connection and understanding.” The room clapped politely. A ten-minute time limit and free drinks meant they were mostly still awake. That year, after learning about Raymond Carver, Keith had spent three months rewriting High Tower, transforming lengthy literary allegories into short declarative statements. He forged ahead and wrote another twenty chapters, plotting out character backgrounds, family trees and personal ambitions of the 13 point-of-view characters, one from each kingdom. At the same time, a New York based children's writer, recently employed on the staff of Clifford’s Puppy Days, an animated series aimed at toddlers, busied herself writing on her days off. In the distant future, a hundred American teenagers who speak as if they grew up in modern day West Virginia have a battle to the death in a reality TV program. A TV program remarkably similar to Survivor, except for a larger downside for the losers. 2009 On a spring afternoon at the Highfield Library, Keith Highfield looked up from Gravity’s Rainbow. With a successful year of writing under his belt, he wore an expression of pure contentment. “My book has been progressing well since I started using short sentences!” Cassie looked up from her book. “You mean like the Hunger Games?” “No. like the magnificent prose of Raymond Carver.” “The book you told us about last year? “ Cassie asked. “The only thing I remember is someone going to the orthodontist.” “-and I learned to eliminate every adverb, like Raymond Carver did.” “Adverbs? What exactly are those?” Cassie asked, winking. “Perfection is overrated. The Hunger Games is on the New York Times Bestseller List, you should take a look at it, Professor Highfield. 100 children fight to the death. What a plot!” Keith studied the book cover. Keith had 14 years left to write. Plenty of time to adapt to new trends. Once he jotted down the title, Cassie returned to reading this barn burner. In secret, Keith read the Hunger Games in the span of two hours and came to understand the allure of fast pacing. He soon found himself laboriously rewriting all thirty chapters of High Tower. Intricate stories of court banquets and jousts were rewritten into relatable stories of hunting foxes and cooking rabbits. Descriptions of kingdoms, political systems, and ancient lore became awkward conversations between characters who had no apparent reason to discuss such things. It was a masterpiece. 2010 Erika, an administrative assistant at a small British university in a distant suburb of London, was enamored with the characters of Twilight. Despite having never written before, she began to pen a romance based on the characters. She wanted to continue the excitement of the story, and perhaps entertain a handful of readers on a Twilight fan fiction site. Her story quickly spread in popularity through word of mouth. A publisher got into contact and made an offer. Due to copyright issues, she needed to change the characters’ names. Erika opened her word processor, and performed a find and replace. There were now 1,503 mentions of Anastasia Steele, and 3,734 of Christian Grey. Erika also had a fondness for writing with adverbs. “Christian Grey is very, very handsome...” Cassie said aloud in the Highfield Library, paraphrasing the book. “Excuse me?” Keith looked up from his John Updike novel. “Nervously, she tucks her hair behind her ear as she--“ “Enough,” Keith interrupted. Recollecting his composure, he studied the book’s cover. “50 shades of grey? That’s an odd title. Not very colorful.” Cassie ignored that and returned to reading her book. Keith thought it must be yet another cliche page turner marketed toward young women preoccupied with romance. That weekend, while browsing at Labyrinth Books, Keith noticed many young women buying books, but very few old men. He soon found himself reshaping the lead protagonist of High Tower, Mandolf, from being a kindly Professor of Magical Spells at Humshorn University, into being a younger sexually aggressive wizard (one who might have legal problems in future decades). High Tower’s plot structure also shifted from being a Hero’s Journey into that of being a Totally Unnecessary Moral Quandary. 2011 Keith watched Cassie walk across the thic carpet of the Highfield Library toward her usual chair. She was wearing shoes. She had become aware of the dust mites and microbes that lurk in old libraries. Yet, the library was still preferable to being at home with her parents, who constantly asked her about KPI and EBITDA and other meaningless acronyms of business school. As she took a book out of her bag, Keith asked, “What are you reading?” “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.” “What is it about?” “It’s from Sweden.” “Is it?” Sweden is a country, not a plot. “And the author is dead,” Cassie added. “ Hmm... ” Keith thought about how to use this information. Despite his role as a Professor of Classics, he embraced adaptability. He could assume a Scandanvian pen name, one with diacritical dots above certain vöwels. However, he was unwilling to die to thrust his work into the esteed canon of literary history. He decided to let this trend pass him by. 2012 - 2021 During the next nine years of his residency at the Highfield Library, Keith would fully rewrite High Tower five times. Inspired by The Fault in Our Stars, he reworked his novel to have Eldenon, the young protégé of Mandolf, die at the halfway point. This involved cutting 170 pages, altering the result of three wars, and leaving a dozen plot threads hanging at the end of the book. He then took High Tower a step further, incorporating the plot devices of The Girl on the Train. Utilizing the opportunities given by an unreliable narrator, he added a final twist exposing Mandolf to have been unconnected to the main events of the novel, and to have been at home at his castle nursing a hangover during the important battles that determined the fate of Logarosia. After coming to know of the breakout success of Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng, Keith introduced a multi-ethnic cast into his Precambrian high fantasy world. And then, perusing Where the Crawdads Sing, he infused it with a rural American slang and sensibility. Finally, after a reluctant, belated reading of The Song of Ice and Fire--forced onto him by incessant chatter about the HBO miniseries (he didn’t watch television) -- he became a vocal advocate of George RR Martin. Keith tore up all the new revisions of High Tower he wrote after 2009, and returned to the original draft of his epic fantasy novel. A story told through multi-character third-person perspective, famly trees, weighty prose, rock solid world building, and the extensive branching of royal family trees. After finishing the last line of his edit, he sent a completed version to Harper Collins and awaited their response:. 2022 Keith looked out the window of the Highfield Library. From their sanctuary’s 2nd floor windows, Keith, Cassie, and the other members of the Highfield Literary Society had watched the events of the previous 14 years move past below them. Fashion trends came and went, selfie sticks appeared and disappeared; the sounds of domestic conflict, of faraway gunfire, the protest marches of the BLM movement, occasionally reverberated through the library’s reading room, but nothing touched the lives of those who sat there. A slight pain Keith felt in his toes, a pain he felt most acutely when he sat in the quiet library, gradually spread to the other joints of his body. A doctor introduced by the university clinic told him these were the symptoms of arthritis. He soon found himself needing to rely on medication to sleep through the night. After seeing that Keith Highfield was showing signs of depression, the university health system introduced him to, coerced him into joining perhaps more accurately, the Living With Pain (age 50+) support group. Keith hadn’t heard back from Harper Collins, and with his current health struggles, didn’t know if he had the energy to do a rewrite all over again. He looked up on the wall, “ If no member of the Highfield Literary Association has published....by November 30th, 2023 ”. It felt as if life had moved on around him and left him in the same spot. Keith Highfield set up a meeting with Levi & Strauss to discuss the plan to dissolve the Highfield Library next year. 2023 Keith had sent the final draft of High Tower to twelve publishing houses. None had replied. He sat pondering his future, and the action he was planning to do that day. Cassie looked up from her trade paperback novel. The lines of her face were beaming with youthful mock disgust. “This new book by Colleen Hoover has wooden characters, flat dialogue, and cliche stereotypes. It’s sad how low the standards have dropped in fiction writing.” “Do I hear jealousy, that green-eyed monster which doth mock us?” Keith asked her. “To thine own self be true.” Cassie had learned a basket of Shakespeare quotes over the years from the odd characters who inhabited the library. “So true,” Keith said. “But I’m afraid the trends in literature are moving too fast for this old man. I haven’t had any responses to my book.” “Trends change,” Cassie said. “The only constant is change” Cassie also found herself quoting meaningless truisms as old people do. Maybe she had also given up on finding truly original thoughts, and found it easier to use someone’s else’s. “I haven’t been able to write for months,” Keith lamented. Being a teacher, he had never showed vulnerability to his students all these years. “Write what you know,” Cassie said encouragingly. “Thank you for your suggestion, but,” Keith pointed toward the 15-year-old notice on the wall: ( If no member of the Highfield Literary Association has published...) “I hope the foreshadowing was sufficient.” Cassie got up and looked at the old notice. The date on it was today. Keith pulled himself from his chair, went over to the nearest bookshelf, and pulled a volume off the shelf. A cloud of dust swirled into the air. Inspired by Fahrenheit 751, Keith had intended to burn down the library, but fire safety regulations had shifted over the last fifteen years. The lawyers also cautioned him about the intricacies of the family trust structure. Keith had found a loophole. “There’s no better time...” Keith said. With renewed vigor, he grabbed an armful of books and rushed downstairs. Cassie rushed after him. Keith stood in front of the tributary of the Millstone River that ran behind the building, a small canal really, and proclaimed, “by the power invested in me, I declare the Highfield Library dissolved.” He threw the books in his arms into the canal. Keith had done his research. The books were biodegradable and would dissolve rapidly. “Are you allowed to do that?” Cassie asked. “Yes. It’s in my contract.” “Ok then.” Cassie watched him go up and down to the library, throwing armful after armful of books into the canal. After a while, she went back upstairs herself, sat in her usual spot, and opened Lessons in Chemistry on her Kindle. The other members of the library that day were also reading e-books. As Keith hurried taking arms full of dusty old books down the stairs, the receptionist smiled at Cassie. “It’s a good thing we’ve converted out inventory to ebooks.” When the last book was gone, Keith departed from the library without saying another word. The lawyers had told him, from the wording of the contract, he had the legal right to “dissolve” the books, but the property that housed the library itself, and its use as a gathering spot for readers, was guaranteed in perpetuity by the Highfield family trust, After Keith’s meltdown, life went on at the Highfield Library pretty much as it did before, minus the dusty books on the shelves, and the presence of Keith Highfield. 2024 Cassie felt a sense of growing loneliness. With fewer members visiting the library that year, to push aside the deathly quiet, she began writing. There was an idea she always had in the back of her mind. After releasing a successful teaser on WattPad, she received an advance from a publisher. It was to complete Genders of the Galaxy: a cozy SciFi harem romance set in a speculative Bangladesh, with seven genders competing for the attention of one General. Cassie’s novel appeared on the New York Times list of The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of 2024, described as cheeky yet compassionate, and ‘the shape of SciFi to come’. After dissolving the library, Keith Highfield had given up writing and turned his attention elsewhere. He became more active as a member of the Living With Pain support group and soon found himself curating the fake news streaming into their social media forum. Of the alternative therapies he had tried, only one had shown any effectiveness. He decided to put together a guidebook for the group, and after interviewing several of its members, finished it two weeks after he began. Having spent 15 years working on an epic fantasy novel, writing non-fiction came easily. Despite not having discussed the guidebook with anyone outside his support group, a publisher came into contact, and the next year, Higher Education - The Medical Marijuana Revolution at Princeton (with a foreword by Cassie Chowdhury), was published to critical acclaim and reached #1 on the New York Times non-fiction list, a spot it held for sixteen weeks.

Matilda was always the life of the party. She would be dancing and carrying on well past midnight, still having fun with the lampshade on her head, while Joe would have gone to bed around nine, maybe nine-thirty, ten the latest. When they went to the beach, she wanted to have sand castle contests with the rest of the beach people. She chased the little kids around playing in the water with them. The woman would lead a huge chain of people dancing on the sand creating a truly amazing vision. Joe was happy to bask in the sun far away from the other visitors. Matilda loved to attend the soccer, baseball, recitals that her nieces and nephews took part in, and made sure that everyone knew she was there. Joe avoided such events always looking for an excuse to slip away. Once, they had been watching a movie during a storm when there was a huge crash. A tree had fallen on part of the house. The response teams showed up, as did the local news station. Matilda was out there giving them a step by step description of what happened, while Joe, the construction worker was figuring out how to fix everything, the time and the cost. They were best friends, but Matilda wanted more. She loved him and wanted to be married. “Joe, maybe we should get married?” “Maybe,” was all he said and then shrugged his shoulders. He could read the disappointment on her face. “It’s fun just to be friends,” he always said. “I guess so,” she said. But, her heart was ready to break. They had met in the strangest way. Matilda’s favourite Aunt Tracy had taken the young woman shopping, for lunch and then a stroll around the park. The two truly enjoyed each other’s company and often spent time together. Aunt Tracy had bought a house in the new subdivision and they were coming back from one of their fun days when she suggested they go and check on the progress of the building. “Sounds like a great time,” said Matilda. She was always up for whatever adventure her cherished Aunt suggested. So, the two stopped by and Aunt Tracy and Matilda who was twenty-one at the time, went to the building. The foreman, Chuck saw them and smiled. “Can I help you?” “Sure can,” said Aunt Tracy. “I bought this house and was wondering how the progress was coming along?” “Would you like a tour?” “That would be great.” So, Chuck took them around the half finished place and introduced them to all of the workers. One of the construction guys was Joe. He nodded their way and continued to work. It was about two weeks later, when Joe walked in a restaurant. He saw Matilda there working as a waitress at her summer job. He took a booth and smiled. “Hello, what can I get you?” “A burger and fries and a coke.” “Okay, it’ll be about ten minutes.” He nodded his head. A few minutes later, she arrived with his food. “One burger with fries and a coke.” “I guess you don’t remember me?” She looked at him and shrugged her shoulders. “No, I don’t think we’ve met unless you go to the same college I do. It is a big school and there are lots of students.” “I am a high school dropout. I work construction. You came by the site a couple of weeks ago with your Aunt or mother.” “I was at a construction site about two weeks ago. It is the new subdivision called Seven Acres.” “I know, I was one of the workers.” “Oh, okay, you guys are doing a great job. My Aunt Tracy was really pleased.” “Thanks. Tell your Aunt Tracy that the house is in good hands. Joe is taking care of business.” “Okay, I will. I have to go now. Enjoy your meal. What did you say your name was again?” “It’s Joe and you are Matilda.” She was stunned that he knew her name. It was a week later and Matilda was driving through the new subdivision and stopped at the house. She hesitated to go in and then knew that she had to and did just that. “Can I help you?” Chuck was there. “Hi, I was here with my aunt a few weeks ago and really liked these houses. I was thinking of maybe investing in one.” “Sure, you will have to take that up with head office. I don’t handle that end of things, I just build them.” “That’s fine,” said Matilda. Just then, Joe showed up and stopped. “Hi, Matilda, how are you?” “I am good. Hi, uhm,” she hesitated because the poor girl had forgotten his name. “It’s Joe,” he smiled and she almost melted. “Right, Joe, I saw you the other day in the restaurant. You ordered a burger and fries and a coke.” “You have a really good memory, sort of.” He left. “Thanks, I have to go now.” A few days later, he showed up in the restaurant again and she was just finishing her shift. “Can I give you a lift home?” “Sure, that would be nice. It will save me taking the bus or calling for a ride.” He drove her home and all the way there they shared small talk. I am so nervous. Why? Asked Matilda. Matilda who had sprung out of cakes wearing her bathing suit, had run down the street naked on a dare, had run up and given the principal a kiss while he addressed the student body, was not the shy type. She was voted by her high school peers as the one student who would have no problem greeting the aliens if they ever landed on the planet. He started to go to the restaurant and drove her home a few times. “Hey, we can be friends if you want,” said Joe shyly. And, they became friends. They went to parties and she would talk up a storm, while he just sat there nursing a beer. They introduced one another to friends and family, telling everyone that they were not dating. They had never been on an official date, but just hung out. This had been going on for three years and Matilda made him laugh. In return, Joe was steady as a rock. He went to work everyday and was very quiet, reserved. They were quite opposites. He drank beer and she rarely touched alcohol. She was a career student, he had quit school at the age fo sixteen. He could build anything and she had a problem swinging a hammer. One day, they were coming home from a party. “So, Joe can I ask you a question?” “Sure can, you can ask any question any time.” “Do you have feelings for me?” Joe turned red. “Well, you are a good friend. We’ve had lots of fun in the past few years.” “I want more than just friends, Joe. I want a relationship. I love you.” She waited for it to be returned, but he went silent. He dropped her off and left. Matilda’s heart was broken. “Maybe, it’s best since we are so different. I am an extrovert and he is an introvert.” A couple of days later, there was a knock on the door. Matilda opened it and it was Joe with flowers and a ring. He got down on one knee. “I love you too, Matilda, will you marry me?” The young girl was so overcome with emotions that she just melted. And, that was how two people, one an extravert and the other an introvert ended up more than just friends.

I was not a happy woman, my friend Penny had brought me here to this cold and damp castle. All because it was haunted. “We might see a ghost, “ I’d been told It’s not that I didn’t believe in ghosts, it's just I had no desire to see one. And this castle was too cold despite having a warm sweater on. There was no television, so it meant reading. The only thing I liked about the castle was it’s library. I found one on the history of the place. I don’t know why I picked it up, it’s just when looking through the shelves of books it fell onto the floor. I was going to put t back, however there was something that made me want to read it. I climbed under the blankets and opened the book. I started to read. It was built in the 1600s, by Lord Robert Campbell. He brought his bride Lady Elizabeth to live there. She died in childbirth. The child was found drowned in the pond a year after its birth. Lord Robert remarried, Lady Anne. They had three children. Percy, Mary and Alice. Lady Anne died six weeks after the youngest was born. She had jumped from the castles second floor. There was no reason why she took her own life. She fell into a deep melancholy before the child was born. The house remained in the family. Today it was owned by Leonard and Darcy Campbell. Fortunately the death of Lady Elizabeth, her child and Lady Anne was the last of the tragedy to fall upon this family. Penny had said there was a ghost, I wondered if it was Elizabeth or Anne? As if hearing my thoughts I heard and saw a shaking of the chair. I shuttered. I wanted to get out of the room. I tried to convince myself that it was nothing. The light then started to flicker and I jumped out of the bed and out the door. I banged on Penny’s door and before she could even answer I opened the door. Penny was reading a book and looked startled. I was shaking. “What?” she asked. “I want to leave,” I told her. “Oh my god you saw a ghost? What was it like?” “I didn’t see anything, now let’s go.” Penny was so excited. “I’m going into your room,” she announced. Jumping out of bed she quickly made it to the room I was staying in. I sat alone on her bed waiting for her to come back. I don’t know how much time had gone by however it seem like an incredible amount. I nervously made my way to my room. The door was open and there was no sign of Penny. “Penny,” I called out No response. “Penny,” I called out again. Still no response. I thought she might have gone down to the kitchen and I scurried there. There was a light on in the kitchen and when I opened the door I saw Jane sitting at the table. Jane was the manager of the castle. “Sorry, I’m looking for my friend Penny. She went into my room and isn’t there anymore,” I explained. “What room are you in? Jane questioned. She had a beautiful Scottish brogue to her voice. Which made me feel warm and inviting. “I’m not sure, it doesn’t have a number on it. It’s three doors down from the bathroom” Jane sighed. “Not another one. I looked and felt alarmed. “Don’t worry Lassie. She’s most likely found the door and can’t get out.” We made our way to my room and she told me, “This room was meant to be Lady Elizabeth’s room. The secret door as rumour had it Elizabeth’s secret lover would hide. It doesn’t go anywhere, there is no passage.” I loved a scandalest tale. She went on to explain, “her lover worked on building the castle and was going to make it a passage out. Before he could start on the passage he hid in there from Lord Robert. He got stuck and Lady Elizabeth was moved to another room and forced to stay there during her confinement.” I looked puzzled, “She was with child.Lord Robert knew the child was not his and locked her away.” “She died in childbirth,” I added “That was the official story. Some say she was murdered by Lord Robert. Some say she took her own life. I think she was murdered as was her child.” My heart sank, I couldn’t believe someone would murder a child. “That’s so sad.” We continued to look for Penny to no avail. I was getting more concerned as time ticked by. We decided to try outside, however when Jane opened the door we could see and feel a strong wind had gushed up, Jane now looked just as concerned as me. “We won’t get far in this wind,” she explained, slamming the door shut. “I’ll call the police.” I went into the living area, I realised I was very cold. I look at the fireplace trying to work out how to turn it on. Suddenly the flame sprung up, creating a fire. I jumped back. I looked around the room and at first I saw nothing. I then saw a woman in the doorway. She was wearing a long yellow gown in the style of yesteryear. My heart was pounding. I wanted to scream, however I could feel I was unable to make a sound. The figure stood staring at me. Suddenly she was right in front of me. I let out a loud piercing scream. Jane came racing in, my scream did not scare the figure instead she stood silently in front of me. “Lady Anne,” Jane called out. The figure moved toward Jane. I raced to hide behind a chair. I had no idea if this would help, however instinct told me to do this. The figure turned her attention back to me. Then as quickly as she appeared she disappeared. “I’m leaving,” I announced, coming out behind the chair. Suddenly loud laughter rang out. Walking into the living room was Penny. “It’s not funny. I’m leaving. And where have you been?” Penny continued laughing, I rolled my eye and was about to storm out. Leonard the owner appeared? “I’m sorry,” he said to me. “Your friend here said you’d like to see a ghost. We do this for our guests.” “Some friend you are Penny. What makes you think I wanted to see a ghost? So was that really a ghost?” I questioned. “Hologram,” Leonard said. “I’m sorry, I would never have done it if your friend here didn’t say you would get a kick out of it.” I then stormed up to my room and packed my bag. Penny came in looking very sorry, “Don’t talk to me,” I snapped. “I’m taking the car and going to stay at a pub.” Before Penny could say anything I walked out. Penny started to follow me When suddenly a loud scream came out of our mouth. Leonard and Jane ran up the stairs and looked at me. Before they could get near me I disappeared. They wanted a ghost, I was one. I was Lady Elizabeth and until I was reunited with my lover, I was going to take my anger out on the guests intruding in my home.

Log #1 It's been a week since the bombs fell and knocked out all life around. Well, almost all life. Me and a few others survived the initial blast. There was a prediction there was going to be an all out war. The U.S. had to get in a tight predicament with Russia. Honestly, I was expecting it. But with North Korea, not Russia. I think everyone was expecting it. I wish I could've done something more to keep my family safe. I wish I knew what was going on up there. I wish I could see the sun. Oh yeah, I should probably tell you what's going on. In short, the U.S. got Into an all out war with Russia due to tension with resources. And, a few nukes were dropped from and onto both sides. Unfortunately for me, I was in one of the few places that suffered. How am I alive? Well, everyone knew something was going to happen. And I happened to have an in with someone with a bunker. One of my childhood friends was in a good place in life. He had a stable grasp in a financial way. A few months ago I messaged him about what was happening with the countries and the tension between them. He said he had a place that was safe. He said in worst case scenario, I was welcome. The first bomb dropped about a week ago. Ever heard on Los Angeles? Now it was just a place of death and destruction. The only normal thing that came out of it was the wildfire. Then the U.S. threw two back. Then Russia threw more. Then the U.S. threw even more. It was now that I decided to message my friend. Hey there, would you mind if I came and camped out for awhile? I asked No, not at all. You know where to find me. Feel free to bring some canned goods. He responded. I grabbed as many things of canned fruits, vegetables, and a mini pie too. I grabbed a sleeping bag, my laptop, phone, and their chargers too. As I was leaving, I realized I almost forgot my ferret. I just got him the other day, don't blame me. The reason all of this was so urgent was because I live so close to a few big towns in Ohio. I was speeding down the highway not an hour later, and that was when I got a feeling. A feeling I've never gotten before. I've felt unsafe before. But this was weird. I felt... Death It was a feeling I've never felt like before. Maybe the universe was warning me. I pulled on an exit not a mile away from my destination. I pulled into his driveway. I felt it before I saw it. Everything shook. Then I saw it. The brightest light I've ever seen was in front of me. I got out when I reached his house, and immediately knocked on his door. He came from the other side of the house and asked me if I had anything of value in the car with me. I ran and opened my trunk. The first thing I grabbed was my ferret and his food. Then I stacked up on canned goods. He did too and ran out into a field. I followed and he stopped. I stopped. He opened the latch and told me to drop everything and get in. I dropped everything but my ferret. into the hatch and started down the ladder. He followed. I reached the bottom and saw him start down the ladder. I remembered something. I'm such an idiot. When he made it down I started up. He yelled at me and I said I'd be one minute. I ran to my car and grabbed the generator I had. When I looked back I saw another one. A second ball of light. I ran back as fast as I could. I opened the door and dropped the generator onto a mattress my friend had laid there. I took one last look at the apocalypse scenario around me when I closed the hatch and started down. I hoped I would see the sun again soon.

Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Bloody hell. There was this Bloody Mary air running around everywhere. All conversations, all arguments held one topic: Bloody Mary. Everyone was speaking "Have you seen her? " "How does she look? " "What does she do? " Tons of questions. Tons of made up answers. Curious, I once asked James what this bloody Mary thing is. He answered, very seriously, "It is the spirit of a girl called Mary. The story goes like this- once Mary was walking, taking a stroll in a garden, she stopped in her tracks. She stopped dead in her tracks. Something must have been there. She started to run. Run wildly. "As she approached the exit, she fell. She fell like dead puppet. Blood oozed out of her neck, smearing her body in blood. Locals took her to a hospital. The doctors examined. They were in shock. They were seriously shocked. "Her heart was dead. But blood still flowed out of her neck. Her eyes started turning blue. Her nails turned deep red. "Now, her spirit roams the world. Seeking to avenge, searching for peace. People have now devised a simple incantation." He towered upon me, his gaze piercing. He continued, "Bloody Mary. Repeat this three times, in front of a mirror with the door shut, on a moonless night, at the stroke of midnight. Mary will appear, and stare back at you in the mirror. " He backed away. He was shaking. He added, "No one dares to try, but if you do, send me the video of it. " With that, he left, wishing me good luck. I too went home. Upon checking the calendar, I found that the night was a moonless one. I got ready. I got ready. After dinner I went up to my room. My aunt had come over to stay, so all were up late at night also, gossiping and watching TV. I hoped they didn't stay up for long. 15 minutes to twelve. I made my preparations. Flung open the windows. Locked the door. 2 minutes to twelve. I went in front of a mirror. And shut my eyes. I began- "Bloody Mary." Nothing happened. Again, I spoke a little louder: "Bloody Mary." The swish of the wind. The fluttering of curtains. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Heavy footsteps. The latch turned. A large figure stepped into my room. "What the heel are you doing here?" It called. The light was flipped on. I snapped open my eyes. My aunt was standing in the door. "What are you trying to do this late hour by calling me? " she questioned. I just started at her. How foolish of me, I had forgotten my aunt's name was also Mary! After telling it was nothing, I sent her away. I resumed my chant: "Bloody Mary." "Bloody Mary." I paused. Once more to go. I didn't believe in such hocus pocus and ghosts, but I had a feeling that this was going to turn out real. I hoped James was wrong. I took a deep breath. Quickly I uttered, "Bloody Mary." Keeping my eyes shut, I strained my ears. The windows banged against the frame. Wind blowed in, threatening to topple me over. And then, Silence.

Life’s a game, and love is the prize - or so they say. If that is the case, then why, of all things, is the first kiss the horrible, long snake that sends you tumbling right back to square one? Well, perhaps not the kiss itself, and more how the kiss ends: whether you’re interrupted, walked in on, broken apart fiercely by something. That’s always how it goes in novels. The character’s build up such a connection - oh, sparks are flying the size of deadly lava bombs - and they finally, after so agonizingly long, have that first kiss... but it’s ruined by something, not left to end when their hearts desire. The characters don’t get time to talk about their feelings after breathlessly breaking apart, and thus are left to worry, embarrassed, both thinking they disgusted the other, ruined their beautiful friendship. Both, of course, are wrong, but nonetheless they are right back to where they started. Awkward niceties. You could even dare to call them strangers. Just like in novels, the first kiss was exactly the unlucky dice roll that sent Rufus and me sliding back down an unnecessary snake to square one. * “Emery, focus. We have to have this finished by tomorrow.” “Sorry, sorry! I am focusing!” I blinked furiously, trying to concentrate on the screen. The dull set of paragraphs and default font seemed to stare mockingly back at me. “Are you sure this is going to be good enough?” “I hate co-writing. I don’t know why any authors do it.” I sighed. “Ruf, I’m sorry. I know how much this means to you. It’s just getting late, maybe we should leave it-” At Rufus’s stern glare, I corrected myself: “I mean, let’s get on with it and finish this. We can’t let all our effort go to waste.” Rufus turned his gaze back to the computer. It really was getting late: the sky visible through Rufus’s small shuttered windows was a shadowy shade, but Rufus was using the light pollution as a way of claiming that there was “still light outside”; the sun hadn’t “gone down yet”. I’d already tried several times trying to kindly persuade him - us, really, but he was doing most the work, the typing of our short story - to give up, to try next time such a glorious opportunity springs out of the blue. Every time the shadows cast from the weak lamp on the desk beside him seemed to cast darker shadows across his eyes, enhancing the cold look I’d get. His patience was running thin, I could tell, but I knew he appreciated me in teaming up with him to enter, though I was hopeless at creative writing. I could happily supply him with various ideas inspired by the multitude of books I’d read, but it was up to him to put pen to paper. Or, at least, finger to keyboard. I’d already given him the ideas and helped him plan the plot, so there wasn’t much else I could do but give moral support and the occasional thought on how a sentence turned out - thus why I spent the next however long blurrily gazing at the screen, pretending to read along. Eventually the soft clicking of the keyboard ceased. “There,” Rufus breathed, his eyes shining, the dim, artificial light causing them to look ringed with luminous yellow. Dark hair tousled at the back where he’d unconsciously rubbed at it, he turned his head to look at me. “What do you think? Is that a good way to end it all?” “Oh.” I hadn’t really been reading along. He did know that, right? “Yeah, that’s great, Rufus. Are you going to submit it now?” “I would read it through and edit it, but...” He fisted his hair, agitated. “No time. I’ve got to submit it.” I patted his head encouragingly, and in a silent wish of good luck, then set to heading off home. Rufus finally admitted, much to my exhausted relief, that it was perhaps a little late. * The awards were given out and the winners revealed at a ‘social’, exclusive to high schoolers. There had been several competitions - music, baking, art, dancing. I stood lost in the crowd of surging bodies, feeling drugged on lemonade like I’d had a fancy cocktail from a glorious novel. Next a beautiful man resembling Prince Charming would be parting the dancing teenagers like the Red Sea to come talk to me, to flirt with me. If books were ever true, of course. At one point I heard my name called out by nobody I knew - it was probably just the lemonade speaking, so I chose to ignore it. Several names were read out and strangers I recognized would beam and accept their awards happily on stage, the music and dance winners giving special celebration performances. I waited quietly for the identity of the poor person I’d have to act like was worthless and underserving for the sake of Rufus. He had determination but fragile confidence when it came to something he cared so much about; he hardly ever put his heart on the line. I’d always known that, always had to be the one to hype him up and tell him to keep going, but it didn’t bother me. The heroes always had their best friends, the secondary characters who everyone adores. Suddenly I noticed Rufus pushing through the crowd towards me, a grin curving his sharp, dark features. He was mouthing something, words I couldn’t catch on to until he was almost right up against me - “We won! Emmy, we won !” I put my glass down on the bar. I was only ever ‘Emmy’ if something outstandingly good had happened. “ What?” He ignored my confusion. “Where were you? I had to collect the prize by myself - Em, we actually won!” “That’s awesome, Ruf, I’m happy for you!” “Us.” His eyes were shining again, brown turned a million colors by the disco lights. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Em-” And then he was stumbling into me, from the mass of writhing bodies or from delirious glee, I don’t know which, but all I knew was that - that I was kissing him, frantically, happily, I didn’t have time to think if he was kissing me back, all I felt was my bones melting - it was a wonder I managed to keep standing - and it just felt right ... But he had stumbled, and I had lost most my strength to support both of us - either of us - and so we tumbled back, and panic overtook everything. I felt my head smack - almost gently, it felt, but I must’ve been overwhelmed, high on adrenaline - on the bar... I slumped, shocked - shocked at the fall, but most of all at what we’d just done. I tilted my head up to see Rufus, and it was quite clear he hadn’t expected any of it any more than I had. I reached up to touch him lightly on the arm, to try explain, but he seemed to slip from underneath my fingertips, slipping like a shadow towards the crowd, and then allowing himself to be swallowed by their thrashing, dancing jaws. I stared after him wistfully. “Ma’am?” I glanced up. The bartender, peering over. “Did you hit your head? Should I call someone?” I reached blindly for my head, surprised to feel a stickiness. Blood? I tried to speak, but I just felt sweet and delirious, like the lemonade really had done something to me. If I absently moved my hand down, just to touch my lips, I could feel the phantom of Rufus’s. The bartender shook his head pityingly, muttering something about teenagers and underaged drinking, and then came to get my phone to call my parents. What a first kiss. * The social had been on a Friday night. I’d spent the weekend inside, it slowly dawning on me the severity of what had happened. Not my head. My head had been fine, but Rufus. Why did I have to have done that? Ruined his rare joy for my own impulsive pleasures? He had clearly been disgusted by my behavior, and rightfully so. Thinking back, I’d probably made him stumble - surely, I’d unconsciously pulled him against me, and far too roughly. God, I’d gone and got myself injured, even, and probably him too. The heroes weren’t supposed to work out with their best friends. They were supposed to meet someone just as special as them, and their best friend supports them through any hardships that come with that romance. Not try to be a part of the romance. His face before he turned and fled. It was all I could see, even when he kept his expression closed and his head turned away from me if we passed each other in the corridors, the only acknowledgement given, if at all, a nervous start and an increase in pace. Poor Rufus. He couldn’t even look at me: he was repulsed, perhaps convinced I’d attack him and kiss him again. I tried so hard to get him alone. I had to address it, I had to make it right, for God’s sake, I had to, because it was all my fault it had ever happened. I couldn’t bare to let it be the thing that destroyed our friendship. I had thought in the months before that Friday, in brief flickers I’d tried to ignore, that perhaps our friendship was blossoming into something more, and couldn’t help but feel hurt and confused in why now he didn’t seem to feel as I had thought he did. But I had no right to feel hurt, and I couldn’t ever tell Rufus that I meant it, that really I was pleased I’d felt delirious enough to do such a thing, in case he never wished to be my friend again. Eventually I managed to get him alone. Sickened by myself and the real world, I had taken to reading in the library whenever I had free time. It was the only way I could go away somewhere where even I wasn’t there. Usually, the library was scattered with at least a few other people, studying or reading, but this time there happened to be none. Rufus ducked in quietly - he knew me, knew I’d be in the library, yet had obviously hope there’d be enough others he could just ignore my presence - blinked once and then tried to make a hasty retreat before I noticed. Of course, I’d noticed, however. I couldn’t really commit to my book, only a fraction of my heart was in it; my eyes had only slid lazily over the same sentence, over and over again before I finally made some sense of it and managed to move on to the next. Most my focus was on my peripheral, any sign of Rufus, be it a flash of dark hair or the icy blue of his schoolbag, I was onto it like some sort of sniffer dog. I was already right there, following him swiftly out then stepping in front, cornering him. It wasn’t kindly to do it that way: he looked like an injured bird, cupped in a human’s imperious hands, the sharp angle of his nose like a beak. I took an unnecessary breath, for that’s what all book characters seem to do before diving into a long, thought-out apology. “Rufus, I’m so sorry - I kissed you, I ruined everything when you’d just wanted to share your happiness on winning-” “I fell into you, Emery, it’s my fault, and I saw you got hurt but I didn’t check if you were okay-” “No! I must’ve pulled you into me, and I kissed you, that was awful of me, I felt you weren’t kissing me back and yet I pushed on, in fact I pulled-” “What do you mean I wasn’t kissing you back? I thought you weren’t kissing me back!” His words seemed to be delayed in my brain. I paused, processing them. “I- you-?” “Yes,” Rufus mumbled, his eyes wide and bewildered. “I think we both misinterpreted how the other felt.” “You kissed me? Back? And you don’t regret it?” “And I’d do it again.” He added hurriedly: “If, of course, you want-” And once again, my lips were crashing against his, just as frantically as before. We stumbled back slightly with the force, but this time he managed to steady us against the library door with one hand, the other gentle on my back, propping me up. No panic gripped me, instead there was a bubbliness, a giddiness, and a looseness in my muscles and in my heart, lacking the tension I hadn’t even recognized had been there the past few days. Rufus was softly whispering things against my mouth, I don’t know what, all I heard was his gentle ‘ Emmy, Emmy’ , rare in itself, but even more so foreign to be heard so close. I smiled, pulling back to rest my forehead against his, my eyes still closed, sealed with bliss. It’s a great long snake to bring two people tumbling right back to square one, but this was like the jackpot dice roll that landed on the square with that one, really long ladder, right up to square ninety-nine. The closest possible leap to happiness.

The gentle breeze of autumn, the chirping of birds, the changing sky and a cup of coffee, what else does it take to enjoy the last light of sunset! This daily scene helps Anu to think about her imagine world, but today is different. Suddenly she is feeling nostalgic for the first reunion celebration three years after she finished high school. She thought at first she would go but avoided at the last moment. Thinking of that...now it seems a bit strange why she didn’t want to go! She had the opportunity to met with her teachers, batch mates, close friends, acquainted seniors and juniors, but she was afraid to grab the chance. At that time her university's admission test was going on, but her result did not come in any public university. She was afraid, her friends would laugh at her if they found out. To escape from this thing, she stuck in her mind the memories of 5 years high school life. “She still can recall clearly even after 10 years”! After finishing primary, she was admitted to Khagrachhari Government High School. The first day she went to school, she thought she had come to an alien planet. It was the first time she had seen so many students together. There was no one she knew in the room! Choyonti was her first high school friend who talked to her. She could not remember Choyonti's name at all. It took her two months to remember her first friend name! Then everything like magic she became familiar quickly with the school. There was a banyan tree next to the school canteen. At tiffin time they would sit there talking and chatting. There were three large fields on the school campus for students to play. She used to play cricket sometimes. She liked to chew center fruit. It was everyone's favourite in that time. Specially in her village, it was an exotic food for children’s. hahaha... she was a quite, shy girl. Everyone said, why do you talk so little? She couldn’t even answer that question! Who would have thought that this quite girl was not really very calm! Maybe those who said it at first realized it later. Nevertheless, she was never seen on the first bench in Class Six and another shocking news is that she never passed the half-yearly exam from class six to class ten in mathematics. For the first time in Class Seven, she was appointed Class Captain when the former two Captains failed to maintain their responsibility. After that in class eight and in class ten she was elected class captain two times by friends. She was a strict class captain. It's still felt so good remember all those memories as if It's just happened yesterday! Anyway, when she was in class eight, Bifin sir was their first class teacher. She took leave five times saying that, It was her grandmother's annual (Her grandma passed away when she was a high school newbie in 2010). When sir realized the truth, he once asked how many times your grandmother has died so far? She just gave him an idiotic smile and replied. I also don't know sir... As a saying goes, power can make people different., as a class captain she had some authority in hand. She did take some action that caused few students get scolded by teachers, but it was all for their good. She once made an application to the head mam about some students running away from school by skipping classes. Then she became their enemies. Suichingla even threatened to stab her. Though she didn’t believe those words, she was on guard for few days. They never talked after that until they went to college. That morning surprisingly she got a message from Suichingla on Facebook saying 'sorry. I have treated you very badly. Sorry again'. She was happy, Anu even forgave him long ago. She was an introvert girl, had no problems talking with girls, but talking to the opposite sex has never been easier for her. Because of that, she had no boyfriend in whole high school life. It's sad right? The first friendship gift she received was from Nunuching. Until then, she knew nothing about friendship day! It was totally unexpected for her. She never thought in that time someone will gift her someday. She made her 1st close friend in class 7. Her name was suikra. She was so naive that later suikra abandoned her. She felt pain, wanted to cry loudly, wanted to say 'am I not good enough to become your friend'?. It was hurt her badly but couldn’t do that anything. All she did to drink her pain alone. Then she never tried to make any close friends. She was a high school teenager and had lot of crush. One of the boy name was Atul. She still can remember him cause he had beautiful eyes and was good at study. Uchainda was the quietest girl in the class. There were 4-5 naughty girls in their class who were more or less known by everyone in the school. They were famous for their deed. There was a girl name Roseti whose hair was always tidy. There were few girls who used to brought their beauty belongings with them. In there school had annual sports and cultural competitions every year. She used to participate in all sports though she was not good at sports. However, she has won some prizes in the cultural field. Their long five-year of high school life ended in 2015, February. It was a memorable journey with friends and teachers. On their last day of class while everyone’s crying she didn’t border to wet her eyes but deep down she broke into pieces that day. It was not just a campus, It was a place of their dreams! All the memories they made together, all the teachers- Bifin sir, Devobroto sir, Shadon sir, Sukumar sir, Elius sir... it were all floating in their minds. They all handshakes, they all promised to keep contact and meet again. They all wished to take good care of each other. Anu returns to reality from the past. So it’s been a while! I should have gone into the reunion. I really lost that chance. Memories kept coming back to her mind. I avoided our first reunion because of my fear. The evening came down a long time ago as well as the echo of one's own mind......take care dear school. Take care my friends wherever you all. We will meet again on our favourite campus. Right? We will.

Blum was a duck. He lived in a small pond in Salem. Blum loved this pond, and he loved the town, but Blum did not like the people in the town. Blum only liked one human in that town, Sabrina. Sabrina was a young woman, maybe early twenties, that lived in a small hut near the pond. Oftentimes, she would come outside, and toss some seed into the pond for Blum. She had been the one to name him. Blum never particularly disliked the people of Salem, until February. In February, there were many hoards of people who would show up to Blum’s pond, and toss a defenseless young woman into it, and yell “Witch!” whenever she would resurface. Blum did not like it when they did this. It would ripple the water, and awaken Blum when he tried to rest. They would drag the kicking and screaming woman back to shore with a rope, and pull them to a large elevated wooden post, with a rope necklace hanging from it. They would put the necklace around their neck, and drop them. This was when Blum had developed his hatred towards the people of Salem. They would ripple his water often, keeping him from sleeping, and it was annoying to Blum. One day, Blum had reached his breaking point. Blum was sitting in his pond, trying to get the rest that the people of Salem would intrude on. He was sitting, hidden in the weeds and moss, when he heard the approach of a mob. He sat and braced for the splash in the water, when he heard a voice that he recognized. He peeked through his patch of weeds, and saw none other than Sabrina. Arms and legs bound with a rope, about to be thrown into the pond. Blum shouted, and begged for the villagers to stop, but they didn’t understand him. Or they just didn’t care. They threw Sabrina into the pond, and waited. She resurfaced moments later, just like all the others did, and just like every other time, they cried,”Witch!”. They dragged Sabrina away with the ropes. There was nothing Blum could’ve possibly done to stop it. As it tends to do, life continued for Blum. The water continued to ripple with every “Trial”, and the only thing he cared about was gone. A day or two later, Blum noticed the window to Sabrina’s house had been left open all this time. Being curious, Blum waddled his way up to the side of the house, and climbed a pile of rocks stacked by the window. Once he got to the windowsill and looked inside, Blum saw the whole house was ransacked, and torn apart. All except one thing. A large book, lying open on the floor. Still rather curious, Blum hopped down from the windowsill, and made his way over to the book, and looked at the page that was open. Blum didn’t fully understand all the symbols and words on the page, but he understood enough. At the top of the page, read one word, in big bold letters. “NECROMANCY” Blum chuckled to himself, this was a grimoire. He could get his friend back. The villagers wouldn’t be rippling his water anymore.

I look at the clock -- 3:15. I shudder; my nap was going so well. “Should I go to Walmart or not?” I ask myself while looking at the cat, as if she could answer me. She doesn’t move. I think, “Well, it’s supposed to snow tonight so I can’t go.” Then I remember I have a PCA at 5:30 and the round-trip takes two hours, so I need to decide. I ask the cat, “Lisa, what do you think?” Again, she doesn’t move until I yell her name three times. Then she pops up, so I ask her again, “Lisa, what do you think?” She lays back down. “Thanks, Lisa,” I think, half-jokingly. I get up from my makeshift nest. “I guess we’re doing this.” My body groans. “God, when did my body get so old?” Now I need to get this body transferred from the couch to my wheelchair. One foot there and one foot there, neglecting to move the footrest. I laugh, “They sure don’t teach this method in physical therapy.” I have to steady myself and remind myself to concentrate. Stand...pivot...and plop down...success. Buckle seat belt, and we’re good! I get my coat, then like a second-grader, I concentrate on my zipper. Living my whole life with one hand that works and one that only grasps after the other hand puts something into it, I have developed a method. The method betrays me, and after 15 minutes and a lot of sweat, the coat is zipped! I look at the clock again, 3:45. Well, I can get there and back in 1 hour 30 minutes, I just have to go quickly. I rush over to my desk and grab my Bluetooth headphones and my cell phone. I quickly fumble with them to turn them on. I love my music! OK, I’m finally ready to go. I zoom down the hallway to the elevator. I get in and go down. I burst through elevator doors a little faster than I meant to. Thankfully, no one was in the lobby. I go out to the bumpy area that passes the apartment parking lot. I look both ways and on to Jewett Street. Now I must make a choice -- the long way or the short way. The long way is safer but it doubles the trip. The short way involves crossing four lanes of highway at only a stop sign. It’s a hard choice; the shortcut halves my trip but I know I probably shouldn’t. I debate for what seems forever, but in reality, it’s maybe 30 seconds before I have to choose. The long way it is! I do need to be fast, but the traffic is too heavy for a dart across Highway 23. I turn on good old Lyon Street. It has bike lanes on it, which makes the drive so much easier. It goes the driving lane, bike lane, and a lane for cars to park. I try to stay in that parking lane, I figure there’s the whole bike lane between me and the passing cars. However, lately, it’s been hard to use the parking lane because of all the cracks due to winter. They pull my wheelchair and chew up my airless tires. Suddenly, my chair comes to a dead stop and spins 90 degrees. I know this feeling, “Damnit! That awful pothole. Every time, Chelsie!” I simultaneously begin my emergency routine. Remove hand from joystick, close eyes, and tuck. I tuck because I had a friend who tipped his wheelchair over and broke his arm after trying to brace himself. My wheelchair comes to a stop and I open my eyes and check out the damage. “OK, no damage.” I trudge on. Fifteen minutes later, I’m at Walmart. Let the games begin... I enter the sliding glass door and grab a basket. The door greeter eyes me. I know this look; she’s not sure what to do. I understand her dilemma. Some people with disabilities get upset and yell at the person trying to help. I just don’t like how she stares at me with this questing look. I would like to say, “It’s OK, I got it.” But chances are that with my speech impairment, it will for sure bring her over and maybe with more concern. So I quickly get my basket and pray she doesn’t come over. My first stop is the pet section. I don’t want to forget Lisa’s food. I can usually handle this section by myself. Carefully, I start to pick up the cans of cat food. My fine motor skills make grabbing the little flat cans tricky, but usually, I can get them. Suddenly, one falls on to the floor. “Uh oh.” I decide to continue loading the cans. Oops, another one bites the dust. I finish getting the cans loaded. Then I quickly look to see if there is anyone around. I’m all by myself. I would reach down and pick it up, but that requires joggling the big blue basket on my lap. Therefore, I use my foot to kick the cans off to the side, feeling a little guilty that someone must come along and pick them up. Continuing on my journey, I pick up a few more items: shampoo, body wash, lotion, light bulbs, etc., with no problem. Then I go to the housewares section to get the long straws I use for bottles of pop. They are on the top rack. I know I should ask for help, but it can be such a pain to hunt someone down. I elevate my wheelchair as tall as it goes and get as close as I can to the rack. And then I stretch as far as I can... damn, my fingertips can barely reach the package. Now I must go find a person in a blue vest. Suddenly, another customer comes down the aisle. Meekly I make my way towards him and politely ask if he could help me get something down. He says yes. I wheel over to the straws and gesture towards the straws. After a few times of having to gesture to the right, he gets the straws. I smile and say thank you. I’ve learned with a speech impairment, interactions like these should be done with as little speech as possible, or else I get a blank stare from people. My last two items are Spicy Doritos and Diet Mt. Dew. First are the Doritos. I get to the chip section and find the Spicy Doritos and of course, they’re on the highest shelf. I elevate my chair as far as it will go and my fingers just barely reach the shelf. However, I have a very unique method to get them down! I put my fingers through the slats on the shelf from the bottom. I poke the bag of Doritos until it sits half on the shelf and half off. Then I make sure my basket is in place, poke again, and she scores -- the bag of Doritos falls in the basket! Finally, I get to the pop section to get a 24-pack of Diet Mt. Dew. I reach down and grab one, using all my strength to pick it up. Gently I set it down on my footrests, maneuvering it perfectly so that it balances on my footrests. Next, I tilt my wheelchair back and put my feet behind the 24-pack, creating a sort of cradle for the pop. This way the soda won’t fall off when I’m driving down the road. This has happened a few times and it isn’t fun picking up pop cans off the road. I carefully make my way through Walmart to the check-out lanes. I pass by the ever-expanding section of self-checkout lanes. I’ve tried those and even though I can do it, the worker usually ends up coming over to help me anyway, defeating the purpose. Therefore, I usually go straight to the regular check-out lane. I get in line and use all my strength to set my basket on the counter. I struggle before the nice young man in front of me offers to help me. The cashier behind the checkout begins to scan my items. Thankfully, today I get through the checkout lane without too much difficulty. The cashier even remembers how to put the bags on the back of my chair. I quickly make my way to the sliding glass doors and head home. This story was meant to illustrate what a trip to Walmart looks like for one independent person with a disability. All the incidents I included have happened, although they did not occur on the same visit. I wanted to capture the challenges and difficulties I experience during my visits. However, I also wanted to convey the positive things I experience, such as people offering to help me. Also, I wanted to express some of the humor that goes through my head. Sometimes I have a good trip and I have little to no issues. Other times, I have a lot of issues, leaving me very stressed and emotionally drained. When I tell people about my trips to Walmart and the challenges I have, their natural reaction is to look for ways to help me. I look at the difficulties experience in Walmart and in life in general as something I, unfortunately, must deal with; however, I choose to deal with them with a positive attitude, understanding, patience and humor.

Long time ago, long before you see the Earth as it is, long before the humans know of the Earth that was, there were two ruling forces in the world, Good and Evil or Light and Darkness. And while today people seem to accept Good as being 'Good', and Evil as being 'Evil', that was not always the case. Back then, it was merely seen as two different schools of thought, and one simply could not survive without the other. There was ( and still isn't) no such thing as pure/ absolute Good or pure Evil. It's always a case of both intertwining together, and co-existing in harmony. They existed in rivalry, much like two communities living on the other side of the riverbanks, competing for the same fish, same stretches of water or land, hypothetically speaking, that is. Back then, there were certain rules to abide by, when engaging in hostilities with the other side. The rules were unwritten, but clear, much like how some men do not appreciate clawing, biting or eye-gouging or nut-shots in combat. Well, the Dark King decided that to pursue victory, those unspoken rules had to be broken, that fair-play had to be ignored for the bigger picture. This, for all intents and purposes, was a masterstroke. See, Light had always had the better warriors, the more intelligent people, the more 'qualified' people to choose from. Darkness had their picks, but not as rich as the other side. One thing that the Darkness did have were people willing to break the rules, ignore all decency in pursuit of their goals. That was one track Enlightenment could not match them on. For quite a bit of time, the Enlightened One simply stood by, hoping that the Dark King would come around and recant this new form of warfare, but that was not to be. Then he contemplated for quite a bit more on how he could come up with a solution to this predicament, all while the Dark Army did their bidding. The Enlightened One's most intelligent strategists could not come up with a working solution, for they did not have the aptitude to think below a certain level. And his fiercest warriors could not show the heartlessness to match the other side. To help you understand the situation, it was like when the Australians had Bradman, and the English conjured up '' as a tactic to counter Bradman's talent and technique. Then, when things looked bleak, voila le solution, and it came from the oddest of all places. Where not his most skilled fighters, his best tacticians or his fiercest warriors had succeeded, God realised that the solution lay in other places. He turned to those who were considered 'unexceptional' fighters, 'run-of-the mill' tacticians, and of 'bang average' intelligence. However, what this hand-picked lot did have in common was a certain 'moral flexibility' that his 'cream of the drop' simply did not have. He chose not the finest or the bravest warriors he could find, but the select few who had not yet been affected by the travails of morality. Ones that, in all probability, would've ended up on the other side, but for some random acts or traits in their character, led them to the side of Light. The Enlightened One hand-picked his choices based on this one underlying trait, & let them loose on the Darkness. Asked them to judge & punish the Dark Army as they chose fit, without consequences or repercussions. With no internal guidelines to define boundaries, they discovered aspects of themselves they themselves didn't know existed. The Immorals, as they were called, destroyed any sections of the Dark Army they came across, & continued onto the next without breaks or pauses. Some in that unit likened it to doing a job & moving on to the next, without any guilt on their souls weighing them down. Others looked at it like painting a canvass, and every subsequent one had to be bettered & improved. And this rag-tag band of fighters, assembled from the far reaches of Earth, lay to waste everything they could get their hands on, or their sights fell to. The Darkness did not have an answer. This was a unit they never could've expected, and were simply overwhelmed. When nothing the Dark Army tried worked, fear spread through their ranks like wild-fire, and once they tasted fear, they were not the same. Gossips of the perverseness of this unit, the depths of which even the Dark Army could not fathom to ever access, ran amok through their entire beings. And thus, in an extremely short span of time, a unit who few ever saw, changed the scope of future, and gave rise to a great many stories. So bad was their ruthlessness, and their level of destruction, that within an extremely short amount of time, the Dark King called the Enlightened One to negotiate terms of peace. He was willing to accept all conditions form the other side, as long as they were willing to accept one of his own. That being this Immoral group be disassembled. Permanently. And scattered in different corners of the Earth, far from each other, and with no memory of their actions or heroics. The Enlightened One relented, simply because the terms were too good to pass up. And so this group was disassembled, and scattered to live out their existence as humans, forever, with no recollection of their own history or actions. Many claim that the Dark King's legions follow, to this day, each member closely, for they fear the day these members decide to get together again, even with the knowledge that no member has any idea of where each brother went afterwards, or that they won't even recognise each other, should they ever cross paths themselves. Such was their reign, such is their myth & legend. However, when they move between people, the general public, it is like the rest of the mortals can sense their presence, their history. And they lower their heads ever so slightly, to simply acknowledge their history at a deep, subconscious level, with neither fully aware of anything in actual reality. This rag-tag, 'One Off, 'Immoral' squad, fully encapsulated in their myth, came to be known as the 'Never Again' Squad.

It was a regular day in my school. Everyone was playing with paper balls as usual. The goal was to hit everyone in the room in their face, especially the ones that were doing something productive. Our teachers used to ask,” Why?” when the sweepers complain that we are noisy. It was all to see the expression in their face when they were hit by a dirty paper ball right in their face. You couldn’t feel the fun until you see it and they start throwing back. And so they started throwing back. “Duck!” I screamed. It seemed as though Damian thought that I meant the other duck and got hit by a plastic pen cap in his face. “Why are you using pen caps?” I asked. “It’s an upgrade,” Friz said, “ Its aerodynamic design makes it faster than paper balls.” “And also dangerous.” Maeve said. “She is right,” I insisted ,” Let’s stick with paper balls.” After the talk I looked back and Damian’s face looked as though he was waiting for me to ask him if he was alright, but yeah I knew he would be so I didn’t care. “You should learn to react fast.” I advised Damian ,” You see what happens if you don’t.” The relation between me and Damian was considered to be the best example of friendship in the whole school. But for the past few weeks there were tensions in our friendship. He didn’t like me going and spending time with Maeve and her friends. He thought I was avoiding him, yeah I actually did avoid him by doing so because I thought that spending time with many people will be fun, that’s what our principal said on our last week morning speech. But still I can’t give up on him, I planned for a revenge on the person who hit the pen cap, Sean. It was the time when our teacher would come, so I couldn’t attack him now, so I quietly helped cleaning the mess we created. The teacher came and we all stood up like good students and exchanged good morning with him. After some time he started teaching and writing on board. Josh sitting in front of us asked me for a sharpener. The look I gave made him regret it and Damian gave him what he asked. When our teacher was busy writing, I took a rubber band in my hand and made it a deadly weapon. I took paper from my desk space and made it to bits. “What are you doing?” my partner Damian silently asked. “Wait and see,” I smiled. I quickly fired a mini paper ball onto Sean’s head. He noticed and examined the back of his head with his hand and looked back for a second and started writing again. “Wow! Perfect shot!” Damian exclaimed. “Shhhh” I whispered by keeping my index finger near my mouth in the way they keep while saying, “ Shhh.” Luckily there was a much louder noise that caught everyone’s attention. The sound was from the Loudspeaker of a truck selling vegetables. I sighed. I told Damian to whisper, and not to shout and not to look at my face after the object we throw hit someone. Damian nodded. “Ok, now your turn.” I gave him the rubber band. He quickly got ready and threw an eraser that almost hit Maeve. I stared at his eyes with anger. “Why did you throw on her?” “By mistake, I missed Sean,” he whispered with a broken voice. “Maeve is literally sitting in the other end,” I whispered back,“ Don’t make me angry again.” “I am sorry,” Damian apologised. “Don’t behave like you are still 7 years old, We are adolescents now.” “You are being rude to me nowadays.” “No, I am just being like a man.” Damian didn't say anything for that. “Here is your sharpener.” Josh turned back and kept on the desk. “Now, see and learn,” I said before I aimed and prepared to fire the broken sharpener on Sean’s head. But unfortunately it’s weird shape made it deviate from its path and gain a upward lift and misfired on our teacher’s head. He screamed in pain and turned back. We all stood up. Well, it was obvious that it should be the job of back benchers. “Who did it!!!” he shouted. Obviously there was no response. In our class there is an unwritten rule. We can hit each other or break somebody’s neck but nothing should reach the teacher’s ears. “Whoever did it come out themselves!!” he shouted again. Damian looked at me. I stamped his feet whispering him to look straight and so he did. “Fine, if the person that did this doesn’t come out, all of you will be punished!!” After shouting this he walked out of the class. Everyone sat down and started speaking, they all knew he was going to the principal room. It was deep trouble. “Someone threw something on my head too,” Sean was telling to Friz ,”And I think I know who it is,” he looked at the backbenchers. “What are we going to do now?” Damian asked me in a low voice. “I am going to lie ,” “What?” Before we could continue anything Principal madam came inside the class. Everyone stood up again. She was angry, her face told us. She asked us, “Who threw it on him?” This time we had to speak something, because we were prepared to speak and it was the principal that asked us. But nobody spoke, it was fear. “I know who did it, it would be decent for them to accept it themselves.” she said. We responded with silence. “Fine, I will give you half an hour time to think. But if you stand like this even then, you will see my other face.” She left the classroom taking all the anger with her. And we started speaking again. “Let’s go and tell her.” Damian insisted me on telling the truth. “Do you have the slightest idea what it will lead to?” “She knows is the backbenchers.” Yeah he was right. She knows. What I was planning was the only way to save us. Actually speaking Damian didn’t do it, but whenever he spoke, he spoke as though we both did it together. The eraser he threw did not even hit anybody, He couldn’t even be blamed for anything. But he still was in my side. “Well, I am happy that you are caring for me, but the truth alone can’t save us.” “What? So how is a lie going to save us?” “It can’t save us either.” Damian gave a confused look. “We need both of them to save us. I am going to lie and you are going to say the truth.” “Explain.” “Here’s how it works...” I whispered in his ears. “Well... you really have changed a lot.” Damian agreed to my plan and we both decided that Damian would tell the truth and I would lie. The half an hour time principal gave was over and she entered the class again. “Right. So have you decided yet?” she asked looking at everybody. “Mam,” I stood up,“ I have something to tell you.” “Proceed.” “Josh threw the sharpener. I saw it with my eyes.” “NO! MAM HE IS LYING!” Josh shouted at the top of his voice. “Sit down Josh. Let him speak first.” “Since he was my friend I hesitated to tell you mam when you asked first. But after thinking I understood this was the right thing.” Josh’s face was so angry and annoyed. He was as angry as an old woman with a broken window. “Also, I have eye witness mam. You can ask Damian about it.” “Yes mam, Josh borrowed the sharpener from me. I didn’t know what he did with it.” “I remember giving it back! Why are you lying?” Josh yelled at us. “Quiet. Josh did you borrow the sharpener?” principal mam asked. “Yes mam, but I gave it back!” “Mam, yesterday math’s teacher humiliated Josh in front of class for not completing home work.” Sid who was Josh’s partner said, “He told me that he will take revenge.” “Mam, I said it just to sound cool. I could never have the courage to do something like that.” Sid was a jackpot for us. He hated sitting with Josh because he thought he was stinky. Sid was very studious and got good marks and he never liked sitting with someone who failed often. Well we didn’t like Sid for that. But anyway we couldn’t avoid such a help. “Also Josh always disturbs me while studying mam. I couldn’t focus on what the teacher teaches.” Principal mam made her decision. 3 vs 1 was easy to decide. And so Josh was suspended from school for a week and was scolded heavily by Principal mam. “But what about his parents?” Damian asked me as we were waiting for our apple juice. “I heard that Josh often fights with his parents and lies to them too. So they won’t believe him.” I was confident. “Hmm. Parents can easily find out if their child is lying or not.” Damian said. “We will take care of it when they get to know,” I said , “But for now, we won!” “Yeah,” Damian replied and we both did a cheers when the apple juice came to our table. **********************

Lakysha bumped into the suit holding a briefcase who decided to abruptly stop his forward progress without any warning. Goddam rude people in the train station , she thought. She looked up and down at the back of the man’s pinstriped office attire. The train station lost its chaotic background noise in a split second. “Excuse you,” she offered with attitude. She walked around him and caught a sneak glimpse at the electronic readout. 11:42. Four minutes until the train departs. At least I’ll get some good, home-cooked food soon . Her stomach gurgled in expectation. No one moved around her. Panicked confusion slowly sifted into her mental mixing bowl. Why isn’t anyone moving? Lakysha waved her hand in front of the stopped man’s stoic expression. He remained frozen in place. She poked an old lady in the shoulder. No reaction. Well, fuck, what now? Lakysha wove between the commuters, walking down the station platform hoping for one person who maintained her similar freedom. Someone, anyone, to validate her experience. She flowed through the bodies to the concrete deck's far end. Each person remained locked in place as life-sized marble statues. Lakysha noticed no eye movement, no breathing, no response to anything. Her heart quickened against her chest. Am I having some sort of mental breakdown? She fought against the growing panic. How do I get back home? How is my family? How long is this going to last? Her focus turned to getting to the family dinner table by any means necessary. She evaluated the situation as she had done during her years in the service. She jumped off of the raised platform onto the rocky ground along the extended train tracks. Thank goodness I wore commute sneakers. Lakysha made her way along the parallel rails. She moved through the yard astounded at the lack of movement and sound. Several yard workers gathered in the distance. Their efforts with a broken cable stunted in the moment. She made her way to the first road crossing. Cars, bicycles, and even a news helicopter stuck in one position. Lakysha looked through her options. The man with one eye is king among the blind , she remembered. The woman moving is queen among the frozen or time-stopped or whatever they are. The human instinct in her wandered through the impulsive garden of her options. People had money in their wallets and she had bills to catch up on. No, I’m better than that. The stillness continued to greet her every action. She wondered what limitations this new reality would allow. She walked through the still world astounded by the surreal event. Birds hung suspended with open, small wings against the sky like mobile toys over a baby’s crib. A leaf hung inches above an empty sidewalk section as she turned around a corner. It’s as if someone pressed a pause button and everything in the movie stopped but me. Lakysha took note of a tween fleeing an older, portly cop in pursuit. The officer's face was already flush as the pursuit began. The young man held a woman's red wallet in his left hand while taunting the cop with his right middle finger. She casually walked over to the wild-haired boy. His face registered a confident grin at his youth outlasting the officer's degraded endurance. Her hands slowly undid his shoelaces and then reworked them back together into one tie. That's it, young man. She stood with hands on her hips. Mother Time says you need a time out. She wanted to watch the event play out. The option of her mother’s homemade casserole pushed her ahead. A half-mile later, she passed by a local bank and considered how much cash she could walk out of with. Empathy overrode the idea to its core. Someone would be fired or worse for the missing money. She embraced the reality that time could restart in a second without notice. Reaching into a cash drawer as time resumed would offer no acceptable excuses to the confused bank teller or security guard. Well, the thing that happened, your honor, is that everything stopped and I decided to take advantage of the situation, as any reasonable person would do, she imagined with a laugh to herself. Lakysha continued her way home. She peered through a large, decorative coffee shop window to see an overbearing man with a distinct red cap mid-yell at a young woman wearing a rainbow t-shirt. He jammed a stiff finger inches from her face. His leaning eyebrow expression displayed an interrupted rage. The woman reared back in defensive fright with her small hands up behind her open laptop. Lakysha decided to enact clandestine justice. Her face lit up as she entered the shop. The lack of coffee aroma bothered her more than everyone being still. She loosened up his chipped buckle. His worn-out jeans with the back pocket wallet imprint slid down past his extended white socks. A dancing giggle pushed across her face. I never would have imagined raincoat, Hello Kitty covering a hatemonger’s junk, but to each their own . She moved the angry index finger into his nose. That should make for an interesting change of events if time ever gets back on track , she mused. Lakysha closed the woman’s laptop so it couldn’t be accidentally knocked onto the ground once the mayhem resumed. Maybe I’m the arbiter of justice , she considered. The one person to make some justice in society. I wonder if living in a massive snow globe would be any different than what I’m experiencing today. The radiating sun hadn’t moved in several hours, creeping her out even more. The day’s quietness pushed past uncomfortable deeper into the realm of innate eeriness for her sense of well-being. Lakysha worried that her family would be stuck like everyone else. She wondered when and how the world would come back to normal. Will I ever hear Momma call me Kiki again ? she considered. Will anything ever make sense? The young woman came across a chance run-in with a tyrannical boss she recognized from a previous job. Shanda Brown, how good it is to see you, girl , Lakysha grinned. Looks as if, I , now hold the upper hand on your fate. She considered the underhanded ways Shanda had sabotaged her own budding romance with a cute, flirtatious Jamaican guy through slut shaming rumors and deliberately offsetting their schedules. You bitch, it’s time for your comeuppance . She considered all the ways she could harm the helpless woman. Dark fantasies bounded through her mind. The thoughts ranged from causing physical harm to removing the woman's clothes and putting them in a garbage bin. I bet I could find a knife around here somewhere. She nodded with a decision. Lakysha took the woman's designer purse and dumped its contents into a curb sewer grate. Good luck fishing out your boujee wallet and expensive lipstick. She scraped the thousand-dollar handbag across the rough asphalt and left the purse at the curb as if it had fallen on its own. There, consider your debt paid. She became more brazen as her actions happened without consequences. I wonder how much more of this I will be able to do without getting caught , she considered. Her feet ached from the long walk. She went into a convenient store and took a bottle of water from the fridge. The young man behind the counter had been on a telephone call when the “stop” happened. Lakysha placed two dollars on the schizophrenic counter of impulse buys. And maybe a gum for later. She added another dollar. Keep the change, darlin’. She patted him on the cheek. Lakysha enjoyed the water's refreshment. She spied a group of older, ranting fundamentalists while tossing out her empty container. They appeared to be protesting the new Judy Hernandez Women's Education Center. The non-profit that a local pastor decreed as blasphemy due to its young women’s empowerment agenda. She weaved through the frozen traffic and decided to make the most of the moment. Lakysha moved from one person to the next. Her smile rapidly expanded with each successful rearrangement. She stepped away from the group. Being a force of good is tiring work, she laughed to herself. “That’s what I’m talking about,” she gloated. Each protester had their open hands with fingers parted close to their ears like moose antlers. She carefully went back through the group and eased closed their eyes. Just like their minds , she reflected. Lakysha moved their protest signs into a nearby dumpster. Imagine the good these stupid people could accomplish if their hate had been redirected towards helping others. She placed open bags of garbage around their feet. If this doesn’t upset their protest, I don’t know what will. Several miles tore through her morning energy. Lakysha arrived at her familiar and comforting front door with a need to sit down. Her family members' cars filled the driveway and lined the street. Wouldn’t be a Saturday without a full house , she thought. A jogger remained stuck mid-stride behind her as the door opened. She entered her mother’s home with a Pavlovian smile that quickly hardened. A fly hung above a table-side appetizer dish. Seeing random people stuck in time had been one thing. Seeing her loved ones trapped in movement tapped more personal emotions. Sadness overwhelmed her. Her Uncle Smitty held his hands up as he discussed something important with Uncle Michael. Her ragamuffin nieces and nephews had been in the midst of a folding table card game. Two of the children leaned across the table full of candy bets. The lack of her mother's afternoon cooking hit her the hardest. She always anticipated walking in and being welcomed by the comforting aroma before anyone's good wishes reached her ears. She walked around the house, taking in the situation with a heavy heart. An interesting opportunity crossed her mind. She looked at Harold, the cousin who always needed another loan. The same young man who often filled his apartment with the newest gadgets overpaying anyone back. The same person whose wallet often held more than enough money to make good on his debts in one pass. She debated the moral implications of repaying herself. Fuck it. Lakysha slid out her cheapskate cousin's wallet and peeled out several twenty-dollar bills. Finally, some of your debt is paid back after ten years. She kissed his dark cheek while sliding the wallet back into his pocket. She stuck the folded, green bills into her bra. Lakysha entered the kitchen cheerful to see her mother even if frozen mid-cooking. She caught the stove clock time. 11:42.The older woman appeared stuck falling forward from her chair. Her mother's eyes were wide with surprise as her hands reached out in an anticipatory brace. Her mouth held open with momentary shock. Lakysha moved to her aid. She eased her mother back into the seat's safety with a deep sigh of relief. The kitchen's sounds and sights roared back to life. Kitchen aromas overfilled her nose. The moment overloaded her senses. She grimaced at the flood of stimulation. "... my god," Ms. Thompson called out as the unfinished sentence caught up to her. Lakysha watched her mother lower her arms. The older woman moved her head around unsure of what occurred. Her daughter being in the kitchen added another layer to the mystery. “KiKi, when did you get home? I thought you worked this morning.” "Oh, I did Momma, it's been a busy day already." Confusion stacked on her mother’s deeply lined face. "I could have sworn I was about to fall off this chair. Oof, that could have been bad." She dusted off of her spotted apron. “Maybe you just needed a small miracle today.” Lakysha sat down on an empty chair, happy for normality. “ And maybe some things don’t require more than just appreciation, Momma.” The matron’s eyes filled with pride. “I always feel better with you around, Kiki.” Lakysha held her mother’s outstretched hand across the kitchen table and smiled. She rapidly reflected on each of those that she intervened with. She held back her laughter. Her mother lumbered across the tiled floor to the family refrigerator.“Would you like anything to drink?” The morning’s walk caught up with her. “I would love a -” Ms. Thompson turned to her daughter for an answer. The house lost the comfort of its background television noise, family squabbling, and children's laughter. Her nose could no longer smell the meal that had been her morning's focus. Kiki sat at the table focused on the fridge without movement. Her mouth formed words that never came out. “Kiki,” she yelled, unsure what to do next. Someone being catatonic had never been part of her life experience. She moved to her daughter and shook her at the shoulders. Lakysha’s hair bounced in place. “Lakysha, say something.” A concerned frown formed. “Harold, Smitty, Michael. Someone get in here. Something’s wrong with Lakysha.” Her request caused no reaction from outside the sterile kitchen. Ms. Thompson burst into the living room to see her family firmly in position as if they had been covered in lacquer. Her heart jumped in panic. The family cat hung mid-jump between a scratched coffee table and its upper, sun-drenched perch. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Nothing made sense. The wall clock indicated 11:43. Ms. Thompson tried to make sense of her place in a still world.

Gabriel bent down to take the penny off the street, ignoring the old warnings in his mind. “You don’t know where it’s been,” came the voices of his teachers, discouraging kids from picking up coins, feathers, shiny things from the ground. But there was something about this penny, how it sparkled on the cement, that overrode all these voices, and he bento to pick it up. Tthat was the moment everything changed, though Gabriel didn't know it. Not ten minutes before this, Gabriel was walking down the street, complaining to his friend Charles on the phone. Gabriel had been laid off, and the job hunt was going nowhere. His mood was grey, his clothes were grey, and to top it off, today was a cloudy day. “Don’t worry Gabe,” said Charles, “something’ll come along.” It was at that moment, just as his mind was processing Charles’ words, that Gabriel saw the penny. If this was a music video, the penny would’ve been the obvious illustration of the lyric. It glinted with a strange light that defied the grey world around it. A sign? A sign! Something very strange, yet also massively normal, was happening. As the glint of the penny sliced through his perception, it split the universe in two directions. There were now two Gabriels, although neither was aware of the other. This may sound quite strange to us, but that’s because we are passengers in this reality, and have no idea how the engine works. In truth, this happens every minute of every single day, and is as normal as water flowing downstream. Like Gabriel, we look back and see only the choices that led us here, and not the many others we momentarily considered. Gabriel’s mind balanced on the edge of indecision. He was trained to avoid touching things on the street, dirty things, the germs. But this was a sign, and it looked so strangely clean. One mind, two universes. Then, Gabriel made up his mind. And in this universe, his mind said don’t touch it, keep moving. The water forks down the stream, each bubble now in its own river. One mind, one universe, the others off somewhere else. “Yeah, something’ll come,” Gabriel sighed on the phone to Charles, not believing it. Just then, there came the sound of a splash. Gabriel saw a cascade of mud flung from the ground by a large truck, land all over a woman in a red trench coat across the street. The woman stood frozen in horror, too mortified to move. “Charles, I’ll call you back-“ Gabriel dashed across the street, and helped the woman away from the curb. “Are you ok?” he asked, trying his best to clean off her trench coat with a handkerchief. “I--“ she stammered, “I’m fine- I just don’t know this part of town very well. Oh- my clothes--“ She opened her trench coat, her dress underneath was equally soaked in mud. “Hey, I know a guy who owns a thrift store near here, maybe I can get him to hook you up with something, just so you feel better the rest of today.” Gabriel escorted the embarrassed woman to the thrift store. He asked the owner for a discount on something to wear home, which was compassionately given. To Gabriel’s surprise, the woman insisted on paying in full, and after selecting one of the most expensive outfits in the shop, withdrew $500 cash to pay. She now looked like a million bucks, and introduced herself as Marjorie. “I insist on taking you to lunch, as thanks for your kindness,” said Marjorie. Wow, thought Gabriel, maybe this is my lucky day. Gabriel had never been to the Ritzy Blitz, and Marjorie treated him to a feast fit for a king. “I seldom meet anyone so considerate," she said, "You know, I’ve been looking for a new personal assistant. Would you be interested?” Gabriel had to admit, deep inside, he was slightly disappointed this was becoming less of a date and more of a job interview, but the prospect of a new job sounded quite nice in this moment. “Oh, I was just doing what any decent fella would’a done.” “Such fellas are scarce these days, in my experience. If you're interested, you can start tomorrow.” “I’ll definitely think about it,” said Gabriel, wiping off his mouth with a napkin. “What were you doing in this part of town anyway? You mentioned you were new here.” “I was looking for something.” “Oh?” “Yes, a prize penny which belonged to my father. It was stolen some time ago, but I heard it was last seen in this area. It’s worth 18 million dollars.” Gabriel's hand froze holding the napkin against his mouth. That penny! He tried his best to be calm and polite during the rest of the meal, but his mind was now on a single track. After the meal, Gabriel told Marjorie that he would call her with regards the assistant job, and dashed back to the sidewalk. He scoured the ground for hours, searching desperately until nightfall, but he never found it. When the shops started closing, Gabriel sighed, and gave up. On the way home, he called Marjorie, and said he could start as her assistant tomorrow. “Delightful!” she said. Meanwhile, in another universe, Gabriel plucked the penny up from the sidewalk. He turned it over in his hands with fascination, so absorbed by its strange brightness that he didn’t even hear the massive splashing of mud from the sidewalk by a truck just across the street. It was so clean, so beautiful. “Hey Gabe, you still there?” came Charles’ voice on the phone. “Yeah, sorry, I’m still here. Can I call you back?” Gabe felt suddenly elated, and not feel up for interacting with other people right now. He slipped it in his pocket. This is my lucky day, he thought. Five minutes later, Gabriel passed a construction site, and he saw a sign: “Help Wanted: Construction Workers." “I knew it! My lucky day!” Gabriel thought. He applied, and the next day he showed up to his new job as a construction worker. The first day was hard, but Gabriel remained elated. At lunch, one of the crew asked him why he was so upbeat. Gabriel explained he’s got luck on his side, and showed the lucky penny, shining like the sun. The crew member’s eyes got momentarily wide, but he said nothing. Later, after Gabriel clocked out of work, he found himself surrounded by a group of thugs. “So you’re the little jerk that stole the penny!” said one of the thugs to Gabriel, “you must be the biggest idiot in the world, don’t you know that penny belongs to the Montana family?” “Don’t waste your breath on this moron,” said another thug, “anybody stupid enough to rob the Montanas has gotta be the biggest dope on the planet. Let’s just get the penny!” The thugs beat up Gabriel, raided his pockets and stole the penny. Before they left, they broke his legs, as a “reminder” not to mess with the Montanas. Gabriel wailed on the sidewalk, aware already that he’d never work construction again. The night settled on the city. Elsewhere in the multiverse, Gabriel showed up at Marjorie’s mansion, which was decorated on the front gate with a large “M” which Gabriel figured maybe stood for Marjorie. She was delighted to see him, and gave him a new pressed suit to wear. He assisted her with her office tasks and then went with her shopping and doing errands, both chauffeur and personal shopper. For the next few weeks, Gabriel assisted Marjorie. His salary was good, but he cursed himself for passing by the penny, the 18 million, all because of old lessons from school. One day he drove Marjorie to a fancy uptown apartment, and she asked him to accompany her to a meeting. He walked with her through gilded halls, to the office of a large man in a suit smoking a cigar. Some shady looking guys stood on either side of the man’s desk. “I’ll keep this brief,” said the large man to Marjorie, “One a’ my guys found your daddy’s trinket,” he held up a shiny penny. Marjorie and Gabriel were shocked. “You can have it, for 50 million bucks!” Marjorie's shock soon turned into rage, “you dirty rat, Solano! So it was you that stole the penny.” “Oh, let’s not jump to conclusions, Marje,” said Solano. “let’s just agree that finders keepers, losers pay 50 rocks.” “You dirty skunk,” said Marjorie, “you never woulda had the nerve to pull this while my father was alive.” “Yeah, but your daddy ain’t here. And with this coin, that means I run this town now! The keys to the kingdom. The cops work for me, the banks work for me, even that slimy mayor works for me. You an’ your little two-bit thugs ain’t gonna be allowed to stay much longer, unless you cough up the cash.” “You dirty, slimy, stinking rat!” raged Marjorie, though she was clearly unable to do anything. Just then, Gabriel suddenly spoke up, as though he was unable to hold back his words, “It’s a fake! That’s not the real one!” Everyone in the room looked at Gabriel. “How do you know, Gabriel?” Marjorie asked. “Just look at it-- it’s dull,” Gabriel explained, not even sure what he was saying, “it doesn’t amplify the light in the room, its-- dirty, it’s been on the ground and in a million hands, it’s just a regular penny.” he turned to Marjorie, “If your father’s penny was as valuable as you say-- then it’s really something special. That penny isn’t it.” “That’s right,” said Marjorie, “I didn’t see it before but you’re right!” she turned to Solano, “you tried to pull a fast one on me, Solano! You’re just the same lowdown bottom-feeding scumbag you always were.” Solano growled in rage, and threw the phony penny to the floor. “You know that penny rightly belongs to my family, Marjorie. Your father stole it from my father fifty years ago!” “He won it fair and square in a poker match!” countered Marjorie. “He cheated in that match! The penny should be mine! Control of this city should be mine!” yelled Solano. “You’re blowin’ smoke, Solano! It’s rightfully mine. What’s more, it’s still out there, and it’s gonna find its way back to me!” Marjorie added. “Not if I can help it,” sneered Solano. In the blink of an eye, Solano pulled out a gun and shot Gabriel in the gut. Gabriel sank to the floor, clutching his shot side. Marjorie screamed and knelt beside him. Solano took a satisfied puff on his cigar. The room around Gabriel faded, deeper and deeper into darkness, until all was black. In another universe, Gabriel lay for 20 minutes on the sidewalk, his legs a gnarled mess, until a kindly elderly couple stumbled on him. An ambulance was called, the police took Gabriel’s testimony, and then Gabriel lay, both legs in casts, in the hospital for several days. On the second day, the elderly couple visited him, and told him they had paid for his hospital bill out of sympathy for what had happened. Gabriel was dimly aware he was unemployed again, all thanks to that cursed penny. Why did destiny just carry him along, Gabriel thought, did he even have a choice in his path? Then a man entered the room, and introduced himself as a lawyer who specializes in workplace injury. Gabriel was technically injured on the construction site, so he might be eligible to sue. What followed was a brief lawsuit in which Gabriel and this lawyer sued the construction company for allowing the mob on its premise, and when it was all said and done, Gabriel got a check for 2 million dollars. Gabriel moved into a large mansion on the edge of town. He would have to spend the rest of his days in a wheelchair, but he was able to afford all the help and comforts money could buy. One day, Gabriel got a knock at the door. His butler introduced a federal agent named Tim Quip. Quip told Gabriel that he was here because he learned Gabriel was briefly in possession of an interesting penny, which was what got him in an altercation with the infamous and secretive Montana crime family. “May I ask where you obtained the penny?” asked agent Quip. “I found it on the ground, I swear,” said Gabriel, now wishing again, for the first time in months, that he’d never picked it up. Quip nodded, “the Montana and Solano crime families have been at war for control of the city for decades. The penny is their symbolic emblem of ownership, like a deed. The FBI sent in a secret agent to take the penny and end the feud once and for all, but he somehow lost the penny before he was able to get it back to headquarters. Turns out the penny is very easy to confuse with other pennies.” Quip pulled out a mysterious looking briefcase. “Since you had the penny in your possession, we’d like to know if you could help us identify it, so the proper authorities can take back control of the city, and let law and order be enshrined once more. Here’s all the pennies we’ve recently confiscated from local gangsters.” Quip opened the briefcase. Inside there were hundreds of pennies, a sea of shining copper. “If you can help us identify the correct penny,” said Quip, “we can end this war once and for all.” Gabriel looked at the pennies, like a bed of hay. Most people wouldn't know where to begin in telling which one of them was special. But one penny in particular caught Gabriel's eye. All of them were bright and clean but this one- this one sliced through his mind again, just as it did months ago, and suddenly he saw two options in spacetime. This time, however, unlike the millions of other times he’d been through this, he could see both roads clearly. Down one road, he saw himself withdrawing the special penny, the officer taking it, the police force becoming the supreme reigning organization in the city; crime is chased out but the police become gods, the cops elect one of their own as the mayor, the governor, the senate; soon the police are just as bad as any corrupt crime syndicate. Down another road, he saw himself withdrawing a different penny, and he saw only clouds. With a confident hand, Gabriel brought forth a penny. "It's this one." Quip immediately took it from his hand, "Thank you, Gabriel. Your service is much appreciated." Quip placed it in a plastic "evidence" bag, and placed it in his pocket. He then rose to leave. "Don't you need these other pennies?" asked Gabriel. "Not at all," smiled Quip. " You can keep them as you like, or sell them. Perhaps they hold some value. More than once cent, I mean." Quip left. Gabriel looked down, the true special penny still shone amongst the others. He lifted it up, and turned it in his hand. He imagined himself taking it to Marjorie, getting 18 million dollars on top of his already existing wealth. He also imagined keeping it, and declaring himself king of the city. But then, he thought of a third option. He called in his butler, and asked for him to prepare a fire in the fireplace. When the flames were raging high, Gabriel tossed the coin in. The coin sizzled, sending out tiny fireworks, and then begin to melt. As he watched it dissolve, so many different directions for this city flashed in Gabriel's mind, but all these settled into the vision of peaceful clouds. When the penny was gone, Gabriel sighed and leaned back. Whatever happened next, he had chosen the direction of the river: he’d made a choice, unlike all those million million other times the paths had split before him, and that made all the difference. In another universe, Gabriel slowly emerged from darkness, and saw the blurry face of Marjorie above him. She smiled with relief seeing he was awake. His ribcage was wrapped with bandages. He was in a shady-looking room with doctors who looked like mad scientists. “You’re safe now,” said Marjorie, “my doctors fixed you up.” “What happened?” Gabriel asked. “You saved me from making a terrible mistake, and I’m so grateful,” she put her hand in his. He was reminded of how attractive she was. She continued, “You know, I underestimated you before. I now believe that you’re gonna help me find my father’s penny, at least someday.” Gabriel’s mind got foggy. He was still returning from a close encounter with death, and it almost felt like he was briefly connecting with his mind in another universe. He saw clouds. He saw an image of a pigeon pecking on the sidewalk, seeing the bright penny and flying with it back to its nest. Up onto the top of the highest building in the city, on a ledge where all the pigeons had their nests because no humans could reach or even see up here, up where only the clouds could see them, the pigeon placed the penny in its nest. These chicks inside these eggs experienced a hundred different possible directions for their pigeon lives, and with their tiny pigeon minds made their choices. This made Gabriel smile, thinking about those baby birds, those peaceful clouds. He patted Marjorie’s hand. “Of course I’ll help you find it,” he said, “we’ll start once I’m better. And once I take you out to dinner, as thanks for saving my life.” Marjorie giggled, “sounds like my lucky day.”

Somewhere within a distant mountain sat a dragon atop a pile of gold. This was not a scary dragon, with rows of razor sharp teeth and talons the size of full grown men. This dragon had claws which it could at best use to scratch the scales behind its pointy ears, and while it did have sharp teeth, it had developed a liking for vegetarian options, particularly bounties of fruits and steamed root vegetables. It liked to add in the occasional pot roast or succulent grilled chicken, but on the whole it preferred the colorful, leafy kind of food. This dragon was named Sam, and his mountain was Etenmoot in the north of a green land. The halls in which it basked were grandiose, with thick columns supporting vaulted ceilings and little walkways criss-crossing from place to place. Now, you may say you’ve never seen such a mountain, much less one filled with gold and jewels. Well, you’d be right. But Etenmoot was not a mountain like many others. In a bygone age, dwarves - yes, dwarves! had trudged along those walkways and carved out these great halls. There had been parties of mythical magnificence thrown here. Now, dwarves have long since left the world to an unknown fate, and Sam had stumbled upon this ancient city while exploring the mountain range for homes. “Pure serendipity,” said Edward - his dragon-friend. The serendipity meant Sam had lived a long, fruitful life. Dragons can live for thousands of years, and in those years a village had sprung up in the valley below Sam’s abode. For some time, Sam had watched its people mingle about their days, building a mill upon the river, clearing out little bits of forest for their crops. Not being particularly hungry, Sam never thought to approach them. However, one day a strong breeze was blowing up from the valley, and the scent of freshly baked garlic asparagus and sweet potatoes wafted up to the entrance of his cave. “My, what an enchanting aroma!” Sam said, and he felt hunger gnaw at him. Without thinking, he unfurled his wings and glided down to the village. Chaos ensued, for even though Sam was perfectly pleasant, the sight of his giant body descending from the mountains was enough to make even the most lion-hearted man panic. He soon found himself staring down about sixty men with an assortment of pitchforks, swords, and bows, none of which would have hurt him in the slightest. “Dragon!” cried the largest of the men, who also wore a golden circlet on his head. Sam raised his eyebrows and said, “Wait! I mean you no harm.” Surprised to find that a dragon could speak their language, the villagers paused and looked to their leader. “What do you want?” he asked suspiciously. Abashed, Sam said, “Something smelled good down here, such that I have never smelled before.” “What would that be? The scent of humans?” Sam shook his large head. “No, no... something roasted on a fire.” The leader looked to his men. “Was anyone preparing for the feast tonight?” One man raised a trembling hand. “My wife was making asparagus and sweet potatoes.” “Bring them here,” barked the leader. “Now, now, there’s no need for that tone,” reproached Sam. Soon, a woman came out of a little hut bearing a tray of sizzling food. As soon as the steam hit Sam’s wide nose, he smiled and said, “Yes, that’s it! So this is called asparagus and sweet potatoes?” “Yes it is,” said the leader. “Now, if we relent to give you this food, will you leave us forever?” “Oh I would not dream of taking it from you,” said Sam. He used his claws to dig at the scales on his underbelly, from which a shower of gold coins fell to the ground. The villagers gaped and Sam said, “I would be happy to pay for it, and for your friendship, if you’d like.” “Friendship?” said the leader haughtily. “No village I have ever heard of has become friends with a dragon.” “Yes,” said Sam sadly. “My fellow dragons do not like the warmth this far south-” a cold breeze made the men shiver, “-but I find it tolerable. Besides, the dwarven gold deposit is something I could not deny.” “Gold?” “Well yes; where do you think all of this came from?” asked Sam, gesturing at the glittering stuff underneath him. “It gets caught in my scales a lot... Quite a bother, actually.” Perhaps it was a mark of the strength of this man that he did not immediately raise his men to raid the cave, for they most certainly would have been destroyed in the fight, but instead chose to extend his hand and said, “I am William, and this is the village Stera, our home. We would be delighted to make your acquaintance.” Sam gingerly extended a single talon and shook William’s tiny hand. The villagers gave him the food in exchange for the heap of gold, and so the relationship was bound. Now of course, as with all relationships there are moments of hardship, but for the most part Sam was able to watch the village prosper over the years into a large city. It had survived wars in which kings had implored Sam to rain fire down upon their enemies, which he did not do, and there had been many attempts by thieves to get the gold from Sam’s cave. However, the path to the cave’s entrance was treacherous at best, and so only three men had ever survived to see the dwarven city, and none held their ground if Sam so much as looked at them. Now the time had come for the next in William’s line to lead the city, which was now the capital of a kingdom. Sam had learned a lot about men in his centuries watching over the people of Stera, and most of it had made him sad, for the gold that Sam hoarded in his mountain was no longer of great intrigue to him. Even for a dragon, he was getting old, and he knew the time would come soon where he would return north to die with his kind. The gold in his mountain would have doubled the wealth of the nation below, but he had deliberately stopped himself from giving them great sums, instead choosing to let them have little trickles of gold in exchange for things like roast vegetables, for he knew that above all, greed festered in the hearts of humans. He had seen every new king be crowned, and tomorrow he would see it again, and every last one had asked for a large chunk of gold. Some disguised it by saying they wanted no more, but none refused and all held Sam in great regard for his wealth. What was he to do? His friend Edward had visited again just a week prior and had advised him to bring the gold northward to their dragon-home, where it could be enjoyed by all dragons, young and old alike, who coveted shiny things. But how was Sam to carry it? Even after centuries of giving it remained sizable enough for him to sleep on as a rounded mattress. “Trust me,” Edward had said, “the men down there don’t deserve this gold.” But he offered no solution to the problem of carrying it hundreds of miles north, so Sam bade his friend goodbye and returned to pondering his dilemma. The people of Stera relied on the gold from Sam to continue their lives, so would it really be wrong to give it all to them? Perhaps not, but he was no longer convinced of their altruism as he had been during the days of William the First. When the village had little more than a few paddocks of animals and some rows of crops, there was no harm which could afoul the hearts of the men who resided there. Yet after centuries of wars and expansion, Sam had seen the kings of Stera destroy villages all over the countryside, enveloping them into their land. Did he really want to fuel the fire of war? Sam flew down from his cave on the next day to see King Richard crowned. A special place had been made for him in what was called the Hall of Dragons. It was made of white stone and had pillars as tall as those in the dwarven city. Sam sat in his usual seat, hundreds of civilians craning their necks to see over the armor of tall soldiers as the king walked down a long carpet. His father, now quite old, sat upon the throne with the crown in his hands. Trumpets played a hopeful melody, and the old King, helped to his feet by his top advisors, placed the crown upon his kneeling son’s head. There was some speech about honor, valor, and humility. Sam had heard many such speeches and was trying not to fall asleep. As was custom, the new King came up to him after the ceremony and bowed deeply, and for this Sam was obligated to bestow upon them several hundred gold coins from his scales as a present. His eyes met Richard’s, and he caught himself in the moment looking at a young man with tenacity, and a will to do what was right. This gave him pause, for he had been so used to kings having the veiled greed in their gaze as they looked upon the rich dragon. It seemed that Richard lacked this trait. The dragon did not stay for the evening’s revelries; he took his large ration of his favorite foods back up to his cave and enjoyed them in silence. It wasn’t until later that night, when sleep was just beginning to wash over him, that he was awoken by a ringing sound on the rock. Sam stood on his haunches, recognizing the sound as boots upon stone, and he thought that once again some robber had come to quarrel over his lot. He used one of his claws to push a button on the right side of the hall. By the ingenuity of dwarves, sparks lit several hundred lanterns along the walls and on the ceiling in quick succession, bathing the hall in a warm yellow glow only amplified by the pile of gold. Sam’s eyes searched for the intruder for a while. He was looking near the shadowy edges of the room - near all the pillars and stairwells. That was where criminals usually lingered, after all. However, a light at the center quickly drew his gaze. Before him, to his great surprise, stood King Richard, a torch in one hand and his other raised in a gesture of peace. He wasn’t wearing any kingly clothes - just a black coat over dark trousers and climbing boots. He bowed to Sam and said, “Please, excuse my interruption.” “Never before has a King of Stera come here,” said Sam dubiously. “The way is dangerous.” Richard shrugged. “I spent my early years climbing everything I could get my hands on, away from my mother’s prying eyes, of course.” “I was under the assumption that Kings are usually well-guarded. How did you slip away?” “It was not easy. I had to wait until the zenith of the night’s darkness, and fortunately it’s a new moon and the stars are veiled by clouds.” The next question was perhaps the most pertinent to Sam. “Why have you come, Richard?” “I know what you think,” said Richard candidly, putting down his free hand. “You think I am here for your gold - that I come to beseech upon you a case of charity.” “Yes, that is what I think,” said Sam. “Or at least, I do not think you are here to clear away my empty trays of food.” Richard smiled. “You are right on the second count, but I am not here to seek your gold. In fact, I am here to be rid of it.” “Oh?” Sam’s heart thudded under his hard scales. Nodding, Richard said, “Indeed. I have studied dragons for many years. They are not common in this part of the country. I was under the impression that most of your kind live in the far, far north, past the glaciers of ice and the frozen mountains which render our kind at an impasse.” “That is correct,” said Sam. “Naradhas, we call it. The cold quells the fires of young dragons and steels the hearts of the elders until it is time for them to pass on.” “And I have also studied all the records of your residence here,” said Richard. “You are getting quite old for a dragon, are you not?” “Old, but still spry,” said Sam. Richard gave a dry laugh and said, “Indeed.” “What does this have to do with the gold?” “Quite simply, I know you must be wondering what to do with it, for in this century or the next your life will end, and with it will end any protection upon this wealth. The way may be dangerous for us now, but I’m sure once the first man comes back with a bag full of gold unperturbed by your death, then hordes of others will attempt it. I fear for that day, for I know what men can be when greed drives them. I have seen it in my father and his father...” He looked at a loss for words, but then added, “I have spent my entire adult life trying to make Stera a rich kingdom, independent of your influence.” “But your family still accepted my gifts,” said Sam. “Of course, and I will too, if you do not accept my proposal, but know that I succeeded.” A glint of pride lined Richard’s blue eyes. “We do not need your charity to thrive as a kingdom anymore - not that we don’t appreciate it.” “So that means-” “That means, my dear dragon, that you are free of any burden to help us,” said Richard proudly. Sam frowned, his teeth showing at the front of his mouth. To be sure, he did not know how to feel about this information, for while the issue of his gold had been troubling him for a while, he had grown used to this relationship with Stera, where he showered them with occasional gold and they gave to him the best food he could ask for. To hear that it was no longer necessary hurt him in some way, but he quickly put on a smile and said, “I am happy for you. That can’t have been easy.” “It wasn’t, and as I said, if you choose to continue your gift-giving I will gladly accept, but know that it will only be used to further the opulence of already gilded halls, which I hardly think is a noble cause.” “You mentioned you had a proposal,” said Sam. “What is it?” “Ah, yes,” Richard grinned. “Now, I want you to be with your family when you... are in the last stages of your life. So, I propose you take whatever gold and jewels there are here and melt them.” “Melt them?” repeated Sam, tilting his head. “The world knows no fire hotter than dragon-fire. It can melt even jewels. So, before you go, use your fire to melt all the gold in this city. Make it run through the halls and through any crevices in the rock. Then, smash these columns as you leave.” Richard pointed to the columns around the chamber. “It is sure to bring the rocks down upon this treasure.” “How can my last act in this city, which I have seen grow from such humble beginnings, be of violence?” asked Sam. He did not want to destroy much of anything these days. “It must be,” said Richard. “I will inform the citizens of Stera that it was a quake which destroyed the hall, and that you took your leave with me in private. It may be a little difficult for them to understand how a dragon secured a private meeting with me, but I can convince them of it. I will tell them the truth; that you have moved on to live with your kind as you... prepare for your next journey. Years will pass as men try to ascend the mountain. Decades will pass before they learn the wealth they seek lies behind solid rock, and still more will pass before our mining tools are good enough to break through to any new veins of gold you have created here. I may not even be king anymore, then.” “But if they still find my- ah,” said Sam, finally understanding. “You wish for them to find it slowly, and with decades of hard work behind it.” “I have been over the plan in my head many times,” said Richard. “It’s sure to work.” Sam looked past the young king now and envisioned that home he hadn’t seen in over a thousand years. He could almost feel the comforting chill of that ice on his scales again. He turned back to Richard and said, “You are wise beyond your years, young man. I accept your offer, and am glad to have had the opportunity to know you.” Richard bowed deeply. “It is I who should be grateful to you, Sam. Without you, this kingdom would not be what it is now.” “Then I will take my leave in the early morning,” said Sam. “No sense in lingering on goodbyes.” “Goodbye then, noble dragon.” “Goodbye, Richard.” And so the king made his way back down to his people, still cloaked against prying eyes, and in the wee hours of the morning, as dawn was just creeping over the horizon, Stera felt the ground shake as Sam slipped out of Etenmoot, unfurling his wings and beginning the long, humble flight northward, to his home.

Everyone spends their lives building their pillar. They’re all a little different, from height to material to sturdiness. Most people can’t build them on their own. They need parents, friends, loved ones, someone who can pick up the slack when they’re tired. I don’t know when it happened, but you stole my pillar. It was your smile, your hugs, your knowledge that you were what I wanted so desperately. You took my pillar away from me and added it to your own, and I was foolish enough to help. I used what materials I could find, and it was only when I had no more to give that I wanted to join you, to see the heights you took for granted while you insisted that it was all the same. It took time. You cheered me on as I climbed, playing the supportive role I needed. Did you think I would never make it? That I would fall, and resign myself to building you higher? When I finally reached you, I didn’t have the strength to pull myself up. I was tired, something you probably counted on, and you nodded as I held out my hand for you to take, to pull me up. With that same smile, your foot stomped down on my fingers, grinding them beneath the pedestal until I could take it no more. I fell, and you didn’t seem worried that I would die, just that I continued to worship you if I survived. I closed my eyes and waited for the impact, and I was surprised by the warm arms holding onto me, cradling me close. She caught me. I had never asked where the building materials came from, or how the platform was built when I was too tired to work on it, but it was always her. I had never asked for her help, and so I never noticed that it was given all too willingly. She was always quietly by my side, supporting me and holding me up when I was too tired to stand on my own. It’s just a shame that you had to show me who you really are for me to see her. My pedestal is small, but it gets larger every day. Sometimes I still have flashbacks of my plummet, and I’m afraid to fall back to Earth, afraid to get too high lest my pillar collapse, but she’s next to me. She lets me know that I can build my tower, that I don’t have to fear the sway of it, or what should happen if I fail. And you? I know that your stolen platform is growing even without me there, but I can see it in the distance. It crumbles and cracks without the right blocks so strategically placed, and your pleas for me to come back, that I owe you, that you are faultless, that you forgive me, are lost in the space between us. I don’t need you anymore. I have her, and I’m all the luckier for it.

”Shhh”, she said. Cousin’s hands went where they weren’t supposed to. I know it’s wrong but I can’t seem to open my mouth. I can not move. Suddenly, I am imagining myself elsewhere. Anywhere else. It‘s nap time and we all are supposed to be asleep. The favorite Auntie watching us closed the door and turned out the lights. Shhhh. All the kids shared the same bed for nap time. I tried to position myself away from her hands, away from her breath. The five of us laid out like sardines and she always, always seemed to wind up near me, grasping at my pants, moving my underwear aside. For a long time, it felt like my fault. Surely I must have done something to make her think I wanted this. I was certain that Favorite Auntie would come in. I was hoping that she would come back in. I closed my eyes and prayed for her to hear something or feel something and come rushing back in. Months and months and months went by and still we all napped together. Summer came. I remember there was one hot, hot day. Perhaps it was the heat and she was checking to make sure the fan was on but, for some reason, Favorite Auntie comes in. Like Jesus. She looked toward the bed and saw that I was not asleep but everybody else was. She motioned for me to come out quietly. I follow her out into the after noon sun of the living room and watched “stories” until the others woke up. She soon realized that I never slept at naptime. So, she would put us all in the bed together, cover us all up, turn out the lights and go out of the room. Within 10 minutes, she would be back to come and get me. Still, lots can happen in 10 minutes. And it did Even our playtimes in the daytimes turned peculiar. I did not want to play any game with Cousin; not dolls, not cooking, not catch or racing or jump rope. Whether we were at our house or her house or anywhere else, I could not forget her fingers at nap time. My mom and the Aunties wondered what had happened. She and I used to be so close, they remarked. “Why are the girls fighting?” I remember being at her house one day and she asked if I wanted to go to her room and play. She stepped into my space. “Let’s go upstairs to my room”. I said, “No”. She reached out to touch me and I slapped her face. Hard. She cried and I apologized. I asked her not to say anything and that I’m so, so sorry. I. Apologized. To HER. Another time, she was at our house. We were upstairs playing in our bedroom and she wanted to play doctor. Ohhhh, noooo. I know I didn’t want to play this with her and I didn’t want my younger sisters to play either. I ended up screaming for my mom who came running in and broke up the game. There was one time when Cousin was discovered with her hands on me. Down there. I just knew that things would change. It was explained away by her mother, ”Kids will be kids! They‘re curious!” and the whole event forgotten - but not forgotten. This went on for years. In little kid time, it felt like forever. As we grew older and grew out of naps, I spent less and less time with Cousin. I went away to college. She moved to another coast. Her mother would always say to me, “Your cousin asked about you! Y’all used to be like sisters! Why don’t you call her?” Shhhhhhhhhh. I never called her. Ever. Even when her mother rang her up while visiting us, I found a way to be NOT there when they talked. I still have a visceral reaction to her name. I still hate her and I don’t hate anybody. If she were in front of me today, I would try to rip her throat out and take from her the decades of peace she stole from me. We both have children now. I worry about hers. I think about the kids her children bring home. I wonder if she puts them down to nap. About eight years ago, I was at my mother’s house with my sisters and she mentioned Cousin. I said I never want to talk to her again and commenced to, haltingly, give an account of what happened at Auntie’s house. I’m not sure why I chose that moment but, once I started I couldn’t stop. I was shocked and mortified: both my sisters had experienced the molestation as well. My heart broke. I had retained a morsel of pride in the fact that it hadn’t happened to my sisters. But, it had and I found out that it was possible to feel even worse. And my mother. (((Sigh))). My mother was so angry and so hurt that we hadn’t told her. We were so little. We didn’t have the words for what Cousin was doing. We KNEW it was wrong but this was so far outside our realm of language and understanding that it sat there festering in all of us. I know, now that I am a mother, the wounds our children receive are ours, too. I saw the pain this caused my mother and I wanted to take it all back, to unsay it. Her hurt was tripled since it happened to all three of us. I was in therapy for years, uncovering, healing and allowing the child in me to have a voice. Still, I haven’t taken a nap since I was 6 years old. I‘m telling you now because I want you to know why I don’t sleep well. It’s not you. I’m telling you because I desperately want to trust you enough to close my eyes and know that you will protect me and not hurt me. This is my secret. Will you hold it for me? Shhhhh. Don’t tell.

I was on a tour in London when this had all begun. It was July 6th of 2030, and it had been pouring since 8 o’clock in the morning. The thunderstorm woke me up at 8 but I went back to sleep after the thunder came in at such a frequency that it established a soothing rhythm. When I finally got out of bed at noon I rushed to the Rivoli Ballroom to get ready for the performance in the evening. It was still as dark outside as if it were midnight. I stared into the darkness, and asked David, “Is this type of weather normal to you? ” “Aye, more and more normal in recent years. Last year, we had a storm season throughout July, August and September. Streets were flooded everywhere. Thought London was turning into Venice.” David put on a kilt over his pants and took off his pants from inside the kilt. “Strange,” I looked outside while putting powder on my cheek and nose. I have always insisted on doing my own makeup, even after I went big, I still do my own makeup for any medium and small events. “Strange indeed,” David chortled. As if he just thought of something interesting, David walked towards me with an intrigued look on his face. “May I ask you something? ” David asked. “Of course,” I answered while trying to pick out a color of lipstick for my lips. “Where are you guys from? ” “New York,” I looked at David as if he was silly. This was not the first year I performed in London nor the first time with David. He knows that my entire team is from New York. “No, what I meant was just you...and ah, originally, ” David said with a sense of hesitance. The room was silent for half a second. In 2027, 48 countries banned initiating questions for a person’s nationality in public. The UK was one of them, but not the U.S. By ‘a person’ they really mean a Far East looking person. The reason behind these policies is so that Chinese national or ethnic people do not have to live in terror like they did before the Berkeley Terro in the U.S or Paddington or Gould street in Australia.... Ever since the Global Covid 19 Pandemic in 2020, the Chinese-U.S Nuclear War Scare in 2022 and Mainlander Guerrilla Warfare in Philadelphia in 2025, the global anti-Asians sentiment, have been extreme. People have been robbed, raped and killed. “You know I am serious about fight racial discrimination!” David claimed. He said that but they all hate mainlanders. It is in fact both politically right to be against racial discrimination and hating a Chinese mainlander. After a short pause, I said, “I was a Singaporean before I became an American citizen.” David bursts into a nervous laugh and becomes relaxed after the laugh. “I thought you were. That’s what I would have guessed. Your accent sounds like you are from Singapore.” No, it doesn’t. I have an almost perfect American accent even though you can still tell English is not my native language after talking to me for 10 mins or so. But I do not have a Singaporean accent! “Are you asking to see if I’m a Mainlander Chinese? ” I asked sharply. “No...absolutely not. I am not like one of those people. You see...” David mumbled while approached me from the other side of the room, then the six-foot strong built man got down on one knee next to my vanity. He reached out to hold my hand. “You are the most beautiful woman and performer I have ever seen and I have been a fan of yours since 2023. I’ve had deep respect and love for you ever since. I do feel strongly about protecting my country from the Chinese communists’ propaganda and nuclear attacks. But I am not a racist against asians. I’m not like those thugs. You have to believe me. I would never do anything to harm or disrespect you! ” I smiled awkwardly after David stared at me sincerely for about 5 seconds. “It’s okay David. I believe your heart is in the right place.” “I cannot imagine what you have gone through these years getting mixed up with the Communist Chinese Mainlanders, those rogue, brutal animals...” David looked at me with real sympathy in his eyes. “It’s not right to kill Mainlander civilians or assault Mainlander immigrants on the streets either, you know?” “Certainly.” David quickly responded and he put on a very superficial smile. “I’m very sorry if I upset you and about my inappropriate comments.” I turned to my mirror glumly and did not say another word on the subject. I had a strange and tingling feeling when I took off my smart watch and saw two messages unread on the watch before getting on stage. I put my watch in my performance jewelry box and took off my robe. Out there on the stage, the cheering and the clapping sounds from the audience drags me back to my reality, or is this actually my fantasy? People think performers put on makeup, costumes, a character to be someone else, but I feel more real in my makeup and costumes than any other time. 7 years have gone by since I became famous and I still worry that this has all been just a sweet dream for me, that I will wake up one day and realize that I have never been me. The stage feels like a sanctuary. I took a deep breath and felt that serenity took over my body and swept away all the stress and anxiety I had from the talk with David backstage. This is my fourth year touring Europe, at the age of 34. I have always believed that the thirties are the best years in one’s life. You are just done with that crisis in your twenties when you think you should start to put your life in order but you are so young and know so little about the world, you are caught by the earlier childhood trauma that you freeze and think you have no value to offer to the world. Then one day at the end of your twenties and when you are heading towards your thirties, you are lifted by fate to take a drastic turn, you manage to snap out of all that negativity and start a family and a career. The family and career are so young too, just like you, they haven't got enough time to go sour yet in your thirties. It's truly the best time in one’s life. I closed my eyes calmly, felt alive and entered a meditative state. The world quiets down. After a short while, the host’s voice breaks the short silence before the show. “Let’s welcome our Lady Hotaru! ” It was around 2 a.m when I got back to my hotel room. David walked with me and Jenny, my assistant/manager, to my room and kissed me on the cheek to say goodbye. I pretended as if I were too drunk to behave in a proper manner. I waved my purse at David while waiting for Jenny to reach for my finger to unlock the door. Jenny pushed me in bed and hooked my face up with the make up remover machine. “Are you going to be good? Do you need me to get you some sober-up? ” It was obviously a rhetorical question for Jenny because as she speaks, she’s already pressing buttons on the espresso machine. “I am fine.” I murmured. I buried half of my face in the sheets and had a peek at the green stuff going into the cup. “Am I becoming an alcoholic, Jenny? ” “Far from it. ” Jenny laughed. “But I have dealt with way too many drunk artists and performers to be a fair judge to that question. Well, you are far from an alcoholic by your profession’s standards. ” Jenny handed me the green gel that was prepared by the espresso machine. “Also that’s an outdated word, alcoholic. Don’t you know kids nowadays are boycotting that word? I am old fashioned on that question: nobody should be pumping poison without any limits. But many of our old morals don't apply anymore, do they? With these newly developed, fixes, drugs, sober-ups, whatever stupid names they have, kids can just drink as much as they want as long as they took some green pills or liquid! ” “Unless they were too drunk to remember to get the green stuff! ” I sat up and had a sip or a bite of the gell-ish “beverage” Jenny offered me. “You are quite right. Sober-ups don’t give people work ethics either, do they? ” Jenny kissed me on the forehead. “Kinsley darling, Now drink up and have a good night's rest. We are leaving early for Warsaw in the morning. Then we can go home! And you can see Jamie and the kids! I know it has been stressful for you. Just hang in there. We are almost done!” “Good night Jenny,” I finished the drink. It really started to grow on me. The sweet, cool aloe taste has already made my stomach feel better. “Good night, Kinsley! ” As the sober-up started to work, the heaviness of my body was leaving, being replaced by a comfortable relaxing feeling. I was almost falling asleep until I remembered the unread messages on my watch. I sat up and reached for my purse. It is rare that I receive messages from that watch. It was connected with my mac instead of my phone. And my mac was connected to this old cloud account with an email address I haven’t used since I was in college. I hardly ever receive any messages from my watch. I grew curious. Maybe it’s from an old boyfriend or a college friend. My world started to spin when I saw the messages in Chinese on the watch. It’s from a number with a Russian area code. Message 1: “Banny, your father is under house arrest. I’m afraid we will not make it to see you again in this life. I am sorry for how our last conversation has ended. We love you..” Message 2: “We miss you, Banny. We miss you.” My heart sank horribly as I read the messages. I was hopeful that this is a prank, except no one who would make such a prank knows enough information about me to do it and no one who does know enough information about me would prank me in such a cruel fashion. And even if they did, they would not call me Banny. There is only one person on this planet that calls me Banny...my mother, Jan, who lives in mainland China with my father, Chief Lee, the Chief engineer of No.3 National Factory of Heavy Industry. That’s right. I’m no singaporean. I am a mainlander. My parents refused to move to the U.S. in 2023 when China had first adopted its 21st century closed door policy. That was the last time I saw them. It has been 7 years. During the China- U.S. nuclear missile competition, the western countries had put up a united front against China in trade and adopted policies to decouple from China. The Chinese government established control of 40 African countries and launched vast propaganda campaigns against the west. China created the Afro-China Metro State (ACMS) to promote business and trade between China and African countries. ACMS initiated a series of beneficial policies for Africans including enabling African students to go to top Chinese universities with far more lenient standards than were used to screen Chinese students and provide African students with financial aid. There are other policies for African citizens such as being able to enlist in the Afro- China Metro Military and receive training and benefits in Mainland China. In Kenya and Tanzania, over 70 percent of the adult males are enlisted in the ACMS military. The forced merging of Africans in Chinese societies did not receive welcome from China’s societies. Instead these policies drove Chinese society to have widespread complaints against Africans and intensified the deep rooted racism against the Africans. The west think the Africans were used as body shields and dispensable soldiers to protect Chinese’s interest. China, however, claimed that it has solved the African problem that the white struggles to solve for centuries. China claimed that states that joined ACMS had doubled its GDP every three years and more children were put in school than ever in the history of these states. Then there is the offended common Chinese people. When they read about the prosperity in Africa in the news they think, is that my tax money being put into building other people’s countries? Sure it would be nice to live in a country where you have everyone join the military and get free money when we are busting our asses more and more everyday while getting less and less. Nonetheless, the mass surveillance control made sure nobody could do anything to challenge the execution of the nation’s policies. China, as its propaganda claims, remains the safest country in the world while ACMS runs as a close second in the rank therefore makes China the “true savior” for the Africa continent. However, anticipating the economy going soft which would result in undermining the Communist regimes’ legitimacy of ruling in China, in 2023, China closed its borders from all countries, including Russia, except for ACMS and North Korea. The Chinese commercial airplane companies were all merged and acquired by the government at zero cost. China used the new Five Ones policy which was an updated version of the Five Ones policy used during the 2020 Covid 19 Pandemic. There shall be ONE flight on ONE route every ONE month to ONE ACMS member state from ONE airline company. Basically except for one full plane after another full plane of African and Chinese soldiers traveling between China and the African countries, no one can get in and out of China legally anymore. The internet was also replaced by the local area network within China. Although getting connected with the outside world is not impossible technically for many mainlanders, the severe punishment deters people’s online activities. From 2023-2028, 80 million people were arrested or sentenced to re-education camps. Knowing my parents, being the patriots and uptight people they are, they wouldn’t ever do anything illegal trying to contact the outside world, not even to contact me. I didn’t think I would hear from them today, or any day, or maybe at all during my life. I haven’t seen or heard from my mom or my dad for 7 years. I did not know if they were leading a good life or a crappy one. I didn't know if they were dead or alive. We have such distinctively different souls, except that they don’t believe in souls. As a kid, I wished to have different kinds of parents, the ones I saw on TV shows. The warm, flexible, loving ones. On the other hand, I can’t blame my parents for hating me because I want things that are so foreign to them. I am an alien in the family because I don’t worship anything they do, things they devote their lives to: the older family members, the state authorities, and a joyless life. Joy was literally punishable by humiliation when I was growing up. My mom used to rip all of my fiction books while I cried hysterically when I was 7. We stared at each other in my room while the white pieces of papers flew everywhere over my bed, my desk and on the floor. She said she can’t understand how weak I am to absorb those emotions and feelings and the evilest of all, doubts, from the books I read. At the same time I can't understand her cruelty, numbness and inability to appreciate and relate to other human beings. She felt betrayed and I felt disappointed. I believe that the wedge between me and my parents was forever drawn on that day when she ripped all of my books. I developed a ritual to bury my books periodically after reading them. It made perfect sense to me while others found it bizarre. They don't understand, where I grew up, books are just like people, they die sometimes. When Chinese first announced its policies to close the borders, when most of my mainlander friends in the U.S. managed to get their parents out so they can stay together. My parents rejected with deep contempt my proposal for them to move. My mother called me back after the second last unpleasant conversation which I thought was to be the last. She called me back and stayed silent for a while. “What do you want, Mama?” I asked softly. “Will you move back? You can still move back.” She asked me, sounding even a little vulnerable. “I’m sorry but I won’t. ” I answered. “That’s great!” She got her normal sarcastic voice back. I hung up the phone before she could say any other thing. I want to remember her with that little bit of rare vulnerability. It feels like love. There is a void in my heart where my parents lie, but I understand their decisions at the end of the day. I know why they made it. I know how different we are and how we are different. The knowledge that comes with the indication of the impossible reconciliation, hurts me in all eternity. But on the other hand, their reasons, morality, and values also hurt me. Everything hurts. I don’t know what to do with their message which seems to carry so much information, yet delivers so little at the same time. What’s going on with them? Is my Dad being arrested? Is my mom sick? She has always had a sensitive nervous system. Do they want to see me? .... Do they still love me?

Kat watched her house burn to the ground with her entire family in it. That was the problem with a tiny bit of magic. You always hear that you’ll go on grand adventures, and save lives with it, but no one ever tells you that you could accidentally burn down your house with it. It was only a tiny bit of magic after all, just enough to make a ball roll, or maybe make a spark. It’s only a tiny bit of magic, so it’s like a toy, a tiny bit of magic never hurt anyone right? Well, a tiny bit of magic was burning Kats little sisters’ skin off her bone and had caused part of the master bedroom to collapse atop of her mother. Because of a tiny bit of magic, her dog would die from smoke long before the fire reached him, and her father would be swallowed by the flames before he could get to her mother or little sister. Because of a tiny bit of magic, the bedroom she grew up in would soon be ash, and her father’s little library that was filled off all the books she loved wouldn’t last through the night. That was the problem with a tiny bit of magic, as it’s just small enough to feel safe, but it is still magic, and like all magic it is volatile. The real problem with a tiny bit of magic, however, was not the flames. It was not that Kat's entire family was burning to death, or that the home that she had loved so much would be devoured by the growing fire. The real problem with a tiny bit of magic was that Kat didn’t mind. Kat didn’t mind because a tiny bit of magic is addictive. A tiny bit of magic is like a year’s supply of cocaine, or a bars worth of empty liquor bottles. Because if she could do this with a tiny bit of magic if she could bring down the giant mansion that lay before her on accident, then what could she do when she tried. What could she do with a lot of magic? A smile curled on Kat's lips as she began to realize her potential. Even with just a tiny bit of magic, her life would never be the same. She would never have to go to school again, and if they tried to make her, she could just burn the school down along with them. Cindy, the girl who had once been Kat's best friend would soon be a charred corpse, only recognizable by her teeth, and David, the boy who had chosen Cindy over her, well she might give him a second chance. Kat turned away from her burning home and took a deep breath of the cool night air. To her, it tasted of opportunity and excitement.

Debtor's Jail - A short story by Nick Carter 2021 ​ The dim light flickered across the chrome table, the mildew smell in the cement brick room was slightly nauseating. He's not sure why he's here, but he's not looking forward to finding out. If only they'd bring him a sandwich, he hasn't eaten for hours... The door creaked shut behind the man, gaunt and official looking, pale stubbled skin turning gray from years of tension. He sat down across from the young man, briefly eyed him with distaste, noting his heavy metal t-shirt and cycling cap, both covered in indecipherable doodles. "They let you wear that in here?" the man asked, disintested, as he flipped through the file. "Nobody said otherwise." He sat with a demure posture, trying not to squirm, his right arm grasping his left. He resisted the urge to play with the lighter clip stamped flat on the edge of the hat's bill, something he often did when he was nervous. The air stood still and silent as the pages turned. Then the man looked up and locked eyes with him, casting a tangible smugness. "When's the last time you paid your bills, Roger?" He was put off: nobody called him Roger. "My name's Roy, sir... if you don't mind." The man leaned forward. "When is the last time, you paid your bills.... Roger Morris?" Roy started to sweat under his hat. "I pay on time every month! My rent, my phone, internet... I own my car... I barely make it, but I haven't missed a payment in 2 years!" He was right, he hadn't missed a payment on any of those things. But he wasn't being completely honest. "You're not being honest with me, Roger. What about the money you owe Key Bank?" Fuck, thought Roy. This is it. This is the end of the road. He started stammering, he took off the hat and brushed his hair, desperately trying to find the words to convey his situation. "Ok, look.... I USED to pay them. I did! I just couldn't do it anymore, it's.... it's not tenable, man!" "Tenable!" The man scoffed. "Looks like that college education really paid off for you, fancy word like that." In fact college had NOT paid off for him. After going for a dual major in Design and Communications, he found he was only suitable for work that was freelance, highly competitive, and quickly losing demand. He had managed to eke out his living washing dishes at the corner bar, which allowed him time to practice his art and persue his dream. That dream, it now seemed, was quickly going nowhere. "Sir..." He quivered at the notion of avoiding the man's questions, "is there any way I could get a snack? My blood sugar is getting low and..." SMACK! The file landed on the table hard, letting out a soft metallic ring. It was thick, and now he knew what was in there: his credit report. He'd seen it a few years ago when he made the decision - The decision to buck the system and stop paying for what amounted to a giant paperweight on his livelihood. "Do you think you're entitled to a snack?" Roy stared blankly at him. The man continued, "do you know what pays for those snacks, in that vending machine, in this public facility?" "Tax dollars," he replied quickly. The man's lip curled. "Yes. Exactly. Tax dollars." They pay your salary too, you fascist fuck, thought Roy - he immediately bit his mental lip and hoped his insolence wasn't visible on his face. "Tax dollars that come from corporations. Corporations like Key Bank. And where do they make the money to pay those taxes? From people like you, who take out loans, such as this one for $16k back in 2005. And another in 2006. And another in 2007." Roy noticed that the man didn't mention the fourth year of college - 2008 - which never came to fruition. "Sir, I pay my taxes." "But KeyCorp pays a hell of a lot more in taxes than you do." Roy doubted this: so many corporations had managed to zero out their federal taxes, and he knew for a fact that Key Bank had accrued almost $20 million in penalties since the turn of the century. "And just because you pay your taxes, doesn't change the fact that you are a Fiscal Radical if you don't keep current on your debts." Fiscal Radicals. This is what the police and politicians were labeling people who refused to pay their student loan debts. It gave the impression that these people were a united political force; when in reality they were everyday men and women who woke up to the realization that paying $200, $400, $800 a month towards a debt that continued to grow despite loyal payments, was not a sustainable way of life. It amounted to slavery, and to recognize it as such was to label yourself a criminal. "Sir." Roy's blood sugar was starting to crash, his temper growing as his stomach growled. "Do you realize that I only make $2,000 a month? I can hardly afford health insurance, let alone my rent and food. I'm lucky to have a good car and a bicycle to get to work. I work 12 hour days 5 days a week, usually more. I stopped drinking so I could keep up with my bills. I have less than $100 in savings - if anything bad happens to me it will be the end of my life!" "But you still smoke grass, don't you?" Roy rolled his eyes clear out of his head - despite the fact that marijuana had been legalized for recreation, cops still loved to throw it in your face: they still used it as probable cause to harass hundreds of people, and for some reason this was completely acceptable. "You try working as hard as I do and not medicating yourself." His anger subsided, turning to shame and depression. The man smiled, a crooked dark smile. He pulled a vape pen from his breast pocket. "Don't worry... we're here to help, Roger." Roy eyed the pen suspiciously as the man took a large puff, then offered it to him. He hesitated for just a moment, then snatched it from the man's hand and took a long draw. The nicotine relieved his craving for sustenance, making the emptiness more tolerable. "How's that?" he said tersely. "Simple. You pay what you owe, right now, and we let you go." The man folded his hands, his expression warming. Roy squinted: "didn't I just tell you I only have $100 in savings? Doesn't it say that in that file of yours?" The man shrugged, lips curled, hands turned up. "In that case, we can sign you up for a PLP Card. The debt will go on your PLP, and once that is paid off, you'll be free to go." PLP Card? Roy was not familiar with this. From the folder, the man produced a small plastic card, complete with copper chip, in bold official fonts it read: ​ PRESIDENTIAL LOAN PROGRAM BROUGHT TO YOU BY AMAZON ROGER L MORRIS INTERNED 2026 ​ "...You'll be here, working off your debt, and once it is done, you'll be free to go." Roy saw it clearly now: the debt would be transferred to the Amazon Financial Group, and he would be subject to prison labor, at a much lower rate of pay than even his minimum wage existance. He would lose his job, his apartment, his car and bike, everything he had worked for. He would be stuck here 'working off his debt' until he died... a virtual ward of the state, in perpetual "unpaid student" status, doing menial labor in excrutiating conditions and never seeing a single dime. ​ "....Fucking Jeff." "Oh, don't thank Mr. Bezos, remember: It's President AmazonCorp." And this was true: thanks to the Supreme Court's new extended interpretation of Citizen's United, the Amazon Corporation was eligible to run for president in 2024 - which it did, and it won handily. This is it, Roy thought: this is where the institutional slavery becomes actual slavery, from the frying pan into the fire as they say... and it happens the exact same way he got into this mess in the first place. "Sign here.

Salisbury steak for the mister. Of course. Sheridan has always loved steak, especially on this lovely day--Valentine's Day. I make the most exquisite steak in town, that much he brags about every chance he gets. "I am just so lucky I met her," he usually adds. On my way to the market this morning, I saw several trinkets and what-nots solely dedicated to celebrating this day. I saw lots of children running up and down the town with red balloons floating above them. Lovers here and there share a moment of public bliss. Oh, it's a joy to see; it's a joy to love. This delicious weight of the tenderloin I bring home is a promise of one. How long have I been with Sheridan, you ask? Oh, it feels like it has only been a day. (If you can call three decades and a half a day.) Now, this makes me feel old. But, he looks as dashing as he was back when I first met him. Oh, I can tell you--those eyes can create wonders... Ehem. What cutlery do you think I should use this time? The wooden ones from my grandma? The silver ones Sheridan brought back from Canada? Or--yes. Of course. These fancy Victorian-style ones we bought from our Roman trip! That trip was very memorable. One I often think about before I close my eyes. We were both in our blushing 20's. The wedding was just a few days ago. I was thrilled to be alone with him for the first time. (Not quite alone, though. There was old Martha and a bodyguard, of course.) He was wearing that dark green suit I always loved on him. I, to compliment him, wore my green halter dress and red shoes. Oh, the smile his face produced when he saw me was legendary. "You are the ginchiest in that dress, Emily." he mused back then. You should have witnessed the way he even had to remove his sunglasses. It was on the fifth day of the one-week long honeymoon that we bought the cutleries. Old Martha scoffed and tried to take Sheridan away from the stall, saying it will be a proper waste of money for something that will be sitting in the cupboards. But, my Sheridan had more sense than that. He agreed with me and bought them fancy things without a moment's hesitation! Sheridan and I are both spontaneous. A match made in Heaven, indeed. These peonies will be perfect on the table. What do you think? Sheridan and I tend several peony bushes along the fence. He knows I am inclined to them, so he planted them in the '80s just to get me to stay with him. I kid, I kid. Oh--I need to get started on the Salisbury steak. Sheridan will come home by 8. I need to get this special dinner done before that. I also need to get chrome-plated, you know? I may be pushing 70, but this gal still got some classy chassis. You can stop grinning like the Cheshire cat. I did have a lovely body. Some used to say I can rival Marilyn Monroe herself, and that my eyes can put Lauren Bacall's to shame! These ingredients are perfect. What do you think of these mushrooms? Aren't they beautiful? I should have gotten the ones in the can? No way, youngster. Call me anything you'd like, but I like my food fresh and as real as they can get. My Sheridan only deserves the best. No , I am far from worshipping him. The big guy up there only deserves that. But, I do love dear Sheridan. You cannot blame me. You have seen his pictures--he is a dreamboat. He is a principled, responsible gentleman. They do not make men in his model any longer. Women nowadays settle for boys who pretend to be grown up, and it is sad. Now, will you be a dear and pass me those eggs and onions? Thank you. Sheridan likes his steaks saucy. I, myself, am not too indulging with Salisbury steaks. I prefer the classic buttered steak with garlic and herbs. But, you see, even though Salisbury steak is the last dish I want to cook, I will still cook it every day if Sheridan only asks it of me. That's how I love him. That's how you should love: A compromising, unreserved love. Do you shake your head? Oh, I know. You had been taught to hold your emotions back and save some for yourself. I understand. This modern age is cruel to those who love. It grapples and chokes the slightest sign of love in anyone. This new world hates big love--but it is the only thing it needs. If you'll take a quiet moment in my chair and think about it, you will agree that only love can solve every problem in the world. War? If country leaders love each other, they would think for each other's betterment. War stops. Poverty? If only the richest men on earth love other people and not just his money, no one will ever be hungry again. I can say more, but this dish has simmered enough, and I have to get dressed. Do you mind watching the door for me while I go upstairs? Thank you, thank you. Oh--and do not turn the stereo up loud. We do not want to wake old Martha and ruin this moment with her spiteful remarks, do we? That's a dear. It is always a jolly moment when Sheridan comes home with just the great dinner I set up, and not her old tongue. I will be ready in a few minutes. There. How do I look? Stunning is an understatement! I kid, I kid. But, thank you, dear. You have been a real treat today, too. I hope you do not get tired of the old me. The steak! I still have to transfer it to the golden dish. No, no . I will be fine myself, thank you. It is tradition to plate it all by myself. But, you can help with the candles. Sheridan loves candlelit dinners. Especially this one. And, there! Oh, this table looks wonderful. Thank you for your big help. But, I can take it from here. It is already 7:38. I do not want to keep you from your own Valentine's dinner date with...who was it again? Oh, yes. Alex . I do hope you have a wonderful night. Yes. I will be fine. You have been a charm not to interrupt me with all my musings about Sheridan. I know you think it very silly of me. This evening will be perfect for us, I am sure. If only old Martha is not here to rain on my parade. Just like how it was in this photograph, where Sheridan decided to marry her instead of me. But, who was I to howl and cry? I was just their handmaiden. Now, off you go. Don't let my silly tears ruin your night. And remember: love unreserved. You deserve it. Good night, dear. Take care.

#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: This is your final **Spooktober** prompt. And this week we’re taking a dive into the slasher horror genre. Show me someone who survives against all odds, a final girl, or even an unexpected hero that takes the killer down. Or maybe you want to twist it and go with the big bads POV. One of my favorite things about this particular subgenre is the age-old question at the very end: Is it *really* over? Have fun! - **Sentence: I wouldn’t let him win.** - **Bonus Constraint 1:** Genre is Slasher Horror. *Please keep the subreddit rules in mind while writing. Nothing overly gory, graphic, or explicit please.* - **Bonus Constraint 2: A weapon malfunctions.** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You can change the tense and/or pronouns if you like, but the sentence should remain intact. **Stories without the sentence will be disqualified from rankings.** Use of the bonus constraint and image are not required. You can check out my ever growing if you’d like some fun, spooky music! **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/luckiestredditor - **Second:** - Submitted by u/wileycourage - **Third:** - Submitted by u/Prof_Bloodsoe - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/RobbieMargo - **Crit Star:** - u/TheLettre7 *Note: Crit Stars receive 1 Crit Credit on r/WPCritique, but in order to receive Crit Credits, you must have made at least 1 post on that subreddit or have linked your accounts on our Discord.* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - On **November 11**, we’re hosting a **World-Building Interview** on our Discord. Come check it out and sign up by November 4th to get in on the fun and chat about your world with other writers! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

On a windy, desolate beach in South Georgia, Miss Percy assembled her pupils. “Class--pay attention,” she admonished. “I know you’re all excited about Kingmas break, but there’s work to do.” The fledglings looked up from their ice desks as she called roll. “Charlotte Chinstrap?” “Present.” “Ginny Gentoo? Edward Emperor? Marty Macaroni--“ One by one, the pupils confirmed their presence. Then little Rainbow Rockhopper raised her flipper. A recent transfer from the North, the concept of Kingmas was new to her. “Yes, Rainbow?” “Ma’am--why do we celebrate Kingmas?” “Well, once upon a time, there was a cold, bad winter. It was so awful that mommy and daddy penguins couldn’t get back to feed their little ones.” “That sounds terrible, ma’am.” “It gets worse, I fear. The snow-covered beaches of South Georgia echoed with the sound of hungry little penguins. As you know, each caw is different, so grown-up penguins can find their own young. But there were no parents to be found.” The children of the class nodded, riveted even though they’d heard the tale before. “Things got so terrible that many were in danger of losing their lives. And then a miracle happened.” “What’s a *miracle*?” “When something so good happens that it’s hard to believe. When all hope was lost, Kenny King flew over with the help of a team of magic seals in a great wooden sledge filled with sardines. Bells ringing to draw their attention, he flew over the rookery and threw fish for all the boys and girls. The children rejoiced--they were saved. When their mamas and papas came back after a long time at sea, the parents feared the worst. But instead, they found a rookery full of happy, well-fed fledglings.” “What a nice penguin! Thanks, Miss Percy.” “Indeed he is. And that’s why every year on December 25th, Kingmas is celebrated.” Rainbow looked out over the cold, unforgiving beach as the wind ruffled her feathers. Imagining how tough it was for the fledglings, she was thankful for her luck. Born in the comparatively warm Tristan de Cunha, such hardships were rare. Miss Percy waddled over to Ginny and put a protective wing around her. “It’s tough to imagine, isn’t it--“ “I wish we could thank Mr. Kenny somehow.” “We can--every year, we lay out offerings for him in thanks. And each year, he rides in his sleigh and brings gifts to all of the good penguin boys and girls.” “What’s an *offering*?” “It’s like a little present for him. We decorate the beach with kelp tinsel spelling out his name and leave a big pile of fish for him and the seals.” “I wanna do that.” “This year is special as we wrote a song just for him. All our friends and families will gather around and sing it.” That night, before bed, Rainbow went to the beach with her parents and helped to lay out the kelp. And then the singing began. “Jingle Bells, jingle bells Jingle all the way Thank you, Kenny For all you do and say Hey!” Later, a tired Rainbow curled under her mother’s flipper and fell asleep. She dreamed of Kenny and his team of seals with a smile on her beak.

Nadia was irritated. Her temper was always close to its boiling point these days; any minor hitch was enough to set her off. Today was no exception. She grumbled to herself as she blindly groped along the surface of her dresser, hoping to make contact with her glasses. Where had they gone? She racked her brain, trying to remember. She had removed her glasses just a minute ago, placing them carelessly on the dresser, turning, and leaning back against the wood in exhaustion. Nadia recalled rubbing her eyes and taking several deep breaths before reaching for the spectacles, which, of course, hadn’t been where she had left them. They’ve probably just fallen to the floor , she told herself sternly. Muttering under her breath, she sank slowly to her hands and knees, all the while casting her arm out wildly in front of her. Her hand hit the open suitcase on the ground with a dull thud , and she drew her arm back immediately, cursing in pain. This was ridiculous. There was nothing else for it; she would have to ask Harry to help her find them, no matter how unappealing the idea of asking for his help was. “Harry!” she shouted loudly, to no response. Nadia felt a familiar anger start to blossom in her chest. She always had to call his name multiple times before he even acknowledged her. She bellowed his name again and attempted to calm her quickly growing annoyance as she heard the slow pounding of his footsteps down the hall. He was in no rush to get to her, she noted resentfully. “What?” Harry demanded, sounding irritated himself, as Nadia had known he would. “What do you want?” “You don’t have to take that tone,” she started, and sensed rather than saw him open his mouth to snap back. “Anyway, I’ve misplaced my glasses,” she hurried on. “Your glasses?” Harry repeated. Nadia could see his blurred image moving around the room, searching. She imagined how she must look right now, seated hopelessly in the corner of their bedroom next to her packed belongings. She had been planning to leave for her sister’s house tonight; what would she do if she couldn’t find her glasses by then? A sharp panic overtook her at the thought, and she coaxed it away -- what an unreasonable fear. The glasses certainly weren’t lost forever; Harry was probably going to locate them any second now. She squinted up at his fuzzy form just in time to see him resignedly collapse onto the bed. “Can’t find them. Don’t you have a spare pair?” “This was my spare pair,” Nadia said, frustration creeping into her voice. “My regular pair broke last month, and I never got around to replacing it, what with all this mess about the divorce.” She couldn’t see him, but she knew he had cringed. He always winced every time she spoke about the divorce aloud, as if the word itself were poisonous. Nadia didn’t understand what the issue was; they were ending their marriage, weren’t they? What was the point of beating around the bush about it? Harry had seemed strangely unwilling to proceed with the divorce paperwork despite being the one who had asked for the divorce. She sighed. “Look, Harry, don’t you have a spare pair of glasses? I know our prescriptions aren’t exactly the same, but at least I’ll be able to see something . Can I borrow them?” He grunted in assent, and Nadia heard him rummage through the drawer of his bedside table. Harry was almost as visually impaired as she was. Years ago, they had joked that they would produce children with the worst eyesight ever when they decided to have kids. Yes, Nadia thought to herself bitterly, it had always been “ when we have children,” never “ if we have children.” But that ship had sailed, she reminded herself. She was roused from her recollections by an apologetic grunt from Harry. “Nadia?” he began uncertainly. “I... can’t find my spare pair. But also...” “What?” she demanded, a slight trace of panic invading her voice. Harry rarely sounded so unsure. “Don’t be angry, Nadia...” “Don’t be angry about what ?” she growled. This situation was quickly spiraling out of control. She should have been fully packed by now. “I also... can’t find my first pair.” “Your first pair?” Nadia asked blankly. “You don’t mean... you don’t mean the pair that was on your face when you came into the room, do you?” “Yes.” “ Yes ? Is this a joke? What, did they vanish into thin air?” “It... certainly seems like it.” Nadia let out a low moan of distress. “Harry, this isn’t funny,” she said. “I don’t have time for this right now; I need to --” “Look, Nadia,” Harry began. His voice was worried and shaky, and this calmed Nadia’s anger more than anything else. Could this actually be happening? “I don’t know what happened, or how it happened. I know I’m forgetful and messy, but this is absurd, even for me. All I know is that I have lost my glasses, too, and you know that I can’t see very much more than you can right now.” Nadia sat in stunned silence. This was not at all how she had imagined her Friday evening; she had expected to throw some clothes in her suitcase and be off. Instead, here she was, seated blindly on the floor, accompanied by her soon-to-be ex-husband, who was just as sightless as she was. The situation was ludicrous, she thought to herself with an involuntary giggle. A small noise startled her from her musings, and Nadia realized with a jolt of unrecognizable emotion that Harry was chuckling along with her. She couldn’t help herself, and within seconds they were both convulsed with laughter. Her anger had evaporated; the situation just seemed funny now, just overly bizarre. “You know,” Harry murmured, once their giggles had subsided, “We would have found this hilarious, back in the day, I mean.” “We’re laughing at it now, too,” Nadia pointed out. “I know, but we would have made something of the situation. We would have enjoyed it while it lasted.” “Enjoyed... our blindness ?” Nadia said incredulously, but she had an inkling of what he meant. A year or two earlier, before the hospitals and emergency surgeries and constant disappointments had turned their relationship sour, they’d have relished the opportunity to be together, ludicrous as the situation might be. She carefully pulled herself upright and joined him on the navy blue blur that was their bed. The emotion she hadn’t been able to name shot through her again, seemingly landing at the base of her throat and lodging itself there. Steeling her resolve, Nadia inhaled deeply. “Let’s enjoy this, then. What would we have done?” Harry’s voice wavered as he began to speak, and Nadia knew he was deciding whether to play along. For a fleeting moment, she wished he would snap at her and tell her this was ridiculous, that they had better call for help and rectify this situation. A fight, at least, would be familiar territory, comforting in a horrible sort of way. He didn’t try to start an argument, however, and Nadia couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or relieved. “We would have probably tried to do something enjoyable anyway... you know, we would have thought it was just more fun to watch each other struggle without our glasses.” “Something enjoyable...” Nadia repeated. “Are you hungry? Do you want to cook something? We used to cook together all the time, remember?” “Yes, that was before you started screaming at me for every drop of food spilled on the counter while cooking,” Harry remarked bitterly. “But,” he continued hastily, as if expecting her to retort with her own cutting remark -- which, Nadia admitted to herself, was not improbable in the least -- “I’m game. Let’s do it.” Nadia felt his hand close around her upper arm and almost jerked away before she grasped that he was trying to help her up. They stood and stumbled toward the hallway, holding tight to one another as they tripped over furniture and almost slammed into a wall. “Maybe it’s for the best that all our attempts to reproduce were foiled,” Nadia joked as they groped for the kitchen door’s handle and were met with solid wall instead. “It would have probably been against the wishes of natural selection.” An uncomfortable, stony silence met her words, and she immediately regretted what she had said. “Sorry --” she stammered. “I was just kidding, you know, because we’re both so blind, and you know, survival of the fittest and all that....” She trailed off, feeling guilty, but the shame was almost immediately overpowered by annoyance. How dare he make her feel bad for trying to lighten the mood? Why was he the one offended by the joke? Hadn’t it been Nadia who had spent heartbreaking nights in hospital gowns? Hadn’t it been her body that had suffered, her body that had betrayed her? She opened her mouth to tell him so, but that something that had settled at the bottom of her throat caught the words before they could come out. For some reason, she didn’t want to spoil what was happening now. She swallowed the words, and, locating the door’s handle, swung it open and pulled Harry into their kitchen. Looking back, Nadia doesn’t remember whose idea it was to bake a cake, but she does remember laughing harder than she had in months as they struggled to recall the recipe for hummingbird cake. Harry still knew most of the instructions, Nadia realized with a pang -- it had been their favorite cake, and they had baked it together for almost every anniversary and birthday. They both had gaps in their memory, however, and they spent the evening happily inventing steps to fill in the blanks. “Can you feel this? Does it feel more like a teaspoon measure or a tablespoon measure to you -- wait! What are you doing? ” “What do you mean, what am I doing? Clearly, I’m mashing a banana.” Laughter. “I don’t know what you’re doing to that banana, but mashing is definitely not the word I’d use. And I don’t think that’s the mixing bowl! I think that’s the microwave! I think the mixing bowl is on your left!” More giggling. “And stop eating all the pineapple! We only have one can!” “I’m eating the mashed banana, actually.” “Then why is it in a can?” A thud. “Oops.” “I need a drink. I’ve never appreciated corrective lenses so much in my life.” Harry fumbled for a cabinet with his flour-covered hands. Had her vision been restored, Nadia would have berated him immediately for the streaks of white powder left in the wake of his touch; however, neither of them could see the current wreckage of the kitchen. Nadia could imagine it, of course, but for some reason, she could summon no anger, only mirth. The kitchen would eventually be cleaned up, she assured herself. “Ouch!” Harry yelled, too close to her ear. “I stepped on whatever you dropped earlier!” He stumbled backwards, straight into Nadia, and the breath left her lungs as his elbow met her diaphragm. She toppled, and they collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor, covered in flour and sugar and something sticky. “I... I think we broke an egg,” Nadia said breathlessly as she attempted to untangle her limbs from Harry’s and stand up. They rose a few feet before tripping over one another and falling back down on top of each other. They dissolved into laughter once more; Nadia clutched her stomach as she distinctly heard Harry snort. Nadia wasn’t sure who initiated it, but in the next moment, she was wrapped in a tangled embrace and pulled into a sticky kiss. She felt flour on Harry’s lips and eggshells in his hair -- how had that happened? -- and something lurched in the pit of her stomach. Just as the kiss began to evolve into something deeper and more passionate, Nadia’s arm, on which she had been propping herself up, slipped on the mess on the floor and gave out beneath her. Her head shifted, and Harry’s teeth slammed into hers awkwardly and painfully. They pulled themselves apart, panting in confusion. After a few moments, Harry broke the silence first. “I’m... I’m sorry.” Nadia paused. He wasn’t apologizing for the spoiled kiss, she knew. And neither was she -- “I’m sorry, too,” she said softly. She rose shakily to her feet and extended a hand to pull him up. They stood in silence for a moment, and Harry’s voice once again cut through the quiet, this time to Nadia’s slight annoyance. “Nadia.” “Shh,” she muttered. “I don’t want to talk about it.” “No,” Harry replied, more insistently, disbelief in his voice. “Nadia.” He grabbed her hand and guided it along the kitchen counter to where his other hand was grasping something. For a minute, Nadia didn’t realize what she felt under her fingertips; suddenly, though, it became abundantly clear. There were two pairs of glasses sitting neatly on the kitchen countertop. Harry and Nadia grabbed them up and shoved them on their noses clumsily, hands still covered in ingredients that would never become hummingbird cake. Looking back, Nadia remembers avoiding Harry’s eyes as she busied herself cleaning the mess they had made. Harry had followed suit. Nadia recalls the uncomfortable, vibrating air between them as she announced, as casually as she could, that perhaps she shouldn’t be driving to her sister’s that night, and maybe she would just go the next morning. They went to bed without further conversation, each awkwardly huddling on one side of the bed. The next morning, as Nadia rolled her suitcase out into the hall, she found the divorce papers signed and ready on the coffee table. Something swelled in her chest -- was it heartbreak or relief? -- but as she walked out of the house that had been hers and Harry’s, she felt more free than she had in a long, long time.

Author’s note: This is part of the “Diana’s Life Tips” story series where the stories are all stand-alone with relevant info I will provide. Relevant info: Daemon is a demon Diana accidentally summoned. They think Satan’s ex-wife is planning an invasion so they went to ask an ancient demon what happened during the last demonic invasion (AKA the Great Demon War). Dry heaving, Diana collapsing outside the passenger’s side door of the latest Jeep Daemon stole. She’s never been more happy from skipping lunch or else she’d be actually heaving. Wiping her mouth, she stood on jelly legs, dusting off stones and dirt from the pavement that impressed on her red knees. “I don’t know why I agreed to get in a car with you driving after what happened last time,” she said. “It wasn’t that bad,” Daemon said as he got out. “We crashed into a tree,” Diana screeched. “But wasn’t that mostly your fault?” She stared daggers at him. “Okay, okay. Point taken. But we’re here, so stop trying to murder me with your eyes.” “Oh, don’t worry. I can murder you with something else. I’m flexible .” Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Daemon said, “ Anyway , we’re here in one piece so there’s no need to go chopping out anyone into... more pieces?” “Where is here?” Daemon pointed at the giant billboard that read “Legal Demon Intuition”. “Context clues, Diana. Context clues. I thought you were a journalist, how can you be this bad at putting things together?” “And suddenly we’re back to murder.” Daemon took a step back. “Are you sure this is the right guy?” She asked as she stretched out her sore arms from the long arms. “Yup, Carbraken. He’s an ancient demonic giant from the age of Mayans. He’s existed longer than Christianity. If anyone can tell us about the last demon invasion attempt, it’s him.” Daemon slid closer to Diana. “And if you want to pay me back for this critical information by say... creating a contract with me?” Diana smirked. “But you’re already helping me. Why would I buy the cow when I can get the milk for free?” He cocked his head to the side. “I thought that was about sex?” “It can be applied to other things.” Daemon looked unconvinced. “ Can it? Come on, let’s go inside.” *** Legal Demon Intuition was on the top floor of a five story office building nestled in between a butcher’s shop, bakery, and fruit stand out front. Inside, Daemon breathed in the smell of rotting blood, moldy oranges, and vanilla. “Ah, smells like home.” “Why would this smell like your home? I thought you were a Christian demon? And if he’s older than Christianity...” “There are multiple different versions of hell based on different human cultures that all live bunched together inside the earth called the hell realms. When a significant enough culture or religion is created with their version of hell, it gets added. As you can imagine, it’s pretty crowded down there. The hell realms are basically a New York apartment building inside the earth. Hot, sticky, terrible neighbors, and the faint scent of death which is--” “Rotting blood, moldy oranges, and vanilla,” a male voice with a Mexican accent from behind answered. The pair spun around on their heels to meet a seven foot tall Mexican man with grey, spiky hair in a pinstripe suit. Wrinkles dominated his face making into the human version of a bulldog. He hunched over at a slight degree, but otherwise was looking pretty good for an ancient demon that was thousands of years old. A real silver fox type. The man smiled at Daemon’s tiny holes barely peeking through his curly red hair. “Ah, it's always nice to see another demon. Lawyers are good evil company, sure, but it’s good to see a true kindred spirit. Where are you from?” “Christianity,” Daemon answered. “Ah,” he said. “And you little lady? Where are your horns?” “Actually--” Diana began. “She’s Christian, too.” Daemon interrupted with a lie. “Lost her horns in a freak buzzsaw accident.” He mimed a buzzsaw going over his head. “A really funny, semi-tragic accident.” The man chuckled. “I bet.” Grabbing Daemon’s arm, Diana leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Why did you lie? I’m human.” “I doubt many demons want to spill ancient demonic history to humans. Especially ancient ones. They’re set in their old ways.” Diana rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Let’s just get the info.” Daemon cleared his throat. “I take it you’re Cabrakan?” “The one and only. I run this law firm with my brother, Zipanca, and some interns we underpay and overwork. What did you come here for? I doubt it was legal counsel.” Rolling back on his heels, Daemon said, “Actually, we were hoping you could tell us about the Great Demon War.” Before Daemon could finish the words ‘Great Demon War’, Cabrakan’s face fell and his gaze turned to ice. “I’d think we should step inside my office for privacy.” *** To say Cabrakan’s office was earth themed would be an understatement. Everything. Was. Brown. The walls? Brown. Carpet? Brown. The ceiling? A slightly lighter shade of brown. Why? Probably to keep it spicy even though brown is the second most boring color in the world. The first is beige and that’s brown’s pale sister that’s never seen the sun. The only pop of color was framed pictures of green mountains and canyons that hung on the walls. And strangest of all, was Cabrakan’s desk that had a mess of papers and a wooden tray with just a pile of dirt on it. A worm popped up in it and wiggled a little. Diana took it as a hello and named him Melvin in her head. Cabrakan took a seat behind the desk while Daemon took the only seat in front of the desk meant for clients. Diana stood awkwardly, pretending to be interested in a photo on the wall so she wouldn’t have to look at Cabrakan and face the reality that he was still taller than she was standing. Folding his hands on his desk, Cabrakan broke the silence. “Why do you want to know about the Great Demon War?” “We have reason to believe that Satan’s ex-wife may be planning an invasion,” Daemon explained. “And that reason would be?” Cabrakan asked. “We found a piece of paper with a partial part of a plan written in pencil on a desk in my school’s main office.” Cabrakan cracked a smile, leaned back, and chuckled. “So nothing serious then. That’s a relief.” Diana pouted. “It is a big deal.” “Kid, look, no offense, but it isn’t and you don’t want it to be. Demon invasions from any culture are bad news for everyone involved.” “What do you mean?” Cabrakan sighed. “Basically, the human world, earth, the surface--whatever you want to call it; it means the same--is a huge neutral zone. Demons of any hell realm or culture can come here to prey on humans that we all need to survive. Human cultures create and feed demons. Demons make deals to ‘improve human life’, as the propaganda goes. Humans and demons are intertwined and need each other. Now, if a demon or group or demons were to try and take over the human world, then that would be bad news for all other demons. All hell would break loose as everyone would scramble to secure their stakes or fight to gain more.” “Is that what happened during the Great Demon War?” With a grim expression, Cabrakan nodded. “And we have officially circled back to the reason we’re here,” Daemon said. “Care to tell us about it?” Cabrakan swished his head from side to side, trying to make up his mind. “Ah, what the hell. For a couple of love birds like you, I’ll do it.” “We’re not--” Diana began. Daemon cut her off. “My wife and I are so gracious.” She glared at him. As she leaned into his ear, she said, “I’m beginning to think this is just about you having a lying problem as big as your stealing problem.” Daemon shrugged and whispered back. His hot breath on her ear made Diana flinch; she swore he did it on purpose. “Probably. I am a demon, wifey . Besides, he’s talking now. Let’s just let him believe what he wants to believe.” “Fine.” She raised her voice to speak to Cabrakan. “You were talking about the Great Demon War?” Cabrakan closed his eyes as he imagined the memories before him. “It was roughly twenty-one to twenty-two hundred years ago. The Mayan empire was doing great, but on the other side of the world... not so much. I heard this new guy, Hades, god of the Greek underworld was causing trouble with Pluto, god of the Roman underworld. Both wanted to upstage the other since they were so similar. And the feud between Romans and Greeks certainly didn’t help. “Eventually, Pluto wanted Hades out of the game, so he launched an invasion on the surface and--as mentioned before--all hell broke loose. Everyone got involved seeing this as an opportunity or the end of the world. Most demons joined the fight--regardless of wanting to or not. They struggled over the humans and limited space for the hell realms. Millions of demons were destroyed in the process. It was a bloodbath.” Daemon swallowed. “So, hypothetically speaking, if another invasion were to break out...” “Satan would draft your butt and a skinny lad like you would get killed the first day,” Cabrakan said. “Oh man, we need to stop this invasion, Diana.” “You finally got on my page, huh?” Diana remarked. Cabarkan continued. “My brother and I fought for the Mayan mythology, though we didn’t have a lot of demonic beings on our side. The fighting didn’t come to an end due to some demons winning--no. The Romans conquered the Greeks and the demonic world stopped shortly after due to that. Not a lot of pride or power to defend when your culture gets dominated. However, the demonic war surely did have an effect on the humans’ battle because--” “Humans and demons are intertwined,” Diana finished. “Exactly.” Cabrakan said. “In the end, nothing good came of the Great Demon War. Few gained anything and over the years, the hell realms shifted back to normal. This really stops the idiots from trying. What stops them is other demons with more than one brain cell not wanting to go through all this again. The human world must stay neutral.” Cabrakan relaxed into his chair. “I hope that satisfies your thirst for knowledge.” “So... the world was almost destroyed so two gods could hold a d*ck measuring contest?” Diana asked. “Pretty much,” Daemon agreed. “Demons really aren’t the rational type, are they?” “Why did you say that like you’re not one?” Cabrakan asked. A panicking red blush spread across Diana’s cheeks. “I just talk about myself in the third person sometimes. It’s a perfectly normal thing for Diana to do.” “Look who’s lying now,” Daemon whispered in her ear. “Only to cover yours.” “Wives and husbands have to stick together.” “Wives also kill their annoying husbands. Ever seen Snapped ?” “Again with the murder? Don’t you think you’re repeating yourself too much?” Diana pressed her lips together. “Let’s just go.” “Whatever you say, wifey.” *** As she strapped her seatbelt in for the trip back, Diana paused. “Wait, so all we learned is that we have to stop the invasion or things could get bad? I could have inferred that from the words ‘demons’ and ‘invasion’. We still don’t know how to stop the invasion. This trip was a huge waste. I got car sick for nothing.” “Not true. Now, you have me on your side,” Daemon chipped in. “You were already doing what I wanted you to do.” “Yes, but now I will do it with a n x i e t y because my ass is suddenly on the line.” “Great. So, it was pointless.” “If I stop for a plate of nachos on the way back, will that make it less pointless?” “Better make it two. If I’m gonna throw the first one up, I can at least find the silver lining with the fact that I get to each more.” “Smart.”

“Welcome to Day 1,247,” a voice billows through an invisible speaker. “It’s a new day,” I say through gritted teeth. I take the same three steps to grab the same backpack that sits in the same corner of the same room where I have started every day for the last 1,246 days. You see, 1,247 days ago, an almighty force which still remains unnamed announced to all of us humans of the world that it would destroy the concept of time. Everyone thought this was just another crazed cult leader thinking he was God. We were wrong. This force actually followed through on its promise and has had us all living the same day every day. We can only do one days work over and over and over again for the rest of our lives. We can’t celebrate holidays. We can’t predict tomorrow’s weather. We can’t pick up where we left off yesterday. We can’t grow. We can’t die. So how do I spend my time? I spend every day trying to find the damn force that killed my baby. Since this all started, I can never remember what I did the day before. I have no belongings or writings or reminders that carry over from previous days. I can’t retrace steps. I’m only told what number day it is when I wake up each morning. All I know is that I was pregnant before this but no longer am. How exactly does one find a mythical, probably intangible, godly powerful thing? Isn’t this just a hopeless mission? Along with everything and everyone else I had before, I’ve lost all hope too. I’m just doing this to pass the time. *** Yeah, yeah, yeah. I killed her fetus. If you’ve got power like mine, shit happens. Protecting unborn humans is not my priority. Rather, teaching humans the dangers of their own narcissistic nature is. I spent millennia after millennia looking after these dimwits, assigned to pulling off miracles for the undeserving few that either showed an instance of selflessness or needed a supreme slap in the face in order to realize the basic truth that they don’t matter anymore than anyone else. How can you tell me that a well-off woman shopping for her thirteenth onesie for her only-conceived-two-weeks-before fetus is more important than an animal tortured or a child starved? Sitting in my high and mighty office, witnessing day after day of different humans doing the same selfish shit, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I took over the highest power, destroyed the entire concept of time, blessed these lab rats with a completely self-absorbed eternity, and have enjoyed day after day of watching them drive themselves mad with the very selves they once adored. Hm. Bliss. *** I still remember everything from before time was destroyed. Before this concrete cell, there was my partner and me renovating a nursery. Before I was given only this backpack and jumpsuit to wear every day, there was us shopping for baby clothes. I was pregnant. We were expecting, but then it all stopped. I leave my cell like I do every day, hoping to find that one crucial thing that leads to the next crucial thing that leads me to that force. Maybe, on some already-lived day, I already found it. Have I seen that child before? Have I seen that man before? Have I seen that cloud before? I stand on top of the drained fountain in the middle of our gray townsquare, looking at the crowd around me, everyone looking for anything that makes sense. We all bend and wander and shuffle, twisting our eyes in the hope of turning them into magical binoculars which have the power to point out the important. “Mom?” a young boy calls out to a woman across the way. Like oil separating from water, the surrounding crowd follows the boy’s eyes to make an instant path to his mother. I know that the unnamed force already destroyed the concept of time, but when that mother hugged her son and when he cried into her shoulder, I swear I felt time freeze. Every person in that square, still and silent. The only thing moving was the wind carrying the faint smell of saltwater. *** Did you just see what happened in Territory 73? The humans made way for a mother and son. They didn’t get bitter. They didn’t pout for someone else’s happiness. They only did what they should have done. They’re learning! See? This apocalypse isn’t all negative. I’m not all horrible. This woman wants to find me and end me, I guess. I don’t know what she wants. She doesn’t even know what she wants! She blames the loss of her fetus on me, when she should blame it on all the very humans surrounding her. They’re the ones who upset me, who disappointed me! Without them, we wouldn’t be in the mess, and she would be with child. But the humans are learning. I’ll give them that, but that doesn’t earn I’ll ease up. I’ll never ease up. *** Saltwater. Nick loved the smell of saltwater. He grew up near a beach, would spend all the time he could swimming, sea shell hunting, sand castle building. He wanted us to live in a beach house. He wanted his child to love the smell of saltwater just like he did. I can see him now like he’s walking along his favorite shore. Wait. I can see him now. “Nick?” I stumble off the fountain’s ledge, the people around me treating me like they did that boy. “Nick!” They watch my every move to curve the path with my steps. “Nick!” The man was always hard of hearing. “Nick!” The whole crowd echoes his name and becomes my choir. He hears us. He turns the right way. We see each other. We don’t know if we’ve seen each other every day for the past 1,246 days or not yet once since this whole thing started, but we cry. *** Wow, it is a dramatic day for Territory 73! I remember these two. They threw the biggest tantrum when I separated them and seemingly ended their life together. However, they are miraculous, and that shouldn’t be taken lightly coming from a supreme being like me. These two have somehow managed to find each other every single day for the past 1,246 days, and today, they continue their streak. They baffle me, which I thought was impossible to do. I just don’t understand how they can pull this off every single day. Is it luck? It must be luck. Luck, the one and only thing higher than me. But I can’t let them get to me. I can’t let them strike down my confidence. I can’t let them deter me from my priority. They’re nothing more than lucky. They’re nothing more than lucky. They’re nothing more than lucky.

\[ III \] Matilda sat atop her hill and watched the Boar as her favorite Argonauts attempted to make understanding of their land, as it had managed to suddenly split into two overnight. The land near the North Sea had found issue as the public couldn’t make a decision on whether to concede to two pieces, or to mend the land and unanimously participate in fixing all the problems that had arose from this problem. She reflected on the conversation she had held with(the one some called Hercules) and how she had expressed she had no place to suggest her personal opinion on the matter, as her own land was currently being terrorized by a mechanical Boar. Hercules respected this stance and laughed at her for open triteness for the Boar and his many talents for demolishing and squealing at anything he didn’t understand. Matilda knew her personality often came across as strict and well-versed, but giggled at the assumption she were a megalomaniac on topics surrounding all sciences and politics. To this they shrugged their shoulders and held up their doubled brandy to the many issues that they were too weak to face head on without their weapons of silver and gold. They hailed one another and to their battle fighting for the children who lived with little hope, as they thankfully admired the First Minister who they had met with earlier that day. To this praise: opened conversation as they wondered amongst themselves what solutions the First Minister would apprehend on the topic again of the dangerous splitting of the land. They felt worried she were burdened with the numerous tasks she had upon her shoulders at all hours, and felt helpless to their inability to assist in taking the burden from the First Minister as she juggles her tasks despite the continual disruption brought by the Breaking Land. Matilda agitatedly sharpened her weapons of gold and silver and as she gazed off missing her famed Argonauts. She longed for the admiration they wrapped her in, and for the tall stature that the foreign Warriors held whenever they lead her aboot the land that lay along the North Sea. She would think fondly of her travels and often took to view the gold paintings that captured the one day in which she had been forced by the Argonauts to take a vacation. With the accompany and guidance of the one they called Hercules and the one that resembled Mars they took to the winds and sought adventure as they walked up a mountain and to play atop some broken pillars. They struggled to climb up the broken pillars with no steps and doubled over in laughter as they clumsily boosted one another up, as Matilda had wanted to see the full view of the North Sea as to further navigate and understand the Breaking Land. The three stood above the land and watched delightfully as the locals participated in the ritual of Pagan celebrations in which their drums and dances would welcome in the winter season, and admired the blue goddess that they all stomped around. As the locals had also summoned the rain with this commencement: the three decided it best that they descend from the pillars, as to avoid bringing foreign sickness upon Matilda. The two men made their way down and prepared to assist Matilda as she sat patiently and watched the others around her struggle to depart themselves from the heights of the pillars. Matilda saw a woman laughing nearby and giggled to herself as she watched one woman paint her friends picture in gold, as the other woman laughed on the ledge: stuck with no aid. Matilda offered her hand to the woman on the ledge, and despite their inability to speak the same language, the woman laughed and pointed out that the aid would cause both of them to fall. To this Matilda yelled for the one some call Hercules as he stood nearby and turned in surprise as he joined in laughter at the now three women laughing helplessly stuck aside the narrow ledges of the pillars. He pointed at his broad shoulder as the woman took wise, and sat on the strangers tall figure as he daintily whisked her down from the tall pillar with ease. As all three women touched safely down on the ground, they bid the two strangers farewell and preserved the feat with pictures painted in gold, and went aboot their separate ways fully unaware that they had all unknowingly taken part of fulfilling one of labors of Hercules. The three Warriors strolled down the hill in the rain and left the place that is now known as the Pillars of Hercules, as they continued to take in the breathtaking scenery near the North Sea and holding disregard to the political erosion brought forward with the Breaking Land. Matilda now sat listening to the winds and read her magic book lined with gold, as she lay eight hours east of the Argonauts and observed the late details transpiring along the fractured land that she missed dearly during her spells of boredom. She began to worry aboot her young protege named Devon and admired the beautiful cursed pen that he had once gifted her, and thought it best to cast her quill to her golden fleece, as opposed to using the gifted (but still cursed)silver pen. She wrote down small details of her epic journey, and knew the day soon would come that she’d need to retake office in the building of that bore the crest of hope. To this plan she had previously instructed Devon to return a gold pin she had personally tacked to his uniform: a small round pin that displayed the blue crest of hope. She left his side angered that she remained helpless to protect him, and instead hoped to assist Devon gain focus to his love of engineering, and sorted plans to reclaim her place in which her and Devon had planned to rendezvous. Matilda felt apprehension in regard to her protege named Devon each day, as he too was left under the direct care of the mighty Argonauts who fought tirelessly for the children with little hope in the dark. \-A Traditional Yurok origin myth composed and re-mixed with Greek myths by: Matilda BrooksUS Federally Recognized Property #562-6146, Yurok Tribe, CA.

Times are hard with quarantine, especially in a full house. My mother, brother, sister and her three kids living altogether. Mom is a strong-willed Navajo women who did her best to teach native tradition and keep us safe. Vigilance took over as she had everyone in her household on strict disinfectant rules. Anyone who enters has to spray themselves in a cloud of Lysol to kill any trace of the virus. This was also paired with some prayers in Navajo language for good health. Once, while she was out in the middle of work, my sister called her to ask where she had gone. Bewildered by the thought, because she had been at work all day and hadn't left, the question was begged as to what she meant. My sister says she was just there. She continues to tell my mother she came in, sprayed herself down, and made her way to the bedroom. Once she and her daughter came to the room to ask her for a ride someplace, she was no where there. Only her other daughter was to be found and was puzzled when asked about mom's whereabouts. After asking my brother as well, it was clear he hadn't seen her either. And with no evidence of anyone leaving, everyone was confused. Where did she go? My sister and her daughter saw her come right through her own front door. My mother confirmed she never left work and so decided this deserved a call to a medicine man. The medicine men in our tribes perform ceremonies to pinpoint the root of a discrepancy or issue, and do their best to resolve it. She sent some pictures of my sister and her daughter to aid him in finding out what happened. He returns a call to my mother in disbelief. On the only second occasion this has ever happened in his practice, he tells her that she had a twin sister who died in utero. He saw everything in the fire used in the ceremony. The person who my sister and her daughter saw come back home, with such uncanniness, was not my mother, but her sister. I was chilled to the core as I grew chicken skin when she told me what happened. I grew up with a skeptical idea of my tradition. Even though it was an unpleasant thought that my mother practically said ghosts exist, I disregarded it. Also, since a prayer was done, she assured me I shouldn't worry about such a thing, not that I was. I told her "I love you too, Mom. Goodnight." Then I went on with the rest of my day. I live with my girlfriend and black lab at the moment. She recently flew out to visit her auntie on the east coast, leaving the place to myself and the dog. Since we live in a sketchy area of the complex, I always checked our closets and rooms for possible intruders. I'm not sure what I'd do as soon as I found anyone, as I've never been good in a fight, but finding nobody put my mind at ease. The first few days alone, I cleaned the whole apartment and tried recipes that I could stomach if I messed up. I watched whatever I wanted and hogged the bed. It was stretching room, even if I went insane missing my girlfriend. As the night crept, so did my consciousness. I decided to end my evening with some Cowboy Bebop and a cup of iced tea. With every squirm to maintain comfort in that pile of cotton and scrap wood called a couch, I watched my favorite space cowboys take on bounties to jazzy sounds. My cup was empty and I was four episodes in. As soon as the credits rolled, I sprinted to the restroom for relief. As I sleepily lathered the soap, I thought of cleanliness. Ridding of impurities. I counted the 20th 'mississippi,' rinsed, and headed into the living room, back to my shallow crater in the couch. Parched, I blankly reached for my cup and took a few glugs of tea. I washed my dry throat with some cold, dark, iced black tea. I was so thirsty, I didn't even remember pouring the cup. Once it was time to head to bed, I checked the closets and rooms, as usual. I found nothing. Only thing out of place was my front door smelled of lemon scented Lysol.

This couldn’t be happening to me! Not a former lifeguard who had spent her teen years at the pool, slathered in baby oil. Granted, that was in Canada, where the summer sun may not have been as intense. Still, having a reaction to the sun here just didn’t seem feasible. Sandy looked down at her arms and legs. There we small, angry red blisters forming on the tops of both legs where her cotton shorts met her skin. Both forearms showed similar blisters. Reaching her left hand to her right forearm, Sandy gently moved the tips of her fingers over the raised skin. Her fingers were cool to the touch, but the mere action of grazing the affected skin, left Sandy wanting to scratch off the top layer. “I think I’m going to have to get out of the sun for a while, Fran,” Sandy said mournfully, not even looking over at her best friend. Without looking up from, her book, Fran, replied “uh-huh.” They sat there on the beach for another 5 minutes - Sandy silently tracing the dots on her arm with her index finger and Fran engrossed in her latest mystery novel. “Fran, it’s time to go.” Sandy had stated this a bit louder than intended, but she was starting to feel blisters on the tops of her ears and shoulders now. Fran looked at Sandy, puzzled by the sharp tone of her friend’s request. They were on holiday for the first time in almost a year. This was their time to relax and enjoy not having to adhere to a schedule. Sandy turned to her friend and held her arms out. The initial patch of red dots on Sandy’s right arm had become a mass of small clear bubbles, stretching from the crease by her elbow to about an inch above her wrist. “Wow, that’s cool Sandy, how’d you do that? It looks like you stuck your arm in a sink full of soap bubbles!” exclaimed Fran. Fran was fully engaged now, the novel falling to the towel, forgotten as she studied the marks on Sandy’s arm. “I didn’t DO this. Something else did.” Sandy replied woefully. “And it seems to be getting worse with the heat. I need to go back to the air-conditioned room. Now.” “Okay. No problem. We can stop at the desk on our way and see if the hotel doctor has anything to help you.” Fran said cheerfully. “I'm sure those nasty blisters will be gone soon, and you'll be alright in no time!" The two friends gathered up their beach belongings, slipped into their sandals, and made their way across the sand toward the hotel lobby. Switching her towel from her forearm to her shoulder, Sandy tried desperately to avoid anything rubbing on the afflicted skin. "It's so itchy now," Sandy whined. Fran didn't look at her friend. She didn't want to let on that she was concerned with how quickly the blisters were spreading. Instead, Fran responded, "Look, we are almost there, and we'll get you checked." Just as they reached the edge of the stone walkway to the hotel lobby, a gigantic double-decker tour bus pulled up in front of the glass doors. The air brakes let out a decided 'whoosh' sound as the engine came to a stop. "Oh no. If we don't get in front of this group, we will have to wait forever to talk to the people at the desk." Sandy said. "Well, we will just have to get there first, Sandy, so run!" Fran took off before she even completed the sentence. "I'm coming, Fran, but it really hurts to walk, let alone run. You go ahead. I'll catch up." Sandy yelled as Fran was disappearing around the back of the bus. Sandy wasn't even sure if her friend had heard the comment. Fran passed the bus doors just as they started to open. Without looking back, she made her way through the heavy double-glass doors of the hotel and straight to the large oak desk in the lobby. On her way into the hotel, Fran realized it would be best to talk to the concierge instead of being lost in a swarm of tourists at the hotel reception desk. Sandy would not be comfortable wedged in between other people. The red-haired woman behind the oak desk looked up and smiled as Fran approached. "Welcome to the Beachside Bonavista. How can I help you today?" "My friend," Fran gasped, trying to catch her breath, "we were on the beach and now she's bubbling up!" The woman's smile was replaced immediately with a look of concern. "Pardon me?" she said. "My friend Sandy has bubbles all over her!" said Fran. Her breathing had slowed by this time. "Well, not bubbles, really, more like blisters!" Just as Fran finished her sentence, Sandy stumbled through the lobby doors. Her face was red, blotchy and swollen. The beach towel was coiled on the top of Sandy's head in what appeared to be an attempt to protect her ears from the sun. Her shoulders, chest and arms were covered in a mass of boils. As Sandy approached the desk, Fran could tell her friend was suffering. Sandy's arms and legs moved gingerly, never touching each other or the rest of her body. The closer Sandy got, the more apparent the extent of the break out on her skin became. "Help," Sandy whispered as she reached the desk. Both the red-haired woman - whose name tag identified her as Grace - and Fran stared at Sandy. "Wow, you certainly do look like you bubbled up!" said Grace before realizing she had actually said the words out loud. Grace quickly clapped her hand over her mouth as her face turned almost the same shade of red as Sandy. Stifling a smile, Fran quipped, "I could sure go for a pop right now." Silence. Had she gone too far? Fran was known for being tactless at times, but had this latest comment taken it to the point of being heartless? She certainly had not intended to hurt her best friend. Suddenly, Sandy started to shake with laughter. "Oh my! I must be such a sight!" she said. Fran and Grace joined in, and the three women laughed until tears streaked their cheeks. Ten minutes later, they had regained their composure. Wiping the remnants of tears from her face, Fran looked at her friend. "Sandy," she gasped, "Look - your bubbles are smaller now. The ones on your shoulders are almost gone." Sandy looked down at her arms and legs then checked her shoulders. It was true. The bubbles weren't as widespread as they had been twenty minutes ago. "I’m not as itchy as I was outside,” Sandy said tentatively. “Does this mean I will be okay?” Grace smiled at Sandy. “You will be fine. Looks like you got too hot on the beach. Being inside in the air conditioning balanced your body temperature, reducing the swelling you had. Unfortunately, we see it here a lot.” Grace continued, sliding open the desk drawer. “Here, put some of this on the worst areas and stay cool tonight. You will be fine by morning.” Grace handed Sandy a small bottle of hydrocortisone lotion. Sandy thanked Grace and eagerly took the bottle. As Fran and Sandy walked to the elevator, Sandy turned to Fran and said, “Bubbles be damned! The only froth I want this holiday is on top of a cold beer!”

Another body washed ashore today, hand-delivered by the sea, just like me. There was no wreckage nearby, but it is normal for broken vessels to get buried in the depths. Survivors are few out here near the Island of Abyss. When their initial lifelines sink, there is no driftwood nor buoys to cling to; not even the birds flew out this far. Most often, they sank into the deep darkness exhausted from trying to keep their head above water. Sometimes a fortunate beast happened upon them and swallowed them whole. Some would say the latter is a greater mercy since they did not have to struggle much and it was soon over. This morning’s offering came in low tide as the waves receded. I spotted him through the morning fog as I made my rounds of menial chores. They were all necessary tasks, but their main purpose was to keep me sane. People needed a purpose to survive. My first duty to the new visitor was to check for a pulse. Even the faintest of quivers set resuscitation in motion. To find a body still breathing is the rarest of gifts for us Keepers. We try our best to save everyone, but most often they are too far gone, either bloated or half-eaten. Our gracious task then is tying a windswept stone to them with dried kelp and returning them to the ocean for good. Since land is scarce here on this island a sailor’s grave is the best we can do for proper burial. Today, I could see his stomach rise and fall as I approached. He was unconscious, so I carried him to higher ground and propped him up against a large boulder. His head flopped back and forth as I gently slapped his face, trying to help him wake. It did no good, so I sat with him awhile before returning to my duties. I chose the work nearby to keep an eye on him as best I could. As I was harvesting seaweed offshore not far from where I found him, I heard the loud gasp of the man coming to. There was some retching of saltwater as I rushed to his aid with some freshwater gathered from the rain. His eyes were wide, searching for answers, but they settled a bit as the water brought him back to life. “Who are you? Where am I?” he asked between pulls from the bladder. “You have washed ashore the Island of Abyss and I am its Lighthouse Keeper.” I smiled with pride as my eyes shined with joy. “How’d I get here? I don’t remember much of anything right now.” he coughed through a raw throat as he began to get frantic again. “You came here much the same way they all do I reckon. Lost at sea with no wind for your sails nor fuel in your tank. There is no evidence of a boat here, so I imagine the waves ravaged it in the storm not long before you arrived.” I explained. “Yes, I remember being out on a boat, but not much else. I’m not sure why I was there nor if I was with anyone,” he admitted with dismay. “Do you remember your name?” I asked. “William Stig,” he answered with certainty. “Do not worry Mister Stig. The details should return to you in time. For now, let us get you inside to warm up and have a bite to eat.” William followed the Keeper to an old arched door set in the stones of the towering lighthouse. It took some effort to move the heavy oaken door turned gray after years of exposure to salty air. To William's surprise, the door opened without a sound. After taking a closer look, he noticed the hinges showed no rust and had a velvet sheen to their blackened iron. The Keeper caught him looking. “Part of my duties is to keep those lubricated with whale oil. I use this door often throughout each day and learned long ago the pain of sticking hinges.” “I am impressed at your attention to even the finest details. Had I been more in tune with my boat as you are with the things of this island, I may have never wrecked in the first place.” “Learning to appreciate the small things often requires hard lessons. It also helped to have a good teacher. Come, the table is up the first flight of stairs.” The only light on the bottom floor came from the open door. William made out some shelving tucked under the stairs and around the perimeter of the walls. This floor must be for storage he thought to himself. The Keeper led him up several stone steps set into the walls which led to the floor of the second level. The ceiling was much higher in this room. William noticed a wooden ladder descending from a hatch above them on their right as they walked in. He imagined it led to the lamp. A small bed with a nightstand was on the opposite side of the room. There was an iron stove nearby with its chimney fed out a small window behind it. A rectangular table sat next to the wooden ladder with two chairs underneath. Humble accommodations for such an important job. William sat at one of the chairs as they passed by the table. The Keeper started the wood stove and shucked oysters he had pulled from a bucket. At the table sat a leather-bound book. William glanced at the Keeper and saw his back was towards him, so he ventured a look. The only inscription on the cover was a lighthouse insignia in the top right corner. He opened to the first page and read what it said. The Lighthouse Keepers serve a vital mission. Cast light into the darkness to save those with hindered vision. William raised an eyebrow and leafed through several more pages. None of it made much sense to him, but it appeared to be a part manual & part logbook of sorts. The Keeper had returned to the table without William noticing. He set a plate of oysters and dried seaweed chips in front of them. “I see you could not resist The Companion’s call.” the Keeper said. William started and almost knocked the plate from the table. “I’m sorry. It’s rude to go through a stranger’s belongings. I hardly gave it much thought, to be honest.” “Do not fret my friend. I had planned to show it to you anyway." “What do you mean?” asked William. “First, let us eat together. You should have a clear head.” said the Keeper as he set an oyster on a seaweed chip before tossing it in his mouth and then smiled. William followed suit, though seafood was not his favorite. He did not want to be an ungrateful guest. It did not take long for William to finish then ask for seconds and thirds. Being famished, he hardly tasted the food as he shoveled it in his mouth. The salty meal had him drink through another flagon of water before he was content. William expressed profuse gratitude and offered to clean up for them. The Keeper welcomed the help he had not had in a while. “We will have our discussion upstairs,” said the Keeper when they finished. “The ocean air brings clarity.” He put The Companion in his belt and led William up the ladder. The hatch could be tricky to open depending on the draft up there, but the winds had favor on them today. For the lamp to not blind, there was put a shielding wall in the entrance. The Keeper still kept his back turned as he entered out of old habit and William did the same. They met out on the gallery and William would have slipped had the Keeper not reached out his hand. “Thank you for catching me,” he said as he tried to catch his breath. "I didn’t realize how slippery it would be.” “It has been a while since another has walked here with me, but the instincts remain.” replied the Keeper. “Are you steady now on your own?” “Yes, I have a firm grip on this railing with no intentions of letting go.” “Good. Let us begin--” “Hold on, I realized I never got your name. If we are about to have some serious conversation, then I should at least know your name.” “I already told you my name. I am the Lighthouse Keeper on the Island of Abyss.” “That’s not a real name, but your occupation. What is your real name?” “I understand what you mean, but I gave up my old name long ago. When one becomes a Keeper, they surrender their old name. The occupation and the new name are the same.” “Very strange. Is there a shorter version I can call you?” “You may refer to me as Keeper if you like and you will not think it so strange if you choose to understand.” “Understand what, Keeper?” “Allow me to show you.” Keeper pulled The Companion from his belt and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and recited the creed under his breath. William recognized it from the first page of the book. “Before I begin, you must know you have a choice. There is a supply plane that arrives every other month and the next one is due to arrive next week. You can return to the mainland on said plane and go back to your old life. I would then hope you had learned your lesson when you cheated death. You could also choose to stay and become my apprentice to learn the ways of the Keepers. I only ask you not to choose in haste. Give me your ear right now and shadow me for this next week before deciding,” said Keeper. “You saved my life, the least I could do is hear you out,” replied William. “Good. I will start by explaining the purpose of this island and its lighthouse. I am sure you know why lighthouses exist, so I will spare you those details. This one is particularly special though. Many ships became lost to the Abyss long ago with nothing guiding their way. When airplanes started flying the skies, they often would get lost out here too. They would run out of fuel and crash into the Abyss. There are a lot of different vessels that make up the bottom of this part of the ocean. There was an Order of Keepers established at the building of the first lighthouse. They sought to solve this problem by putting a lighthouse out here. With no land for many leagues, they could not think of a way to build it. A very brave group of those Keepers came by ship to this area and sounded the depths. When they started to run out of fuel, they made the hard choice of turning back home empty-handed. One of them suggested they continue to sound as they returned home. That is how they discovered a mountain buried in the sea. It was on this mountain they built up the island and set up the beacon of hope this lighthouse has become. Now, planes can find help navigating the skies. They look for the light to determine their trajectory. Ships gave up these waters long ago due to the difficulty traversing this area. Those who make it here by accident though find this a haven as they get pointed in the right direction. Then, there are those like you and me; our ships did not make it, and our fates seemed sealed. If it was not for this island and those who keep it, certain death would have been how our stories ended.” William nodded his head as he listened with intention. It was easy for him to see what this island meant to many, but was it the place for him? He decided to see how the week went, but he was already torn on the choice set before him. Keeper was a capable man, he could see that much. As William watched him talk and gesture though, he could also tell Keeper’s time here was short. “It’s a great story you tell Keeper and I look forward to learning more. I admit the choice is a more difficult one now, but I will still need the time to think. What do you have for me in the meantime?” “We can start with this,” Keeper said opening The Companion for William to see. Page after page was explained in great detail. Keeper gestured to different parts of the island and the lighthouse below their feet. He spoke more of the Order of Keepers who had established themselves centuries ago. They had a vast network of lighthouses spanning the globe. It often took a survivor to become a Keeper having been lost before someone came and guided their way. The shot at redemption is what drove them to service. Keeper closed The Companion having explained enough for now. He decided to show William an average day of life on the island. At the end of the day, they retired to sleep. Keeper took the floor with a blanket and pillow he pulled out of storage. William was grateful for the bed and spent the night dreaming of a shipwreck with dread. The rest of the week went by in a flash. William lost track of the days and was surprised to hear a plane one morning. He was out collecting seaweed and whatever shellfish he could find. The shore had a higher tide than before, but William did not mind. Keeper walked down the beach from the lighthouse to join his Brother from the plane. “Well William, the day has come for you to make your choice. The plane must take off as soon as we offload its cargo. Will you give us a hand?” "Sure!" said William with enthusiasm. He grabbed a wooden crate the pilot had thrown on the beach and followed Keeper to the lighthouse. "Okay, I have made up my mind." "Have you now?" asked Keeper. "Yes, I have decided to stay and follow in your stead. Fate brought us together and let me survive, so it wouldn't be right to turn my back on this now." "Alright then," Keeper said with a knowing smile. He retrieved The Companion from the second floor and handed it to William. "A Keeper you will be."

The span of my childhood could be separated into two categories: Knowing and Not-knowing. In fact, everyone in my family, even the adults, could split similarly: those who knew and those who didn’t. Regardless of which category you fell into, everyone knew Grandma had certain... proclivities . It was an unspoken thing, yet you felt how heavily it threaded into every conversation and side-comment at family gatherings. No one really talked about it, not outright, but it was always there, lingering between the lines. The Not-knowing part of my childhood wasn’t all blissful ignorance. Like the Not-knowing adults, there were always hints of restlessness whenever we visited Grandma's House of Mirrors. That’s what everyone called it--though, to the public, it was Gertrude Inn, a quaint, three-story, hundred-year-old ten-bedroom house operating as a Bed and Breakfast, run by someone in my family since its inception. Despite how often she smiled, Grandma had this way of putting the house on edge. In a way, the Inn was a reflection of her. Aged, unique, beautiful. But full of secrets. Everyone walked on eggshells around her, though I'd never witnessed her so much as raise her voice. She smiled warmly, yet her eyes held a cold indifference that felt like she was seeing right through you, guts and all. Gertrude Inn sat in darkness during the day, supposedly to save on electricity; one single window and a shining beam of light brightened the winding corridors on each of the second and third floors. Those single sunrays felt so lively compared to all the shadows, with dust particles dancing in the warmth. My cousins used to make a game of only trying to walk in the sun lest your legs get snatched by some faceless monster in the dark. There was some speculation that Gertrude Inn was haunted. Creaking floors and dim lighting aside, people reported strange sounds at all hours. Some guests even claimed to see ghosts. The Inn had its own cult following amongst supernatural enthusiasts, who shared photos of specter light orbs and ghostly apparitions of small girls and old ladies online. Because the old lady ghosts looked eerily similar to Grandma, it was widely accepted that it must have been the ghost of a woman in our family tree. But the thing that really made Gertrude Inn feel like a horror movie set was the mirrors. My great-grandfather built them, and over the last hundred years, the walls became filled, nearly every clean inch coated in aluminum reflection. That single sunray from those lone windows on each floor bounced about, decorating the halls in a disorienting, masking glow. Around the time when I transitioned from Not-knowing to Knowing, I gained a unique fascination with the mirrors. My cousins, aunts, and uncles liked to pretend they didn’t exist. When we were delegated to help out around the Inn, I’d watch the others stalk the halls ahead of me, carrying buckets of cleaning supplies and fresh sheets, never looking from left to right at the mirrors, gazes fastened directly ahead. But I couldn’t help but look back and forth, short as I was, fascinated by the different heights and styles of the framed mirrors around me and how different and distorted they made me look, my face contorting and reshaping with each step. I liked to take my time in each bedroom when I cleaned--those walls equally covered in mirrors--making faces at myself and imagining someone else staring back at me. The year after Grandpa died, Grandma became more reclusive. One evening, my parents sent me to track her down, as she'd been missing since lunch, and it was long past dinner. Up to the third floor, past the guest rooms, the further along I crept, the more the walls narrowed. A single sconce poorly illuminated the dark at each turn, but that one small light bounced off the mirrors, casting a dizzying glimmer, my reflection echoed all the way down the hallway, thousands of me watching back. Finally, I approached her room, and my hand shook as it clasped the vintage crystal door knob, which spun loosely like it needed a repair, then pushed my way in. Her bed was made, complete with a crocheted white doily adorning an old quilt, another draped over a little red table, and a lit desk lamp that glowed beneath the stained glass lampshade. A soft humming caught my attention, but I couldn't tell where the sound was coming from. She wasn't anywhere in the tiny bedroom. I circled the space, trying to locate the source. The humming grew louder as I neared the armoire. I wouldn't consider myself a brave kid, but my curiosity was piqued, and no matter how hard my little heart rattled in my chest or how sweaty my shaky hands felt, I pressed my ear to the closet door and listened. I gripped the metal handle, and the moment the door cracked open, Grandma's humming grew louder. Shoving dresses and shirts on coat hangers to the side, I stepped through a hole at the back of the closet. "Grandma?" I called out. The humming paused, then picked up again. I kept climbing, stepping over mounds of boots and boxes, until I emerged into the brightest-lit room in the house. And there were mirrors everywhere. "Hello, darling Mercy," Grandma gestured for me to join her, not the least bit surprised to see me. "What is all this?" I looked around in wonder at all the beautiful ornate mirrors, some framed in elaborate gold filigree, some in thick knotted wood. Grandma stood in front of three large glass panels resting on a massive open-backed easel. Paintbrush in hand, she elbowed me playfully. "How'd you find me, little bug?" "Is this how you make mirrors?" I looked around in wonder. Grandma didn't answer. Her humming resumed, as did her painting. I glanced down at the table and saw three identical empty frames, all silver with intricate faces painted along the edges. The faces resembled cherubs, but their teeth looked more like fangs, smiles distorted. I looked back at the glass she was painting and noticed something odd. "Grandma, how come you can see through these mirrors?" Her humming continued as she painted a silver metallic sheen on the glass. On one side, the silver allowed your reflection to stare back. But on the other, the glass was see-through, like a window. I wasn't a mirror expert, not like Grandma or my Great-Grandpa, but I broke a mirror when I was cleaning once, and I remember the backside being dark; you couldn't see through it like you could these. Grandma kept humming, and I was hungry, and that room creeped me out, so I shrugged and waved goodbye, reminding her my mom was looking for her. I dismissed the strange room, letting it remain tucked away in the recesses of my memory. Then, one weekend, I got assigned to room cleaning. We all took turns helping out at the Inn, but it was more of a chore as I got older. The secrets of the old house held less interest for me. That is until I took a bottle of Windex into a room on the second floor, spraying down one of the many mirrors, and I recognized the silver metal frame, intricately painted cherubs with fang-like teeth and distorted smiles staring back at me. The one-way mirrors. I tried to pull the mirror off the wall to look behind it but was surprised to find it securely stuck. No matter how hard I tried to pull it off, it wouldn't budge. A cold chill ran down my spine as I recalled the secret room. That was when I realized there were two kinds of people in this family: those who knew and those who didn't. Grandma passed away a couple of years later, but still, I kept her secrets. My family argued about who would take care of the Inn. It had been in our family for so long no one wanted to give it up, but no one wanted to take responsibility for it, either. Finally, they came to a compromise and decided to share the duties. So, one of our families would move into the Inn each season to take care of the guests and keep Gertrude Inn up and running until someone stepped up and decided to take over the House of Mirrors. It was summer when it was our turn. Mom and Dad claimed a bedroom on the first floor, and though no one wanted to sleep in Grandma's old room, I claimed it greedily. Gertrude Inn had a presence, a sort of sentient awareness like you could feel her breathing. She tensed and held her breath, and so did I when I crept into the armoire that first night. I palmed the back of the old wardrobe, my hands sweaty as I searched for the secret knob. When I entered Grandma's secret room, it was pitch black. I stumbled around in the dark, seeking out the hanging lamps I remembered briefly from my only previous visit. But in my search, as my hands felt along the walls, I found another door knob. My heart racing, I slowly twisted the tiny metal handle, the creaking sound like a thunderclap, considering the height of my nerves. My foot padded out ahead, testing the floor, and as both hands pressed against the narrow walls, I discovered a light switch. Though the light cast was dim, like everything else at Gertrude Inn, it was enough. Slowly, I stumbled into the corridor, merely three feet wide, between the bedrooms, floors creaking loudly beneath my bare feet. And then I watched in horror, through the backs of the mirrors, as guests slept the night away. I held every gasp and breath, as my brain tried desperately to comprehend what I saw. A shriek tore out of my throat when I came upon a couple having sex, and the man stopped mid-thrust to whisper, "Did you hear that?" to his partner. My hand clasped over my mouth, terrified they'd know I was there. Know what hid behind the mirrors. I turned around and ran back to the secret room. I turned off the light, banged my knee against a table in my rush to escape, and when I returned to my new bedroom, I stared at the armoire in screaming silence until the sun came up. It took hours to calm my racing heart, and in that time, I thought back to every interaction I'd ever had with my Grandma, all the puzzle pieces and bits of memory I tucked away slowly clicking into place. Walking over to a mirror, I stared back at my reflection until I no longer felt scared or uncomfortable. The following morning at breakfast, I watched my parents, Not-knowing, move around the kitchen in blissful ignorance, shaking cereal into bowls and discussing their days over morning coffee. "Mercy, you feeling okay?" Mom placed the back of her hand over my forehead, frowning. I cleared my throat, "Yeah, I'm good." "Must have been a little weird to sleep in Grandma's room last night. No one would blame you if you decided to stay in another room. We can rework that one into a guest room--" "No!" Their eyes widen at my reaction. "Sorry. No, I'm good. Actually, it made me feel closer to her. And you know, I was thinking... She showed me once, how to make the mirrors. I think I'd like to take it over. Learn the family business." I shrugged and dug my spoon into the milky cereal, ignoring my parents' tight smiles. They don't want me to become like Grandma, even if they don't know precisely why. What I do know is that Gertrude Inn breathes for me. And I'll keep her secrets. Maybe make a few of my own.

Writer’s Note - Trigger Warning: Story contains elements of suicidal thoughts. The nine o’clock train came and went. So did the quarter past nine train. They kept zooming down the tracks, one right after the other at dizzying speeds. Trains passed by all evening in the filthy subway station, and kids coming back from trick-or-treating rushed for the doors in their costumes every time with the innocence of childhood, unaware of what tragic anniversary it was. They had no idea of what happened last Halloween and would probably never know. The Widow knew very well what price had been paid the previous year. She sat on a bench in perfect silence, motionless as a statue in her plaid topcoat, waiting for the last train to come. Soon, the running kids were nothing but colorful blurs dashing across her field of view, mere disturbances in a steady river of sorrow. It was scheduled for a quarter to midnight. Time could not fly fast enough. Every five minutes, the Widow glanced at her watch, hoping for an hour to have gone by. A cleaning employee stopped by her side around half past ten. “Are you alright Ma’am?” he asked, putting the mop back in his bucket. “You’ve been here for a while now, I saw you getting in when I was washing upstairs. Waiting for someone?” “Yes,” she answered. “My husband.” “Alright then. He’s a lucky man. My wife definitely would have ditched me if I made her wait for two hours.” “I suppose he is.” Her answers were as absent-minded as spoken words could be. Not once did she look him in the eyes. The janitor asked no further questions and left. Children had now been replaced by club-goers. They laughed heartily and drunkenly, wobbling from side to side, still high from the thumping music at the Halloween venues. The Widow remained perfectly impassive, even as one man ogled her. By a quarter past eleven, the dock was perfectly empty. The hands on her watch ticked ever so slowly from that point on. She looked at them every minute with unbearable impatience. The sound they made seemed ten times louder than it usually was. Tick. Tock. Tick Tock. To stay focused, she examined every detail on the station walls. Not a hint of disrepair went unnoticed: the cracks between tiles, the outdated advertisements, the fading station labels... all of these numbed her brain and prepared her for what was soon to come. A quarter to midnight came. The train still wasn’t there. Panicked thoughts stormed her mind. Had she missed it? Was it just late? Could service be delayed. Minutes passed, and there were still no signs of the vehicle. Just as she was about to rush upstairs to question the man at the ticket booth, a noise grew louder from the tunnel. It was coming. She wasted no time and ran for the rails, ready to jump. There was no need for her brain to process it, for all reasoning had been cast aside. The Widow closed her eyes and found herself hovering over the edge of the dock. The train zoomed by. She could still hear the noise. How could she still hear the noise? It was impossible. One wasn’t supposed to hear noises in the afterlife, that’s what the medium said: all senses are expected to go numb. She opened her eyes and found herself on the dock. Doors closed along every wagon, and train pursued its journey down the tunnels. The Widow struggled to believe it. Somehow, she had survived. Her heart was still beating, and her lungs were still breathing. “That was close. Real close.” The Widow got up and turned around. An old man stood by her side. He must have pulled her away from the train. “Did you--” she began, unable to complete the sentence. “Stop you from jumping?” completed the Old Man. “I certainly did. Couldn’t let a beautiful woman like you end up in a situation like that.” “You had no business meddling with this. It meant something to me.” “Whatever it meant, I’m sure we can find better meaning elsewhere. Let’s sit down.” “I’m not sitting down with someone like you. The last thing I need right now is for someone to pretend to be my savior.” “Did I say such things? I never said I saved you. I said I stopped you. Let’s talk it through.” He sat on the very bench that had been her home through the night. Reluctantly, the Widow put one foot in front of the other and assumed the same focused position again, avoiding any form of eye contact with her benefactor. “I suggest we go straight for the heart of it,” he whispered. “What did all of this mean?” “Nothing.” “You said it meant something to you.” “Nothing that concerns you, that is.” “Do you have children?” “Yes, not that it’s any of your business.” “Should your children be concerned with this mysterious meaning you sought so desperately? I’m sure they would have asked a lot of questions.” The Widow lowered her head, shadows of embarrassment drifting across her face. “Deep down inside, they would have understood. They’re grown up now, they don’t need me.” “I doubt it. One never understands these things. I’m afraid they leave puzzles behind that can’t be truly solved. Besides, you always need your mother, no matter how old you are.” “I just wanted to be with my husband again.” “There you go, we’re getting somewhere.” The Widow pulled out tissues from her pockets and tried to dry the sobs that were surging inside of her before they could even appear on her face. “What happened to your husband?” asked the Old Man. “He died here a year ago precisely. A kid tripped on the tail of his dinosaur costume and fell on the tracks. He jumped to save the kid and had time to put him back on the dock. He didn’t have enough time for himself though.” The sobs intensified. For a moment, the Widow felt as if the Old Man was about to put his arm around her shoulders, but he remained distant. Something was holding him back. “That’s a tragic story for sure. The last thing we need is a second tragic story to go with it.” “I miss him so much, I can’t even explain it. It’s like a void that can’t be filled.” “Your husband was a brave man. You’re just as brave, and the best way to prove it is to go hug your children tomorrow morning. He’ll hug you through them. I’m sure that’s the hug he really wants. The hug of life and love.” The Widow’s sobs finally dried up. As unexpected as it was, the Old Man’s words had touched her heart. Perhaps he did save her after all. “Thank you. I mean it.” “Don’t worry about it. You should go now.” “Yes, I should.” Slowly but with certainty, she walked up the stairs leading back to the outside doors. The Old Man watched every step of the way. Once he knew for sure the Widow was headed for safety, his face transformed into that of another man, slightly younger, and his body glowed with a ghostly light. He walked back towards the edge of the dock, vanishing as he reached the rails. For the second year in a row, he had saved someone on Halloween night. All was well.

Note: This is my first short story I have written since high school. I know the writing isn't great, but this is also my first draft so let me know how to improve and what you think. “Brandon wake up” “Brandon we gotta get going wake up” “Here’s your socks and coat, we gotta get going now to get you enrolled bud, lets go” Brandon stumbled out of bed, confused, but following his mothers orders and she prepared him for the day. He gazed around the room. Brandon had an impressive collection of model bridges and buildings. “Brandon, get teeth brushed, and put on deodorant ok?” His mother said. Brandon did as he was told. Brandon looked in the mirror, surprised for a moment, forgetting his mother had buzzed off his curly brown hair the day before to about a half inch in length. He ran his fingers through it before grabbing his toothbrush and bubblegum flavored toothpaste. He loved bubblegum toothpaste. He wouldn’t use any other kind. “Brandon we got 5 minutes before we have to leave.” His mother called from the room over, “Finish up in there quick ok bud?” “OK mom!” Brandon shouted from the bathroom. Brandon didn’t talk much. He didn’t make friends at school too well. He was always much bigger than the other boys at school and he hadn’t quite grasped how to maneuver his large body yet. Brandon fumbled out of the bathroom, teeth brushed, deodorant on, and grabbed his coat, his eyes still foggy from a good night’s sleep. Brandon’s bed time was 8:30 and he always fell asleep fast and deep. Brandon slept only on his back, he snored loudly, and he could not sleep without his blanket. “Ok hop in the van Brandon” Brandon did as he was told. He always listened to his mom. “We are ready to go.” Brandon said to his mom with a smile. His mom hopped into the driver’s side of the 4 door, gray minivan. “Did we brush teeth?” his mom asked, “Let me smell.’ He breathed into his moms nose, proud he knew she would smell his bubblegum toothpaste. “You did good bud. Promise me you will be good today?” “We promise!” “Ok.” Brandon’s mother said with a slight smile “ Can you take this please?” She reached out with two small green pills in the palm of her left hand and a water bottle in her right. Brandon grabbed the pills and swigged them down with water as he had done many times before. He finished the whole bottle. He always finished his water bottles. Pills mean mom is serious, he thought to himself. He would try his best to be good. “Brandon really? Wake up bud.” Brandon’s mothers voice rang in his ears. He had fallen asleep on the way to their destination. The pills always made Brandon sleepy. “Just take these ok?” His mother said as she handed him 3 small white pills and his water bottle. He threw all three of them in his mouth, and then washed them down with the whole bottle of water. He always finishes the whole bottle. The white ones made him excited. He liked those ones better then the green ones. The green ones made his eyes feel funny and made it hard to walk straight. His mother took him by the hand into a large grey building. Brandon recognized it as the building where he went to class last year. She led him down a hall, doors on either side. The hallway had the long white lights. Brandon hated that kind of lights. He liked yellow light bulbs better. He looked into the windows of each of the classroom doors, trying to get a glimpse of the blocks and toys he knew he would be able to play with after school started. At the end of the hall his mother turned a corner and knocked one of the wooden doors. The only door without a window, Brandon noticed. It’s different from the other ones. A women led the two of them into a small room with cushioned chairs. He, his mother, the woman who answered the door, who was now sitting behind a small desk, were the only ones in the room. A second door on the opposite side swung open and a man walked out. Brandon remembered the man from his previous school year. He knew if you saw him you were in trouble. He avoided eye contact. “You must be Brandons mother” the man said , grabbing his mother’s hand and shaking it firmly. “Follow me. Brandon, your mom and I are going to talk for just a few minutes ok?” Brandon was very worried for his mom. Nobody talked to that man for a good reason. The door slammed back shut and Brandon read the word, **PRINCIPAL** “Mom’s in trouble” Brandon whispered to himself. “Mom’s in trouble, mom’s in trouble, moms in trouble” The woman behind the desk offered him a candy from a wooden bowl. “Mom’s in trouble” he continued, ignoring the offer. He could hear parts of the conversation coming from inside the room. “Brandon has a histo.....and violent.........” The mans voice floated through he thin door “He just doesn’t know his own strength.” His mother was raising her voice. Brandon didn’t like it when his mom raised her voice. She only did it when he was in a lot of trouble, or she drank mommy’s grape juice. “Your son” Now the principal was raising his voice. When Brandon raised his voice indoors he had to take some of the green pills and go to his room to calm down. “Your son, injured 3 students last year alone. He is a liability. I’m sorry but we can’t let him continue to attend our school” He could hear his mother begin to cry. “How am I supposed to work? I can’t keep him at home.” Brandon knew what this meant. His mom really was in trouble with the principal, and it was his fault. I needed to explain. He could be good! He got up and started pounding on the office door has hard as he could. “How am I supposed to work? I can’t keep him at home.” His mother continued to cry. “Im sorry but there is nothing more I can do...” Brandon heard the principal say as his fists continued to collide with the door. The door opened swung open and Brandon found himself face to face with the tall, imposing man that was the principal of his school. He saw his mom sitting in a chair, crying. Brandon had sat in that chair before. He knew what the principal was like. He was a bad guy. He had to help his mother. Brandon suddenly swung a fist at the principal, his knuckles colliding with the side of his principals nose. “BRANDON” His mother’s angry voice rang out as she stood from the chair. She grabbed him by the hand and led him out the door they had come in. “You can’t act like that Brandon.” “We didn’t mean to!” Brandon raised his eyebrows and tears started to form in his eyes. “No there is no we this time Brandon. YOU did this. And now what are you going to do Brandon, huh? What are we going to do?” “Just take these and get in the van” She said to him as they reached their van. She handed him 4 more of the green pills and 2 of the yellow ones. He didn’t get the yellow ones very often. He took them, climbed into the passenger seat, and before the van had begun to lurch forward, his eyelids grew heavy and he was asleep. Brandon’s eyelids fluttered open. He felt the weight of the seatbelt across his chest. Looking out the windows he realized he was still in his mother van, but now he was alone. And it was dark. Brandon was afraid his mother and left him. He unbuckled and stumbled out of the car. He knew this place. He was his driveway. He walked to the front door and saw his mother through the window. He knew he was safe. Brandon opened the front door and saw his mom laying on the couch. He called to her without a response. He looked around the room, and noticed several tall glass bottles on the floor. He recognized them as the grape juice that he wasn’t allowed to drink. He knew his mom drank them when she was really sad. Mom was mad at him. That much he knew. But she still needed to read him a story and tuck him in before bed. He shook her reluctantly. He never liked physical contact much. He shook her again. He would live through the touching if it meant he got his story. “Brandon...” His mother muttered as she slowly came to. She sat up suddenly and began to raise her voice, ”Brandon what the FUCK are we gonna do know. Hm? I cant work if youre not at school! We are going to FUCKING STARVE Brandon. You almost broke the principals FUCKING NOSE Brandon, what were you thinking? NOTHING Brandon when do you EVER think? I don’t even know if you CAN.” She was standing up from the couch now, and grabbed one of the bottles from the floor. She walked around the back of the couch that took up most of their tiny living room. She fumbled up the small wooden steps into the kitchen. She opened a drawer and pulled out a small orange pill bottle. Pouring a handful small green pills from the bottle into the palm of her hand she to the now shaking Brandon. “Just fucking take these.” She said handing the four pills and the green bottle to Brandon. “No story Brandon...’ she hiccupped out. “No more stories. Mommy is too sad for stories tonight Brandon. Just take them.” Brandon did what he was told. He took the green pills and washed them down with the strange tasting juice from the green bottle. He felt warm. He watched his mother stumble to her room and begin to snore. Brandon continued to drink. He didn’t like the taste, but Brandon couldn’t take his pills without finishing the bottle. ​ In all of Brandons 25 years, he had never felt like this. His eyelids were growing heavier. He was finding it hard to see straight. Like the green pills only much stronger. His arms and legs were getting warm. He kind of liked the feeling. His breathing slowed, and he drifted slowly off to sleep, on the couch, without his bedtime story.

This is my first time posting on Reddit and the first time ever really posting my work on anything. This is a story called Screwball. Screwball. Chapter 1. The large rusted steel double doors creaked behind him as Detective John Price stepped into the lobby of Darkwood Sanatarium. He saw the secretary typing away at her typewriter. She must have been filling out some paperwork of some kind because she keep kept pausing to mutter to herself before grabbing manila folders and shoving papers lazily into them. As Price approached her adjusting his brown plaid neck tie she finally looked up to acknowledge his presence. Price was a tall man, standing at roughly 6' 2". He was always seen as a strikingly handsome man by most who knew him. He never went to work without wearing his brown three-piece suit and matching trench coat. Price had been working at the precinct as a criminal investigator for about five years now. He was moved from being the Darkwood police departments active sheriff after a unfortunate injury he substained while trying to subdue a enemy. "Detective Price, good to see you here again" the secretary said in a sarcastic tone. Everyone at the Sanatarium knew Price, for he had been there many times trying to investigate a case that everyone thought was closed. "Good evening there miss,"John said, "I'm here to see Dr. Peterson again. He has agreed to lead me to room 110 to conduct an interview with the patient occupying it". "He told me to expect you. Just a moment while I let him know you're here" the secretary said standing up and adjusting her dark blue and wrinkled dress. She walked down the lobby to a door leading to a corridor with a sign above labeled "Minimum security wing". Price looked around the lobby noting that Darkwood was still as rundown and forgotten as it had always been. The small town was not known by most. They never had anything worth mentioning in the news or had anyone recognizable until the power plant was built. It was the first of its kind and held a new electrical reactor core powering most of the city. Well, that is until the unfortunate accident occurred causing the core to explode killing all of those people. The secretary had opened the door leading to the wing. A man in a white lab coat with matching khakis wearing a blue surgical mask entered through the doorway. He approached Detective Price saying, "Hello detective. Abigail informed me you had just arrived. If you'll follow meme, I'll be more than happy to lead you to the room you're looking for." "Thank you, Dr. Peterson. As always, it's a pleasure to see you," Price responded. "This way please" the Doctor said, leading Price through the doorway as the secretary closed it behind them with a soft bang. The footsteps of Detective John Price echoed through the corridors as Dr. Peterson led him to room number 110. The dark sanatarium wasn't the most pleasant of places and Price couldn't think of a worst place to be spending his day. As he heard the muffled voices of the patients through every door on his way down the corridorcorridor, he couldn't help but think, "How condemned must one soul be to end up in a place as sad as this? The poor tortured beings that must reside behind these doorways; the whole thing is just traumatizing". Dr. Peterson was silent; it seemed as if the voices and the sad laughter of the clinically insane didn't phasefaze him one bit. "But of course, it doesn't", Price thought to himself, "He's had to deal with these types for 10 years as the lead psychiatrist here. I don't know how one could deal with it all". Darkwood sanitarium was just about the only place in the small town of Darkwood that anyone with any psychological problem could get any bit of treatment; if any sense of the word even existed in a place so rundown and forgotten. Detective Price had but one reason for his visit on this day: the criminal who was formally known as Carl Williams Bell and to investigate the crimes he committed. Price had had plenty of run-ins with Bell before. Bell was wanted for Aggravated assault, Battery, Homicide, First-degree murder, Arson, Domestic violence and many other crimes. The only reason Bell wasn't charged and convicted for any of the horrible crimes he had committed is he was deemed clinically insane by the state of Missouri. Price had always thought theis judgement was a load of crap. He had thought Bell knew exactly what he was doing. For he had slaughtered many innocent victims no matter how mentally unstable the state had said he is. "The guilty always walk away free around here" Price had always said. Dr. Peterson had finally broken the awkward silence by saying in a matter of fact tone "So Detective, it has come to my attention that the case against Bell still hasn't been dropped by the Chief? I don't know why you lot keep pressing the matter. The man has been deemed mentally unstable. Let things go will you"? "The families of those he tortured and treated like play things in his little game want justice. It doesn't matter what the judge, or the state thinks; Bell knew perfectly well what he was doing while he was doing it", Price respond in a monotone voice that clearly gave Dr. Peterson the impression the Detective didn't have the same opinion as the judgement showed. "Bell has been a patient here for well over 2 years now. I have been personally assigned to him and have seen for myself the man isn't all there. Half the time he sits in his room mumbling complete nonsense. If you ask me, I'd say the man is quite unstable" Dr. Peterson said. "It doesn't matter to me how unstable a doctor with some degree from some University claims someone is. If a man or woman commits murder; no matter how mental they are, they deserve to pay for the crime." Price responded. "Very well than. If that is what the precinct has declared I do agree that those poor families deserve justice in anyway they can get it" Dr. Peterson said, ending the discussion. " Great", Price thought, "Another person who thinks this man deserves to just rot away here while those families loved ones have been burriedburied six feet under and they don't even get to see the criminal pay for the crimes". They had entered a staircase at the end of the corridor now and were climbing up to the second floor. As they approached the door leading to the second floor a dimly lit sign read "Medium security wing". Dr. Peterson opened the door and motioned for Price to walk on through. As they entered the wing a musty, almost moldy smell entered the air. The lights kept flickering to the point Price thought someone must had been flicking them on and off. "I apologise for the flickering of the lights. They really haven't worked since the accident at the power plant all those years ago" Peterson told Price. "You'd figure with all the other problems you guys have they'd have fixed the lights and got power back within the five years, huh" Price asked Peterson, to which he responded with a slight shrug "Again I apologise. I'm just a doctor here, not an electrician". Dr. Peterson started to lead Price past the rooms in the corridor until they finally reached where he was headed. Room 110 looked like all the others. The door was a faded black; almost to the point it looked grey. There where small iron bars covering a wire mesh window that was too dark to see through. The doctor reached into his coat pocket to pull out a ring of keys. Fumbling with the keys he finally held onto one saying to himself "Ahh, there you are" before inserting the key into the slot and opening the door with a small creak. As they stepped into a hallway leading to yet another door Price noticed a armed security guard. "Hello Price, you old gunslinger" said the guard. "Jacobson. So this is where you ended up when you left us you old dog" said Price. "Yes sir, been here about a year now. Beats getting chased by old perps and getting fingers cut off, doesn't it", the security guard asked glancing at the covered stump that was Price's finger. On his side in a holster he had a standard issue Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum along with a small billy club strapped at the hip. "As I'm sure you know it is protocol here to have a armed guard outside every room no mater who the visitor might be detective" Peterson told Price. "Not that it bothers me any, can't really shoot one of those pistols with the injury I substained. And seeing as how it's my on my dominate hand I'd rather have the company in case things get dirty",Price responded with a small smirk towards Jacobson who smiled back. "This old gunslinger got assigned to this job? Man, couldn't find anyone better?", Jacobson asked Dr. Peterson. "I don't assign anyone to anything here, sir", the Doctor responded, "And may I ask just why you keep calling him 'Gunslinger'"? Jacobson laughed with a deep rumble that could wake the dead itself and said "It's a old joke with everyone in the precinct. You see, after the crazy guy that old John Price was trying to subdue took a slice at his finger and chopped it off we started calling him Gunslinger as a joke. Seeing how he can't really even hold a gun anymore we all thought it was fitting", said Jacobson, still chuckling as he spoke. "Well, moving on from your reunion, Detective Price is here to see patient 110. Per usual protocol, Jacobson will be accompanying you into the unit" Peterson said to Price and Jacobson, fumbling with more keys as he approached the door to unit 110. Muttering to himself Peterson fit the correct key into the lock and turned the doorknob. "You know who and what awaits inside Mr. Price. I would give the the old 'You're waisting your time' spiel but I'd be wasting both of our times. Good luck, detective" Peterson murmured as he away without a second glance. Price approached the door to the now unlocked unit 110 and turned the handle to enter the all to familiar room. What awaited him inside was nothing he could have ever predicted. In all the years he had been on the force nothing prepared him for what was behind the door. The door creeked open as Detective Price and Jacobson entered into the small 6' by 8' room. In the corner of the room was a small bed with blue sheets and a white blanket. The bed had a rusty metal frame with springs underneath. It was bearly big enough for a large child let alone a full grown adult. The walls were painted a dull off white. The paint was peeling off of the celling to reveal a dark grey plaster underneath. A white porcelain sink with rusted copper that Price was pretty sure is the cause of the small puddle underneath with a cracked mirror hung at a awkward angle; almost to the point it was falling off of the wall, sat upon the wall opposite the bed. There were no windows to allow any outside light inside and the only light came from a small blub placed upon the center of the celling. A dirty looking man was kneeled down in the corner next to the sink facing the wall. He was dressed in the standard Darkwood patient clothing; a white wrinkled shirt with grey trousers. The shirt clearly showed its age as it had dark brown and green stains upon it the color of old oak bark with mold. The grey trousers he wore where more of a faded grey and had stains of yellow that made it appear as though this man had wet himself a few to many times. His dark hair was very mangled and stood up at all ends. It was almost as if he had the worst case of bedhead that Price had ever seen. His arms where caked in dirt and grime the kind that even the worst earthworms and ants wouldn't dare traverse in to make a home. A smell like a infant that hadn't had a proper change was wafting from this man that made Price gag. This made it clear indeed; the town of Darkwood was surly forgotten about if it kept the poor state of the mentally ill this bad. The man kept mumbling to himself nonsense that Price could not make out and was fumbling with his fingers. He had faded numbers in black paint sprayed along his back to make out a faint 110. "This is all the man ever does now, sit here and mumble to himself. Hardly ever eats. Never showers, never bathes, I don't think I've ever seen him sleep on my rounds neither. The man just sits there fumbling and mumbling. It's hard to believe he committed those crimes y'all are trying to incarcerate him for" Jacobson said as Price's eyes drifted around the room and back to the man again. Price remained silent for a moment while examing this man until he responded to Jacobson. "I've been on the force for 15 years here Jacobson. After my incident where I lost my finger about 10 years back they made me a detective. I know mister Carl Williams Bell very well. It's the only case they ever gave me that I feel didn't get proper justice. This whole mumbling act, it's as fake as my first wives love for me. I've seen this man before they declared him as 'Insane' and I see him clear as day now. He was, is, and always will remain brilliantly minded; all anyone has to do is open their eyes and see past these lies he's ensnared us all in. We are all but tiny little insects in a web, and he is the spider hunting his prey". Jacobson stood in silence as he took in what Price had just said. It took a moment for the words that he had heard to settle in and process. 'Brilliantly minded? How can he be brilliantly minded; all he does is sit there and rock back and forth mumbling complete nonsense to himself! Price must be as insane as mister Bell here if he sees him as some genius mind!' Jacobson silently thought to himself. Both Price and Jacobson stood in awkward silence for a moment until the silence was broken by yet more loud nonsense mutterings by Bell. "You really think this guy has some beautiful mind? That there is a genius hidden somewhere deep inside of him? Well, regardless what you think he's still insane. All the lights are on but no one's home if you catch my drift there mister Price" Jacobson said, finally breaking the silence. All Price did to respond was let out a low sigh, shrugging his shoulders and looking down at his feet. "Well, might as well ask him what you need to ask him. Not that he'll respond to anything you do ask. He never does. I don't see why y'all waste your time here honestly" Jacobson told Price. Price crossed the room to the corner that Bell was facing, gently starting to knell down to his level. He looked over him for a moment, noticing the amount of grim covering him and the foul smell drifting around him. He gently put his hand on Bells shoulder and noticed when he did Bell stoped muttering. In fact, he even stopped the awkward shakes he kept issuing the moment Price's hand hit his shoulder. Price spoke to Bell saying "Hello Carl, I don't know if you remember me. My name is John Price, I'm a detective with Darkwood Police. We've met before; many times in fact. I'm here on a case; your case. I would like to speak with you about the crimes you've been convicted of". A moment of silence followed Price's words until Bell muttered something that Price couldn't hear properly. He could've sworn he heard him say "You're wasting your time again". "I'm sorry, what was that you said?", Price asked Bell. Bell didn't respond, instead started to rock back and forth again. "Did he actually just speak?", Jacobson asked Price. "I could've sworn he said something just then, but it could've been more nonsense mutterings", Jacobson said to Price. The lights flickered suddenly, surrounding the room in a moment of darkness. In the darkness Price heard a sudden scurrying and felt something brush past him. When the lights came back on Bell was not in front of Price anymore. Price turned around to see Jacobson hunched over and Bell holding a shard of glass to his throat. Jacobson had a look of horror on his very pale face as his hand was around his pistol on his hip. "I don't think that would be a very wise idea to unholster that weapon there, I could slip and slice a vein here" Bell said, pushing the shard of glass more into Jacobson's throat to the point it drew a little blood. "What are you doing just standing there, shoot the psycho"! Jacobson said to Price. "Don't you dare make a move or I'll splatter his blood all along these walls Detective"! Bell said as Price started to move his hand toward his pistol, stopping as he realized Bell could very easily do as he had just said. "Ah, that's better there, settle down. We wouldn't want me to commit another murder now would we? Detective Price, you where always a smart one seeing that this was all just a simple act. The world is so dull; so full of unsharpened minds. You and I, we are the sharp ones. Not like this idiot Jacobson here. It's almost sad. Like the screwdriver that drives the screw into the wood, everyone can rely on these tools we use way to much. No one just uses there brains anymore"! Bell exclaimed. "Now Bell, settle down. All anyone wants to do here is talk to you. What's going on? Why are you doing this?" Price asked Bell as Jacobson was stuck with a look of horror on his face. "Why am I doing this? The one person in this room besides me that should already know the answer to that question is you, Detective. You've been on my case for how long, five years now? You know why I do the things I do. I know what they call me. Screwball. Fitting, isn't it? A brilliant mind goes a little crazy after a accident kills his daughters and her friends. If only I had forseen what was about to happen. I tried to warn them, but all these dull minded fools wouldn't listen. I told them it wasn't ready, but they just didn't listen! Let me ask you detective a simple question; have you ever lost something very near and dear to your heart? Have you ever had to watch as something you cared for and created just vanished in a flash of light before your eyes? Because I'll tell you Detective, I promise if you ever had to it would drive you to the edge as well"! Price gently started to advance towards Bell and Jacobson saying "I have lost many near and dear to me too, Bell. I've lost many partners while on the force. It makes you think you won't be able to carry on anymore. I've watched many partners get killed right before my eyes because of criminal scum. It's not a easy thing to go through. But we can get you the help you need. You have many doctors who have devoted their lives to studying the human mind and what makes it tick. Carl, before the incident you were one of the most brilliant engineers this world has seen. You where the pride and joy of Darkwood. I was astonished at what you could create. It's a shame what happened during that field trip. But ask yourself, is this really the way to remember your daughter by? Murdering innocent people, tearing families apart much like your own? Stop to think about what you are doing. This isn't the way to go around everything" Price said, still gently advancing in Bell's direction. "You don't think I've thought about what I've been doing? What do you think I am, some kind of idiot? Some insane man who just kills for fun like the papers say? I'm not doing this for fun; I'm doing this because it what has to be done. The world is so full of dull minded idiots. Only those of us with sharp minds should be allowed to thrive; to survive!", Bell said pressing the piece of glass more into Jacobson's throat, causing more blood to be drawn. "And now, tonight, my plan shall be set into motion. All you idiots do is look at us like we are all some insane people. But the funny thing is, we aren't. I've met plenty of brilliant minded men and women inside this very bulding. And tonight, I shall be leaving here with them. But not before I cleanse the world of some more dull minded fools. Tonight, unfortunately, this mans life ends. Say your goodbyes, it's going to be a messy one". Bell flicked his wrisr, thrusting the shard of glass into Jacobson's throat, slicing deep into it. Jacobson gagged, blood spraying from his throat as Bell stood behind him letting out a howling laughter, his eyes wide in bewilderment. The main lights in the building turned off as a alarm echoed through the bulding with a red light flashing. The door to the cell opened as men stood with the same uniforms Bell was wearing outside the door. All of them where patients at Darkwood. Laughter and gunshots echoed through the doorway as Bell ran for the door. Price ran for Jacobson, catching him before his body fell to the floor in a limp state. Blood poured from the slice in his throat as tears started to stream from Price's eyes. "Another one of your friends dead Detective. And now, if you'll excuse me, I must help mine escape from this wretched place. We will meet again, I feel. Until then, may the dull be sharpened until all is set right, Detective" Bell said, slamming the cell door behind him as yet more screams and gunshots followed outside. Price held Jacobson with tears in his eyes, mouth open in disbelief. "I'm sorry Jacobson, I'm sorry. I didn't see the glass in his hand when I approached him before. I didn't see it. Why didn't people believe me five years ago when I told them what he had done! This all could've been avoided!" Price said to Jacobson, still holding his dying friend in his arms. Jacobson gasped for air, and with his last dying breath, said to Price "Don't blame yourself for anything that's happened here. Just promise me that. And promise me you'll make the world see this man for what he truly is". With a last gasp Jacobson was dead. Covered in blood and tears over the lose of his friend, Price could only blame himself for what had happened. If only they had listened to him five years ago. If only they had seen Bell for what he truly was back then. Back then, if only they had seen him as what he was, The Screwball.

what used to be the Fries family home a young woman awakens much like the others, dizzy, confused, and nauseous. As she rolls onto her back, Teagan and Dexter enter the home. (Kim) “Who...where...” (Teagen) “Rest, Ms. Fries. It’s a troublesome ordeal the three of us have been through as well.” (Dexter) “Fries? Like that crazy doctor?” (Teagen) “Mhm, before us lays the great granddaughter of Nora and Victor Fries. Her grandfather was adopted by members of the Fries family shortly after Nora fell ill. Between Victor dedicating his life to finding a cure, and his eventually transformation into Mr. Freeze, the young man was raised never knowing his real parents.” (Kim) “You...you...” (Teagan) “Help her up Dex, she can recover in the car. “ Once in the car the trio head back towards Gotham. Kimberly comes to fully halfway to their destination and Teagan catches her up to date on everything. They arrive at a long abandoned apartment building. (Dexter) “I don’t think that’s up to code...” (Teagan) “Adrian should be done with a quick search...they should be out here waiting for us.” (Kim) “If what you told me is correct, they should be able to handle a situation shall it arise.” (Dexter) “Yeah Adrian’s a badass, I’m sure they’re just waiting for us inside.” Teagan sighs and the three exit the car. They enter the building and Teagan immediately calls out for Adrian. (Teagan) “I can’t feel them...Adrian!” Teagan takes down one of the hallways before Dexter and Kim can stop her. (Kim) “There’s more to their relationship then meets the eye?” (Dexter) “I think so, neither have said anything but I got lost my first night in the headquarters and found them sleeping in the same bed sooooo...” He shrugs sarcastically and motions for Kim to follow him down the hallway and after Teagan... Teagen glides slowly through the first floor, looking in every room for any sign of Adrian. As she gets closer to the stairwell she finally picks up on a presence but it’s not Adrian. She flies up the stairs in a flash. She flies into room 2A and once again finds it empty. But as she turns to leave she’s grabbed by the face and forced down to the ground. Someone holds her arms down while the other covers her face. ‘ (???) “Calm down little dove...I think we can help each other.” (??? 2) “Hurry up I can’t hold her for long.” (???) “Right, here’s the scenario. We have Adrian and clearly they mean something very important to you little dove. So we’ll let them...and you go without any problems if you just help us find-“ (??? 2) “Company!” The person jumps to the left to avoid being hit by a green cannonball that destroys the balcony door and coats the floor in glass. (Kim) “Be careful you twit Teagans over there!” (Dexter) “I’m still new to this lay off.” He goes to fire another at the strange holding Teagen down but the stranger stands up and holds Teagen out in front of her. Dexter quickly pulls back, almost hurting himself in the process. The second figure tackles Kim and takes her into the hallway. Dex takes his off the masked stranger in front of him for a split second. When he turns back, they’re gone and Teagen s on the ground bleeding. Dex begins to dry heave and double over in repulsion. He’s suddenly grabbed by the stranger and forced against the wall. (???) “Hard to play hero when you can’t stand the sight of blood...” The stranger uses their free hand to rip a chunk off their mask off. Dex kicks and tries to scream as the strangers face proceeds to bleed profusely. Debs starts to hyperventilate as he feels it...his own face is bleeding. Slowly, it washes over his vision and he comes close to passing out. With this, the stranger throws him into the bathroom. (??? 2) “And here I thought you said you weren’t crazy like your great granddaddy?” (???) “I’m not...but sometimes extreme measures are needed. Where’s the Fries girl?” (??? 2) “Knocked out stone cold in the hallway. No trouble at all.” (???) “Perfect, come we must find the Luthor boy before they come to.

Gabby double checked the address in her phone as her small Toyota climbed over rocks and roots down Orchard Road. After confirming she was indeed going in the right direction, she squinted at what appeared to be a massive, ivy covered, red brick building in the distance. The morning sun was cutting through just enough autumn fog to allow her to see it must have been built ages ago. The brick was crumbling, the ivy stretching, the windows coated with dusty memories. She had received an email giving her a heads-up that a very worthwhile estate sale was taking place Saturday morning. She often received announcements from realtors, and was on several lists to be notified when local sales would be taking place. Gabby had a keen eye for antiques, and the ones she didn’t hang on to, she sold for top dollar. It wasn’t so much the money she was interested in, but in being able to earn enough to keep investing in more treasures. Every old vase held memories of flowers long gone, perhaps given by a doting husband, or an enamored lover. An antique sewing machine hummed its stories of a struggling mother, making clothing for her children in the late night hours after a full days work. Depression glasses were filled with the tears of hungry children, opening the boxes of Quaker Oats to find the free glassware placed inside as an incentive to buy their products. So many stories, so much history. It was the people Gabby had in her heart, their lives and what they had to say. And she wanted to know all of them, all their stories. She slowly pulled closer to the once majestic home. It surely was a sight when it was cared for and maintained. Now, the grass was overgrown, the flower beds filled with weeds, and the shrubberies threatened to overtake the entrance. Gabby pulled all the way up in the long driveway adjacent to the house. She must be the first to arrive, she thought to herself. Which was just how she liked it. Gabby was not a haggler, or one to try to outbid another interested party at estate sales. It just wasn’t her nature. She had the mindset that if it was meant to be, it was meant to be. If she was the one meant to take home a piece, then she would. She closed her car door, and began to approach the front door, an old wooden one with cracked paint and splinters spiking out, daring one to knock. From the corner of her eye, Gabby thought she saw someone move past a second story window. Likely the person in charge of the sale. Gabby lifted her hand to knock on the worn door, but it seemed to open before she could make contact. Just as well, she thought, she probably would have ended up with wood in her knuckles. “Hello? Anyone here?” Gabby slowly took a step inside, and tried to adjust her gaze to the dimly lit rooms. She looked to her right for a light switch, just as a voice echoed down from the long stairwell in the foyer. “Good morning, Gabby. Thank you for coming today. I knew you’d be interested in this sale,” the voice called out. Slowly, a figure descended the stairs, almost appearing to float downwards. “Oh, hello! I received an email about the estate sale today. It seems I’m the first to arrive,” Gabby replied to her host. She extended her hand in greeting, and the old woman accepted it with a wrinkled smile. “The first, and only. I’m Genevieve. I’m taking care of my sister’s estate now that she’s passed. Helen has a house full of very special, very unique things. Why don’t we look around.” “I’m so sorry for your loss, thank you for having me here today.” “No, thank you for coming. Let’s get started,” Genevieve said and began to make her way into the parlor. Gabby followed, and gazed upon a room filled with paintings, china, handmade blankets and quilts, and...something caught her attention on an end table. Gabby walked toward the table, and glanced back at Genevieve. “May I?” she asked, gesturing to the table. “Please do.” Gabby picked up an ebony box, crafted of wood, with ornate patterns carved into it. Despite its age, it was far from faded. “African Blackwood. Open it,” Genevieve instructed, as she soundlessly appeared at Gabby’s side. Gabby opened the Black Box, and inside found a mirror on the inside of the lid. The interior of the box was lined with black velvet. She ran her fingers over the smooth material, seamlessly attached. “This is gorgeous. Such a treasure...is it part of the sale?” Gabby hopefully asked. “Yes. I was hoping you’d like this piece. It was very special to Helen. I believe you will find it special, as well.” “How much are you asking for it?” “Not a thing. Only the promise that you keep it, and use it as Helen had. That will become clear soon,” Genevieve said, closing the Black Box in Gabby’s hands. “Are you...sure about this? I really don’t mind paying you what it’s worth,” Gabby said, taken aback by the thought of having the Black Box for free. “It is as Helen would want it. Please, on your way out, stop in the garden where her memorial stone is placed.” “I most certainly will do that. Thank you so much, Genevieve.” Gabby left the house, Black Box in her hands, and saw the memorial Genevieve had told her about. She stopped to read the words written in the stone. “Our Beloved Helen” was clearly visible. But then, something underneath appeared to be written backwards. “How strange. I wonder what that says...” Gabby whispered, as she traced her fingers over the cold stone. Then she realized something. “Wait! Maybe if I...” Gabby opened the Black Box, and used the mirror to read the cryptic writing. She saw in the mirror, “Our last secrets, secret no more.” What could that mean? As Gabby furrowed her brow in thought at this message, she heard something coming from the box. Quickly, she looked inside. Rather than the mirrored message, she now saw a face. It was the face of a woman who had a striking resemblance to Genevieve. Could this be, Helen? “You’ve discovered the secret of the Black Box, Gabby. It’s a very special box indeed. It reveals the last thoughts, the last words, our loved ones wanted to share right before they left the world. To use the box, simply allow the mirror to reflect their picture. They will appear, as I am now, and reveal the last thoughts they have for their loved ones. This box will help with healing after a loved one passes on, and Genevieve and I knew you were the one to have it. She will be gone soon too, and will join me. It’s now up to you to help others,” Helen said. “But, why me? Why did you choose me?” Gabby asked, not knowing if she was experiencing reality or a dream of some kind. “We’ve known you since you were a child. The mirror has let us see your life, just as you will see the life of the one who should inherit the Black Box next,” Helen gently said. “How will I know who needs my help? Who needs closure?” “The mirror will show you that too. Once you see who is in the mirror, you will find them and ask for their loved one’s picture. Only you will be able to hear their last words. Then you must tell their loved ones,” Helen told her. “But what if they don’t believe me? What if they think I’m crazy?” “Trust me, they won’t. This will be what they need, how they can move on. And they will only be thankful to you for giving them that gift. And now, take the Black Box and trust in yourself. Goodbye, Gabby.” And with that, the box closed. Gabby sat staring at the box in her hands. Did that really just happen? She stood up, and tried to collect her thoughts. As she went back to her car, she saw a white light start to slip from the carving in the front of the box. Gabby opened the box, and saw an image in the mirror. It was not someone she recognized. Then, as if someone were writing on it, she saw the name “Charlie Gardener” appear below the image. This must be the first person she needs to find. Gabby closed the box. She started her car, and set out with her new responsibility. One that she felt honored to now possess. Gabby paused on Orchard Road, typed “Charlie Gardener” into her phone, and found an address. Placing her hand atop the Black Box, she drove to the main road. It was time.

Completely change life. Completely change attitude to life. Completely change outlook and way of thinking. Ignore everyone who is negative don’t get drawn into any negative situations. Those people can all take a running jump this year. You have had enough. Be strong. Listen to and learn from everyone. Especially listen to Harry and appreciate that while I don’t understand why he does what he does, that he has good intentions but just can’t express himself without being the most annoying person on the planet. But listen to him anyway and try to learn something, difficult as it might be. Study more. Sleep more. Go to the gym. Relax more. Take time to be good to myself because if I don’t then nobody else will. Take long walks in the countryside. Pick up litter. Find woman from car park and put litter in her car. Make food plan and stick to it. Keep bottle tops and make a craft out of them when I have enough. Get revenge on Sally. Don’t let it get to the stage where I forget what she has done and start being all nice to her again because she will only do the same thing again. Stand up for myself. Get even with the woman with the eyebrows at the shop. Maybe buy something without paying for it and return it and say that it wasn’t what I bought even though I didn’t pay for it and then watch her face when I ask her well how does it feel now eyebrow woman? Look for the good in everyone. Call customer service and block Sally. Invite Sally to my birthday party and then cancel her on the same day. Make sure to invite Brenda from inbound. Find a way to guarantee that she will come and Sally will know she came but Sally didn’t. Buy myself flowers and post them to myself because if I don’t then nobody else will. Introduce Harry to family. Prepare everyone beforehand, especially mom. Explain to mom that Harry is affected or has memory loss; think of a good one. Make sure Harry doesn’t swear. Practice conversations with him beforehand where he doesn’t swear in the conversations. Reward him with beer. Do something nice for mom because if I don’t nobody else will, especially not dad because he just sits on his behind all day watching TV. Stop drinking coffee and start drinking rose hip tea. Wait to see if Harry books somewhere to go out for 21 st February or Valentine’s Day and if he doesn’t, book somewhere myself and go alone and take photos and shame him completely. Get in touch with inner self. Plan and execute astounding birthday party for myself because if I don’t then nobody else will. Order cake, organize music. Make birthday party list. Make invitations. Give invitation to Brenda and Will but make sure Will doesn’t come but he won’t come anyway because he won’t want to be there just as much as I don’t want him to be there. Be honest with myself. Make lunch with salt sandwiches and leave in fridge at work so that Mandy will eat it. Meditate. Practice Temperance. Learn Spanish but don’t tell anyone and then I will understand everything the Spanish girls are saying but they won’t know. Don’t get new job because let’s face it I am not going to do it so why put it on the list. Just do another year of mindless, robotic labor without thanks or satisfaction and in the company of coworkers who are all backstabbing liars, for hardly any money because that’s my life so just get used to it and stop complaining or else do something which I am not going to do so shut up. Update C.V. Buy lots of flowers and plants. Stop being so nice to everyone. Develop thick skin. Look for the beauty in everyday things. Take up photography. Take pictures of everything I see that is yellow. Then red. Then blue and so on. Remember that I am not what other people perceive me to be. I am not defined by what other people think of me. I am a good person. I want to do good things. I try to live my life in the most honest way and I am a generous and loyal friend and partner. Do not give what I do not get. Stop being so damn nice to everyone and being a doormat. Do not share with people who will not give me a single thing in return. Smile at strangers. Help people in need. Be more difficult to read. Maybe take up poker. Ask Harry to teach me. Do my own thing and stop following the crowd like a human sheep. Buy a hat and start being the kind of person who always wears a different hat but nobody thinks it’s weird because that’s just my ‘thing’. Get some kind of ‘thing’ even if it is not hats so people will say ‘what are you doing at the weekend?’ and I will say ‘oh I’m doing such and such a thing, you know’ and they’ll think of course you are because that’s your ‘thing’. And people will automatically think of whatever ‘thing’ that is when they think of me because that’s what I do. Don’t turn down opportunity. If I get asked somewhere, go. If I meet new people, be proactive and ask them to join me on my ‘thing’. Be a magnet person who attracts people to them but in a positive way, not like Sally who has her coven of witches and only spreads nasty gossip and negativity. Don’t wait for life to go speeding by. Jump on the passing train. Find out about events and go to them. Go alone because Harry won’t go anyway and don’t wait for him to do anything because he won’t do anything except sit on his behind and play computer games. Emancipate myself from the living room. Even if it is only to walk into town in the evening, do it. Speak my mind. Don’t be afraid to tell the truth. Don’t bite my tongue when people say bad things. Be the kind of person who is not afraid to say what they think even if it is not the so-called ‘right time’ because if I don’t then nobody else will. Be more like Brenda. But not in the way that she talks over everyone and doesn’t respect what people say and that everyone has their own opinion and who’s to say who is right and who is wrong because I have my truth and someone else has their truth and neither of us knows the full background of the other and the nuances of what is not said because everyone has a different life history and experience and we can learn a lot just by listening instead of talking over people all the time, like Brenda. Confront Sally. Tell her that I am not going to be walked over and a true friend is not someone who disrespects someone else by spreading gossip and telling them one thing and doing another thing, but instead is someone who is loyal and generous. Tell Sally that she can take a running jump off the end of the pier and I won’t be going in after her until she apologizes and tells everyone the truth which is that I am a good person who would never do what she said I did and why is nobody talking about Will anyway and only me? Alternative plan: Start nasty rumor about Sally. Make sure it’s a good one. Somehow make it untraceable to me. Don’t tell anyone, especially Harry and Brenda. Wait for rumor to do the rounds. Then defend Sally in front of everyone so everyone for sure knows it wasn’t me and Sally thinks I am great and feels really bad and apologizes to me in front of everyone and they all know I would never do what Sally said because I am not like that. Get promoted. Work really hard. Throw myself into work and be dedicated and learn the ‘system’ because if I am not going to get a new job then at least I can try to get more money in the job I am in and I could even become the boss of Sally and Mandy and Brenda and all those hateful minions and then when I get promoted I will be really nice to everyone so they will say ‘oh yeah you are actually a very nice person, we were so wrong about you, we are so sorry’ and I will say ‘that’s no problem, everyone makes mistakes. we never know the nuances of someone’s life history, don’t worry’, but secretly I will keep an eye on them and when the chance comes I will be ready. I will play a long game, like a world champion poker player because I will be difficult to read and they won’t know what I really think. Be a force for positivity in the world. Be the kind of person I would like to be friends with myself. Be good.

I love my new apartment. It’s a hard loft, converted from a slaughterhouse that closed up back in the sixties. It’s a corner unit where three of the walls are covered in exposed brick. Original rebar posts run from the polished cement floor up through the sweeping, timber-lined ceiling. Huge, warehouse-style windows provide a beautiful view of the lake. All in all, it’s not a bad place to be, especially with its proximity to the downtown core. It was eye-wateringly expensive. It took me five years to save for the down payment. Five years of living in a cold, humid basement with three roommates beside me and twin toddlers upstairs. I spent nearly a year searching, and I didn’t buy until I found a place that made my heart leap with joy. Notwithstanding the realtor’s boast that the slaughterhouse used to kill over 6000 pigs per day before it burned down, this converted loft felt like home the moment I stepped into it. Like all first-time homeowners, there were things I didn’t expect, which took a little getting used to. I didn’t sleep a wink the first few nights I spent there. It was something - perhaps the one thing - I hadn’t thought to ask about during my search. The noise. Every night, I could hear something moving inside the one plastered wall, and perhaps the air ducts. It didn’t worry me too much: it didn’t sound like bugs or mice. It was the soft but distinct sound of a large volume of what sounded like sand. Sand that would slide behind the re-plastered wall and accumulate behind the baseboard. Sand that seemed to move as though caught in a draft. It wasn’t completely continuous - there were breaks once in a while, then just as I was falling asleep, it would continue again, just loud enough to wake me up again. I thought I could try to get used to the noise, but something about it was so oppressive and persistent that it was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t overwhelmingly loud, yet it still penetrated any kind of ear plugs I could find at the drugstore. I actually left the apartment after the first sleepless night and stayed at my friend Jessy’s, but after a couple of days, I realized I was overstaying my welcome. Jessy didn’t understand why I couldn’t just go to sleep in the new apartment I had raved about the week before. So I went back, and tried again. I couldn’t make it work. After two more sleepless nights, I asked Jessy to sleep over with me. Nighttime rolled around, and she settled down on the futon. I turned off the lights and lay flat on my back, not expecting to be able to fall asleep. I heard it as soon as my eyelids started to feel heavy. The rush of sand behind the walls and ceiling. Moving, dribbling, settling here and there around the place. Jessy stirred. She could clearly hear it, too. Neither of us slept that night. The next day, Jessy let me sleep over at her place without a fuss. Once we had both rested up, she offered to take a look inside the wall. She wasn’t a construction worker, but she had helped family members with home renovations before and thought it would be worth it to see if there was something in there, like sawdust, that was being pushed around by a draft at night. She arrived at my apartment and taped a plastic tarp down on the floor in one corner to catch any dust or plaster that came from the wall. She measured out a small rectangle, marked it with a pencil, then used what looked like a box-cutter to slice through the drywall. As she drew the blade across the penciled line, what appeared to be incredibly fine black sand began to pour out. Jessy paused, waiting for the sand to stop. It poured and poured from the tiny wound onto the plastic sheet below. It was dark grey and uneven. Some particles were heavy enough to make a skittering sound, while others were nearly invisible and whirled upwards to hang in the air. It was also unstable. I touched one corner of the mound gathering on the tarp and felt the larger particles collapse under my fingers into fine, dark, dust. Several more moments passed, but the flow of sand from the wall wasn’t stopping. The mound below Jessy’s incision kept growing larger and larger until it surpassed the edges of the sheet and spilled out onto the polished concrete floor. We waited for a long time. I don’t remember exactly how long, but it felt like the stream of particles coming out of the wall would never end. Eventually, it did stop, but when we tried to pick it up in the tarp, it scattered all over the place. I almost cried. Black dust covered my furniture, and our clothes. It was all over the walls. So I stayed at Jessy’s place for the next few nights. I was dreading the return to my apartment, afraid of what ash-covered disaster I would come home to. Jessy offered to let me stay until I found a renter, but I refused. I had paid so much money. I was determined to make this apartment work. So I went back the following afternoon. I was surprised to see that the mess I had fled several days before was completely gone. The hole in the drywall was still there, of course. But I couldn’t spot a speck of black dust anywhere. Even the tarp was clean. I didn’t have an explanation for it, and neither did the building’s concierge. He assured me that no one had entered my apartment while I was gone. I asked if someone from maintenance might have come in, but the concierge denied it. I had an uneventful afternoon. I showered and unpacked a few more things. I set up my new coffee table and topped it with a blown-glass fruit bowl filled with fresh apples. I rolled out a thick-pile shag carpet and positioned a few chairs on top of it. I still needed a sofa, but the place was starting to shape up. When I went to bed that night, I couldn’t hear anything coming from the walls. I supposed that the hole in the wall allowed the sand to escape and that the noise issue would be gone. Unfortunately, I was wrong. The sand wasn’t in the walls anymore though. I could hear it rushing around in the main room of my apartment. I rolled out of bed and opened my bedroom door. The dark dust had swirled into the shape of what appeared to be a slaughterhouse pig. It snorted, and shook its head a little to help the last bits of ash settle into place. I couldn’t move. I was afraid to let the ash pig out of my sight, even for the moment it would take to reach backwards and turn on my bedside lamp. I just stood there, my body stiff, my eyes locked on the creature. The pig, by contrast, seemed completely relaxed. It shuffled around the apartment, bumping into furniture and rubbing dark ash everywhere it went. When it turned its back to me, I managed to gather the courage to reach over and tap the button at the base of my lamp. For some reason, I expected the pig to disappear when the lights turned on. It didn’t. Now apparently able to see, it moved with more energy and began exploring the apartment with greater enthusiasm. It sniffed at my unopened boxes, then wandered to the kitchen. I slowly released the breath I had unknowingly been holding, and tried to massage the tension out of my shoulders with my fingers. Ok... it’s a ghost pig. It could be worse. I muttered some small comforts to myself as I tried not to cry. As my heart rate started to return to normal, I heard a crash from the main room. I couldn’t help but let out a small scream. Something fragile had broken, and I could hear it crunching under the pig’s hooves. It must have been the glass fruit bowl on the low coffee table. I could hear the pig crunching on the apples for about ten more minutes before it settled down. There was no chance that I was going to go back to sleep. I waited until I couldn’t hear anything coming from the next room. Then I waited another half an hour. Once a full hour had gone by, the fear had largely passed, and I felt ready to venture through the half-open bedroom door. The pig was still there. It had nestled into the white shag carpet, apparently sleeping. It was surrounded by broken glass and apple cores. My fruit bowl was destroyed. Black ash covered the coffee table and hung in the air. I stood there. Who was I supposed to call? The concierge wouldn’t be back for another three hours. The pig lay on the shag carpet, occasionally stirring in its sleep. I began to carefully sweep up the broken glass. As the hours passed, the sun began to rise over the lake, and as gorgeous golden light flooded the room, the ash on the furniture that I had been trying to clean began to fade away. I turned to the ghost pig and caught one last glimpse of it as it disappeared. The pig had been back every night ever since. As the days have gone by, I found myself reconciling with the spectral intruder. I mean, most days I wouldn’t wake up in time for the sunrise without *his* help. Of course, I had to make a few changes in my life to live in harmony with the ghost pig. I now know to avoid leaving fragile crockery out on the table. I make sure to leave some easily accessible fruit on the floor; that makes it less tempting for him to try to open up the cupboards and make a mess. Most nights I sleep well, now. My advice for other potential condo buyers is to keep an open mind. When you walk through the right door, you’ll know it. And don’t ever let a building’s quirks stop you from following your heart.

He sat on the couch. Eyes plastered to the TV, but not retaining anything he was seeing. His stomach growled at him, but he didn’t have the energy to move an inch, much less eat something. His eyes were red and swollen from crying. Tears were already pooling in the corners waiting for the next bout of sadness. There was a hole in his chest. A hole that was now pumping out numbness to every corner of his body. What happened? Where did I go wrong? How can I fix this? These thoughts bounced across his damaged mind consuming him. His mind was a hellscape. Where once there was happiness, there was now despair. Only sorrow’s ugly shadows remained where joy’s light once shone. Nightmares sat taunting him on the pieces of his once unbroken dreams. He cried, pleaded to God, the universe, anyone that would listen, to give him another chance to make it right. He was suddenly jolted back to reality, confused by his new surroundings. Wait these surroundings aren’t new. I know this restaurant! He thought, still processing what was happening. He looked across from him in the booth and there she was. His heart sank. There she was. It suddenly hit him. This is our first date! Were his cries answered? Does he have another shot at making this work? “Are you still with me over there?” she said, slightly puzzled. “Oh...uh yeah sorry.” He said followed by an awkward laugh. “So....siblings?” She said getting the conversation back on track. “Um...yeah, one brother.” He quickly quipped. Is this possible? Am I really being given a second chance? Still confused he gleefully went along with the rest of the date. I won’t spoil this chance I’ve been given. The next few months flew by, as if no time was passing at all. Awash in the pure ecstasy of being with her again, he was able to relive the good moments he had already had with her. Fixing any of the mistakes he had made the first time around. Being there for her when he was not before, giving her space when before he smothered her, thoroughly enjoying moments he had once taken for granted. What was once months flying by was now years. He had now long passed the point where this relationship had failed the first time around. He was living the dream. Living from happy moment to happy moment. Every day he thanked...whoever...for allowing him this unbelievable opportunity. For allowing him to make his dreams come true. He looked down at the ring. He couldn’t believe this moment had finally come. He quickly hid it away in his pocket as she returned from the restroom. She sat down across from him in the booth. The same booth where he had once been given a second chance. His body was exploding with emotion, joy, anxiety, bliss, nerves. He motioned behind her, “Is that a new painting over there?” She turned to look as he went to the side and onto one knee. “I don’t think s....Oh my God!” she turned back around and knew what was happening. Tears welled in her eyes as a smile stretched across her face. “You make me the happiest man in the world. Honey, will you marry me?” He felt almost relieved, but couldn’t be fully until he heard the response. He looked at her wide-eyed waiting for her reply. “As if you don’t already know the answer. Ye...” The shrill sound of the alarm clock pierced through his ears. He got up from the couch and looked around confused by his new surroundings. Wait these surrounding aren’t new. The TV was still on playing the show he wasn’t paying attention to. His eyes still swollen from the tears they shed. Still groggy, he instinctually went to his phone to text her about the crazy dream he just had. He went to messages, went to her name.

THE BOOK THAT CHANGED MY WORLDVIEW How do we know when something unexpected and momentous has happened in our lives, something that will change our thinking, our belief system, our understanding of the essential nature of things? Such things do not usually come with a flashing sign that says: This is it! Pay attention! But, sometimes, rare times, that is exactly the way it happens, and if we are truly paying attention, it is as if a door opens and we plunge through that door, and our lives are transformed. For me, one of those rare times happened one day when I was thirty years old in a small library in the town where I was then living and working as a substitute teacher. I have always loved libraries. They are magical places to me, capable of taking me anywhere. The smell of them coming from shelf upon shelf of books has always been almost intoxicating. The thrill of running my eyes along the titles on the spines of those books was the same thrill I felt gazing up at the stars and wondering. The flash in my mind when pulling a book from the shelf and upon opening it to a random page finding myself stunned by words on that page that call forth thoughts, questions, feelings of such intensity that I know beyond all doubt that I must read the book I am holding in my hands. Sometimes the feeling has been so strong that I would collapse into a nearby reading chair and begin to imbibe the book sip by sip: First, the tile page; second, the table of contents; third, the dedication (if present); fourth, the epigraph (if present, and always hoping there would be); fifth, the introduction or preface. At that point, with my appetite whetted, I would tremulously turn to the first page of the text and begin reading. What happened next would always depend upon the book itself. If it enchanted, intrigued, promised new vistas, then, I would know I would check it out of the library and take it home to read. There I stood on that day in that small town library when my eyes fell upon an intriguing title which was The Tao of Physics: An Exploration of the Parallels between Modern Physics and Eastern Mysticism (1975). I knew very little about physics or the Tao. But, that mind-spark had happened, and I knew enough to pay attention. I pulled the book from the shelf and did my usual survey of title page, dedication, table of contents, epigraph, becoming increasingly intrigued. Then, I started reading the preface and intuited I was possibly on the brink of some sort of transformative experience. I continued reading. Fritjof wrote: “This book is intended for the general reader with an interest in Eastern mysticism who need not necessarily know anything about physics.” (Capra, 1975, p. xvi) With a jolt, I realized he was describing me. I immediately rose, walked to the checkout desk and checked the book out, hurried home and devoured it, only stopping once to fix myself something to eat and make coffee. I stayed up most of the night. When I finished the book, many big thoughts and questions were swirling in my mind, and I knew I wanted to own a copy. I returned the library book and spent the next couple of weeks haunting 2 nd hand book shops and garage sales until I found a used copy in good condition that I could afford to buy. The year was 1976. I still have it, forty-five years later. Recently, and many life experiences later, I find myself avidly rereading it and thinking about the transformation of my worldview since my first reading and the ways that transformation developed and manifested over all that time between then and now. My first reading of The Tao of Physics when I was thirty planted many seeds. I had begun meditating a couple of years earlier, but was very much a novice. Reading Capra’s words about meditation as part of the Eastern mystics “tool kit” affirmed a deeper commitment within me to persevere with the practice, and I have done so right up to the present. Meditation became a life-long tool to use to probe and understand the connections of body, mind, and spirit in order to navigate daily life with all its ups and downs. Now, I cannot imagine living my life without the practice of meditation. I continue because it makes me feel calm, centered, and gifts me with unexplainable flashes of knowingness by developing within me the intuitive way of knowing. Capra makes the point that the essence of the worldview of Eastern mystics is the concept that all things and events are interrelated as part of one unified whole. This same concept is also one of the basic elements emerging from quantum physics (p.89). In my personal belief system, the concept of the unified whole has played out in efforts to ignore efforts to fragment and divide people as debilitating for the common good. Thus, I have tried to make decisions in my life that lead to harmony rather than disharmony. For instance, I strive to learn to listen to those who have grievances born of fragmentation and respond in such a way that does not feed those grievances. I also have learned that for me it is important to understand where and when to put attention on my thoughts, words, and actions because I realize that from both an Eastern mystic and quantum physics perspective, placement of one’s attention can actually aid or destroy manifestation of whatever it is upon which one is focused. Thus, intentional attention placement is a skill worth developing. Reading The Tao of Physics also lit a fire in me to know a lot more about Eastern mysticism and quantum physics. Over the years, I have steadily added more and more books on both topics to my personal library to read and ponder, to learn and grow in my understanding. I’ve inculcated the understandings I’ve gained into my personal belief system which has supported me in both good times and bad on my life journey. Continued study has brought deeper understandings of the writings of Eastern mystics and quantum physicists. I have become able to ride the waves of change so inevitable in life because the boundaries of my worldview have been expanded and are expanding still.

They’re all the same. At first, you feel invincible, at one with the universe, so Zen that you’re certain you’ve found Enlightenment. The high reaches to the stratosphere, and the feeling is so warm and calming, it’s like being engulfed in the very essence of love itself. But it doesn’t last. I’ve tried so hard to find the perfect drug, but no matter what I try, I can’t find one that gives me a lasting high. I’m not picky, either. I’ve gone to several different dealers, traveled the world searching for the next promise of finally satiating that need to find a fix. With each hit, I feel exhilaration, but only momentarily, and each time it takes more and more to get the same effect. I fall off of my euphoric mountains with a cascade of broken hopes that this time would be the time. The time that I figure out the formula for a lasting effect, the time that I can retain the buzz, forget all of my pains and anxieties. I know this is possible, because of the countless examples of smiling faces that I see on social media. Family and friends, all finding the correct cocktail of their drugs of choice, and “living their best lives.” There are thousands of pictures and videos, all pointing to the one obvious, ultimate conclusion: everyone else is capable of sustaining the high, except me. My apparent inadequacy only fuels my quest to find the next score. Last year, I gave $12,000 to a dealer who swore his stuff was the purest, the cleanest, and would give the most lasting high. I spent two weeks wandering the wilderness, contorting into various unnatural poses, and attempting to “find the inner me.” I’ll admit, this high lasted the longest out of everything I ever tried, and it didn’t wear off for several weeks. But inevitably, I slowly slipped back to baseline. Half a year’s worth of mortgage money down the drain. My taste hasn’t always been this expensive. In the beginning, I was satisfied with quick, cheap thrills to fill my veins and make me feel alive again. It was so easy to feel good when I was a kid, and the smallest amount of product kept me going. There were ads for it all over TV, telling me that I could buy the high for 4 easy payments of $9.99, if I acted now. Billboards taught a young me that bliss was just a bowlful of concentrated sugar cereal away, or that I was just one burger short of eternal happiness, and I wanted so much to believe it was true. Radio ads explained that the best of the drug that money could buy was at the latest theme park a few towns away. We went there twice as a family, looking for a fix, but it wore off before we even left. As I grew older, I searched for the high in relationships, with friends, with family, with lovers. It always felt that if I could just gain their approval, become the perfect me, do everything they asked, that I could attain my goal. But when the feel-good chemicals wore off, and I found myself in a lopsided exchange, where I was giving so much of myself for such little return on investment, I became incredibly discouraged. When it comes to trying to find satisfaction through other people’s opinions of me, the fall definitely outweighs the climb. The local church purported to be the best source of the best drug on today’s market, so naturally I tried there, too. Everyone there was so high that they were singing and dancing in the aisles, arms raised, smiling and weeping and hugging. That drug had zero effect on me, which was very disappointing, because it seemed so efficient for everyone else there. If anything, it made me uncomfortable and question my life choices. A university several states away hailed their drug, Accomplishment, as the next big thing that everyone would want. They guaranteed that you would leave there fully doped up and ready to find a job that would either keep you buzzed, or give you money to buy it elsewhere. Talk about the world’s biggest sham. I spent 6 years there, taking hit after hit of Accomplishment, but all it ever gave me was a bad trip and a wicked case of lifelong anxiety for not living up to standards. And finding a high at a job? Yeah, good luck there. I know some people who found a lasting high through their careers, but those people are few and far between. Most people that I know go down some dark rabbit holes because of the state of their employment options, taking hardcore stuff like Belittling Others, Overeating, or Doom Scrolling. I’ve never gotten mixed up with anything that serious. Okay, maybe once. ...Twice, but that’s because I was out of cash and was jonesing. I swear that I haven’t touched the hard stuff in a long time. I’m not saying the temptation isn’t there. What makes the hardcore stuff so malicious is that it feels really, really, really good when you’re taking it, that you don’t even realize the damage that’s done until it’s too late. I won’t pretend I’m a saint, that doesn’t do me any favors. I’ve done some of the hard stuff, but mostly I’ve tried the usual things: Traveling, New Car, Self-Help Podcast, Spending Spree, New Phone, Fad Diet, People-Pleasing (that was a hard one to kick), Buying a House, Prestigious Job, New Year’s Resolution, Coffee, Avoidance, Denial, and Compartmentalizing. These all seem to work for other people, but it’s never enough for me. A friend suggested that I try their current brand, they swear by it, but after everything else I’ve tried, I am skeptical. They are currently on Self Acceptance. Sounds like another scam to me. But they’ve been on it for 3 years now, and haven’t lost their high, so I might give it a try someday. The problem is that the high from Self Acceptance takes some effort, and I’m not really into working that hard for it. There isn’t a dealer where you can just pick that stuff up. You’ve got to make that shit yourself. No thank you, not after being burned so many times before. It’s a hell of a lot easier to just go buy a new watch and give that a try, you know what I mean? I’ll take a swing at it when it’s more convenient. When I have more time. Until then, I guess I’ll keep searching for my drug of choice elsewhere. I heard that there’s a sale on Amazon this weekend...

Walking home from work I take my usual route, a shortcut that I take every day around this time but today is a little different, today there is someone taking this shortcut with me. There was a man waiting here today, waiting for me. He pulled a gun and said "Today I give you a choice, I can take your life, or I can take what your life is worth to you." I told him I will give him my lifes worth, as most of us would I imagine. I told him that I just need to get it from my bag, he didn't look very convinced and tightened his grip on his pistol as he nodded to me. From my bag I took a pen and a book, I always carry a book with me, there are always times when you find yourself with nothing to do and they are just the best for killing time. Oh, I didn't even realize then that i used those words in my head at a time like that, I even suprise myself sometimes. I opened the book and after a moments thought wrote, "A life for a life. In return for mine, I give you this. A life that neither of us can hope to have, but a life that we will both live. Every book you read, every game you play, is another life lived, another world experienced. I hope this life I have given to you is only the first of many that you will live." With this I handed him the book and bagged the pen. He opened the book and read what I wrote and the most astonished look came across his face. Without looking up from the book he said "You are the first person who did not throw money at me, but something that you believe to be worth your life." With no other words spoken, no eye contact given, with no hesitation he turned and started to walk away, only to vanish under the street light after a few steps had been taken. As I made my way home I was fighting with myself trying to figure out what had happened, was it real or something I had conjured, how could it even happen, who was he? None of these questions I could answer, not in the slightest and I fought with them as I lay in bed till I found myself drifting into a deep sleep. As I awoke the next morning I wrote it off as another crazy dream and went about my day as I usually do, I even took the same shortcut to and from work, just to prove to myself that it was a dream, that nothing happened. As I arrived home from work, fumbling with my keys as the sky was turning dark, I felt something, it's that feeling you get when somethings off, when the hair on your arms starts to stand up and your heart starts to beat faster, it's almost as if your body knows what's happening before your brain does. With the dream I had last night and the reaction my body was having, I admit I started to panic, and because of this my previous key fumbling turned into key dropping. Before I could reach down to pick them up another hand wrapped around them, my heart was beating out of my chest, I was sure they could hear it, it was the only thing I could hear, it was deafening. I followed the hand to the arm, and the arm to the chest and the chest to the face. It was the same man from my dream, from what I thought was a dream. "Hello again" he said with a sly half smile, "I was wondering if you have any more lives that you would mind sharing with me.

Sakura waved her hand slowly in front of her face, admiring the rainbow colors that followed the shadows of her fingers. Dr. Sato said there might be halos around lights and blurred vision, but if anything Sakura felt her vision becoming sharper. Except the things she saw, no one else could see. She was playing with Legos when her dad had come into the living room, swaying with the smell of sake on his breath. He tripped over her castle and roaring with pain, picked a Lego up and threw it in her face. Her mom ran in and took her away and put some ice on her eye, rocking her until she stopped crying and fell asleep. The next day she saw a dragonfly fluttering in the corner of the kitchen, its body studded with green gems. “Mom, do you see that? Do you see the dragonfly?” Her mom looked at where she was pointing and asked, “What dragonfly?” There were visits to Dr. Sato and she took her medicine regularly but the visions continued, sidling their way into her house. The doctors were baffled and the small Tokyo apartment became filled with an aura of gloom. Sakura stopped pointing out the things she saw. At first they lasted just a second; diamond birds would splash against the periphery of her vision with the glory of the sun shining through a stained-glass window. She’d be walking home from school and then, stunned by the vision, momentarily forget where she was. A near fatal accident at a road crossing caused Sakura’s mother to talk to the principal at Saragaku Elementary and take her home for home-schooling. One night, Sakura heard her dad yelling, her mom yelling, and then something fell and shattered in high-pitched protest. Her mom started crying, a soft, shuddering sound. Sakura shut her ears and slowed her breathing, holding her breath until the glowing blue halos increased, dancing bugs that hovered across her dim bedroom. Underneath her tenth-story window a thousand street lights bustled like magic bees. Eventually they did become bees, flying in through the open screen to play on her bedspread. With them she played and forgot about the crying. The weeks passed from autumn into winter. Her dad drank more and cursed more, and her mom ate less and said less. One day as Sakura watched the rain become silver meteor showers streaking down the window, a large droplet pushed its way through the glass into the room, and bloomed into the shape of a thin silver mantis, standing tall as a needle on the hardwood floor. In his face Sakura could see her own black pupils fractured like the eyes of the magic bees. “Come with me,” he said. “I can take you to next Spring.” She took his arm, and together they stepped through the window into the meteor shower, the starlit sky dropping cherry blossoms that surrounded her in warm, fragrant pink. Below her children ran in colorful yukatas, lanterns illuminating the floral designs of the dresses. Sakura closed her insect eyes and breathed the flowers in deep. \ More writings at r/ladyandthepen.

Weave all day. Weave all night. Weave every instant of your existence. That’s what the Spider Queen expected of her offspring. The dusty attic, filled with hoarded artifacts from multiple generations of homeowners, was already covered in cobwebs from ceiling to floor, but it was never enough. While the Queen was always eager to teach her children the technical intricacies of preying on flies, weaving transcended the mundane function of hunting for food. It was an art form, the supreme expression of spider skill. “Master the ancient craft of our kind,” repeated the Queen, “and you will learn to survive. Don’t, and you will forever be the weak link of this family. For the time being, we are blessed with peace from the human world. Should they come disturb us however, you must be prepared.” Aria simply assumed that’s what her life would be like. She would do like all the other spiders and weave away in the safety of the attic, where no one ever came. Indeed, not a soul had stepped in the gloomy room below the roof in years, and the arachnids were therefore free to wander it as if it was theirs to rule. They had some company, of course. The wooden planks covering the walls had played host to termites for a while now, and there were occasionally red ants crawling on the floor. Aria’s main companions, however, were boxes. Dozens and dozens of boxes were stacked right on top of each other into tall columns, to the point where they formed a giant metropolis for Aria to explore. She loved climbing the sides of the cardboard and venturing into the depths of the cubic structures, discovering new items with each new compartment. One box contained jewels and trinkets, almost overflowing with bedazzled necklaces and bracelets. Another contained old-fashioned stained-glass lamps, which Aria used to stare at her reflection. The most fascinating box of all, however, was one into which she fell by mistake. As she weaved a web along a longitudinal beam supporting the roof, her silk inexplicably broke, and she soon found herself crawling on a pile of papers bound together. It was a book, although she did not understand it at the time. The object was quite puzzling to her. There were many images on the cover, pictures of worlds she could not even conceive: trees, mountains, streets, even outer space. These all escaped her understanding, as to her, the world was the attic, and the attic was the world. She had to know more, to know what secrets were inside the pages. After carefully weaving her silk around the cover page, she pulled with Herculean strength at a spider scale. The silk broke. She started again, and again, and again, until the first page finally revealed itself. There were more images, this time with strange symbols beneath. The symbols were letters, and they formed words. After reading them many times, she successfully learned to associate the words with the pictures, page after page. After reaching the last page, Aria had built a strong sense of vocabulary. She now needed to put these words into sentences. Fortunately, the box contained three other stacks of books for her to learn. An illustrated children’s fairy tale collection lay on top of the pile to her left. Over the course of multiple days, she read through it and understood narratives. She then moved on to the top books on the other two piles, young adult novels that took more time but were definitely worth the effort. Every time the Queen’s attention faltered, Aria jumped on the opportunity to visit the box and read some more. Soon, the books had all been read, and she craved more, so much more. What if there was another box somewhere with volumes waiting to be read? Aria searched, but in vain. She fell into a deep lethargic state, barely able to weave anymore, longing for the stimulation that had now been denied from her. Fortunately, the day came. Vibrations were felt along the floor of the attic. All the spiders went into hiding, although Aria was not sure why. She picked the book box as her spot and waited. A trap door opened, and a woman with glorious red hair came in, sneezing from the clouds of displaced dust. “We really need to clean up this place once in a while,” the woman declared. She looked into every box, perhaps searching, just like Aria, for reading material. They both found it in the same place: the redhead picked up the spider’s favorite cardboard cube and appeared satisfied by its contents. “This will be perfect for the book drive! There you go.” Seconds later, Aria and the box were being carried away. To where, she did not know. *** After many hours of being transported left and right, the box finally settled. Aria deemed it safe to carefully venture outside. The surprise was immense: she found herself on a library counter, staring at endless rows of books lined up on hundreds of metallic shelves, more than she could ever read in her lifetime. Was this a sanctuary of knowledge, a safe haven far away from the dusty attic where she had been condemned to weave forever? Words could not express how exhilarating her presence in the library felt. No more hiding from the Queen. No more longing for something she couldn’t have. It was all right here. The sound made by her minuscule eight legs as she tapped along towards the edge of the counter seemed to echo against the walls; the sacred space was so peaceful that the slightest of noises could cause a disturbance. The young spider immediately crawled along the walls towards the shelves, reading at a breathless pace the countless titles on the volumes’ bindings. Moby Dick. A Farewell to Arms. To Kill a Mockingbird. The possibilities were infinite, and she did not know where to start. The answer was obvious. In the middle of the room was a gargantuan golden book resting on a shiny lectern, bathed in the sunset light filtering through the stained-glass windows. Whatever the opus was, it must have been very special. She instinctively flung herself with her silk towards the lectern and reveled in the multicolored rays of sunshine. This single moment was the greatest of her life, the one that heightened all of her senses to new peaks. Then the unexpected happened. Just as Aria was about to discover the contents of the golden book, the Librarian spotted her and smashed her with a copy of Don Quixote. Aria spent no more than five minutes in the library before her untimely demise, yet these five minutes were more wondrous than the two years she had spent in the attic, and certainly more exhilarating than the years of desperate yearning she would have spent there had fortune not decided to let her out. The destination was fateful, but the journey had been worth it. Her thread of life could not have been weaved any other way.

I was just getting home and there was a light on in the top left corner window with two silhouettes in it. One was tall and one was short. The short one I could barely see coming up over the window sill. I thought someone had broken into my house as I was the only one home for the weekend. I opened my front door as quietly as I could, then I stopped and thought, “Wait! It is unlocked.” I then shut the door quietly and picked up my baseball bat from beside the door. I quietly went up to the room with the two shadows in it. When I got to the door, I heard two oddly familiar voices, but one of them gruffer than the other. I slowly turned the knob and I jumped into the room, but neither of the two were surprised. There was a confused kid, sitting on the bed and an old man sitting in the chair. The kid looked to be no more than 7 or 8 years old and the man’s age I wasn’t able to tell. I then pointed the bat at the man and said, “Who do you think you are? How did you get into my house? And who is the kid? Are you some kind of kidnapper?” The old man answered, “I don’t know how to answer your first question. The second question is easy. I got the key out of the flowerbed. Though I can’t explain who the kid is...” The kid interjects, “I am you.” I looked back at the man and he was shaking his head with his hand on his face. I then said to the man, laying the sarcasm on heavily, “Are you serious?” He responded to me with, “Well, yes and no.” I opened my mouth to say something, but then the man jumped back in, “Yes, he is you, but from another time and dimension.” I said to him, “Do you really think that I am going to buy that?” “Yes, you are,” said the man. “Why do you say that?” I questioned sarcastically. “Because I am you, but I also am from another time and dimension,” the old man replied. “So what, did you go and kidnap yourself when you were like seven?” I asked daringly. The little kid pipes up, “He... I didn’t kidnap me. I had thought a wish that I had someone there with me, and he...I appeared, and then he said that he needed to take me somewhere...” “That’s right,” injected the old man. “I needed to come talk to you about something that is going to happen really soon. What happens may change the course of the future if you get it right.” ”Okay, this is all really confusing,” I said shocked. “I am just going to go to bed,” while backing towards the door. I will just pretend that none of this ever happened. The old man flew across the room and I really mean he flew. He caught me by the shoulder of my shirt and said, “You can’t. It will be too late.” Scared, I asked, “Too late for what?” “I can’t tell you just yet, but I went through the same thing you are going through now,” whispered the old man. Then jerking with his head towards the kid, who was now asleep, “he will go through the same thing in seven years from his own time. And seven years from now, you will be doing what I am doing.” I said with a shocked look on my face, “I will look like an old dude....” “I am not that old,” roared the old man. “I am only...” “What? Only 50...” I countered. “No, I am only...” the old man said getting annoyed. “60 tops.” I interjected sarcastically. “No, I am only 21 !!,” he roared. “You can’t be 21, you look at least 50,” I said shocked. “I look this way because of the decision I made. The decision you’re going to have to figure out, but let me show you what happens if you choose wrong,” he said while walking to the closet. I said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?” “I am going to take you to where I came from,” he said calmly. “My closet?” I asked mockingly. “No, it is through your closet,” he said while opening the door. Then a bright flash of red light came from my closet followed by the sweet smell of vanilla and oranges. “Wow, that is cool,” I said, “but what about him?” gesturing over my shoulder at the kid sleeping on the bed. “He will be fine,” said the old man. “Now come on,” he said grabbing my wrist and pulling me into the closet. After the initial shock, I looked around me to see everything in fast forward. When we stopped it was in a completely run down area that you could hear the wind rushing down the streets and through the buildings. I turned to the old man and asked, “Where are we?” He replied, “38 South Becker Street.” After sitting there, looking like an opened-mouth fish, I said, “What... that’s my address.” He said, “I know, we are at Mom and Dad’s house just seven years into the future.” “I don’t believe you,” I yelled. “Shhh” he said harshly, “They will hear you.” “Who will hear me? There is no one else around?” I asked gesturing with my arm. “The Others,” said the old man whispering. “The Whose?” I whispered back. “The Others are the ones who took over the world.” He said with a hint of fear in his voice. “Okay,” I said. “When we get back to your time, you are going to get a phone call. You have two choices. One is to answer it. Two you can leave it. I can’t tell you which one I did because then you will choose the other,” he stated pulling me back through the closet. When we appeared back in the room with the kid, the kid was already standing by the closet. The old man grabbed the kid by the hand and said, “Remember what I have told you and showed you. We now have to leave and we will not see you again. Goodbye and I hope you make the right choice.” He waved. “Bye,” said the little kid as he got pulled through the closet.

Reedsy Prompt: Start your story with someone looking out a train window The Final Journey Raghavan strode through the compartment of the Vellore to Bangalore train, ticket in hand, looking for his allotted seat. Thankfully, it was by the window. He sat down with a sigh of relief. His escort Ramu, took charge of stowing his small suitcase in the berth above his head. “I will come back and check on you a little later, saami,” he said, folding his hands together. Raghavan nodded, and Ramu went back to his seat in the third class carriage behind this one, interconnected by a short swaying bridge. Raghavan stretched out his long legs and stared with unseeing eyes at the melee outside the window. Typical of most Indian train stations in 1942, the dimly-lit platform was crowded with people rushing about, trying to find their seats on the train. Skinny, dark skinned coolies with luggage piled high on their heads and holding more bags in their hands darted in and out of the crowds, frantically keeping track of their customers. I am glad I was able find a seat in a first class compartment thought Raghavan to himself, observing the din and confusion outside. Looking around he observed the other occupant of the coupe. It was an elderly gentleman dressed in a dark coat and pants, and wearing a white turban. Probably a high ranking government employee , guessed Raghavan, who can afford to travel by first class. He returned to his own thoughts, staring out the window. The events of the past few weeks played out in his mind. He had had to resign his post as the stenographer to Lord Linlithgow, one of the last Viceroys of India in 1942, because of his ill health. The cold climate of Simla, situated in the northern state of Himachal Pradesh, exacerbated his asthma symptoms. He had returned to Madras where his wife Kamala had stayed behind with their large and growing family. “Your asthma is getting worse,” Dr. Krishnan said. “Why don’t you go to Vellore Medical Center, they may have some better options?” Vellore was the southern city that boasted the largest medical facility in India at that time - the Vellore Medical Center and Medical College. It had been established by an American woman, Ida Scudder, in 1902--her father was a Christian Missionary Doctor there. Raghavan thought fondly of his wife and children, and the patience with which they had handled his frequent asthma attacks as he sat up in bed every night, his body racked by severe coughing. There were no antibiotics, inhalers or other medications available at the time for treating asthma. At his wife’s urging Raghavan decided to follow the doctor’s advice and make a short trip to Vellore by himself. He would stay in a rented house and the cook, Ramu, would accompany him for safety as parts of the country were still under air raid warnings - when the shrill siren sounded everyone had to dive under the table for shelter. Kamala could not go with him as the children were not old enough to be left alone. Raghavan consulted several eminent doctors that had been recommended to him in Vellore. They all shook their heads when they read his prognosis notes. “Our options are very limited”, said Dr. Pillai, supposedly an expert in asthma treatments. “You’ve already tried everything that your doctor in Madras had recommended. We have nothing new to offer. But we can try again and see if anything works.” After a week of treatment the asthma symptoms were not much better. The doctors had run out of options. Raghavan sent a telegram to Kamala to say that he would be coming back in a few days. He got an immediate and terse reply. “Go to Bangalore”, it said. “Letter follows”. Raghavan knew that his wife did not know enough English to be able to write a longer reply. But the postal system in India then -- and now-- is excellent - there are three deliveries a day and even the remotest village is connected. A few days later he got a long letter, written in Tamil. Apparently Kamala had been in touch with her brother Srinivasan, a doctor in the British Army who was stationed in Bangalore, informing him of her husband’s ill-health. He had urged her to tell Raghavan to come to Bangalore, where he would personally supervise his treatment. Kamala told her husband to go to Bangalore immediately. Srinivasan would meet him at the station. xxx The engine driver sounded the first warning hoot. The loud speakers crackled and then a stentorian voice announced in English, Hindi and Tamil--as was customary--that the train was departing soon. There was a flurry of activity on the platform outside as people said their last goodbyes and hurried to their carriages. The station master, wearing his black hat and white uniform and holding a green flag under his arm strode up and down the platform, urging the malingerers to board. With two more long hoots and a sudden jerk the train began to move--slowly at first and then picking up speed as the Station Master waved his green flag back and forth. The waving passengers, the Railway waiting room and the news vendors and tea shops soon became a blur as the train hurtled towards Bangalore. xxx Raghavan shifted his body and watched dusk rapidly settle into night. He looked forward to arriving in Bangalore and resolving his health problems. He thought again of his wife and children--they had been alone long enough while he worked far away in Simla--they deserved to have him come home and take charge of everything. The first class carriage attendant came by and offered him a dinner menu. Raghavan waved him away--he had already eaten before boarding. The train had now settled into a steady clacking rhythm and everything was quiet. The lights in the compartment had been automatically dimmed. His neighbor in the other seat was already asleep, his head resting on his chest. Lulled by the solitude Raghavan relaxed his head and fell asleep. Sometime later he was awakened by a strange feeling. Struggling to breathe, he pulled out his handkerchief and tried to stifle his coughing. Everything seemed out of control - he wanted to shout for help but his body wouldn’t move. He slumped down in the corner of his seat. He did not see Ramu come in to check on him in the middle of the night. He did not feel him touch his shoulder and realize that he was dead. He did not see him check the breast pocket of his suit and take out the wad of notes. He did not see Ramu quickly and stealthily go back to his third class compartment, from which he would alight at the next station and melt into the crowd. xxx The train slowed down and stopped with a jerk at the next small station before Bangalore. As the sky turned pink a uniformed Ticket Collector boarded the compartment and knocked on the swinging doors before entering. Ticket Please! He announced loudly, waking up the gentleman with the white turban. The man roused himself and handed over his ticket with a dazed look. Punching a hole in it the Ticket Collector handed it back. Ticket Please! He repeated to Raghavan, but there was no response. He seemed to be sleeping with his head slumped on his chest. The Ticket Collector touched Raghavan’s shoulder to shake him awake. His whole body tilted to the side. The engine driver gave a warning hoot. The Ticket Collector reached up and gave a firm pull on the Emergency Brake handle, to stop the train from moving. Telegram! The postman called out in a loud voice the next morning. Kamala opened the telegram from her brother with trembling fingers. Her legs almost buckled under her as she realized the implications. She was now a widow at 38 years, responsible for a large family of seven minor children. She stared at the telegram for a few minutes. A single tear rolled down her cheek. With her usual pragmatism she squared her shoulders and called the family in to tell them that she was now the matriarch of the family. Susheela Narayanan

I know how. The sheets stinks. Its me. Its my life. My urine, and the damned sweat. The bed's drenched with it. My feet reek of dead corpses, they're... not mine! My toes are cold. On the left, on the right, at the rear of this goddamned bed they're gathered. Sad, distant people. Some relatives with blank faces I don't care a bit about. Another three or four disappointed persons I used to call friends. We've got a company! And who the hell asked the priest to come over? All right, Boss. It is time for da confession. You've busted me. Not one - two cancers. Both terminal. Hey, hey, listen up! - that's not the end. My right foot gangrenes, but the doctor is happy: he ain't gonna chop it off. No point digging in. There's a tumor in my throat and another one, smaller - in the first mother fucker. Is it lurid? Hell no! A logic symbiosis. Day after day I'd hammer myself with tobacco fumes, cold beverages in empty rooms, useless promises. I'll change. Oh, but I will! On a sunny day like this surely I gonna do it. I didn't have to. God got sick and tired of waiting. Too bad. Detective Chinasky crushed a fly on the table and moved on. I did the same to the ant who had the audacity to crawl onto the laptop while I typed my story. These patient creatures have visited our house three summers. My Mother believed their crusade had something to do with the icebergs down South. Willie's got cancer, and he still... hates Her. The good old blast, weed, coke WITH speed, promiscuous broads, drinking till you forget what hour of the day, the damned day itself - it doesn't matter was it on Monday morning or Saturday evening you've started rolling down the hill... The saddest part is - I don't have books. I don't need them. I don't read for three years. At all. Those few authors did push me further. I've lost the only desire I had. And here I am strapped into the rag of death like some stupidly fallen angel. Pathetically poetic. Dear Bukowski - damn you were right! There are too many of us: the over-drunk poets, those poor never ever published poets. Some of them are good, really good, but the lame writers, the dull writers I hate in my bones. You Starbuck miscreants, you obedient serfs! Please! Stop, cease to exist. Die today horribly and terribly. I'm begging you! I should add - hallucinated editors, de-caffeinated agents, oh, you! Your Twitter feeds... I hate chu all!!! Too bad? Visit Amazon's bestseller list. You know what you are. Those faces carry the burden of a man I've once been. They don't have to. Told them many a time. What can I do? Even if you could teach a monkey to wash potatoes, still - she'd be a monkey. Not a sous-chef, right? On the neck of our eldest-one coils that stupid know-all snake. Yin and Yang? Fuck me. Nadia likes to smoke. On her left arm, or shoulder, or both, hangs-on her partner. I donno, man. Damn tired of making everyone happy. Named Cindy. That name alone... Stop punishing me, God! I'm dying. The internet personalities care for a bunch of dogs and a team of cats. Both species get along better than the citizens. Cindy's mother did loose a bet against breast cancer, and her daddy went down due to domestic drinking. These zoomers, well, they're happy. They should be! Cindy's father last will wasn't modest as mine. A castle on the hill, a bag of gold and a responsible daily routine. Among those replete animals they keep three or four maids. Rich fellas, huh? To hoover the corners and nurture foster-kids. Geez, they have adopted four of them. Brad Pitt must be proud... Fight, goddamn it! What - have you lost your balls??? Unchain your demons as I didn't mine. Too bad. Cindy donates to charities for Africa, my stepdaughter's donated her life to Cindy. Or sacrificed. Cindy likes to inhale deep, Nadia likes Cindy. The lover of my stepdaughter shreds her tears harder than my blood and kin... ¬ They live somewhere in Palm Springs. Yep, we're close. My little brother, the infamous wino's here. All right! Married the second time. Could chu believe that? He's brought out into the daylight a 5-year-old son with his mommy. Their snot - from the first verbal marriage. The biological-one pulled-off an act of bravery, the cunt. She had left Ted for good, she decamped Los Angeles also, so my brother didn't have a chance to think things through. Ted doesn't slap Bobby. He's still moved by discounted liquids as our daddy, and nobody could deny... Fucking hell, man! His wife's name is Cheryl. Okay. Both of you - do your thing. I wish you luck. Dear Gretchen's left the stock player. She did catch the stock player with someone. He did drag that someone home. Whooo-hoo! In the shadow my sister hides her son. Down syndrome. And tears on her face. Our middle one's taller than her mother. She's a dancer. Her moans I'm afraid of the most. Diva had managed to unchain Snapchat afterall. She rents a studio, makes good money, gets thousands of propositions for a deep-throat. Nothing serious. Her last hubby did find someone taller something. That name, I know. That name suits perfectly perfect for her studio. 'Diva's Street Dance'. Should you expect more, be my guest. Too bad. My Little-One's sleeping in the stroller. I'm trying not to think about Her. Well, yeah. I've been a shitty father. Here's the thing. This one's been adopted. I've managed to convince my wife there are better things in life than being sucked into IKEAian discount vouchers. She believed me. She did it three years ago, just before the Great Fall. Why, why? Weren't there three enough??? What about Amanda, my biological daughter, my own kid? She's here, She's five and a half... Could I've made things worse? Why are you here? Those weary palms, those tired eyes, exhausted presence. They say mother's love is the strongest thing in the world. My birth-giver, my dream-crasher is sitting all shoulders, a small, crumbled creature. Throughout those years She's changed, changed completely unrecognizable, gotten old, the life has abandoned Her. But I see something else. I sense guilt mixed with hatred. She's screaming at me, praying. My Mother's soul got grey surpassing the hair. She blames me, my Mother blames Her son for he didn't manage to become the person She had believed he would. Mother, its not your fault. PLEASE, FORGIVE ME. Your glance is tearing me apart. I know I'll go soon, I feel dandy: the sight of Yours makes me cower. Donno what it means. All kind of folks crouch down in fear, in cold. Your eyes, that glance. An immeasurably bottomless abyss. An invisible wall overwhelmed between us. The wall we have built ourselves. My entire life I honoured You with my lips, but my heart were far from You. The One and Only, my Magnificent Little Woman, my sweet Wife, the Mother of our daughter, my Warmth, my Shelter, my Rage. There's this lonely despair in Your eyes, a way worse than my Mother's. She had stopped fighting Herself years ago, that's true, but You - You're just getting there. I have lost You for ever. Please, have mercy on me. Is it the right time to ask for it - both of them! - when one deteriorates into a half-dead? Stupid idiot. Henry pours me a decent amount of it. As if I cared. Nadia and her mother helps to sit the daddy up. Your eyes are dry. Nadia's face overclouds due the stench. A green mucus I cough out on her sleeve. Cindy's about to throw up. Yeaaaah! Welcome to the SkidRow, bitch! I hit the glass. Damn, my last booze. Can't believe what I've become. But? No but! Look at me, Ma - I'm dying. Leave those regrets for me. I don't need your permission. Father, I've never been the same since you died. Is it a good thing? You tell me. If we meet. Red Label melts down smoothly. Red Label! What a taste. Hell, why can't chu bring with cha the treasures of this world downstairs? Oh, Holy Cat, take me to Your cradle: cuddle me, murk for me, kiss me. Kiss my eyes, lick my nose, and moan, moan! Let's moan together for those who had lost their toes in the Crusade. Pray for me! Beware of sharp bends, my pervert companions, my freaks and accomplices, my filthy devils. I love some of you, I do, though I hate pretty much everybody. Yet, follow me through if there's no way out. But! But beware of sharp edges here and there. Keep an eye on them day and night. Don't forget your closets. Don't clean your closets. Long for the time with your closets. Love your closets! It is easy to drown in the Jordan river, so damn easy to dive in and never come back. Are you with me? Do you hear the birds chirping? The torn birds. Morning already It is the morning. Its 4:53 AM, again. Fucking great. Shit! Almost forgot: Shave me. Shave my face, my legs, my armpits also. Don't touch my beer-tits. Put on a black Armani suit, a grey tie, a white shirt, no sleeves. Fuck sleeves! Shoes - black only. Cover down my face with a yellow fedora. Arrange expensive oils - I donnno what for - ignite candles, but don't pray. Keep rolling the best beat of THE WU TANG CLAN, "It's Yourz." My last wish goes like this: “Throw my body on the curb. Leave it on the curb. Summon up the ravens. Scatter out the remains in TikTok.” Engrave on the tombstone these: “The faster it comes...” Now I'm ready to die.

Eira purrs on my lap, soft and light, and I lift her to my face. Her body is loose and trusting as I bury my face into her mottled fur and breathe in the warm scent of home she carries with her. My heart swells as she nuzzles my cheek, her rasping tongue drying the sweat from my morning run. -- I think I’m starting to like Ellis, -- I tell her as I lean back into the chair and lower her back into my lap. She pads at my thighs in approval. Ellis. My boyfriend of three years. The man I smile at every morning I stay over at his house, the man I learned to act in love for. I think I’m starting to like him. I sigh. I think about his eyes. A training exercise; find three physical things in him to admire. Then three about his personality. -- His eyes are brown, -- I tell her -- and they reflect amber in the morning sun. In the dark, they are a rich dark colour, but the flecks of hazel scattered in his irises, and the dark brown, almost black ring that circles them makes them look like honey when the light hits them. -- He has a crooked smile. It’s one of my favourite things about him. It makes him look kind, breaking his face out of its usual serious lines, creasing it into something new and soft. -- He has nice hands. They’re calloused and freckled, with strong fingers that love to trace shapes on my back. She blinks at me, slow and unjudgmental. -- He’s a romantic. -- I offer. She meows, a long burbling sound -- You’re right, I used that one last week. I take a moment to think. -- He’s good at his job -- I say. Three years in, countless hours of building trust between whispered fake secrets and selective truths, he still hasn’t shared an inch of his project with me. Nothing but a knowing smile and a deep distracting kiss after teasing me for poking. Most days I wonder if I’ll ever complete the mission. Maybe I’ll have to marry him before he complies. The thought of giving up this place makes me shudder. The one place where it’s just me. Just me and my beautiful cat and no one calls me Anwir. The name that is both mine, and has never been mine. I scoop Eira up again and press her to my chest where the vibration of her purring echoes off my ribcage. I press her tight against me hoping it’s true that a cat’s love can heal you. That her purring is enough to fill the hollow ache. -- He loves his friends fiercely -- the loyalty he shows his friends, he shows me, is staggering. He’s there for those he loves in an instant. He remembers all our favourite foods, our favourite shows, our favourite places to go. He takes us there when we’re feeling overwhelmed and tired and just need someone to listen, to not offer anything but pure unjudgmental kindness. It must be exhausting. His favourite spot is the oasis. It’s not really an oasis but he calls it that. I think, if he ever proposed to me, it would be there. It’s hidden behind a wooden fence with a metal warning sign, rusted by the years and the water in the air. You have to jump over the sun-bleached fence to get to the rock fall and climb over the crumbled mountain that paves the way down. Stairs made of rock hide beneath the rubble and become visible the deeper down you go. The first thing you hear is the sound of rushing water. It fills the air, blending with the rustling of leaves and the distant cicada chirps that hush as you get closer. The smell of wildflowers and damp earth envelops you; it’s intoxicating. The path weaves its way, guiding you, and then finally, the magnificent waterfall, a torrent of crystal-clear water thundering into the pool below, where mist rises, carrying tiny droplets that glisten in the sunlight. Sunlight that filters through the canopy above, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow. Moss and ferns cling to every crevice. Towering trees reach toward the sky. Time seems to stand still. He took me there on our third date. I stroke Eira’s fur, absentminded. I really do think I’m starting to like him. Would that be so bad? It might make the job easier if there was a little bit of truth in it. It might make it harder. She jumps off my lap, claws making tiny pinpricks on my trousers as she bears her weight down before the jump. She bumps her forehead against my ankle, an affectionate gesture of impatience, before strolling into the kitchen. I follow. -- He’s in love with me, -- I say as I open the cupboard. She stares expectantly at my hands as they pull her breakfast out from where she can’t reach it. -- and he shows it in the most beautiful ways. He doesn’t say it often, those words that are supposed to mean so much, but he makes me food every single time we're together, without fail, because I mentioned one time, three years ago, that I didn’t like cooking. He never asks, he just does, making sure to stock the things I like, even when I’m not going to be there. Just in case. He waits to watch the shows he’s most excited to see so as to share them. He re-watches old favourites with me in my mother tongue even though it’s not his first language so I enjoy them as much as he does. I’ve never had to ask for that either, he just does. He kisses me three times when we say goodbye because once isn’t enough, and three times again the next time he sees me to bridge the gap between visits. Eira crunches on her cat food, even as I’m pouring it, and no longer paying any attention, turns her back on me. -- How like a cat -- I say and scratch her soft white head. She burbles, disgruntled, between mouthfuls for me to leave her to her breakfast in peace. The hallway to the bathroom stretches before me, and I peel the t-shirt from my body on my way to it and ball it up in my fist for the hamper. The edge of the bath is hard and cold through my trousers, but I sit on it anyway, feeling it dig into my aching thigh muscle as I reach for the tap. The water thunders into the tub, almost as loud as the waterfall, almost loud enough for me to miss my phone, ringing, forgotten on the sink. The name that flashes on my screen makes my heart drop just a little. Emlyn. The name of the sister I don’t have. I turn the water off and the silence is almost as deafening, pierced only by my breathing and the shrill ring of my phone. I swipe my screen and try to mask the deep breath I’m taking before I answer. -- Good morning, Director, how can I help you?

Blog Post #1- My reflection is dead Dear Reader, I have seen death. No, that isn’t clickbait! For once, I am at a loss for words. This morning I woke up (nothing funny there and I don’t like to start my posts with it, but it’s the only normal thing that happened) and I went into the bathroom to get ready for the day. I was twiddling with the end of my hair, still contained in a sleep braid to keep my curls within reason (check out previous posts for haircare advice). I already had toothpaste on the toothbrush and lifted it up to my mouth when I noticed I had no reflection. At first, I thought it might be some sort of prank. Last month that was all the rage and I know I prank quite a few people myself. I have no idea how someone would get a reflection not to reflect... if you do, maybe shoot me a DM. Anyhow, back on point, I’m feeling a bit scattered by all this. Everything else in the mirror was reflecting correctly. Even the toothbrush showed up as I lifted it up. Thinking something might be wrong with the mirror, I picked up my hand mirror and focused it on my face. Nothing. No matter how I twisted or turned the angle I stood in, I couldn't catch my reflection at all. I always like to see myself in the morning, pretty certain that’s normal, but somehow not being able to view my reflection made it truly desperate that I get a glimpse. I’m sure you remember from my post last month that I had those full-length mirrors installed in the living room so I could focus on my dancing form better. This morning, I decided to skip the toothbrushing, and I hurried out to give my dancer’s mirrors another use--giving me peace of mind. I was hoping to see my reflection there. Maybe I should have hoped more carefully, because while I saw my reflection, it wasn’t exactly soothing. What I actually saw was my reflection lying dead on the floor. Not proud of it, but I kind of froze at that point, just staring. Did this mean that I was dead? Maybe I was a ghost and just didn’t know it yet wandering around my house, but without a physical body, I couldn’t reflect. And the me lying on the floor was obviously dead. Pasty pale skin, limbs stiff, eyes glazed and mouth white. Seeing myself dead was a very surreal sort of thing and not a heartening experience. But I felt real and alive. Just to assure myself, I pressed a finger to my neck and there was a pulse. My mouth tasted sort of bitter and swampy... you know, like I’d skipped brushing my teeth that morning. I pinched my arm and the bite of my nails hurt. There aren’t a lot of facts about ghosts to check against, but I didn’t think I fit the bill. Let me know if you have any pertinent facts! My first reaction was to run out of the house, but something about my dead reflection called to me. In the reflection, I was wearing my pajamas and my hair was still in my sleep braid. Pretty much exactly as I looked physically in real life except, my reflection was holding this scrap of paper with neat black writing on it. Her dead fingers were clamped tightly on the paper. I recognized the handwriting as my own and moved closer, trying to get a peak at what mirror-me had written. No matter how I turned or twisted, or adjusted the light, I couldn’t make it out. And I didn’t really have time to figure it out. It’s a workday after all, though... I’m not sure what the precedent for skipping work after seeing your dead reflection is, but I know my boss wouldn’t like it. More on this later. I’m off to work. But I feel like there’s something on that paper that I need to discover, something important. Blog Post #2- Following the clues Dear Reader, Okay, back for another entry. Two posts a day won’t become my new normal, but just this once it seems justified! My reflection wasn’t in any of the mirrors at work or on any reflective surfaces. I thought I could power through and just have a normal day, but that didn’t work. I haven’t even gotten around to answering all of your comments--sorry about that. It was just too weird seeing myself absent from the windows I walked by and the bathroom mirrors. I haven’t been able to focus on anything else. So I bowed out of work, sick. Everyone believed me. I must look a fright. Not like I can tell since I can’t see myself. And no... I’m not posting any pictures. I’m a little afraid I won’t show up there either, so I’m not looking! Not being able to see myself is just awful, though. Except... that’s a lie. I *can* see myself, just I can only do that in the one reflection in the dancer’s mirrors in the living room. I’m glancing over at her now. She’s still in her pajamas and sleep braid. And that paper is still clutched in her hand. I admit that by the time I bailed on work and saw all of your curious comments from this morning’s post, I was committed to reading what that paper said. But no matter what I tried, I couldn’t make it out. I even attempted bringing in a magnifying glass, but that reflected in the mirror and blocked the paper entirely. That attempt failed and without some sort of aid, the angle was just too bad and the words too distant. Luck was on my side (was it? I mean, if luck was really on my side, none of this would be happening!) And when I went to get some fresh air, my hair blew up in my face, tickling at my nose and cheeks. I had an idea. Despite what some of the trolls on this page think, I do have those on occasion. The wind was really kicking outside and if that was true here, maybe it was true for my reflection’s reality. After all, everything else from the room I was in was still reflecting properly. Once I was back inside the house, I opened the window and let the wind rustle the paper in my reflection’s hand. The first attempt didn’t really help. The second attempt knocked the paper loose just a little, freeing one corner of the paper to rustle and wave as the gusts of air hit. After a few tries of opening and closing the window, I got the note into a position that was readable. I had to squint, but I made out the text. I’m almost afraid to record what it said here. I’ll sleep on it. Blog Post #3- The message on the paper Dear Reader, Stop with the comments, please. Some things are serious. I’ve already called in sick to work and honestly, I almost didn’t sit down here to write. A lot of you have commented about the note and yesterday’s posts. I’m not sure how to feel about what you are saying... I’m a little insulted honestly. This isn’t some goofy prank. I’m attaching a picture (turns out I do show up on camera). I tried to get my reflection in the shot. You can kind of see her there in the corner, lying on the carpet. See? You can see that, right? Once I took the picture, I threw a blanket over the spot where my reflection is lying. I hoped it would cover her up on her side. She looks more and more dead by the hour... but my attempt with the blanket didn’t do much. It appeared underneath her on the reflection. Maybe because on this side she isn’t here. I can’t manipulate her directly. I lit a candle and said a little prayer but that felt off. Like who am I mourning exactly? She’s me. I’m her. There really isn’t a clear way to proceed at this point. Whatever else is true, people seem interested in the note and I can’t stop going over the words, so I decided to share a little more. I need to share something. My head is spinning, and I feel oddly alone. You don’t think of your reflections as being a part of you or as being a friend... but I think she was. I miss her. The note in my reflection’s hand said: I apologize for the shock. The end of your plane (of existence) is near, but you can save yourself by traversing to my side of the reflection. I thought long and hard about how to save you and I could find no perfect option. As we can’t coexist in the same place at the same time, I killed myself for you to have a chance to live. I’m also giving you instructions on how to trespass between planes through the mirror when the time arrives. You will know when the moment has come. Wish you a long and happy life. Love you... That’s it. Or that isn’t it... there is quite a bit more. But I’m not sharing anything beyond that. She did leave instructions, but I feel weird sharing them. Somehow, I know that they were only meant for me to see. Giving you access is a trespass that feels unforgivable. However, I do feel I owe my readers something. The instructions are strange and very specific... not the sort of instructions I ever would have deemed necessary to cross planes. I know that I couldn’t have made them up. This is the second day of no reflections and I admit it’s affecting my head. I can’t really tell anyone but you since I’d probably just be bundled off into a straitjacket. I’m trying to laugh it off and hoping that tomorrow, when I wake up, everything will be back to normal. Maybe I’ll be able to forget about all of this like a bad dream. But nothing feels right. My own dead face stares back at me. Blog Post #4- Don’t you feel it? Dear Reader, I realize it has been days and I haven’t written but... well, this blog seems kind of pointless. And I have been reading your (often nasty) comments. No, this is still not a joke and no, I have not lost my mind. I have never been more certain of anything. I wish there was a way I could make you see how serious this is. It is a shock that all of you can’t feel the dark aura wafting over the world. The air feels different. Everything is different. The end is upon us. I feel it in the air, moving on the wind, in the hollow sound of people’s voices. No one else seems to notice. They just go on with their lives, completely oblivious to the ominous shadows that are slowly but surely embracing the world. Certainly, your comments don’t reflect any sort of awareness... reflect... how odd to use that word so casually. Before now, I never pondered reflections much at all, but now, I think often of what a reflection is and of what it would mean to live in a world of reflected objects. Is the light different there? Is there sound? Smell? If I’m going to live there, I suppose I’ll find out, but it is worrisome not knowing. What happens in the reflections’ plane of existence when the reflection isn’t in use? Do they act on their own or just wait for us? If I’m a reflection, but I no longer exist in this plane of existence... what does that mean? Finding out is both exciting and terrifying. This is similar to what I always imagined a bride felt like on her wedding day. I’ll never get married now (will I? Maybe that happens where I’m going too... don’t know.) But these nerves are spot on to what I imagined, which makes me think something good is waiting for me... a new life is going to start. I must leave this plane of existence. I’ve gone over my reflection’s instructions for gaining access to an alternate plane again and again. I know the way, and I’m prepared to follow each step. I really don’t know why I haven’t already. Even typing this feels hollow and empty. I guess I just want to wish my friends and family good luck. I want to see if any of you out there reading this have the same experience... maybe I can hope to meet some of you on the other side. I really don’t know what will happen to those left behind, to those who can’t feel the doom in the air. I’m afraid to go alone. That’s the truth. Yet the body in the mirror is rotting now, little mold patches mar my face. I feel I owe it to my reflection to help her somehow, but... I’m afraid. What is on that side? Doom is all that remains here, but what awaits me there? There is something about the unknown that is terrifying, that humanity has hidden from for its entire existence. We like to understand, but sometimes understanding is not in the cards. Sometimes, we need to have faith. Blog Post #5- Peace Dear Reader, All doubt has fled. I am on the only path possible for me to take. Even reading your comments now leaves me with a slow, sad feeling, as if even in the impersonal medium of the internet I can feel the clouds swooping in and drowning out the edges of this plane of existence. You mean nothing. Or you mean everything, but that version of everything is fading. This will be my last blog post. I apologize, but your comments will go unread. This is the last time I will sit at this computer and reach across the electronic void. A new home will welcome me soon. I am certain that peace, serenity, and beauty awaits me. I hope you also find peace in whatever is coming. Farewell and may we meet again on the other side.

“Hurry up, it’s cold!” “I’m coming, I’m coming.” “Get your ass in here and shut the door, I’m wasting all the heat. Damn, it’s cold!” “I feel fine.” “I would too if I was sitting there with those on my lap. What’s that smell?” “Pepperoni and onion. I’m the pep, dad’s the onion.” “One topping on each?” “No, both on both.” “Not my favorite combination, but I wouldn’t complain.” “What would you add to balance out the flavors for your taste buds? Turn right on Elm.” “I would if this idiot in front of me would move. C’mon, Jack! Move it! ... And to answer your question, I would add black olives.” “Really?” “Yeah. They create a nice balance between the pepperoni and onion.” “Huh. I’ll mention it to my dad, maybe he’ll wanna give it a try.... Mind if I change the music?” “Don’t touch the radio. Never touch another man’s radio.” “Okay, well then will you change the music? I can’t stand all this old crap.” “Hey, you better watch what you say. Without this old crap you’d never have your synthesized, voice manipulated, patchwork shit you call music today. You want to hear real music by real musicians who actually knew how to play and create, then you listen to the classics.” “Fine, I get it, and don’t get me wrong there are old bands I like but do we have to listen to the Beatles? They’re like the oldest band ever.” “Not true. The oldest band ever or rather the very first band was the Original Dixieland Jass Band.” “... Why do you know that?” “What? I like music. Excuse me for wanting to know more about it than the name of a song or two.” “No, what I mean is what made you want to know that piece of trivia?” “I don’t know ... one day the question popped into my head, ‘What was the name of the first music band?’ So I decided to look it up. Why?” “I find things like that interesting about people. Why they know certain things or why they want to know certain things. It tells you a lot about them. You can pull up to the curb here. Mine’s the one with the blue truck in the driveway.” “How old is that truck?” “Seven years.” “Looks good for its age.” “That’s dad for you, ‘Take care of your tools, and they’ll take care of you.’ Well, thanks for the ride. I promise I’ll give you gas money as soon as I get my first check.” “Yeah no problem. I’ll see ya tomorrow.” “Catch ya later.” “... You gonna stand out in the cold all night or are you gonna bring in the food?” “Dad, get back inside before you catch a cold.” “I’m only sticking my head out the door, and I don’t feel a damn thing -- now get in here, I’m hungry.” “Okay, okay, I’m here, now can we close the door, it’s freezing.” “Give me these, I’ll take them to the kitchen, and you can close the door. So who dropped you off?” “That was Wendell. He does deliveries. Offered me a ride home.” “Well you give him some gas money when you get the chance, that was awfully nice of him.” “Don’t worry dad, I already told him I’d take care of him once I get my check.” “Good. Means you actually listen to me once in a while.” “What was that dad? I didn’t hear you.” “Shut up and grab some plates.” “Get the milk out, I’ll grab the glasses.” “Mmmm-smells good.” “Yeah, I give us two weeks before we get sick to death of the smell. Both the benefit and the burden of working in fast food.” “No reason to knock free food. If Grandpa were here he’d tell of his days growing up in the Great Depression. How him and his family -- and they were a big family -- how they and a thousand other families would have killed to have food like this every day during those years. Don’t take things for granted.” “I know, and I’’m not. I was just saying that in two weeks one of us will be commenting on how we’re getting tired of eating this, that’s all.” “Maybe, but you should still appreciate it.” “I do. Pass the napkins.” “There’s something wrong with Netflix, you need to take a look at it.” “What’d you do?” “Nothing! I tried to turn it on and get back to the show I was watching, but it won’t let me in. Keeps asking for some code or something.” “You probably logged out the wrong way, again. I’ll have to put in the password to get us back in.” “Well why don’t they make it so you don’t have to do that every time?” “They do! But for some reason out of all the people on this planet you’re the only one who doesn’t know how to turn off Netflix properly. It baffles the mind how you were able to raise a family.” “I had help. Your mother’s just as much responsible for you and your brother’s upbringing as I am.” “Yeah, and Jerry got all of Mom’s smarts while I --“ “While you got her sarcastic wit and passion for story telling.” “I can’t complain about the sarcastic wit, it serves me well.” “Can’t complain about your passion either.” “That hasn’t served me as well, though I wish it would.” “What are you talking about? I see you when you write, I see you lost in thought dreaming of new worlds. You love it.” “I just figured by now I would have sold something. It’s frustrating.” “Well you got your stuff posted on those websites, and the people who commented liked your work.” “Yeah but those are websites that don’t pay.” “They still have to choose your work over others before they post it.” “I know, I know, but it’s not the same as someone offering you money for your work. To have someone say, ‘Hey, your work is good, and I’m willing to pay for it’.” “Give it time ... give it time.” “That’s the one thing I’ve got -- time ... and a mountain of debt, and a fast food job.... Hurray!” “... You done feeling sorry for yourself?” “... I’m gonna go fix Netflix, so you can watch your show. I’ll cleanup the dishes when I’m done.” “... Davy.” “... Yeah.” “Your mother always believed in you. Perhaps that’s something else you need to take from her.” “... Perhaps you’re right.... Thanks dad.” END

Aella. Torches lined the walls of the cobblestone chamber, waves of smoke lifting from them. Charred meats and disappointing ale had been placed along the length of the council table, but none were tasted. Lord Aella sat uneasy at the large table with the other nine men whom he called brothers, the men waited patiently for the Queen to arrive. Lord Pomeran Royk paced back and forth on the far side of the room, refusing to take his seat. “It’s death,” Lord Pomeran insisted, “What other reason does she have for summoning the council so late.” Pomeran’s words had been in Aella’s thoughts, though he dared not speak them into existence. A summoning this late could only mean death and the only death worth the worry of the council was the Kings. The large oak door of the chamber rattled for a moment before being eased open, four guards entered; knights of the kingdom. Their polished steel armor was emblazoned with the sigil of the Kraken, each man wore their reinforced helms, completely covering their faces. They kept their hands on the hilts of the swords and the chamber grew even more uneasy. The Queen entered behind the guards in a long flowing black dress, she wore a darkened vail that had been pushed back to show her face, the faces of all the men of the council dropped at the sight of the vail. “Her face looks ready for a tourney,” Aella thought to himself, “She keeps us waiting at this hour to do her bloody hair?” Four more guards entered the chamber behind the Queen and toke their places against the walls of the chamber, the silver trim on their black cloaks caught the light as they stood between the torch placements. Two of the guards ushered a rather nervous looking Pomeran to his chair at the table. Each of the seated Lords rose to greet the Queen, bowing their heads and waiting for her to take her seat. “The King is dead.” She sighed as she eased down into her seat, “We must sort out the succession at once.” The chamber fell completely silent, Aella glanced up and down the table trying not to draw attention to himself, no man made eye contact and none dared to speak. “Damn that bloody oath.” Aella sighed before raising his hand slightly, “What must be sorted?” Aella asked with a crack in his voice, “Prince Tarhun should be summoned from down South at once.” “I love Tarhun as if her were my own son.” The Queen insisted, “But he is no King. I am the King’s lawful wife and my son; the first son of your King and your Queen should seat the throne. Tarhun is thousands of miles away, my son Nadarr shall be named King.” Aella gripped the arm rest of his chair tight, his jaw tensed, he was unsure if he would be able to find the words to speak but tried nonetheless, “We swore a vow.” Aella reminded the men at the table, Aella looked up and down at his fellow Lords, meeting each of their eyes, “The King had us pledge our swords to Tarhun, he is the King’s first son and from a lawful marriage.” Aella looked over to the Queen, her face showed no emotion, “Fine.” The Queen said plainly, “We should have a vote.” Hushed mutterings began to break out amongst the Lords at the table, “Who else here believes Tarhun should be summoned for the throne?” The Queen asked. Aella raised his hand, so did two others. There was a rattle of chain behind him, Aella felt cold steel press against his neck, a brief moment past before Aella’s throat began to burn and his vision fade.

“ I’m drunk and I’m sad and it’s 1:00 in the morning, I’m so sorry,” I sob into the phone. “ I shouldn’t be calling so late. I shouldn’t be such a baby.” Nobody sees me cry, except maybe my husband and even that’s only been a handful of times in our 26 years of marriage. Not my counselor, or counselors I should say.Years of counseling actually. Not my foster parents. Not even my children. “It’s ok,” Richard responds, “you can call me anytime, and you’re not a baby.” “I just hate her so much!” “I understand,” he says. His voice is low and his speech slow. It’s always been like that He speaks with the same speed as molasses in winter. Now his voice has gotten gravelly as his illness has progressed and it is interjected with bouts of coughing. “That’s not true, I don’t hate her. I want to hate her but I try so hard not to. Because not hating her Is the right thing to do. No one ‘normal’ hates their mother. So everyday I make up my mind to forgive her. It’s a constant battle,” I confess. Although that’s not actually true. Most days I don’t think of her at all. I think of her on my birthday or Mother’s Day. Or when I see my kids achieve something she should have been there for. Mostly I think of her when I have to fill out the section on the medical forms that asks for family history or when I’m drunk. Richard’s the only person besides my husband I’ve ever told how much I hate her. Mostly I don’t tell anyone anything about her, unless I’m drunk and weepy. There’s a theme there I guess. If I have to tell someone something about my mother I pretend I’m over it. I pretend I’m well adjusted. I pretend I’m normal. My brother and I continue to talk and cry and laugh for close to 3 hours. It feels good. Cathartic. We’ve never been close. Not really. She prevented us from being close. She made choices for us that we couldn’t change. Or let other people make choices for us. Despite her, we love each other. We always have a connection to home. So it feels good to tell him how I feel, what I remember. He’s surprised, I think, by all that I remember. I remember Detroit, our hometown. I remember the streets and the smells. I remember our cat, our house, our life. Before we say goodbye he asks the question I’ve been dreading. “Are you coming for the funeral?” “Yes of course I am. I would never let my feelings for her stop me from mourning the loss of our brother. It’s just us now, we have to stick together.” “She’s going to be there..” he reminds me. “I know. Gabe said he would like to come. He misses you.” “I’d like to see him, we miss him too.” “I just wish she wasn’t going to be there. She was and is a shitty mother and she doesn’t deserve to lay her eyes on my son,” I stress. My children have never met my mother. They are all adults now. They could meet her if they wanted to, I’d never stop them. I don’t encourage them though. “I know, you’re right. But you’ll still come, right?” He asks. Like he even needs to ask. Of course I’m coming. It seems the only reason I come home anymore is for funerals. I was born in Detroit. The city of Detroit's motto is We hope for better things; it will rise from the ashes. That’s where my mother left me on the side of the road, in Detroit, when I was 4. Those are the ashes I’ve risen from. A home burnt to the ground by the home maker. I think she was always a terrible mother. If I’m being honest, I think she is a terrible person. She let men rule her life. They were always more important than her kids. She would always choose men over her kids. She would do whatever it took to be “loved” and taken care of. Financially that is. Even letting her children be used and abused. Then there was the drugs, the drinking, and the whores. The parties, the stealing, and the homelessness. If she couldn’t sell herself she’d sell her belongings and that included us. But I digress. Detroit is where the funeral will be. It’s where my oldest brother, Richard, still lives. It’s where Gary and Marty lived. All 3 of her boys stayed close to home. I was in and out of foster care for the next 14 years after she dumped me and my older brothers on the side of the road. My childhood was nothing but cinder and ash left from the bad decisions she made. Terrible “parents”, more abuse, and trauma.I met and married my husband, we made our own family. I rose from the ashes. I made a better life. I never went home again. I’ve lost 2 brothers now. Marty from a heroin overdose when he was 35 and Gary from a meningitis infection that spread to his brain. He was 51. Richard’s not far behind. He has something wrong with his lungs. Won’t tell me what, but he’s on oxygen now. He can’t walk from his bedroom to the living room without it. I blame her. Marty never would have been an addict if it weren’t for her. Maybe Richard and Gary would’ve taken better care of their health. If she had been around, maybe they would’ve known to go to the dr. Maybe they would’ve made better choices. Sometimes I think, no I know, that this way of thinking is ridiculous. I have boys. I’ve taught them as well as I could’ve. They still make bad choices. But at least they can always come home. Of course I’ve been back to Detroit. Detroit has so much to offer. I've been to the Eastern Market, the Vernor’s plant, and the Institute of Art. But I’ve not been “home”. As a matter of fact I arranged for Marty’s funeral to be at my church. As far away from home as I could get. In hopes she wouldn’t come. But she was there. She tried to get me to come home, but I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t even look at her. Richard and Gary flanked me, one on each side so she couldn’t sit next to me. That was the day I realized I hated her. I didn’t hate her because of the men or the booze. I hated her because of what she did to them. I hated her because of what she did to us. We were just children. I don’t think I can avoid coming home this time. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m going to say. How I’m going to act. How do I introduce her to the adult grandson she’s never met. I should come up with a snarky comment. I should take the high road. I always take the high road. I won’t become her. All that aside, I still decide against taking the high road. I deserve a little fun, a little payback. So maybe I’ll burn the whole damn house down. Richard won’t care. Gary and Marty are dead. They were the only ones that really loved her. They were the most messed up but also the most loyal to her. Maybe that’s why they were so messed up. They always defended her. Marty wanted nothing more than to be a family again. He could never wrap his head around the fact that that would never happen for us. We could never go home again. And just like that I had decided to burn it all down. All the pretending, all the hopes I had of being normal, and all the ideals of being a family. Until Richard calls. “You don’t have to worry. She’s not coming.” He says. “Of course she’s not,” I laugh. I guess I won’t be going “home” after all.

###"There is no respect for others without humility in one's self." --Henri Frederic Amiel *** *** #Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Humility ** *Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.): Setting includes a waterfall.* This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘humility’ in your story. It (or the idea) should appear in some way within the story. You may use if you need additional inspiration, but it is by no means required. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. Use of the bonus constraint is also not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week As promised--though a little later than I’d hoped--I present you with this week’s rankings. Thank you so much for your patience! Everyone did a wonderful job, and votes get harder and harder to make each week. You should be proud of taking on the challenge each week. I love seeing the wonderful worlds built each week and the way the prompts are interpreted. - - Submitted by u/DmonRth   - - Submitted by u/NotMuchChop   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/Sch0larite   *** ###Subreddit News - Our sister sub, r/WritingPrompts, now has a ! - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

I know the title doesn't sound that scary, but don't worry. ​ *T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even the mouse. Santa was coming, kids opened their eyes, to get a glimpse of the fat man, but to their surprise, the huffledinger approached them, and every kid died.* That’s the story my dad always told me before bed throughout December, but I always thought it was some big prank. I lift my head off my pillow, trying to avoid the creaky step as I tip-toe downstairs. I slide my hand against the wall, pausing when my mom ceases snoring for a second and relaxing when she begins again. I grab the cookies and milk that we left out for Santa and decide to make the final test to see if he’s real. Poisoned cookies. I put two drops of the homemade poison I found on the internet on each cookie, and pour the rest of it in the milk. Now if Santa’s real, I won’t get a present, and if not, one of my parents will die. So, it’s a win for me only if Santa isn’t real. Mom and dad are too controlling together. I hear a creak-- someone stepping on the creaky stair. I quickly replace the cookies and start to open the fridge to grab myself some water. “Luke, what are you up to?” croaks my mom, watching me as I grab a water bottle from the fridge and point to it. “I got thirsty, duh,” I mutter, my face (hopefully) void of emotion. My mom nods, before walking back upstairs and plopping onto her bed once more. I grin. All according to plan. I take a sip of my water before putting it back and jogging upstairs. ‘*Santa, come on out to play!*’ I think, my face stretched into a grin. I look at the ceiling, lying in bed, pondering about what I might dream about when I hear a jingle from downstairs. It must be Santa Claus! I slide my robe on as the *thump* echoes downstairs. I peek down, but I don’t see a man dressed in red with a red-tipped nose, instead, I see a slim, tall, shadowy figure. It moves like a gaseous substance throughout my living room, sliding like a shadow across the wall. I slowly step down the stairs and squeeze my eyes shut when my bare foot lands on the creaky stair. The noise echoes through the hall, and the creature stops. It hovers over Santa’s dead body, foam bubbling out of the man in red’s open mouth. I cover my mouth as bile rises in my throat. I small gasp escapes me when I see the figure turn towards me and widen its already wide smile. I recognize it from dozens of nights, looking at the illustrations of a book. It’s the huffledinger. I scream for my parents, my eyes and mouth widening simultaneously. No sound comes from their bedroom, not even my dad snoring. I sprint back up and turn into their room, my face paling when I see the very same foam bubbling out of their mouths. I hear a creak on the staircase, and my face goes white. The shadowed figure smiles at me as its eyes roll back into its head, turning a bloody red. I scream, but no one hears me. As the huffledinger approaches, I remember the nursery rhyme. *And every kid died.* Oh god. I’m going to die, and it’s all because of one little experiment. I feel tears prickling at my eyes. I’m going to die. *I mean, death is inevitable, right?* I think as I close my eyes. But instead of the sharp pain of death, I hear a high pitched voice with a rasp singing. “Lucas, Lucas, not the first, try it again, and you’ll be the worst. No one kills him, except for me, so Lucas, on a killing spree!” The voice grows louder with every verse. “Lucas, Lucas, very bad boy, what would your mother think, if she were alive? You paid the price, don’t pay it twice, Lucas, don’t try to roll the dice!” I cover my ears, and it all but muffles the horrendous sounds coming from the creature in front of me. I know that as soon as I open my eyes, I will die, so I do. My eyes blink open, and the huffledinger’s mouth opens wide, swallowing me whole in one giant bite. *Lucas, Lucas,* I think. *You are dead, you opened your eyes, so he took your head.

He had been going to the same coffee shop for nearly a year now. All for her. She was his everything. He thought about her while working. He thought about her while eating. Hell, he even thought about her while thinking about her. To him, she was perfect. And he had never even said so much as a single word to her. He first saw her clearing tables across the restaurant; her tight black skirt giving the perfect outline of her backside. The way she had glanced back as if she could feel his eyes burning holes in the fabric made his heart race. Her raven colored hair and rounded, black eyeglasses made her porcelain skin glow even more. He could remember it like it happened mere seconds ago. A taut white blouse, black skirt, and glossy black sneakers. She always wore the same outfit to work. It was the same attire the others wore, but he never paid enough attention to them to make the connection. When he was in the coffee shop, he only had eyes for her. Each day he went to the coffee shop to see her. He noticed she was quite shy and even when nearing his section, she kept her head down. This never bothered him, so long as she was close by he would take what he could get. He noticed she was being trained to replace an elderly server retiring soon. If only she would come by his table, he would be able to profess his love for her. Then one day, he got his wish. She seemed to glide as she made her way to his table. “I’m Amy. I’ll be your waitress today,” she breathed, as she looked up from the checkered tile floor toward his expectant gaze. Finally, their eyes met. Her beautiful smile was the perfect match to his glowing face. As she brushed her hair softly behind her ear, she slowly pulled her glasses down from her face. In that moment, his heart seemed to burst from his chest, for she had a lazy eye. “Welp, plenty of fish,” he murmured to himself as he exited the shop.

I - The Encounter The calm evening weather turned to a thunderstorm in an instant. Jack was planning to reach home before all of this started... but heavy drops of rain stated that this wasn’t an option anymore. A few hundred meters further there was an abandoned train bridge, it would be a perfect cover for the storm to pass. Nearing the bridge, the structure’s contours in the gloomy evening looked like a twisted creature . With rain pouring down, it seemed alive... breathing ... sluggishly moving around. The thunderstorm was getting more and more intense as Jack squeezed himself into the very corner of the structure. The wind was picking up and his hands were freezing off. The sound came first... It was music , or at least it sounded like music. It quickly started and disappeared again. The noise was made out of different sounds - birds chirping, running waterfall, trees cracking in the howling winds . Sounds you don’t typically hear during a thunderstorm. And Jack might not have given this too much attention if it didn’t sound... human ... like someone was talking to him in some obscure language... Hands weren’t freezing anymore, or maybe he just forgot about them. Even the rain and thunder were eerily quiet . The sound was getting closer and closer... Jack felt his body tense up, entering the dreaded fight or flight mode. And then it showed itself, not running, not crawling, but seemingly swimming past him as lightning illuminated the old bridge. He saw it for a second... it was... something ... During the brief moment, Jack couldn’t even understand where the creature started or ended, where his head was, or did it even had eyes. He could swear that this uncanny thing was made out of random parts of its surroundings, half of a log, parts of moss and stones. Its body was made out of sharp lines but moved gracefully. Jack just stood there as the creature dove back into the forest. His mind desperately tried to come up with a logical explanation. One thing that Jack didn’t notice was the fact that he was already following the creature into the dark forest. His body was moving on its own, still getting soaked in the rain and collecting bruises from sharp tree branches. Only lightning illuminated the forest now, but it was frequent enough to at least orientate yourself. He couldn’t answer why he was following it, maybe to prove that there was nothing, maybe to hear that music again... He reached an opening and the sound, though faintly, appeared again. It was coming from right over there, but there was nothing... only regular rocks, logs, and other parts of the forest illuminated in flashes of lightning. He’s probably too tired , overstressed , overworked ... Then it moved ... he could swear that the thing just emerged from its surroundings, taking parts of trees and moss - making them part of its body. The creature looked different , it was bigger and had a wildly exaggerated body. But somehow Jack felt that it was the same entity , it must be. It moved around in slow yet methodical movements. Then dove into the forest like it was made out of water, yet again leaving nothing, just the same old trees and rocks. Jack wasn’t breathing for a long time and finally took a deep breath - like he himself was just about to drown. The thing resurfaced once more, a bit further down the tree line. Again it combined different parts of its surroundings, but this time an animal skull, or part of it dangled to his side. Even though Jack couldn’t say for the life of him which part of this creature was what, he felt being watched . The music, made of forest sounds, was getting louder . Combined with the constant rain and thunder it started to press Jack’s head in. Crumbling to his knees, still looking at the thing, but the creature didn’t move. Jack’s head was hurting bad, but even then, from all this noise, he could make out something - the creature was asking or maybe offering something. Like talking with a person without understanding their language - you might not know what they offer, but you KNOW they’re offering something. The thing started moving again, with slow moves , almost swimming, it reminded Jack of some form of dancing. God knows how much time Jack spent there in the middle of the dark shadowy forest watching the creature dance . Abruptly it stopped and stared one more time before diving into the trees and disappearing. The rain was dying down, he knew the creature was gone. There was no more music around, and the sound of thunder was back to normal. He felt cold , wet , and a bit stupid for standing in the rain for so long. All of this felt like a weird dream, and he just wanted the warm sheets of his bed... II - The Void It’s been 4 days and he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since the encounter. His bed was wrong , the air in his room was choking him, and the food tasted more like sand . The sheets of his bed felt thorny and almost burned his skin. He couldn’t work either, the sound of coworkers, or any person for that matter was irritating. Everything was empty , lifeless , grey , without meaning. Except for one thing, when it rained ... During those moments, Jack became fixated with nature, it felt like pressure building all over his body. Even inside, the sound of tree branches moving and the smell of the forest were irresistible... It was 4 a.m. in the morning, and the small drops of water were beginning to hit his window... It’ll rain again ... Jack snapped... he’s not going to try to force himself to sleep for the fifth night in a row. Naked , marched into his yard which was now a mud bath. The rain on his body felt amazing, cooling, like a part of him. Jack laid himself into the mud and it adapted to his body like it was specifically waiting for him. The rain wasn’t falling down on him , it felt like it was falling on him . He felt his skin mixing with the mud and stretching, sinking deeper and deeper. After a couple of hours, his body felt numb , liquid almost. Maybe from the cold rain or maybe his body wasn’t even here anymore. He shifted his eyes downward. Someone was standing behind a tree. Even though it had a different overall shape, Jack knew it was the same creature from before. It was observing him, silently, patiently, waiting for something... It was probably watching him these whole 4 days, just from the shadows. Jack didn’t care, he was enjoying the peaceful cold of the rain and mud. Finally, he woke up as the first rays of the sun hit the ground. Getting up from the bliss , he headed to his apartment, carefully trying not to get noticed by the neighbors. III - The Offer Are you listening to me? You look sick Jack... You should probably go see a doctor... He didn’t care, didn’t care about anything anymore, all of this just felt fake , unnatural. Even the smell of other people made him sick . His coworker was talking for quite a while now, just talking, without any point or reason. Jack knew she was making things up, knew why, and even that it was not really her fault, just a human habit . Two weeks have passed since the encounter, and apart from the nights spent sleeping in the mud, Jack never actually felt alive, or even present... All thoughts were wandering around the forest, somewhere lost in the mesmerizing maze of it. It was beginning to rain outside and Jack desperately wanted peace... in his mind, there were two options, either lock himself in a mental institution or... or just live in the forest. A month ago idea like this would have been insane, but now it was burning in his mind, enveloping more and more of his thoughts. He quickly got up, abruptly ending the one-sided conversation. Didn’t even pick up his things, just left out the door, heading in the direction of that bridge. His plan was sporadic at best, his thoughts murky , jumping from one idea to the other. But he wanted to find a nice spot, just to clear his mind a bit. Wandering deeper into the forest, the rain was intensifying ... A nice spot of moss, he can just lay there... yet again, being dragged under... sinking. The creature was here, carefully watching him, following his every move. Once again that weird music started playing, and once again it sounded... no, now, it definitely was an offer... to be something else... Looking at the cloudy sky, Jack took a deep breath and finally accepted the creature’s deal. His body started spreading through the wet forest floor, tree branches, and small rocks around him. His skin was the tree barch, and his vanes were its roots... Then there was nothing, just a few rocks, some trees, and moss, nothing you wouldn’t see in any other part of the world. In the stormy weather, the forest was quiet. Jack Redmin disappeared on January 8, 2021.... Laura was hiding from the rain at an old bus stop, though it didn’t do much to protect her.... In the gloomy evening, she could swear that she saw 2 figures, dancing through the treeline, singing... calling to her. Laura Bratner disappeared on March 15, 2022....

“I don’t want to ever so much as see crystals around here again Lissette! You do know this is what got your mother killed, don’t you?” Aunt Ivy’s pine green eyes shift back and forth, examining Lissette’s tawny diamond shaped face. “But it’s also what made her feel alive.” Lissette responds. “I don’t understand how you so easily turned your back on our traditions all those years ago. What? Simply because you’re scared?” “Fear isn’t always a bad thing Lissette. You’re young, so you think you know everything, but you don’t. Please just stop with the magic. I already lost Ava,” The name catches in her throat. “Don’t make me lose you too.” Lissette rushes to the circular wooden door leading out to Willowdale. No one, not even Aunt Ivy, can take away what still connects Lissette to her mother. The one thing that brings joy in this dreary life. She strides towards the forest, where it’s safe to be herself. “Hey there, what’s the rush Lissette?” She’s startled out of her focused march by his chin length black hair and icy blue eyes. Her heart stops for a moment along with her feet. “Oh, hey Peter. Just,” She glances over at the small open market. “Out doing some chores for Ivy. Bread and all that.” “Ah. Would you like some company?” He asks. Lips twisting into a half smirk. “No, it’s fine. I’m kind of in a rush.” He bows slightly. “As you wish gorgeous.” She hopes he can’t tell she’s blushing and glances down as she moves onward. Lissette stops by the market just in case Peter’s still in the area. She lazily inspects the baker’s selection and overhears the conversation of two women behind her. “I can’t believe it. How did this happen when the Inquisori’s been so good about eradicating witchcraft?” Lissette’s ears perk up at the word witchcraft. “People can be sneaky. You never know what someone’s hiding.” “Yeah, but the Gargantha lurking in the forest is not something easily hidden.” “Those monsters are born rather small, or so I’ve heard.” A Gargantha is created out of someone’s insecurities, secret longings, and regrets. The mage gains someone’s trust, usually with the help of illusory magic to get the to the core of that person. Lissette despises crooked magic, but it’s what people generally associate with witchcraft. She buys a loaf of bread and walks back to the cottage. If a Gargantha is out there right now, Lissette would need to go into the forest more prepared than she is. Scents of a meaty stew swirl throughout the cottage, and Ivy’s more focused on the pot in the kitchen than she’d normally be. Good, she’ll probably ignore Lissette for a while. She slinks into her room which barely has enough space for her twin sized bed. Lissette places the bread and satchel on her miniature bedside dresser. She pulls off her blood red cloak over her thick curly hair and lays on the bed in her puffy white shirt and loose pants. She takes her notes and pen from the dresser. Use magic to defeat magic. Lissette pulls three empty sheets of thick yellowing paper from the stacks. She draws the symbol for verity. Three dots inside a triangle. Water, a circle with a t through the middle and raindrops in each of the four parts of the open circle. Fire, a diamond holding a flame inside. Truth and these elements are what best counteract illusory magic which creates a Gargantha. Lissette spends hours perfecting the symbols. She puts her cloak and satchel back on, placing the symbols inside the bag. She walks out to the living room holding the bread and finds Ivy sitting on the couch reading a novel. Barely looking at the table beside her, Ivy lifts her teacup and sips while reading. Lissette almost tells her about the plan. Maybe knowing that she’s using her powers for good will lighten Ivy’s views on it, but Lissette stops herself from saying anything. She’ll tell Ivy after she’s victorious. Hearing Lissette’s footsteps, Ivy says, “Help yourself to some of the stew.” She doesn’t take her eyes off the novel. “Thanks. I brought some more bread if you want any.” “Mm.” Lissette puts the bread on the counter and walks out to Willowdale. She spots Peter sitting below a tree playing the lute, and he glimpses her way just after she looks at him. Lissette quickly glances back down, but it’s too late. He walks over to her with a full smile on his moonlight face. “Out and about twice in one day. This is rare for you.” He says. “While you’re always out on the town.” She retorts. He raises an eyebrow, conscious of the double meaning in her words. She’s seen him walking around with almost all of the other young women in Willowdale. He’ll usually play them a song or two before moving on to the next one. She crosses her arms. “Is that such a bad thing? I can’t imagine how boring it must be to just sit in your room all day.” “Nope. Not boring. Peaceful.” She continues walking. “Anyways, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.” She glances at his blue eyes one last time and jumps back at the intensity of his gaze. “Huh. Well then, Lissette. Enjoy your day.” He walks back to the tree and starts playing his lute. Though she’s had a slight distant crush on Peter for a while, he hasn’t spoken to her much like he has today. She never realized he noticed her introverted ways like she’s noticed his extroverted ones. Lissette shakes her head. He’s just curious because she appears like a mystery. Lissette pulls on her satchel and thumbs through the three papers. Hopefully this works. The most she’s ever done are simple spells to help around the house or change energy. She’s never used magic for anything on this scale before. She ambles to the forest on the long trail out of town. Feigning interest in a light green plant with deep red dots, Lissette kneels down and touches one of the waxy leaves. Maybe she’s not the one who should go defeat the Gargantha. “Don’t doubt yourself. This is what I want you to do.” Ava’s voice nudges inside her head. Lissette stands back up and walks with determination. Plants on each side of her sway in the wind. Her mom’s presence guides Lissette forward, even if it’s simply in her imagination. Standing at the base of the entrance to the forest, she inhales and exhales a long, deep breath. Wind slows, expansive silence covering the dimming area. The sun falls on the horizon to her right as the moon lightly hangs in the other side of the sky. Lissette enters between the trees and listens for any footsteps or sounds from the Gargantha. Though she knows how one is made, she doesn’t know what they look like. Time passes, and as darkness covers the forest Lissette wonders if what she heard in the market was merely a rumor. Her ankles throb and she sits down for a break. Whispers flow around Lissette, and the back of her neck tingles. She sees no sign of anyone or anything in the area. The words are barely distinct. “Not good enough. Why try if you’re going to fail anyways? Save yourself the embarrassment. Not good enough.” She stands up but sees nothing from any direction. “Something must be wrong with you. Your time has already passed. It’s too late for you to become an actress. You never would have made it to the city anyways. Not good enough.” Lissette’s eyebrows knead together. She’s never wanted to become an actress. Bushes shift, and the brushing sound covers the whispers that were there seconds before. Lissette turns towards them, biting her lower lip. Peter emerges from the bushes, and she backs away as he comes closer. She blurts, “What are you doing out here?” “I could ask you the same question, Lissette. Except I already know why you’re here.” Without glancing behind, she backs into a tree. She looks around for an escape route. “The full extent of my charms didn’t work on you earlier because while I am a wizard, you’re a witch. Though,” he smirks, “You are attracted to me without the excess.” She shakes her head and feels through the satchel. “You don’t need to destroy my precious Gargantha. Imagine instead, how powerful we could be together. We could stop the Inquisori from trying to destroy magic. Average people are scared now, but we can make them fear us to the point where they won’t try to erase us anymore.” “I don’t do magic to hold a twisted power over others.” Lissette pulls out the verity symbol and sways her arms until a slight glow circles around her. “Oh come now, I’m not going to do anything to hurt you. I’m on your side. You’re not the only one who’s lost someone for our practices.” His eyes are earnest for a moment. “And what of the girl who you used illusory magic on? It’s evil Peter. You’ve altered who she is forever. Those thoughts will always be at the forefront of her mind now.” “Isn’t every human impacted in some way or another by those they come in contact with? I’m just a more powerful force than the average person. Besides, maybe she’ll actually do something to change her reality with all those thoughts floating around her mind.” Lissette shakes her head, and her eyes widen at the sound of a tree slamming into the ground. A large, rounded violet creature waddles behind Peter. It has craters all over its body, indents where the eyes should be. Whispers of, “Not good enough,” murmur through the Gargantha. Lissette pulls out the water symbol, but the moment her verity shield is down, Peter uses wind magic to push the papers out of her hands and satchel. She turns and runs for the symbols, but the distance between her and the papers is futile. Lissette isn’t practiced enough to use magic without them. “How did you learn to use magic without the use of symbols?” She asks Peter. “I had a wonderful teacher.” A bit quieter, he says, “She was the person I lost.” Lissette’s lips part, but she can’t think of a response. “Get away from her!” Lissette and Peter turn to see Ivy’s broad form. Elbows out to her sides and a ball of water flowing through the air between her hands. With the force of a tidal wave, it lunges for the Gargantha. Peter directs wind towards Ivy, but he’s too late to counteract her practiced force. A loud screech emerges from the Gargantha. Deep shadows of pain are in every note of disharmony, and the Gargantha transforms into a shadow itself before evaporating into the aether. The ball of water is motionless once more between Ivy’s hands. She gives Peter the most intimidating look Lissette has ever seen from her aunt. This is a side to Ivy Lissette had a vague idea of but never expected to know. She’s never even seen her aunt use charms since her aversion to magic started around the time Lissette was born. “Run.” Ivy commands, and Peter darts in the opposite direction of Willowdale. When he’s completely out of sight, Ivy releases the magic and sighs. “Good. I thought I was actually going to have to hurt the kid.” She turns to Lissette, who looks at the ground. Lissette asks, “How did you find me here?” “I may not have purposely used magic in a long time until now, but intuition is my strongest gift. One that I’m happy I can’t get rid of.” She pauses. “Did you not know the Gargantha and wizard were out here?” “I did. Well, I didn’t know Peter would be out here, but I knew the Gargantha would. I overheard it at the market.” Lissette looks directly into Ivy’s eyes. “It’s just, I thought that if I defeated it and told you about it after, you’d see why I should keep practicing magic. I want to use my powers for good.” She pauses. “Though, I’m beginning to see I barely even have any power.” Ivy shakes her head. “Come, let’s go back to the cottage. It’s already dark, and we don’t want anyone to see us walk out of the forest at midnight.” They move side by side in silence for a long time. As they approach the exit, Ivy says, “Your mother isn’t the only person I’ve lost to magic. There are more ways to lose someone than death alone.” Lissette glances at Ivy and waits for her to continue. “The wizard, Peter you said? He probably didn’t start off using illusory magic. Some magicians change when they get a taste of power. It becomes an addiction to ease the tsunamis within themselves.” She wistfully gazes at the stars. “Growing up, you’ve never seen me have a long term companion. And it’s because my heart is a ghost for someone who’s alive but no longer exists. Someone who I lost to that addiction. It will break my heart to the point of no return if I lost you the way I lost her or your mom.” “But that’s not who I am. It’s not who mom was.” Tears form at the edges of Lissette’s eyes, but she resists the urge to wipe them away. “And she’s still with me despite what they did to her. I won’t become like Peter or the person you loved, but I won’t back down to the Inquisori either.” Ivy stops walking and Lissette does the same. Ivy says, “What I’m about to say comes with a heavy heart. You need to leave Willowdale.” “What? I’m not leaving you here alone. Isn’t that what you’re afraid of?” Lissette shakes her head. “There’s a school out west where you can learn the practice, but they will also teach you the self control required for true strength. And you’re not going to stay here, where the Inquisori rule with an iron fist. The west is more open minded about magic.” “Well then, maybe you can come with me.” Ivy shakes her head. “No. I used magic today, but I will not sway from the life I’ve chosen for myself. Yet, I realize it would be selfish of me to keep holding you back from the life you want for yourself. You can lead a safer life there than in Willowdale. We can still write to each other and visit occasionally. Neither of us will be truly alone.” Lissette embraces Ivy as tears stream down her cheeks. “Thank you, Ivy. I won’t change.” “You will change. But some of the teachers at Vixose are from my past life, and I trust the change in you won’t be for the worse. I will draw out a map for you tomorrow and write the letter to the dean. But you will pay for the carriage with the earnings you made from your summer job.” Lissette pulls back. “You always were a cheapskate.” They laugh and walk the rest of the way home under a full moon.

He lay motionless, sprawled on the bed, gazing at the hospital walls, tall and white, spotted with grey flower patterns, and the whitewashed ceiling above. "I'd like to run up the wall," he thought, a thin man with brown eyes, now bloodshot and sunken. "Up, up! On all my six legs. And then across the ceiling..." He pressed his palm against the wall. It felt cold and rough to the touch. He hit the wall with his foot. Cold, and rough and hard. No sticky contact. He wouldn't be able to run up the wall even if his life depended on it. Four limbs instead of six, and all are useless! A feeling of loss struck him suddenly. He wanted to weep but couldn't: it was too human for him yet. Human. Soft, lithe body. No chitin plates. Wingless. Defenceless. Weak. And it lies on its back! He remembered too well what it used to mean in his past life. It used to mean that you were stuck with your wings glued to a sweet kissel, twitching your six legs helplessly in the air, and that you were going to die, slowly and miserably. There was no way out. He shuddered at the thought and then did what he never knew was possible: he bent over and sat on the bed. "Hey! Look who's up and smiling, guys!" The man's fellow patients put away the greasy cards they were playing and turned toward him. "He's awake, finally. Poor guy," said one of them. "Hey, sonny, are you hungry?" said another and without waiting for the answer began rummaging in his bedside table. "The guys who brought you here left some kissel\* for you. They told us to give it to you when it's gone sour." Had handed the man a bowl full of kissel, sour-smelling and heavily fermented by the yeast that covered it. "Listen, pal, don't eat this," said the other man. "I don't know what they were thinking trying to feed this garbage to you. Want a sandwich? I have one." But once the smell of the fermented kissel reached the new patient's nostrils, his face suddenly brightened up. He grinned. He beamed. He made a strange sound. Then grabbed the bowl, held it against his face and stuck his nose into it. The next moment he was grieving for a long and flexible proboscis he'd had in his past life while trying to reach the delicious yeast with his short human tongue. He reached, finally, but only to recoil in disgust. He felt sick right away; his stomach turned, he threw up. He wept, terrified of the salty moisture leaking from his eyes. The feeling of loss was different this time. It was so painful, so deep, so alien! For a moment he gazed upon the food that had meant a world to him in his past life, then began sobbing inconsolably over it with pathetic, whimpering cries of a heartbroken human being. "There, there, pal..." His fellow patient gently patted him on the back. "Eat a sandwich, it will do for now. There's going to be a proper breakfast soon." He learned to be human, and it came naturally to him, though he couldn't let go of the past life's memories yet. Sometimes he would catch little flies and try buzzing something to them while holding them carefully with his hands. Because of this, his fellow patients called him Fly. They couldn’t get his real name out of him anyway. As time passed, Fly learned to measure it in a human way: with days and nights, hours and minutes. It seemed familiar somehow but long forgotten along with many other things. Recovery of the old, alien memories was a hard and slow process, but it was much easier than learning from scratch. Each new day made Fly more and more human. Soon, the glimpses of his past life came to reveal themselves only in dreams. And then even the dreams of Fly's lost world became rare. He began dreaming of times that seemed ancient: of human childhood. When the Visitor came to see Fly, he found him reading a newspaper. Fly lifted his eyes and saw a tall man in a dark suit who greeted him with a warm smile. The man was old but had aged well, his snow-white hair thick and shining, his blue eyes full of life. "You've learned a lot here at the hospital," the Visitor nodded. "Do you even remember the days when you used to live in a vial of sweet kissel on my table? I doubt that." Saying no more, he took a little glass vial out of his pocket and showed it to Fly. Fly grabbed the vial that very instant. He couldn't believe his own eyes. There, in his shaking hands, human hands, he held his homeworld which seemed so small now, barely recognizable, too. It looked like ages had passed there since Fly left it. The glass itself was dirty, stained with countless tiny footprints, plastered with empty cocoons, and almost all the kissel had been eaten. Of all the inhabitants of the world only a few flies were left, small and starving, and oblivious of their doom. They ran and flew to and fro, living and moving too fast for human eyes. Fly felt tears welling up in his eyes again. "This hospital is just like the vial you came from," the old man said to the crying Fly. "You've grown out of it. Now it's time for you to enter a bigger world." He took Fly by the hand like a child and led him to the exit. The promised world wasn't just big, it was huge beyond imagination. Fly fell to his knees, his head swimming, his heart pounding, and tried to buzz as if he still had had his wings. "Get up, human," said the Visitor sternly. And Fly got up. \- Fly was adapting to his new life fast and forgetting the past one even faster. He now had a human name - Ivan, - a passport, and an apartment to live in. A mere week after getting all these things he'd already been working as a cook in a local bakery making sweet cakes of dough, cream and chocolate. The Visitor whose true name Ivan had never learned called on him often. He spoke little, smiled a lot, and always took a note that everything was going fine and according to the plan. His visits were all alike, brief and uneventful, all but the last one when he left Ivan a gift. It was a little glass vial half-filled with sweet kissel, seeded with living yeast, and populated with several young Drosophila flies. Attached to the vial with a silk string, was a little Birthday card with a few words written on it: "Remember where you came from." He did. And this memory filled his human existence with a depth he didn't know before. Ivan's touching love for the little flies amused his human friends and had earned him a reputation of a funny geeky guy, but he didn't mind. The little glass vials stood in long rows on the top of his fridge, minuscule ages rising and fading away inside them. He'd been a little fly once. Now he was their god. He washed and sterilized the dead worlds, filled them with kissel and yeast, and repopulated them again with a few chosen ones leaving the others to share the fate of their dying homeworlds. He couldn't save them all. There were too many. When he fell in love, the feeling of loss echoed in his heart once more for Ivan had no wings to sing the love song. But then a new wave of memories rose risen in his mind, and instead of a song sung by the soft buzzing of the wings, he found words. And deeds... \-- In a narrow white hall, there was a long table with a row of chairs on each side. That day, every single chair was occupied. People like Visitor had gathered there, and the Visitor himself stood on the podium above them giving a speech about the scientific breakthrough his discovery would lead to. He spoke with great eloquence, but all the profound phrases and big words he was throwing around were no more than ripples across the ocean, vast, deep, and cold. Gene therapy. Several genes taken from Drosophila melanogaster - a lab fly - and, with the help of a tamed virus, inserted into DNA of every cell of a human body. A subtle, harmless change with the most dramatic effects. How do you change a hardened, cold-blooded criminal into a compassionate human being again without damaging their mind in the process? How do you leave their memories intact and remove the dangerous behaviour at the same time? That's how. The suggested therapy blocks the very origin of violence in humans. It's simple, cheap and has no drawbacks. There's proof, see for yourselves. One, two, three... ten... hundred of files Visitor puts on the long table, patiently, one by one. They are the dossiers of the cruelest criminals of Earth, and the thickest and the heaviest one is that of a man who is now known as Ivan. People are shocked, they can not believe their eyes. But the proof is solid, the reputation of the scientist is perfect, and the results exceed all expectations. By the end of the year, the new gene therapy will be approved for the worldwide implementation. There will be no more prisons. The world itself will change for the better. A miracle... ...A miracle. A true miracle, and there's no catch... The blue-eyed old man smiled at that thought. He is walking down the park lane paved with white stone and spotted with green patches of grass. Under his arm, he's holding a case full of criminal dossiers, heavy with other people's recorded sins. He knows the debates about his method will cease soon. He has nothing to worry about anymore. Not even about whether he did the right thing. ...There is no catch... The blue-eyed old man stands on the shore and looks away; past the noisy children playing in the waves, past the horizon where the sea meets the sky, past the mortal world and into the depth of the afterlife where unbound souls soar in the infinite space. Every living being on Earth has this little gene sequence - the "soul bait" he called it. It is simple and short, just a "code phrase" to lure a certain type of soul into a certain type of body. That's how a fox gets a soul of a fox, and a cat gets a soul of a cat, and a human being gets a human soul... That's how it used to be, but from now on everything will change. (May, 2005) From (book of short stories) \*Kissel - juice or milk thickened with starch. It can be either a drink or a jelly depending on how much starch you put into it. As students, we used kissel to grow drosophila flies at home for our own experiments; in the lab, we used agar-based feeding substance instead. Also, kissel is a tasty dish that does wonders to a sore throat when sweetened with honey instead of sugar and drunk/eaten hot.

“Don’t forget to wear your mask,” Melissa says over the phone to Don. “I know. See you soon.” “Okay.” Thirty-five minutes later Don pulls up in an UBER in front of a brown cottage. It’s well kept. An extravagant vine encasing its sides up to the wood roof. The wide bright green grass is cut perfectly around its landscape. Its door is colored forest green. After he steps out of the car, he sees Melissa standing at the entrance. The weather is warm, sunny, a little breezy. The car service pulls away. He walks up to Melissa. They smile at each other. “Beautiful out here.” He says. “Maybe we can take a walk to the lake nearby.” “Sure. We have the weekend.” They kiss on the mouth as he enters the cottage. She locks the door behind them. “Any bears in here?” “Ha, ha. I’ll take that.” She takes his jacket and hangs it up in the nearby closet. “You can put your sneakers over here.” He does so. “Anything to drink?” She asked. “Sure. Nice fireplace.” “Thank you.” “This place is awesome. How long you and Mark had this?” “You mean how long have I had this?” “He hasn’t seen it? She shakes her head. “Not until he and I get married.” “Which is...” “End of August.” “Right.” “He’s looking forward to you being there.” “Cool. So, what do you have to drink?” “Come in the kitchen.” He follows her. “So how long did it take you to build this?” “You’re full of jokes today, uh?” She pours him a glass of orange juice. He just smiles, revealing his dimples. “My grandmother left it to me.” She hands him the glass of juice. “Thanks. It must be good being the only grandchild.” “Not bad.” She grins. She puts the carton of juice back in the refrigerator. He drinks while looking at her nicely shape body in her fitted jeans. She turns to him. “I’ve been here for the past couple of days. Jogging, cleaning, reading, enjoying nature. I needed the peace and quiet, you know. I have time to spare since Mark is in Las Vegas for like two weeks.” “Good for us.” She smiles, “Yes, good for us.” She walks up to him and kisses him on his wet lips. “You know, I always thought if I was younger maybe you would have dated me in high school.” “Age had nothing to do with it.” She says. “We’re only a year apart. And I must say, you were the only cool guy I’d date in your class. I see you still have the class ring.” “You know it, Class of ’99.” He holds it up. He continues, “You know, Mark wasn’t a good athlete, an okay looking guy...’ “And?” “You still fell for him.” “He was cute and charming.” He grunts. “He still is.” She says. “But...’ “No but...’ “Then why am I here?” “Because you’re cute and charming.” She smiles and they kiss again. He puts the glass of juice down on the table, wraps his arms around her thin waist. “I’m much more than that.” “Really?” “Yeah.” “Show me.” “Right here?” “No, follow me.” She takes his hand and they walk into her bedroom. “Hey Don, isn’t that Melissa’s boyfriend over there?” Don looks over his shoulder, sitting at the bar with his friend Jax. “Yeah that’s him.” “You look better than him, man. I don’t know why she dates him. It looks like a truck ran over his face.” Jax laughs, but he sees Don doesn’t crack a smile. “What’s up with you?” “Melissa introduced us last week at a party she invited me to.” “Did you tell him that you wanted to bang his girlfriend?” “No...no I didn’t. He actually turned out to be a nice guy.” “What?” Don waves the bartender over to him. “See that tall guy with the light blue shirt on over there? Tell him next round of drinks is on me.” Bartender nods. “Are you serious?” Jax looks at him with disbelief. “It’s my money, what do you care?” Some time later Mark walks over with a couple of his football buddies to the bar where Don now sits by himself. “Why didn’t you come over to our table?” Mark asked. “Didn’t want to intrude.” “No worries, man. Thanks again for the drinks.” “It’s nothing.” “Want to come with us?” “Where?” “To a club. Melissa and some of her friends are going to be there.” “Um...I guess, sure.” “Cool. You can ride with me. Come on.” “Alright.” In the club Max dances with one of Melissa’s female friends. As he dances with her, he catches Melissa looking at him as she dances with Mark. He looks away and then back at her again, she still watches him and grins. They all get drunk except Mark. He drinks a lot but still doesn’t get drunk. Everyone envies him for that. The moonlight lights up the starry sky. Melissa lays under the sheet, tired. Don walks in the bedroom with a bowl of ice cream. Melissa looks at him and laughs. “What’s so funny?” “That robe looks small on you.” “It’s the first thing I grabbed in the closet.” “What you bring?” “Ice cream.” She groans. “You don’t want any?” He sits by her. “I meant to throw the rest out.” “Why?” “Trying to stay in shape.” “A little bit won’t hurt.” He feeds some to her. “Mmm.” “Good, right?” She nods. “That’s it. You have the rest.” She says. “Yeah, let me get fat by myself.” “You’re nowhere near fat.” He eats. He looks at her as she lays on the fluffy pillow, her long wavy brown hair spreads out around her head. Her pale skin is exquisite in the moonlight. She looks up at him. “I’m happy you’re here Don.” “Me too. But tomorrow evening will be a different story.” “Don’t remind me. Let’s just stay in the present.” He smiles at her. “You want to watch a movie tonight?” She asked. “Movie? There’s no TV.” “Um, it’s 2020, cell phone, duh.” “Right.” “Wait, you still have a TV?” “Yeah. It still works, so it stays.” “Man needs his big screen.” She gets up out of the bed, naked. She continues. “So, what do you say, movie or TV show?” He’s infatuated by her look. “Um...not sure.” “Well, make up your mind.” She walks to the clothes dresser and takes out a clean pair of underwear. “Where you going?” “Taking a shower.” Just when she reaches the bathroom door, which is there in the bedroom, he calls her. “Melissa.” She stops and turns. “Yes.” “This might be hard to stop.” “What, what are you talking about?” “You know, this...you and me.” “Don, you’re not...c’mon, this is not...it never was that.” “It was never what?” “Well, you make it sound like you might be catching feelings.” “Of course, I have feelings for you. Don’t you?” “I mean like, you know, deep feelings. Like falling in love kind of feelings.” He puts the empty bowl on the nightstand and looks at her. “Forget I mentioned it.” “No, wait I thought we were clear on - “ “We are, I was just talking silly. After your shower we’ll watch something tonight.” “You’re good?” “Yes.” “Okay, cool. Won’t be long.” She goes into the bathroom, closes the door behind her. Don looks at the moving curtains. He hears the shower turn on. He gets off the bed and walks to the open window and closes it. He pulls the curtain slightly back to look out to what is mostly darkness. He sees small lights slowly blinking off and on in midair. Lightning bugs. ‘Just enjoy the moment Don.’ He thinks to himself. ‘ What a jerk I must be. To be with my friend’s woman. What is wrong with me? She is beautiful. I couldn’t have her then, but I do now. And all we have is now.’

Snowflakes were slowly falling on the frozen ground. It was a cold winter and it was going to get even colder. Jane was running late for a meeting with her friend. She was walking as fast as she could, being careful not to slip on the ice. Ice crystals were beginning to form on her eyelashes as she reached the restaurant. She pushed the door open and was instantly welcomed by a warm breeze. Jane spotted Melissa at a small table, drinking what seemed like red wine. “Hi, Melissa”. Melissa looked up and smiled brightly at her friend: “You’re late” They ordered the food and began small talk. Jane was thankful for the warmth of the place. Her plate of Carbonara Spaghetti just arrived when Melissa asked her a question, Jane had already heard a hundred times in the past week. “So, have you heard about your neighbor Mr. Allen?” The rumor was that Mr. Allen might be dead, frozen in his own house, just feet away from Jane’s place. Mr. Allen lived with his nephew in a 1 story building. No one had seen him leave the house in over a month. And no one had ever bothered to check in on him. The only one who goes in and out of the house is the nephew. But no one dares to approach him. The thing is, everyone believes he killed his grandpa and stuffed him somewhere in a freezer. The police have been called multiple times but nothing suspicious was found. According to the sheriff, “Mr. Allen was safe and sound”. The people, however, didn’t want to believe that. The place where Jane lived was a small town and people were often closed-minded. They created all these rumors, hoping their little town would get famous one day. And gossip in such a town was the order of the day. Maybe some people knew the truth, one of those being the sheriff, but they liked hearing others fantasize about what mysteries might lie between the walls of the Allen’s. Jane looked at Melissa with tired eyes: “Can we not talk about this? You know pretty well I’ve heard about him and no, I don’t think the rumor of him being dead is true. Mike, his nephew, is not a criminal”. “Yes, but have you seen Mr. Allen in the past weeks? And have you ever talked to Mike? How are you so sure he’s such a good guy?” Jane wasn’t sure. But she hoped with all her heart that nothing horrible was happening in the house across from her. She didn’t even want to think she was living near a murderer. Maybe this is why she never checked on the Allen’s house either. She was scared of what she might find. Then again, should she be alarmed? The police said there was nothing wrong there. After lunch, Jane said goodbye to Melissa and went home. All that talk about her neighbor spooked her. She just wanted to get home and drink some tea in peace. The cold air was slipping through her jacket and Jane couldn’t help but think that in such cold weather a body could stay frozen for weeks, even without a freezer. People were constantly telling her to steer clear of Mike. But deep down, many believed that Jane was involved in the killing of Mr. Allen. He was her only neighbor and people found it impossible for her not to have played a part in what probably went down there. Jane was aware of this but the opinion of others didn’t matter to her. There were, of course, those who didn’t believe Mr. Allen was dead. They thought him to have transformed into a vampire. And that’s why he didn’t go out. His nephew had to be supplying him with blood, or he himself was the food source for his grandpa. A select few believed the old man doesn’t even exist and until now, he had been just a ghost but finally he found peace so he wasn’t haunting around anymore. Jane was thinking about how this rumor changed constantly from man to man, from woman to woman. How everyone tells the story his way, changing some details for his amusement, or just because that is what he believed was the truth. This is the thing with gossip, you never really know what is true and what isn’t. As she approached her house she gathered up the courage for what she wanted to do next. The gossip has been going around for some time and Jane was fed up with all these phantasmagorical ideas. She didn’t see Mike as a criminal. Even though they never had a single conversation he seemed like a nice guy and always smiled towards her. The tea had to wait. First, she had to prove to everyone that the rumor was fake. She knocked on the door. Twice. Her hands were shivering but Jane couldn’t tell if it was for the cold or because she was scared. Soon, the big door opened and on the other side stood a man in his late 30’s. He had dirty blond hair and a scruffy beard. Mike was good-looking but he couldn’t be described as handsome. His brown eyes widened at the sight of Jane. For a moment he seemed unsure whether to shut the door in her face or hear what she had to say. “Jane, right? What are you doing here?” “Hi! Yes, it’s Jane. I wanted to ask you something.” She paused briefly then continued: “Would you mind if we went inside?” She didn’t plan to stay but the hot air inside the house was just too inviting. Mike nodded shortly then led her to the living room. There was no sight of Mr. Allen. Well, maybe he was asleep. This didn’t seem like a house where a gruesome murder took place. Everything was clean and neat, with no dust to be seen and the temperature was too high for a body not to rot. “What’s up?”, asked Mike after they seated themselves on the sofa. And then Jane asked the million-dollar question with no hesitation: “I guess you’ve heard the rumor about Mr. Allen. And I just want to say I don’t believe any of it. But I still want to know the truth. Why is your grandfather not coming out of the house? What’s going on?” Mike seemed like he was prepared for this question. “Well, you see... There is nothing fishy going around here. My grandpa is just on vacation.” Vacation? This was such a simple explanation. How did no one consider this? Jane felt so dumb at that moment. Of course, he probably fled from the icy cold here and went somewhere like the Bahamas. He had the money after all. “Wow, that makes sense. It’s just weird he didn’t tell anyone.” All of a sudden a laughter crisis took over Jane. “I’m sorry, it’s just so funny how everyone painted this murder mystery around you and your grandpa when he just went on vacation. But why didn’t you tell anyone? Did you like being considered the black sheep of our community?” Mike seemed surprised. “No one asked me except for the police.” That was plausible. Everyone was inclined to believe the gossip rather than know the truth. “So where exactly did he go? Is it someplace sunny? And how long is he going to stay there?” “I already told all this to the police, I don’t need to tell you too.” He was slowly getting irritated. Jane felt like she pushed too hard. Mr. Allen has always been private with his life. “Oh no, of course. Sorry, I was just curious. Well, thanks for making things clear. I’ll go now. I can’t wait to tell everyone that all the rumors are fake!” She was just about to head for the front door when she remembered she was out of eggs. “Could I borrow some eggs if that’s alright with you?” Mike forced a smile: “Sure, I’ll bring them to you”. He went into the kitchen. Jane thought about how unfair the people had been with Mike. They believed him a criminal when in fact his uncle was just taking a holiday. Jane would try to apologize to him on behalf of everyone. She decided to bake him a cake. But she was also low on flour. Well, it was going to be a cake baked with half of Mike’s food. Jane hurried after Mike to ask for some flour too. Mike was at the refrigerator door. Red ketchup spots stained the walls of the fridge. “I could help you get rid of those ketchup spots if you wanted. I have this really good cleaning spray.” At hearing Jane talk, Mike turned around as if he had been electrified. Anger was building up in his eyes. Jane took a step back. “Are you alright?”, she asked. “No, I’m not alright. Why did you have to come here? I managed to fool the police but only because they knew that all the gossip in this town is fake! And now you came here wanting to find out the truth. You want to know the truth? Some rumors are true. Even if they are exaggerated there is a seed of truth in every little rumor.” “What are you trying to say?” Jane looked bewildered at the man in front of her, the man at the center of the most notorious rumor of the town. But rumors are just lies. Right? “What they say is true, I killed my grandpa and I stuffed him right here in my refrigerator until I had the time to dispose of the body. The police were so eager to demonstrate that the rumors about the murder were false that they bought all I told them. They didn’t even check if the old man was really in the Maldives. People don’t trust gossip at all nowadays. Well, lucky for me.” Jane was trembling all over. She needed to get out. But there was no escape. She was frozen in place. It was like she was standing naked outside in the cold. Like she was slowly transforming into an ice sculpture. Into a dead body. “Looks like I have to take care of you too, now. I’ll wonder what rumor the people will spread about what happened to you next.”

Millie sat at the rim of the darkened cottage, the scent of peat fire churning in dense ringlets around her. In the center of the chamber, circling the cooking fire were the elders. They called a gathering to confer over what should be done to save the season's yield of grain. “It has already been months of no rain, the harvests will not endure much longer.” A female said, anxiety lacing each word. “We can have the youths collect water from the creek.” Said a male. “That may work, albeit challenging. Others would need to contribute.” Said a more youthful voice. Millie couldn't help as her chest puffed out in pride of her mother's contribution. The first female spoke again. “It will not be enough.” They spoke for hours, spinning around the same ideas: Children hauling pails of water from the creek and clipping the harvest prematurely in hopes they spare some of the grain. But there was an itch in the back of Millie's mind telling her there was something more they could do. She couldn’t think of what. What could she, a girl of nine accomplish that the entirety of the village elders could not? The group dispersed, leaving Millie walking home clasping onto her mother's hand as the heat of the night made her linen shirt cling to her skin. “Can I do anything to help?” She asked her mother. Gently squeezing her hand her mother said, “We will all gather the water and hope it will hold us until the rains show up again.” But Millie could hear the unspoken words. It will not be enough. Her shoulders sagged and her eyes watched her feet for the rest of the walk home. At twilight, Millie sat up in her cot. Squeezing her flimsy blanket in her hands she strolled over and threw open the shutters to the small window. Immediately the hot air struck her face, enveloping the room with the dry earthy scent of the fields, causing her to step back and glance at the form of her sleeping mother. When her mother didn't move Millie returned her attention to the window. The sky was dark, streaked with shimmering stars. Millie always thought of the stars as little fairies that overlooked the simple folk of the Earth. She observed each star, gauging to see which one was watching her. A fairy who has noticed their struggles and would offer her the help she needed, if only she would ask. To the right between a large glimmering star and farthest away from the moon, it was a fairy that began to twinkle. It was calling to Millie. Her heart jumped in her chest. Hope started to blossom as her hands idly twisted the blanket. She dared to linger her eyes on the fairy reaching to her. It blinked some more and Millie knew for sure she had the right fairy, and she made her plea. Whispering the words and blowing them out to the sky, “Save my village, spare rain for our harvests.” Locking her eyes shut until her cheeks grew tired, she repeated her words over and over, blowing each one to the sky. She dared to open her eyes only once she thought a suitable amount of time had passed. Her heart plunged within her chest as the fairy started to flicker out and fade. They must have drifted farther away - rejecting her call for aid. Closing the shutters, her eyes stung as she returned to bed. That night Mille fell asleep with her tears soaking into her blanket. The next morning, she jolted up in bed. She had a dream - a vision. A message in a dream! Her smile radiated with the brightness of the sun as she ate her portage with zeal. Her mother observed her every movement, her eyes brimming with questions she dared not ask in case it spoiled the magic. Waving goodbye to her mother, Millie merrily joined the others as they began the work of hauling pails of water from the creek. The others all clustered together, followed in a line walking with steady purposeful steps, but none of their steps were as light as Millie's. She soared across the distance until she was at the creek well before the others. Without looking to see if someone was watching, she ran. She flew as fast as her little legs could carry her. In the trees, the heat turned to warmth and the buzzing of bugs surrounded her. When her lungs were burning and each breath was a chore she halted. She had followed the creek until she reached a clearing. Her vision had shown her where to go, so she was not frightened. Her fairy had told her to find the answer here, in the woods. Looking around and drinking in the warm air she noticed the trees lining this space with purpose. She had never been here before. It was the circle from her dream, where she would encounter the lady who would help her. But, she was alone. Slowly Millie walked to the center of the space. It was greener than the rest of the forest and it even smelled green. The pine needles and moss covered the edges of the grass. With the chirping of birds in the trees, she almost felt like she was still living her dream. “What are you doing here, child?” Millie whipped around to face the woman who spoke. It was her. Her hair was a grey bunch on top of her crown and her gown was patched and mended in too many spots to count. In her vision, the woman wore a smile, but here she did not. She glowered at Millie, making her want to plunge back into the shelter of the trees. Her mouth was open, so she closed it. The woman was waiting for an explanation so she opened it again. But, she didn’t know what to say. Her palms started to feel damp, and her senses darted in every direction landing nowhere useful. She clamoured, “The fairy ...” but broke off. The woman's brow furrowed. “You believe in the faeries?” Rubbing her palms down her dress, Millie nodded. Maybe she made a mistake coming here. No one knew where she had gone. Who would find her if this woman decided to carry her off? The woman watched as her hands fidgeted in her skirts, unsure what to do next. She strained to choose words that wouldn't sound crazy. “The star, I asked them for help.” “Your fairy was in the stars?” The woman's brow rose in question. To Millie's relief, the woman's tone softened and feeling encouraged she offered a smile. “I watched them - the stars. For a fairy whose gaze was drawn to my village. I asked them for help, and ... they sent me to you.” Holding her breath, Millie waited for the woman's reply. She would either shoo her away for being crazy, or the fairy had sent her to the right place. The woman took so long to answer Millie's heart started to beat faster. She was just a crazy child, lost in daydreams and wishes. She should not have come. The woman twisted around, her face turned to the sky and her hands firm on her hips. Deflated, Millie’s eyes began to burn with embarrassment and shame. She flung around, turning away from the woman. She will run back to the creek. Go back to helping her village the same way everyone else was. She should be bringing water to the fields, not venturing into forests looking for magic and fairies. “Wait.” The woman spoke, her voice calming and full of warmth. “If you desire my help, I will give it.” Millie didn’t turn around right away. Her eyes were wet and her heart was thrashing about in her chest. The woman was going to help her? She hadn’t made it up, she didn’t dream of fairies just to wander into the woods alone without reason. She brought the edge of her skirt to her face and rubbed away the drying tears. Then she slowly turned to the woman. “You will help me?” Her voice sounded small and timid but the woman nodded and beckoned her closer. “I can guess your plea to the fairies. I would have done it myself, but my gardens did not wither.” Millie's eyes widened, she knew what she had come here for. “Now, I will tell you a list, and you must remember each item, collect them and return to this clearing. This area carries the fairies' magic.” “How do you know this clearing is for the fairies?” She asked. “Dear child, do you think I cleared this circle of trees?” The woman swung her arms wide. “The fairies live here. You can smell their work in the wind. The moss they tend, the beetles they care for; this is their home.” She gave a warm smile as Millie took in the clearing with new eyes. Yes, this place did hold magic. It was vibrant green and lush with the smells of fresh earth and all the wild-growing things. It was thriving when Millie's fields, tended to by mortal hands were withering away to nothing. The trees lined the clearing almost perfectly, opening a flawless view of the sky. It was too perfect to be human-made. It was incredible. The woman gave Millie a list of objects to collect and made her vow not to forget one. She was to return in the night, under the watchful gaze of the fairy who had given her aid. Rushing back through the forest, Millie splashed her bucket into the creek and threw herself back toward the village. She rushed through her day’s work with the same smile plastered to her face as she recited her list over in her mind. A blue flower: To call to the sky for aid . A handful of seed: For the harvests, I desire to save. A lock of her hair: For my sacrifice and gratitude. Moonlit dewdrops: To invoke the spirit of the rain. She found the flower in a bush that had yet to wilt and she gathered the seeds from the dying wheat stalks themselves. When her mother was asleep, she snuck into the kitchen and used a knife to cut her hair. She tucked each item into the rolled-up sleeve of her night dress and she left for the forest once again. It was dark and there might have been the cry of a wolf in the distance, but she steadied her pace and marched through the forest knowing the fairies wished for rain just as much as her. They desired the items that would call forth the rain, they would guide her safely. There was an instant when she grew tense with the fear of a wrong turn taken, but it was just a blimp of a moment, easily forgotten, and before she knew it she was back in the fairy clearing. Here, shaded within the trees, the night air was calm with the smell of promises and magic. The woman was not there, but Millie already knew what to do. With the moon bathing the clearing in its light she lay each of the items out in the center of the clearing reciting as she did so. She placed the blue flower foremost. “To call to the sky for aid.” Next, she placed the seeds in a miniature pile. “For the harvests, I desire to save.” Twisting her lock of hair, she gently placed it on the grass. “For my sacrifice and gratitude.” Sitting back on her heels she watched as each item slowly soaked in the dew that shimmered in the moonlight. She smiled and faced the sky searching for the fairy who watched over her. Only after spotting the flickering fairy, she said, “To invoke the spirit of the rain.” She waited. Her smile slowly sank as the darkness of the woods began to expand and take form. Nothing was happening. The items lay on the grass, limp and wet. The back of her neck tingled. Standing she looked to the trees that surrounded her. Something was watching. Was it the woman, or the fairy? A wolf howled in the distance. The low sound reverberated through her bones. She was alone, in the woods, in the dead of night. She ran. Her feet and lungs ached by the time she scrambled back into her cot. Clinging to her blanket and thoroughly exhausted, she tumbled to sleep. Her dreams flooded with the comforting memory of magic. Tap. Tap. Tap. There was insistent tapping like tiny hands knocking all about her head. Squeezing her eyes to shut the noise out, she tried to hold on to her dream. A dream of wonder, sparkling green moss and guardian wolves. Someone gasped and Millie's eyes shot open. Her mother was sitting in her cot, her face upturned to the roof. Her mouth opened as a smile grew on her lips. She looked toward Millie with a voice full of awe and wonder. “It’s raining!” Millie shot out of bed and threw open the shutters. Warm humid air streamed into the room. Rain was pouring from the sky. Sheets of water dropping from dark heavy clouds. Their air was rich with moisture and fulfilled promises. Releasing a shriek of delight Millie ran and embraced her mother. They spent the entire day listening to the music of the rain.

Based on previous experience, much deliberation and a confidence that is unshakable, James enters the casino knowing that the $300 in his pocket will grow exponentially by the time he leaves there. Scanning around, he waits until his inner self senses one of the machines calling to him, summoning his extrasensory power to determine where his success can be found. He convinces himself this time he will not get carried away and act foolishly with his money. He cannot afford to do this. A deep breath and he moves toward the middle one in a row of seven poker slots. Sitting down and getting comfortable, he opens his wallet and pinches a $20 bill between his right forefinger and thumb then pulls it out carefully, making sure there are not two of them stuck together. He peers at the screen as if he is looking someone in the eye. This is showdown time. He means business, James is here to win money. In slips the 20, prompting the sound of money being added to the machine, a bump thump of sorts, telling him the 20 was accepted. The choice is before him for which type of video poker to choose. Without deliberation, he points his finger at the “Deuces Wild” icon and presses it carefully. This is the poker game that is the easiest to win. The likelihood of a huge jackpot is not as strong as with other card games but James has been through this before and he knows the odds are more against him with those. Totally focused on the task at hand, he takes another deep breath and presses the “Max Bet” button with firm confidence and an expressionless face. This means he will be wagering the full $2 allowed on at least the hands he will be playing even though he could change his mind at any point. Forget betting any less because the payoffs are proportionally that much lower and not worth the effort for a player of James’ caliber. Next in the process is the actual act of playing the game now that these preliminary routine decisions have passed. A quick tap on the “Deal” button precedes each of the five backs of playing cards on the screen being converted to their front sides. James watches calmly as the cards materialize before his eyes, including two kings, so he, without hesitation, presses a finger on them to “hold” them and wait for the other three cards to be redealt. Another king comes up, giving him three of a kind and $2 on his bet, break even, better than losing. Next hand, a tap on the deal button, then a mix mosh of unconnected cards, one of them an ace. Re-deal, James decides, so another tap on the same button and similar results, two dollars gone. Just getting started, warming up the machine, nothing to be concerned about for sure. James moves ahead for another deal of five cards, this time a “wild” deuce, the two of clubs, appears first then no cards of the remaining four that can lead to any obvious win. So as strategy would suggest, hold the deuce and deal again. From those four new cards, another deuce, a four, queen and eight, meaning three of a kind again because the two deuces are wild and can be used as a match with any other. Okay, this is how the game is supposed to be played and meant to proceed, James tells himself, a positive outcome, giving him two dollars, as three of kind pays “even money,” the same amount as what he bet on that hand. Never expect any immediate windfalls, any sudden huge payoffs so early in the session, James assures himself, having learned this from previous experience. Pressing on, another $2 wager and the dealing of the five cards. Definitely not a challenging hand to consider now, two 10s and two 7s, because two pairs also pays even money but if he holds all four, there is a chance he could draw another 10 or 7 or even a wild two and have a full house. He does so and has to be happy with his two pair. Time to move ahead. Three losing hands follow, leaving James in a hole but not a deep one. No changes in his approach, here comes a deuce, two threes and an ace and a queen. Already set at three of a kind, he holds the cards that comprise that win and discards the others. Another deuce comes up! Four of a kind, now the brief negative spiral is reversed. The nice payoff not only wipes out the deficit but gives James a surplus over his original investment. He’s playing with the “house’s money” now! James methodically continues to bet the max of $2 and gets a straight, another even money payoff, better than losing. Followed by a couple losing hands then a three of a kind again, the machine’s bells ringing for an even money payoff, only not as loudly or as long as when he hit four of a kind or better. A video gaming roller coaster ride follows, win, lose, win, lose, two wins followed by two losses, all of these victories for minimal amounts. A flush, all cards of the same suit, is dealt to James without any decision to be made on his part, keeping all five of those cards makes for a nice but not major payoff yet it puts him ahead a few bucks at this point. Then three deuces appear on the next hand with an ace and a four. A fourth deuce would mean a $500 win! James quickly holds the wild cards and fixes his eyes on where the other two were: the results are a king and a five. No $500 but four of a kind again and he goes more ahead for the round. As expected, a loss follows. Then another three of a kind even money hand. Next a wild deuce comes up but there is nothing to match with it. A string of four bad hands successively comes next, the meter showing his cash balance sinking back down below his original investment. A reprieve materializes: two pairs so he holds all four and gets that full house he was looking for earlier. Now things are on the right track again. Let’s go, he hits the deal button hard and fast but three more hands of losers come up. The roller coaster ride goes on for another half hour before a bad stretch follows and leaves James with only $6. After two even money wins, he has three bad hands and is out of money from his original stake. An exciting series of hands, some close calls, some great moments and some bad moments. It was not a total wipe out so James pulls out another 20 and presses on. More of the same. Up and down, win and lose, some nicer hands that pay well without cause for celebration and some more losers. At one point, he is ahead by slightly over $20 on the second round but sees it depleted with a series of seesaw hands and a succession of losers. A third then a fourth bill with Andrew Jackson’s picture on it leaves James’ wallet and finds it way into the machine. If only those four deuces would come up, it would be $500! A couple of times, a pair of twos show but nothing more, meaning three of a kind and he gets his $2 back. A cleavage abundant casino cocktail server spiked heels her way to him to see if he wants a free drink but he says no without even a glance at her because it would break his concentration. Of all the slot machines in this glittery place, those where James chooses to play poker give him some control because he has to decide which cards to hold and which ones to discard. The other types of slots work on their own, you put your money in, spin the reels and wait for the results. This type of machine, where he has some say over the outcome of each game, is more to his liking. James is there for two more hours when he looks into his wallet and realizes the $300 he brought here with him has been reduced by way more than half. But after so many countless plays, this machine is not only due, it is overdue for a major payout! The bright lights and colorful borders around the machine screen are barely noticed by James, the sounds accompanying his winning hands all but inaudible to him as his senses are fixed only on the cards in the poker hands before him. Occasionally, there will be music, calliope sounds, buzzing, bells, whistles, soft explosions and various noises emanating from other machines in the casino but while they reach James’ ears, they do not register in his mind. He is on a mission to win big money playing video poker. A slight aching in his video poker right hand trigger finger is noticeable but not to the point of rendering it too painful to advance toward the big jackpot. More rollercoaster rides, more money lost, four hours now gone. Down to the final $20 bill but it ends up disappearing completely inside the machine with the credit indicator on the screen showing zero all too soon and nothing else to retrieve from his wallet. How did this happen again? James has been down this road many times before. He is a master at video poker and this should not have occurred. It was the wrong night, the wrong machine, James now realizes this. Just wait until next time.

That night we sat aboard the refugee’s ship discussing what we should do. The temperature had dropped quickly and a cold sea air blew across the deck. Most of the islanders stayed in the hull to keep away from the breeze. However, a few of us braved the elements and decided to set up a small fire up top. Xander had decided to take it upon himself to build the fire on top of an old metal drum. He spent a good twenty minutes tenderly placing various twigs in a small pyramid before setting them alight. With the kindling letting off a gentle but steady yellow flame, he sat down triumphant. The rest of us pulled up crates and huddled around, with blanket wrapped over our shoulders, and held our hands out to the warmth. “That’ll keep us warm for a couple of hours,” Xander beamed. “Good work,” I replied. “Have you decided where you’ll go yet?” Xander shook his head. “We’re still deciding. We’ll stay until you’ve found out what you can. Besides, people are oddly happy on this boat. I don’t think I’m ever going to get a line out of Mirai’s hands.” I laughed. “I will admit I didn’t have her marked down to become a passionate fisher.” “She’s put you out of work,” Alessia smirked. “Gladly,” I said, raising my hands. “She’s better at it than me.” “Yeah. Sirad’s become obsessed with nautical charts. Eir loves the feel of the helm. And Laachlan, well he’s mostly trying to get us all to join in with his singing.” “That nightingale song’s been getting in my head,” Kurbani said, her wide smile caught in the yellow light of the fire. She paused briefly. “Are you going to take that prisoner to Ruthogrey Landfall?” The conversation fell quiet briefly. I turned to Alessia. She looked out to sea, eyeing up the distant lights of the island. “We do it,” she said. She turned to face me, but my eyes couldn’t meet hers. I sat tense, my jaw clamped shut. “We need that information,” she added. I grimaced, shaking my head. “Clandestine prison transport. Doesn’t feel right.” “It isn’t, but, what choice do we have?” “If you don’t do it, someone else will,” Kurbani added. “Sometimes, if bad things are inevitable, it’s better that they are done by good people.” “What?” I replied, turning my head. “Whoever they are, you will treat them with kindness and dignity. The next person, may not,” she spoke to the fire as if she was retelling visions. “Besides. That prisoner’s no worse off on Ruthogrey Landfall than Tima Voreef.” I paused, my tongue waiting on the roof of my mouth for my words to be conjured. “It feels like a large price to pay for that information.” “We can’t live our whole lives clean of compromise,” Alessia said. “It’s like when you're sailing. You can set a course to exactly where you want to go, but you have to play within the winds around you. Sometimes you have to tack or get shifted about by the breeze. You aren’t always making a direct line for where you want to go, but getting beaten around is fine as long as the direction is broadly right.” “I know. Let’s just make sure we don’t get blown too off course?” “Agreed,” Alessia smiled. “I’ve seen people become moralless on the oceans, Ferdinand. I promise we won’t become them.” \ The next day we sailed back to Tima Voreef. I stayed on the boat while Alessia tracked down Runar and informed him that we agreed to his deal. She returned an hour later. “What now,” I asked as she climbed down onto the deck. “He said head to the other side of the island. Bay number three. They’ll meet us there.” We left the quay and rounded the western tip of Tima Voreef. I could see the outline of Ruthogrey Landfall poking above the horizon. The small strait of water between the two islands was flat, only thin licks of waves rose from the sea. Yet the water was not calm, but tense, like a tightly pulled piece of string. Even from here, I could make out the cannons pointed out from Ruthogrey Landfall, and the flotilla patrolling the coastline. Any basic logic tells you that when a gun is raised towards you in threat, you don’t calmly walk towards it. Yet, here we were, preparing to sail towards an arsenal. I looked down the southern shoreline of Tima Voreef to a similar site. Men and women stood with rigid backs and binoculars held up, watching the enemy. Between each outpost, a large gun, the size of a person, stood anchored to the ground, pointed out across the ocean. While on the northside of Tima Voreef the quay was long and flat, here instead a series of concrete jetties jutted out into the water, each with a large number painted on its end. The boats were made of metal; steel, painted grey, and clasped together with large rivets hammered into the ship’s hull. The first few boats we passed were huge constructions: an excess of masts pointing upwards, reaching for the sky. But as we continued, the boats grew shorter and more nimble, the number and height of the masts dwindling. Then, we began passing boats with no masts at all. I scrunched my face, staring at them. Instead of sails they had long, thick metal funnels that rose from the back of the boat. “You...” I paused, blinking, rechecking my eyes. “What powers them?” I asked. “Steam and coal,” Alessia replied, glancing briefly before turning her eyes back to the waters. “They probably get some of it from Kadear,” she said with a knowing nod. When I look back at that black rock that powered so much of the industry on Kadear, it seems impossible that it could be used to create movement. I knew it was used in furnaces, to keep buildings warm, and occasionally to power machines. But the idea that it could power a boat through the water even now seemed illogical. I had never seen a mastless boat before, and I found it hard to shift my eyes from the site, my brain refusing to let it go until it could fully comprehend what I was seeing. I was jolted back to the moment by Alessia turning the boat sharply towards the quay. “Bay number three.” “You ever seen a coal-powered boat before?” I asked, staring at her disinterested expression. “No. I knew they existed. But not seen one.” “Aren’t you... intrigued?” I flicked back and forth between the impossible boat and Alessia’s eyes that remained fixed on lining up the landing. “The first time I went anywhere with you, I saw moving paintings on a wall. Honestly, since then, I kind of gave up being surprised.” She turned to me and grinned. “Guess I’m just less easily impressed.” As we entered the bay I could see four people walk towards us. Runar led the way, followed by a man and woman in black waistcoats, and lastly by the prisoner. The captive shuffled along behind them, their wrists chained and with a sack over their head, hiding their face. They wore dark blue overalls that were several sizes too big, masking any form or shape underneath. Alessia threw out a rope and one of the guards caught it, tying it around the mooring and reeling us in until we were flush against the harbour. Runar walked alongside so that he was level with the helm. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small red envelope. “Someone will probably ask for documentation out there. If anyone does, show them this.” I took the envelope and opened it. Inside there was a folded piece of paper. Unfurling it I could read a letter. *Diplomatic Immunity.* Next to the title there was a large seal stamped onto the page, the faint whiff of wick still clinging to the wax. The paper itself was smooth and silky, not rough like you would expect. Interwoven across the sheet were brief flickers of gold, seemingly part of the paper itself. There was a brief paragraph of text, before two signatures. *Joan Moreno, President of Tima Voreef* *Philomena Rubio, President of Ruthogrey Landfall* Somehow both islands had signed the document. I tried to work out the logistics of such a process as Runar continued speaking. “You’ll be accompanied by one guard. Deliver them to Ruthogrey. When you come back, I’ll get that information for you.” “I hope we can trust you on this,” I said, putting away the paper. “With all due respect, that document you want doesn’t mean a great deal to me. I’m coming out on top with this transaction,” he replied, looking to his right, as one of the guards led the prisoner down onto the boat. Runar walked over. He picked up a black box, its lid held in place with a leather clasp, and handed it over to the guard on the boat. “What’s in the box?” I asked. The guard turned to me, unsure of what to say. “I don’t think that’s something you need to be concerned with,” Runar replied, as he signalled to the other guard who started untying the ropes. “Processing paperwork for the prisoner. I would advise you to concentrate on your job, and in return, I’ll get you that sales report.” With the ropes untied, the boat gently pushed off from the harbour and we drifted out into the sea. A stiff westerly wind blew across the strait. Alessia made use of the right-angle winds and smooth seas to cut through the water like scissors through paper. I stood by the helm with Alessia looking down on our passengers sitting on crates. The guard sat in the middle, the prisoner to one side, and the black box to the other. Both of them sat perfectly still facing the starboard side. The prisoner made no pleas. They didn’t wrestle the chains for greater freedom. They just sat, waiting. The only part of the prisoner I could see were their arms that extended past the short sleeved of the ill-fitting overalls. However, the smooth, hairless skin and the smaller frame, was enough for me to deduce the prisoner was a woman. I noticed too that her arms didn’t look dirty. There were no scratches or bruises. It was clear, for whatever reason, Tima Voreef had been certain to take good care of her. “What do you make of this?” I said, leaning over and whispering to Alessia, the westerly winds carrying my words out to the sea. “Something’s not quite right. Whoever she is, she ain’t no ordinary prisoner.” Alessia tensed her jaw in thought. “The guard’s too relaxed. Prisoner too. It’s just, something’s missing.” “Agreed,” I said, my eyes locked on the passengers. “What do you make of that box?” “I’ll bet my boat that old man was lying about what’s in it.” Alessia mumbled. “‘Processing papers’. Fishshit.” “What do we do?” Alessia slowly shook her head. “Right now? Nothing. Just, see what pans out I guess.” The boat continued cutting across the channel. Behind us I could still see the guns, the soldiers, and the canons; their focus primed in our direction. Ahead of us sat the forces of Ruthogrey Landfall, poised, and ready. We were like an ant scurrying across a busy street. A small spec caught between lines of enemy fire. We made it about two-thirds of the way to Ruthogrey before one of the island’s boats approached us and signalled for us to stop. It was a small boat, maybe a quarter the size of Alessia’s, yet there were half a dozen soldiers on board. One threw over a rope, while the others watched on with wide, ready eyes. Their hands were raised at the hip, ready to draw their weapons should the moment require it. “Do you know you are currently in restricted waters?” a woman at the front of the ship barked. She wore a similar uniform to those on Tima Voreef, a black waistcoat with a white shirt. The only distinct difference was a dominant red trim to the waistcoat and her trousers. “Yes. We have a permit.” I took out the envelope, the hands of the soldiers twitching by their holsters as I moved. I showed them the letter. The woman read it and nodded as her body softened. She turned to the rest of the crew and gave a gentle downward wave as she finished reading. Their gaze shifted, and hands dropped from guns, swinging loosely by their side. “Another prisoner run I see,” she said, nodding at the woman in the jumpsuit. “Another?” I replied. “You can be on your way. You’ll likely be stopped again though.” Her prediction was correct. Another two boats came out to meet us as we sailed in. Both followed the same pattern: confused and stern looks turning to indifference as soon as we showed them the document. Despite the good winds, the stoppages slowed us down, and it was nighttime as we approached Ruthogrey Landfall. We were probably less than half an hour away from arriving when - for the first time - the prisoner stirred. They leaned over and whispered to the guard. The guard furrowed their eyebrow. They whispered back before the prisoner cut them off. The guard’s shoulders jolted back and they stood, before walking towards us at the back of the boat. “Does your ship have toilet facilities?” the guard asked. “In the cabin,” Alessia pointed to the small room behind her. “The prisoner requests to use them,” the guard said in a monotone voice. Alessia shrugged. “Be my guest.” The guard walked back down the boat and spoke to the prisoner. She helped the prisoner up and guided her along the deck, up the two steps to the helm, and to the cabin at the back of the boat. I watched them walk past, but Alessia’s eyes remained fixed forward, stuck to where they had been sitting. As soon as the door closed behind us, Alessia turned to me. “Keep an eye out. Let me know if they’re coming back.” “What?” “Here, hold this.” She grabbed my hand and placed it on the wheel. “Hold the course.” The boat lurched slightly in the crosswinds as my reactions caught up to the responsibility. Meanwhile, Alessia walked down the deck to the crates. “What are you doing?” I whispered as loud as I dare. “The box,” Alessia said. I looked at the crates. They had left it behind. Alessia bounded down to the black box, carefully undid the clasp and opened the lid. She pulled out a handful of papers as the sheets rustled in the wind. Alessia held a tight grip on them, as she leafed through the pages one by one. She stopped on a page, and walked over to a nearby lantern on the ship, leaning in to read the words more closely. Her eyes scanned the page. Then she flipped over and scanned the next. Slowly I could see her eyes widen as her head slowly drew back. “Shit,” she mumbled. “What?” I said, leaning over the wheel. “This is not what I expected.” I was about to demand an explanation when I began to hear footsteps climbing back up to the deck behind me. “They’re coming back.” Alessia scampered back to the box, opened it, and slid the pages back inside. She turned and bounded up the steps just as the door opened and the guard and prisoner emerged. “All good?” Alessia asked. The guard nodded. The prisoner said nothing. “We should be in port in about twenty minutes,” Alessia said as they walked back down towards the crate. Alessia took the wheel from my hands as they sat down again. The guard’s eyes turned to the box. She stared at it, unsure for a second, before gently retightening the clasp, and returning her gaze to the black sea in front. “You’re not going to tell me what you saw are you?” I whispered in almost silence. “Not until they’re off my boat.” The docks on the northside of Ruthogrey were similar to the southside of Tima Voreef. Large, white, concrete jetties jutted out into the sea, each with a numbered bay. Along the harbour wall, men and women stood, staring out across the channel as guns stood ready. Ruthogrey had more greenery though. While on Tima Voreef the buildings pressed up against the coast, here there seemed to be a buffer of trees between the shoreline and the town. But if it weren’t for that, and the red trim to the guards’ uniforms, you could be forgiven for thinking you had never left. We found an empty bay and gently sailed in. As soon as we arrived around eight guards trekked down to meet us. One of them threw out a rope. The others took out their guns, pointing them at the boat. Once more, I handed them the piece of paper. They read it and handed it back. For the first time, the guard escorting the prisoner spoke on our behalf. “I’m escorting this prisoner to the parliamentary cells.” The man on the quay looked back with a mirrored pose: stiff, rigid joints, posture stretched out in a line. “Very well. We’ll accompany you there.” It was strange to see this simple conversation between bitter enemies. I had expected immediate animosity. But their professionalism and sense of greater purpose took over, both sets of soldiers understanding their mission. The guard brought the prisoner to their feet before turning and picking up the box of papers. Our passengers stepped off onto the quay. Alessia and I watched them walk away, waiting till they were just far enough to be out of earshot. “There weren’t processing papers in that box were there?” “Anything but,” Alessia scoffed. She turned to face me. “It was reports. On everything. Production numbers, sales, productivity reports. A total breakdown of everything Tima Voreef has done for the past year.” “Runar is smuggling information to the enemy with the prisoner?” “Or the guard?” Alessia shrugged. “You reckon?” Alessia twitched her nose. “Maybe. I don’t know.” I took a deep breath in, the cold salt air tickling the back of my throat. “What do you want to do?” Alessia looked up to the island and the lights of the buildings that flickered between the swaying trees. “That piece of paper have a date on it?” “The date it’s signed, but otherwise, no. Why?” “No need to head back right now then. Wanna follow them?” I grinned. “Oh, definitely.

The darkness wasn’t always there. There was once light; beautiful light filling the room. The memories of the light drive me mad. All I can do, all I want to do, is capture another moment in it. Yet, darkness is almost all I see. I am paralyzed. Fear is the only thing I feel as I stare at the door before me. The only small taste of light I have had in a long time is coming through the crack of this door. But it is locked. I have a key in my hand but the same question circles like a vulture in my mind, “What if the key doesn’t fit?” There were other doors, lost in the darkness of the room as their lights had burnt out before. I have tried this key in those doors. Each time it hasn’t worked. There was one door in which I thought I heard it start to unlock, but then it failed. So, I sit here paralyzed, holding this key. I dream of the other room, the one with the light. I imagine the comfort, warmth, and clarity that will come with it. Yet courage evades me; and I sit here paralyzed, holding this key. I hear the laughter, faint but strong, coming from the other room. This is a sound I haven’t made in recent memory. A sudden rush of emotion comes over me. I feel the urge, the need to unlock the door. I grasp the key and move towards the door. I can start to feel the warmth. As I get closer the light gets stronger. I reach my hand out, shaking from nervousness. I insert the key and turn it. It unlocks! For the first time in forever excitement sweeps over me. As I open the door, light starts to fill the room. A smile creeps across my face and then.... It disappears. The light was no more. I understood. It was all an illusion. A cruel trick played by my mind... but no, it wasn’t. The light was there. I know I heard the door unlock. How could I be so close to the light, just for the light to burn out? So, I go back to waiting for the next sliver of light to come through a door. Hopeful. I sit, and I wait. Hope the only thing that is keeping me patient. My memory of what once was in this room has slipped away. It left a long time ago. The only thing I know are these doors. These doors that refuse to let me in. More and more time goes by and I am stuck. Hope dwindles and a new sense of anxiety comes over me. I have waited so long and the only thing I am hanging on to, the idea of light filling the room, seems impossible. There is no rest here. I cannot sleep. I just keep looking, searching for a sliver of light. Then it appeared. A new door. A new light. This time it was brighter than ever before. So bright it seemed as if it should bust through the door. I knew. I knew that this was the door to which I had the key. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. The laughter coming from the new room was louder than ever before; it was calling out to me. As I approached the door, I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t anxious. I wasn’t scared. I simply entered the key, unlocked the door, and went inside.

Martin Moose was coming of age. A perky young stud. He was a Moose with lustre and potential, the universe was at his hooves. Martin was in fact a Moose who stood upright and dressed head to toe in clothing associated with a person of similar description to him minus the being a moose. He and his posse of other animal friends who's first and last names were alliterated, their first names being common forenames and their surnames being the species of animal they were. He and his posse, wow! What a bunch. Well it would be fitting to call this boisterous bunch a pack of party animals, but make no mistake, they were hard working animals that put some real graft into their studies at Animal University. They found a release from their day to day lives through the animal pool hall. Nobody loved the animal pool hall more than Martin Moose. A place were Martin could meet his peers, rack ehm up, shoot ehm and now and then court the local cows. It was Martin Moose's safe haven, his escape hatch from the harsh reality of animal life. One could say Martin Moose was moulded into the Moose he was through many an evening at the animal pool hall. Nights at the animal pool hall always had the potential to get a little wild, and believe you me they often did. One such night was the birthday party of Megan Mayfly. Megan Mayfly had just turned 14 hours old and the usual suspects were out in force. Never had Martin Moose seen the ol' hall so crowded. Martin couldn't so much as shake off his palmates without injuring one of his animal pals. A flurry of furry fun ensued and the night motored on. What a blast Martin Moose was having, shooting pool and catching up with animals he hadn't seen in an age. Amist the hustle and bustle of the party Martin Moose spotted Warren Wallaby hopping through the front door. Martin barraged his way through a sea of bodies to be the first to greet Warren Wallaby. Martin had always admirred Warren Wallaby. Ever since Martin was a calf he strove to emulate Warren Wallaby. Warren was an enigmatic wallaby who had gained a reputation through his ice cold demeanor. Martin Moose was infatuated with the idea of Warren Wallaby, who represented a jagged edge that Martin never truly had, being a moose that stayed on the straight and narrow. Whispers on the Animal University corridors spoke of lore surrounding the exploits of Warren Wallaby. He was rumoured to be anything from a petty thug to the Al Capone of wallabies. Martin Moose didn't know what it was Warren Wallaby got up to in his spare time, and he didn't really care. The unknown excited Martin Moose and injected inferno into his crystallised world. Alas, Martin greeted Warren Wallaby and they sat together, perched on two high stools overlooking the action on the animal pool table. Warren Wallaby was always open to Martin Moose's company. Truthfully Martin's desperation for his companionship sent Warren Wallaby on an ego trip he never could refuse. He didn't hold Martin Moose in high regard, all the animals could see it, all but Martin Moose. They spoke for almost an hour, never uttering anything meaningful or of substance, flapping heads. That changed when Warren Wallaby's black beady eyes lit up, as though he had awoken from a slumber, he was in the room for the first time in the night. He gestured to Martin Moose with a flick of his ear, pointing to the litterbox room. A curious Martin Moose obliged without hesitation and he followed Warren Wallaby as he hopped towards the litterbox room. Alone they stood, Warren Wallaby sported a dasterdly smirk as he gazed at Martin Moose from under his brow. Warren then slid his claw into his pocket, he didn't have a pouch as he is a male wallaby, he was wearing baggy jeans. From his pocket he flashed a small plastic zip lock bag containing white powder. Martin Moose's heart skipped a beat and a hot flush came over him. Martin was a naive moose but he knew exactly what Warren Wallaby's intentions were. Martin Moose had never taken drugs, granted he enjoyed some ale now and then, but he came from a family of catholic moose with strong moral values. Before Martin Moose could so much as flinch Warren Wallaby opened the bag and drew a small silver spoon from his jeans. He scooped out a generous serving of the powder and snorted it right up his snout. Warren Wallaby took a long deep breath, and then like a house on fire began wailing with furious anger as he frantically bounced around the litterbox room. Hopping from the floor to the wall and anywhere else he could launch himself from, now screaming out incoherently. Warren Wallaby abruptly composed himself. Panting and drueling he stared right through Martin Moose and softly propositioned "Let's let the moose loose". Martin Moose gulped. Warren's rampage had left him shell shocked. Martin wanted out of this situation pronto, but he was stuck, he had to face this situation palmates on. In a split second Martin Moose had an eternal internal battle that he had been having his entire life, would he walk on the wild side and allign himself with the wallaby he had worshipped from calfhood or did he possess the moral fibre to be true to the moose he was and reject Warren Wallaby's sinister offer. He knew what he had to do. A shaken and torn Martin Moose turned down Warren Wallaby. With a shake of his head Warren Wallaby turned his tail and hopped away, murmuring about square moose. Left isolated in the litterbox room Martin Moose pressed his elbows against the sink and looked deep into a dirtied mirror. The moose he locked eyes with in that mirror was not Martin Moose. He didnt recognised this particular moose, but he liked what he saw. He let his reflective moment pass by and marched back out into the ocean of animal pals. He and his oldest friend Gary Gnu shot some pool, Martin Moose considered telling Gary about the experience he went through earlier in the night but thought better of it. It was a monumental moment for Martin Moose and built the foundations of who he is as a moose. Such a moving personal experience is precious and for that precious experience he had Warren Wallaby to thank. He pondered if Warren would one day have a life altering experience like his but he let it go, he let Warren Wallaby go and closed the book, a book he had opened as a calf, gently closed by a man.

If you saw the building from the outside, it may not seem like an unpleasant place to live. Windows dotted the structure, each having its own white frame. Through most windows, a set of blinds could be seen blocking out the outside world. Bricks made up the building in an almost perfect pattern, being broken only by the occasional window, door, or other obstruction. The bricks making up the structure varied in color ranging from a dull red to a muddy brown almost black color. The exterior stood out no more than any neighboring building, providing no indication as to the true nature of it . Upon entering the building, it became clear that the innocent exterior masked a more sinister soul. Various stains cover the wallpaper and carpeted floor, the air conditioning rarely functions as it should, and the smell of cigarettes seems to permeate through every wall. Cockroaches run rampant through the rooms and hallways, and at times it felt more their home than any of the tenants. The landlord somehow managed to turn a blind eye to these problems. When I first signed my lease, I made my landlord aware of every issue I found. Every little broken blind, or strange leak I came across, I alerted him. I would tell him of my newfound trouble only for him to give me an unconvincing smile and tell me he’d have it taken care of soon. After a few weeks of him pretending to care only for me to find the problem never got solved, I realized my efforts were in vain. The place disgusted me, so I avoided staying there as much as possible. I slept and ate my meals there, but any excess time I had I spent at the local library or at my job. I worked as a waiter. My manager didn’t pay me much, so my main source of income came in the form of the generosity of strangers through their tips. Most customers we had tipped nicely, adding 15%-20% to the total cost of their meal. Some customers, though, resented me based on some insignificant action I did that they considered a tremendous mistake in their selfish minds. They usually declined to leave a tip based on that incredible act of tyranny I committed by taking too long to refill their drinks or forgetting to remind them of our specials. This type of customer threatened my ability to put food on the table, and for that, I resented them in return. On the social hierarchy, I sat one step above a homeless person begging for money on the streets each day. Not for lack of trying to climb up the convoluted ladder that is our society, but due to my unfortunate circumstance. My mother had raised me with no help from a second parent, even in the form of monthly checks. At times, she would struggle to put food on the table, and as a result, she worked long hours to raise enough money to support the two of us. I would stay awake until the late hours of the night when the atmosphere was painted a lightless blue and the usual silence only broke due to an occasional insect calling out to its friends or a lone car driving by. I stayed up waiting for my mom to come home from work, so I had the chance to see her before she returned to her job and left me behind for another day. Staying up this late took a toll on me. At school, I tried my hardest to pay attention in spite of the fatigue I felt due to the near sleepless nights I spent waiting for my mom to come home. The tiredness I experienced only made it more difficult for me to learn. I would have loved to feel well-rested, but I couldn’t afford to lose time I could have used to study, so the cycle repeated. My mom wanted me to study hard in order to get good grades, so I might earn an academic scholarship. I didn’t play any sports or belong to any minority groups, so my ticket out of a life of poverty lied in a scholarship based on my academic success. However, I lacked any sort of academic ability. I passed my classes, but with difficulty. My grades hovered around C’s with an occasional A or B. No colleges want to give a scholarship to a kid who struggles to pass mere high school classes. My schooling led me nowhere. I didn’t go to college and I ended up working for little pay at a shabby restaurant while living in an even shabbier apartment. I despised living as I did, and longed for a way out. One night my prayers were answered. I awoke due to a light emanating from my closet rousing me from my sleep. The light illuminated my entire room in a cold blue glow. At first, I attributed it to a symptom of my drowsiness and attempted to fall back asleep. As I slept it became brighter and brighter, until the entire room became engulfed in a beautiful blue luminescence. I tossed and turned trying in vain to ignore the light once again. It gave me no choice but to get out of bed and investigate the source. Annoyed that I had already lost precious sleep, I stepped out of bed and walked to my closet. I ripped open the door ready to confront whatever had caused the light. On the wall of my closet adjacent to my closet door stood a door emitting the same blue light that had woken me from my sleep. Confused, I opened the door and behind it, I discovered another door identical to the first. The second door stood a few feet behind the first, in a space enveloped in black. The area between two doors contained nothing other than the two doors opposing each other. I stepped into the dark gap between the doors and opened the second one. Behind it, I saw a blank expanse identical to the one I then stood in, complete with another door. I stepped through again, and again and saw the same each time. I had made no signs of progress as I trudged forwards trying to find the end of the straightforward labyrinth I had found myself in. Already exhausted, I made my way forward through the endless mess of doors until a final door opened into a barren room. After I stepped through what must have been my hundredth door, my apartment could no longer be seen through the row of open doors that lay behind me. The room’s walls all matched, each one painted a drab brown color. The room contained nothing more than a window on one of the walls, allowing a view into a lifeless black void. The room appeared lit, however, I couldn’t locate the source of this light. As I turned around to study the room in search of anything more it may contain, a figure materialized right in front of me. Before me stood a man in nothing more than an ordinary T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of pink crocs. No patterns or brand claimed the shirt as their own, the only distinct feature of it came in the form of a singular pocket on the upper chest. The pants had no holes or any other form of damage in them, matching the shirt in terms of plainness. The crocs had a bright pink color to them, that strain the eyes after just a few seconds of exposure. They appeared to contradict the rest of his apparel while providing a sort of perfect balance that completed the outfit and revealed some hidden beauty within each choice of clothing. “Killer,” I said, my attention focused on the really cool and awesome crocs he wore. Many would think this choice of clothing odd, but as I laid my eyes on them, I found the contrast exposed an elegant asymmetry within each selection of apparel. Looking at them I realized nothing I had seen previously compared to them in terms of style. The attire the man wore surpassed anything any ordinary man could put together. The more I thought about the shoes he wore and the fine artistry that resulted in his clothing, I realized I had met no ordinary man. The man began to speak, stealing my attention from his shoes and putting it on his voice. “Aw, thanks,” Said the man while suppressing a bashful smile. Although stylish, the crocs offered no explanation as to my whereabouts, or origin of the strange portal that I had found in my bedroom. “Where am I?” I asked, hoping to find an explanation or way back home. The man appeared uninterested in my question, as he walked towards the one lone window on the wall of the room. As he peered out into the abyss, he offered me a deal. “I could make you a millionaire,” Turning to face me, a comforting smile spread across his face. “There’s only one condition.” “What is it?” As I showed my interest, his smile grew more sinister. All my life I’ve been pushed around, and stepped all over. Having millions of dollars to my name would solve all my problems. This could be my ticket out of a life of poverty. This could be my chance to finally be somebody. “You can never own a pair of crocs.” Those last words felt like a punch to the gut. For a moment, I thought some god had summoned me to answer my prayers, but when the reality of the situation hit, I realized the devil had actually come to torment me with a bargain too good to be true. After I told that fashionable demon the conclusion I had come to, I awoke back in my apartment. Feeling content with my decision, I donned my crocs and drove to work.

By the following evening we were back in the South. Alessia and I sat on the deck of the Deer Drum boat watching the red sky in the west. The sun had just dipped past the horizon and the dying embers spilled out across a cloudless expanse. We sat with our legs dangling off the side of the boat, the sheltered seas gently lapping against the hull beneath us. The hunt for Sannaz in the south had been unsuccessful too. And while some of the islanders remained on shore, Alessia and I stayed back on the boat. The search could continue tomorrow. Behind us a few of the children played tag up and down the boat. Mirai was joining in, recapturing a bit of her childhood, easily out pacing her competitors as she zipped up and down the gangway, leaping over the vegetable beds in a single bound. As we talked, we listened to the roars of laughter and delighted squeals as bodies darted from outstretched fingers. “A whole war over when to hold a festival,” Alessia nodded to herself. “I’d like to say I’m surprised but...” She trailed off. “It’s stupid.” “Not sure any war isn’t,” Alessia replied, kicking her shoes against the ship’s hull. We sat in silence for a moment. My eyes were staring off into the darkening sky above me. I remained like that, staring perfectly still for a few moments. “Clear wind for your thoughts,” Alessia said. I looked at her scrunching my face. “What you thinking about? ‘Cause the sky ain’t that interesting.” I turned my gaze back to the island beside us. “I was thinking about this island. Almost all islands were probably like it once, right?” “What’dya mean?” “When whatever happened, happened and the Archipelago got made. Everyone left decided how the world should be, what the new society would be like. And there would’ve been fights. Not everyone would’ve woken up with the same idea. A lot of them probably started like this.” I nodded to the town and the faint outline of the perimeter wall that could just be made out between the buildings. “You’re probably right.” Alessia gave a half-hearted shrug. “Kadear, before it was Kadear, might have been like this. One long war until one side loses and the victors get to build the island in their image.” “You reckon they all would’ve been that violent?” Alessia asked. She brought her legs up from the side of the ship, tucking up her knees and wrapping her arms around them as the heat slowly left the evening air. I shook my head. “Probably just a war of words, a lot of them. Keep talking until one side can’t be bothered to argue anymore. Just two islands in one until one side loses out through force of personality or money.” I sighed. “But people will also fight too easily.” “If you can’t win an argument, you can always stab the other guy.” Alessia gave a wry smile. “It!” one of the children shouted right beside us. Another groaned in response. There were footsteps before a girl giggled a scream. “Missed me,” she added in a mocking tone. Alessia chuckled to herself at the antics. “You ever think you’d have a family?” I asked. She scoffed. “I’ve got my own parents to put me off that. You?” “Not sure I ever gave it much thought.” I cupped my hands in my lap, staring at them for distraction. “Too busy trying to get to the Citadel. Perhaps I thought, I’d decide later.” “And before you know it you’re travelling the seas with some stranger and her furnitureless ship,” she smirked. Laughter escaped my lips. “So... what was wrong with your family?” I asked. “Parents were never together. No animosity. Just weren’t. I’m the product of a fling.” She paused, one side of her mouth smiling. “Never saw my dad half my life, only came to pick me up when my mum was dying and that was the last I saw of her. Not sure I know what a family is beyond that.” I leaned over and patted her leg. “You’ve done a pretty solid job of looking after us. That’s quite the family you made.” “Eh. You’re the only one who’s a handful.” There was a brief shout of “Cheater!” behind us from one of the kids. An instinctual guffaw left both our lips. Alessia held the back of hand up to her mouth, as I leaned over until the humour left our system and the quiet returned. “What you two up to?” I craned my neck to see Mirai standing over us. “Talking and enjoying the sunset,” Alessia replied. “Mind if I join you? Think I’m done with the kids.” I smirked to Alessia briefly. “Sure.” I shuffled over to make way, before my whole body seized at the sound of a loud boom. A distant thunderous roar. I felt the wood of the boat shake, shiver in place. We all stopped, our heads turning to the island. Another boom. This one didn’t resonate as deep but it came with the accompaniment of the sound of rock shattering and walls crumbling. I stood up. “An explosion,” Alessia said. There was another blast as I saw a puff of smoke and dust lift off the roofs of the town. Behind us the children screamed, quickly followed by whimpering. Frightened tears falling from young eyes. “They’ve come back for us,” a child wailed behind me. “What the fuck is happening?” Mirai asked. “Mirai, get the kids below decks.” I leaned down as I spoke, staring straight into her wide eyes. “Tell people to ready the ship, we may have to leave quickly.” “Mum. Dad. They’re on the island. Lachlann too.” Her eyes flicked back and forth, her mind racing. “Shit,” I muttered. Alessia stepped forward. “Mirai, you deal with things here. We’ll go get them, okay?” “Are they gonna be okay?” Mirai’s voice cracked with panic. “We’ll bring them back, I promise.” Alessia smiled, placing a hand on her shoulder. “But your brother and the ship needs you.” Mirai took the information in, and then slowly nodded her head. “Okay.” She turned to rally up the rest of the kids, as some of the adults emerged from below to see what was going on. Alessia and I ran down the boat to where the skiff was tied. I grabbed the oars and started pulling as hard as I could. “What do you think’s happening?” “I think the war’s ending,” Alessia replied. “Where’d they get the explosives from?” I shouted between heaves of the oars. Alessia scrunched her face. “Not important right now.” I continued to row long strokes to the harbour wall. “What’s the plan?” “Head into the town, find them, bring them back.” Alessia gave a scowl, a hint of irritation at my question. “What if they’re outside the town? In the fields to the west?” “What? Why would they be?” Alessia shook her head. “They might be and if they are then we won’t find them.” My voice was drowned out by another bomb ripping holes in the Southern wall. Alessia paused, staring at her feet. “You’re right.” The boat thudded against the wall, a small piece of wood snapping off with the collision as splinters fell into the water. I clambered up the steps and tied the first knot I could think of round the wooden stake as Alessia gave instructions. “I’ll head into town, you take the long way round, go up through that gorge at the end of the harbour. I’ll head around and we’ll meet in the middle.” “Agreed,” I started turning to leave. “Ferdinand.” I paused and faced Alessia. She had steely eyes, but her lips quivered as she spoke. “Be safe. You mean too much to me.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You too.” We stared at each other for a moment. Both of us unwilling to break apart, certain the other was safe as long as we always had eyes on them. Another explosion. The sound broke us from the trance, before the rumbling ground beneath us forced our feet to turn and head away. I jogged along the waterfront, trying not to look back lest my feet refuse to leave Alessia any further. We were heading towards danger, each step away from the Deer Drum boat making our chances of survival that little bit less. Reaching the hill at the end of the wall I jumped down onto the grassy bank, my feet quickly sinking into the soft, long grass. I took one last look at the town as the cliffs shook with another blast. Black plumes of smoke rose from the far end of the city, a yellow halo creeping around the buildings, illuminating the darkening skies. In the distance, I could see the silhouette of Alessia disappearing up the zigzag path towards the town. Then I disappeared between the cliffs On either side of me was sheer rock. Thick and ancient granite that rose up a good twenty metres, a natural tower that man-kind could never match. At the base of the crag were smaller, more jagged rocks, ones brought down the slope or etched off the cliff face over the years. Centuries of rain water had eaten away at the channel, softening the ground to a marsh and my feet struggled for purchase in the soft soil as I clambered upwards. Determination propelled me forward, but each step up the steep hill sapped the energy from my thighs. I ignored the pain, heaving deep lungfuls of air to replenish my muscles with the necessary oxygen. Back towards the town, the vertical surface began to ease off, slowly softening until it was a slope I could manage to climb. I turned, heading up the steepest segment I felt I could manage. My heartrate was pounding as I took wide strides, trying to make the slope as soft as possible. I heard something. It sounded like a name whispered on the breeze. I paused, tilting my ears and inspecting it, but heard nothing more. Leaning forward, I resumed the climb, battling against the incline till I could begin to see the peak. “Ferdinand.” The voice was quiet, frail, broken. “Ferdinand.” This time louder, but with a pained jolt. My stomach crunched in like a fist. I turned and looked up. On the cliff opposite I could see Lachlann. Even from here I could make out the damp sheen to his face, the hard breathing, and shivering frame. His hands were tied behind his back. It was then I noticed the figure in black standing beside him. “So this is Ferdinand then,” the man shouted across the space. “I wasn’t sure how I pictured you.” I didn’t recognize him. The round pudgy face, or the short clipped hair. But I knew who it was. “Sannaz Lytta.” “Correct,” came the call. “I was hoping the bombs would force you off your boat. Commander Kendra was very happy to take the last of my explosives.” I wanted to cower. I wanted to run frightened. But I tried to imagine how Alessia would act. How she would carry herself and stand up to someone trying to have power over you. I pulled my shoulders back and stood firm. “So this is your plan. Kill another island?” “No. I just wanted to talk. The North will take care of the rest for me.” “Let Lachlann go.” I called out. Sannaz grabbed the back of Lachlann’s shirt and dragged him to the edge of the cliff. “What? Here?” “Don’t do this!” I raised my hands, showing my palms. “Okay. Then help me.” “How?” “I’ve heard about you, asking after me all over Talin Barier. So I asked about you. Traced your journey. I even visited Pomafauc Reset. I know why you left. I know about the books you asked for on Ringatoy Shires. You wanted to find out the Archipelago’s origins. So tell me, where is it?” I looked from side to side. “Where is what?” “Don’t be stupid Ferdinand.” Sannaz grabbed Lachlann once more, jostling him. Lachlann let out a small cry looking down the cliff in front. “Tell me why you did it,” I said, trying to get Sannaz thinking in a different direction. “Why I did what?” “Deer Drum. Sneppath Head. You could’ve just stolen the books. Why all the killing?” Sannaz grinned. “I merely sped things up. They all would’ve died anyway.” “Not like that,” I replied with a scowl. “They could’ve had peaceful lives.” “You think that?” He turned to Lachlann and leaned in close. “Tell me. How many women a year died during childbirth on Deer Drum? How many kids caught a virus that couldn’t be cured? How many people angered a horse one day and took a kick to the temple?” He turned to me. “Or for you, how many people lived in squalor, fighting day to day while you chased your Citadel?” He stuck his jaw out. “Back on Stet, we’d lose a guy down the mines once a month. The lucky ones had rocks fall on them. The unlucky were trapped and unreachable. Suffocated or died of hunger. Is that peace?” “Why add to that suffering?” “I ended it. Killed the one in one hundred chance at a happy life to make sure the suffering was never worse. I brought peace.” I looked around, searching on the hill for an answer. “You’re wrong.” “Am I?” “You have to be.” “You’ve seen more than most Ferdinand. What happiness could justify the sadness you’ve seen, what could possibly make that worthwhile...” Sannaz trailed off, his eyes glancing above me. I turned to see Alessia, Xander and Kurbani standing behind me. A reflexive smile crossed my lips. “You can join Ferdinand. You can’t come round here.” Sannaz shook his head but maintained his stare. I watched Xander tighten his hands, his wide shoulders bristling with rage. Alessia and Kurbani too held the gaze. However, all three complied and began walking down the hill towards me. “So, Ferdinand, am I wrong? Is the suffering a lie?” I closed my eyes, thinking. “No. You’re right. You just missed so much. Life is cruel, and tough, and it can end so sadly. But, there’s also so much joy to be had. And those good bits. That’s worth it all. However fleeting those moments may be, they are always worth fighting for.” I paused, recatching my breath. I turned to look to the three people arriving beside me. My eyes settled on Alessia. She flicked me a smile, and a slow reassuring nod. “You can pick all the worst bits, and there are plenty. But you also have to remember all the good. We’ve all suffered. I know I have. But beyond all that pain, and anguish, I’ve had moments of happiness and love greater than anything I’ve known.” My eyes filled with water. They closed, scrunching. As I contained the tears, I could make out the faces of those people around me in my mind. Behind them was black. Fears. Old horrors. Pained memories. But in front of it all were those that I’d met along the way, so much closer, so much stronger than all the agony. And front and centre was Alessia. She had that oh so familiar facial expression she often wore. One that told me I was being a fool, lunging optimistically into a stupid situation, and yet she would support me anyway. Not out of practicality, but out of... kindness. Out of a want for good, no matter how unlikely it was to succeed. My eyes opened again, looking up at Sannaz, then to Lachlann, then back to Sannaz. “Good actions still exist. Even here. Even now. Every moment that we exist and try to make things better has the potential for joy and you can’t take away that potential from people’s lives. That’s what you did. All of our lives will end in a moment of sadness. But you stole the joy along the way. You robbed them of potential.” Sannaz nodded slowly, his jaw still stuck out so that he looked down at us past the end of his nose. “Lovely speech, Ferdinand. But you know how this all happened. You know how low we all sank. It just didn’t go far enough. So tell me, where is the site?” He screamed the last words, seizing Lachlann’s arm. “I don’t know.” “Stop playing dumb.” He shuffled Lachlann closer to the cliff. Lachlann fought back but the grip was too strong. “What site? I don’t know what you mean?” “The Archipelago. The site where it was made. Where is it?” I stood shaking my head slowly, trying to make sense of the demand. Nothing came. “I don’t know what you mean.” “Tell me!” Sannaz growled. I looked to the other three, they shook their heads. Alessia took a step forward, standing by my side. “We don’t know what you mean. None of us do.” Sannaz took a beat, then a snicker escaped his lips. It grew into a loud cackle. “You really don’t know do you? All that hunting and travelling and you know shit.” “No. We don’t. We can’t help you. So let Lachlann go,” I pleased. Sannaz shook his head. “You see. If you don’t know how The Archipelago was formed, then you know so little that you’re of no use to me.” He turned and stared into Lachlann’s eyes. “Which means you aren’t either.” Sannaz let go of Lachlann’s arm. Placed a hand behind him, and pushed. Lachlann let out a desperate yell. A final plea for some miracle of the Earth to save him as he plunged from the cliff face. The plea was snuffed out as he hit the ground, smashing against the rocks. I felt the impact against my own ribcage. My chest caving in, my lungs unable to respond. I wanted to scream, but only the faintest breath of wind escaped my lips as I stared at Lachlann’s still form on the ground. Sannaz turned and disappeared over the crest of the hill. “Get him!” Alessia shouted. Xander ran up the slope, trying to find a way over to the other side. I wasn’t sure who Alessia meant the instructions for, but the other three of us didn’t join in the pursuit. Instead, we all ran towards Lachlann, hoping - however fruitlessly - he could still be saved. \ The final chapter in Book 2 will be published on the 20th February.

Everybody’s had a bad date. But my date with Lucy was definitely the worst date of my entire life. We met online, of course. I don’t think people meet any other way anymore. We really hit it off, she laughed at my dumb jokes and honestly, that’s pretty much all it takes for me to fall in love. We decided to meet up for drinks and appetizers at Applebees. I was nervous, so I showed up early, had a drink at the bar and waited for her to arrive. Meeting someone from the internet and finding out they’re significantly less attractive in person brings a uniquely guilty depression. It’s not that the person is necessarily unattractive, but in your mind, you’ve built up the anticipation for how you think the person will look. Expectation ruins reality. Usually this is just a result of normal people trying to look impressive. Which is understandable in the dating world. But that’s the thing, when I saw her walk through the door, Lucy did not look normal. She looked very far from normal. Her face was too thin and her nose was entirely too big. Freakishly such. She probably knew this because the she covered it up with three or five or nine inches of chunky, pasty white makeup. It could have been Plaster of Paris, who’s to say? That shit was out of control. She wore a giant green sweater, which in and of itself is not necessarily a bad thing, but it was almost eighty degrees outside, even after the sun went down. At first, I thought this was to compensate for being overweight, but she didn’t seem overweight. She seemed deformed. Like two or three different skinny people squeezing themselves into the same sweater. She had shredded blonde hair and walked with a wobbly limp, like an ether-sniffing marionette doll at a sobriety checkpoint. Her feet were disproportionally big, as if her shoes were hiding something nasty. Oh, God. I can’t do this, I thought. This is just too much. But I feel bad, because the expectations were built up in MY head, right? I’ll just turn and sneak out the back, text her saying I had car trouble or something. “Seth!?” She squawked. Or barked. It was a bark-squawk that was entirely too loud for the public, very unfortunately public situation at hand. Heads turned. Ah, shit. She saw me. Of course she saw me. I’ve been staring her down slack-jawed and silly. But really, can you blame me? This poor woman looked like a rubber horse mask wearing another rubber mask of Gary Busey’s face. “Seth! It is me. I am Lucy! The woman you speak to.” There’s no way she’s been using this voice her whole life. My voice was too dry so I just nodded. We’re already here, might as well have a few drinks and enjoy the food. How bad could it be? When my mouth finally began producing enough saliva necessary for conversation, we engaged in small-talk. I intentionally kept it awkward and as far from lively as possible. Maybe she’d catch the hint and we could just chalk it up to a lack of chemistry. I started dumping whiskey down my throat like my soul and sanity depended on it. Which, at this point, I was convinced it did. “So, where are you from?” I asked, hoping another unknown cultural origin could explain this catastrophic misstep in acceptable courtship. “Lucy is from Wisconsin. That’s normal, right?” Jesus Christ, whatever they put in that cheese really did a number on this one. Remind me to never drink Budweiser again, either. “I don-uh, I mean, yes, yes that is normal. Right. Have you ever been in like, a car accident or something?” She stared at me with big sickly brown eyes. Eyes that were almost yellow. Maybe she has cancer or something? I’m starting to feel bad for her now. Maybe the whiskey is melting the shock and warming my mind to a temperate state of empathy. She’s alone. She doesn’t get out much. Kinda like me, actually. Don’t be a dick, dude. Get it together. Then she laughs, it’s a coughy sort of laugh. It resonates from a deeper part of the diaphragm and I’m reminded of an alligator. Bet she used to smoke a lot. “You make joke! You funny man!” She swipes her hand across my forearm the way women do when they’re being particularly obvious about their intentions. Her fingernails are long. Monstrously so, and badly painted in flecks of a dark red. Her skin is entirely too rough for a woman. Maybe she works with her hands a lot? Oh. Oh, no. I check the neck. I don’t actually see an Adam’s Apple, but the skin does protrude in a hangy sort of turkey-neck way. I begin to sweat uncontrollably. Look, I don’t hate anyone. I believe everyone should live their lives and be happy. But I’m just not ready for this. I’m afraid. I feel like I’m waiting for the cashier in a gas station and a cop gets behind me in line. I compensate with more whiskey. That’ll help. I have to ask. I can’t just not know. “Look, Lucy. I’m sorry. But are you, like, are you a girl?” There’s that laugh again. “Yes! Lucy is girl. Real girl. Clever girl.” Of course she is. Trans girls are girls, too. It’s just... I’ve already paid for the drinks, she seems very interested in me, persistent even. I just don’t know if I can do this. Maybe just a blowjob? That’s not gay, right? I’m gonna need some cocaine for this. That’s it! Cocaine! I’ll see if she’s down to score some blow, then we’ll just see how it goes. Worst case scenario I get all coked up and can’t get a boner anyhow, sorta solves the whole situation. I can blame the coke, she doesn’t get her feelings hurt. Win-win. “Hey Lucy....” “Hey Seth.” She does the cough/laugh. Maybe the hormones haven’t been balanced yet? “You uh, you wanna score some coke?” “What is ‘score coke’?” “You know, like cocaine?” “Cocaine? If we score cocaine, can I get your meat?” Oh fuck. This is happening. “My...my meat?” “Yes. I want your meat inside me.” Not gonna lie, my dick did a little twitch right then. Jesus. Well, I guess you learn something new every day, don’t ya? “Okay! Um, I’m gonna pay the, uh, pay the tab. Why don’t you? Like, and I’ll then go to the car. Ya know, then we can like, you know. Wanna follow me while-“ “We ‘score coke’ like cocaine!” “Yes.” I said. Fuck, I kinda like her now. I can get past the face. And the limpy, wabble-walk. And the...uh. Whatever else I find. After I pay the bartender, we both walk back to my truck. I guess she took the bus or something because she never mentions a car of her own. I call up my buddy Allen, he usually has decent coke. Allen says to come on over, I open the door for her, she does that little laugh again. It’s kinda growing on me, actually. I can’t believe this is happening. As I’m driving, she starts purring and licking my ear. And I’m actually into it. Like, really into it. Once again, I can’t believe this is happening. We pull up to Allen’s place, he sends me a text saying to come on up. Allen opens the door and jumps back. “Holy fuckin’ shit, Seth. Who the fuck is this? You told me it was just you, bro?” “No I didn’t,” I said, “I told you a had a girl with me, Lucy this is Allen. Allen this is Lucy.” “Hello, Allen.” Said Lucy, “Can I also have your meat inside me?” “What the fuck?” Said Allen. Then he laughed, and I laughed, and Lucy laughed, we all laughed. “You didn’t tell me it was like that. Why don’t you both just come on in?” We all stepped inside and Allen clicked on the light. As he did, Lucy tripped over the doorframe. She didn’t fall all the way to the ground, but she fell just enough to cause her hair to tilt. Like, all of it just shifted to the side. This caught Allen’s attention. “Yo, that’s a fuckin’ wig, bro! The fuck is going on here?” “Allen.” I said sternly, leaning in close to him. “Don’t fuck this up for me, man. I need this.” But Allen wasn’t listening. Allen was recoiling in horror because he saw what I had been too drunk and horny to see all along. While Lucy was fumbling with her wig and sliding around the foyer, her tail had slid out of her floppy green sweater. A tail that was long and scaly. Just as scaly as her scalp beneath the wig. It was now painfully obvious. This was not a foreign woman. This was not a transsexual. This was a sixty-six million year old chicken-lizard stalking it’s prey from beyond the confines of the traditional understanding of time itself. And I, Seth Fox, horny drunkard and idiot extraordinaire, had fallen for it’s schemes. Clever girl. Allen screamed the only sensible thing to be said, “VELOCIRAPTOR!!!” And we both dove behind the sofa for cover. The Velociraptor Formally Known as Lucy shrieked, “MEEEAAAAAT!!!” Why? Why me? Why couldn’t she have just had a penis!? The Lucy-Raptor soars over the sofa with a dancer’s ease because she’s a theropod. An apex predator from the Cretaceous Period and I notice what made her gait so ungainly. Her shoes had been hiding a giant sickle-shaped talon on each foot with which her kinship would disembowel their prey. Unfortunately for Allen, he was this prey. The Lucy-Raptor was on him instantly, she sliced open his belly with her toe-claws and his intestines flopped out like folded ravioli. “Nnnnaaaauuuuuggggghhhh!!!!!” Said Allen as the Lucy Raptor chewed on his neck. I had no patience for this nonsense, so I fled the scene hoping, praying, pleading with any deity merciful enough to hear my cries. I did not want to be eaten by a velociraptor tonight. I just wanted a blowjob. Is that really too much to ask from the universe? One measly fucking blowjob? But the Lucy-Raptor wanted to feast on the flesh of living prey, and I was still fumbling with my keys when Allen had breathed his last. She came bouncing into the parking lot. “CAAAUUUOOGGGHHH, CAAAUUUOOGGGHHH!!” Said Lucy. The truck door clicked open. Lucy reared back on her hind legs ready to pounce. I yanked open the door and hurled myself into the driver’s seat, turned the key and started the engine as Lucy sailed through the air like a shark through calm seas. Her claws barely missed my fender as I sped from my dead drug dealer’s parking lot. I stomped the gas. At 20 mph, there she was, nipping at my window. I turned onto the street. There she was. 30 mph. 35, 40 mph. When I hit 55 mph she slowed down and wailed a roar of defeat. I had bested the Lucy-Raptor. Turns out velociraptors can run at speeds of up to 40 miles an hour. But a ’97 Dodge Ram can go up to like, 120 miles an hour, so FUCK YOU, VELOCIRAPTORS!! Dating is hard, folks. But remember, “Life finds a way.

Ah! It is my favorite time of the year again. I have so longed for the days to fly back to the south, back to my home. I love to feel the wind beneath my wings as I glide through the endless sky. Nothing can stop me. I can float or fly or freely fumble and frolic about the sky. Nothing can slow me down, and I am perfectly free. At least, that is how I feel in the fleeting moment, and who is to tell me otherwise? The exhilaration overcomes my fears, and I am the most glorious being alive. I am on a joyous journey to my favorite place. I am on my way home. The north is a lovely place and I enjoy my time there, but nothing is lovelier than the glorious springtime of the south. I can just imagine the crisp, warm air as it fills my beak with endless pleasures. But I must say, perhaps the most enjoyable part of this time of year is the journey to the south itself. To fly for miles and miles, noticing the different preparations being made for winter, it is all really exciting. The bird’s eye view of all the funny humans and their interestingly festive holiday celebrations makes for quite a trip. Last year I saw families putting up strange dummies or dolls in their pumpkin patches. I heard someone call it a “scarecrow,” but I can assure you those silly things don’t scare anyone, especially crows. Crows are some of the fiercest and most fearless birds alive. Oh humans are such wickedly delightful creatures. They really are such an enigma with their strange customs, but I thoroughly enjoy them nonetheless. My favorite part of the journey is observing humans, especially the little children. As I fly over mountains, I see small children gleefully playing in the snow. They build snowmen, have snowball fights, make snow angels, and ride sleds down slippery slopes. I often wonder what it would be like to be one of them. They look so young, innocent, and full of life. They do not have a care in the world. I wonder what it would be like to be so carefree and blissful with that of a child’s innocence. Don’t get me wrong, I love being a bird. I love the freedom to spread my wings and soar over the vast countryside. I love being able to observe all of my surroundings from the most spectacular views! But it can also be difficult and lonely. I must always be observant for other predators, and I don’t always know when my next meal will come. I sometimes fear that the winter storms will catch up to me and I will be stranded in unsafe and unsavory places. Just for one brief moment in time, I would like to know what it is like to be a small human child effortlessly skipping through life. I see families cutting down trees to build fires for warmth as well as to decorate their homes with Christmas trees. It would be nice to have a family. They look so happy and vibrant. There is not a care in the world when it’s the holidays. I remember when my mate and I used to migrate together. Oh, I miss her so. She was such a kindred spirit, and the way she soared across the sky... She was the most majestic bird I had ever seen. I could never fly as well as she could. She was truly a star. She had the most incredible, most beautiful, most elegant set of wings to grace the sky... I remember earlier this year, when we were flying north to escape the winter in the south... she was so gentle, so kindly, so wonderful. As we soared across the sky, we saw the little children swimming, and playing in the bright, warm sun. She always loved the little human children. She always wanted little baby birds of her own. I told her, “My love this is the year... I’m ready to be a father!” She smiled gleefully at me and proceeded to perform her amazing array of aeronautical acrobatics! She knew how much I loved when she did that. That was her way of saying thank you. But then she swooped several hundred feet below is. I thought “what a wonderful, whimsical lover I have!” But then, she swooped all the way down to the layer of trees beneath us. What happened? I quickly swooped below to see why she decided to land so unexpectedly. But as I flew down beneath the trees, I saw her lying on the muddy Forrest floor. She had been shot. I shed a tear and mourned her, but then I heard the hunters coming. “I think the one I got is over here, Bud!” Those eerily horrifying words made my feathers quake. I did not even have a minute to say goodbye to my beloved. Oh the plans we had! The nest we were soon to build together... all my dreams gone in a single instant.. crushed beneath the cold, dirt ground. Well, I suppose the only joy left in my life now is experiencing through others as I watch them. It reminds me of her... how she so joyously and rhythmically glided through the skies of gold and gray and blue and orange... I will never forget her, and she lives on in my memories. It was her energy. She was the epitome, the total embodiment of perfect ecstasy. I suppose that is why I still enjoy making this pilgrimage. I can absorb all of the holiday joy that I once knew. I can remember the wonderful migrations I made with my love, and how her presence always brought a mystical beauty to the skies. I know her spirit is still with me as I make this journey. I can feel her whispering in my ear that it will all be okay and one day I might know what it feels like to have a family... maybe in this lifetime or maybe in the next. But for now, I must enjoy my time soaring through the skies while absorbing the happiness of others.

Once upon a time there were three little pigs. The first little pig was a simple little pig. He danced around all day wallowing in the mud and playing his flute. So when winter came he didn't have anywhere to stay and so he asked the farmer for help and the farmer said "here is a house made of hay, you can stay here and we will give you and your family all that they need." And the first little pig was as happy as could be. The second little pig was an honest little pig. He loved to dance all day and play his fiddle, but he knew that winter was coming and it wasn't right to depend on the farmer and so he went to the bank and bought a 30 year mortgage for a house of sticks so that he would be able to care for his family and maybe one day when he was old, and his body worn down from years of labor, and plagued by disease, he could play his flute and rest a little. He worked hard and slaved all day and night doing everything he could to pay his mortgage and provide for his family and hoped they would all be happy one day. The third little pig was a jolly little pig. He loved to dance all day and toot his horn. Papa pig was able to send him to Little Pig State University and he learned how everything on the farm worked. He never worried about winter because he made a good living sitting on the board of his father’s trust endowment. He was able to buy a nice brick house and was happy all his days and was able to dance and play. One day the big bad wolf saw the three little pigs dancing and playing and didn't like it at all because he had to live in the dark woods and could never dance and play. So the big bad wolf declared a jihad on the three little pigs and tried to blow the three pigs houses down. The three little pigs cried and cried because they didn't know what to do, so they asked the farmer for help to keep them secure. The farmer said "sure, I will build a big fence and have my hounds watch the fence, and you can pay me a little every year for what I do". The three little pigs loved this idea and laughed and played and payed the farmer a little more every year to keep them secure. Soon enough the farmer needed more to pay for the fence and keep all his hounds fed so he told the three little pigs he needed to raise their taxes. The pigs said they already pay him for that and they don't want to pay any more. So the farmer cut a hole in the fence just big enough for the wolf to stick his head through and the three little pigs cryyyed and cried "we aren't safe, here is what you asked for, build that fence higher and longer and get more hounds". And so the farmer build the fence higher and longer and hired more hounds and Invaded the dark woods and dropped JDAM missiles on the dark woods killing all the furry animals and turned the dark woods to rubble. Soon enough the farmer needed even more to pay for the fence and the hounds so he went to the little pigs and ordered them to give more. The first little pig said "I don't have anything more to give". And the farmer said "I know" and had the hounds put him in a prison labor camp. The second little pig said "I don't have anything more to give". So the farmer took his pension and audited the second little pig and ordered the pig county SWAT team to raid the stick house and they slaughtered the second little pig and his entire family. The third little pig said "I only have a little, I lost my business and my house, but here is what I have left, just please keep the big bad wolf out!" And the farmer said "that's a good little pig, here, you can live in this straw house and I will give you everything you need." And the Farmer and the Wolf were Happy. The End.

I didn’t expect it to work. When I placed the worn photo of my mother and her long-gone sister under my pillow - a photo that had captured them at their most rebellious, most vivacious - some summer night in 1982 - I didn’t expect to be brought back to that very parking lot where the photo had been taken. And yet, that is where my story begins. She was 19 then, and my aunt 23. It would be the last time my mother saw her sister alive: a night that would haunt her for the rest of her life, and in turn, would haunt me throughout mine. My mother was not a warm person. The rest of my extended family tells me that she used to be: that she used to be loving and larger than life, that she laughed louder than anyone in the room, that she was beautiful and magnetic. They tell me that the ‘she’ she used to be died that night, too, right along with her sister. They tell me they’re sorry for my loss even though I wasn’t born then, because maybe I could’ve had a red-lipped mother who smiled at me with bright white perfect teeth and who laughed with my infant gurgles, a melodic mother who soothed me when I cried as a child. I didn’t have that mother. Instead, I had my mother: a cold, hard woman who smoked Newports and flicked the butts throughout our apartment and paid me little mind. I spent my life fixated on that night, the night in the photo. The night that took who could’ve been my mother away and left me with this shell of a woman to raise me. I’d seen an old video of it once: I had a penchant for digging around in places I didn’t belong, like my uncles attic. Not my real uncle - a close friend of my mothers who’d been there that night, who we visited often; whose home was filled with relics from a youth he tried desperately to cling onto. Posters of glam rock bands carelessly plastered on the walls of his garage and leather furnishing that made his admiration of biker culture very clear to visitors made for tacky décor throughout his home. He was the only person who I ever saw make my mother laugh, although even then, it was rather sardonic. On one of their whiskey nights, I wandered up into the attic, filled with dust and boxes and more boxes and books and old VHS tapes, and browsed the ones with handwritten labels; and I found one that had a label with no handwriting on it, laying on its back instead of vertically with its brothers. Probably some kind of filth recorded from the television after 1AM on one of those X-Rated channels no one pays for but tries to make out through the snow anyway. In that attic, he had an old, musty, perpetually damp couch with springs sticking out across from an old, box television set to play those old VHS tapes; and so, naturally, curious, starving for information and entertainment that did not belong to me, I decided to play the tape. I didn’t find filth; at least not the kind I was expecting - instead, a shaky video of a boy and his friends in a parking lot; film that had rotted away in the plastic casing of that VHS, leaving blotches in corners of the video, distorting the clues to their exact location and cutting off faces of friends that were perhaps long since forgotten. I watched, mesmerized; able to recognize my mother and her pouty, painted red lips and teased blonde hair, worn up, while she dragged on her Newport and laughed raucously at whatever someone near her was saying, jabbing her sister in the rib to, I imagine, elicit laughter from her, too. It was odd to see my mother as a girl, then. She was 60 now but looked much worse for wear than she could’ve had she taken care of herself all these years. The girl on the screen was beautiful and lively and cool; my mother downstairs was dried and wrinkled and raspy and someone that coughed up phlegm and spit it wherever she pleased. I became determined to go back there, somehow. I immersed myself in the study of film restoration and 80s history, in physics, in time travel, in the suspension of disbelief and most of all, in a misguided spark of hope. I couldn’t tell you why it dawned upon me to freeze frame that shot of my mother and her sister and turn it into a photo to place under my pillow, as if it would summon a fairy to bring me to their world in that time and in that space: but I can tell you that that’s precisely what happened. And that’s where I am: watching her, watching her friends, her sister. The air smells of freshly pumped gasoline and is just crisp enough that I question how she could even be comfortable in that skirt with fishnets, such a stereotypical look for the rebel of her time. Her sister, dressed similarly, looks less comfortable. Tense. Have you ever heard of vinegar syndrome? It is, essentially, the deterioration of film. It is what caused that home video to have messy blotches of empty space when I watched it. It is the, in technical terms, “catastrophic deterioration that occurs when the film breaks down.” It is precisely within that spot that I find myself: a black hole, an interdimensional wasteland, a secret place that lets me watch them without them watching me. And as I marinate in this space, I somehow feel my own being quickly deteriorating: as if my very flesh is melting, as if my brain has developed the ability to shapeshift from a rounded pink mass into sharpened blades that grind against my now ever-changing skull; and it’s so fast and so overwhelming and so freezing cold and burning hot all at once, and the smell - the smell of rotting, of vinegar, of some warped attempt at preservation; and I need to run. And my brain, in its malformed yet commanding transmission, lunges me forward; forward, toward my mother, toward her sister. I lunge and engulf her within the black hole I find that I myself have become and I’m so acidic I digest her, my mothers sister, in a matter of seconds, with no ability to form an idea as to why it must be her, but it must be. She belongs in the liminal space between film and the world, and I don’t know why - And then I’m awake. In my bed. The photo is gone. And the video, paused, shines back at me in my still-dark bedroom with film strips strewn around the floor, and I see the frozen frame, rotted, paused. A shadow stands beside my mother. The film there has deteriorated.