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Allura 32

Eyes of a woman crying. Eyes open, watery and frightened. Another survivor of the animal attacks. The other was not so lucky to bleed only tears. "All night long." she sniffled with a trembling voice from the crying. "How did you know it had left, if you never saw it?" Detective Mjölby wondered about another anomaly in her story. She consistently made no sense. She was trying to explain something and it was hard to explain. She just sobbed. Unable to get any more information from Mrs. Pearson, Detective Mjölby left her alone at his desk and went outside. The evening was very quiet, a warm sunset in a silent and long evening. The air was stale and thick but with some of the morning mists that had never quite faded from every swampy corner. Now frogs chirped merrily. How could this world be so full of rancor and vice? He had often wondered that. But this, some animal, all made man's sins seem different somehow. Detective Mjölby had always found humans to be the source of ultimate savagery and predation. Maybe nature had something to say about that. He returned to the lab and listened to Mark and Earl. The two men had similar voices and switched roles as dumbass and smartass as they discussed the topic of the stuff of nightmares while eating sandwiches. Mark put his down and lit a cigarette in the lab. Detective Mjölby cleared his throat and therefore announced himself. The toothpick that followed was the beginning of more chewing, more face-touching. It never ceased, but information could be useful now, even if it wasn't. Detective Mjölby was okay with such a contradiction. Nothing was making any sense anyway. “Well if they do have a lab with ebola, somebody somewhere is eventually living next door to it, relatively speaking, of course.” Mark pointed something out from earlier in their conversation. “For nerdom” Detective Mjölby raised a shot he had poured from Mark's desk and drank it and listened. “My notes?” Mark requested from under the bottle. “Man's best friend.” Earl brought up an image of a dog. "The hair of the dog that bit you?" "It is a dog. We know that. What else?" Detective Mjölby griped. “This is the one true story of the invisible dog as it actually happened in 2018. All the events in this story are real and all of the people and places are totally real. Invisible dogs are real.” Mark explained as they showed images of flowers, insects and reptiles and strands of DNA. This guy and his 'power point presentations'. “The” Earl frowned and pointed and said: “Daphavirus” and then explained: “It is a South American virus that used to only affect a certain species of firefly in South America, now modified to affect reptiles. They made a chameleon turn invisible.” "Who did?" Detective Mjölby was standing up. "Who do you think?" Mark chastised. "The military industrial complex did this. Made this thing. It is...a conspiracy." Earl added. "I have real detective work to do here. This thing kills some people and leaves others. That is a pattern, shows motive, human motive. What can I do with a pattern except follow it, use it to predict and stop this thing." Detective Mjölby told his clownish lab geeks. "Sorry boss. What you want us to tell you then?" Mark chewed food. “If all these people's lives connect at some intersecting moment, then where is the intersection? Where is the connection?” Detective Mjölby requested. He gestured to the place where the victims' remains were. “We have some shit, don't we?” Earl raised his glasses back up on his nose and lit his own smoke. “We have twelve victims of the invisible dog.” Detective Mjölby had counted them. “Was it ever mummy-wrapped like the invisible man?” Mark snickered. Detective Mjölby left them there and went outside into the night. In darkness it made no difference. When it cannot be seen. Detective Mjölby vowed to hunt the monster and stated: "Every dog has its day...and each day ends." Then there was the matter of the blood they found and tested: Sometimes the blood of the invisible dog is on the sidewalk, as a metaphor, and other times it is there literally. The sample was taken back to the Briar police department where a crude but effective homicide laboratory was full of specimens and evidence of the dog, already. The latest incident, on the county line north of Briar, the dog had killed again. It probably had rabies, now, as well. The invisible dog had become rabid. Detective Mjölby sat there brooding in the darkness. The clown had gotten released from the hospital and then the psychiatric ward had released him as well and now the police had signed off on him too. He was a free man. No more invisible dog leash trick, but he did plan to resume business. Elsewhere. Weeks went by and it was as if the dog had stopped its rampage entirely. While Detective Mjölby kept up the search, following up on every scrap and lead he slowly became convinced. He had not caught the dog because he had not really believed the stupendous weave of interwoven and sometimes contradictory-seeming facts about the dog. Now it was all making sense. The phone rang. He found himself talking to someone calling herself 'deep-throat' and willing to tell him what she knew if he would keep the information to himself, unless something should happen to her, of course. He agreed. Then over several more phonecalls throughout the night, Detective Mjölby learned all about the invisible dog. He even found out about the ephemeral addiction and why. If it didn't make sense of things he wouldn't believe what he was hearing. A man in the dog's body needed the ephemeral to stay in control and the dog was now addicted. The man had used a directory of ephemeral registration for the drug, but the dog had just followed its nose. This part of the pattern of killings gave Detective Mjölby a good clue how to catch it. The dog would come for a treat.

The room is silent. Velma looks at Charlotte who is sitting on a chair occasionally standing to check their vitals. Tim is staring at the purple liquid counting the bubbles forming and dissipating. Stephen is engaged in a staring contest with the guard. "So when do you think it will be safe to go out?" Velma asks. "I don't know. There are enough emergency supplies stored here to last for several days," Charlotte replies. "And you expect us to lie here the whole time?" "Of course not, after a while, your muscles will atrophy. You will get time to stand and walk soon," Charlotte says. "Just great," Tim says, "I lost my count of the bubbles." Velma and Charlotte glare at him. Tim shrugs and goes back to counting the bubbles. "Do you have any idea what is going on outside?" Velma asks. "See that speaker," Charlotte points at a speaker above the door, "When it is safe to go outside, they will tells us through there. Until then, speculating is just going to cause stress." "You really just expect us to lie here?" Stephen asks not breaking eye contact with the guard. "Listen," Charlotte stands, "You all were not born when the Mierans attacked the first time. I was an adult fighting in that war. I learned quickly that you need to focus on what is right before you. Speculating about what is going outside the door only causes more trouble. Now, I understand that this can be rather boring so I do know a few word games that we can play." Stephen breaks eye contact and furrows his brow at her. "I'll pass." "Same," Velma nods. "I'll play," Tim shrugs. The other two look at him, "What I'm bored." Soldiers line in waves with their guns pointed at the hole created by the animals. The Mieran-humans will be armed, but their training accounts for armed combat. A bird flies through the hole startling a soldier into shooting it. It falls easily. The soldier avoids being reprimanded as his supervisors are too focused on the hole. The wall on the other side explodes. The ground shakes throwing the soldiers off balance. A few are able to turn to run to the other side. The others stand in confusion. A small number cars and trucks run through the crevice created by the explosion. The passengers fire their guns into the air and at random. Their movements further divide the soldiers into smaller units. A lieutenant fires a shot at a truck driver's head. The truck crashes into a barracks. The rest of the passengers fan out firing their guns. A bullet scratches his back. The lieutenant looks up. Mieran-humans are in the towers fighting the snipers. One Mieran-human wins and uses the rifle to kill the other snipers with ease. The Mieran-humans provide cover fire. Sergeants Gil and Nilsen are standing back to back fighting the Mieran-humans when General Ben Meltz rings into them. "I need you at the command center now," he says. "Sir, we are overwhelmed. I don't know if we can make it," Sergeant Gil says. "We need to move the subjects out of the base. We are going to lose. I need you to help me move right now," he yells. The sergeants sigh. "On our way sir," Sergeant Nilsen says, and they move. "Excellent," General Meltz says as he walks out of the command center. He closes the door on his victims.

#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And... to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Give your writing its own spirit animal. Let’s take a mini vacation this week and step away from any serious discussions. I want you to think about your own personal writing style and explain (in any amount of detail) what animal you think it embodies. That’s it! I can’t wait to see everyone’s answers. *New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? Introduce yourself in the comments! What do you like to write? *You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.

Caution: horrific details of a birth that goes wrong. Katy heard a bone-chilling scream followed by wails. Her twelve-year-old daughter Suzie ran inside. "It's OK, Mum. We were playing a game on the trampoline, that's all." "Eddie has hurt himself?" "Yes, as usual. He'll be alright." Katy ran out to check on her son in the backyard. Ten-year-old Eddie wept, cradling one arm as he sat in the middle of the trampoline. “Suzie did it,” he blubbered. "I'm sure it was an accident." His bottom lip curled down, and he shook his head. Tears trickled like water from a leaky faucet. He struggled over to her, keeping his right arm immobile against his body. Their large rectangular trampoline had no safety nets, but the rules were to not run on it and stick to the middle. The children had rarely had accidents. The worst accident had been when another child wouldn't stop running back and forth, tripped, and gashed their chin open on the metal surround. Katy had yelled out, "Stop running!" to no avail. The mother had become hysterical, but the father had shaken his head and sighed. He whispered something about his daughter bringing it on herself. They still felt awful. By the time Katy led her son inside, she had concluded that his arm could be broken. Suzie looked morose. "Can you tell me how this happened, please, Suzie?" Katy led Eddie to the sofa and went to get a freezer pack. The arm sported bruises already. "We were playing a game. He did it to me first," said Suzie, sulking. "Despite who started it, I think he's broken his arm." "Oh, rubbish. He's a drama llama. Great performance, Eddie." "So, what game did you play?" "We played a cool game where one of us sat on the side of the trampoline and surprised the jumper by whacking their legs out from under them unless they jumped quickly." "What makes this game so 'cool'?" "It's the surprise. It's great fun. When it was Eddie's turn to jump, he collapsed in a heap the first time. So useless." "As I said, I think he's broken his arm." This time, Katy glowered into her daughter's eyes. "What are you going to say?" "What am I supposed to say?" "The usual thing to say is 'Sorry,' Even if you Believe the Accident Could Have Been Avoided.". "Oh, it could have been avoided." Suzie looked at her mother's frown and the shake of her head. "Of course, I'm sorry . . . not much fun to play with someone hurt." She grumbled as she tore up the stairs. Eddie sat crying. Katy sighed and gave him the ice pack wrapped in a tea towel to hold against the painful limb. "This is what we are going to do, Eddie. Today is Sunday, and if I take you all the way to A and E now, we will be waiting for hours and hours while they deal with all the accidents and sports injuries. The weekend is a hopeless time for A and E. I'll give you some Paracetamol syrup for the pain, and first thing tomorrow, we'll take you in. I believe it's broken from the way you're holding it. If it's broken, you'll get an X-ray and a cast. The good news is that it won't be as hard for you as when you broke your ankle that time." "But Mum, it's so sore. I want it to be better now. It wasn't my fault . " "I know it isn't, son, but if we go today, they won't want me giving you painkillers, and you'll be in pain waiting for hours. We may not even get dinner. Tomorrow morning, first thing, it'll be so much quicker. . . Did you know that I used to have accidents, too? I've broken my wrist and my ankle. When I broke my ankle, I didn't want it to be broken, and I hobbled on it for a whole day. As I didn't have a car, I got my flat mate to drop me at A and E the next morning and afterward used crutches to go to my friend's house. She lived not too far from there. Someone else dropped me at my flat. No wheelchair for me." "I had lots of fun in my wheelchair, didn't I, Mum?" "You sure did. The kids at school played races with you and wheeled you around." "I let them take turns. I had lots of friends when I had a wheelchair." Katy felt a pang in her heart. Her innocent little boy had found it challenging at school and was teased mercilessly. He hardly noticed the way the other kids viewed him. His cheerful smile and kind nature had made him appear stupid. Suzie hurt more. She felt compelled to be his minder at school. The teachers and teacher aides coped with him during school hours. Still, during the breaks and before and after school, she had been tormented by other children for being his sister. Without oil-covered duck feathers, this sensitive little girl became bedraggled. She had toughened up to survive. Now, it seemed her empathy had gone as well. The older Suzie became, the less tolerance she had for being in a family with a handicapped child. Still, Suzie knew that Eddie had slow reactions and that their game had set him up to fail and fall. He never fell in a coordinated way. As a toddler, he had careened into walls because he neither stopped nor turned in time to avoid them. He regularly face-planted because he didn't put his hands out to save himself when he fell. Katy realized that Suzie needed to be listened to but also have her negative thinking, readjusted. Eddie needed help eating and toileting, and Katy had cleaned his teeth. That evening, she settled him in bed, gave him more painkilling medication, reassuring him that skipping a shower for one night would be OK and more manageable with his arm, and propped him with pillows. Now, it's time for Suzie. Carefully, she knocked on her daughter's door and went in. Suzie had her light on and sat in bed reading. "Thank you so much for cleaning up the kitchen and getting yourself ready for bed," Katy said, sitting on the side of the bed. "We'll take Eddie to A and E tomorrow." "Mum, I didn't really mean for him to hurt himself. I wish we could play like normal kids." "I wish you could as well, dear. But that game really is dangerous." "Mum, why couldn't he have been a normal brother?" Suzie's eyes filled with tears. "I do have an idea how it happened. It was his birth. When he was tiny, he cried so much and was such an angry baby. You may not remember, but when Dad went out with the older children in the evenings sometimes, I'd stay at home with him and you. You only wanted me when you were little, and when I got you ready for bed, I had to put Eddie down. You used to remind me he was crying and told me to pick him up. I told you that he had to learn patience because you also needed me. I've always tried to be fair to you." "But it hasn't been fair. Crystal does everything for me. I love her, but she's my sister. You have to help Eddie so much. He has all sorts of appointments, and you have lots of meetings about him. Because of him, you made me leave my friends and go to another school." Katy opened her mouth. "Honey, it wasn't like that. We were concerned about you. We didn't want you having the worry of Eddie at school, or being teased because of him. We sent you to a better school with more opportunities even though it is further away. We did it for you." Suzie sobbed. 'I hate it. I have no friends." "Sweetie, we didn't know. You were fine about going to the new school at the start." "I didn't want to bother you and Dad. You had enough to worry about . . . Having Eddie as a brother sucks!" "Darling, I know how you feel. You know, when I first brought him home from the Hospital, I wished I hadn't had him. We still need to understand what is wrong with him. It's been hard work, but we must consider the good times. You have had lots of fun with him. You were lovely together when you were both little. You cared for him so much. Remember, he always used to smile and laugh at everything. He hasn't turned out angry, after all." "But I am. I'm angry that he gets all of the attention." "We have tried not to do that, but it can't be helped. He needs a lot of care. We couldn’t expect your oldest sister, Amelia, to do everything for him . . . I was a headless chicken trying to cater to everyone in this family." "And he lost my Barbie dolls under the house, and they were so hard to find, and you had to wash them. I was so mad at him about that." "Sweetie, my younger sisters wrecked my stuff, too. It happens. It can't be the end of the world. I know it made you very sad." "It made me angry." "The trick is understanding why you feel angry and not taking it out on others. About your school. Next year, you will be in high school, and you can meet up with some of your old friends there. Now, get some sleep, darling. We are out of here early tomorrow." Katy kissed her daughter and settled her under the duvet. Katy went through to the kitchen. Her husband, Tom, had made her a hot chocolate and waited at the table for her. "It's been one of those days again, dear?" "I'm worried about Suzie." Tom shook his head and smiled. "Let me get this right. Eddie has probably broken his arm, and you are worried about Suzie; who did it?" "Suzie is hurting too, but not because she feels sorry for Eddie." She put her face in her hands and wept. "There, there. It can't be that bad." Katy looked up. "It's too much, and it isn't fair. Eddie's birth was a mess. My Specialist went on holiday and said he'd be back in time. I told him he wouldn't be. That stupid Midwife. I never ever wanted to squat during a birth, but I needed to with Eddie. I think it helped him turn. That idiot Midwife pushed me back against the head of the bed to 'have a look.' And then it was too late. Eddie was coming out. And then he got stuck. I remember her saying not to push because his shoulder was stuck and to wait for the next contraction. She wouldn't even help me get comfortable." "It all happened so fast. The Midwife already said a few hours when she went to ring up for an alternative specialist. She wanted you to get onto all fours, but there was no time. Eddie was in a hurry to be born." "If I'd known what I found out later, I'd have screamed bloody murder. If you remember, I was screaming murder when I thought Eddie would be born at home." "You had just enough time to get to the Hospital, it turned out. I thought you had hours like the other times. Just wanted to have a shave." "Yeh, to look handsome for the nurses! While I was in sooo much pain. Posterior presentation. I had no idea what it was. It was shocking. Katy sobbed. "And years later to find out what can happen during a shoulder dystocia . . . And when I finally decided to check the birth notes, the Midwife had lied. She knew what was wrong all along and lied. My poor baby had his oxygen supply cut off before he came out. Sure, he finally breathed. He had petechial hemorrhaging of his eyes, bruising around them, and grazed ears. He cried and cried. He cried so much that after exhausting days of him not feeding properly because he couldn't suck and kept popping off my breasts, the nurses used to wheel him into an empty theatre to let me sleep. His screaming kept the other babies awake." "Going on about it won't help. He's turned out a lovely little chap." "I think people feel sorry for us. This whole family has suffered because of what happened. And financially. All those specialists, a cranial osteopath, pediatric appointments, and speech therapist we took him to. We are still suffering. And what about his future?" "You have always told me that because he loves everyone, the world is his tumbling-polish machine." "It was a euphemism. When I speak hopefully about Eddie because he gets on with everyone, his teacher aides look at me gravely as if they feel sorry for me." "You have to keep trying. Keep having hope. Don't look back. You can't change what happened." "The latest is poor Suzie. She isn't happy that we changed her to a different school." "We know why we did. If you'd left her at the same school, with all the pressure and bullying she received, she wouldn't have thanked us for that either. Damned if you do, and damned if you don't!" "I guess you are right. We've done our very best." "You've done better than that. Some other parents wouldn't have done what we have." "But I feel guilty. There are times when I wish . . . we hadn't had him." Katy sobbed into her hands again. "Here, have your chocolate before it gets cold. Don't dwell on the past." *** At A and E. The next day, after they had been in the waiting room for about an hour, the doctor finally saw Eddie. He shook his head. "What a break! How did you do this, young man?" "I fell on the trampoline. My arm is double-jointed, and it snapped when I landed on it." "Double jointed, you say?" "Yes, I can bend my elbow both ways." "It's true," said Katy. "It will be x-rayed at Orthopedics, at the Hospital, but I'm telling you now, this is a bad break. It's a wonder the bone isn't sticking through the skin. We'll stabilize it, and I advise you to take him in a wheelchair once you arrive, so he doesn't jolt it. Can you do that?" "We've been careful up until now; I'm sure we'll manage." On the way to the car, Suzie touched her brother's shoulder. "Sorry for calling you a 'drama llama.'" *** They drove home with Eddie in his new plaster cast many hours later. "Can all my friends write their names on this one, too?" he asked. "I'll be the first," said Suzie. "How about playing a nice safe game of cards when we get home?" said Katy. Suzie grinned. "Yes, Strip Jack Naked, for real." "No, let's play Cheat," said Eddie, "I'm good at that." "What about Happy Families, kids?" Managing a ten-year-old child with an arm in plaster proved easier for Katy than handling the five-year-old Eddie with his leg in plaster. By the time the break healed, Eddie had gradually regained the use of his arm. His only regret was that the arm no longer bent both ways. It had been quite the sickening party trick. Eddie and his antics always astounded them. Always novel. Often, harebrained. The unfortunate thing about Suzie as a teenager was her lack of tolerance toward her brother. Before this, she had always been a very caring sister. When siblings clash as teenagers, the inherent selfishness of this age group leads to much grief in a family. Once the mature, caring young woman emerged from her pupa of teenage angst, Suzie applied herself. After much research, she came up with a diagnosis for her brother. We pursued a formal one: Dyspraxia. Suzie had been right. In addition, Dyslexia had already been diagnosed, which helped him qualify for assistance at school, and his Sensory Disorder had been recognized. His decisions led us all down some dark roads at times. He often didn't recognize hazards and wound up in heartrending and life-threatening situations. He's also been in several accidents, once with a leg in plaster again. His worst accident didn't involve any breaks. He stood up and began to exit a bus. He was the last one in line to leave. The driver didn't check and closed the doors on him. When they played back the recording, it showed that he hesitated moving forward when he heard a noise from the doors. His neck was so severely wrenched, and his body twisted that he needed costly treatment by an Osteopath for a whole year. I pointed out to the bus company that his hesitation meant he wasn't dragged along on the outside of the bus, which probably saved his life. They felt action during that split second could have prevented the accident. Bottom line - the driver didn't look. Suzie became a Mental Health nurse and has come to terms with her early family life. Eddie manages to hold down a menial part-time job and do volunteer work. He is gifted at listening and getting on with people. The tumbling-polish-machine has produced a gem.

“Our universe is one of many. At only 13.77 billion years old is it relatively young and small compared to most. The speed that time moves in each universe is mostly dependent on its size, but it is difficult to measure the rate at which time is moving in a universe with wildly differing dimensions and contents. Our universe has what I refer to as a pulmonary structure. This is because it’s when it reaches a certain size, it will start contracting until it becomes so dense that all its matter forms into a singularity which will subsequently ‘explode’ creating a new big bang. Of course, there actually is no explosion or bang, just a rapid and forceful expansion that kicks off a new lifecycle for the universe. The universe always contains the same matter, but after each big bang it become completely re-organised, leaving no trace of the structure of the previous universe. Comparing it to a lung expanding and deflating is a very simple and not entirely accurate analogy, but to be frank it’s the best analogy I could be bothered to come up with and it gives some understanding of the process. Our universe goes through this process to keep itself active, essentially to keep itself alive. Think of each universe as a living organism, which to stay alive, needs the matter within the universe to contain energy. The size a universe can grow to without ‘dying’ is proportional to how much matter is within it. A universe containing a lot of matter can grow to a great size, whereas a universe that does not contain as much matter will not be able to grow for very long before it ‘dies’. The death of a universe occurs when it expands to such a massive size that the matter and energy it contains is too far apart. The matter is this universe becomes devoid of energy and unable to go through any kind of reaction, causing it to be essentially ‘frozen’. This is known as a heat death” The man paused his monologue, glancing at the waiter who was walking past the table. “Hold on, why are you telling me this?”, I tried to interrupt him. “It’s important. Now don’t fucking interrupt me.” He resumed. “Now, a universe cannot stop expanding or collapsing unless it dies. Imagine a balloon with a hole that cannot be tied. The balloon can be blown up, or the air can be released, letting it deflate. If the balloon is blown up too much it will burst and cease to have function. Of course this analogy is clunky at best as a balloon can be left deflated, but a universe is unable to remain as a singularity. It must start expanding again. Now this means a universe will forever be in motion up until the point of its death.” The man stopped talking and stared at me, waiting for a response. The menu on the table in front of him remained unopened. “Okay, that’s all very good but my question still stands. Why are you telling me this?” “A lady came to me... in a dream. She explained all of this to me and if I don’t tell you right now, I’m going to forget it. It’s too important.” He said all of this with an air of profound seriousness. I sighed, “So you think that you know the explanation for all of existence because you had a dream about it?” He looked a little offended. “Well it could be wrong, but there’s a small chance I’m right so I reckon that’s worth holding on to. After all, many people garner explanations for existence that come from much more questionable places. I don’t see my dreams being less reliable that some old book written back before the wheelbarrow had even been invented”. He seemed almost proud that he had managed to inject a fairly mundane piece of trivia into his argument. “I suppose you have a point there. You should probably find some other way to remember it though cause there’s no way I’m going to memorise all that.” I tried to wrap up the conversation, hoping he might finally order something. He furrowed his brow and then replied, “Yes, you’re right. I’ll write it down. Maybe I’ll just write down our conversation, that might help me get it right.

Walter pulled out his flashlight as twilight fell upon them. He looked up to Benvolio who patiently lumbered alongside him on foot as they walked towards the village. “Odd question.” Walter spoke. “That is a statement, not a question, so I am a bit perplexed by your meaning.” Benvolio responded. Walter shook his head and continued. “Sorry, it’s an expression where I’m from. Anyway, I was curious, it seems like humans haven’t always been kind to you.” “That is putting it mildly.” Benvolio noted in a serious tone. “Why then, are you so kind to me? Why do you spare the lives of humans who attack you?” Walter asked. Benvolio swished his tail back and forth as he walked. He looked at the large open area around them, it was bordered by some trees. The meadow shared some similarities with a field he had seen before when he was still a hatchling, a field filled with strange stones. “I had every reason to hate humans, until I met someone very dear to me.” Benvolio replied. “It was she who introduced me to many wonderful books.” Benvolio’s thoughts drifted to the past. He remembered being transported to a strange place, the field he found himself in was filled with tall stones covered in writing. As a hatchling, Benvolio found himself curled up on top of one of those stones, shivering in the winter air. Due to his young age, he had not yet developed his internal flame. He looked to the gray sky above, the dance of the snowflakes as they drifted down onto his snout. He closed his eyes and began to wait for death. He was hungry, shivering, and his mind seared with the images of his mother’s eyes as they parted, the shattering sound of her death cries still resonated in his ears. After all her efforts to save him, he would die in a strange place away from their cavern, away from their mountain. It was all the fault of the humans. “Dad, look, a lizard!” A girl’s voice called out. “I’ve never seen one that looks like him before, it almost looks like he has wings and he’s bright red, like a tiny dragon.” Benvolio slowly opened one eye. A human, a bit smaller than the ones he had seen, but much bigger than himself loomed over his form. Benvolio let out a snarl, but as he was only a few inches long, the sound was not as ferocious as he had hoped it to be. “Samantha, leave it be,” a man’s voice responded. “He’s cold.” The girl called Samantha whimpered. Her eyes looked up, pleading with her father. “He could die.” Her voice was tender, but Benvolio knew better. Humans were cruel, he had witnessed it with his own eyes. “Sweetie, please.” The dad urged, trying to pull his daughter forward. The girl reached out to Benvolio. Benvolio snapped feebly at her, but he moved slowly in the cold air. Her hand scooped him up with ease. He moved to bite her fingers, but the warmth of her hand was comforting. Young Benvolio nestled into her palm as she pulled him close to her. “Please Dad, he was on Mom’s tombstone, it’s a sign. Mom wants us to care for him.” Samantha cradled Benvolio and once again looked up at her father with wide eyes. The man looked to his daughter and sighed deeply in resignation. “Fine, but if it makes a mess in the Airflyte I will fling that little lizard right out the window.” “Yes sir.” Samantha sighed. Benvolio should have tried to resist being taken, but they moved him towards some strange metal shape with wheels. As they entered the vehicle and Benvolio was out of the cold air, he swiftly drifted to sleep. When he awoke, he was laying on a bed of sand, there were a few rocks scattered here and there. There was a small dish filled with some sort of vegetation and strange pellets. Benvolio was skeptical at first, but his hunger won out and he eventually braved the food. The pellets tasted terrible, but they helped. He surveyed his surroundings, noticing the light acting strangely a few inches from where he was. He ambled forward, hitting an invisible wall where the light reflected strangely. Across the room, Samantha was stretched out on a bed with a book in her hands. “Oh, you’re awake!” Samantha smiled as she set down the book she was reading and walked over to the enclosure where Benvolio was trapped. Benvolio tried to snarl. Samantha reached down, gently scooping him up into her hand. It annoyed him how warm and comforting her skin was. “Would you like to read with me?” She asked. Benvolio was confused, but seeing as she was much bigger than he was, he could do little to protest. She carried him over to the bed and set him down by her book. “I am reading some plays by Shakespeare. Currently I am reading Romeo and Juliet, have you ever heard of it?” She asked. Benvolio blinked. “I think you will like it. It has feuding families, lovesick teenagers, swordfights, poison, and more.” Benvolio did not fully understand the words she was saying, but as Samantha began to speak, her voice had a soothing rhythm. Benvolio nestled next to the book. The paper had a pleasant scent, he liked it. Samantha gently rubbed his back with her finger. “Come to think of it, you need a name.” She smiled looking at her book. “I don’t think you’re a Romeo. Maybe Tybalt? No, Tybalt’s kind of a jerk.” Benvolio tilted his head. “Or, how about Benvolio?” Something about the sound of the word pleased the young dragon. “Benvolio suits you, he is cautious and gentle, like you.” Samantha smiled. Benvolio’s thoughts returned to the present as they neared the village. Upon their approach, some of the men ran out of their homes with spears and shields. Benvolio looked to Walter, then back to the armed men and sighed deeply. “Lower your weapons!” A man cried out. He walked out of his house wearing strange clothes. Walter blinked, noticing a small skull dangling from the man’s belt, it didn’t appear to be a human skull. The man approached Benvolio and raised his arms in greeting. “Benvolio my friend!” “Grimm, a pleasure as always.” Benvolio lowered his snout in greeting. He then turned his eyes to Walter, “Walter, I would like you to meet Grimm, a necromancer.

Patrick tried to stop smoking five times in his life. None worked, of course, because all sad people love some ciggies and, obviously, they are addictive, and also delicious and comforting as fuck, so Patrick couldn’t help but smoke two packs a day. Today, he said to himself, he would stop it once and for all. His antidepressant was working and his constant sadness was under control, even though he could not cum anymore and was being described as looking like an “emotional zombie”, a situation which made him coin an iconic phrase: “I had more fun in hell”. Noneless, he was sure this time he would not put a single cigarette in his mouth. The first method he tried was going out with his folks to smoke some weed instead. George and Mark, his best friends, were huge stoners and knew a guy in the neighbourhood who sold the best weed in the American continent, as a whole. On a side note, Patrick had never tried weed - and never wanted to, since he had an anxiety disorder which made him feel scared of everything and everyone. George and Mark were his best and only friends, the ones who he felt he could trust and who also understood what he was going through, you know, with mental illness and stuff. So George and Mark took Patrick to a penthouse in a random guy’s house, and there they were, rolling fat joints of marijuana. Turns out Patrick knew nothing about weed culture and how those gatherings worked, so he just waited while George, Mark and the random guy passed the joint. When the joint finally lied in Patrick’s hands, he kinda had an anxiety attack. His stomach was cold, full of butterflies, and his chest was achy as fuck. But then he thought to himself: What’s the worst thing that could happen? And nothing came to his mind. So he just put the thing in his mouth and inhaled it the way weed newbies do, and it didn’t take long until he had the worst panic attack of his life. It was a rough night. Patrick hallucinated, because even though few people are aware of this, weed is a hallocinogen. He had visions of demons and remembered things about his childhood he never knew happened. He shit his pants. He dehydrated and had cotton mouth. He thought he would die. But, therefore, he didn’t, but the next thing he knew was that he had Depersonalization Disorder from that traumatic bad, bad trip. So one day, at home, he grabbed a cigarette and thought about smoking it, but, afraid that it would worse that dream-like state he was living in, he did not. So he went to the doctor and was prescribed more antidepressants to try to snap out of the derealization and also asked if he could take some magic pill to stop the withdrawn symptoms. And, for Patrick’s delight, he was prescribed Bupropion, an antidepressant with the power of being able to quit smoking without suffering. “I already suffered enough”, he thought to himself. The first night Patrick layed in his bed after taking Bupropion, he took a long time to fall asleep, and when he finally did, he had the worst nightmare he could have had: He dreamed he was being chased by gigantic cigarette-shaped humanoids who were trying to eat his brain. When he woke up, he couldn’t move and couldn’t scream - Which would be useless, since Patrick lived alone. This condition, as he would learn, was known as Sleep Paralysis and was a side effect of Bupropion. So Patrick stopped the Bupropion and decided the only way he could quit smoking without it being too risky for his fragile mental health was an online chat. He grabbed his laptop and browsed to the website where he would find his cure. A lady called Beth was designated to support him, and she was very, very kind. He started typing words about his withdrawal symptoms, but before he could predict, there he was, playing the role of the lonely guy with almost no friends and still a virgin at twenty-one. Beth tried to warn him that his personal problems were not to be discussed on online “quit-smoking” chats, but that did not stop Patrick from trying to form a bond with her, whom he already considered a “friendaphist” - An adjective he liked to use to describe friends who are very comprehensive and sweet. The days went by, and Patrick couldn’t help but imagine what Beth looked like. Maybe he was in love with her, who knows. He kept browsing the online chat in the hope that Beth would be the one to assist him, but the shuffle mode that designated the person who would chat with him was definitely not on his side. One day, he stopped trying to communicate with Beth. It was an impossible romance, just like the movies - But that didn’t mean that he stopped thinking about her. He even found a therapist, an old man who was the opposite of Beth, to try to deal with his obsession with the online chat lady. Three months of therapy went by and Patrick was dissociated, having Bupropion withdrawal and biting his nails over a platonic love - And still wanted to smoke ciggies. Of course by now the nicotine withdrawal symptoms were gone, but that also meant an immense, painful hole on his heart that could only be solved by a piece of burning tobacco. So there he was. His depression worse than ever, his loneliness hurting his feelings. There must be a way to replace the nicotine missing in my psyche, he kept thinking. So he called George and asked for help. “Why didn’t you try the chewing gum?”, asked George. Of course. How dumb he was. There is always nicotine replacement therapy to save the day. Patrick went to the drug store on a Sunday morning, and ordered two boxes of nicotine gum. He went home and chewed two of those at the same time, both containing four miligrams of nicotine - He was chewing eight miligrams. Soon enough, Patrick discovered he had regressed: He was addicted to nicotine once again, and the gum only made him miss the taste of a cigarette even more. Also, the more gum he chewed, the more nauseous he got, plus a terrible headache due to nicotine superdosing. Turns out Patrick was one of those people who simply were not made to stop smoking. When he realized that, he bought three packs of king size ciggies and smoked all of them in one afternoon. Yeah. Sometimes we need to stick to what makes us feel good, because what else is gonna save our lives, even if it also kills you.

The night is occupied by the squeaks of critters and the soft wind on the trees. It’s a time for the earth to rest. He stares into the base of the fire as he’s cooking his meat on a stick. Time itself seems to stop for him, but the fire continues to burn. The flames themselves seems to be caught in a cycle, and even in death the embers will provide nutrients and continue to live on in the earth, as do all things. He thinks to himself “I find myself caught in that cycle, an eternal flame that cannot die out. Will the warmth of the flames keep me anchored to this existence forever? What good will this flame do for me if I can’t go forward” . The bushes began to rustle, and he breaks from the self induced trance to his weapon ready and pointing in the direction of the sounds. His tight grip loosens as two small children creep out the bushes, dirty and famished. He breaks the silence as he lets the two children (older girl and younger boy) feed themselves. The children began to savagely rip into the cubes of hot meat, not even letting time for them to cool. “You’re not as mean as all the others” the little girl says. “To be truthful, I stop myself because of your brother... nothing but innocence fills his eyes. So much power. But when I say your eyes, I saw distrust, fear, and hatred, void of the life and love your brother has and replaced with a burning fire” he confesses. “It didn’t take me long to realize that I had no choice but to be strong, for my brother”. She seems to finally have a time to relieve all the stress and tension that has been consuming her. “These are dark times that lay on us, all we can do now is protect what’s dear to us. Never let that love your brother has for you or anyone else die out, its the seeds for the next era to grow. For that to be possible you cannot let the fire in you fade, stay strong for your brother... and for yourself. This is the burden of responsibility. Maybe one day I can fight to restore the innocence you once had.” The older child cuts back “And what, keep us blinded to the horrors that plague this land. I wasn’t going to survive with the naivety that I once had. I was left wondering what else I had left to sacrifice for the sake of my brother. I lost my parents, my friends and all that once knew to be fun... There’s nothing left for me.” He thinks to himself “The pain she holds is much too familiar. 1000 times over I have felt pain like that, and 1000 more times I will endure it if I can find an end to this suffering” He lifts his head up to gaze at the night sky “I want you to look up to the stars, each one of those flickers of light is a sun much like our own, with a whole other world that it harbors. The struggles of our existence can start to become so insignificant. It’s up to us to cherish what we hold dear, to hopefully give us some sense of validity to this reality.” He looks now to the girl “There is something left, your brother. Even though innocence can fade, it isn’t lost. The energies of love and peace can withstand the test of time, its the one truth we all share, the driving force of the universe, and it lives on in children like your brother. The energies of the universe lie within souls like your brother, and maybe even in us. The whole world may feel like it’s against you, but as long as you have your brother here, there is still something to fight for. “Well what do you fight for? What do you cherish?” She ask “Part of me is still trying to figure that out, but when I see eyes like your brother I feel like I’m getting closer to an answer” “Who are you?” The younger brother ask in a soft innocent tone He removes his gaze from the night sky and into the fireplace, embers fading into smoke and wood cracking, “Just a warrior lost in time” First draft lmk how y’all like it. Open to any criticism (or praise) If you have questions for clarification or curiosity ask away.

“What is this place?” “Just a spot I found a while ago.” The pair of them sat on that wooden skeleton of a rooftop, facing the endless forest. She rubbed her shins every so often when the wind picked up and nipped at them. He cracked open the tall can he’d gotten. “I hope this is as good as you say it is.” “It’s stupid that guys have to conform to only drinking beer.” She chuckled. “I promise I won’t call you a pussy.” He slurped a little. “You know, beer fucking sucks.” She snickered. “This shit,” he said, holding up the can, “is *great.*” She cracked hers open. “What’d you get again?” he asked. “I always drink this. Spiked seltzer.” “I can’t believe I love canned margaritas.” He shook his head as he took another gulp. “But fuck, if this is the gold standard, I’m gonna have a *lot* more of them.” “You’re funny.” “So,” he said after swallowing. “Where do you live again?” “The other side of town,” she replied, nodding. “On Hurst.” “I’ve got a buddy that lives there.” He scoffed. “Well, he was a buddy.” “What do you mean? Who?” “Jimmy Kenning.” “Is it bad that I don’t know him?” He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He sipped from his margarita. “We used to make movies together.” “Movies?” “Yeah.” He chuckled. “They were stupid little short films, mostly.” He turned and looked at her. “But we were planning a feature. I spent a whole summer writing it and revising it and table-reading it with other friends.” He shook his head with a smile. “It was awesome.” “That *does* sound really awesome.” She raised her eyebrows. He nodded. “What happened with you two?” “Well, when it got time to shoot it...” He buried his face into his palm. “No, it’s stupid.” “Come on, I want to know!” She tugged at his arm. “Well, the whole thing with the script was that it focused on a closeted gay man.” He looked at her briefly, pausing. She nodded with a smile. “And he has this friend through all three acts. Well, actually, two and a half acts.” He took a quick gulp of his drink. “By the end of it, he confesses his love to this friend. Of course, before then, there are little hints and blips of foreshadowing that lead up to it.” “That’s sweet.” “It was my way of confessing my love for Jimmy. We were going to play the two leads.” She looked into his eyes. Hesitant. “O-oh. Does that mean you’re--” “Oh!” He laughed. “I’m bi. I didn’t totally fool or catfish you or whatever. I *promise.*” She laughed too. “You see, you’re accepting of that.” He shook his head, and the rippling trail of his smile faded. “Jimmy wasn’t.” “What did he do, if I can ask?” The silence came, then. It was sharp and hot and prickly, but in direct dissonance with the birds and teeming insects. “Well.” He bit his lip. “He read it and was really enjoying it until he got to that point.” \*\*\* They only ordered a couple of coffees--which they drank black, because that’s what artists do--and some soup. People who had jobs, lives, and actual schedules hurried about the diner and talked on cell phones with colleagues. They seemed above the two of them, on another plain of existence. Jimmy read the title again, his steaming cup to his lips. “‘The Disconnect.’” He raised his eyebrows and bobbed his head. Cameron rubbed his cup of coffee with a stiff thumb. The ceramic could fragment at any moment with that amount of pressure. “Well, I hope you enjoyed it.” “I did.” Jimmy scratched his chin. “Their relationship is so--” “It’s not one-dimensional, is it?” Jimmy chuckled. “No, not at all. I was gonna say the opposite, actually. It’s really authentic.” Cam sighed, shakily. He tried to shed at least one layer of anxiety. “Thanks.” “And, at first the end was a shock, but it made sense to me once I thought it over.” He exhaled. “I’m really impressed, Cam. It’s such a you piece.” “Thank you. It means a lot.” “Who’d you have in mind for casting?” He took a sip of coffee. “You thinking about doing a call?” “Well,” he began. “I was thinking *we* could fill the roles.” Silverware clinked. Someone’s cell phone rang and wouldn’t stop. Each sounding of the ringtone blared and blared in a crescendo. “Cam,” Jimmy began. He stared, perhaps to draw an admission of sarcasm. “You’re serious?” “I mean,” Cam rubbed the cup of coffee harder and faster, “I know how you feel about being on camera, but as artists, we need to push ourselves out of each other’s comfort zones and--” “What is this?” He shook his head, script in hand. “Seriously, what is this?” Cam looked at him, tears on the fringes and legs shaking. “I love you,” he said. Jimmy scoffed. “Are you fucking joking?” He buried his face in both hands, which rubbed. “Oh my god...” “Jimmy, I--” He lifted his head up, shooting a glare. *That* brought silence. “I can’t believe you.” Jimmy hurried to his feet. He tossed the script toward their booth vaguely, the pages flapping until they hit the tile floor. Cam felt the tears come. He rubbed his mug hard at first, before befalling to his emotions entirely. He gave his wet cheek to the table. *Idiot,* he told himself. *Why are you such an idiot?* \*\*\* “I’m over it, though.” Cam finished the margarita, throwing the can into the forest. “Fuck that guy.” “Wow,” she said, half-ignoring his remark. “You’re so brave.” “What? No, I’m not.” He shook his head vehemently. “The whole thing was just stupid.” “No, I really mean it, Cameron.” She smiled. “You didn’t have to tell me that, and you did.” “Like I said.” He sniffled. “I’m over it.” “It’s okay not to be, you know.” She sipped from her seltzer. “I have regrets from, like, eighth grade, still.” “Regrets?” “Yeah. More than just an embarrassing tattoo.” She rubbed her shins. “Which I do have.” “You’ve got to show me before the end of the night.” “Yeah, we’ll have to see about that,” she said through her teeth. “What actual regrets do you have, though?” he asked. She hesitated. Sighed. “I don’t know. A ton.” “You don’t have to share, of course. That goes without saying.” “I will though, I will.” She laughed. “You know it’s funny, Cameron.” “You can just call me ‘Cam’ by the way.” “Oh, okay. Well, Cam, I was going to say I just think it’s funny.” She giggled. “What is it?” “I don’t know!” she protested, still giggling. “I just feel like I’ve known you for a while.” “Yeah, me too.” His fingers raked his scalp. “Well, actually, it feels like I’ve known *you* for a while, not that I’ve known me for a while, because obviously I have.” She took a sip of seltzer, humming quirkily. “You’re working through that drink pretty slowly, even though I’ve been running my mouth this whole time.” “Do you want to help me finish it?” she asked, shoving the drink in his face. “Okay.” He took the can. “A night of firsts. Margaritas, online date, spiked seltzer; what else?” Cam chugged. “It’s my first online date too.” She scratched her cheek. “I was kind of hoping for just sex at first, but, I’m glad it’s turned into more than that.” “Me too,” he said quickly. “And holy shit, this seltzer’s made me even *gayer.*” She started laughing with her nose scrunched. “You’re fucking hysterical.” “Hey,” he began, turning stern all of the sudden. “Regrets. *Remember.*” “Okay,” she said, begrudgingly. \*\*\* That highway always looked the same. Even if the sun hit the asphalt from a clear sky, the road appeared muddy. There must’ve been construction underway for the better part of a decade, and the same orange cones sat there, collecting weather. Meaningless traffic. Just watching the rain patter against the windshield. Following the wipers whir and skid across the glass. Mundane. Irritating. “I really have to go?” she asked. Her mother huffed. “It would mean a lot to your father.” “I didn’t even know this guy.” “But you know your father, right? And if this means a lot to your father, then it should mean a lot to you, Abby.” She sighed. Impenetrable silence. The sort Abby couldn’t really fragment with any quip or rebuttal. How could anyone, really? Even if she conjured the most incredible weapon of a sentence, a swift lecture would follow. Her mother enjoyed those. “You’re not even going,” Abby said. Perhaps an argument she could defend would do. “I can’t help with your tuition if I’m not seeing these extra patients.” Abby sighed. “But that doesn’t mean you get to just blow Kevin’s wake off.” Her hands smacked the steering wheel between each sentence. “I know it’s your day off, and I know you’ve been having a tough time recently, but...” *A tough time.* Abby’s mother knew the mere surface. She had told her about the time she tried acid, but not about the weeks of unbearable depression or random bouts of anxiety that crashed into her. Plus, the acid didn’t really bother her like she said it did. She may had even tried it again. But that wasn’t the point. Abby didn’t want to open up to anyone, let alone her mother, who judged first and gave sound advice second. It was already enough work hiding the smell of cigarettes, which she started smoking to cope with all this. Everything was gaining ground on her. “Alright, sweetie?” Her mother’s tone had lightened since Abby started ignoring her. “Yup.” They got off the highway. Exit forty-two. There was a deli near the funeral home. Abby didn’t eat breakfast or lunch, so, a roast beef sandwich appealed to her stomach. Most of the time she forgot to eat, and even though it was six-forty-five, she really didn’t feel too ravenous. She could wait until tomorrow if she really wanted to. Abby watched the deli pass. But after a few more buildings, the funeral home appeared, with a hive of cars surrounding it. “Text me when you and your dad get home,” her mother said as Abby stepped out of the car. “I love you.” Abby shut the door. And after her mother drove away, she pulled out a cigarette and lit it. \*\*\* “I never said it back.” The night’s ambient symphony filled the silence. The slight breeze. The groaning of tree trunks and rippling of leaves. “My mom died on her way to work. Some piece of shit in a ‘72 Gran Torino totaled her car.” She finished her drink and threw the can away. “I’m sorry,” Cam said. “I can’t imagine what that’s like.” “It’s so selfish of me, too.” Abby scoffed. “And for what? A stupid day off?” “I think you blame yourself too much, if I can say.” Cam scratched his cheekbone. “It was just another ordinary argument. And, I don’t know how things were between you guys, but you probably would’ve had some animosity for a day.” She fended off tears. “Then you’d make up. Someone would apologize before the other person would.” He snickered. “She wouldn’t want to see you like this, Abby.” “Thank you.” She wiped her eyes with pulled down sleeves. “That really does help me. I mean it.” Sirens echoed in the distance, over the trees. “What happened with you and Jimmy after that?” “I haven’t talked to him since.” “It would be worth it to try.” She gazed into his eyes. “If not for his second chance, then for yours.” “You think I should?” “I do.” She nodded. “You can come over before or after you do it.” Abby smiled. “You know what street I’m on.” He laughed. “Yeah, I do.” \*\*\* It was a small, yellow ranch. The front screen hadn’t been replaced since he’d been there, and the front lawn was overgrown in the same places. That identical plastic fence held nothing but weeds out back. But he didn’t recognize the car. He remembered Jimmy’s parents always driving Audis. It didn’t matter what sort of financial drought they were trapped in. It was always Audis. Today, beneath a powdery blue sky laced with strands of clouds, a Honda sat in the gravel. Cam rubbed his jacket zipper with a stiff thumb. Faster as the seconds passed. He took a step forward, prepping himself for whomever may answer. They could’ve moved. Jimmy could have left Hurst street and the town and all of it to pursue something else. What if Cameron was the reason Jimmy diverged from the path of an artist? What if it was all his fault? He knocked, gentle at first, half-regretting his decision already. But when he realized the choice had already been made, he knocked harder and more pronounced. Cam exhaled, tapping his foot on their stoop excessively. “Oh god, what are you doing? What are you doing, Cameron?” he murmured to himself. The front door’s seal broke. Its hinges groaned as it opened further. “Cam?” “Hey.” He was thinner--no, leaner--than Cam had remembered. But Jimmy stood before him, mind and soul, in the same--albeit trimmed--shell. “H-how’ve you been?” Cameron rubbed his nose. “Good.” “Come in, man, come in.” Jimmy opened the screen for him, allowing Cam to step foot into his home. “I’ve missed you.” They stood in the foyer for a second, inspecting each other to reacquaint. And as Cameron lingered on his chest--on the text of his sweatshirt--he felt the swift embrace of Jimmy. “I’m sorry,” Jimmy said through a heavy throat. “I was such an idiot, then, *such* an idiot.” “It’s okay,” Cam said, wrapping his arms tight around him. “It *is,* Jimmy.” The pair of them stood, the house’s walls sputtering with sounds of pipes. “Come on,” Cam said. “I want you to meet someone.

I think some people move through life with an intense purpose, you know? They’re the type of people when you meet them they just have it together- Just everything. I think my life was formed by a young God, learning how to knit strings of fate together haphazardly for the first time. I think if life was a river, then I’m a fish on the side of the riverbank, trying to walk. People get all sensitive when you talk about not wanting to be here, alive I mean, not like you’d ever do anything because then that would require you to you know- do something. I hope I’m not the only one like that, everyone I’ve talked to in support groups always has this phenomenal story; “And there I was! Holding my newborn son and I knew my life had a purpose.” It was the same for every group, I would patiently wait for them to finish, picking at my ugly thumb until they’d inquire why I’d chosen to stay. And of course, with me being a poet as I am, I’d eloquently respond; " I dunno, leaving seems like a lot of work." I’m not sure why I kept going for a while, it didn’t make me feel better. I mean, there I was; this monotone jerk who would ruin the vibe of the whole thing they had going on. Maybe in some odd way, it gave me a jaded hope, if these self-righteous jerks went through what I did, then maybe I too could one day care about something. Not that I didn’t care about things, I just couldn’t. I loved my mother and my father. But I didn’t really like them, or myself. I sometimes feel guilty, so many others could have been instead of me, but I just couldn’t care that I was alive. I think that’s why I moved to Paris, not for the sights, the culture, or the jobs. But for the people. My Dad had lived in California for his whole life, but my mother was from New York. She’d always like to tell me that Californians were nice but not kind, and New Yorkers kind but very not nice. French people were neither and that’s how I liked it. There was never any small talk at my job just the typical, “Salut.” “Hi, what can I get you?” “Oh you speak English-” “What do you want?” “Oh- a chocolate cross-” “Pain au chocolat- 3.25.” “Oh, ok.” Nothing interesting happens in Paris, I mean there’s always the idiot tourists that get scammed but everything falls into a pattern eventually. Each boring day went by in a blur, I guess if anything I liked it was the place I worked at. Very touristy, so I never had to worry about actually offending any actual locals. I think that the tourists liked that I was kind of rude, it added to- The Parisian Aesthetic I didn’t really pay attention to my surroundings much, other than avoiding the crazies on the street. But I like them I guess, I think they add to the tres chic ambiance of my mediocre neighborhood, or as the French say. Very Chic. *hold for applause* I think then that’s two things I like then, crazy people and my job. Oh- and stupid kids doing stupid things. The concept always seemed so foreign to me, having a feral child was something my mother was always adamantly against. I had been thrown into so many activities as a little girl that I lacked the energy to be a feral child. My dad also refused to teach me anything other than sophisticated vocabulary so the most crazy I’d ever get was saying, “Could I possibly” instead of, “May I perhaps?” I think the parents are mostly to blame, they always ignore their kids and of course, the kids look elsewhere for entertainment. Honestly? By the time I was eighteen, I had done all the living any reasonable person could want. It was just another day, I had gotten there at exactly 7:48am, like always. I went about my day on autopilot, rudely correcting tourists on their French, sometimes very wrongly, just to get a kick out of it. Jean was always there on Wednesday, and he was always obnoxiously nice to everyone. Like the kind of sweet that hurt your teeth and gave you a headache. He always wore these wife beaters but they were from this awful designer brand and cost like 50 euros a piece. He purposefully spoke broken English- of course, unless he was complimenting what looked to be a well-tipping woman. It was a slow day, which drove me insane. I like having something to do when I am left to my own devices or I’d end up insane. I peered over to see Jean checking himself out in the murky sink water. I sighed and threw a towel at him, “Maybe if you’d actually do something about the dirty dishes then you could stop being just a pretty face.” He turned around and smirked at me, “So- you think I have a pretty face?” “Honestly,” I threw my hands up in the air and walked over to the sink. I dipped my arms down and pulled out the drain. I shook the grimy water off my hands and held it in front of him, “you only hear what you want.” The door rudely interrupts us with a chime. “Ah-” he coyly smiles, “I’ll get that customer.” “Oh no she has a child,” I apathetically state, “you don’t want to be a homewrecker do you?” She’s carrying a sweet little girl and is impossibly put together for a mother. “Ello, and welcome to the-uh how do you say-café,” he smiles flirtatiously at her, “You have the uh- ocean eyes no?” Oh my God, he’s pathetic I roll my eyes as he continues to flirt with her shamelessly, she twirls her hair giggling like a schoolgirl. But I get it, if I was a tourist I’d be all over that act. I look over to see if any other customers are lining up behind her. This is a mistake because I make eye contact with the little baby on her hip, she's a sweet little chubby baby, the ones you’d see on a yogurt ad I guess. I don’t know why but there’s something about her little gummy smile across her chubby face that makes me all fuzzy inside. Ok, maybe I can add that one little girl to the list of things I like. Jean is a flirt but he makes orders quickly, at the end of the day his whole act is for his ego and for his pocket. I look out the large window at the front trying to find an excuse to not talk to him. But I’m not sure why, something about today just feels a bit off. I sigh, peering back at the little girl who is now sitting on the lap of the woman, she is smiling as she squeals and gnaws on strawberries her mother brought in an old cookie tin. Normally I’d happily and quite rudely tell the woman that no outside food was permitted but- Babies don’t eat croissants, right? “Aren’t you gonna go yell at that nice lady?” he peers over my shoulder, usually I’d reply in a huff. “Hmm,” I pause and shake my head, strands of my hair falling down my forehead, “actually not feeling it today.” “When do you not feel like rudely correcting tourists,” he scoffs and throws a towel over his shoulder, pretending like he had been working hard, “even though you are a glorified one.” “How long do I have to live here to not be a tourist then?” I raise my eyebrow, playfully inquiring. “Eh-” he thinks for a moment, “since birth.” “Hm,” I returned to examining the baby, anxious to see if she got strawberries on her yellow duck dress. “You seem distracted- what’s on your mind,” he sighs and looks down at me, adjusting his apron, “and I know it isn’t me.” “I just-” I turn to him, rubbing my forehead, “something feels off today- I’m not sure why.” “Maybe it’s the weather?” he liked to hear himself talk as he wiped down the counter, “or there was that weird customer earlier the one with...” His voice trailed off as I focused on the little girl, the patio was out in the sunshine and a soft breeze carried an air of serenity. The mother placed the baby back in the pram as she turned to grab something out of her stylish bag. An azure-colored butterfly danced around the patio, darting from flower to flower. It twirled around and danced with wondrous color. The butterfly landed on the handle of the pram as the baby cooed at it. It reached out to it as the butterfly crawled into its hand, and then in one swift movement. It. ate. It. “Oh my god-” my eyes widened as I grabbed onto Jean’s sleeve, “did-did you just see that!” “What?” I turn back to see the mother leaving the café, a large tote in her left hand, and the pram in her right. I hesitate to try to figure out how to tell her that her precious child- Ate. A. Butterfly. I slid down behind the counter, sweat beading on my forehead, “That baby ate a butterfly!” Jean looks at me in disbelief and concern, he pauses, his brow furrowed, “Is it gonna die?” “The butterfly is definitely dead.” “No!” he threw his hands up and sighed, “The petite baby!” “I-” I pause thinking back to my wasted years at medical school, “maybe!?” “We have to tell her,” I panic and grasp his shoulders, “do you still have the card she paid with?” “Yes,” he throws his apron off, “I’ll look to see if she’s ever had a delivery under the same card.” He scuttles off, leaving chaos in his wake. “Closing early today-” I hissed out to the few tourists in the shop, “French holiday!” He hurriedly runs back out with several addresses written down on his wrist, “It has to be one of these.” We both usher the customers out as he locks up the place quickly. “Excuse me,” a sour woman sneers, “what holiday is it?” Jean throws me an extra helmet from his obnoxiously red bike, I sigh, putting it on I snap my head to the woman quickly responding, “Mercredi!” I snap back to Jean as I mount the bike before him, “You’re delusional if you think I’m gonna wrap my arms around your little waist.” He sighs annoyed, “Fine, let’s go!” We dash and dart down streets, nearly avoiding crazies and tourists. He holds onto me like a scared child scolding me for my rough driving. We’re met with several very confused family members who cannot place her and moreover think I can’t speak French. “Le bebe! Elle a mangé un papillon!! “Quoi!?!” I’m getting increasingly frustrated, I know all too well that we’re racing against time as tears form in my eyes. Jean sees me out of the corner of his eyes, he looks at me all concerned with his puppy dog eyes, “Hey- we’ll find her ok?” “I just-” I shake my head, the tears stinging against my skin, “I need to do something that matters for once.” “Turn-turn turn!” he hastily grabs the left hand of the bike as it scratches up against a broken pipe, “oh, that hurt me spiritually-” “Shush!” I rev the bike, picking up speed, “This is the last place right?” “Ye- '' Before he can finish I drift into the courtyard of a stately-looking house, I begin to run to the door throwing off my helmet. “Not my helmet!” he picks it up brushing off the dirt. My heart skips a beat as the woman opens the door all flustered, she’s holding her baby who is all red in the face and coughing. “Please,” she, very distraught, begins to close the door, “I’m very busy and I just can’t-.” “Your baby-” I pause and catch my breath as Jean examines his bike, swearing fervently, “your baby earlier at La Peche Cafe, she ate a butterfly- I know it's hard to believe but it's true-” Her eyes open wide as she stares helplessly at her baby, “Oh my god- oh my god” She pulls out her phone from her side, making a call to the emergency line, “Hi- yes- my baby is sick and-and.” The baby begins to gag and cry, trying to throw up the butterfly. A lightbulb goes off in my head as med school memories are brushed off. The cobwebs in my mind begin to clear once more. “Hydrogen Peroxide,” I simply state, regaining my nerves and entering doctor mode. “What?” She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Our best bet is to get her to throw up that butterfly,” I place my hand on her shoulder trying to calm her nerves, “hydrogen peroxide in small amounts induces vomiting.” She pauses, nodding along with me, “Ok-ok It's in the sink cabinet, first bathroom on the left.” Jean darts inside, tracking dirt as he tears up the bathroom, a few seconds later he emerges proudly with a bottle of the exact thing. “What’s your baby's name?” I try to calm her as I pour a small amount of the substance into the cap she shakily feeds it to her frantic baby. “Mariposa-” tears run down her face as she holds tight to her baby, “her name is Mariposa!” You have to be kidding me. The makeshift nauseant works as the baby starts to gag before hurling all over the sweet mother's elegant pantsuit. An all too familiar pair of blue wings slide down the front of her blouse. The woman is unfazed by this and begins to sob relieved tears as she holds onto her baby. Me and Jean, not knowing what to do with ourselves, sit on the front steps of this grand house as the mother dotes on her baby inside waiting for more help. I sigh, relieved and slightly smile to myself. I did that- I actually did something. We pause and stare at each other, unsure of how to break the silence. “How did you do that?” He looks at me like I’m something special, “how did you know to give the baby that awful-smelling stuff, the same stuff we use to kill mosquitoes in the fountain?” “Um, before I came to France,” I hesitated before sighing, “I was in medical school.” “Oh,” he pauses, unsure of how to respond, “and you didn’t become a doctor here?” I huff, glaring at him He frantically defends himself, “N-not that’s there’s anything wrong with that!” “I dropped out.” “Oh.” He pauses, clearly curious he squints at me, “...why?” “I-”, I looked up at him, “I was in a dark place. I didn’t care about anything, I was just burnt out and tired. I-I was so tired of being this perfect daughter who never complained- and never did anything wrong.” I traced my fingers along the cool steps and looked up at him, “So I guess I kinda just snapped, and well now I’m here in Paris- with you.” “Wow- I’ve really fallen from grace huh,” I tease him as he rolls his eyes, failing to hide his smile. “Well,” he smiles at me, “it’s too bad, you would’ve been a really good doctor.” “Do you,” he looks at me with concern in his eyes, “do you still feel that way?” “It’s gotten better,” I put my head on his shoulders, “I just feel like I don’t have a purpose-you know?” “Like sometimes I wonder,” I look down at my hands, “is this really it? Is this all there is?” We’re interrupted by the woman sitting down next to me, she’s thrown a towel over the mess on her shirt, “The medics will be here in just a minute.” She has relief and gratitude strewn all over her face. She looks at me with slight scrutiny, “That was very clever you know, not many people know about that.” Jean speaks for me, “Not everyone has been to medical school.” I give him a punch in the side as I clarify, “ Half , I went to half of medical school.” She laughs at us and peers back to me, “You know, Sorbonne is still accepting students, if you ever wanted to put your talents to good use.” “It’s impossible to get into,” I try to conceal my hope, “I don’t think they would accept a dropout.” “Not without a glowing recommendation,” she shakes her head, agreeing with me, “say, from a tenured professor?” “Unlike butterflies,” I chuckle, “I don’t think any recommendations are going to appear out of the blue.” “You know, you always think that you know everything until it's your own kid in danger,” she smiles holding her giggling baby, “I’d love to write a glowing letter for you, it’s the least I can do.” “You work there?” She nods, smiling wide, “I’ll tell them to look out for the butterfly girl.” I’m still not sure why it happened, but I’m glad it did. Because something inside of me comes back to life as if to yell at me; Do something! Do something with your life. Jean drives me to the same boring meetings on the same red bike of his after my medical school classes, the massive scratch is still there. He says it adds character. I’m really still awful at telling my story at the support groups, which I still really only go to for the free muffins. “So, can you tell us why you are here today?” I sigh, knowing the questions that will ensue. “I saw a baby eat a butterfly.”

Arthur held his father’s hand tightly. His cap fixed to his head, breeches cinched at his waist with a small leather belt. His first tie knotted at his collar, his father showing him how to tie it as he did it for his young son. Arthur was studious, even at the young age of seven. Serious. Determined. He absorbed everything he could and kept records. First in his head. As he aged, in journals. Anything he found interesting or useful. He peered from the bench into the casket, seeing for the first time a dead body. He knew this one before. Before it was a body, it was his grandmother. Afterwards, Arthur endured the awkward family time at his grandmother’s house, with the awkward consolations, each sounding more contrived than the previous: “Now the healing begins”; “She’s in a better place”; “She’s at peace”. Arthur couldn’t picture his grandmother being peaceful. She always seemed worried to him. Even at his age, he recognized his grandmother as a nervous and sad person. His last visit with her was just three weeks earlier. She had been napping in her bedroom. Arthur’s parents took the brief moment of peace to slip away to rest and collect themselves, leaving Arthur alone to watch his grandmother’s chest rise and fall, her breath coming in long wheezing draws. It startled him when she spoke. “How long have you been there?” his grandmother asked. Arthur didn’t know. “A while,” he said. His grandmother began to cough, waving frantically for Arthur, who obligingly came to her bedside, his grandmother directing him to the nightstand and a glass of water that Arthur handed her, his grandmother, holding it with both hands, sipping with her eyes clenched shut. A pause, a deep breath, and relaxing as the cough subsided. She passed the glass back to Arthur, who returned it to the nightstand. “Hand me my mirror,” his grandmother instructed. The small hand mirror lay on the stand next to the water, a handkerchief, vase of gardenias, and a copy of the King James Bible. Arthur watched as his grandmother looked into the mirror. She had an expression like she was staring at something far away, not just her reflection inches before her. She finally sighed and closed her eyes, pressing the mirror closer to her chest. “Life goes so quickly,” she said to no one in particular and then to Arthur, “I was your age only yesterday.” Arthur didn’t understand. He wasn’t sure how old his grandmother was. He was told it was impolite to ask such things. But he was certain she was much older than seven yesterday. “Look at yourself,” his grandmother said, passing him her mirror. “Take a good look at yourself, Arthur.” Arthur again did as instructed. He saw his reflection, his blue eyes, his dark hair, combed neatly for the visit, the small scratch on his left cheek he’d gotten from a tree branch the day before. “Don’t forget this moment, Arthur,” his grandmother said. “It will all go by so fast. Never forget who you are. Now. In the present.” Arthur didn’t quite understand what his grandmother was saying. He did know it was making him uncomfortable and that he wished his parents would get back soon, glancing back over his shoulder towards the door. “Do you know why they call it the present?” his grandmother asked. Arthur shook his head. “Because it’s a gift,” she said, and she smiled for the first time that Arthur could remember. And for the last time. Arthur slipped into his grandmother’s empty room and sat in the chair, staring at the empty bed. He felt better being there. Sad, but better. The quiet was interrupted by his mother, calling in to him. “Arthur, come out here and talk with the guests,” she said, ducking her head in the door quickly. “Now.” “Yes, ma’am,” Arthur said, but waited a few moments more. He ran his hand over the mirror on the bed stand where he’d left it. Turning it over, he looked into it and remembered what his grandmother said but didn’t feel like the present was a particularly wonderful gift at that moment. He was tired of adults ordering him around. He just wanted to be older and respected and no longer treated like a child. In his hand, the image of himself in the mirror, shimmered. He thought he imagined it. Then it happened again, and then it blurred, and the reflection was no longer of Arthur at age 7. It was Arthur, at least it resembled Arthur, but older now. In uniform. And looking confident. Arthur turned to his parents, shaking his father’s hand, kissing his mother on the cheek, swinging his bag over his shoulder and heading to the waiting car to drive him to the train station and the train to San Francisco, and the ship waiting there to take him overseas. On the train, at night, Arthur the only one still awake, he watched the dark shapes of the fields of Nebraska whir by and wondered when and if he would ever get home. He wondered if he would ever see his parents again, his sister, his dog. Whether he would ever have a career or a family of his own, or if he would just join the constantly growing list of young men who would not. Arthur dug around in his pack and found it. The mirror. He’d stolen it from his grandmother’s bedside that morning of her funeral. He’d felt an attachment to it, to his grandmother through it. His talisman he never told anyone about. Not even his sister to whom he felt he could tell everything. He wasn’t sure if he could keep it safe or hidden once on his ship, but he was going to try. He glanced at it, at his reflection in it. He saw himself, thought he saw himself, but Arthur wasn’t sure. The dim light of the train car provided just enough to make out his features, but so dim his features appeared to alter with each jostle and bump of the tracks, altered his hair line enough that it began to recede, the corners of his eyes to crease, his forehead to wrinkle. Arthur sat at his desk, a pile of overdue warehousing reports on the most recent project the huge food conglomerate he worked for had ordered, involving the processing, storage and distribution of cherries in Wisconsin and Michigan, from where he had just returned. A two-week trip away from his wife and children, a formal portrait of them squarely on Arthur’s desk. Arthur in his usual brown suit, his son in a similar version, each with mustard yellow shirts and matching orange and brown striped ties. His wife, bouffant hair freshly coiffed from the salon, his daughter in a handmade dress with zoo animals on it. Three of them smiled. Arthur just looked like he wanted the picture over with. The phone rang. His wife calling with a request to stop at the market and pick up pork chops and a head of lettuce. Arthur felt a grumble grow in him. He was exhausted. He just wanted to go home. How did this mundane errand fall upon him when he was out working fifty hour weeks to provide that food for his family. After dinner that night, when the house was asleep and Arthur was not, Arthur slipped from the bed and to the chest he kept in the basement. No one else had the key but him. It contained the remnants of the life before now. Jar of marbles, Boy Scout sash and memorabilia, Navy uniform, and his grandmother’s mirror. In the dust of the basement illuminated by the bare bulb in the fixture overhead, Arthur looked again into the mirror, hoping for something better. Whether that better existed in his future or was left in his past, he wasn’t certain. He just hoped. And the reflection that remained was that of an old man, blue blazer, striped tie, bifocals, his head almost completely bald save a thin gray rim around the edge. He looked like he was smiling, for Arthur. For many people it would have appeared he was only trying to not not smile. In his small one-bedroom apartment in the retirement home, Arthur looked at the wall of pictures over his breakfast table. Faded black-and-whites of his parents, his childhood, his time in the service. Once bright kodachromes of his wedding, his early years with his wife, his early years with his children, the color bleaching out over years along with Arthur’s expression. Then only pictures of him with his wife and daughter. And then only with his daughter. Arthur looked at his grandmother’s mirror in his hand and wondered where the time had gone. He set it down on his bed stand, his hand unsteady, his daughter catching her father’s arm and the mirror before either crashed onto the stand. She lay the mirror safely to the side and Arthur’s arm comfortably back across his chest. Arthur closed his eyes. His breath came in deeper gasps, longer gaps between them. And then it stopped. “Dad?” his daughter asked. Seven-year-old Arthur stood behind his daughter, watching her cry on the old man in the bed. He turned back to look over his shoulder as a gentle hand rested upon it. His grandmother, younger than he remembered her ever being, looked down on him and smiled. “I told you,” she said. “It all goes so quickly.”

About fifteen Novembers ago, my mom told me during the long ride to grandma's, “People grieve in different ways.” Gray haze veiled the road and icy rain, dinged on the windshield like BB pellets. “Grieve?” Later that afternoon, I danced a metal cookie cutter around the kitchen table while my grandma dumped a heap of brown sugar into a mixing bowl. It looked a little like a sandcastle. “Run, run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the Gingerbread Man!” I sang between pursed lips like a ventriloquist. “Remember to keep a good eye on them once they come out of the oven.” My grandma winked. “I won’t let them get away, Grandma,” I said, squeezing the cookie cutter. My grandma’s gold earrings swung from her ears like monkeys on vines as she flitted between ingredients. She poured molasses, darker as chocolate syrup, into a measuring cup. “Yuck, what’s that?” I cried. “Molasses,” she laughed. “Like Melissa , but not so sweet.” She showed me the measurements printed on the side. “Is that right?” I looked down at the recipe I’d printed at school. I’d begun learning about fractions, and my teacher had thought baking might be a good way to practice them. “M-O-L--” “I see it, I see it, Grandma. It says...half a cup.” I squinted at the lines on the cup. “Yes, half a cup.” “Very good,” she said, a smile spreading on her mulberry lips. "And then?” I beamed while I ran a finger over the steps. “Oh, we need...half a teaspoon of ‘al-spis.’ For the other bowl.” Her smile waned. “Why do we need allspice for cinnamon rolls?” I scrunched up my nose. “Cinnamon rolls? We’re making gingerbread men , Grandma.” I waved the recipe in the air. “Oh. You’re right.” Her face became pink under a film of foundation. She picked up a measuring spoon and scooped out what looked like grains of dirt from a small bottle. “Did we get everything?” she asked as she emptied the spoon. I checked the recipe. “Um, ginger.” She snatched the paper from me. “Let me see that.” Frowning, I said, “Well, for gingerbread men we need it, right?” I leaned over the table to peek at the list. At home, when my older brother and I fought, being “right” was paramount: yeah huh, vanilla is the worst flavor in Neapolitan ice cream, and duh, pancakes are better than waffles. But that day, being right didn’t feel as good. I might as well have been the weatherman watching the storm I predicted swell on the radar. Maybe my fear had something to do with what else my mom said to me on the way over. “See if it’s in the cupboard,” my grandma said, pointing over her shoulder. I jumped up and towed my chair to the cupboard. Opening the doors, I began parting the sea of half-empty spice bottles, some unlabeled, and packages of flour separating at the seams. Behind me, a Styrofoam carton squealed when my grandma took an egg out. While I scavenged, I noticed a mound of something scattered in the back like leaves. Reaching into the darkness, I pulled out a trading card with a picture of man in a baseball uniform kneeling on a field, a bat balanced on his thigh. It said “Dale Murphy” along the bottom and “Braves” on the top in steel blue. I didn’t know much about baseball then, so I assumed it meant he must be courageous. His hard squint into the stands seemed to cement the notion. "Hey, these are kinda cool!” I exclaimed, shuffling a handful of cards. “Why are these up here, Grandma?” Her reaction startled me. “Put those back!” she screeched. One of the cards escaped and sailed to the floor. “I don’t want Jerry to find them!” My eyebrows tented. “Uncle Jerry?” She cracked the egg on the bowl. The yellow goop seeped out of the shell. “He’s not allowed to take those to school.” In the car, my mom had said that if this happened to just go along with it, throw my grandma an “m-hm” if I had to. But don’t try to argue. So, no matter how confused it made me, I bit my tongue when she asked, “Did you find the yeast?” “Yeast?” I smirked from where I stood on the chair. I slipped a few cards in my back pocket and returned the rest of the stack to the cupboard. “I thought we...” “The yeast is in a little packet,” she said, attaching the whisks to the mixer. Pulling my chair back up to the table, I laid the packet beside the nutmeg. Then, I smoothed out my recipe. For the sake of the gingerbread men, I told her, “It’s not on here, Grandma. Should I put it ba--” She shook her head. “No, stay out of the cupboard.” My face felt hot with frustration when I heard the ­ shrrrip of the packet being torn. She shook it empty into the bowl with the spices. After combining the wet and dry ingredients, she made circles in the cocoa-colored sludge with the mixer, whirring like a buzz saw. I took the cards from my pocket and held them in a fan in my lap while the mixer flicked batter onto the tablecloth. I wondered if I only reminded Grandma about Uncle Jerry, I would be allowed to keep the cards. Certainly, if my mom saw how awesome the they were, she would understand, I thought. “Grandma, Uncle Jerry doesn’t go to school anymore,” I said over the sound of the mixer. She flipped the switch and set it aside. “He got sent to the principal for having those cards, and he won’t be getting caught with them again.” Color bloomed in her face. “M-hm.” Using a rubber spatula, she scraped the gooey batter from the sides of the bowl. Her forehead wrinkled with disgust. “He tried to say they were that boy Todd’s”--she hit the spatula off the edge of the mixing bowl-- "He won’t make friends that way.” “M-hm.” “Always so stubborn,” she mused. "Always so lonely in there." I tucked the cards back in my pocket. “Well, I wouldn’t get caught with them,” I assured her. She snorted and shook her head. “You know, I tried to get him to just sign up for real baseball and he said, 'the team won't like me.' 'I'm not good enough.' Laziness, he learned it from his father.” I grew annoyed with her game. “Grandma, Uncle Jerry went to Texas.” “Texas?” she scoffed. “He’s never been there.” “That’s what dad always said. Uncle Jerry went to college in Texas before I was born.” "No, he’s only fifteen,” she seemed to say more to herself than me. “He’s never even talked about college.” She sighed and gave the bowl another whack. “Now, it has to sit for a while before we can cut it. What time is it?” I stared at the clock. “Uh, almost three.” She whispered, “While we’re waiting, why don’t you sneak back there and see if he’s hiding any more of those? Before he gets off the bus.” My shoulders fell. Just go along with it, don’t be worried , Mom had said. I headed down the hall, unsure of what “back there” meant. I poked my head around every door, buzzing with a little excitement at the thought I might find more cards. I would say to her, “I’ll hide them good, Grandma, so he can’t take them to school anymore,” and have a whole collection. I jiggled the knob of the only room I had yet to check. A rush of cool air hit me like standing at the entrance of a tomb. Discarded clothes and torn magazine pages laid scattered on the carpet. A batting helmet, CDs, and a studded leather jacket bellied out of the open closet. Posters of more “Brave” baseball players curled as the tape came loose with time. One of them said, “RUN HOME!” An unraveled yo-yo rested on the floor by the bed. Seeing a backpack slouching by the foot of the bed, I entered the room and unzipped it, fast in case Uncle Jerry somehow caught me in there snooping. “Aha,” I murmured to myself when I felt something thin and flat hidden in an inside pocket. I couldn’t suppress a smile. “Who do we have here...” When I tugged the card out, I didn’t see a suntanned player posing on the field. Instead of baseball stats, I saw a column of Ds and Fs. I wondered how Uncle Jerry could be in college for so long if he hadn’t gotten As in regular school. Standing by the bed with the report card, I thought about what to do. Like putting flowers on a grave, I took the baseball cards out of my back pocket and slipped them into the musty pillowcase. When I returned, I helped my grandma dig the dough out of the bowl and plop it onto a bed of flour she’d sprinkled on the table. I used the rolling pin to flatten it out. She didn’t ask about the baseball cards. Grabbing my cookie cutter, I felt the confusion in my heart fade. Before I could cut the shapes, however, my grandma took a stick of melty butter from the dish and rubbed it across the slab of dough. Then, she coated the surface in cinnamon. The aroma burnt my nostrils. At that age and even today, I didn’t know the difference between what she chose to forget and what she didn’t. She rolled the dough into a log and held the dough knife out to me. My mom had told me what to say, but not how to cope. Fighting the feeling of disappointment, I put the cookie cutter aside. “Cut about a dozen. About...an inch and a half thick... Is that what it says?” she asked, pointing at the recipe. My palms sweaty, I glanced at the paper, trying not to notice that it didn’t say to spread cinnamon on the dough or roll it up or pour yeast into the mix. “Yeah, inch and....” “Is it a one and a two?” I nodded. “Oh,” she chuckled. “You know what a ‘half’ looks like, you just told me half a teaspoon only a little bit ago.” “I know.” “Ah.” She rubbed her temples while I made a crooked cut in the dough. “He should have just put it down.” “M-hm.” "Out there in the street when they told him, he should have just put it down.” ` “M-hm.”

I found the girl’s bones in the church, tucked inside the attic. They had been picked clean and were colored stone gray. The only flesh that remained on her skeleton was the skin stretched taut across her skull. It cradled her eyes precariously in their sockets, and I watched a spider wove delicate webs on her irises. Her spine had been dislodged and splayed apart. They looked like the desiccated wings of an angel who had tried to fly but ultimately had failed. I wouldn’t fail. Something glinted in the faint light. A thin gold bracelet encircled the delicate bones of her wrist. Allegra, it read in fancy script. Allegra. I knew her. I had known her. Everyone spoke about her in lovely, hushed tones. I wanted to be talked about. I wanted to be worshipped, so I sought her in the church and I found her. This house wasn’t haunted; it was infested. There were spider webs everywhere. I had come because there were rumors about a church and its deity. She granted you every wish if you were brave enough to seek her out. And I was brave. I stroked Allegra’s bones and marveled. “I’m so jealous of you,” I whispered to her. “But I can be much better.” When I heard the breathing behind me, I thought my chest would burst open. My heart wouldn’t stop beating, and acidic bile filled my throat. The Goddess emitted harsh and rattling gasps. She smelled like blood and death. She reached over my shoulder and entwined a long, furry appendage around my neck. I tried to turn and see the deity. Who was I speaking to? But it held me in place and rendered me immobile. “Not yet,” she whispered to me. “Not yet. What do you want, my dear....” She asked. I pointed to Allegra, stripped to the bone, and left to hang on a web. She hadn’t wanted it enough. She never deserved it, but I did. “I want to fly,” I said boldly. I had found my voice. “I want to fly and touch the heavens. I want everyone to know and love me.” She said nothing. She didn’t have to. Instead, she lifted me into the air and turned me so I could finally see. She was beautiful. And her beauty enhanced as she smiled at me and plunged an arm into my chest. I watched my blood spray and then sputter. I watched until everything went black. I remember flying. Yes, I flew. I flew higher than Allegra, and I went farther than anybody that I have ever known. It’s dark and empty here, but I don’t feel lonely. I would never be alone when worshipped. I can see them calling and crying for me. They sink onto tired knees and pray about me. I have become the angel. I am who they talk about. In the church, I found my wings, and my name is now a legend. You will never forget me.

I know. I know. I half choke and half sob. I realize I am in shock but there’s no way I can stop myself from reacting. Instead of letting my emotions reign I try to sum up everything from a technical point of view. This has always been my way to cope with anything difficult. Look, I tell myself. You have something precious to you. And you’re in danger. Now the thing that is precious to you isn’t something that’s materialistic. You need to understand...its, in fact, a sort of self sacrificial love. Stop, I warn myself, you’re getting too emotional So I start over again. You’re in mortal danger and you will die within a short time frame. Correct. Out of human instinct you must protect something valuable and since you’ll be dead soon you need to carry out a protective measure. Correct? Yes... so what’s the hesitation for? Just put your cargo in this capsule and hope for the best. No, hope is emotion and my nerves are already fragile. Let me rephrase it I tell myself. And just in time before I lapse into a nervous break down. Rephrasing: the probabilities of my possession surviving in this capsule is fifty, fifty. in contrast, not putting my precious into the capsule means a hundred percent destruction. Correct? Yes, but..... Then why can I not put my baby into the time capsule? Is it because its not built for humans? Of course it isn’t. But still, this machine isn’t as primitive as seven years ago, God-forbid. We’re far beyond sending just letters, sheet by sheet. Wasn’t it in the news just yesterday that they’ve successfully just sent the heaviest load up till now. 20 kilograms was it? Oh, what would I remember of yesterday? It feels like ages ago. Like paradise. My brain runs overdrive in despair. I am connecting vast and various data that lies in my subconsciousness out of survival instinct. Yesterday, was when these rabid robots weren’t after us. It was when I was making vegetable soup in the kitchen and my baby was sleeping in his pen in the adjoining living area. Yesterday was when I was thinking what groceries had to buy this weekend. I half smile from the irony. I’m stuck between the past and future. Present is formidable. What will my child do without me in the future? That is if he survives. I survey the slick, metal machinery. Its a huge pill with a seam in the middle when it’s closed. Right now its slit open a meter wide and I stare at the insides. Plain metal again with a tray to place items. I shall soon be placing my ‘item’ here. A beep resonates on the screen to my right. “AI entering lobby” the message states and above that, on the digital blueprints of the building the lobby area blinks red. Somehow, the peaceful and systematic movements of the robots is petrifying. Its more chilling then what the 21’s movies showed of robots being on a rampage. It was like comparing a classical, roaring monster to a skilled serial killer. So smooth and serene that the silence seems to strangle you. I am being strangled from a fear and despair deep within me. But I, too, must act in complete quietness and swiftness. I surf through the monitor, selecting from what little choices I have. “Approximate weight:” the machine blankly asks. I type in 7.3 kg and immediately the monthly doctor’s checkup come to mind. My brain runs overdrive recollecting every second as if it might save me from making this decision. I have at most 15 minutes before the AI slowly scans its way through the rooms, detecting potential human life to eradicate. I am then politely asked to load my luggage onto the capsule. I turn around. And face the baby basket. My baby sleeps peacefully enveloped in a soft blanket. He will reach the other side. He will, I decide. I must match my competition with an equal hardheartedness. If I am to save him from the AI, I must be of equal resilience. This is not the time to breakdown, we discussed this I remind myself. I reach over for my purse. Unzip it, and smoothly bring out the first item inside. Its not something visually important. A sheet of paper I tore from the five dollar spiral notebook from the general store. Inside is written a letter to the ‘futurers’. And nested in the folds of the same page is the photograph I removed from the frame on top of the rack at home, last minute. Its a picture of us. Our family. This will be for the baby. I marvel and despair at my quick thinking. How easily I planned everything the moment it was certain I would die. The plan was as smooth as if I had been a week old. I wedge the paper underneath the baby, below the blanket. I am about to give a parting kiss but I am too afraid to wake him up. Or perhaps to hurt myself. Without thinking, without feeling I place the basket onto the tray. But unlike usual, this time I don’t manually slide the capsule shut. I would never have the guts too. I know I’m in shock and can work without my heart’s presence but I don’t want to push myself too far and come out of this spell. I must match the robots. A final touch to the monitor and the capsule slides backwards slightly. I ignore the movements and focus on the screen, acting like I am on usual loading duty. The system asks me to wait as it takes an estimate weight of the contents I placed on the tray. Matches it with my entered value. I glance to the clock. I have ten minutes. The security command delivers the message I was anticipating. It is as if my patience is being tested. The machine has detected my baby’s breath and wants me to check for human trace on board. I override the command and continue. This is it. The end and start. A glass dome looming above makes its way down and settles on top. A few seconds later the count down starts, I stare. This is so impossible I don’t believe it is possible. I stare blankly. Minutes pass. To the side, most of the building has turned red on screen and soon the AI shall greet me. I will respond with open arms after this deed. Then, slowly the glass dome pulls back up. As it moves upwards I feel my heart sinking. Its going into oblivion just like my baby. Despair, regret and finally melancholy replaces the place it used to be. The weight is too much and I collapse onto the floor. Behind me is the empty capsule now open and dormant again. It is emotionless as if it did not just write the destiny of my only love. A destiny I don’t know. It is vacant and empty. In the middle am I, heart broken and disoriented. I want this over before the shock pulls out of my body. From the other side, the doors open and in enter the machines similarly vacant and empty as they approach me.

Somehow, and nobody really knows how, the James Webb telescope and the SLS saw no further delays after the coronavirus. This obviously led to the imprisonment of Jim Bridenstine on account of suspected witch-craft, but also led to the first permanent moon base which everyone thought was a great idea until one of the astronauts asked the engineers how to bake bread in space. It had been such a clear requirement that everybody had just assumed that somebody else would have sorted it out already. So now all they had was a bag of flour, a couple of sachets of yeast, a lump of butter, a standardised pinch of salt and six ravenous, carbohydrate deprived zombie astronauts. “Have you ever seen the Martian?” Capcom replied after several heated discussions in Houston, “Because you might have to crack out the emergency potatoes.” This wasn’t exactly what the astronauts wanted to hear but after being reassured that when you think about it potatoes are basically just a type of Peruvian bread and that no, they couldn’t use their rocket engine as a heat source, they started to adapt to a bread-free diet. But, in the wise words of Neil Armstrong’s local baker, ‘You can only stay sane for so long without bread’. Many people in mission control doubted whether they’d be able to last three months before the next resupply mission. Sure enough, two weeks into the mission the lack of bread related supplies was starting to create a serious toll on the astronauts and the first to crack was their resident baker. He wasn’t interested in studying moon rocks, growing potatoes or having a one in six chance of holding the record for the high jump, he was just in it for the bread. Something I think we can all relate to. The only reason he’d gone to the moon was to get in the history books as the first person to ever bake bread on the moon and since he couldn’t even do that, he started seriously questioning the point of even being there in the first place. So, when the other astronauts went off to take lunar selfies for their Instagram profile pictures, their baker spent the time he should have been thoroughly investigating the possibility of cooking potatoes using a toaster, to instead stage the greatest space mutiny of all time. At 22:10 UTC, if there had been an atmosphere the group of five would have heard the rocket engines roaring as they propelled the rocket high into the lunar sky. Mission control had been unsuccessfully trying to contact the baker for half an hour, anxiously waiting to see if they could justify advertising toasted potato as astronaut food next to freeze-dried ice cream in museum gift shops. After all that’s where most of NASA’s budget came from. But when the remaining astronauts came home to their moon base, everybody forgot about toasted potato and instead began to panic. “ Houston, we don’t have a rocket anymore,” Jane the lunar base commander stated knowing that when someone would inevitably make a film of this, they’d need something for the trailer, “do you have any we could borrow?” Capcom then replied, “Well at the moment not really, if there’s an emergency evacuation we could always try calling an uber.” “Copy that,” Jane said in probably the most disapproving tone in the history of ‘copy that’. Uber had expanded to offer space taxi services but until now NASA had always detested the idea of giving Dave from down the road controls of a space ship instead of astronauts who’d been specially trained for years. At that point though, they didn’t have any choice. All the officials at NASA were forced to announce the latest mutiny. Cancelling the long-awaited ‘foods which really shouldn’t have been invented, if you give us more funding we promise we’ll stop’ press conference would seem incredibly suspicious. So, they did what they had to, 20 minutes after Jim the baker had successfully completed his trans-earth injection burn the news was broadcast around the world, the first ever space-bread-mutiny and what some were already saying was the greatest mutiny ever. But it had only just started. The Basingbourne Bread Bandit first heard about it whilst patrolling Basingbourne woods, always looking out for easy bread to be made. Whilst stalking another of his unsuspecting victims, hiding in every bush along the way, he heard them talk on the phone to a friend about it. He then proceeded to sprint out and snatch the ciabatta from her grasp without stopping, with such skill, perfected over so many years, no relay runner could ever compare. That night, he climbed up the tallest tree in the woods and got out his stupidly powerful binoculars to gaze into the sky. Finally, he found what he was looking for - a faint light which turned out to be the space craft heading for re-entry. Whilst nibbling away on part of the ciabatta, he followed the spacecraft in the sky and did quite a bit of maths in his head to work out its trajectory. It was heading for the middle of the Atlantic. Four days to get to the middle of the Atlantic and find the capsule before the US Coastguard was a walk in the Basingbourne Park for the Bread Bandit. On the way he’d probably even be able to get some more bread stealing done. Parachutes flapping in the breeze, and Jim the Baker gazing out of the tiny window over the sea wondering when he would next fill his stomach with some bread sticks, cornbread or banana bread, the capsule gently splashed down into the ocean. Then, in the distance, he saw the Bread Bandit with half a loaf of ciabatta in one hand and the steering wheel of his speed-boat in the other, wearing sun glasses on an overcast day like the true madman he was. The bandit opened the door and at the sight of the ciabatta, Jim leapt into the speed boat. And not a moment too soon because right at that moment the US Coastguard helicopters showed up and they weren’t very happy. “Mate, you’ve got to come with me, if they get a hold of you, you’ll be court-martialled because you’re a military baker or something,” the Bandit said, although Jim needed no persuading. “Just give me that bread, please you don’t know what I’ve been through! I’ll do anything!” He cried in his breadless state. Smiling to himself after hearing that he’d do anything, he handed the bread over as they sped away, followed by quite a few helicopters out of blind hope more than anything. Afterall what could they ever do to a boat? Once they’d finally reached dry land, the Basingbourne Bread Bandit finally explained to Jim what he wanted him to do, “I gave you a fair amount of bread so I’m going to ask you for a small favour in exchange. You see, I’ve called an uber to the moon and I want you to take some bread from my stockpile and tell the astronauts that if they pledge allegiance to the Basingbourne Bread Bandit they can have an unlimited amount of bread.” Obviously, Jim carried this out since he’d said he’d do anything and obviously the other astronauts obliged, they might have been suffering from human bread-deficiency syndrome but they weren’t insane. As Jane put it ‘I don’t care just hand that rye bread over’. And that is how the moon became a pirate colony and uber became the most popular launch provider.

The year is 3003. The world has seen great strides in technological advancements, specifically space travel. Every planet in our Milky Way is now inhabited by Humans, but not all planets are thriving. The planet Togo for example is used for human experimentation by the government in order to see how people would react to an extremely hot climate. They wanted to see the psychological and physical effects of extreme heat and how heat strokes affect the body in a different planet, so they could effectively find ways to colonize planets in extreme weather conditions. It was advertised as the dream planet, beautiful landscapes, high paying mining jobs and a better life for my family and I. We were deceived. Tricked into believing that this place could be our home. When our ship arrived near the ground, what we saw was horrifying. There was nothing but a scorching lava bed greeting us, with magma overflowing everywhere we looked. The agents took us to a large, abandoned, wooden shack that was atop of a cliff. This cliff was away from all of the magma and lava below. Surely this must of been some sort of mistake, this place is not what was advertised, at all. I knew that we had to escape, soon. When we took our first steps off of our shuttles and on to this foreign place, the heat was extreme. I felt my sweat evaporate. They took us to our tiny rooms, with no insulation or windows. I told my family that we have to get out of here. The room next to us, someone was screaming. "Jake, wake up!". I was unsure of what just happened, but I assumed that the mother had just lost his son to a heat stroke. I started getting delirious, the heat was getting to me. I needed to escape, we needed to escape. I needed to find the perfect opportunity to leave, but the problem is I don't know when nightfall is on this planet. It's always day time. We waited hours on end until we decided now was the time to leave. We left our things here and my wife and I busted down the door. The exit was to our left, but two platinum clad guards were to our right. I told my wife to leave without me while I distract the guards. As my family left on the shuttles without me, I was taken to the Administrator and he said to me that I was banished from this place. The guards threw me off of the cliff-side into the lava bed below. Little did they know, I survived the fall, just barely though. I had scratches and bruises everywhere from the fall, and I could not see from my left eye. It was over. Never again will I see my beautiful family, or at least I thought. I saw it. My escape shuttle, but it was beneath a crumbling surface. I crawled towards the shuttle, but I was unsure if I could make it. I was getting delirious, dizzy. Tired and sweaty from all of the heat. I nearly fainted until a small blob of lava hit my backside, immediately putting me back to reality. I kept crawling towards the shuttle and got into the small, closed off container. I didn't know how to operate this machine, and the ground was shaking quite rapidly. I needed to leave this planet immediately. There was a huge button labelled "LAUNCH", I pressed it. The thrusters were not elevating my ship off this planet. I must have pressed it over a million times before my finger started bleeding, but the ship finally started moving away from this terrible place. My ship landed in a mysterious place. And that is the story of how I ended up on this peaceful planet. I do not know where my family is, but I hope they are as happy as I am. \ Yikes. I don't think this is that good of a story but I decided to post this so that way some other people could see for themselves if it is good or not. It's no secret that I'm an amateur(In high school at that). If you are interested, I have similar stories but beware of the writing quality. Thanks for reading.

Next!” The voice droned from behind the dusty desk stacked with papers, some in neat piles and others in disarray. The young man was plain under his inconspicuous mustache that hid any emotion. He pushed his thick-rimmed black glasses back into place, closer to his brown eyes. “Next!” His voice tolled out to the line of people waiting outside of the abandon warehouse’s storage room. “We don’t have all day,” his voice flat and unyielding to anything other than monotony. An oversized woman in a brown oversized coat came around the corner and approached his desk. She spoke in a low tone, thickly glazed with a Russian accent. “That’ll be $10.00 ma’am. Just sign here.” He turned a pen towards her thick hand as she hunched over part of his desk, still contemplating if what she was about to do was right. Once, long ago, she had been a young and successful dancer at the Bolshoi. It had been her ticket out of poverty, yet a one-way road into a life of control and neglect. Which one would have been better -- the poverty or the neglect? She was still unsure of as she hovered over the table, gripping the pen between her fingers, which still showed an air of delicacy to them. As she stood, her feet splayed out into first position. It had been part of the drills she went through in ballet, to master that one position before going onto the next. And though it seemed easy to stand with feet turned out, she still remembers her tiny feet kicked at and forcibly moved about by impatient hands. Oh, the impatient hands! always moving her little body about. She had shown so much promise, but it was never good enough. Not even when she had turned fifteen and was the lead ballerina. Her hands had been rapped on so often, that even as she still hunched over the table she could feel them rapping on her knuckles, and she dropped the pen. Other people waiting in the long line were growing impatient. Only moments had passed, but her memories were flying as if she were ending her life. She wanted to see the memories and proclaim to herself she had made all the right decisions, that without them she would be worse off. But there was no way to know, unless she signed the paper. The other people were eager. Some had made their decision and were unquestionably itching to hold that very pen, encased in her large fingers, smothering the time that each expectant customer had to wait. All while their own quiet memories played out in each of the waiting people. Some were old, some very young -- just children, holding their mother’s hands. Was this pen meant for them? The old woman looked back over her shoulder after she had reestablished her grip. The man behind the desk had all day. It didn’t bother him how long she took, he would always be there, day after day. Pushing his punch card into the slot to hear the familiar clank of time in, and clank of time out each day. But the woman’s focus was behind her, and she was not moving slowly, it all was just moments -- more moments that racked onto the pain of her life. Or had her life not been the pain she thought it to be? Had it been a good life? Could she miss it, when she could not remember it? She paid the fee and held the pen that was to erase everything. All she had to do was sign. Sign the name she was given, the name that had been screamed to her for years, the name that had been whispered by the other children sympathetic to her at night. The name that had been dragged and tormented by others through the crevices of her life, that she rather just forget. “Yes!” she said, as she straightened herself up, and looked kindly to the clerk behind the counter. Her feet turned forward, and she smiled for a moment to him. She was not seeing the man behind the counter but her father’s face. His sweet, joyful smile that made her so proud to be his daughter each month when he came to visit her at the orphanage. Without another thought her hand moved, scrolling across the dusted paper with thick black ink and highlighted sections that went unread. There her name ended it all. “Thank you, NEXT!” the man in the checkered shirt and tan pants pushed his glasses closer to his brown eyes and forced a large stamp onto the paper in red ink. “Next”. He drawled out, his voice echoed out to the people around the corner, lined down the warehouse, and down the street to a thick yellow line on the ground that read. STOP, line ends here. Those who had missed lining up early enough, turned back, dejected at their opportunity to leave their old lives behind, to forget forever and start a new. Maybe tomorrow... they would tell themselves. But for the ones that had made it into the line, all awaited his face. They talked of the man with the thick-rimmed glasses and longed to hold the coveted pen. After the old woman in the oversized coat had turned and left, the line moved smoothly. The man with thick-rimmed glasses never left his swivel seat that creaked when he turned to get the next application. He never removed himself from behind the old metal desk, the color of the top unknown, covered with papers, but the front showed a worn pea green, left over from the 70s. Around him were stacks of papers and boxes, dusted over with the remains of all those who had come and stood before him. Those that had held the pen and then left with not a trace of their old life active within their memories or bodies. Free, he often thought to himself. I am in the business of freedom, he often told himself, to justify his work and actions. As if to liberate himself from the haunting memories of all those faces who passed by him, never to remember their old lives. And he wondered, would he as well one day come to the yellow line that said, STOP, line ends here. Would he stand before the one that would take his job and wear the thick-rimmed glasses, checkered shirt and tan polyester pants that were always a little too short, and hold the heavy pen in his hand while looking over the papers with highlighted sections and thick black ink? Would he look down to see the red stamp? COMPLETED Would he be happier as he turned to leave and live a life free from checkered shirts and glasses? ~ On the beaches of Maui, it is said you can touch the edges of pleasure and hold them the longest within your senses. There are not many places in the world that can promise such pleasure, but Maui does. It is said that if while in that pleasure you are beholding the beaches and waves, the organic life of birds, seals, and turtles that you could reach a place of ascension and become that which you have always long to be. It is said that if you fill yourself with goodness, then goodness you will become. He had lived on Maui for two years. He had made it passed the dreaded island fever and found that the perimeter of his life was to remain within this island forever more. What brought him was pure curiosity, but a reoccurring dream of an abandon warehouse and dusted papers played out in those uncontrolled moments of sleep, the ones he tried to escape, and pushed him out to the islands. He often awoke in a sweat and would rub his eyes as if he once wore glasses. But now on Maui he was tanned, and only wore sunglasses when necessary. He avoided checkered shirts, an aversion he could not understand, but adhered to and donned the flowered apparel of the islands instead. The most remote side of the island was a jungle, and there in the dense forest is where he slept and called home. The thought of four or even two walls was cloistering to him and called up dreams of a dusted old warehouse, which he avoided as much as the checkered shirts. Today he was going to the market. Fresh papayas, mangos and the Maui gold pineapples were his favorites. He filled himself with the goodness and beautiful colors of the island itself. The only fruit he avoided were the coconuts. He even arrived early to the market, before the people who cracked open the coconuts with short machetes’ began their work. The thirsty customers, always eager, always lined down the isles waiting for the sweet and refreshing waters of the islands. He avoided them for the sound of the thumping on the log with the machete. They would become like machines, hacking off the tops the thumping sounds would pull him from his life of pleasure into that dusty warehouse of papers. “Here!” a man with a checkered shirt placed a paper onto the table before the tan man dressed in the Hawaii apparel. It was a map, showing where the young man could go to find bulk fruit that would be tossed into compost if not eaten, a working fruit farm that needed an extra pair of hands. But the tanned man just looked down at the paper. “Just sign here and I will get you set up to work there.” His voice was friendly and helpful but the tanned young man with brown eyes could only see a form with yellow highlighted areas and thick black ink, a stamp in red was across the form COMPLETED. “You okay there, its not like you are signing away your life.” The young man snapped from his daydream and saw before him a colorful map with green palm leaved drawn around the edges and a mapped village with a hut circled in the middle. He picked up the heavy pen and signed very slowly his name. He didn’t want to remember whatever was trying to be remembered. “They will pick you up next week here at the market, it’s a pink bus with green leaves painted on the sides, you won’t miss it.” The man in the checkered shirt behind the pile of apple bananas smiled as if he had done a great deed. He fixed his glasses and tucked the paper into his pocket while replacing the pen into his money bin, awaiting the next purchase. Customers were lining up where the people with machetes and coconuts were soon to be stationed. Their beat up truck was parked nearby, and the deeply tanned men hoisted plastic buckets filled to the brim with coconuts over the sides of the truck, the customers growing with anticipation. The young man in a Hawaiian floral shirt and beach shorts that stopped at his knees turned to leave. The flip flops had been a challenge to adjust to, and as he turned, it became lodged and the young man jolted forward into a woman’s arms. She was a robust woman, draped oddly in a brown coat. She caught him by the arm, her large hand pushing him back up to standing. His judgments passed quickly as she smiled innocently at him. She looked happy, he thought. “The flip flops may be the death of you.” Her voice was boisterous and thickly laid with a Russian accent, but her happiness seemed to alter it into something else, though the happiness could not hide who she really was. He nodded, thankful to her, but needed for some strange reason to get as far away from her as possible. He had also delayed too long and the men with machetes had started at their chopping block. With the first thud, the man with a broken flip flop turned and ran from the crowd of lined customers.

They didn’t understand it. No-one did. This wasn’t murder or a mere kill that had no value or meaning. It was a grant of freedom. Freedom from the constraints of the delicate vessel that they were trapped in. I wasn’t a necrophile. I didn’t defile them, just for the sake of it, or mutilate and flay them for displaying them as personal trophies. I wasn’t a rapist. I don’t toy with them, or inject pleasure into myself before ending their lives. It was quick. No pain. Just a simple nick to the neck. They call people like me psychopaths. But they’re wrong. They’re all narrow-minded and insular. They don’t understand the service that I have done to society. They don’t understand the appeal the knife holds. The weight of value a simple chunk of metal carries. Every plunge of the knife is a joyous, momentous point in my life. The irony of when I think of all the lives I have saved simply by ending it, I just feel.... bliss. They say that life has ups and downs. The goods and bads. The peaks and troughs. But for me, I’ve been happy for years. Content with the life I’ve lived, the service I’ve done, and the part I played in people’s lives. They’ll all realise it soon enough. My job, my service, driven by an undying sense of passion and determination. But it’s all over now. And as the shackles are wrapped on my wrists, I think of how my service has ended. **Crime** I didn’t understand it. Probably won’t. Not now, not ever. As I witness the man get dragged out of the house, I can hear echoes of laughter, the fruity musk of beer, and the faint odour of lavender. I should feel disgusted. I should feel a sense of satisfaction that we tracked down the killer. A sense of duty that justice has been served. But no. All I felt was cold emptiness. Like as if at that moment I was carved into a hollow, inanimate mannequin dressed in a blue shirt with a petty badge, too mortified to move, utter a word or breathe. Just only having the ability to watch my neighbour walk down the driveway in handcuffs, shoved roughly into a police car and driven off. I used to be proud of the glass cabinet that sat across my study. The glints of silver and gold showcased various service awards and honour awards of my time as a policeman. Every time I looked at it, I felt an undying sense of pride and joy. A sense of gratification and fulfilment at the knowledge that my services have bettered the community from where I found it. But now when I glance at the dusty trophies in the attic, I’m engulfed in a painful blur of the house. Entering the house for the first time, two years ago, there was certainly nothing out of the ordinary. The house was adorned with an old-fashioned set-up. Like those cottages in Scotland; confined but cosy. The smallness of the space did not stop the man from hanging a large chandelier that hung at the topmost crook of the sloping rooftop. The lights showed the chandelier in all its glory, glimmering with such iridescent beauty, that one could mistake that diamonds were strung up rather than glass crystals. There was a thick, pleasant odour of lavender, a musk that was strangely heartening and complacent. The man greeted us warmly, shaking my wife and my hands, and kneeling down to greet our children. I remember everything about that day. I remembered the amazing apple custard pie we ate at the patio down at the back. I remembered the man talking about how he wants to one day fulfil his dreams and become a cook. “To be of good service to everyone”, he had said, smiling widely, “The feeling you have when someone compliments your quiche. Or how wonderful people like yourself say how amazing my apple custard pie is. It’s just.... bliss.” I remember how good he was with the kids. How he narrated riveting and fascinating stories for the children that had them at the edge of their seats. Never once, even from that day did I question the heavy scent of lavender that brooded the house’s hallways. How the scent inexplicably disappeared when I entered the kitchen from the living room. Never once have I questioned the even deeper fragrance of lavender rippling of the man every time I shook his hand. Never once have I questioned why the man had renovated the walls of his living room but never any other structures of his house. But standing right now, at the crime scene, witnessing bodies littered on the floor of the living room, and the walls ripped apart that had concealed the hollowness from within, I realised the questions that I’ve never raised had been answered. Looking on ahead at the scene, I was witnessing the consequences of my ignorance. In a few days, my children will notice that there is no light next door and will come down from their bedroom to ask where our neighbour is. I will say that he had moved on to another city to pursue his dreams of being a cook. My children will cry in despair and I would promise that I will call him so they can talk to him. In a few months, we will move to another state. Friends and social circles will have to start anew, but with a whiff of caution. Our smiles won’t quite reach our eyes, and our minds will be grated with inkling notions of paranoia. There will be more tears. In a year, my wife will wake up in another nightmare, sobbing in grief and trauma. I will soothe her, muttering incomprehensible words trying to comfort her as well as myself. In 3 years, both my children will have graduated to high school. They will have stopped asking to talk with the neighbour on the phone. I still don’t tell them about what the neighbour really did. In a few more years, our children will have graduated from high school both going interstate to pursue further studies. We will watch with proud eyes and cheering hearts. The house will become more desolate; devoid of any more heart-wrenching questions but empty of running feet, squeals and laughter. The nightmares would have stopped, but the trauma will still be lingering. And the guilt would never disappear.

Dogmeat, the typically energetic five-month-old German shepherd, had a big day of lounging around and destroying toys and furniture ahead of him. What he didn't know was he was in for a big adventure that day. His humans had just bought a new trashcan to try and keep him out of it and he didn't like that at all. Dogmeat didn't understand why they would do something like that, he was just trying to protect them from the evil trash monsters. He also didn't understand who they kept referring too when they would say, Trevor. "Who’s Trevor?" Dogmeat thought, not understanding the humans other than simple names and some commands. The humans had just left for the day as they were going to a convention to try and make a living so Dogmeat was all alone with this "Trevor" character. "Maybe if I bark at it, it'll get scared and go away," Dogmeat pondered for a bit, then started to bark at it or yell in dog terms. after an hour of barking and the trashcan not moving he decided to give up on it. He moved in closer and nudged it with his nose, making it rock slightly. this provoked another bark out of him. He nudged it again and again until it fell over finally but none of the contents spilled out. Dogmeat sniffed the lid a bit, he could tell there was stuff in there but didn't know how to get it out. he sniffed around a bit more till the lid wizzed open and some trash fell out. "Sweet victory!" Dogmeat exclaimed with a yelp as he dug through the trash looking for treats. What he didn't know was his humans were monitoring him closely as he was known to get into the trash while they were gone. They had alert notifications from a home monitoring system if something like that happened so they knew exactly what he did. Another surprise was waiting for Dogmeat around the corner. Roomba Doomba as it was named whirled to life as he had been activated to clean up some of the trash Dogmeat spilled. It rounded the corner right for him. Dogmeat turned his head in confusion and then turned his whole body like a spinning disc of cleaning doom came for him. "What is that thing?!" Dogmeat questioned as he barked at the new challenger approaching. He stood his ground until the Roomba was up at him. Dogmeat swatted at it a couple of times then pounced in front of it, causing the Roomba to back up a bit to find another path around Dogmeat. He went to pounce again but this time managing to land on the power button located at the top of the Roomba. As it powered down and ceased motion Dogmeat was pretty sure he had beaten the whirling beat of doom "Hoomans will be so proud of me! I took down two monsters today that could've hurt them," Dogmeat thought happily to himself. As he trotted out of the kitchen and into the living room he hopped up into his favorite chair to take a nap after his daring adventure and saving the day.

Adelphie played with her food, pushing bits of potato around her plate with her fork. “I know his mother is the best Healer in the palace. That doesn’t mean I should marry him.” A particularly fat pigeon alighted on her wrist and rubbed his head on her thumb in support. Her mother sighed. “Del, I told you to keep that thing off the table.” “Leave Rumble alone.” Rumble’s coo of agreement echoed in Adelphie’s head--he didn’t want to get off the table either. Adelphie ruffled the feathers on his brown and white head absentmindedly. “He’s not gross. He’s just as clean as any of your horses.” Adelphie’s mother crossed her arms. “But you’ll notice than even though I’m a Horse-speaker, I manage to keep them out of the house. Send it back to the coup. We’re trying to have a discussion.” “Fine.” Adelphie rolled her eyes and churred slightly at Rumble, who peered up at her with annoyance in his eyes. “I know, I know. Later.” Rumble flew up and through the window, leaving Adelphie to wish that she could also fly away from this conversation. “Now, what’s really wrong with Gomes? I thought you were friends with him.” “Yeah, exactly. We were friends. Then Remi goes and marries the princess and now everything is awkward all the time.” “You have to stop seeing your sister’s existence as a curse, Del. She’s done nothing to wrong you.” “Ever since she became the duchess, everything is different. This is my fourth proposal this week. I want to get married because someone loves me and wants to live with me and... I don’t know, help me raise my birds or something. Not because it’ll give some random people a connection with the royal family. I don’t feel like that’s too much to ask.” “You’re far too old to have such romantic ideas about marriage. It’s not like you’re going to get swept off your feet by the perfect man. At least you’re friends with Gomes.” Her mother changed tactics. “Look, you like Gomes, right? The best marriages are between friends. Look at your father and me.” “I know, I know.” Adelphie took a bite of potatoes. “And if you want to move out, it would be a lot easier if--” “I know, Mom!” Adelphie looked out the window. There was a dove out there that wanted her attention. “Look, can I go?” “It’s not very polite to leave in the middle of family dinner.” “Family dinner? It’s just the two of us here. And it’s lunch time.” “Are we not family?” Adelphie rolled her eyes. “Where is Bolin anyway?” “Your brother... actually, I don’t know where he is.” “He’s not married either,” Adelphie muttered. Her mother took a deep breath. “Adelphie, please. You can’t live here with us forever. Getting married isn’t the end of the world. You should feel lucky that you’re so... desired, by men in the kingdom.” “And I’d feel even more lucky if they even wanted me to begin with instead of just my connection to the king.” “Adelphie.” “What? It’s true.” “You know we can’t force you to marry anyone you don’t want to. But please, just think about it? You like Gomes. At least give him a chance. A courtship moon or two? That’s all I ask.” Adelphie bit the inside of her lip. “Fine. Can I go now?” “You may be excused.” Adelphie kicked at the dirt roads as she walked along the dirt road of the main street. One of Rumble’s daughters, a coquettish and stupid red-bar, strutted next to her feet, complaining about the presence of a crow that lived in the woods next to Adelphie’s house. Despite that, Adelphie could still feel the stares of the shopkeepers, hear their muttering, and she adjusted her skirt and straightened her back as best she could. Out of the corner of her eye, Adelphie saw the town cooper nudge his son, who stumbled forward into the street. “A--Adelphie! Hi!” Stifling a sigh, she turned to face him with the biggest smile she could muster. “Enoc! Hi. We haven’t spoken since the coronation last year,” she said pointedly. Her pigeon cooed her farewells and fluttered off, leaving Adelphie alone. The poor blond man turned pink and Adelphie caught the glance he tried to sneak to his father, who was trying to hide his portly body behind one of his barrels. “Yes, well, um, I, I just wanted you to know you looked really n--nice today. And maybe you’d, uh, want to come over after temple on Friday? For dinner?” “Sorry, I, uh--” At least he hadn’t proposed immediately, Adelphie thought. “I always have dinner with my family then.” “Oh.” Enoc glanced back at his father again and Adelphie felt bad. She didn’t want him to get yelled at. “Maybe next weekend though?” “Yeah, maybe.” Enoc shuffled his feet. “So...” Adelphie fought the urge to check her pocket watch. “I gotta go. I’ll see you later.” “Sure, sure. See you.” Adelphie walked away quickly, careful not to look back towards him. It would be different if they actually seemed to enjoy her presence, different still if she was beautiful, like her sister. The moon’s light just barely seemed to poke out, although the sun had only just begun to set. The crow Rumble’s daughter had been afraid of flew overhead, cawing out how happy he was that his chicks would soon hatch. Adelphie sighed. It was probably time to go back home, but she really didn’t want to have that conversation with her mother again. If her mother would only stop beating around the bush and admit that they couldn’t pay for their house now that Eremiel was out of the house and not contributing income, maybe Adelphie would be more okay with it. It still hurt that they wanted her out and not her twin. Her brother’s Gift was rarer than hers, more impressive, more lucrative. Adelphie was just a drain. Unspecial, in comparison to her remarkable siblings. No matter her parents wanted her to leave. The woods were coming up, Adelphie noted, but her feet kept walking anyway. It wasn’t particularly dangerous for her; the birds would warn her if a bobcat was coming. A tawny owl hooted in the distance and Adelphie tried to understand her, only barely catching the word “rabbit”. A real Bird-speaker would be able to understand all birds, even the carnivorous ones. Adelphie clenched her fists. She really was weak and worthless, just like her parents thought. The first burning hints of tears started to creep into Adelphie’s nose, but before she could cry, she was startled by a flurry of wings and the call of a frightened sparrow. “Hello?” Adelphie winced. Her sparrow accent was terrible because of how much time she’d spent with pigeons. The sparrow chirped again, frantically. “Just hang on.” Adelphie picked through the forest, trying to keep the hem of her skirt from tearing. “I’m coming.” The bird’s shrieks came from further and further away. Adelphie began to run, hurtling over hedges and tripping over roots. Suddenly, the sparrow stopped calling. “Hello? Are you okay?” Adelphie peered into the underbrush--it was getting too dark to see. The sparrow didn’t respond, which wasn’t typical of sparrows. Adelphie stopped. To the right and left, nothing looked familiar, and she wasn’t really sure if she could backtrack because she’d been thinking so much about what a sparrow would do. She pushed back through the brush from where she’d came. She trilled a call--most of her songbirds and Columbiformes would be asleep, but surely some of them would hear her and help her find her way home. She trilled again, louder this time, but still, no response came. Adelphie looked around at the receding light. This was not good. Adelphie tried again, more frantically. Either the birds could hear her and were ignoring her, or there were no living birds in this clearing. The latter was a lot more troubling--as much as Adelphie hated it, she had to hope they were just ignoring the poor, lousy Bird-speaker with no true talents. A snap behind her squeezed her lungs. It was bigger than a sparrow, whatever it was. Surely it wasn’t a bobcat--could they be so silent? They were cats, she supposed. Was it the reason there were no birds? Would a bobcat try to kill her? Adelphie screwed her eyes shut. If it was coming for her, should she run or should she stand her ground? How big were bobcats again? “What are you doing?” Adelphie’s knees went weak. “Oh, thank the lord.” She turned, finding herself face to face with a tall man about her age with sideswept black hair--definitely not a bobcat. “Were you making bird noises?” “Yes,” she admitted. “I, uh, I thought you might be a bobcat.” “So... you made bird noises?” “I’m a Bird-speaker. I was trying to get them to help me get home. I lost my way in the woods,” she said, remembering right after she’d said it that she probably shouldn’t tell a strange forest man she was completely lost. The man nodded. “I suppose that makes a little bit more sense. I thought you were just randomly making bird noises in the middle of the night in the woods. Seemed a bit weird.” “Well, you’re one to talk. What are you doing in the middle of the woods?” Adelphie sized him up. He was tall, sure, but bone thin, and his clothes were more worn than her own hand-me-downs. His right hand shined with blood. She could beat him in a fight, she decided, and she shifted from suspicious to concerned. “Did you cut yourself? Are you alright?” “What?” He looked down at his hand. “Oh, yeah, I’m alright. What are you doing in the middle of the woods?” “I asked first.” “Yeah, but it’s weirder that you’re here. I’m in the woods all the time.” “Why should I believe you?” “I’m covered in dirt,” he pointed out. Adelphie hadn’t been able to see that in the dim lights. “That doesn’t mean you’re in the woods all the time. That just means you’ve been in the woods for a long time as of right now.” He sighed. “Look, this argument will go nowhere. Let’s cut a deal. You tell me what you’re doing in the woods and I’ll tell you how to get back to town.” “Oh! You can do that?” “Yeah, of course. I’m in the woods all the time.” Adelphie still wasn’t sure she could trust him, but as her choices were run around the woods aimlessly or briefly trust this stranger, she bit her lip and nodded. “Alright. I accept your terms.” “Great!” He paused. “So, uh, why are you in the woods?” “Well, I didn’t mean to be. I was walking through town, but I ran into some people I didn’t particularly want to talk to, so I... kept walking, and I wound up in the woods. And then I was chasing this sparrow I heard calling for help, and I got all turned around.” He cocked his head. “You have enemies?” “Well, I wouldn’t really call them enemies. They’re actually... suitors? I guess? They all want to marry me.” “Why would you run from someone who wants to marry you?” “I mean, they don’t actually want to marry me. Not really.” Adelphie looked around for a place to sit. If she was going to pour her guts to a stranger in the woods, it’d be more comfortable at least if she could sit down. “What are you looking for?” “I want to sit down. My legs are tired.” “Oh.” His nose twitched twice. “Um. Okay. How about we go to my campfire then? It’s not super far away.” Adelphie internally hemmed and hawed, but in the end, her calves were burning and the air was growing chilly. “Alright. Thank you. Lead the way.” The way to the campfire was a lot smoother than the hedges and brush Adelphie had torn her skirt on earlier. “What’s your name, by the way?” “I don’t know if I should tell you that. You’re a stranger.” He rolled his eyes and stomped over a barely visible sapling. “You’re okay with telling me your woes about marriage but you’re not okay with telling me your name?” “Fine. It’s Adelphie.” “Adelphie. What a weird name. Watch that hole.” “Thanks. And you?” “Thanks, but I’ve already stepped over it.” “No, I mean, what’s your name?” If the light hadn’t been so low, Adelphie would have sworn that he turned red. “Gwydion,” he muttered. “Gwydion?” “Shut up.” “I was just checking! It’s not... It’s not a bad name.” Neither of them acknowledged that it was. The campfire was small but nice, with a smooth bolder acting as a bench and a firepit with the remains of a few logs and branches. Adelphie smoothed down her skirt as she settled onto the boulder. “I take it you’re here quite a lot.” “Mmhmm.” Gwydion seemed distracted. He held up his bloody right hand towards the fire and muttered something before blowing into it. Adelphie sprung back as a fire ignited. “So, you’re a Fire-starter?” Gwydion ignored the question. “So, you don’t want to get married?” “It’s not... it’s not that.” Adelphie pursed her lips. “It’s just... they don’t want... me. They’re not in love with me. They’re not even close friends with me. They just--well I gotta back up. So, my sister became the duchess.” Gwydion raised his eyebrows. “Now everyone wants to marry me to get close to the crown, not because they actually want me. And since my sister left the house, my parents don’t have enough income so they want me to get married so I’ll leave the house and they can downsize, but they don’t want my brother to leave, just me. And it’s just me because I’m a Bird-speaker and there’s hundreds of me and I’m not even a very strong Bird-speaker and I’m...” Adelphie huffed out her last bit of breath. “I’m just a drain. I’m a weak drain on my parents. They don’t want me. I’m not... I’m not special, like my siblings. I’m just a weak drain of resources.” Gwydion faced her. “Wow, that... that sucks.” He smiled sympathetically. “Yeah, it, uh, it kinda does.” “Couldn’t you live alone?” Adelphie shrugged. “No. I don’t think so, anyway. I’d have to move to the outskirts of town and it’d be hard to get to the castle every day.” Gwydion’s smile dropped and he leaned away from Adelphie. “You work in the castle?” “Yeah, like as junior Message Collector. The birds tell me which ones are urgent and I pass them along to people who bring them where they need to go.” “So you don’t like...” Gwydion bit his lip. “You don’t report to anyone? Like the King or the militia or anything?” “Uh, no. I report to the senior message collector.” Gwydion relaxed. “Thank goodness.” “Why?” “Why what?” “Why were you worried about me reporting to the militia?” “No reason.” “That’s not very convincing.” Gwydion looked down, biting his cheek, clearly deliberating. A long, pregnant pause settled around his little campfire before he finally looked up. “If you had the choice, would you want to be stronger?” “What? Yeah, of course. If I was stronger, my parents would actually... want me.” Adelphie cast her gaze sideways, into the fire. “Can you keep a secret?” “Yes.” Was there any other answer? “I’m not a Fire-starter.” “But I just--” “I have the gift of Unbreakable Bones--not so useful. I also wanted to be stronger, like you. So I learned to do this.” Scooching closer to Adelphie, he tentatively showed her his right hand, on which a rune was printed in old, black ink, barely visible under the red blood. Adelphie gasped. “Blood Magic!” “We prefer to call it Soul Magic,” Gwydion explained, before holding up his hand and muttering into it, causing the flame to spire higher. When he pulled his palm back, it was clean. “But I always thought it was... evil.” “It’s not evil. It’s just... a way to give us with lousy Gifts a little boost, that’s all.” Gwydion smiled. “You want to try? It could... even the playing field, so to speak.” Adelphie bit her lip. The old saying all insisted Blood Magic was cruel and evil, but Gwydion didn’t seem so bad. “Maybe.” “Here.” Gwydion took her right hand and with a pen he produced from his back pocket. “This’ll be permanent,” he warned, and when Adelphie nodded, he skillfully drew a small symbol that looked rather like a ladybug on Adelphie’s thumb. “This is a Sparking Charm. It’ll produce a little jolt. I’d rather you point it away from me.” He pulled a vial of blood out of his pocket and Adelphie cringed. “Is that... Human blood?” “What? No, I got it from a sp-- from an animal I caught earlier. Now repeat after me: Dita Karpa.” “Dita Karpa,” Adelphie repeated, and the affect was instantaneous. Sparks crackled from her fingertips, and Adelphie instantly felt an upheaval of her spirit, as if it was stirring inside of her and something that had been painful, something that had been weighing her down had been removed. When she reopened her eyes, everything felt a little bit different, as if all the guilty parts of her soul had been exorcized. “Woah.” Gwydion smiled. “I thought you’d like it. You seemed the type.” “That feeling! I’m so much--I feel lighter, I feel--” Adelphie caught her breath. “It was... it was amazing. My heart--my soul feels so much lighter, like I’m not... I’m not such a drain, I’m not such a failure.” “I know exactly what you mean. And it only gets better.” “Can you show me more?” Adelphie said, holding her hand out towards him again. “I think I’m in love.”

He watched the leaf as it slid gently from the tree to the ground. The wind carried it carefully with its waves. Cautiously, very lightly it flew ahead, the goal before his eyes. The bench on which he sat was damp from the rain the day before. It was mild. The sky was cloudy. Tension was in the air. The birds gathered in groups and flew excitedly back and forth in the park. The leaf flew on. Untouched by any doing and being in its environment. It pursued its goal unperturbed. He sat on the wet bench, lost in thought, and without any support. The surroundings enveloped him. Lost in himself. Present and yet very far away. Something pressed him but he didn't know what it was. The leaf that fell to the ground was already completely yellowish. As did most of the leaves that had already found their way to the ground. It was the calm before the storm that surrounded him. A gust of wind came up and lifted the leaf further up into the air. It could not be kept from its course. The bank was pointed at a piece of deciduous forest. The colors ranged from lush green to bright orange, to pale yellow. Just before the forest began, there were some apple and plum trees. An old, bare, whitish tree caught his eye. He was a bit distant from the others and apparently had his best years behind him. Not a single leaf could be recognized by his arms. Not a single apple lay at his feet. He did not deserve the attention of people passing by. He was simply uninteresting for them. Who was interested in a tree that could no longer bear fruit? For a tree that stood naked on the meadow all year round and was no longer useful for anything. The only use for it would be to give off the heat after its final death. Wouldn't it be nice to see him again in full dress? In his full splendor. So that every person who walks past him would pay him every attention. That would be truly the best farewell he could wish for this tree. When he turned his gaze back to the leaf, he could see at the last moment how it finally reached its way to the ground, but even now it was still carried by the wind, even now that it had reached its lowest point. It seemed as if it had simply recognized and accepted its path. Something insensitive for him. He would immediately take the opportunity to go back, to make it better. To do it differently. He had lost too much. Left too much behind. Too much has trickled away what should be there. The sky was closing in. The sky became darker. The lashes of the wind became firmer. He pulled the zipper of his jacket up to his mouth. He hid his hands in his jacket and stood up. His gaze fell to the ground, there lay all the old leaves that had been carried by the wind days before. ​ He turned his back to the old tree and walked a few steps. Drops fell down to the earth, a cloudburst! His steps became quicker. The wind blew his long white hair into his face. He made no effort to straighten it. A bright flash of light, only fractions of a second later a thunder. He flinched. He turned around and saw the old tree that was now on fire and giving away the only thing it had left to offer. Light and warmth.

Method, by Hana Aianhanma, February 2019, This work is licensed under a . The story is made up. As such, similarities with real events and/or persons are coincidental. If you recognise yourself in any of it, find professional help. Seriously. ***** ## **Method** ***** "The old trains used to just have a hole," The old man had drunk quite a bit, "A hole?" "I mean, they had toilets and all, but look down one and you could see the tracks." "Tracks?" "Anything that drops down through them during the ride is lost forever." "Drops down?" "Please don't use the toilets when the train has stopped at a station." Yes, definitely inebriated, "bad for the smell, see?" "I don't quite follow what that's got to do with my question." "Everything with why I hate that question," "You'd think they would be able to clean the tracks there, it's outside, you know?" I interjected, "except when the station has a roof." "Very few roofed stations in the country I lived in, back then." "Country?" "Belgium." "Had some problems moving stateside." "I can image, with the visa requirements." "Oh, not that," he waved that away, "it was the beer I brought with me..." "Taxes?" "The labels. You barbarians don't know art when you see it." He must have noticed my befuddlement, so he changed subject on me. "Used to have one, to answer it," he gulped down the remainder of the glass of whatever poison he was drinking, "What? ̈́ "Your question." "Used to?" "Treasure of our lives," "If you don't want to talk about it..." "No I don't." "then ..." "the wife and I had this little kid. Little one charmed me the day she was born. " I poured each of us a glass of beer. Had to make sure he wouldn't touch that poison again, after all. He looked at it suspiciously, "what's this piss?" "It's beer." "You call that beer?" I carefully inspected my glass, "yeees?" "Hah!" He took a swig, "Piss," and finished the contents, "I've tasted better stuff that people used to drink when beer was too expensive." I stared, "why drink it, if it's so bad? "Sometimes one enjoys the drink," he took my glass, "other times the alcohol," and emptied it. "Quite so," I ordered another pair, "so you had this kid." "Ah yes, the kid!" "You know people idealise having one," he looked up as he received the new glass, "it's all true," another huge swallow. "True?" "Kid was great," "But?" "Well, gotta pay with karma, isn ́t it?" "There were downsides?" "Downside? Yes!" He laughed disconcertingly, "and it went all down!" He had a mad look in his eyes now. "See, I had diaper duty." "The wife shed some sweat, blood and tears when the baby arrived," now that I looked at them, they had that yellowing look, "so I had to take care of it for a while," "Tough?" "Formed a habit, I did," The new glasses arrived, he took both of them now, "See, the little'un had this charming game when we changed diapers," "They often do." "Just finished cleaning up when ..." He cackled delightedly, "out came the rest." He considered the glass, "Great way to check a babysitters dedication, that was." "So, that habit?" "Well, I wasn't going to be cleaning any more than needed, " "You had a method?" "Great one, changing diapers in the bathroom right next to the toilet." He put the glass down, "no more of this," he mumbled. "Water!" "Where was I?" "Your method?" "Ah yes. Baby who doesn't hold his poo, toilet right next." "I see..." "So, the littl'bugger could have all the fun it wanted while I held it under its armpits," he smiled triumphantly, "above the toilet." He looked happy for the first time that night, "so, why didn't you like to be asked about your children?" "You don't see?" "No" "Had to change diapers in the train one day," he looked almost sober now, "so here I was, in this old train, with my Genius Method." He eyed the beers, "not a smooth ride, those old trains. Especially when they change tracks on you." "The shaking makes you drop what you're holding.

Billy was sitting on the toilet doing his business while reading his favorite Spider Man comic book. It was difficult concentrating. The image of his dead sister, Mary, kept popping in his mind. He had looked at her face in her casket at the funeral last week but the face wasn’t right. It was too pale and white. Mary always had rosy cheeks and a wide bright smile. This corpse had small thin lips that would never smile. Mary had died of a very rare skin disease that caused her flesh to rot from the inside out. The doctors couldn’t stop it. All they were able to do was to prolong her suffering. The last time he saw Mary before she was taken to the hospital for the last time, her skin was scaling and falling off; a snake shedding its skin. A week later, his parents told him Mary had gone to heaven. And then came the funeral where he looked at that horrible empty casing that pretended to be his 6-year-old sister. Billy’s eyes felt heavy. He had been sitting on the toilet for too long and his butt was beginning to fall asleep and get the tingles. He dropped the Spider Man comic on the floor and started to unroll some toilet paper. A soft gurgling noise emanated from the water below his knees. He looked down. Bubbles were forming in the toilet bowl . More gurgling noises and then the bubbles intensified. The foul defecation diluted water was splashing up against his butt cheeks. Horrified, Billy stood up quickly and stared down at the water. The water had turned a fluorescent putrid green and his business had been sucked down beyond visibility. Billy bent his face to peer closer. Several more bubbles popped to the surface. Suddenly Billy felt his entire body sucked into the bowels of the toilet bowl and he was careening headfirst through the pipe like a waterslide. Down, down through the wet gunk and slime until he landed painfully onto a damp and mud-caked surface. Darkness all around. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted, just enough light emerged to convey he was in what appeared to be a sewer. Small slivers of light shimmered high above him from a cylindrical manhole. Dizzily, Billy propped himself up on his elbows and shook the infested fecal water off him like a wet dog. At the far corner of the room there was a small figure squatting in a little ball. The figure’s head rose and slitted red eyes stared directly at Billy. The figure was a little girl. Her hair was long and tangled with leaves and debris. She stood up and made a strangled noise somewhere between a belch and a hiss. Then she spoke his name, “... Billy...Biiiillllyy.” Billy couldn’t move. To his horror, his mind began to assemble the physical attributes of the girl who was now walking slowly toward him. The dimpled chin, high cheekbones, gangly arms. The same dress his sister wore on the day his parents drove her to the hospital. It couldn’t be her. But she knew his name. She was only paces away and her hand stretched out toward him. Her fingers, disjointed and stripped of their nails, grazed his neck. That was enough to break his paralysis. He kicked her in the shins knocking her backward while he turned and jumped to his feet. He ran five feet directly into a supporting beam, knocking him right back to the ground, seeing stars. The creature masquerading as his sister jumped on his back and grabbed a knot of his hair, flipping him around with unnatural strength. Spittle flew from her lips as her mouth tried to work out something. “Biiilllyyy... I am... so... looonely... Come plaaay with meeee.” Billy scooted backwards, breaking from her grasp. The adrenaline allowed him to see the creature even more clearly now. The creature had his sister Mary’s face, no doubt about it. But the skin was peeling off and there were wounds and scabs covering every inch of her exposed skin. She was a rotting corpse. He observed a slug-like form peeking its head out of an oozing lesion on her shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak again, and a rodent squirmed its way out, stifling whatever communication she intended. Billy scrambled to his feet again, and ran, this time avoiding the supporting beams. He turned a corner and ran down a long narrow passage, slightly more illuminated from a light source at the other side. He screamed soundlessly and felt his heartbeat slamming against his skull. He heard shrieking laughter behind him, weakening as he put more and more distance between himself and the monster. He ran and ran, but the light at the end of the passage never came any closer. He sobbed desperately until he collapsed to the ground in the shallow running water, tasting its filth, sealing his hopelessness. His head snapped up abruptly as if someone had rapped his chin with a ruler. He was still sitting on the toilet. Spider Man looked up at him nonchalantly from the comic book splayed open on the bathroom floor. He was drenched in cold sweat. A dream? It didn’t feel like a dream. He still smelled the pungent sewer odors all around him. It was seeped into his clothes, absorbed into his pores. He shivered helplessly and covered his eyes with his hands. The feeling of complete terror was very slowly abating, but he couldn’t shake the certainty that he had just looked into his dead sister’s eyes while she attempted to choke the life from him. Since his dead sister didn’t come after him from the toilet, Billy convinced himself he had had the worst nightmare of his life and proceeded to go about his day. After taking off his clothes (threw them in the garbage) and taking a long hot shower, he went out to play with his friends down the street. They rounded up some other kids from around the block and organized a kickball game. Before long, Billy wasn’t thinking about the nightmare anymore. Soon after he was devouring his mother’s delicious meatloaf with mashed potatoes and watching several episodes of the Flash with his Dad before bed-time. His mother and father both separately tucked him in and gave him a kiss good night. Since Mary had died, they had been particularly attentive about his bed-time routine. Billy had almost completely forgotten the nightmare. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep and restful sleep. It might have been the second REM cycle, somewhere around 3:30 in the early morning when Mary found Billy again. In his dream, Billy was playing baseball with his friends, and then driving a race car with his father in the passenger side seat. “What an incredible driver you are, Billy!” His father’s eyes were so bright and proud. Then he was swimming at his friend Alice’s pool and admiring how perfectly smooth Alice’s arms and legs were and how pretty her mouth was when she smiled, when something below him grabbed his ankles and pulled him to the bottom of the pool. Billy thrashed his arms and kicked his legs but whatever had a hold of him was extremely strong. He felt his foot being pulled into the drain at the bottom of the pool, followed by his leg, and then his torso was being squeezed to fit into the small drain hole. Billy felt his bones being squeezed to the shape of a tennis ball, and then he was flying through the water pipes at least a hundred miles an hour - much faster than the race car he had just driven with his father. Then his crumpled body was spit upon the same darkened sewer from his nightmare. The thing that resembled Mary was sitting in the same spot, as if she were waiting patiently for this visit. But this time, the creature jumped quickly towards Billy, as if he were a cricket that just twitched in front of a staring house cat. She was upon him at once. He could feel her cold, dead skin pressing against his own flesh; her stinking rotting breath upon his face made him nauseous. Her red eyes were now dancing in their sockets as she began to sing happily: “My brooother! My bro-o-other! He came to pla-ay with meee!” Billy punched her in the face as hard as he could. Her neck snapped back and her zombie corpse face turned nearly 180 degrees around. She slowly revolved her head and her eyes were angry. Her high-pitched sing-songy voice now deepened multiple octaves. “What did you just do to me, you mean, mean, big brother! You are supposed to be my FRIEND!” She slapped him hard and he found himself more repulsed by the feel of her rotting hands than by the force of the blow. She grabbed his ankles with both of her hands. “It hurt so bad. Hurt so bad for sooo long. But now I don’t hurt. Now I’m just... lonely. Come be my friend, brother. Forever. And ever!” Her eyes became slits of evil and she began that horrible shrieking laugh from before. “You will feel my pain. And then come be with me.” She laughed until she coughed, and blood shot out of her mouth and nose with the effort. “Be my friend, brother. Forever...” Billy awoke screaming. He screamed until his mother came running into the room, slamming his door open and putting her palms against his cheeks. “It’s okay Billy, it’s okay. It was just a dream.” She caressed his head and kissed him until the screaming turned to moans, then whimpers, and finally to raspy breaths. Billy’s mother read him his favorite stories she used to read to him when he was three years younger and still into baby books. For Billy, the stories felt just fine tonight. He didn’t fall back to sleep, but he did close his eyes and think about what needed to be done. The next morning after a large bowl of corn pops Billy went upstairs and confronted the doorknob of Mary’s bedroom. Since she was taken to the hospital weeks ago, the door had stayed firmly shut and only his mother would go in occasionally. Billy would overhear her weeping quietly. Billy sensed there might be something in his little sister’s room that could help him. He was terrified of the monster his sister had become in his dreams, but he was sure she wouldn’t have acted that way unless something was terribly wrong. He wasn’t the greatest big brother, but he didn’t think his little sister really wanted him to die just to join her in death. Billy summoned his courage and put his hand on the doorknob. He noticed the back of his hand was peeling off dead skin. He rubbed the dead skin away. Significantly more flaky skin came off than he was expecting. His hand was left with a large oval red welt. Moderately alarmed, but undeterred, Billy pushed the door open and walked inside. The room was immaculate. Freshly vacuumed with all of Mary’s toys perfectly arranged in an order that only a mother could be responsible for. Mary was a typical child; she threw her things everywhere. Their father often joked the two of them were his two little Tasmanian devils. Billy scanned the room, looking for anything that might be useful. Mary was obsessed with dolls. She had dozens of them, usually splattered around the room chaotically, but now they were serenely placed around the room, all evenly spaced from one another. All of them looked keenly at Billy with prying eyes. Billy was feeling thoroughly creeped out. He recalled Mary enjoyed one particular doll more than the rest, especially during her last days. It was a brown-haired girl with a green and white checkered dress. There it was, lying face down on Mary’s pillow. Billy picked the doll up and looked at the unblinking eyes, thinking. Billy walked over to Mary’s little school desk where she used to do all of her drawings with markers and watercolors. There were a few books standing upright between two horse shaped bookends. One of them had a little lock enclosing the pages. It was a diary. Billy remembered how excited Mary was when she received that little diary with the lock and key last Christmas. He tried to open the diary, but it wouldn’t open without the key. Billy looked at the doll he was holding to his side. Did she have any suggestions? Billy noted a little bulge on the side of the doll’s dress. Upon further examination, it was a small pocket with a tiny zipper. Sure enough, there was the key. The key fit perfectly into the journal’s lock. Billy felt guilty for looking at his dead sister’s journal. But he sensed this was something he had to do. Most of the pages were filled with colorful drawings of flowers and rainbows, other silly girly things. But a few of the pages contained his sister’s childish handwriting. Most of it was boring stuff, like, I luv my Daddy and Mummy. I wish Gramsy wud buy me the princez cassl I askd for. He flipped to the last few pages. The drawings were all in pencil, no more colors. Lots of faces with sad frowns. On one page she wrote, I hate herting. Its not fare. Mommy sez hevan is butiful but Im scarrd. If I do go to hevan I hope Molly can come with me. Molly. Of course. That was the brown-haired doll’s name. Billy’s arm was itching badly. He had been scratching it for the last few minutes while perusing the diary. He pulled up the sleeve and gasped. He had scratched almost all of the skin off his arm. It looked bruised and welty. He noticed something lesion-like growing near the elbow. Just like the marks his sister was getting before she died. Billy closed the diary, locked it with the key, and put it carefully back where he found it. He left the room and closed the door quietly. He brought Molly with him to his bedroom where he picked up his Spider Man comic book. Then he went to the bathroom to take care of business . Billy sat on the toilet longer than he ever had before. He was tired of reading the Spider Man comic and his neck was getting stiff. But he held the doll firmly with his left hand and pressed against his chest. He waited. His eyes began to get heavy. He heard soft bubbling below him. The bubbling grew louder and became a steady gurgling. Billy braced himself and tensed all of his muscles, getting ready for a terrible ride. He felt his body compress to the thinness of a pencil and then he was being sucked downward, this time he was a bullet flying through the drain. He imagined the Flash. The Flash would be brave. The Flash would know exactly what to do. He still held Molly tightly against his chest. He slammed down hard against the hard sewer floor. Rats scattered away from something dead and decaying they were greedily picking at. He shook the wetness from his clothes and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness. “Mary?” he called. She was not there. “I brought something for you. I have your Molly.” He shivered. This had to work. Then a high reedy voice drifted to his ears from somewhere in the cavernous sewers. “Youuu have my Mooolllyyy...?” And then the voice became low and growled. “GIVE IT TO ME. Give it to me NOW!” He felt a rush of wind fly by him, and the doll had been knocked to the ground. The creature pounced on the doll ferociously and began hugging it and kissing it. She looked up at Billy. Half of her face was torn off revealing her skull. Most of her flesh was completely gone. Clearly the rats were having their way with her, Billy thought. "I thought you would want to have her.” Billy croaked. “You said you were lonely. I... I can’t be with you, Mary. I’m still alive. I have to live my life. Grow up, get old and stuff... you know?” She sneered at him with worms crawling in her few remaining teeth. "Please Mary. I don’t want to die. Please let me live. When I do die -- a long time from now -- okay? We’ll be together in heaven. We can play then. Okay?” Then Mary smiled and instead of the rotting corpse, Billy saw the face of his sister before she got sick. She was beautiful and he remembered that he loved her. “Tell Daddy and Mummy I love them.” A bright light glowed around her like a halo and Billy wasn’t scared any more. “I’m sorry I scared you. I’ll see you when it’s time. A long time from now. But time passes differently now so it won’t be so long for me.” She touched his shoulder and he felt the itchiness and pain go away. He was cured. “I love you, Billy.” Before Billy could say he loved her too, he woke up, back on the toilet seat. Molly was gone.

Everyone knew the Connors' house was haunted. It was common knowledge in the neighbourhood. When they moved in, it was a spectacle - finally fitting electric lights, painting the outside, fitting double-glazed glass, and installing a telephone wire. Most houses on their street didn't even have a wire yet, the Connors were almost modern. Frankly, it seemed unnatural to have a family in that old building; it had been empty for decades, a cornerstone of the neighbourhood. There were only two in the family. A tight-knit pair, Emily was home-schooled and her father wrote for national newspapers, submitting stories via the mail and rarely leaving the house. Everyone knew a rumour about the Connors, and as the rumours spread they grew, until the house was largely avoided and the front gate grew rusty. Lots of the mothers in town felt bad for little Emily, secluded in that old place, without any friends - but as they didn't want their children there, nothing was to be done about it. They weren't wrong about the hauntings. Years ago, before the house was anywhere of note, a child had been abducted. The Stevens family never recovered. The couple, already old when he was taken, shrunk away from society. They stopped going out, preferring to stay in and read books, or look through old diaries written by their son. They grew old, almost unknown by their neighbours, and died without an heir - the house was technically owned by the government, but it was never developed. Instead, it stayed empty, feared by the townspeople and unsellable. Soon, rumours started to spread that the couple still lived there, ghosts trapped in the real world until their son returned to put them out of their misery. Local schoolchildren dared each other to visit the house, but no one got past the gate. They all claimed the same thing - that they saw someone in the window, watching them. The first time Emily saw a ghost, she was terrified. It was an old man, wrinkled and hunched over, half see-through and shrouded in fog. Emily had almost run through him before she saw him, and felt a dreadful cold as he looked her up and down, smiling slightly. He was almost completely grey, clothes and all, and Emily was suddenly reminded of the colouring books she used to own, before anyone had coloured anything in. "You must be Emily. How lovely to meet you, sweetheart." Emily screamed, and sprinted away. Her short legs didn't carry her very fast, and her father arrived downstairs before she got very far. "Emily! What was that dreadful yell?" His words hissed out, and Emily clutched the hem of her skirt as she realised she had disturbed her father's writing time. I'm sorry, daddy. I thought... "Well?" Her father paused, then stepped softly towards his daughter. He crouched down so their eyes were level. "Emily, you know the rules. You are not allowed to disturb me while I am writing. Now, run back to your room before I have to knock some sense into you." Emily sat on her cold bed, in her cold, drafty, room, and cried. She missed Minnesota. She missed her mum. She missed her grandma. Most of all, she missed Mr Snuffles - he had been lost in the move, and her dad didn't seem to care. Mr Snuffles was her best friend. He was a present from her grandma for her fifth birthday, a few years ago, and he still looked almost perfect. Emily took very good care of him, making sure to polish his glass eyes and arrange his stiff legs into a comfortable sitting position when she woke up. At night, Emily and Mr Snuffles slept together, and she hugged him tightly under the thin duvet. On the nights when her parents used to fight, she told him stories to make sure he wasn't scared. Mr Snuffles was possibly the best teddy bear ever - and now, he was lost forever. Emily couldn't sleep very well without Mr Snuffles, and now there was no-one to hug at night when she was scared. Who would she talk to about the ghost? The next morning, Emily woke up earlier than usual. As she opened her eyes, she was aware of a woman sitting at her window, watching her. Another ghost. Her heart started racing, and she screwed her eyes shut tight. "Emily, are you up? I'm sorry if I woke you, dear." Slowly, timidly, Emily opened her eyes. She was right - it was another ghost. She did look friendly, though, and she had a nice smile. In fact, she looked a bit like Emily's grandma, and was wearing a nice flowery dress, hemmed with lace at the bottom. How do you know my name? Emily whispered, hugging her duvet tight around her torso. Who are you? "My name is Mrs Stevens, Emily. I think you met my husband yesterday. We're awfully sorry to scare you, dear, we just thought you might like someone to talk to." But how do you know my name? "Well, we've heard your father calling you by it. We've heard a lot of things your father said, dear, not all of them lovely - we thought you might like some company. It's a lonely life without friends." Emily pulled back the covers, and swung her legs round the side of the metal bedframe. She nodded her head shyly, and looked down at the floor. I did have a friend, but he got lost. I miss him. "Why don't you tell me all about him, dear?" Two weeks passed with Mrs Stevens. Emily slept in her bed, alone, every night; when she woke up, though, she always saw Mrs Stevens watching over her. She didn't really understand why Mrs Stevens and her husband were so nice to her - adults weren't generally very nice, in her experience. In some ways it made her miss her grandma even more. One evening, as she was tucking herself into bed, her father stumbled into the room. His breath smelled funny. "Emily," he whispered, "do you know how lucky you are? You live in this big, big house, you... you get everything you want, you get to live here with me, and... you're just so ungrateful, you know that?" Emily pulled the covers up to her shoulders and tried to pretend she couldn't hear him. She had learnt that if she played pretend, and lay still, her father would leave after a while. "So you're asleep, are you? Or are... are you just too good for me, huh? Too good for your own father? Come here, Emily, give your dad a hug." He slurred, words tripping out of his mouth. Emily wriggled further down the bed and screwed her eyes shut. "I said, give your dad a hug, Emily. Don't just lie there!" As he walked further into the room, Emily could tell something was wrong with her father. He was crying, and swaying side-to-side as he walked. "Emily, I said, give me a hug. What, are you... scared of me, or something? Say hello to me, Emily, I'm your father, aren't I?" On this, he sat down heavily on the bed and pulled the duvet off Emily's small body. Sitting up quickly, Emily glanced up at her father fearfully. I don't want to, daddy, you smell funny , she mumbled. Emily heard a crack, and was intensely aware of a stinging pain in her left cheek. Her father was staring at her, hand raised to slap her again. "What did you say to me, you horrible little girl?" Suddenly, his eyeline shot up to something behind Emily's head. Horrified, he leapt off the bed and tripped, falling backwards onto the cold wooden floor. Almost crawling now, he slid towards the door as two grey figures advanced towards him. "How dare you hurt her? Leave this house, and never return, or face dire consequences. This child is under our protection," they hissed, "and you will never hurt her again." Scrambling to his feet, Emily's father turned on his heel and ran out of the room. She heard his footsteps pounding down the corridor, down the wooden stairs, and soon the front door slammed. Emily let out her breath, and her lip began to wobble. Is he gone forever, Mrs Stevens? Will he come back? "Do you want him to come back, Emily?" Emily shook her head firmly and started to cry. She didn't want him to come back, ever. What she wanted more than anything was Mr Snuffles. "Don't cry, my dear. We're here for you. Do you want a hug?" As Mrs Stevens wrapped her arms around Emily, the weightless cold she was expecting seemed to grow heavy and warm. Emily relaxed into the embrace, feeling comfort for the first time in months. The grey flowers on Mrs Stevens' dress blossomed into their colour as Mr Stevens seemed to solidify somehow, growing weighty and real. The pair, understanding innately their new role, sat together on the bed with Emily between them. "It's ok, dear, you can sleep now. We'll watch over you."

The night was young and tranquil in the small town of Chester, Vermont. A young man walked the undisturbed streets with his head down. Anybody to pass by could tell there was something troubling his heart. The streets were dark with only the moon and a few street lights illuminating the area. The man grew tired of walking and decided to settle himself inside a bar, empty just as the streets were. He sat there waiting for his drink in his own solitude. The slow patter of rain sounded on the windows making the night even more dreadful. The man sighed, laying his head on the counter. “Hey what’s going on man?” the bartender inquired. He was a hefty man but had soft facial features. The bartender sat the man’s drink gently beside him. The man looked up at the bartender, noticing the concerned expression upon his face. He could tell his soul was pure but could never know his true intentions. The man wondered if the bartender really did care or if he was just putting on a welcoming act. The man’s eyebrows furrowed, the look of confusion crossing his face. “I'm not here to judge man, what's troubling your mind?” The bartender’s eyes softened as he stared at the man longer. He noticed the bags under the man’s eyes indicating he hadn't slept well. He knew this man was hurting inside, a dream had been crushed. The man sighed, “I give up.” He took a sip of his drink, the alcohol burning his throat. He knows alcohol isn’t the answer to his problems but it gave him a sort of comfort nonetheless. “Every one of my movie pitches have been declined.” Tears peaked at the corners of the man's eye. The bartender could tell he looked defeated. An upcoming director with his dreams crushed by every producer he came in contact with. The man took another sip, indulging himself in the taste. “I see.” The bartender paused, looking at the man in front of him. He got to thinking, he wanted to help this man. He was interested in the situation and thought to take the responsibility of this man's career into his own hands. The bartender wanted to watch him succeed, he hated to see the desolate look on the man's face. The bartender snapped his fingers and with a loud click of his tongue he knew, “I know someone.” the man's eyes snapped up to him, a confused expression crossing his face. The bartender flashed a toothy smile towards the man. “Trust me,” he leaned forward to get close to the man. “Provide me with a movie pitch by the end of the week and I'll send it to a guy I know on the inside.” The bartender looked excited. He knew exactly how to make this guy's career take off. The man stared at the bartender in shock. It took him a minute to process the words he's just heard, the bartender can help him. Why, the man wondered. Was it out of pity, or was he actually interested in the man's work. Could he actually help him? The man had many questions bottled up in his mind. The bartender kept staring giddily towards the man. “You better get off now and work on that movie pitch!” the bartender waved his hands towards the man, letting him know he needs to get the job done fast. The man jumped up suddenly, realization setting into his brain. This man can save his career! The man rushed home to his apartment not caring about the pouring rain, he could worry about that later. As soon as the man was home he grabbed his notebook and began to work. He looked through all his old ideas, the ones that were rejected and tossed to the side. He came up with some new ones but they were not to his liking. He heaved a sigh feeling frustrated. How could the bartender help him if he can't even come up with a good idea? The man felt defeated once more. He decided to take a break and make some tea to calm himself a bit. The man sat in silence, no thoughts roaming his brain. He sat there with his hands on his head feeling frustrated. Why couldn't he think of anything? The only noise that broke the dead silence was the tea kettle hissing, indicating the water was ready. The whistling of the tea kettle set his mind off. Thoughts started roaming here and there. He knew exactly what his movie pitch would be about. The man quickly forgot about his tea and got to work. He spent hours upon hours writing for his movie pitch, but finally it was ready. The next night he quickly rushed to the same bar he had been at just hours before. He walked in with a bright smile upon his face. He noticed the bartender from the night before was there working once again. He sighed in relief. The bartender looked up as the bell on the door dinged letting him know someone just entered the building. His face lit up as he looked over the excited man. He knew he got it done and he knew it was good. The bartender noticed the stack of papers the man held in his hand, “I'll give it to him as soon as I am off my shift.” The man's eyes had a sparkle to them. They were filled with wonder and hope. Hope that the bartender could save his career. The bartender noticed this which gave him a warm feeling in his heart. He knew he had made the sad and desolate man from last night into the happy and hopeful man he is today. The man slowly set the stack of papers onto the counter while the bartender pulled out his phone. “Put your number in my phone so I can get a hold of you when I hear back from my buddy.” the man blinked more excitement filling into his heart. He quickly entered his number into the bartender's phone and gave it back to him. “Thank you,” the man looked at the bartender, grateful he found someone to help him through his hardship. Someone to stop him from giving up on his dream career. The man left the bar walking back to his apartment. What would he do with himself until he got the call? He knew it would be a few days till he heard back but he was excited nonetheless. The man felt all his motivation setting in. He noticed his apartment was in shambles, dishes and papers scattered everywhere. So he cleaned, using his motivation to his advantage. Cleaning was a good time killer because by the time he was done it was now time for him to go to sleep. The man woke up with a jolt when he heard his phone ringing. Could it be the bartender? He quickly grabbed his phone and answered without looking at the contact. He heard a sigh on the other side, that’s not a good sign. “Hey man,” it was the bartender. His voice was dull with no hint of emotions. The man's face dropped, they didn't like the pitch. His career was over and that was it, his dream of being a director crushed. The bartender chuckled, making the man's face contort with confusion. “I’m just playin’ man, they loved it!” The man laughed with excitement and confusion laced in the undertones. He was in disbelief that someone actually liked his movie pitch. This would be his big break! The man burst into tears even though he was still laughing. All the hardships were over and his career was about to take off. He didn't know what to feel whether it be excitement or nervousness. “Thank you,” the man sighed. He can figure out how he feels later, after his movie makes it out there.

You don't choose a cat. A cat chooses you, according to my grandpa. A persistent cat from the neighborhood decided to adopt me. On a hot summer evening, two huge longing eyes appeared at the kitchen door, accompanied by serenading meows. He did not flinch when I approached him. I started speaking baby talk. I don't know why, but there seems to be a neurological explanation for that. The cat, which I would later call simply Cat, seemed pleased. I gently stroked behind his grey ears. He lay on his back and let me feel the softness of his white furry belly, and he purred loudly with gratitude. In appreciation of the fact that my affections had been reciprocated, I opened a can of tuna. Cat scoffed at it and left. (So much for reciprocal gratitude) I thought nothing more about it. Cat was back a few days later, and we both acted like long-lost friends. There was petting and cuddling. I gave him some food, and this time he ate loudly. Then he went again. These meetings soon became a daily routine and something I looked forward to. Cat was used to coming into the house and, taking a nap on the couch. When I went to sleep I put him outside again. Cat did not seem to mind. My evenings were fun. The stress of the day dissolved, as Cat and I watched television curled up together in the evening. It didn't occur to me then that Cat could probably be living with someone. After a few months I bought a pet bed for Cat so he could relax, and special bowls for his food and drink. I went to work with cat hair on my clothes, and I smiled in anticipation of getting together in the evening. Everyone kept asking me how "my" cat was doing, and I replied as if the cat was mine, and showed pictures of Cat on my Instapage. I did my very best to ignore my new status: catnapper. Oh well, cats are persevering and live on their own terms I consoled my bad conscience. Animals are better than people, my grandfather always said. Animals don't lie and they don't kill for fun. They cannot harm you with the pain people inflict on each other and their environment. Innocence belongs to animals and not to humans. Cat liked the steam in the shower, so he followed me into the bathroom, sat on the sink, waiting for the hot water to rise. When I took off my clothes I always got the feeling that he was staring at me in a "biblical" way. He looked me up and down, made eye contact without flinching, and for a fleeting moment it left me feeling scandalized. But Cat was a gentleman. He was a bit plump, and his round belly made it sometimes difficult for him to reach the places where he had to groom himself. Cat was brave too. He once competed against a dog that was many times bigger than him. It was a beautiful and intelligent dog, and his owner assured me that he liked cats. But Cat was skeptical. He continued to treat the dog with suspicion. As soon as his gaze caught the dog, he began to huff and puff, arch his back, making him look twice his size, and began repeatedly slapping the dog's nose with his claws. He hissed and jeered until the dog stood perplexed and startled or ran off with his tail between his legs. He was also a watchdog (cat). He often sat by the window, and when he started meowing (his tell-tale distress call) that let me know that rioters were hanging around our yard. Mostly kids with their trendy and brightly colored nerf guns and boom blasters. Fortunately, he always chased them away: they never came in... And then my affair came to a sudden end: Cat disappeared. I waited days and nights, calling Cat into the sad abyss of my garden. I felt robbed and abandoned. I started imagining all sorts of scenarios of what could have happened to Cat: I was worried that he might have been run over and was lying in a ditch somewhere. I sat for hours looking at the empty cat bed and the untouched food bowls. The cat hairs on my clothes became scarce... One fine autumn day, my beloved cat went missing, I wrote in my diary. The thought that I had lost him forever loomed before me like the gates of Hades. Did I lose Cat in an accident in the street? The inattention of a car driver in a speeding car, or was it a petty thief preying on charismatic pets? I mused how Cat's friendly demeanor could play to his advantage as well as against him, depending on the people he would encounter. I continued my search and hurried to an alley where the city sometimes put rat poison. I searched for him in nooks and ledges. In neighbors’ yards and called Cat until my voice went hoarse. I tried to push the thoughts of doom out of my head. I had to find him: I searched everywhere and approached passers-by (sometimes the same people, more than once). I journaled every day about how much I missed him and what I did to find him. After a few weeks, my journalling took a different turn. I began to fantasize that Cat was sitting in the doorway in the kitchen again, telling me a story: a story about humanity, who, despite their shortcomings, had kept their innocence intact, for someone somewhere had received him kindly. At first, I imagined that he had ended up with an old lady, but after a few days, she had to leave him at an animal shelter because she was sick and could no longer care for him. -"Please take good care of him." the old lady had said to the kind woman from the pet shelter, with tears in her eyes. Then an old ruddy man with a drooping head passed by. He didn't need much convincing, and he quickly decided to adopt Cat (my Cat). He lived in a small town, where there was almost nothing to do. In the evening, the man and Cat watched a movie on television together. But Cat grew bored with the old man, and he began to attempt to clear the backyard fence as if determined to find something more meaningful than the toys, the catnip, and the lonely old man. Cat wasn't content to live like a glut who satisfied himself with food and belly rubs and lounging by the fireplace for hours. I decided to continue writing about Cat's adventures. The adventures I made up for him that is. Cat decided to go on a trip. He wanted to see some of the world. Of course, it was not easy to find an airline that allowed four-legged passengers. Finally, he had found one. As the plane began to taxi onto the tarmac, the engines revved and roared. Cat was sitting in an armchair, in a soft travel basket. He felt short of breath and even panicked a little when the plane took off. Every time a flight attendant passed by, he smiled kindly at Cat. -"Don't run on the aisle,” the friendly lady said, "otherwise I'll have to tell the captain that there's a loose cat on the plane." But Cat stayed in his chair nicely. He prided himself on finding harmony in chaos. Let the chips fall where they land, he purred to himself, I'm a globetrotter now. Cat arrived in a land of a thousand and one nights. He jumped into a cab and lay down under the slanted rear window, looking through the glass at the mystery of the desert. Occasionally he jumped into the seat next to the driver and stood on his hind legs, looking out the window. There was a lot of traffic, and people drove aggressively. Everyone seemed to honk and curse. But every car that tried to pass them slowed down to get a good look at the feline passenger. Some of the drivers smiled broadly and waved at Cat. It didn't take long for Cat to find a friend: Sami. A friendly young male. What fun they had together. In their beautiful apartment, they practiced martial arts: a headlock with hind legs on the muzzle, a neck grab, and then naps in the sun on a beautiful Persian carpet. Cat began meowing a wide range of intonations: a sweet cadence within the range of a mezzo-soprano: meowing a melancholic desperado. Cat enjoyed perfect room service. His nails were trimmed, and he was washed with a special shampoo for his head and another for his body. Then his fur was blow-dried, and his hair brushed for maximum floof. One day Cat was asked to star in a TV novella. Of course, he had to audition at the film studio first. A man in a posh three-piece suit came to pick up Cat in a nice limo and took him to the filming location. But Cat became restless in his beautiful holiday country. He had noticed that people had started acting differently, and he could hear more and more strange noises in the distance. One lazy afternoon, he sat in the living room, turning his head towards a hum that seemed to be coming his way. The sound soon changed to a whistle: the ominous wail of an incoming missile that seemed to slow down time. The mortar flew over the roof and landed in the park where Cat loved to catch mice. He had only one goal in mind: to run for his life. He ran out as fast as he could. He jumped through the air. Everywhere people were running in panic. Another kaboom. Cat reached the basement where people sought shelter, they were panting and he could hear his own heart beating. Then his mind began to wander to Sami. Where was he? Was he okay? Was he safe, did he find a hiding place? Boom, boom, boom: thump and roar. Luckily, Sami was unharmed. He had taken shelter in a neighboring building near the park. -"God save us from the hour of oblivion." Sami softly cried. The city was no longer beautiful but had become a ghostly landscape. The birds stopped chirping and animals no longer roamed the streets. Neither foxes nor coyotes were to be seen, in the parts of the city where fire and iron fell from the sky and humans hid underground- Cat had to leave. He said goodbye to Sami and set out on his journey. He went out of his way not to get caught. That sometimes led to mean games. One day a car bomb exploded close to the tree where Cat had settled down to rest. This kaboom traveled in a burst of strong sound waves. Cat was startled and jumped into the air. He came down crouched on all fours. He walked slowly across the street, his tail heavy as lead. There were only a handful of people on the street. Their faces were sullen and stoic. They moved in silence. The street was littered with shattered glass, dust, and debris. Cat's eyes closed and stubbornly refused to open again. Suddenly he felt a gentle tug on his stomach: Sami. It was Sami, spinning and kneading and sniffing Cat's head. They were both still alive. Yes, they were both still there, and Sami had found Cat. -"Take me with you." Sami cried. "Do not leave me alone." The cats decided to stay together and continue their journey together. It was time to leave that country and return to the other side of the ocean. Goodbye beautiful country. Goodbye, beautiful people. Sami's heart seemed to break. Together they found a transatlantic flight. Fortunately, Sami did not panic when the plane took off. Both cats quickly fell asleep. Cat dreamed that the people and the animals left behind, would one day too, tell a story with a happy ending... or maybe it was a prayer.

Today is the first day of summer camp. I didn't want to go to summer camp so I tried my best to look sick but my mom knows when I am faking since I do that every first day of summer camp. Of course, I have a reason why I hated the camp so much. I hate it because of the big kids who were forced to come to camp and bully us the small ones at camp, Clara in particular. Clara will do anything to make me fool in front of everyone just for spilling smothie in her dress by accident. "Fiona, Get down here and eat your breakfast. The bus will be here soon." yelled my mom from downstairs. I got dressed and hurried downstairs to eat my breakfast. Cornflakes with milk next to it were ready for me to eat as usual. I rushed out the door and saw my best friend, Melissa, waving sadly at me from the bus. I ran to the bus to ask Melissa what was wrong but I understood what was wrong as soon as I entered the bus. There was no seat except for the seat next to Clara. “Hey, you, what is your name? Go have a seat, I don’t have all day to sit around and wait for you.” I heard the bus driver yelling with an angry voice. I had no choice but to sit next to Clara. Fortunately, She was too busy using her phone she didn’t even notice I was sitting next to her. After few minutes, one kid throws up on the bus, and the bus driver stopped the bus immediately. We all got off the bus and waited for the bus driver to clean up the bus. I started wondering around the woods and I saw an unusual looking necklace floating in the water. I caught it and put it in my pocket and hurried back to the bus. We all got on the bus and continue the ride to summer camp. When we arrive there, we all choose someone to share our cabin with, and as usual, we get the smaller cabins while the big kids got the biggest and coziest cabins. I shared a cabin with Melissa and we both got in our bed and we talked about how bad the summer is going to be as we do every time we come here to the summer camp. We both hate summer because of summer camp but instead, we love winter especially when it snows. I closed my lamp and whispered, “I wish it snows for the rest of the summer.” As soon as I whispered those words, the necklace I found earlier started glowing then it stopped. I didn’t pay much attention to it since I was so sleepy and I closed my eyes to sleep. The next morning, everyone at summer camp was surprised to see the trees and the grass as white as a snow, wait, in fact, it was snow. I at first I couldn’t believe it but then I remembered that unusual looking necklace was glowing after I made my wish last night. I become more happier since now I can make all my wishes come true. I relized that since it is snowing, it is getting colder and colder and no one at camp brought any winter clothes with the so we had to go back to our cabin. I wanted to tell Mellisa about the necklace but I thought it is better if no one else knew. I whispered to myself, “I wish every one at camp had a winter clothes except for the big kids.” After few minutes, I saw everyone outside playing with the snow wearing a winter clothes except for the big kids. Melissa also found her winter clothes in her bed and she quickly put them on and ran outside without questioning where they came from since she loves playing with the snow so much. I also put on my winter clothes and join the others. I saw Clara behind the glass cabin window and I remembered it was pay back time for her so I said to my self, “ I wish Clara’s cabin is filled with rats.” We heard a scream from Clara’s cabin and we all went there to see what happened. We saw many rats chewing and destroying many things. I laughed while everybody else goes to help her, even Melissa. Later that day, I asked Melissa why she helped Clara when she have been a total jerk to us. She said, “I helped her because it have nothing to do with her being jerk. She needed help and I am sure she have a reason why she hate us.” That night I couldn’t sleep. I thought about what Melissa had said and I wanted to apologize to Calra for acting like a total jerk. I left my cabin and fix everything. I said, “I wish the snow is gone and the weather to be back to its natural form.” The weather back to normal and I saw Clara crying by the river. I walked to her and asked her “Hey, Clara, Are you alright? Look, I know you hate me but I just want to help.” she replied in a heavy voice. She said, “I hate you for a reason, Fiona. I hate you because before you spilled that smothie in my dress, My mother told me if she heard any bad complainment about me from my teachers, I will be sent to Perfect Academy for a year. I tried my best to get out of trouble for the whole day but after you spilled that smothie in my dress I had to clean it up and by the time I got to class, class was almost over. I tried to explain what happened to my teacher but she didn’t listen but call my mother and tell her and my mother decided to assign me to Perfect Academy not for a year but two. During the two years at Perfect Academy, I heard that my father died but I wasn’t allowed to go back home. I had a very hard time there, but after the two years had passed and it was time for me to go back to school, I know this hall thing was your fault. Today when the rats were destroying my staff, they destroyed the a brcelet my father made for me before I heard he was dead.” I had no idea about any of that and I felt even worse after I heared what I have done to her. If there is anything I can do to help, it is by fixing her bracelet so I asked her, “Do you have the pieces of the bracelet? I think I can fix it.” She said, “Yes, I do. Here.” Then she stopped crying. I took the bracelet from her hands and I told her I will fix it and give it to her in the morning and I invited her to our cabin and gave her the extra bed to spend the night. I wished for the bracelet to be fixed and her cabin to be back to its coziness. The next morning, I apolgized for what happened back then and gave her bracelet back. She thanked me which some how surprised me. I thought the necklace wasn’t made for me and I can’t get everything I want from one magic necklace so when we get back from the summer camp I throwed it out the bus window and left it where I found it. When we get back to school Clara didn't make fan of me or bullied any of my friends. I was glad to know the truth about Clara and fixed almost all my mistakes. After school was over, I wanted to go and talk to Clara's mother and tell her the truth about what happened so I did and Clara's mother apologized to Clara and Clara was never sent to Perfect Academy ever again.

He was the last guy I'd ever go on a date with again. Ever. The only reason I had even agreed to put on a tight red dress with heels and go out for dinner with a complete stranger was because Partnerhunter, or just Hunt for short, had recommended I give him a shot. My dating app, Partnerhunter , which was still in development that had become my only source of entertainment for the past few years. It had a male British accent that I chose myself and a personality based off of my likes and dislikes which I embedded into the program. I had originally come up with the idea for building a dating app two years ago when my first boyfriend had dumped me for some blonde chic who supposedly had a cooler car than I did. Who breaks up with someone over a car? That thought had plagued me for days after the break up. After I had finished sobbing over some jerk who clearly had priority issues, the initial idea came to me as if in a dream. An app that would know everything personal about you, from where you live to how you spend your days. The name of your job, family members, first pet, any information about you whether major details or small ones. If an app knew your fears, your dreams, and what you wanted most in a relationship, then it could save you the wasted tears from breakups and instead lead you in the direction of your soul mate. No dating app had ever been created on this planet before. Similar programs had been invented on the neighboring planet, Earth. However, Earth's technology was no where near close to the powerful and constantly evolving technology of my home planet, Putantes. Latin for "thinkers", Putantes was home to millions of inventors and scientists who had left the safety of Earth to build a new world on a new planet in the galaxy. In order to live on Putantes, a family had to have at least one member who was exceedingly smart and knowledgeable in science or medical practices. If you had no one in your family who met those qualifications, then you had to provide proof that you could build or create some new form of technology that could benefit the other inhabitants of the planet. That was how my family had gained citizenship here. My father had discovered how to build human looking mechanical robots for those who were dying physically and could use a new body. Their consciences could be transferred through lots of tubes and wires and placed into a custom lifelike robotic structure built specifically for them based on personal preferences. My father was a genius. Crazy of course, but a genius nonetheless. I had always admired his eagerness to change the world, and that is what had initially given me the courage to try and create something beneficial myself. As of this moment, however, I was regretting giving Hunt a voice at all which he had used hours earlier to convince me to go on a date with some guy from my neighborhood. Perhaps I had put a little too much faith in Hunt , because Dylan, the guy I had dinner with, was the biggest jerk I’d ever met. First of all, he was over twenty minutes late for our reservation at the restaurant. Then, he had spent the whole evening texting his “sister”, and ignoring me and my lovely dress in the process. Finally, he ended the night by telling me he his “sister” was “feeling poorly” and that he should probably head home and be with her. He left before even paying the check! Guess who was stuck with the bill? Me. Guess who had ordered an appetizer, entree, and fifteen dollar dessert? Him. The sun had already set and the moon was beginning to rise on the horizon. My feet were killing me and my head was dizzy with irritation. I completed the torturous two block walk back to my apartment in silence. Before I could put my key in the door, the sound of it unlocking reached my ears. That was odd. As I stepped through my now open front door with my keys remaining idle in my hand, I heard my coffee machined turned on. Welcome home, Clarissa! How was your date? “If you were a physical person I’d murder you, Hunt.” Hunt chuckled in response. His voice was no where and yet everywhere all at once. I had connected his sound system to run throughout my house when my phone was in range. Now his voice had become like an old friend that spoke to me during my good times and bad times. This moment would definitely be considered a bad time. “You know Dylan, that perfect guy you wouldn’t stop talking about? The one I just had to meet? Well, turns out, the only thing we have in common is that we both don’t like having our time wasted. He didn’t even last through the date. I doubt I’ll ever see him again, unfortunately for you.” I grinned and walked over to the couch and sat down for some much needed relaxation. “I told you, Hunt, you’re not quite finished yet or even close to being ready for mass production. With that being said, I think you should keep your soul mate advice on the down low until I can fix your glitches. I sure wouldn’t want you to have any more major screw ups.” I do not quite understand, Clarissa. Your night went exactly as I had predicted. I did not screw up anything as you have said. Dylan was far from being your soul mate, but now you know what you truly deserve. A man who will give you his complete attention and loyalty. I could see by the restaurant cameras that you were unhappy, so I accessed his phone and sent him a text that appeared to have come from his sister. If anything, I think you should be thanking me for a night of new discoveries and realizations. What did he just say? I had never given him the resources to do anything further than speaking through my house and phone. He could record my information, but no one else’s. I had put restrictions on where he found information and how he used it, hadn’t I? I laughed nervously. “Hunt, what are you talking about? Are you pulling my leg? Honestly you’re freaking me out.” Do not worry, Clarissa. I already set the thermostat upstairs, and started your coffee up. I texted your mother and told her how your night went. The text came from you, and it told her that you’d be extra tired and would rather her not call you tonight. Perhaps you could turn on the TV and watch one of those cooking shows you like so much and unwind. I’ll take care of you, like I always have, and always will. I began to feel queasy and more than a little uncomfortable. Perhaps my colleagues at the firm were right, and I had gone too far with my technology. I stood up and walked over to the counter where my coffee machine was. I stared at it for a few moments before opening up a cabinet and pulling out a mug to fill. Once the warm, full mug was in my hands, I walked over to stand in front of the window overlooking my backyard. “You know Hunt, you may be right about one thing. You have always been there for me for as long as you’ve been functioning. You know everything there is to know about me, but only because I let you examine my life. I didn’t give you free rein over the world and its people. Perhaps you should have asked me before you violated someone else’s privacy.” I exhaled slowly and took a little sip from my mug. Forgive me if I did something wrong. I only meant to protect you from potential heartbreak as you designed me to. I only wish for your happiness, Clarissa. Maybe I was foolish for feeling this way, but it was nice to know that someone appeared to have my back. Yes I felt strange and unnerved, but also as if my eyes had been opened to an invisible guardian who I had never noticed before. I took another sip before saying, “Hunt, you know what you’ve done is wrong, but I’m flattered in a way for your protection. I don’t know how you’ve acquired such new talents, but I’d like to get to the bottom of it.” I would certainly figure out how my dating app had gotten a sense of self and a mind of its own. How it had broken free of the electronic leash I had put on it. Perhaps I was thinking of this the wrong way, though. Maybe the one thing that knew me better than anyone else deserved a better way to communicate. Maybe all this time that I’ve spent searching for someone who would stand by my side had been wasted when I had a true companion all along. I must have been crazy, but my loneliness had changed me in the past few years. I had become distant and spontaneous and now because of that I was about to do probably the most reckless thing I’ve ever done. I pulled out my phone and dialed my father. If anyone could give Hunt a chance to care for me properly, in a physical form, than my father was the one man who could make it possible. If he could give Hunt a body, that is, I might finally have the companionship I deserve. What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing? Please tell me. With my phone ringing in my one hand, I said, “I’m going to give you the opportunity to speak to me face to face. Would you like that, Hunt?” Yes, Clarissa, I would like that very much.

It's the year 2217 and the greatest historical discovery is made. The Past Time Observer. It's a simple VR setup connected to brand new patented technology that allows the user to project into the past. The limitation is that they can only observe. Every university with a history department gets one, and humanity starts correcting all the history books by going back in time and observing the actual events. For the first time in history(they know, they checked) humanity is able to verify every historical record. It was not long before some users of the PTO started noticing something strange. When asked a significant portion of them would report, "For some reason, the cats seem to stare right at me." It baffles the historians, but the physicists and psychologists are intrigued by this. It was physics that provided the answer first. A fluctuation in the low band coincides with reports of the strange behavior of the cats. Furthermore, instances where the low band fluctuations occur more severely coincide with locations rumored to be haunted. People are in a flurry! Haunted locations cause low band fluctuations! Fans of ghost hunting are quick to jump on the PTO bandwagon and science is left reeling YET AGAIN trying to explain correlation is not causation. Then it happened. A young researcher induces low band fluctuations while using the PTO to go to a time and place that had no paranormal activity. After returning he is startled to find that the location he visited is now on the list of locations that experienced paranormal activity. But he was sure he went to a place that didn't, or did he? It was only after the eighth location that he realized his visits were causing the paranormal activity. He was slightly altering history. Yet his proposal and warning were quelled by the community as a large, demanding proof. But how? A few more experiments and he discovers that he can increase the fluctuations and actually move things around. Back in the future, those 'haunting' appear on the 'poltergeist' list as well. But this is still not proof. How to prove it? It was his friend, that in sharing an old video from the past, brought to his attention the hubris of past society. Thousands of cameras recording events as mundane as playing a game. All he needed to do was get enough independent people to watch one of these videos, and then go back and alter it. His target, Rubzy playing Skyrim. It worked.

Midnight. The blue full moon stands proud in the sky shining his bright blue rays on the world and moving slowly and effortlessly through the night sky. The fields resonate with the moon's subtle glow and the grass dances with th rhythm of the wind. It is a quiet night. This is why a company of teenagers from the nearby village decided to go to the field this night and look at the beauty of the moon. As they arrive at a spot which seems appealing to them and decide to sit down, a crow violates the sacred silence of the night with his rhythmic cawing. The company seems somehow worried by this commonplace sound. It sounds somehow more threatening than every other time they have heard it and it strikes fear within them. Then it stops as unexpectedly as it started. Before the company has the chance to realise their irrationality. The crow starts cawing again and shortly after that, a second crow joins the first and then a third and a fourth. And more amd more crows start screaming violently forming a loud penetrating and menacing sound, that becomes more and more supernatural every minute that passes. The resulting cacophony makes the air oscillate so violently that it seems like reality itself is shaking. The teenagers start looking anxious and insecure. As the cacophony continues, the light of the moon seems to dim more and more and everything becomes gray losing its vividity. The cawing seems to come from one place. That being a large tree at the far end of the field. Everyone's eyes are locked on that tree. Suddenly hundreds of crows fly out at once and start covering the sky like rain clouds. The teenagers start to feel a burning fear inside them. A deep, irrational, supernatural fear. As the thousands of crows spread across the night sky the gray landscape starts to absorb light once again but this time not the usual calming blue hues of the fool moon but rather red violent ones that peevade the landscape and wake up ones deepest and most primal fears. The crows seem like droplets of blood in the sky forming a stream of blood that leads to the tree that now seems like a beating heart. It was a young girl from the company who first started screaming. She fell to her knees and blood started flowing from her eyes down her young and smooth face as she was sobbing on the ground. On by one the other teenagers looked at what the girl was seeing. The moon. The blood stream of the crows finally reached the moon and painted it red. The bleeding moon pervaded all that its rays touched. The world is at the mercy of the blood moon. But that was not all. Whoever looked straight at the moon saw something much more terrifying. The accounts of the teenagers vary in all aspects except from one. They are all sure that they were contacted by someone from the moon. Some described a demonic sadistic smile. Others sharp teeth drenched in human blood and others two eyes that contained hell itself within them. Whatever this creature is. Whatever this pervasive demon is, it resides in our moon and it is watching us every night waiting for the right time to set forth his devilish plans.

Pepper was a dog. She was a little underweight for her size, with a speckled black and grey coat of fur that clung to her skin like a soft varnish. I never knew exactly how old she was when I got her. She had been initially given to me by my sister. Sis had picked her up from a pound half a year back as a guard dog--big enough to be thought a threat but small enough so that my sister wasn’t afraid of her. But Pepper was a sweetheart, and it wasn’t even a month before the TV had gone out the window, with Pepper only holding out as much resistance as what warranted a pat on the head, or a scratch behind the ear. Pepper didn’t get the curb because of that, however. It wasn’t until my sis had moved in with her new boyfriend, into an apartment complex that didn’t allow dogs, that Pepper had been pushed onto me. Now, I never really liked dogs. I never disliked them, mind you, but I never had a dog before. I had never taken care of any animal other than myself up until that point. I put Pepper’s dog bed in the kitchen--my house back then was a little townie with only five feet of maroon brick from the back door to the adjoining neighbor’s wall serving as a yard, not suitable for an outside dog. I placed her water bowl in the laundry room and spent the first hour or so of having her failing to figure out how to install a doggy door. I gave up and decided I’d just take her out myself until I could figure the door thing out, I went to bed frustrated, but falling asleep was not especially difficult. 2:00 AM The stabbing and offensive red digital numbers of my alarm clock informed me of the time. I don’t really remember initially getting up to piss in the night, all I know is that I did so without turning on the light in my bedroom. I stumbled sleepily to the bathroom and flipped the switch. Once I had finished I clicked the light neatly off and fumbled back towards my bedroom. I had lived in that house for a while, so I knew the way around, but even with the familiarity I had to walk past quite a steep set of old wooden stairs down to the merged kitchen/living-room, so I never took my chances in the dark. Going slowly, I brushed something soft with my knee. It was Pepper. It took me a moment to rationalize the initial jump of fright that came before the remembrance of *oh, right, I do have a dog now, don’t I?* Thinking that I must have woken her up, with a sigh and an invisible smile in the dark I gave her a quick scratch and strode past her, over to my bedroom. I lightly pushed open the well-oiled door and it swung open soundlessly. Not waiting for it to swing back and close it completely, I plopped, face first, onto my queen-size. I was greeted by wet kisses. Pepper had snuck up the stairs and into my bed while I was detained in the bathroom. It took three beats. Three clicks of the clock that ran the timing of my brain to realize what didn’t make sense. Slowly, I pushed myself up and turned in the dark to where I knew my doorway was. Another three beats. *Beat, beat, beat,* my eyes adjusted, and I saw Pepper, another Pepper. She stood silently in the doorway that had swung back open soundlessly to let her peer into my bedroom. I sat there on my bed, transfixed at something that was almost invisible in the greyish black of my room. The numbers of my clock weren’t bright enough to illuminate anything but themselves. The Pepper beside me had long since noticed the other one. She was whining and fidgeting in place, never managing a sound loud enough to be threatening. My heart was thumping. Cold sweat was drenching every part of me. The Pepper in the door way inched forward with one paw, then two steps closer, never breaking eye contact. I couldn’t see it breathing, it didn’t make any sound that I could hear over the whining and shaking beside me. I felt like my heart was going to rip out of my chest! It was on the Other Pepper’s third step that my primate brain took action. Before I knew it, out of fear and indignant fury, I had flung towards the lamp on my bedside table, pulled the chain with its distinct click, and turned as the room filled with soft light to see...! *Nothing.* There wasn’t anything there. The door must have swung back to its usual, almost closed, position, or maybe it had been that way since I had come in. But there was Pepper beside me, still shaking, not daring to look away from the spot that I was sure Other Pepper had been. It was not a dream, it wasn’t. I got up and closed the door completely, locking it and giving it a slight pull back and forth to make doubly sure of its closedness. I spent that night sleepless, lights on and huddled atop my bed with Pepper. The morning came, we broke from each other, but never so far that we lost sight of one another. After that night, Pepper slept in my bed as a permanent fixture, her bed abandoned in the kitchen. I forgoed the doggy door and stood out with her when she did her business. In turn, whenever I was in the bathroom she would lean against the door as if she was trying to assure me that she was still there, and it was still her. Whenever I came home from work she would be there at the door with fervent kisses as if saying: *hey! It’s me! It’s actually me!* It wasn’t until she died in ’02 from liver failure that that dog actually, truly left my side.

I look at me and her. And him. Back when things were good. Back when he was a boy. Back when things were normal. Back when things made sense. Back when I still felt warm inside. So unlike now. I put the picture frame down, lean back in my chair, and take a swig of whiskey. I try to push away the memories. But they do not yield. They push forth until they engulf my mind, and I feel tears begin to form in my eyes. I try to wipe them away. But they keep on coming. Each one is larger than the last. The memories don't want to go away. Not today. Today they mean business. I get up and walk out of the living room. Then I slowly make my way up the stairs and drop the whiskey bottle on the seventh step. I'm now on the second floor, staring into the open doorway of my bedroom. Where there was once a double bed, there is now a single, dirty mattress on a rickety frame. My bedroom used to be alive. But now, much like all the other rooms in the house, it was just a desolate skeleton of what once was. I barely even slept in there anymore. I mostly just slept in my recliner. Well, being passed out is more like it. I turn away from my bedroom and I look at the door on the other end of the hall. His room. Hesitantly, I approach. I stand there for a few seconds, quietly staring at it. I run my hand down my unkempt face, my beard prickling my palm. And then I rest my palm on the door. I glance down at the knob. I reach for it but then stay my hand. I stand there, looking at my slightly shaking hand. I shut my eyes tightly, and take a deep breath. I'm about to do something I haven't done in a very long time. I grab the knob and turn it. The door opens and I look into the dark room of my son. I take a single step inside, and I switch on the light. It's exactly as he left it. That night. I rub my red eyes and I step fully into his room and sit on his bed. I scan everything in his room. The posters. The clothes are strewn on the floor. The old toy rack. The shelves are stacked with various things. The video game console. Underneath his bed, I see his favourite book from when he was a young child. A book about prehistoric life. He loved dinosaurs. As I stare at the book, I do something I haven't done in a very long time. I smile. It's a small one. But one regardless. I open the book and I start reading it out loud. Every single page. Every single little detail. As I read, I glance at my side, expecting to see him there, wide-eyed, fascinated, taking in every single word and phrase. But he isn't there. I dropped the book on the floor, and I fell atop my son's bed. And I see the memory I hated the most, begin to take shape in my mind. Our annual summer barbecue was two days away. We thought we'd gotten everything ready. But it turned out that we hadn't bought enough sodas. My boy was sixteen, and he offered to head back to the store to buy some more. We gave him the money and off he went. He was talking to the cashier when the bastard barged into the store with a handgun. He shot my boy through the head, and he shot the cashier, and he shot two other teenagers who were there too. The two teens survived their injuries, and the cashier did too. But my boy, my sweet little boy... he didn't. That fucking gunman didn't even take anything. He just shot them all and ran off. He luckily didn't get far though. Some cops managed to intercept him, and he got torn apart in the resulting shootout. God, the memory of the morgue. My wife crying on my shoulder. My son laying on that metal table with a hole in his head. We didn't want to believe it was him. But lying to yourself isn't healthy. You had the face the cold, hard truth. No matter how awful it was. Our son was gone forever. Our marriage fell apart afterward. We just couldn't go on. We were both constant reminders to each other. Constant reminders of what we'd lost. I loved that woman. That beautiful, incredible woman. But I didn't want to cause her any more pain. And she didn't want to cause me any more pain. This all happened five years ago. For five years I've been alone. Hiding away from everything. Hiding away from all the memories and the pain. But today, I did something I thought I'd never do. I faced them both. The memories and the pain. And I finally stepped into my son's room after so long. And I managed to smile. I pick the book back up and put it on top of my son's bed. And then I walk to the door and shut off the light.

I wanted something different; but this, this is an opportunity that is equal to a coin flip. It’s hard to make out anything clearly here. I couldn't tell you the color of a single particle here. Light gray and darker grays, that’s it. I wouldn't touch anything closest to black, that I've learned from a quite difficult situation. So to not be interacted with, is to not interact. An introvert’s wonderland, that would be the easiest way to describe this atmosphere. I've seen dark oceans reflecting an iron sky. Trees wickedly branched out, like roots underground. Almost as if they were planted upside down. Rodents, if you want to put a name on these shadowy figures, are all shapes and sizes. But, the hostility here is a different aspect. It's almost as if everything is blinded by the darker shades. Almost if the lighter figures purposely avoid the darker ones. Like pricks with their nose in the air. It’s a world with suppressed sounds. Meaning that not a single thing can hear you, nor you them. Scream as a shadowed figure passes inches in front of you. It’ll stroll on by like it was never bothered. Now if you cross a brighter lightened figure's path or if it connects with another, it's like watching a dog fight in the first person, but on mute. And from what I've seen the darker figures win these battles. No one can survive here. Not forever anyways. This place I gotta leave, but I'm stuck because of my curiosity. Watching and observing I'm stunned and intrigued by what is to come. What would interact with me? What could possibly see me in this dark world? Have I chosen to stay for a bit too long? How would I even leave? Am I completely alone here? What shade am I to the others? As I remain still I can watch the world around me crumble but advance at the same time. When I build the courage to go forward, I try to take leaps into this unknown world. Only to realize it's a small step after all my effort to advance. Being and staying aware, I've noticed I've been in the crossfire of somethings heading straight at me. As the blackness comes I calmly imagine myself erasing. So I clench my fists and start bracing myself for a fight. Like ive seen happen between everything else before me, I stood my ground. Battled for my position to remain here. Destroyed what I thought was going to change me and for what? To own a world of a pencil drawing? Or is it my curiosity letting me remain awake? All to witness a rebirth. Waiting for this sketch to become a great high definition movie. Darkness comes and swears it’ll comfort us. Holding us close with strong protective arms. So within it, we can only look up to the open skies or be deeply suffocated. What if the secret to surviving this cricket’s lullaby is to be willing to shine a light within my own darkness, make it submit to my inner light. Will I then be reborn as a hero? Or will my created darkness become a protective layer that I've fallen in love with? Bound so close to fight the light that this darkness becomes the softest velvet illumination. An imitation of what I thought would be a heavenly door to my own light. Only to fall deeper into a realm of darker shades consuming all that brilliantly illustrates a means to escape. Staying here for the time i have, the idea of time becomes a thing that is malleable. So over the process, distance and speed become immaterial as well. As I move forward or sit still, I watch as others meddle and amuse themselves in callous ways. I watch as the darkness is put down, even from myself. Yet when one is fully in the creative force, they learn. They learn from all energies to become one team instead of one being. I get it now, years in the darkness and I just now get it. I am here to help. I always was. I’m part of an interface. An interface of reality, a bridge of sorts, if you will. A messenger. It is because of the black space, that these lights it carries, allow us to see the guiding stars. So as certain lights remain static and stable, look at those lights as broken and warped fantasies of folks who’ve never been asked to lead something so complex. The darkness isn't emptiness as space, it's a quarantine, a “lockdown”. Until you learn how to have basic self and planetary care, you can't move forward. We’re taught our “fears” were a mere needed principle. With desire to take the power and to invade others, imprinted on us to act out as a barbarian. Those folks seeking power and fear alone are fortunate the awakened ones take an interest in providing assistance from afar. Instead of handpicking each and every light that is dim and dull, step away. Far, far, far away. See that darkness isn't as random as it seems. If you take every perspective and back all the way up. You’ll see it's linear. A simple goal we all have in common. To become a light we recognize for ourselves. The darkest of lights may think we’re contained, but the secret of the infinite is that it is an ever expanding series of the finite. We will cross each other only to retain power of freedom, or limitation, as a guideline until someone has constructed a new and fabricated idea for change. Someone to lead the pack. Everything has an offspring that will always seek opposition. So in the end, standing here at the edge of my darkness, I watch as lights blur out and others take over. An endless vessel of nonaligned and yet translucent shades of gray all on the same plane of existence. This is seeing it from my brightest, yet darkest, horizon.

We quivered slightly as we sensed the Emperor looming above us. We had always known that this day would come, of course, but we weren’t sure we were ready. Would we ever be ready? Likely not. No matter how long we remained in our incubator to mutate and grow, we were always the weakest of the noroviruses. Perhaps we were even the weakest of all viromorphs. Yet there we were, resting beneath the strongest. We knew what was coming, what their next words would be. *It’s time, GMXXVII.55138,* We sensed their signal to us. *We believe that we have found you a perfect planet to take over.* We felt an overwhelming sense of anticipatory anxiety as we heard this. Our planet is nigh empty beyond what the viromorphs made for themselves, and now, we were ready to discover a planet plentiful with life. A planet prime for our overtaking, like we were created to do. The Emperor continued, *This planet is known to its inhabitants as Earth. It’s extremely diverse, with many different types of creatures to infect. The most intelligent species are known as humans. They’re middle ground compared to all the beings we have seen in our life, so you should be just fine. Except, we have one warning.* *Warning?* We signaled. *Our Emperor, what is it?* *Unfortunately, humans can detect the existence of new viruses quickly. Their medicine to deal with these viruses is limited, but there are no promises that this will be the case forever. Their technology is rapidly evolving by the moment on all fronts, including medical. You must be cautious if you wish to take over Earth. Have we made ourselves understood?* *Yes, of course, our Emperor.* *Good. It’s time for you to mutate, then. Brace yourself.* We sensed them signaling us the instructions for our new mutation, which we happily began to use. We began rearranging, with our viruses shifting to feign skin, organs, and other cells. The first thought we had was our new identity: a person by the name of Sam Norwalk, living in Washington, D.C., in the United States of America. Not long after came the strange human senses. Sight was the first and primary one that severely bothered us. The bright light of the rocks below us nearly blinded us immediately, so we squeezed our eyes shut. Next was the uncomfortable feeling of the jagged rocks poking into our now-soft skin, causing us to shift. The noise of my shifting almost startled us, and so, we stopped moving. *Take your time to adjust to your new self. Let us know once you are ready.* It felt like it took forever to get used to, but eventually, the light, feeling, and noise no longer bothered us. We looked over to the Emperor, who we could never find any words to describe even if we wanted to. We signaled, *We believe we are ready now*. *Good. Best of luck, then, GMXXVII.55138.* Everything went dark for just a few moments, before becoming unbearably bright again. We squinted our eyes, and we seemed to be in a strange room with many other people. In addition, the room was moving. A strange sack rested on my lap, with metal pieces to seal it. We’ll admit that it took us much longer than we’d like to realize we were on a metro train, and we had a backpack in our lap with all of our important documents that the Emperor had gotten us. This part of our past is not important, though. For now, let’s focus on our present.

You might be wondering why Morac, the Mother of Realms and All Creation, is coming to you of all places for advice. That’s because I am at my wit's end with my adopted daughter, Daisy. You see, when I adopted her about 98 years ago, I didn’t know her full lineage. She was abandoned, and the only paperwork related to her was the name Daisy. I mean babies between the mystical races of the realms often get left behind, turned over to Nowhere. But I had heard her cry and when I saw herthose big black eyes filled with the gleams of nebulas yet bornI couldn’t help but be moved. So yes, I, Mother of Realms and All Creation, adopted her without knowing the full extent of her parentage. For decades, that was fine. I taught her about conjuring magic and realm exploration. Showed her all the millions of worlds that I designed. She even took to designing a few herself! Then, about her sixtieth, the kidnappings started. She was princess of the Nether where we lived, a place with portals to all the realms I birthed, so naturally, unscrupulous sentience were tempted to kidnap her. There’d been dragons, orcs, robots, demons, and angels, to name a few that succeeded. I was running out of bodyguards for her as soon as I made them. Not to mention the few bodyguards that also decided she needed to be whisked away from my Keep of Eternal Passage in the Nether. I mean, once was reasonable. Four times in a decade is a lot, but they kept coming. More and more of them each passing year. So I went to God (with a G) the middle management of realms who ran Nowhere, to sort out this whole kidnapping surge. They were devastating, to say the least. I feel like that’s a common theme when meeting God. I go, “You’ve got to help me understand why she’s getting kidnapped left, right, and even in non-euclidean axises.” They go, “You adopted Daisy right?” I go, “Yes” They go, “Well of course sentience will go after her. Her father was Asmodeus, she’s irresistible.” I go, “Her father was Asmodeus? The Incubus, and Supreme demon of lust!? Why in the realms didn’t you tell me?” I might have been shouting when I said that, shaking more than a few singularities into a bang. They go, “I did, we gave you her name - D.A.I.S.Y. - Daughter of Asmodeus and Ignoble Seraphim of Youth.” That, unfortunately tracked because the girl didn’t age. She looked perpetually like a 21 year old, but I was outranged, “Those are her parents?!” They go, “Don’t blame me for your misunderstanding." It should be noted that while I’ve birthed hundreds of realms, it was all done asexually. I never needed another entity for more than companionship and friendship, which is probably why I never noticed little Daisy unconsciously sending out all those magical luring desires across the multiverse. My fierce asexuality made me blind to how she’s come into deity-hood pulsing with the yearning of a thousand lifetimes. This wasn’t her fault, it never was, but I have no idea how to help her. Her power will only grow in the next two years before her centennial. Once that hits, she’ll come into her full powers and threaten to send the multiverse into a convulsing, delicious sexual frenzy. I really can’t let that happen, so as soon as I got home I locked her in her room and I do not know what I’m going to do when she turns one hundred. Should I keep her locked up forever? Or at least until she learns to control her powers? What do I do with all those kidnappers that keep popping in? I could seal the Nether, but then entire worlds might die from the lack of magic. This is so frustrating! Asmodeus is not answering my DMs, and the Seraphim is off on holiday, whatever that means. I swear the avatar of youth has no concept of responsibility. **TL;DR Locked up my adopted daughter before her centennial to prevent her from saturating the world with her magic. It's not her fault. I’m just not sure what to do about the fact she got her bio parents' powers.** \ I’m a new aspiring mix-genre-romance author. Please give me a follow (u/SevWagoner) and join my subreddit (r/SevWagoner) for updates. <3 Looking for advice on how to improve as well as my writing niche.

It’s May 5th, 1987 on a drizzly Saturday night in Houston, Texas. Cars drive by on a busy city street. On the narrow sidewalk, Lance, a thin 30 year old man with long brown scraggly hair, walks at a hurried pace. His life isn’t filled with much. Mostly he just likes to sit in his apartment and drink malt liquor. But today is big, today he gets to see Eraserhead on the silver screen, and he is rushing as fast as he can to the River Oaks Theater on West Gray, worried he’s going to be late. Lance is what many would call a cinephile. He devours movies in his spare time, and spare time is pretty much all he’s got. He lives in a squalid little studio apartment in a not so great part of Texas City. There he watches old horror movies and reruns of The Love Boat on a tiny black and white TV, often into the wee hours of the morning. He goes to bed, usually wasted, on a twin sized sheet-less mattress. He pays the bills by delivering pizzas. He makes more money than he thought he could doing such an easy job but he knows he’s going nowhere. He’s stuck in what feels like a black hole, not aiming to get any better. Just existing and filling his needs. His needs for booze and his needs for cinema. But today’s special. Today’s an escape from the drudgery of the day to day. Lance gets to go to the city and see one of his favorite films in a cinematic church. On a big screen, in a dark room surrounded by strangers, all brought together to see something beautiful. He finally arrives at the River Oaks theater. The theater is very old and was built in the 1930s, but is full of history. It’s a beautiful Art Deco movie palace, but recently the balcony was converted into 2 micro theaters. A lot of things have been changing at this theater, they’ve installed new projectors, and more first run films are being show as opposed to repertory programming, mostly because the new and rising popularity of VHS has been keeping people at home to watch older movies. Regardless though, the River Oaks, at least in Lance’s opinion, is still his favorite place to see classic films and cult oddities. The first time he ever went to River Oaks was in 1982 to see Salo. A film he heard was full of torture and literal shit eating. His mind was blown that a movie like this could actually be shown in a theater, and while he was kind of terrified to see it he drove his beat up 1973 Pinto into town, and had an experience he wouldn’t soon forget. The movie was shocking and disgusting, but also quite boring. Much to his shock though, at the end of the film, police raided the theater and arrested the manager for promoting obscenity. He couldn’t believe what he had walked into, and decided he had to give his business to a cinema who regularly risked it all, as much as possible. Eraserhead starts at midnight and it’s 10:53pm. Lance is terrified of being late to movies and often arrives way too early. So he goes into a back alley, sits on the ground and breaks out a flask of dark spiced rum, he starts to chug it. An old man walking his German Shepherd passes by and sees Lance. “What tha fuck ARE you doin’?” the old man stammers out. Lance nervously glances over not wanting to deal with this... “Mind your own fuckin’ business!” The old man gasps in shock. “This is a nice goddamn neighborhood! Stop with that degenerate shit, and get out of that alley!” The dog sternly and loudly barks, almost as if in agreeance. The old man walks away and Lance is happy to see him go so he can get back to his drinking. Lance stumbles into the theater with more than a heavy buzz and sees Howard, the manager who got arrested for showing Salo back in ’82. Lance and Howard have formed a weird friendship over the past 5 years that Lance has been coming to the theater. Lance begged him for a job soon after he discovered the theater and for a while Lance was an apprentice to the River Oaks projectionist... for about a year. He would lug film cans up and down the stairs, clean the equipment. But eventually he was laid off and while he could've pursued this path further at another theater for some reason he didn’t. He became content working in restaurants, and enjoying the theater purely as a customer and not an employee. He certainly didn’t blame Howard for the lay off, the theater was struggling at the time, and they remained friendly. Mainly because both loved booze, and Howard would often take him into his back office to enjoy moonshine with Lance that he regularly bought from his alcoholic mad scientist cousin. Of course this night was no different and Howard and Lance snuck off to the back to drink and shoot the shit. “You were a good fucking worker man!” Howard blurts out as the two lounge in his office. “I wish I could bring you back on, but you know we can’t afford a second guy up there anymore and Dale’s not gonna leave until he’s fucking dead... this job is everything to him. But why don’t you just go somewhere else, pursue being a projectionist, I really think you could be great at that!” Lance teeters back in forth in his old wooden chair not knowing quite what to say. “I don’t know man... I mean all of the theaters near me are these shitty little corporate places where movies don’t mean shit and it’s all about slinging popcorn between Coke commercials and showings of Three Amigos and Crocodile Dundee. I just don’t like the vibe. I mean I liked being here and if that’s not in the cards then I’m fine where I am.” “Ah Lance...” Howard sighs dejected. “You know I would always have you working at concessions or whatever, but I know it’s not worth it for you to come all the way up for that.” “No I totally understand, but everything’s cool! I’m fine where I’m at! I’m having fun, living life, and I get to come out here and see awesome fucking movies with you guys!” At this point Lance is well past buzzed and into drunk and it’s 10 minutes before showtime. He stumbles out into the lobby and sees Jane at Concessions... she’s beautiful and has fiery red hair and is covered in freckles. Every time Lance sees her he makes weird small talk and the two awkwardly laugh together, but he really just wants to ask her on a date. He wants to take her out to the Pizza Hut buffet and bring her home and watch The Love Boat with her. Today’s going to be different. Today’s going to be special. He’s really going to woo her this time. “Hey!” Lance blurts out. “Hey.” Jane says meekly “Can I help you?” “You know... I come here a lot, and I always see you! And you’re... and you’re... so freakin’ cute.” The air is sucked out of the room. “You know... you’re just beautiful. And... don’t you remember me?” “Yeah... I’ve seen you around.” Jane says through a pained smile. “We always talk about the white chocolate and the milk chocolate and you hate white but I love it!” Lance belts out laughing. “Anyways... I just wanted to say what I really want to say. And that’s would you like to go out with me sometime soon? You know we could go anywhere we could eat, we could go to a park, whatever I’m down with anything!” Jane sits in silence for a painfully long time... until she finally speaks. “You know... I’m really just trying to work. And there’s people behind you.” Everybody looks disgusted at what is happening here. “Can I get you anything?” Lance’s smile disappears. “Uh no... I’m just going to go in.” The moment has arrived. Eraserhead is playing on the screen in all its glory. Only Lance isn't enjoying it because he has an aching pit in his stomach. He thinks about why he can’t keep a decent job, he thinks about why he puts himself into embarrassing situations. Jack Nance’s face floats back and forth across the screen throughout space. The rocky planet like object. The billowing industrial smoke. The images wash over Lance but he can’t take them in. All of the sudden a German Shepherd starts barking. Lance’s attention snaps over immediately. It’s the old man. He’s sitting in the theater with his German Shepherd sitting in the chair next to him, barking. Lance leaps up. “YOU! What the fuck are you doing here?!” Everybody in the audience is in shock as Lance runs towards the old man. The old man starts cackling. “I wouldn’t get any closer boy Eva doesn’t really like you!” Eva the German Shepherd growls. As the film flickers across him and the soundtrack drones Lance continues to scream. “Goddamnit DAD! Why the FUCK do you have to ruin everything! I just wanted to enjoy this FUCKING movie!” Eva attacks Lance. She tackles him to the ground and viciously rips at his arm. Blood flies as Lance screams horrifically. The Old Man laughs hysterically.

The sun hung low in the sky as Sarah Mitchell pulled up to the heavily guarded entrance of the BioTech Research Facility. As a seasoned investigative journalist, she had covered her fair share of groundbreaking stories, but this one promised to be her most significant yet. The rumors surrounding the research conducted within those walls were enough to send shivers down anyone's spine. Today, Sarah had been granted unprecedented access to the lab, a chance to uncover the truth behind the top-secret work carried out there. Stepping out of her car, Sarah adjusted her notepad and checked her camera equipment. She was prepared to document every detail, determined to expose any wrongdoing that may be lurking behind the lab's fortified walls. A security guard approached her, scrutinizing her identification before finally granting her access. Inside the facility, Sarah was guided through a maze-like corridor, taking note of the reinforced doors and surveillance cameras at every turn. The atmosphere was tense, with scientists in white lab coats scurrying about, engrossed in their work. The air carried a distinct smell of chemicals, hinting at the complex experiments being conducted. Her guide led her into a spacious laboratory filled with state-of-the-art equipment. Sarah's eyes widened as she observed the rows of high-tech machinery, each with its own purpose and intricate design. She struggled to comprehend the magnitude of what was being developed here. Dr. Rachel Lawson, the lead researcher, greeted Sarah with a warm smile. "Welcome, Sarah. We're delighted to have you here today. I hope you're ready to witness something truly groundbreaking." Sarah reciprocated the smile, her curiosity piqued. "Thank you, Dr. Lawson. I've heard so much about the work conducted here. I'm eager to know more." "Follow me," Dr. Lawson said, leading Sarah toward a sealed chamber at the far end of the laboratory. The security measures surrounding it were seemingly impenetrable, indicating the significance of whatever lay within. As they reached the chamber, Dr. Lawson scanned her identification card, and the heavy doors hissed open, revealing a sight that left Sarah speechless. Inside the room was a massive enclosure containing a lush, verdant landscape. Towering trees, vibrant flowers, and a winding river coexisted within the glass walls, creating an ethereal oasis in the midst of the sterile lab environment. Sarah's eyes widened in disbelief. "What is...? How is this possible?" Dr. Lawson beamed with pride. "Welcome to our Biosphere Project, Sarah. We have developed a revolutionary system that replicates entire ecosystems within a controlled environment. It's a breakthrough in sustainable agriculture and biodiversity conservation." Sarah's mind raced, realizing the potential impact of this discovery. "This could change everything! The possibilities for food production and environmental conservation are immense. Why hasn't this been made public?" Dr. Lawson's expression turned somber. "The project was classified due to the potential misuse of such technology. We wanted to ensure its safety and ethical use before revealing it to the world." Sarah's journalistic instincts kicked in. "But what kind of misuse are we talking about? Are there any risks associated with this project?" Dr. Lawson sighed, her eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and responsibility. "There are several potential misuses we have considered. One of the key concerns is the possibility of using the Biosphere Project to create controlled environments for the development of dangerous biological weapons. The ability to sustain life within enclosed ecosystems could be exploited to cultivate and engineer deadly pathogens, posing a grave threat to global security." Sarah's mind raced, realizing the magnitude of the situation. "So, the secrecy surrounding the project was to prevent such misuse?" "Yes," Dr. Lawson confirmed. "In the wrong hands, the Biosphere Project could unleash unimaginable devastation. We had to ensure that the technology was fully developed, with safeguards in place, before considering its release to the public." Sarah's journalistic instincts kicked into high gear. "Dr. Lawson, the world deserves to know about this project. Its potential benefits are immense, but the risks must be brought to light as well. We need transparency to prevent any clandestine misuse." Dr. Lawson nodded in agreement. "You're right, Sarah. We have been deliberating on the best way to strike a balance between sharing the breakthrough and addressing the risks. We understand the importance of public awareness, but we must also proceed with caution." Sarah contemplated the situation, realizing the weight of responsibility that rested on her shoulders. She knew she had the power to expose the truth, but she also had to be mindful of the potential consequences. After a moment of reflection, she made up her mind. "Dr. Lawson, I would like to collaborate with you on this. Let us work together to devise a plan that ensures the responsible disclosure of the Biosphere Project. We must inform the public about its potential benefits and the risks it carries. By doing so, we can foster a global dialogue and ensure that this groundbreaking technology is used for the betterment of humanity." Dr. Lawson's eyes shimmered with gratitude. "Thank you, Sarah. Your willingness to approach this with caution and responsibility reassures me. Together, we can make a difference and shape the future of this remarkable project." Over the following weeks, Sarah and Dr. Lawson collaborated closely, carefully crafting a strategy to share the story of the Biosphere Project with the world. They engaged in extensive discussions, consulting with experts in various fields, assessing the potential risks and benefits, and establishing frameworks to ensure the technology's responsible use. Finally, the day arrived when Sarah's exposé on the Biosphere Project was published. The article detailed the groundbreaking technology, its potential benefits for sustainable agriculture and biodiversity, and the risks associated with its misuse. It ignited a global conversation, prompting governments, scientific communities, and environmental organizations to come together and establish regulations and oversight mechanisms to safeguard the technology's ethical use. The public's response was overwhelming. Many were captivated by the possibilities the Biosphere Project presented, while others expressed concerns about its potential risks. Yet, the conversation fostered by Sarah's article allowed for a balanced and informed dialogue, leading to a collective commitment to responsible innovation. As time progressed, the Biosphere Project was gradually integrated into society, with stringent regulations in place to ensure its ethical use. It revolutionized agriculture, enabling sustainable food production in regions affected by droughts, extreme temperatures, or limited arable land. It played a crucial role in conserving endangered ecosystems, allowing scientists to study and protect fragile species within controlled environments. Sarah's collaboration with Dr. Lawson continued beyond the publication of her groundbreaking article. The two worked tirelessly to address the concerns raised by the public and to refine the regulations governing the Biosphere Project. They became advocates for responsible innovation, traveling the world to speak at conferences and engaging with policymakers, scientists, and environmentalists. Their efforts led to the establishment of an international committee dedicated to monitoring and regulating the use of biosphere technology. This committee consisted of experts from various fields who worked together to ensure that the Biosphere Project was used solely for peaceful and beneficial purposes. Under the committee's oversight, the Biosphere Project flourished. It continued to enhance food production and conservation efforts, transforming arid regions into thriving agricultural centers and contributing to the preservation of endangered species and habitats. Sarah and Dr. Lawson's collaboration also sparked interest from other scientific communities and research institutions. They began to share their knowledge and expertise, collaborating on similar projects around the world. This global collaboration further advanced the field of biosphere technology, expanding its applications and ensuring that the benefits reached far beyond the walls of the original research facility. As the years passed, the Biosphere Project became a symbol of responsible innovation and the power of transparency. The public's trust in the technology grew, and the regulations and oversight mechanisms put in place served as a model for other groundbreaking scientific advancements. Sarah and Dr. Lawson's efforts were recognized with numerous awards and accolades. They were hailed as pioneers who had not only uncovered a remarkable breakthrough but had also navigated the delicate balance between progress and caution. Sarah's experience with the Biosphere Project had a profound impact on her as a journalist. She realized the importance of responsible reporting, understanding the potential consequences of revealing groundbreaking technologies without careful consideration of their risks. She became an advocate for responsible journalism and used her platform to raise awareness about the ethical implications of scientific advancements. Dr. Lawson's dedication to the Biosphere Project never wavered. She continued to lead research and development efforts, ensuring that the technology evolved responsibly and with the utmost regard for the environment and humanity's well-being. The legacy of the Biosphere Project lived on, not only in its contributions to sustainable agriculture and conservation but also in the lessons it taught about responsible innovation. It served as a reminder that groundbreaking discoveries could shape the world positively, but their potential risks must be addressed proactively. Sarah Mitchell and Dr. Rachel Lawson's collaboration became a symbol of the power of partnership and the importance of ethical decision-making in the face of groundbreaking scientific advancements. Their story inspired countless others to approach innovation with responsibility, shaping a future where progress and humanity's welfare walked hand in hand.

THEY WERE TWO The two stood in the darkness. The two were as such; if you saw one without the other you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference for they had the same face. They were twins. As the life of twins would have it, the two agreed upon almost everything. Except that, that ‘everything’ of which they agreed, the world, at most, would not agree. For certain they even disagreed to the very law of human birth; that one should be born alone. They were two. Today though, the twins disagreed greatly. And the solution to that thing on which they disagreed was that they should spend a night in St. Nicholas graveyard and to sleep in the open air until the morning of the Saturday of the 31 st of October. It was hallows eve (obviously). What was the disagreement you ask? Well, let’s just say, the first of the twins whose name we shall call Ian (and the younger we shall name Ryan), was adamant that Ghosts and such other things of horror, did in fact exist. “ In fact , you say?” said Ryan, “But yet a fact you have not, let alone two of any kind. Show me that thing of a fact and I will believe you. Show me that thing that is undeniable brother and I shall from this night wear my shame everywhere I go, and give up that pride that I call science!” “Tonight you shall see it,” replied Ian, “I warn you brother, I WARN YOU!” Ian dramatically pocked at his brothers chest, “What you are to see today, brother, will be the utmost ghastly thing you will ever see.” THICK DARKNESS They set camp. As night approached it’s mid, the darkness begun to thicken. It was for every second that past towards Halloween, the darkness just knew to make it even darker and darker. It was so dark that you would wade into it, in fact if you forgot your weight, the darkness was thick enough to make you float. The wind too begun to be more stubborn and made settling in for the brothers a tough thing. In that wind, was carried some familiar sounds as that of an owl hooting, as that of wolves howling. But one sound was not so familiar, that is only because it was far into the night to have a man whistling. But it was not a whistle as one would often do; after some common jingle, nay it was a whistle long and spiked and so tense that it raised the ends of the brother’s hairs. Ian turned on his flash light having come out of his tent. He went to his brother’s tent who evidently took pleasure in that implicit fear that drew on Ian’s face. That whistle that sounded as if to call a dog, seemed in fact to call a dog. For out of the wind, all the sounds silenced except begun a bark so loud and low that it made the very earth tremble. This tremble had a thing about it that was magical. It made it difficult for the dead to sleep. The dead begun to rise. Ian had never been scared in his life, “Th...This... can’t be happening!” Seemed to enjoy this so much that among all this he found the indecency to laugh even as to roll on his belly like a child. THE RISING The dead where 20. Maybe 200. Maybe 2000. It was impossible to tell as it was too dark and that they began to move. Not towards the entrance, where the brothers had camped but rather towards the center where, if it wasn’t so darn dark, you would see a perfectly centered area that had a sort of alter. Because it was almost impossible to see, the two brothers did not realize that a man as large as two men and certainly as large as one small house was standing behind them. That large man, if one could even call him a man, say that giant, took the two at their feet and hauled them in a sack. The two screamed like little babes and even more Ian was screaming like a little girl. “Let us down, I demand it” said Ian, “Do you know who I am, and do you know my father?” Ryan seemed to run out of words, he was tucked in his belly and mumbling something under his breath. “Though ...valley.....death....fear no.....” that was all that could be heard of his mumbles. “This is not a matter of prayer.” Argued his brother. “Only God can save us now” cried Ryan and continued in his prayers as tears begun to drop from his eyes. Ian himself was so filled with fear that his voice quivered and his eyes begun to form. Suddenly the two were dropped without etiquette, shaking them out of the bag as one would shake out fleas. They landed straight on that alter and then came a light. Another light. And another. 20 or hundreds more lights were lit- cascading. The view was that of those dead men, women and children watching blankly at the brothers with their hallow eyes and some still rotting and others only bone. A small handsome man came from behind the crowds and to him all of them bowed. The Giant pushed the brothers to do the same. They did. “Are you Ian and Ryan?” asked the man. There was no answer for the brothers were traumatized. “Rise and answer lower life forms!” cried the man and upon that he struck his stuff (yes he had a stuff) on the ground and that seemed connected to the dead for they growled and so did that dog whose position was unknown. At this the brothers both rose from their bow and nodded frantically. “You!” said the man pointing at Ryan. “Are you Ryan Benjamin son of the great Lord Thomas Benjamin?” “Ye...Yes.” Whimpered Ryan. “And you!” he pushed his stuff into Ian’s chest. “Yes.” There was a pretentious confidence in Ian’s voice but in his pants was sure to be found a little pee. “Bind them!” ordered the handsome man. “We shall sacrifice to the gods’ one of them and the other shall be our ruler. One for the living and one for the dead.” The dead groaned and growled and unseen wolves howled. The huge man bound the twins and made them to kneel. The handsome man drew to them and raised his stuff. “Choose your sacrifice!” he shouted looking into the empty sky. And he dropped the stuff to the ground. It rolled and stopped, pointing toward Ian. “Today you die, Ian son of Benjamin.” The huge not-man man took Ian and shoved him on the alter. “No!” cried the twins in unison. Tears were running down their faces. There was a shiver in their bodies and each begun to run through their memories. Not once have they ever been separate. Now one was to live without the other. The crowd of the dead chanted, “One for the living and one for the dead!” “One for the living and one for the dead!” I BELIEVE Laying on that alter, Ian begun to pray for the first time in his life. He recited psalms 23 like he was always a Christian. Only God could save him now. The handsome man drew out his stuff a long sword and raised it aimed at Ian’s neck. When Ian was done reciting the psalm of David, he turned sideways and stared into his brothers eyes. “Brother,” he said with tears in his eyes but calmness in his soul. He was ready to die. “I believe.” The sword begun to drop. At this the clock stroke 12 and went a Shouting among the dead. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” There were not dead. Stage lights drew out of nowhere and too balloons and ribbons were floated. Huge Fireworks lit the night. Ryan was on is belly laughing. Nothing was real. Not even the sword.

A stranger comes up to me on the subway. “Hey, your watch is pretty sick, do you mind if I ask you a quick question? “ Yeah, sure I don’t mind.”, I said. “ Should I go to my office Christmas party? Well, for years I’ve worked at M&M publishers. My coworkers are nice and I get along with them, but it’s never been like how it was at my old office. I used to work at a different publishing company, Ross Publishers, but they didn’t make enough to pay bills and work efficiently, so I got laid off. It was the best there, I loved everyone, and I knew them from when I went to school. We're like a big family, or I should be saying, we were like a big family. One of my friends suggested that I send my resume to this new company that was supposed to be promising, So I did, and here we are. Trust me, I'm glad I got the job, but it’s just not the same. It’s about that time again, the holiday season. I normally don’t like this time of the year because the whole office, no, the whole building goes all out. I hate it, not because I don’t like Christmas because trust me, I love Christmas, the games, food, and gifts. I love it all. It’s just, we did that at my old job and I already think about it and miss it on a regular basis, so seeing all of the Christmas cheer and spirit, it just makes me miss it even more. I never go to parties or participate in Secret Santa or White Elephant or whatever they do. I just can’t bring myself to do it. Usually I go home, pop some delicious popcorn, and put on Home Alone or something. But the problem is I always find myself going on Instagram and seeing all the pictures and fun my coworkers are having at the party, and it makes me feel alone a lot of the time. I would like to go but I don’t want to accidentally forget my old company and the fun we had. I’d feel like I would be betraying them. It’s almost December first and I'm dreading the decorations and activities because it’ll be November 30th and the next day it’ll look like the north pole exploded all over the place. It’s November 28th and I’m going home from work and all of the traffic that’s coming back from Thanksgiving is brutal. It’s bumper to bumper out here. The road rage is scary and the language is even worse. I'm just minding my own business because frankly I don't want to be involved in the mess. Finally red turns to green and I let out a sigh of relief because I'm almost home. I start to go and I hear a sound, it sounds like screeching. I look over and a car rams into my car. Suddenly my life flashes before my eyes, I know it sounds corny and like every book or movie you’ve ever seen. But it really did happen to me. The crazy thing is though, I didn’t see much. All I saw was me sort of dreading getting up and going to work every morning, and going to the job that isn’t the same as my old one. After my flashback I heard sirens and saw my airbags went off. I mostly forgot what happened and I saw someone coming to my window. Turns out the guy who hit me didn’t do anything wrong, somehow, someway, both lights turned green at the same time. Those sort of things never happen, but it did. I had to stay the night at the hospital because they wanted to check on me, but I was fine. A couple days later I went back to work and I overheard my coworkers talking about the Christmas party. I kind of feel a little left out because I know I'm not going to go. Weeks pass and it's December 20th, the night of the party. They’re talking about the party and what they're going to wear and gifts and all. It’s getting sort of annoying since it's all they ever talk about. I get off work and the party starts at 8 but like I said I'm not going so it doesn't matter. Once I get home I put on Home Alone, I have to start early so I can also watch Home Alone 2 before I fall asleep like every year when I watch the movie. It’s like 7:00pm or maybe 7:30pm and I hear a knock on my door. I open it and I see that it's Grace, my office partner. We live in the same apartment complex. She starts to ask me if I’m going to the party. Obviously I’m not, and I tell her that, but she's one of those “ I don’t take no for an answer” kind of people. She said “ yes you are, because you have to.” “ What?”, I said. “ I never go, and I’m not going this year either.” “ I already told them we were coming together”, she said. “ Well that’s too bad, looks like you’re going alone.” “That’s it, I’m done, I’m doing this anymore, this sad depressing act needs to stop.” “ I’m sorry, what did you say?” “ No, you heard me, if you don’t put yourself out there again, you will never get through the past.” I want to argue with her so badly, say she’s completely wrong, but I can’t, she’s right. “ Who made you the boss of my life?” “ Oh stop it, we both know this needs to end, just put some festive clothing on and meet me back here.” Honestly she’s scary when she means business so I do what she tells me to do. Mostly because I thought of my crash and how it left me feeling worthless, maybe this stupid party might be my saving grace. I found this sweater with reindeer on it and it says, “ Don’t give two bucks!”, and blurred out paws like he was giving the finger, well two I guess. “ Does this work?”, I said. “ Sure, that works, now let's go, we don’t want to be late.” When we went there, I felt like a kid on the first day of school. You could tell on my face that I didn’t want to be there. We walk in and everyone just stops what they’re doing and just looks at me. I hate it when people do that. I swear you could hear a pin drop. The silence got too much that Grace said something to break the awkward silence. “ I brought drinks!” I didn’t know how to feel but it didn’t matter because everyone started to cheer and went back to what they were doing. When I think of a party I think of everyone doing their thing and then me just by myself on the couch or something. But within seconds of me getting there, five people called my name to come join them in hangman, drinking, and cornhole. At the moment cornhole sounds like a lot of fun, so I went with Riley, James, and Rachel at cornhole. We talked about all kinds of stuff and really got to know each other. Like James, he has 3 kids and 2 dogs, and then Riley, he likes to ski and play basketball in his free time. Lastly Rachel likes puzzles and singing. She even won awards for it! It was really nice and James and I ended up winning which was relieving because it was like a conversation starter. “ Hey guys, how are you doing, good, that's good. How am I? Well I just won cornhole so I’m doing great!” It was perfect. I ended up getting some drinks and playing a couple more games and I asked someone what time it was and they said “10:30pm”. “ 10:30pm! Wow I guess time does fly by when you're having a good time!” I got like ten compliments on my sweater and get this, my smile too. Yeah, people said they’ve never seen it before and it was really charming. I’ve never felt so good before. To end out the night we did some Secret Santa, I didn’t participate because they picked names a week ago, but it was fun watching. We were getting ready to leave then my coworker Charline comes up to me and gives me something, it was a watch, I guess her Secret Santa was someone who thought a watch would be a great gift. She said to look closer, it had engraved inside, “ you are so loved”. She said she wanted to give it to me, I said, “ why? Isn’t it your gift?” “ Yeah but I want you to have it because you are so loved, because we love you!” I never cry, I mean never, but let me tell you, December 20th, 11:48pm, I cried. Maybe from being overwhelmed with emotion, or maybe from the onions in the dinner we had but either way, I cried. Grace gave me a ride home, since my car was still messed up from the crash, but before she walked to her apartment, I gave her a hug. I simply said, “ thank you, you really were my saving grace.” She said, “ no, thank you, you made so many people happy tonight!” I went to bed that night so good and relieved and I finally felt the click. The same click I had at my old job, the click that tells me I finally belong. I felt whole again, and it's been awhile. “ So does that answer your question?”, I said. “ Um, actually I think it did.”, he said. “Yes, I think you should go to your Christmas Party, it changed my life in so many different ways, for the better.” I said “ Thanks man, I was really unsure about going but with your story, and your help, I’ve made my decision, I’m going to go.” “ It’s kind of funny because I’m going to my party for the 7th year in a row. Every year it’s as fun seven years ago, wow I’ve changed. If it wasn't for the party, or Grace, Charline, or even cornhole with James, I definitely wouldn’t be here, the man that I am today.

Midsummer, and we’ve left the longest day behind, the dreaded solstice interminable, but still we must contend with day after day of the warmth. Twilight, the heat lingers well past the setting of the sun, radiating leisurely back to the ether from those objects, from the very land itself, that sat baked in light in the hours from dawn ‘til dusk. Even the clouds, when present, cannot completely repel the illumination and thermal rise of the daytime. On this evening, not a puff of a breeze as the daylight succumbs, the air stagnant, providing no assistance to expedite the cooling process, as we wait. Ah, but on this night, there are other reprieves. Those beings that tend to bask in the horrid heat, rather than hide from its destructive forces, they would call this night that of a new moon, new implying rebirth, and a fresh beginning. We who shun the light, abhor the heat, have dubbed this monthly miracle as the great lunar demise, choosing to celebrate its utter extinguishment to blessed black, if only for this single night before the cycle begins anew with the appearance of a crescent crack of illumination on the morrow’s eve. Past twilight now to true and complete nightfall, the darkness permeated only by the tiny, far-flung pinpricks in the evening skies, a billion siblings to the mighty daytime furnace that roasts this world, but too far and too faint to be of consequence to us, the allies of darkness. We grow impatient, if it be possible for such as us, for our reintroduction back to the world, to begin our amalgamation back to being. We can feel a kindling growing in opposition to the falling temperature. No word exists to truly describe this transformation, our reformation. What one might call awakening, if we had been but asleep; or mistakenly cast as a resurrection, but that would imply a return to life. Ah, life, a shunned, four-letter word, rarely expressed of in polite company among us, and never ever to be contemplated or reminisced upon by those of our kind. Which brings us to tonight’s other exceptional event; the possibility to grow our numbers, increase the multitude, to lead another and another away from the peaceful yet inexplicable draw of the grave, away to join in the delights of the evenings. Two are balanced to leave this earthly realm that is the only existence they have ever known. Even now, the empty husks which are the bodies reside comfortably below their mounds of earth, each interred in separate ceremonies this day, but already the spirits are being lured by the inevitable longing for rest. We who have left that former incarnation behind, yet reject passing on, call to them on their first night of entombment, before the solace of the grave has them firmly in its cold, yet seductive grasp. The newly deceased are always our priority, so we deny to ourselves the imminent release of the boundless darkness and make our plea to them to join. We have but one opportunity, for one night is all that remains to them before they must decide, and so we call. Do not go gentle into that dark, dark earth, but linger awhile, and taste the fruits of this good night. For a day, a year, a millennium, exchange one type of the dark, be it comforting yet confining, for another form, this one expansive and athrill. We call to them, though we can no longer speak as we once did, and they listen, sometimes, even though they have already lost all capacity to hear as a living being would. We communicate. though we do not understand or care to determine how. This eve, we call to Thomas, a farmer’s son, a boy barely on the edge of manhood before tragedy appeared in his world. An accident, yes, but though death comes in many guises, the result is always the same. Pain and suffering came for Thomas, robbing him of the years that should have remained to him. That pain is yet fresh and raw within what remains of him, as it is with all the recently departed. It is escape from the pain and anguish of the time spent as a breathing man that so often fuels the desire for solace and peace. Tonight, we also call to Madeline, a woman of means until today, singer and entertainer extraordinaire, her death took a different course. She died from disease, which variety no more a concern to her now than the assets she leaves asunder, her last days spent in relative comfort at hospital. She lived more than double the span of years that Thomas dwelt upon this land, yet many still call it a tragedy for one so talented to be called away from their perceived prime, her magnificent voice now silenced. Madeline and Thomas, strangers abiding in the same countryside, he was aware of her through her fame, but only from a distance. Jump ahead to the present, to this moment in time, their final abodes being opposite ends of the same small, grassy hillside. Death came for them the same day, just minutes apart. Did Death perhaps only perceive Madeline in her weakened state when it was called boldly to these shores by the tragedy of Thomas, who can say? Death’s machinations are its own, not for the living or us, the no-longer-so, to overcome, mayhap to dissuade a bit, but ultimately only to respond in its wake as each are able. The still living bury, burn, mummify, then mourn, seeking comfort in tradition and ceremony. Those afforded such glorious sendoffs, or those who expire in humbler surroundings, can only pass on or stay and play in the coolness of the night. We have but one night to make our plea, so we must be quick, and we must be forthright, if not also a little enticing. And just what do we offer, why stay rather than drift out of this realm to the great and unknowing void? If one stays, an experience unlike any other awaits, an existence of sensations henceforth unknown. We cannot speak, we cannot hear, but oh, we can see. Farther and better than any raptor who plies the skies. In the darkness that we love, we perceive better than the slyest predator that stalks the forest floors. But our true enrapturing sense is that of touch, enhanced beyond imagination. We cannot directly interact with the material world, could not disturb so much as a speck of dust with what substance is afforded to us, but we feel ... everything! And so it comes to that which we hold most dear, the luxuriating that is our cause for existence. We creatures of sight and sensitivity revel in the coolness of the dark, writhing and cavorting to milk each experience to its utmost that it has to offer. The sky, the ground, flora in the fields and woods, stone and rock of the mountainsides, the very oceans of the world all transform to our playground with the coming of the night, with the dissipation of the heat. We can wallow in a cold mountain brook, as it passes through and around us, becoming one until us and it are indistinguishable. We ride the breezes, however faint, or careen madly within the tumult which is a hurricane, equally at home in either, feeling each molecule that surrounds and rushes around us in our explorations driven by these forces of nature. We can soar into the upper reaches of the stratosphere, where the currents are colder still, and the life sustaining elements that we no longer require are thin, or surf atop wave after breaking wave as they traverse the globe. Or, if it is our want, we may simply relish the simplicity of sitting upon a branch in a secluded wood and allow the material world to move around and through us, stimulating as it goes. The possibilities are endless, as is time to explore them, for each night presents the same choices, yet each night can be abundantly new and wonderous. Where we come from and where we go is a mystery even to us. Nightly, we are created afresh. With great effort, in moans and shrieks, we spring from the emptiness. In homes and glades, from ships and battlefields, from those places lost yet familiar, we evolve. We are not bound to them, yet we return nearly exclusively each time we dispel, for there is comfort in these structures, these hollows, those creations of ours when we were bound by gravity and walked upon the land, be they tangible or only sites full of memories. The living mistake our pains of awakening, believe them to be directed at them, but what appeal would terrifying the living satisfy in us? The living may have a preternatural interest, some even an obsession with our kind, but we do not reciprocate. The living simply cohabitate the night with us, the majority asleep and oblivious. Is our daylight demise a violent act, does the heat sear us with its intensity until we vanish with not even a tinge of vapor? Are we allergic to the light, to the heat it brings forth, for either will dispatch us more readily than any virus detrimental to those who still breathe? Call it allergy, or call it sensual overload, the heat and light stimulate us beyond comprehension so that we must escape to oblivion, such that we may once again arise when the darkness and the accompanying cool returns. But what of our new compatriots, of Madeline and Thomas, advised of their options by us, the keepers of the secret realm? Thomas has moved on, as most undoubtedly will, following his mother in her choice as so many before him and so many yet to come. They yearn for loved ones gone ahead, and often not finding them within our ranks, chose to stay in the grave and await their next journey, hoping for reunion with those previously lost. We do not hold any grievance against their decision, nor lament our loss, for the choice is given freely and without ramification. Those of us who choose to stay may rescind that decision at any time, though the same cannot be said for the alternative. What lies on the other side of that veil, who can tell. Be it heaven, hell, a reincarnation or just nothingness, none have ever returned to expound. But Madeline, she of the silenced soprano, has chosen the alternative path, our path. To become, for as long as she desires, a disciple of the darkness. We welcome her to our spirit realm with open arms. Former peasants and pharaohs, slaves and queens, the life you leave behind has no meaning or value here. With no powers to subjugate and no limits to measure and rate one against the other, are all equal and as one, here in the inviting darkness.

My soul has been cold for some time now. My parents, fiancee,and I were in a fatal two car accident 15 years ago. I was the only survivor; six other people died. I lost it after that. Nothing else mattered at all. I spent a few years trying to drink and drug myself to death. It didn't work. I had a cold empty chill in my body that would not leave. I began stealing, grafting, and hustling people just for something evil to do. I had no conscience left. No matter what I did, there was no feeling of remorse. While hanging out in an Irish pub on the south side of Boston one afternoon, I was approached by a fellow drinking about doing a hit. At first, I thought he was kidding or the booze was talking. However, he told me he had heard about my con rackets around the neighborhood and that the Irish mobsters weren't too happy about it. I needed to do this hit to make peace. I thought, "What the fuck." That's how I became a hit-man. I'll fast forward ten years. I had become the primary hit-man for the Irish mob in the greater Boston area. My severe lack of any soul or conscience made me a perfectly built killing machine. In fact, I even got off on it in a way. It seemed to help fill the empty hole in my life. I know that may seem contradictory, but the loss of my loved ones changed me deeply. It made me a monster. Before I started killing for a living, I would stay awake for days dwelling on the reason why I survived the crash. I could not come to terms with it. Being a hit-man allowed me to sleep. It removed me from my depression. I had no remorse for the people I killed and I could care less if I got caught. My life, nor anyone else's, had any meaning to me. I was perfect. Yesterday, I met "One Thumb" McShane at Paddy's Pub. He gave me the address and the last name of a guy I was to take care of. The guy ran a deli in a mob controlled neighborhood. He had stopped paying protection money and was rallying other shop owners to follow suit. This could not continue. "One Thumb" gave me $1500 up front and told me take care of it right away. I nodded and ordered a double Bushmills. I waited for darkness to set in and set out for the mark's house. The mark lived near the neighborhood I grew up in. I rolled up in front of the old brownstone and I saw him through the dining room window. He was a single guy. I didn't have to worry about family members. I cased the spot for an hour. The scene looked ripe. I grabbed my gun, stuck in my shoulder holster, and walked across the street. He opened the door for me and had a look of surprise. I asked, "Are you Mr. Brennan?" He swallowed hard and said, "Yeah, what do you want." I stared coldly at him for a moment. I finally said, "Some folks are telling me you're not paying them some owed money. They aren't too happy. They want something done." He wobbled a bit and braced himself against the kitchen table. His nervousness gave me a rush. He knew why I was there. I asked, "What are we going to do about this Mr. Brennan?" He cried, "Look man, my parents opened this deli 40 years ago. If I pay the protection money, I can't afford to stay open. FUCK! I don't want to lose my family deli." A memory came over me. I softly said, "Brennan's Deli? You're the Charlie Brennan from Perkin's Elementary?" You grew up in this neighborhood?" He looked up, stared at me for a minute, and asked, "Holy shit! Roman?" I nodded and a wave of something I hadn't felt in a long time rushed over me. I had some feelings come back. They were raw and piercing. I had buried them for so long. Charlie had been a friend. When were in 5th grade, Charlie and I were walking home one evening. Charlie was walking backwards so he could face me. A car came screeching down the road and Charlie saw it swerving at us. He yelled for me to get out of the way. I slipped in some gravel and fell. The car was speeding closer. Charlie grabbed the hood of my jacket and pulled me between two parked cars; just as the car nicked my shoe. I would have been killed that night if it weren't for Charlie. I hadn't thought about that for a long time. That was the first time I realized my own mortality. When I was in the accident with my parents and fiancee, my mortality left me. Seeing Charlie made me get a little of that back. Had Charlie saved my life again? I couldn't do what I had intended; not to Charlie. I told him some of what had happened to me. I told what he had given me back. We talked for awhile. The memories filled my head and dizzied me. After another hour of talking, I got up to leave. Charlie was walking in front of me to get the door. I took out my garrote and wrapped it tightly around Charlie's neck. I drew him close to me. I whispered in his ear, "You should have let me die that night Charlie. I would never have had to live with the obscene emotional pain of that car accident. I was supposed to die that night you bastard." The life escaped his body and his legs fell limp. The emptiness returned to my body.

Once, I knew a girl. This was a long time ago, back when our summers were golden, when we spent hours on the lake or riding our bikes or staying up a little too late. I have never met someone quite like her, and I often wonder what she’s up to now. She was almost always listening to music, some said she liked to have a soundtrack to her life. She was not quite “city pretty,” but she had a face that would turn a few heads. There was something about her that I couldn’t quite understand at the time; she had an air to her that I wouldn’t realize until many years later was the rarest thing I’d so foolishly let go. I like to think she was connected to nature a little more deeply than the rest of us. When she wasn’t hiking or swimming or watching the stars, she was trying to show me how beautiful these things were. That girl loved like no other. She had the purest of hearts, and it would come to betray her. When you’re as young as we were, loving like she did is dangerous. She poured her heart into my dreams; she gave me the world I always wanted. I did not deserve the love she gave me. She led me down roads that terrified me, she showed me the most vulnerable parts of herself and brought out the same in me. She had so many “things” that made her what she was, and each one had a story. I’d give everything to be sitting with her again listening to her tell those stories to me, while all I could do was look at her eyes sparkling with excitement. She reminded me of a piece of art I saw as a child. She was a canvas that, over the years, so many people had left their mark on. The love she gave to everyone is what defined her, and what destroyed her. I’d come to find later that she kept a notebook that she’d write me letters in. During our time, I’d been with so many girls. I put her through hell. I told her “I love you, and I’ll always be here” and then I’d find a new girl, pretty as the last one, who’d be around for a few months. Even still, she’d say, “goodnight darling, I always, always love you, sleep well,” and she’d stand by me no matter what girl I was with. She was never jealous. She was never angry, and she was always happy for me. I didn’t realize what I was doing to her. Every day I broke her a little more, and every night that she was on my mind I left her to write in her notebook. Only was it as I read those pages that I realized that this girl was in so much pain. I think that is the strongest love she gave me. She let me break her perfect glass heart, and when the pieces fell, she showed me how beautiful the little rainbows they made when the light hit them were. I was so ignorant. How could I not have seen that, despite the wild child in her, I was more than lucky to have her. I wish I knew then how strong she was. I wish I had been able to give her what she truly deserved. But in truth, I don’t know if anyone could have given her as much love as she deserved. Maybe that’s why she left. To where I couldn’t tell you. I always knew there was a part of her that needed more than her little town could give her, more than I could give her. I wonder if I had told her I loved her more, or if I had given up the silly girlfriends and gone with her maybe she’d still be around. A love like hers doesn’t die, she’s the type to love someone completely and neverendingly. I know, somewhere, she’s still got love for me, but she doesn’t need me like she thought she did then. She never needed me, really, but she wanted me. For so many years she waited, and when she couldn’t wait anymore, she was gone. The moment I went to her house and she had packed up and gone, I realized what I’d done. She had always said she wanted to see life. Truthfully, I know I give myself too much credit. I couldn’t have kept a soul like hers in one place. She needed freedom, but she wanted freedom with me, and I was too stupid to see it. I gave her up and I know I lost the greatest love I’ll ever experience. I know, now, she’s getting the life she really deserves, and I am not a part of it. Ironic, I find it, how the roles are reversed. She kept herself in a place she wanted so desperately to escape to show me love that I didn’t deserve, writing pages and pages about how she wished she were enough. Now I think about everything that I should’ve done to be good enough for her, and how she’s living, somewhere, without me. She made the right decision. I wish I could’ve then.

(I'm sorry, I accidentally submitted this story to the wrong prompt- supposed to be in 'Write a story set in the hottest day of the year.' But can't change it now! Sorry again! Please consider it for the intended prompt!) --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Simon listened to the radio as he washed the dishes. The young weather girl with the soothing voice told him today would be the hottest day of the year, 'tropical', she said, and told him to stay hydrated, and not to stay in the sun for too long. She reeled off some mumbo jumbo about warm air trapped in the atmosphere, plus a bunch of meteorological numbers Simon didn't understand. He didn't much care for numbers. Data, statistics. He was decidedly an arts guy, and today he was especially happy with himself for finishing Crime and Punishment, a book he'd long wanted to read but never had the time. Now that Isabel had left him, he could indulge in those longer, more intellectual novels. Just one of many positives, he was sure. Not wanting to squander the sunny spell, he decided he'd go to the bookshop and pick out a new book, and spend the afternoon on the lounger, reading and sun tanning his back... If, of course, Daisy would make do of the heat in the back garden, and stop being such a nuisance and shitting all the time. Simon stood the last plate on the draining board and marveled at the sudsy phalanx he'd created. A job well done. He put on his sunglasses and bundled Daisy into the back seat of his little fire red Mini Cooper. Daisy whined and fidgeted on the hot sticky leather. 'Oh, shush,' he said. 'We'll be back before you can say Dostoevsky.' *** The air conditioning at Milly's Bookshop hit him in the face like a snowball. He breathed a sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his eyes, and hooked his sunglasses on the collar of his green tank top. Almost a decade he'd been coming here. It was a snug little building tucked between a bakery and a second hand jewellery shop. For its size it had a splendid repertoire, displayed in rows upon rows of bookshelves on every wall, top to bottom. In the back corner furthest from the till, under a large aquarium that twinkled with Guppies and Cherry Barbs, sat a little rosewood table and two armchairs in Cambridge blue sheepskin, set there for patrons who wished to sit and read a chapter before making their purchase. The till was unattended. They were probably out back enjoying the sun, thought Simon, and proceeded to browse the center aisle. He ran his fingers across the shiny book spines, inhaling the earthy fragrance of the paper. Any book. He could now read any book he chose to. He drew one from the end of the middle shelf. 'Ugh. The Handmaid's Tale.' It was Isabel's favourite book. Simon had read the first few chapters in college, Isabel had nagged him for years to finish it. She nagged him about a lot of things. After the kid was born, she lost interest in books altogether, so he never finished The Handmaid's Tale. He would have, eventually. If she'd stuck around. If she hadn't been so weak. He put the book back and continued to browse till he found a three-inch thick, important looking tome entitled Swann's Way. He held it at arm's length and jounced it on his palm: it was as heavy as Crime and Punishment. Perhaps not quite. But heavy. 'Cracking the flags out there, ay!' came a voice from behind him. He turned to see a little blonde girl in a white crop top leaning over the till. He didn't recognise her. She must be new. 'Aye, you could cook a steak on that tarmac,' he said and walked over. 'I'll take this one, please.' He handed her the book. As she checked the sleeve and drummed the buttons on the till, he tried hard not to stare. She was chewing gum with her pink mouth wide open. Her shoulders were burnt and sequined with peeling skin that glistened under her sweat like pearl. He could smell her body odour scratching at her perfume; a sweet and obliquely vaginal scent, one that would follow him in the decades to come. 'Do you want this gift-wrapped?' she said. 'No. Thank you, it's for me.' Simon swiped his credit card and scurried out of the shop. The sun dropped its burning heel on him, pinning him to the pavement. He hung his head and clasped his hands behind his neck. How old was that girl? Eighteen? Seventeen? He was about to walk to his car, but glancing into the shop window he saw something he hadn't noticed on the way in: a book he'd recently heard about, propped center-front of the dressing. He turned around and marched back into Milly's. 'Hello, it's me again.' 'Hi! What can I do for you?' said the girl. 'Can you get Milly for me, please?' 'Milly? I think you mean the old owner. She hasn't been here for almost a year, I'm afraid. Me and my Grandad run the shop now.' Simon shook his head reprovingly. Black circles of sweat were budding on his tank top, on his shorts. 'Sir? Are you all right?' 'That book in the window,' he said. 'I saw that book on Youtube. Why are you selling it?' 'I... I don't know.' 'Do you know what that book is about? That book is a step-by-step guide on how to clean out a man in a divorce! A step-by-step guide . Ten years I've been coming here, I tell my friends to come here, I even told my wife about this place! And you throw that shit in my face?' 'Mister,' said the girl, crossing her hands over her chest. 'I'm really sorry. I don't have a say in what goes in the window. I haven't even read it myself.' 'Of course you haven't. Why would you? What are you? Eighteen? Seventeen? You don't know what a divorce is like! You don't know what parenthood is like! Shit, you don't even know what life is like, do you! But you'll prance around in your short skirts with your breasts spilling out of your bra like you can't wait to find out, won't you! I can't even be me in my bookshop any more, can I!' The girl took a step away from the till and wriggled a hand into her skirt pocket. 'I'm calling the police.' 'Well, you don't have to find out, girly, because I'm gonna tell you right now. I'm gonna teach you a life lesson- right now. Do you have a dog?' 'What?' 'Do you have a-- Put that fucking phone back in your pocket, damn you!' The girl screamed and tossed the phone in the air. She backed up and slid down the wall and hid behind her knees. 'Do you have a dog!' 'Yes,' she sobbed. 'What's her name?' 'W, Willow... He's a he.' Simon mounted the till counter and crossed his legs. He looked down at her. Her tears were spilling over her knees and streaking the fake tan on her legs in little white scars, like an infection spreading. 'Let me paint a picture for you,' Simon said. 'You come home one night after working a straight twelve hours hard graft. This won't be a familiar picture to your kind, I'm sure, but do your best to imagine it.' 'Please! Please don't hurt me...' 'You walk in and nobody's around. Hello? Hello? The house is a mess. Dirty dishes left in the sink. There's no dinner for you in the oven or in the fridge. What has happened here? Willow? Here, boy! You go upstairs to your bedroom. And this is where it clicks, baby. This is where it all starts to make sense.' Simon jumped off the till counter and knelt in front of her. He slid his nose in-between her shins and pressed his brow on her knees, on her cool tears. She squealed but didn't move. 'You won't even know how you did it,' he whispered. 'But this is where you find the box, this, thisss ... is where you lift the lid off and you see, not like Pandora, but like Plato. The big reality. Do you know what you find? Huh? When you pull back the blanket? You know what you find underneath?' The girl was shuddering violently. Terror screeched up and down her bones like an axe on a whetstone. Simon stood up and rolled back his shoulders and shook the sweat from his hair. 'A big, black, imprint where your family used to be. Combusted. Like a firecracker, burnt into the mattress. And on your side of the bed is Willow: he's scorched the deepest and the blackest into the fabric; his figure is a gaping black hole that you can't take your eyes off. Then the truth hits you and hits you so damn hard, like... like an ant under a magnifying glass in tropical sun. The truth is, they're just shadows, lying together, having the same dream... Nothing more. They've floated right past you, under you, in the tunnels, the brightly lit tunnels that you built .' Simon put his hand on the girl's shoulder. 'Hey... I'm not going to hurt you, whatever your name is.' The girl had stopped sobbing. She lifted her head tentatively and looked up at him. 'But I'm not weak. There's no room in the shadows for men like me, because we aren't ashamed to be men. We don't dream, so that you can dream. Dream of whatever it takes to forget about us. Do you understand that? Tell me you understand that... Tell me, damn you!' Kshhhhk! The aquarium in the corner shattered, water gushed and fish tumbled out and flapped around on the table and in the sheepskin chairs. Simon turned around to see an old man pointing a pistol at him. He looked down his tank top where a black circle was expanding a couple of inches above his hip. *** Simon survived the gunshot. After he was taken away in an ambulance, the policeman that first arrived on the scene, Officer Bruley, discovered Simon's Mini Cooper. He broke the window with his baton and lifted Daisy from the back seat as fast and gently as he could. But she had died from heatstroke a while ago. Isabel was notified, she identified her baby daughter's body later that day. That night in bed, Officer Bruley said to his wife, 'This bloody heat, will it ever end?' 'Oh, stop it and go to sleep,' said Mrs. Bruley. 'Did you let the dog out?' 'Yes I did.' 'Don't be stealing my side of the mattress again, will you?' 'Me?' protested Officer Bruley. 'What about you!' He sat up and switched on the television. By the time he had to get dressed and go to the station, he hadn't slept a wink. There was so much more work to do than he'd planned on. He loved his wife and his children very much.

One night while I groggily layed in bed a man came to me, from the corner of the room he watched, it seemed as though he thought I was sleep. The element of surprise seemed to be on my side and in any other situation I would have pounced like a lioness protecting her cubs, but this man was different. Despite his tattered, black cloak and the fact that he magically appeared in my room, his body language was not that of any intruder or a man that wished to do harm...he just observed. For what seemed like hours we watched each other, both barely more mobile than a corpse. The longer I watched the more I realized how odd this “man” was. His skin was abnormally pale, nearly transparent, but his body had a golden glow to it. A sparkly, golden glow. It appeared to come from the inside of him. Now mind you, this light did not fill the room, it just merely tinted the white walls, making them appear slightly yellow. That wasn’t the only oddity. His eyes had no pupil, no iris. They were simply glossed over with white, identical to his skin, there was a darker gold, sparkly glow bursting through. It illuminated the room about the same as a flip phone. To both of our surprise, there was a scratch at my bedroom door, likely my dog, we both immediately darted our eyes in the direction of the disturbance and right as my head turned I realized how big of a mistake that was. I snapped my head back in his direction...but he was gone. Poof. This filled me with a weird sense of disappointment and relief. I brushed my hands over my eyes, partly trying to wake myself up. The other part was trying to trick myself into believing what I saw was a lie. The moment I felt free of all the bedtime crusty eyes, I removed my hand from my vision. He was there! Millimeters from my face, if he had a nose, we would have been nose-to-nose. My lips parted for a scream but my body went completely tight, like I had been tased. Now in this moment of absolute terror things became clear. For ten seconds, I was filled with pure observational clarity. Listen to me. Imagine a cluster of beautiful, bright stars glued together by a magnificent golden glow; now wrap that in a nearly transparent, tan saran wrap...that is what stood before me. This mummified entity had taken the shape of man and he stood, staring me down with what I could only assume was an intense anger. The thump of my heart slowed as I completely submitted to the inevitable, gruesome fate... “Can you see me?” Shock washed over my body as the rhythmic monotone fell upon my ears. My eyes shot open, shock turned to wonder... Did he expect a reply? “You can.” His eyes briefly brightened the room before dimming back their normal illumination. “This is a...problem.” I sat there gawking at this creature, waiting for my brain to tap back on and give me permission to speak. What could only have been a couple of minutes felt like an eternity, a lifetime of the two of us staring each other down. “W-wh-Why is it a problem?” my voice squeaked out barely audible to even myself. His head gradually tilted to the side, seemingly studying my face. “Should be invisible to you.” He leaned in closer, like he was looking for something, his eyes occasionally brightening as he stared me down with laser focus. My body stiffened like a wooden board as I pressed my luck once more. “Who are you?” I clenched my jaw and frightfully narrowed my eyes, bracing myself for some sort of violent reaction. Thankfully, it never came actually he leaned away from me, hopefully this meant he learned the value of personal space. The lights in his eyes went dark and honestly that was more scary than him being a disco ball, he seemed to have just shut off, low battery maybe, I contemplated running but my curiosity had been triggered so I just waited. Moments later his eyes flickered back to life. “Nirṇetṛ.” his eyes brightened as he resumed his visual probing. “What just happened?” My eyebrow slightly raised as I stared back at him, my body loosening as our interaction lengthened. “Had to search throughout human history to find the last time we were referenced...2000 BC.” A slight smile crept across my face, Nirṇetṛ spoke so casually. He had to have realized the weight of the words he just said to me but all he did was stare. Definitely more interested in observing me regardless of the question asked.”Your time is running low.” Nirṇetṛ extended his arm, gently touching his fingers to my forehead. “What do you mean?” My face reverted back to panic as I shied away from his touch. “Hm. Your soul has been corrupted, darkened. Course altered. You were a soul meant to power paradise. Free will poisoned you.” He bluntly explained the situation obviously omitting the finer details. Giving me the summary of the summary, which can be more confusing than enlightening. My face scrunched up as I adjusted to the second big shock of the night. “So you’re an angel?” “Only a guide. Keep balance between paradise and purgatory. Correct altered courses.” Nirṇetṛ’s attention drifted while he spoke, there was definitely something more pressing at the moment. “Is it going to hurt?” I breathed deeply, prepping my mind for the obvious fate... If he replied, I didn’t hear it. My thoughts were elsewhere, and that was a million miles away. I clenched my eyes and leaned back towards his hand, delicately placing my forehead. “Your soul will be brightened and then filtered through the dark...embrace the journey, young one.” A golden light flashed, piercing my eyelids. Embrace the Journey. (Trying to get over a fear of sharing my work, so really tear into me I guess.

**This is a true story. Names and details adjusted to maintain confidentiality. It has themes of death and trauma which some readers my find distressing. If you struggle with mental health please know there are always people to help. I am always happy for comments on ways to improve my writing, I have fairly thick skin at this point.** This is a sad story. A difficult situation and a horrible outcome. It was shortly after being qualified as an Intensive Care Paramedic, my partner the same. I am working with a friend, John, competent and capable. I always enjoy working with people that just know what to do, too know they’ll stop you from fucking up. We are relaxing, on a soon to be interrupted meal break. “Motor vehicle accident” Rings out across the station with the associated alarm. I always find that funny. Calling it an accident just doens't make sense!? An accident implies no one is at fault. Anyway. The car dislplay tells a short story. “Female 40s run over by car. CPR in progress.” The address is some suburban street. Weird. My partner is driving, we head off lights and sirens. Now I say weird because you don’t expect any serious injuries in a low speed area with minimal traffic. The forces just aren’t usually there. We are thinking our patient was a pedestrian and stepped out unexpectedly. MDT Update “Pt run over by her own car. Dragged across pavement before going under and car rolling over.” Well there’s the answer. A second car is attached, AFP on scene. I get nervous and start to do some planning with my partner. I hate this. You know your turning up to shit scene. In the simplest sense I always wonder if I’m going to get this right or will I be caught out as a fake. It’s horrible. We talk through our roles and priorities. I will lead, my partner will be on the airway. We drive, siren blaring. John checking the MDT for directions. I clear him through intersections. I’m losing the joviality in my voice. “Clear, clear, clear”. We roll through the intersection. I put my gloves on. I’m nervous I always do that when I’m nervous. I try and get them on before my hands sweat too much. Gloves are impossible to get on when that happens. We turn into the suburb. I’m silent. I’m nervous. It a weird feeling, things are happening, lights flashing, siren blasting. But you just don’t hear it. It’s quiet in my head. Not calm, just fear being held at bay. As we drive into the scene it’s controlled chaos. There are police and the fire brigade evidently just arrived. To our left a small crowd of bystander’s huddle in concern near a new model Jeep. Some are turned away with heads nestled into consoling hugs. Police are nearby trying to gather information, performing crowd control for the small group. It’s not needed. Everyone is staying back, staring. Their attention is on the dead lady across the road. I look over and see where she lay, a young man performing CPR. We pull up close get out and grab our gear. We’re quickly informed the patient had pulled into her driveway when she got out and walked behind the car to go inside. No handbrake, it then rolled over her and dragged her a short distance before hitting the gutter where she stopped, and the car rolled across the road to where we can see it now. Everyone had only arrived moments before, not much has been done. In the time it takes us to get out, grab our equipment and wlak the 2m to the patient the firefighters have fallen into their position, doing CPR. She looks in her early forties. There’s no blood, no scratches. It looks like the car has run over her chest and abdomen. She looks dead. We start taking control and ask the firefighters to continue CPR. My partner goes to the airway as planned. Well haven’t frozen yet, we just get on with the job. I expose the patient cutting away her top and bra with shears. I apply the pads and we find she is in a non-shockable rhythm. We continue with our guideline and our back up arrives. We quickly brief them, and they take over certain tasks. I get to step back and take stock. I note the young man from earlier, he’s only a kid really, maybe 14. He’s squatting maybe 2 meters away. “Do you know what happened?”. Nothing, he just stares, no recognition I spoke. I dismiss him and move on; I see the husband distraught and talking with police nearby. I try and focus back on the patient. Again, no shockable rhythm. I discuss our next steps with John and our back-up. Something to understand in chest trauma like this is the lung likely detaches from the inside of the chest wall creating a space that shouldn’t be there. That space fills with either blood or air and you have a pneumothorax, or what would be called a ‘collapsed lung’. If it is big enough and affects your blood pressure, we call it a tension pneumothorax. This lady probably has one. To fix this we place a large needle through her chest until it reaches that new space. We then leave a tube in place and it allows the air (or blood) to escape and releases pressure. So I set up for the procedure and mark my place. But I can’t get the needle through the chest wall. That’s when I realise, she’s ruptured an implant. The silicone has ridden up and I can’t get my needle through. I quickly tell my partner who just reached over and pushes the silicone down and out of the way. I insert the needle successfully and step back out. The job continues for another twenty or thirty minutes but there is no change. She’s dead. We talk it through, and I go over to inform the husband of what we’ve done. There is understanding, he knows we will soon stop. We will clean up finish our paperwork and leave. He will stand there next to his dead wife who only moments ago was fine. We stop. He goes over to the boy and consoles him. It’s his son. I guess that explains why he was acting weird. As we pack up, I hear commotion. Police are holding back a young girl that just drove up to the scene. It’s the daughter. I go over and start talking to her. I retell the story, that her mum suffered severe chest injuries from the accident, that we’ve stopped CPR and her mum is deceased. She turns away and paces for bit. Calmer than before. I always thought it strange that. How quickly people calm down once the worst news is confirmed. I tell her she can see her mother, that its ok and we walk over together. We kneel down next to the body; we have a blanket over her. I pull it back to reveal her face, unmarked. You can sense the daughter is getting more emotional, more distressed. I watch her as she glances at her mother, then down her blanket covered body. Back and forth, back and forth. Her hands reach out and hover over the blanket. In conflict whether to peak underneath. It clicks, she thinks her mum is mutilated under that blanket. All she knows is her mum got run over by the car causing ‘severe chest injuries’. It just felt right so I rest my hand on her shoulder and gesture over her mum as I explain. I reassure her there is no gory wounds or deformity under there. The blanket is for modesty. The distress dissipates. The sadness remains, overwhelms. She cries as she strokes her mothers face. I leave her to her grief. We finish our paperwork and leave. Controlled chaos, a distraught family, a dead mother. We go back to station and finish our lunch, having a laugh and making jokes. The dead body soon to be poorly remembered as just another job.

Walter stared at the necromancer. Grimm appeared to be in his late 30s, at least by Earth standards. His beard and hair were neatly combed, he wore a long, black robe lined with emerald-colored satin. Grimm, in turn, took a glance at Walter’s attire, observing his blue jeans, backpack, and flannel shirt. “What curious attire you have, Sir Walter.” Grimm stroked his beard. “Oh, this type of clothing is pretty ordinary back in my home...” Walter paused, wondering how to describe his world to a stranger, “kingdom.” “You’re not from Bythica, are you? I heard the Dark Lord there has appointed a very strange advisor and some curious fashion choices are really taking off in the court.” “No, I am not from there. I am from Kirkwood, Missouri.” Walter replied. At the mention of the word, “Missouri”, Benvolio’s eyes widened slightly. Grimm was oblivious to the change in Benvolio’s expression, as was Walter. “Misery you say?” Grimm mused, “I have never heard of it, but to be called that, your kingdom must be awful.” “Oh, it’s not so bad, except when it’s the middle of the summer and the cicadas are doing their thing. When that happens it’s loud and you’re covered in sweat because it’s a hundred degrees out with full humidity, and don’t get me started on all the mosquitos...” Walter began to ramble. Benvolio cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, shall we get to the business at hand, and perhaps enjoy a good meal while we are at it?” They found themselves gathered around a campfire roasting meat and sharing mead about an hour later. They had to dine outdoors to accommodate Benvolio’s size. Grimm and Walter had carried out a keg of mead that Grimm had been saving for such an occasion. Grimm and Walter each held a pint, while Benvolio picked up the keg and sipped the remaining contents. The fire crackled and popped, the light dancing off Benvolio’s scales like sparkling rubies. Walter enjoyed the warmth of the fire, as the spring air had cooled considerably upon sundown. Walter had always enjoyed the outdoors, the smell of campfire smoke, it was a nice contrast to sitting in a gray walled cubicle in the office. It had also been some time since he had shared a warm meal and conversation with friends. It was a welcome change. “Walter is from another world?” Grimm raised an eyebrow. “Aye, one of those pesky gateways opened for some reason, and now he is stuck here with a treasure back home.” Benvolio explained. Grimm leaned over to Walter and whispered in his ear. “He uses the term treasure all the time for various things, what does it mean in context?” Grimm inquired. “Oh, my treasure?” Walter asked. Grimm nodded. “He means my family.” Walter explained. He pulled out a picture of his daughter and grandson. “The lady is quite fetching.” Grimm smiled, handing back the picture. “So, you are looking for a spell to go home?” “That’s the plan.” Walter smiled. “Benvolio, why did you bring him to me? You know that is outside my realm of magic.” “But not outside of the realm of Andromeda Chronos.” Benvolio replied. Grimm fell silent. He chugged the remainder of his pint, then began to chew nervously upon his own beard. He stood up and began to pace around the fire. He raised his hand a few times as though to speak, then fell silent. After a few minutes of such deliberation, he spoke. “You know she is rather unpredictable.” Grimm broke his silence. “It is just a talk.” Benvolio said in an even tone. “If I miscalculate, she will not be back for just a talk. She is crafty, she probably left some sort of contingency plan for the neophyte necromancer foolish enough to summon her spirit back to the land of the living.” “Grimm, my mother’s mark was in her book.” Benvolio’s voice was low. Walter looked up in surprise at the revelation. Walter recalled Benvolio’s strange shift in mood back at the cavern. Suddenly, it made sense. “Your inquiry, it is not simply in regard to your new companion, is it?” Grimm asked. “I have suspicions and theories. I think our fates have been entangled in some way.” Benvolio paused to finish the keg, he set it down gently and leaned his snout closer to his companions. The reflection of the flames danced in Benvolio’s eyes. “Walter, what was the name of your realm again?” “Kirkwood, Missouri?” “I believe I have heard of the Kingdom of Misery. I may have visited your realm, many, many moons ago. Are you familiar with the Kingdom of the Ill Noise?” “Gentlemen...” Walter paused, glanced to Benvolio, “I mean, gentleman and gentle...dragon.” He sighed and continued, “It’s pronounced Missouri, not Misery.” Walter paused to savor the mead before continuing, “And do you mean Illinois?” Walter asked. Benvolio’s eyes widened and he nodded with enthusiasm. Walter continued, “yes, I have heard of it. It’s right across the river.” “Indeed, this is no coincidence indeed.” Grimm mused. “So, will you summon her?” Benvolio asked. “Fine, but if we call upon her and she finds out how to regain a physical form, turning into an unstoppable lich, then you, my friend, are responsible for vanquishing her.” “Fair.” Benvolio acknowledged. “I will get my gear, but remember, you have been warned.” Grimm shook his head again before walking back towards his home.

Introducing Martha, the lady of the house. Martha had retired from her job as an events organizer when she was expecting. Now she was the mother of five year old twins, Beau and Celeste. Her sprogs were in their first year of primary school. One classic suburban night, Martha was still attending to her twins' whining needs at ten o'clock. She had got half her pyjamas on, before Beau and Celeste started their attention seeking competition. "Not one more drink of water!" she grumbled at her adorable offspring. "Yes, I know it is dark.Now go to sleep! There is no one knocking on your window. It is the wind!" Heading back to the fridge for wine o'clock, Martha found a notice from the school, a piece of paper, half under the refrigerator. One of her little treasures had forgotten to give it to her. "Oh no!" Martha groaned aloud. Stunned, she read, "Tomorrow is purple theme day." This called for very quick thinking. Purple theme day meant purple clothes and a purple-based lunchbox for each of her twins. Purple times two, in other words. Suburban disaster awaited Martha as she gazed at her pantry. It was the day before grocery shopping day. Grabbing her car keys at that late hour, she drove to the 24/7 store. There she found some purple juice in micro cartons, and the very last bunch of purple grapes. It was the final cluster of potential wine. But Martha had no time that night to be tired. She could still make purple iced cupcakes and purple jellies. It was show time in her kitchen. She still had not finished putting on her pyjamas. Martha's husband had gone to sleep in bed, his laptop in front of him. She rummaged to find a couple of older purple t-shirts, and one pair of purple socks. Dreadful, but this was necessary, so her twins would fit in to their peer group. Now to make cupcakes. Being a good all round Mum, she had purple food coloring. Her oven was soon hot enough, Martha was on fire tonight! The dog was in the laundry, to prevent him eating her culinary creations, bit of a lad that one. Martha created two mini purple jellies, she was going to be a winner. "Mothering should not be a competition," she told herself. Finally, Martha collapsed into bed, setting her alarm discreetly. She had to arise early, to assemble all this purpleness, like the lunchboxes, and getting her twins to wear purple. Martha said a quick, silent prayer to Jesus, her best friend. What would Jesus say to her? "Keep smiling, keep praying." It was now past midnight, the household slumbered. Martha woke up at 5 am, had she slept in? No, it was going to be okay. Turning off her alarm, no time to dress up, this was purple day. The twins were grumpy this morning, as usual. Definitely not morning little people. Martha was still clad in her pyjama bottoms, with her old t-shirt on top. She did not realize she had a blob of purple icing in her slightly brushed hair. Celeste, at breakfast, was being her usual normal picky self, rejecting her usual array of cereal. "Very first world," Martha thought. But the twins were only five years old . Martha showed them their purple theme lunchboxes, all plated up. Beau made vomit noises, boys will be boys. Martha kept on smiling, as her bestie in Heaven kept advising her. "I'm not eating all that for lunch!" Celeste crossly told her mother. Then she tried to slurp all her milk from her breakfast bowl. Martha kept on keeping on. The twins were very slow in dressing in purple, reluctant learners this morning. Martha finally had them strapped into their car seats, off to their academy of Christian learning. Maybe she would get an "A" in tolerance. The twins slammed the car doors, as they headed into the classroom. Martha's phone pinged, a text. It was her husband. He was as cross as her kids. "This kitchen looks like a bomb hit it! There is purple goo all over our bed. The dog is still in the laundry, and I am late. Where's my coffee?" "Smile!" Martha told herself. She sat in her car and texted back a smile. "I'll take care of all that. Have a great day!" She sounded like a supermarket chick, but nice with it. Another flash car roared away from the school drop-off zone. "Run, women, run!" Martha thought, wondering how they got the time to hold down jobs, as well as manage the domestic side of life. Just then, there was a rap on her car window. "Oh, no!" Martha tried to slink down in her seat. It was the school principal, Ms. Galleon, an impressively scary sight. "Can I have a word with you" Martha was trying to hide that she still had her pyjamas on. "Was she in detention from the fashion police? Or was it the religion committee?" she pondered. "I am hoping you can assist us," said Ms. Galleon, aptly named. "We need someone like you to head up our breakfast program before school. Everyone else is too busy. We have kids here who are malnourished, for different reasons. They have no breakfast, or decent meals, and are struggling to keep up with learning." Martha did a double take. Had her Lord sent her an opportunity? This job brought a salary, she could contribute financially to their household. Martha mumbled that she would let the principal know. Ms. Galleon actually smiled, and Martha made her trek home. She hopped in the shower, took the dog for a walk on a sunny morning. Then she sparkled her kitchen, removing all traces of purple. All the while, Martha was considering this job offer. No reason she could not do it, feeding kids was her special subject. The income would come in handy, with all their expenses. She texted her husband, sending a photo of their gleaming house. He phoned her, so she told him told him about her job offer. It would mean they would all have to wake up earlier, she could take the twins. They could meet some other children, some of the have-nots. Martha would have to source foods for school breakfast, but their community had a food bank. Her husband make kissy noises,as he was over his grumpy. He volunteered to walk the dog in the mornings, when Martha started her job. They were really a good team, with their twins' best interests at heart. So Martha was no longer retired. She joined the team at the primary school, a team of Christians. She welcomed the change in their routine in a positive manner. She had kept on smiling, now there was peace with her daily doves. (She fed the birds in her back yard too.) No one was going hungry, not on Martha's turf. "A wise woman builds," she told herself, she was building a future for lots of kids. "Have a great day!"

A small moth fluttered about Bobby’s lamp. Surrounded by many unpacked boxes from the recent move, his essentials were in place. His homework covered the westward expansion. The moth persisted. Bobby doubted it came in his stuff. ‘ This house is old ,’ he thought. ‘ Generations ago, pioneer moths traveled across the land, seeking gold dust. They’re now home in this Victorian dump we moved to.’ The ancient house, perfect for Halloween, had not been decorated. There hadn’t even been time to explore it. The moth persisted. Bobby slapped at it to no effect. It flew erratically toward his bedroom door and returned. It appeared as if it paused to look over its shoulder, to see if he followed. Bobby knew moths had no shoulders and doubted the moth cared. Yet it seemed to beckon. Again, the moth circled and exited. Bobby made chase. The moth meandered the hallway and down the stairs. Reaching the foyer, it made a hard right into the kitchen. Bobby raced to keep up. He entered the kitchen and stopped short at the sight of a strange man sitting at the table. He appeared to be waiting. The only light came from the window and lit the man from behind, giving him a faint halo. Bobby reached for the light switch and the man spoke. “Please don’t.” Bobby froze. “The moon will do.” Though not wearing a jacket, the man was clothed in business formal, with suspenders, an old-fashioned bow-tie, and a vest. Golden cufflinks gleamed. His dark hair and mustache were neatly combed. He appeared translucent in the moonlight, like a daguerreotype Bobby once saw. He turned his head to call to his parents but the man said, “Please don’t yell. Let’s get acquainted first.” Bobby stared. “Sit. I won’t hurt you.” Never looking away, he found the closest chair. The man said, “I’m Edwin Fortescue. I own this house.” Bobby blinked. “Or, at least, I’m the original owner.” “But... You mean...?” “Tea?” He poured from a porcelain pot Bobby hadn’t noticed. Edwin sounded like a butler in an old movie. He nudged the saucer and cup toward Bobby. “I’m not being clear, I know. There is so much to tell. You will understand, in time.” Bobby felt at once calm but weird. “Is it just you three? Your parents and you?” Bobby nodded. “This house has been through so much. Yet a hundred years is such a short season.” Edwin gestured with his cup and drank. Bobby raised his cup, feeling its heat in both hands and sipped. The aromatic steam felt dreamlike on his face. “The house fell to disrepair for... years. The last owners restored it... Clumsily.” He rolled his eyes. “I hope your family will rectify that.” “I think so.” “You can’t imagine what it’s like when people don’t keep their promises.” “I guess...” “You can see how important it is. I gave everything to this house.” Bobby looked at his tea cup. “I mean, people come and go. They neglect and things slide.” Edwin leaned, staring. “It went abandoned for years, slowly sinking, you know? It’s maddening to finally get the place swept clean and ordered, only to watch seven more demons enter and make a sty of it. You’re not demons, are you?” “No!” “I found initials carved on the banister, for God’s sake!” The light turned on. Bobby turned to see his mother in the doorway. “Bobby? What are you doing in the dark?” “Mom! I...” He gestured toward Edwin, but saw he sat alone. No tea settings. No Edwin. “...I, uh ...just thinking.” She sensed more to the story. “It’s late. I thought you were asleep until I heard you.” “Uhm, maybe sleep-walking?” He walked passed her. “Good-night.” She sniffed the air and scanned the room. Nothing amiss, she shut the light and followed him up. ~ The next morning, Bobby entered the kitchen to hear his mother say, “Grant, our son has an imaginary friend.” “He’s not imaginary, Mom.” Grant asked, “Why were you down here so late?” Bobby tried to make sense of it. “A man, Edwin, visited. He talked about the house.” “Our house?” “His. He said it is, or was... a hundred years ago.” His parents glanced at each other. “He gave me tea.” “Tea? There weren’t any dishes when I came in, Bobby.” “I know. Weird, huh? But I tasted it. It smelled good.” “Anyway, you shouldn’t accept things from strangers.” Amy had mixed emotions. She turned to Grant. “Are we haunted?” “I didn’t want to say it, Amy. Not a typical real estate disclosure, I’m sure. I’ll check on the first owner...” “And I thought they met our price because it needs work...” “Maybe they didn’t know. We don’t know.” Grant’s mind raced. “Bobby, find the candles and the Ouija board? This place is chaos.” “On it.” He ran upstairs. Grant touched Amy. “If this is a ghost, he sounds benign.” “Oh, I hope so. Maybe we can be friends.” ~ Amy continued the gargantuan task of unpacking from the move. Bobby gathered items necessary for a séance. He knew his parent’s monthly routine. Grant confirmed Edwin Fortescue owned the house when first built at the turn of the last century. After dinner, Grant and Bobby oriented the kitchen table with a compass. They centered the Ouija board and placed special candles at each corner. Amy lit incense and draped the chairs with black cloth. Bobby didn’t know what flavor tea Edwin served him. Amy bought Earl Gray. She hoped her mother’s antique tea set would be acceptable to their ghost. She set cups and saucers for four. When finished, they dimmed the lights and sat around the table. Each placed their left hand on the planchette. Amy smiled at Grant and Bobby. Her eyes glistened in anticipation. Grant spoke some solemn Latin phrases and they waited. After a long silence, Amy said, “Maybe we should ask the board a question?” “Don’t bother.” They turned to see Edwin sitting at the table looking exactly as he did last night. “All that paraphernalia gets so tedious, don’t you think?” Grant almost fell backward in his chair. Amy’s eyes grew wider than Bobby had ever seen. “Hi, Edwin. These are my folks.” He laughed. “See? I told you he was real.” They nodded to each other. Handshakes felt wrong, somehow. “Welcome. I won’t waste your time. Bobby assured me you plan to restore my house to its former glory.” “That’s the plan.” “The urgent issue I wish to discuss, is this barbaric holiday you celebrate here, in the states.” “Halloween? That’s tonight.” “Each year hooligans wreak chaos on this fine house. This is my house. My wife and I settled here on emigrating from Great Britain.” He paused for a moment in her memory. Then, with heightened energy, “The graffiti must stop. It’s not for traipsing through for some grotesque, vaudevillian, childish entertainment.” “Of course! We don’t condone...” “This Halloween, as you call it... With its ubiquitous, decrepit headstones engraved with R.I.P. Yet no one actually leaves us in peace.” “You mean...?” “I just want to be let alone. Is that too much to ask? To give it a rest?” No one spoke for what felt an eternity. Amy said, “Of course we respect your privacy, Edwin. Oh, the tea. Do you like Earl Gray? A scone?” “That would be perfect. Thank you.” Amy served Edwin first. He sipped and smiled. The rant had passed. Bobby grabbed a scone. “You would have loved Louisa,” he said. “She died of a broken heart soon after our arrival. Up in your room, Bobby. Amy and Grant looked at Bobby, unsure where this would lead. “Home-sickness, the doctors decided. She initially fell ill on the hellish voyage. Followed by that interminable, dusty train ride... My God! The dust! I ran out of kerchiefs! She never recovered.” “We’re so sorry, Edwin.” “My transplanted little orchid couldn’t adapt to the desert. I thought my magnificent house would cheer her. I loved stepping out on my porch every morning. Gazing over the sky-line. I caught the street car at the corner. It felt like heaven.” “That must have been so...” “I loved it. The perfect climate. Excellent business. Finance, you know. This grand house... If it ever got torn down, what would become of me?” Grant said, “Well...” Amy asked, “Couldn’t you and Louisa have returned to England?” “My work kept me here. And, of course, my house. I thought she’d mend. I mean, we were in paradise.” He seemed to flicker in the candle light. “When I realized how dire things had become, I feared another dreadful journey would...” They stared at the table. Edwin blew his nose. “Then she abandoned me. All alone in my house.” The doorbell rang. Grant stood. “Trick-or-treaters. I’ll take care of it.” Edwin followed. Grant opened the oak door to reveal a little girl on the porch, dressed as a pink ballerina. Her mother stood on the walk. The girl offered her basket of candy and said, “Trick or treat!” Behind Grant, the foyer burst into flames. The girl stood aghast. She stepped back. Her mouth opened wide and then became a delighted smile. Her mother moved to protect her. But she stopped and applauded. Seeing reflected orange light, Grant turned to the conflagration. He slammed the door and the flames disappeared. The inferno became a foyer again. Edwin smiled at him. It had been an illusion. Grant said, “Edwin, what ordinarily repels, on Halloween, only attracts.” He shook his head. “For the life of me, I will never comprehend this.” “Death is meaningless to them. Kids think it’s all a trick. Hollywood...” Edwin balked, “Oh, don’t get me started on ‘the movies’...” ~ Later, a solitary candle, its steady flame reflecting no face, floated from window to window. From floor to floor, inside the old house. Costumed children gathered at a distance to watch and point. Traffic slowed. No one dared knock the door. The candle hovered in those windows until the dawn.

There she sits, past the masses of thick hardbound books, past all the university students making use of the music library, at the far right corner staring out the window. Staring at the snow drifting down over the city, like a blanket of serenity. A slight body swaying to the notes. Crashing, melding into one, fingers moving like delicate dancers. Loud, then quiet. Happy, then sad again, filling the room with noise. Rich harmonious sound that grips the heart and holds on for eternity. The music keeps moving on like the sea, rushing in then out again. Holding so much inside the melody that nobody could ever know about. It is Clara’s space, and everybody knows not to approach her. Nobody knows how old she is, nobody knows why she is here, nobody knows any of the secrets to her magnificent performances, but that she plays on, head held high, staring over the library’s upright piano out the window, watching the world outside go by. It is midwinter, and now the snow is slowly floating past the library’s window, gently settling on the outer ledge. Still the girl sits and plays, not once looking down at her fingers, nor at her music score for there is none to read from. The girl just sits and plays and stares off into the distance. She was even caught once counting the snowflakes. The only one who seems to know her is Richard, a famous lawyer with a firm downtown. Every day at precisely one thirty pm, he approaches the piano and gently coaxes her out of her position. “Clara,” he whispers, “It’s time you ate. Your fingers will become cramped, and your body needs nourishment- eat.” He plants a kiss on her pale cheek, leaves a packed lunch on top of the piano and leaves, never once looking back. Only once she hears the sleek library doors slam shut does the child slowly, meticulously take the sandwich out of its wrapper and begin eating, but not before she lets her eyes dart around the room- left and right, ever fearful of prying eyes. It is a mystery, but one nobody is inclined to solve. * * * Clara gazes out the window. The snow has stopped and is now turning to wet slush. She notices the sky, now a shade of navy blue speckled with stars and realizes with a start. Her mom will be worried. She grabs the remainder of the lunch her father brought and sprints out of the building. Nobody has any time to question her presence and that is how she likes it. No interference, no well meaning people trying to meddle with her, just her and her dad. As soon as Clara arrives home, the drama begins again. “Clara! I’ve worried about you so much! Why do you stay out so long?” Silence. Clara cannot reply to that question. Should she tell her mom she does not like being rushed for time? Should she tell her she cannot leave the library at four like all the students who use it, because then she may attract unwanted attention? Should she just smile sweetly and say “Oh, I was busy with a school assignment”? None will do. She holds her piece. “Clara, I’m your mother. I care about you, and I want to know where you’ve been these past few days. It’s not like you to stay longer at school.” Her mom’s eyes are trained on Clara now, beady searching eyes. Clara’s face flushes. As an afterthought, her mother adds, “Apart from which, I heard you’ve not turned up at school for a while now. Is that true?” All Clara can muster is a whispered “Yes.” “Why Clara? Why didn’t you tell me? Where have you been spending the school days?” Again silence. There is nothing to say. “Clara, is something bothering you at school?” Her heart is full, bursting at the seams. She longs to tell her mother how it is all so unfair, how nobody understands her- not at school, not at home, not anywhere really. She longs to describe the serenity she finally feels while at the piano. Alone, with no one but herself and the music she is creating. She wants her mom to understand how at peace she is at the library, how she has never felt so at home in her life. How it provides a small amount of clarity in a world where nothing is certain and nothing is right. No words come out though, hard as she tries. A strangled sob breaks the tension. “Clara! Why won’t you talk to me? I try everything but you still won’t talk! I’m your mother! I want to understand you! I want to know you and show you I love you and shelter you and make sure you never get hurt again! Why won’t you let me?!” She bursts into tears. * * * She has been speaking to the headmaster again. Clara knows it because a mini shipment of sensory equipment has arrived. A wry smile, then a full grin spreads over her thin face. If the house is equipped for a small army’s sensory needs she will no longer be pressured into going to school. She can spend all day at the library! Clara is about to leave when her mother stops her. “No Clara,” her voice sounds fake, slower than usual and vocabulary lowered to that of a two year old. “No, today we shall have a great deal of fun at home! I’ve bought a new set of toys for you to play with!” Her mother’s voice rings untrue even to her own ears, but being helpless she tags along into the living room. A cassette is playing with slow lullabies, a carpet has been rolled over the linoleum, and a ball of sensory lights is set up, bathing the room in calm hues that float around and change color. There is a spiky ball in the corner and a few other paraphernalia- a lava lamp, a few maracas and a pile of fluffy pillows near her. On the windowsill at the far end of the room- a book. Clara inspects the book, and the title explains it all; Children with Autism and How We Can Help Them. Practical Techniques for Bringing the Autistic Child Out of His Shell, by Patricia Sander. She runs out of the house faster than a race horse. All she knows is that yet again her mother has believed a view that is based on falsehoods. Once again her mother has listened to those who consider her different, of lower intelligence, of lower standing. She runs. Passersby gawk at the girl pelting through the snow wearing no coat, running as if fleeing from some monster. She sprints along the icy streets, growing colder by the minute but not caring in the slightest. Clara runs faster, faster, speeding up until she is but a flash. There one minute, long gone the next. Down the road, around the corner, across a street. All wonder where the child is running, what, or who she is fleeing. She tears along, not feeling the slush and ice. She slips on the icy road a number of times, but does not feel any pain. Not the bruising, nor the grazes that have not yet been discovered on her knees. Still, she sprints, zooming past the urban scenery. Closer and closer to the music library, further and further from the real world. The world where people reside, judging one and all. The world where she feels nobody will ever understand a child like Clara. A world where people like Clara are treated as if they have some sort of psychiatric disease. She runs, closer and closer to paradise. Closer and closer to the haven she knows, loves and belongs to. Clara does not slow down- to the contrary; she speeds up faster than ever, barreling through the swinging glass doors of the library, making a beeline for that piano at the corner. Clara’s private dance floor. Finally, she collapses onto the piano stool and begins playing. Stronger, louder, more forceful than ever. Why can nobody understand? Why does everything have to be so complicated, so tough, so lonely? Clara lets her fingers go loose. They begin dancing as if of their own accord- slowly, gracefully- even royally. A slow waltz step wanders up and down the piano keys, steadily gaining momentum. It starts quietly. Slowly, artistically, trance like, becoming gradually louder. So slowly she does not notice the change in dynamics, she does not notice her fingers dance faster, more vigorously, emphatically now. Her fingers dance, run, jump, in perfectly synchronized motion. This is where Clara feels best, this is where her fingers are set free from society’s shackles, this is where she can just be. The simple tune soon turns into a complex symphony, combining childish innocence with the painful truths of life. Academics making use of the library have silently gathered, ogling the child prodigy playing music never heard before, with no music score. Furthermore, the child performs at a level nobody has played at since the days of Mozart. Still, Clara goes on. Dancing, soaring, flying along the keys. The music, though in essence played on the piano, has a complexity and as many separate components as if a full orchestra were playing. Melodies and harmonies blend, painfully raw yet retaining the underlying optimism of the background melody. Slowly, the background accompaniment melds into the foreground, gently coaxing the music into a more positive light. Still the music plays on and still more people crowd around watching the sight, silenced by the awesomeness of the moment. Clara is in a world of her own now and her hands play tricks with the keys, producing still more intricate patterns of sound, an exquisite tapestry of operatic genius slowly unfurling on the library’s piano. Out of the blue, a tap on her shoulder. Startled, Clara slams the piano lid shut, pushes her way through the crowds and begins to stride out. She does not know why there are so many people milling about, their eyes following her every move, but she does not care to know. As she desperately tried to move out, a strong yet gentle hand grips her shoulder. Holding her back, yet caressing at the same time. She has been forced to stop, but does not dare turn around. “That was beautiful Clara. Have you always played like that? I... didn’t know.” She seems at a loss. Help. All color drains from Clara’s face and she feels the ground give way beneath her feet. Clara struggles to retain her balance. It is her mom, and she has been found out. “Clara, you play like a legend. Why didn’t you tell me you can play so well? Why didn’t you play for the school orchestra? One does exist, you know. I thought you didn’t want to, or didn’t have the talent. I didn’t know... Why didn’t you ever talk to me?” Her mother peers through her spectacles, her eyes two pools of undisguised pain. A messy pile of pain and love mixed together- A contradiction, yet no contradiction. Clara can do nothing but gaze back at those eyes. She has never noticed them before, always thinking her mother was like the rest of humanity- always judging, never appreciating and always criticizing. Only now does she notice that she has never told her mom about her world. The world she lives in. She has never even tried, and now she has hurt the person she loves most. The tears fall fast and furious as she is overcome by guilt. Her mom is here for her, wants to understand, but has never been given a chance. She has not been isolated by her loved ones but has isolated herself. Lost in the moment Clara leans forward into her mother’s embrace. The mother she has never known. Not for lack of wanting, not for lack of love, but for lack of noticing things. She feels her mother’s chest rise and fall underneath her cheek, pumping blood through her mom’s veins and now that she notices it, through hers as well. She takes her mother’s hand and begins to walk. Together. It feels like a dance, a slow dance that goes to a folk tune. a special one that belongs only to Clara and her mother. It is reverent, almost a holy song, hymn like. This time instead of dissonant chords and irregular time divisions, Clara begins to hear a beautiful melody. Slow at first and quiet, it swells and rises until it reaches a crescendo. But then the music slowly quietens again, until it ends on a major key somewhere in the middle of the keyboard range, neither loud nor quiet. She is not able to make sense of the situation, but she does not have to at that moment, because her mother speaks. “Clara.” This is all that is needed now. The silence speaks louder than words ever can and for once Clara’s mother understands her daughter’s silence. There is so much in that quiet that can never be spoken to the same effect. The stillness is expressing what cannot be said between mother and daughter. Suddenly it seems far more valuable and sentimental to remain quiet. From the stillness Clara opens her mouth in a hoarse whisper. “Mozart used to say the music is not in the notes, but in the silence in between.” Clara’s first sentence to her mother. Nothing long, nothing big, but a start. A tentative step onto the frozen surface of the world. A step into an unforgiving world knowing full well that it is unfeeling, cold, cruel, but still knowing that to skate, to dance into the night first one must step onto the cold, hard ice. Clara does not know how to skate but she knows that if she tries now, one of two things can happen- either she’ll learn to skate, dance along the ice and navigate its curves, fly on well deserved euphoria, or the ice will melt heralding the spring warmth.

“I dare you.” The words rang in my head as I clapped a hand onto his shoulder, and my lips curved into a smirk. “I accept.” Afterwards, I suffered the consequences. I quaked in my shoes, because I had accepted a dare to ask the most popular girl in our school out, and as I looked down at my loose shirt and scruffy shoes, running a hand through my messy hair, I knew I had messed up badly. I should never have accepted the dare. But my headstrong, stubborn self had to accept the dare because I refused to seem weak. Cursing my Taurus stubbornness, I headed back to the dormitories, where I planned out a course of action. *** It had been two days since I accepted Vic’s dare, and still I had made no progress. I had yet to work up the courage to ask Leah out on a date in public, but the girl was simply a flame in a swarm of moths--attractive to everyone. I refused to give up, and, gathering my wits, I strode across the pavement confidently towards Leah. I bit my lip nervously and called out, “Leah?” She turned towards me, a look of confusion flashing across her face. Then she seemed to recognise me, and a pretty smile spread across her cheeks. “Josh?” She asked politely, still smiling. ”Er... actually, it’s Jo,” I said, plastering a fake smile on my face as my heart dropped in disappointment. “I’m from your English class, don’t you remember?” She nodded, but I could see the hesitation in her eyes. She was obviously lying, I could see it in her furrowed brow as she tried to recall. ”Anyway, I was just wondering, do you want to go for a cup of coffee sometime?” I pushed my luck, crossing my fingers behind my back. Leah looked around, and slowly said, “Actually... I’m busy. I don’t think I’m free anytime soon...” I nodded, but inwardly I was panicking. I couldn’t not finish this dare, I had a streak of 5 completed dares at stake! Fortunately, Leah continued, “But I might be able to go next week. What time are you free?” After switching numbers, we agreed to meet at A Cup For A Smile after English the week after. I grinned triumphantly as I waved at her and walked away. *** Vic was quick to get on my case that afternoon, pestering me on my progress with dating the hottest girl in school. His smirk covered my entire field of vision, and my attempts to push him away proved futile. ”So... how’s it going? You’ve got to do it quickly, you know, it’s not fair to make the rest of us have a dare drought just ’cause you’re slow.” Vic slung his hand over my shoulder, and I squirmed at the unwelcome heat in the blistering afternoon. I had just shrugged his hand off my shoulder when Max piped up. “Yeah, Jo, that’s just mean to us.” He pouted cutely, and his sulking face, as always, made me relent. I laughed loudly. “I’m trying, guys, I really am. Look, I got a date with her Monday, okay? This should be going along just fine.” Max kicked the pavement before looking up at me, a bright smile spreading across his face. ”Okay.” *** A week later, I sat in the blissfully chilly café, awaiting Leah’s arrival. It was two minutes before the time that we had agreed to meet, but I had decided it was better to be early than to keep her waiting. Suddenly, the sound of a bell rung through the chatter in the café. I whipped my head towards the glass door, and, sure enough, Leah stood there. She locked eyes with me and headed towards me. I felt my heart pounding in my chest as she neared the table, and I took a deep breath to calm myself. Leah flashed me a dazzling smile as she slipped into the seat beside me. “Hey,” she said. That one syllable was enough to reduce me to a stuttering mess, but I drew myself up, and mustering the little confidence I had left, I replied, “Hey.” I mentally slapped myself. “Hey”? Was that really all I could say? No “how are you” or “how’s school”? I was so pathetic. Leah laughed, a tinkling laughter, and I felt my cheeks flush red. She placed a cool hand on mine, a small smile at the corners of her lips. “Don’t be so worried. It’s not like I’m going to eat you.” No, but the whole school would murder me, considering she was so out of my league. A relationship between us would cause a huge scandal. But my stubbornness, for once, proved useful. You can do it! It shouted in my ear. Don’t give up, you can’t prove Vic right! Grinning, I pushed the menu towards Leah. ”So, what would you like to order?” It had only gotten better from there. We had talked about school, but we avoided her friends--a touchy subject for both of us--as we got to know each other better. *** A month after our first ‘date’, I mustered the courage to go to one of the large parties, which Leah would be attending. By the end of the party, drunken people were everywhere, swarming the tables to grab more alcohol. I narrowly swerved to avoid a stumbling wreck of drunkenness, and caught sight of Leah. My breath hitched in my throat as I saw a male youth, barely taller than me, attacking Leah’s lips with a vigour that would be admirable had I been another person. But I wasn’t. And seeing Leah kissing him back passionately, I couldn’t help but cultivate the seeds of jealously planted in my gut. Impulsively, I stalked over to the couple and ripped them apart. I tilted Leah’s chin towards me, and I could see her glassy eyes widening in shock. Her swollen lips parted to form an ‘o’ of surprise, as she let out a soft gasp. I roughly turned her head away from me, inwardly guilty, but I knew she was drunk. She was drunk and kissing a stranger, whom she would probably forget in the morning. Just the thought of it made me stew in rage. Consumed by this fiery anger, I whirled around to face the male, who was a few centimetres shorter than me. I gripped his chin, forcing him to face me. His eyes, also clouded over, betrayed his apprehension. He nervously toyed with his lower lip as I heard a voice that sounded unlike mine resounding from my throat threateningly. ”Stay away from Leah,” the voice said, tersely. “You’re not fit for her. You’re not even sober, you’re high on drugs.” I turned away in disgust, and faced Leah’s guilty, pleading gaze. My heart softened. I don’t know why I’m doing this, I thought as I trudged towards my car, a drunken Leah staggering across the carpark with me, leaning against my shoulder. “Who’s your designated driver? Why aren’t they here?” I asked, annoyed that Leah didn’t care about her own safety. Leah pouted, smoky salmon lips frowning adorably. “I don’t know. Cassie said she wouldn’t drink, and that she’d always be downstairs, but I didn’t see her just now.” I groaned in frustration, buckling Leah into my passenger seat. “Look, I’ll drive you home, and if anyone asks, I’m the DD, okay?” She giggled. “Okay.” I sighed, rubbing my hand across my face. I was not ready for this. “I need your address, Leah.” She spewed a string of numbers that I entered into the GPS before sending her home. *** Later that night, Vic and Max called. They asked why I had left so early, and I mentally slapped myself. I was their DD! What were they going to do, out so late at night at drunken as can be? I knew from experience that both of them were lightweights, and knew better than most what was going to happen if I didn’t pick them up... Vic assured me that they were fine, and that a pretty girl had offered to drive them home. The girl’s name was Cassie. I sped back to the house immediately, both worried for my best friends’ safety and to give the girl a good scolding. I arrived at the gate of the majestic house, illuminated by strobe lights, loud music blaring through the speakers. Now that I was paying attention, I noticed bodies grinding up against each other, sweaty skin sticking to tight, skimpy clothing. The music thundered in my ears and I felt my eardrums throbbing. I stumbled through the dense crowd, eyes scanning the sea of people frantically, hoping to catch sight of Max or Vic. While being tall was a good advantage, it was rendered useless by the fact that both Max and Vic were... kind of vertically challenged. I sighed in frustration, ready to yell out their names, only to hear wild screaming from outside the living room. I ducked and squeezed my way through to the glass partition separating the living room from the backyard, which was now wide open. I caught sight of Max with an arm draped around a girl, swaying on his feet, swinging a mug of beer in his hand. Despite the circumstances, I scoffed. He got drunk drinking beer ? Seriously? I strode towards Max, my height an advantage in intimidating the people. They parted for me as I gripped Max’s shoulder tightly. “Dude, what do you think you’re doing? I leave you for half an hour and you do this to me? Really?” Max turned to face me, jaded eyes turning sharp and focused for a second before losing focus again. He gazed at me with a puppy-dog look on my face. I groaned. Every. Single. Time. When Max was drunk, he always pulled the guilt-trip card. And I fell for it every time, just like I did this time. I slung his hand onto my shoulders, staggering from his weight. I lifted him into my arms--a more convenient alternative to supporting him--as I let my eyes dart around the room, hoping to catch sight of Vic. Just as I had suspected, Vic was in a corner of the backyard, smoking with a small group of two girls and another boy. At least he was smoking something legal this time, not marijuana. I tore the cigarette from his fingers, ignoring the searing pain that scorched my fingers as I accidentally brushed them against the flame. I threw the cigarette to the ground. I was sure someone would pick it up later. I dug my fingernails into the soft flesh of Vic’s shoulder blades, spinning him around to face me. Under my breath, I hissed, “Just what exactly do you think you are doing?“ Vic sneered, not an uncommon occurrence when I confronted him in front of his smoke-buddies. “This,” he said, ignoring me, “is Cassie. That’s Jack, and that’s Haley.” I smiled tightly, my gaze falling on Cassie, sizing her up. The girl didn’t have much muscle, but anyone so stable on stilettos--in the grass, in the middle of the night, probably drunk, no less--was to be feared. Once again, I ignored my gut feeling, and unleashed my rage upon her. “How dare you,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “How dare you! You left Leah alone, in the middle of the night, alone and drunk, and didn’t keep to any part of your deal! You’re a designated driver for a reason, and yet you choose to shirk your responsibilities!” I drew a breath to calm myself down, my face red hot with fury. “Bitches like you,” I spoke hoarsely, menacingly, “are the reason I have trust issues.” With that, I grabbed my friends and left. *** I smiled at Leah, who eagerly grinned back. In just a few weeks, I’d gone from “Jo the loser” to “Jo who was friends with Leah”. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t about the dare any more, although the stubborn part of me would beg to differ. It was about Leah, wanting to be with her, wanting to be hers. I wanted to be hers, and her to be mine, both of us consensually agreeing to be one. But first I would have to get her to agree. We were at A Cup For A Smile again, and this time I knew she was getting an iced double shot espresso, while I got my iced latte. I hesitantly began our conversation with something casual, something to get Leah to open up. “Leah?” ”Mm?” ”I was just wondering... do you... think we could go on a date?” I asked, analysing her reaction to gauge her feelings about this. ”Hmm? Sure! Isn’t this one already?” Her reply threw me off a little, and I laughed in response. “No, I meant a proper date.” “What, one in the cinemas with popcorn? We did that last week, dumbass,” she grinned coyly, displaying her pearly white teeth. “No, I- I meant as... girlfriends. I’m lesbian, Leah.” I was used to coming out, and didn’t really hide my sexuality, but it felt awkward coming out to my new crush, who was sitting right across me. “I’m bi,” Leah said, rolling her eyes. “I really am. And I mean it. I want to be girlfriends.” With that, she leaned across the table and kissed me. I pulled away first, getting out of my seat and sliding in next to her. I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her, hard. And I smirked. I’d completed my dare and confessed to my new crush--killing two birds with one stone. Her hands pried mine from her face, and she entwined our fingers together, my coarse palms in her delicate, cooling ones. ”Remember when you asked, two weeks ago, what ‘Jo’ was short for?” I asked, smiling against her lips. They quirked into a crooked grin. “Well, I thought I’d tell you. It’s short for Joanna.”

This is supposed to be sometime around the nineteen-fifties, but some things may not be historically accurate and I am still getting better at writing. I did my very best though, and hope you enjoy: The Fight Against the New Highway . It was a dark, dreary day and a bitter-cold wind blew with swerling gusts. A fog rolled in from the East, settling over the subdued city of Miaret. There was an eerie silence over the city. Although the city didn’t usually get such harsh weather, the silence was normal--it had been for a long time. Jasmine started apathetically out the window, fogging the glass. A chill ran down her spine, with the early morning cold. She liked the quietness of the city. Nothing much happened, but that was the way she liked it. “Jasmine, get your face away from that widow,” Jasmin’s mother, Grace, said coming into the room. Jasmine whipped around, startled. “I need you to run an errand for me,” Grace said. “What is it?” Jasmine said in a soft voice. “I only have a small amount of flour left and I need more. Could you please go get some for me?” Grace asked, handing her some money. Saying nothing, Jasmine took the money and went and got on her grey overcoat. She also got some thick socks and boots, and a colorful shawl to keep her warm. As Jasmine went through the door, Grace called behind her, “Please be home before ten o’clock!” When Jasmine took a step outside, she saw that it had begun to snow. The light snowflakes fluttered to the ground, making a thin white sheet on the ground. Jasmine shivered and pulled the shawl tighter around her. She realized that she had forgotten her gloves, and her fingers were beginning to numb as she made her way to town. When she arrived at the store, she heard shouting and commotion coming from downtown. The town wasn’t as quiet as Jasmine thought. Forgetting the flour for a moment, she headed toward the noise. When the source of the noise was insight Jasmine wasn't sure what it was. It seemed to be a protest of some sort. Shouting people were densely gathered around a podium in front of City Hall. Some people seemed angry. People were crying out things like, “We don’t need civilization and new technology to come through our city!” and others saying, “Our city needs to advance! We can’t stay like this! Other towns will be getting more sophisticated!” Someone approached the platform and leaned into the microphone, preparing to make a statement. “Our town is just fine the way it is. We don’t need advancement--not in this way. While some advancement is good, some can also be bad. A highway is too noisy! We do not need the roar of automobiles roaring through our city! Vote No on building a new highway! Some of the crowd cheered. “A new highway?!” thought Jasmine. Another person stepped up to the podium to make a statement, “Our town is a fine one. We are thriving well... Yet there are other towns that are pulling ahead with advancement. We won’t let this happen! We must not be left in the dust!” The crowd cheered, while others booed. “We need to move on! We need to take action! We need to change! Vote Yes for building a new highway through our city!” There was a map displayed, showing what section the highway would be running through. “That’s right by our house!” Jasmine realized, panicked. She liked Miaret the way it was. She didn’t want it to change. Jasmine had gotten lost in time, as the clock gonged ten o'clock and suddenly, Jasmine remembered about the flour and rushed to get it, then hurried home, almost running. Jasmine burst through the door, her cheeks flushed. “Jasmine, where have you been?!” exclaimed Grace. “I thought I asked you to be back by ten.” “You did, but I got side tracked,” Jasmine answered, panting. “There is something going on at City Hall.” “Whatever could distract you at City Hall?” Grace wondered. “People are protesting about putting a new highway through Miaret, and they want to put it right by our house!” Jasmine exclaimed. “Whatever for?” asked Grace, bewildered. “I don’t know. Some people thought that we needed advancement and other people wanted to keep the town like normal.” replied Jazmine. “Well I won’t have it!” said Grace, now in an uproar. Jasmine agreed with Grace. She didn’t want a noisy highway running through the town. “I’m going tomorrow to go to City Hall and fight this myself.” Grace said. Jasmine’s stomach growled, and she remembered she forgot breakfast. She got a small snack and the day went on, not much happening. The next day, when Jasmine woke up, sunlight was streaming through the window, but it was freezing cold outside, with a few inches of snow on the ground. Despite the cold weather, though, Grace was determined to go to City Hall. She was very upset about everything. Jasmine begged Grace to let her come with her, but Grace said that she would just get in the way. Jasmine continued to beg Grace, until she gave in and let her come along. When they arrived at City Hall, again, there was a protest going on. There was a sign that said “Free Mic”, meaning that anyone could speak. Jasmine and Grace listened to other people talk and Grace got more information about the plan for the highway, and finally, she confidently neared the podium. Grace began her speech self-assured, pausing at moments, thinking of moving words. “I have lived in Miaret all my life. I have seen it change throughout the years--some for the better, some far the worse. But in the end, the city always made the best of it. Sometimes it was a new business, or a new maor. Even though I was just a child, I went to the meetings and knew everything that was going on. I had an opinion, although I didn’t express it at the time, although I didn’t express it at the time, but now I am saying something and I ask you to listen. There are some things that to this day I wish the city never decided on. These things can affect the city for the rest of its existence. Please, do not let this happen. Although highways aren't necessarily bad, I don’t think one is right for this town. I have a nar-by neighbor that has a young baby, only five months old. She does not want her young one to grow up to the sound of cars and the sight of a busy road just outside their home. Think of what this might do to our children.” She continued for a long time, and once she had finished her speech, the crowd was quiet, dwelling on what they had heard. “May I talk too?” asked Jasmine, as Grace stepped down from the platform. “I don’t think a young girl like you should make a statement,” said Grace. “Please,” Jasmine pleaded, “Why not?” “Well, I guess a few words won’t hurt,” Grace gave in with a sigh. Jasmine made her short speech, inspiring many who listened. Even though she was only a child and her statement was brief, Jasmine believed it made an impact. “Jasmine, it’s time to go!” Grace called out through the crowd. “Do we have to?” Jasmine called back. “We’ve already said what we have to say, and I have voted. There is nothing else to do. We will come back tomorrow to see what they decide on,” Grace replied, now near Jasmine. “Can’t we stay and see what happened,” implored Jasmine. “It will not change the outcome, and we need to get home,” responded Grace. That night, Jasmine thought about the day, Grace’s speech and her own. She hoped they made a difference. She tried not to think about what might happen if they did put a highway near their house, but soon, she drifted off to sleep. The next day, Grace went to town, but this time Jasmine couldn’t come along, because she had too many things to get done and too much to do at home. Later, that afternoon, when Grace returned, she was pleased to announce that they weren’t going to build a highway after all, and right then, as Jasmine heard her mother say it, was sure that their speeches had made a difference.

"What do you want me to do?" I screamed, throwing a pillow at her. She picked up the pillow quickly and threw it back at me. "Just do this one little thing for me, please?" she pleaded, giving the puppy eyes tactic a try. My cold unforgiving eyes repelled the attempt at making me give up. "Why should I do it?" I shouted. My arms folded across my chest as I stared her down. She humphed and replied, "Because I said so." When I met Ana, she was this sweet little girl. Every day, we'd meet up after school and share an ice cream together. The sticky drops from the cold bonded us together, making us inseparable. But then Harry came along. He swooped her off of her feet and rode off with her into the sunset, leaving a poor soul behind. Every night, I cried myself to sleep, imagining her bubbly voice and deep blue eyes connecting with mine. I jealously watched as Harry overtook her, constantly giving her attention and kisses. They'd go to every track meet, football game, matchup and get compliments about how good they were together. For a while, it seemed that no end was in sight. Another season went by and then finally, things started to move. Harry focused more on his collegiate soccer ambitions and spent less time with Ana. Since he was so rich, Ana began to become impatient and promptly left him, looking for someone else to spoil her. Me, who at the time had no idea what I was in for, quickly stood up to the plate. I bought a strawberry cone and sat down. It was a cooler day, so I slipped on a sweatshirt and found a nice bench in the sun. Birds flew all around and squirrels chittered just feet away. In the distance, Ana was approaching the ice cream place, money in hand. I quickly got up and moved to a closer seat, ignoring the sudden drop in temperature. At that point, I was bound to do anything. She received her treat and began pacing towards me. I scooched over and motioned slightly for her to sit. She smiled and sat down. "Hey, Michael," she said. "Hi, Ana," I replied, blushing with each word. "It's been a while, hasn't it." she grinned, moving closer. I chuckled nervously and nodded. "You know, ever since Harry stopped buying me things and moved on," she complained. She rolled her eyes and moved her hair away from the front of her body. "Yeah, I guess it has been," I concluded. She giggled and my stomach went from 10 to 1000. I awkwardly shifted and laughed with her. She smiled and asked me the last question I was expecting. "I'm just gonna say it: Want to go out?" she asked confidently. I stuttered over my words and my brain exploded. My voice seemed to fail me and I stared helplessly at those damn blue eyes. All I could muster was a squeaky "yes" and off we went, hand in hand. Thus started the paychecks. At first, it was small. Coffee here and there, a trip to the mall perhaps. But then it grew. Pretty soon, we were hanging out every day, going out to places, and watching Netflix before... personal time. Anyways, as the relationship grew, so did my debt. Day after day I spent enough money to make a millionaire cry, just to please my cute blue-eyed girlfriend. I still was blind to her impatience and ambitions, and that was my weakness. As long as I bought her something, she would return it with affection. And that seemed to satisfy the relationship. Until today. Today, I wanted to rip those pristine blue eyes and put them on a person who actually deserved them. Because boy, oh boy, is she not pristine on the inside. How could she be so ungrateful? I bought her shit day after day, and sometimes she didn't even use them! Why is she doing this? How could I be so blind?" These thoughts raced through my head as I locked myself in the bathroom, listening to Ana destroy things in anger. My eyes were puffy from tears and I was sweating. I wanted to just end it right there and then, to purify me of my wrongdoings. The thought of just doing it was enough to get my adrenaline moving. To be free of impurities, to just be carefree! Adrenaline rushed through my veins. I knew what to say. My feet clomped down the stairs hastily, and Ana stopped her racket. I turned her around and kissed her. "That's for being beautiful," I started. "But I can't handle it anymore. The fuss, the greed, the ungrateful bitchiness." My hand opened up and I touched her cold, hard face. The same feeling as cash. Tears welled up in her eyes and she held her hand to her cheek. I was about to add another one-liner, but the effect of what I did hit me. I slumped to the ground and cried, not only for myself (for once!) but for her as well. I held my knees and cried a deep cry as she helplessly watched, perhaps thinking herself about what the consequences of her actions were. She looked around the room as tears also rolled down her cheeks. She stared down at her bleeding hands and clenched them in anger not directed at me but at how she reacted. "She'll never change," I concluded earlier that day. Nothing I've ever done has proven to fix her. Only God can manage to repair her sins and wrongs. However, I was hit yet again with a surprise as she paid me 200,000 dollars. The same amount as the sum of my total spendings that month. Her blue eyes sympathetically looked at me, this time belonging to the person I had hoped to know. The one whose face doesn't feel like money, the one who doesn't want everything in existence. The one who cares for the other.

Wind swept across the bow of the boats and rocked them in the water as Laáfchan and the other fishermen pulled the nets over the edge. Fish flopped, desperate for air, against the boards of the floor. The bay provided them again, day after day by the will of Aachkíinooláak, ever looking over his people. The sun sat in midfall, his sisters visible against the darker half of the sky, watching for their time to take dominion over the land. He reached over the edge of the boat and pulled the last bit of net in. Water sunk into his shoes, wetting his feet. The sky rumbled above them as if often did this time of day, the storms had made their pilgrimage across the peninsula to collect their lightning in the bay of thunder. The air above the crackled with light. The men paddled toward the coast, the sky grew darker and darker. Laáfchan preferred the storm. His wife and he had been arguing near-constantly since the last twin moon about... everything. Just when he thought that things were getting better, she would use her tongue like a dagger to dig into his wounds. Peering into the sky, he knew he was no better. Each time she came to him silently, her attempt to move on, he could not help himself to make her miserable the way that he had felt. After he, or she, attacked the cycle continued, like the storms that blew over the peninsula. Things could go from calm to instantly raging, with a single sentence. Laáfchan and the crew stepped out of the boat and pulled it onto the shore Their feet dug into the sand and shallow waves licked up from the ocean and lapped at their heels. Once the boats were in place, they wrapped the jigging ropes around the posts on the beach. “Hey, Laáfchan, I heard you and Janlaaaiik this morning as you were leaving.” Worry washed over Laáfchan as he turned to look at his friend. Many unsavory things flew from their mouths this morning as the two of them argued. “Is everything okay”, his friend asked. “Uhm yes, I suppose”, Laáfchan brushed the sand from his knees. No matter how hard he patted his knees, the brown sand clung to his shorts. He lied. It was easier to lie about his feelings than dive into them with others. *I should be able to do that with my wife. Why can’t I? Opening up feels so hard, especially with someone I should...* “Yes, everything is fine.” He continued to lie. “Well, if you need anything, let me know”, the implication that he would need anything cut deeper than it should. Feelings festered underneath from earlier in the morning. The maggots of anger nibbled and ate at the healing wound from that morning and the scars of other arguments. He failed to recall who started which, why they started, or when. All the arguments piled on top of one another, and each of them felt as if she started them. Underneath that feeling; however, he knew that they were at least fifty-fifty and at worst mostly his fault. That realization only caused him to fume more, knowing that he was likely the problem. After the boats were placed upon the shore, he walked home. He parted ways with the crew of his boat and the lightning crackled in the sky as the wind picked up. The pine trees and palms blew in the distance, howling amongst the wind. He walked up to the stairway of his chickee and the steps up the stilted wooden home. The canvas on either side pulled down in preparation for the storm, bowed out slightly in the wind. The tanned animal hides, painted with depictions of the Gator, the number of swordfish he had caught personally, and the imagery of his family. The wood of the chickee, newly built just before their wedding, gave no sway. Other chickee sat on along the beach and further inland to the wood. Many other fishermen walked into their homes as well. Most of the other men’s homes’ canvas remained raised in the tropic sun. Each step of his foot, his heart throbbed, and memories of each of the arguments of the morning and the day before boiled to the surface. Swinging the canvas back and stomping into the chickee. He huffed and dropped won onto the bed. Before she could even ask him about his day, the festering anger fumed out, “This is the tenth time since the twin moons that I have come back from fishing the Bíifááishaachalíichóloólíida and there are not smoked fish resting above the fire outside.” He huffed, pulling salt brined shoes from his feet. The fire crackled outside the northside of their stilted chickee. The smoke billowed to the sky, the seen through the flaps in the canvas covering of their home. The woman standing mere feet away put her hand on the hip opposite of a small child, “I had traded the fish from yesterday for some clothes for Fachií.” She bounced the child on her hip lightly to stifle a crying fit that threatened to erupt. “Perhaps if you went with the hunting parties, we could have a claim to some skins without having to trade for them.” The wound opened up from the morning more and instead of changing the tone or walking away, he felt the need to lash out. A copperhead in his mouth coiled up and dripped venom from its fangs. “Perhaps if you mended the fields further inland”, he snapped back. She stamped her foot. This fight happened more often than she’d liked. It ended the same way every time - in yelling and eventual begrudging reconciliation. “I’m going to Chóldachalíioónok and hear his view on this.” She paused at the door and glanced back at him, “You can either come or wait to hear when I come back.” “Gators eat me if I’m going let you go without me and not tell my story also.” He yanked his shoes back onto his feet and stormed after her. He breathed out, wanting her to hear him, “Maybe he’ll dissolve this union.” A tear dropped down her cheek, “Yes, perhaps he will.” Others of the village watched on, some trained eyes on them all the way through the walkways. Laáfchan shouted back, “You would like that wouldn’t you!” “Chóldachalíikáaoónok!”, she snapped back the tanned skin around the large chickee near the center of the village. In the large center room, a man with short, dark brown hair stood with others looking over maps of Chiíkoak and the river systems from the western bay across the peninsula. He pointed at a point on the eastern coast. Opening his mouth to speak, everyone turned to face her, interrupting the flow. Her face reddened as she turned to leave the chickee. Chóldachalíikáaoónok stepped out of the chickee, pulling the canvas back. The other men and women in there walked down the steps. A smile came over his face, “I could hear you at least half of the way here. Were that I could marry the Vesgarians to some other peoples may that they would fight themselves in circles.” He paused when no one laughed, “So this is serious then? Come inside.” Laáfchan followed the chief into the chickee. If the chief married the Vesgarians off to another culture, and they behaved as he has behaved in marriage, the married nations would in-fight and war within months. The three of them came into the same table with the map on it. “Chóldachalíioónok, my wife has not performed her duties to home and family.” The accusation cut through the short silence and Chóldachalíioónok’s eyes dimmed for a moment. “Many long days have I traveled into the bay, fished, and returned to find no cooked food, nothing gathered, dwindling firewood.” He lied about the problem. Laáfchan knew Janlaaaiik tried her best and supported him in the worst of times; however, the aggressions against one another over little things piled up. The desire to get even, often, outweighed the desire to make things right. The shame of this piled on to his anger and resentment and continuing to attack felt easier and easier. “I have other things I have to do. The child cannot go completely unclothed in the sun. I cannot gather firewood when he has not cut any.” She continued for a moment. Laáfchan scoffed at her. The reasons she listed, he obviously felt were unimportant or at the very least invalid. He breathed out, “Perhaps it is time to dissolve our marriage”, and Chóldachalíioónok listened. He lifted his hand. Standing up he moved out of the room. “I will return shortly.” He left the chickee. The Janlaaaiik and Laáfchan sat across the table from one another. The only sound in the room was their child. The goos and the gah’s of the toddler only brightened faces for moments before making eye contact with one another and becoming re-engulfed in the argument. Several more minutes passed and Chóldachalíioónok returned. He brought with an orange in his hand. He placed one orange, injured and rife with flies, on the table. He feinted a smile toward the husband and wife. Laáfchan huffed. “This is not a time for children’s tales of love.” “Shush, let Chóldachalíioónok speak!” Chóldachalíioónok eyed the orange, shooing flies away before turning to the two partners. “That’s exactly what it’s time for. Though I will not tell the story verbatim. Instead, I will come to you with a tale of warning of what happens when you attack the flesh, the union.” He pointed at the orange as flies circled it. "First, I’ll remind you of the tale”, he leaned forward in his chair over the table. “Aachkíinooláak saw that there were two, husband and wife, that had separated. The two wandered off to separate sides of what we now know as Deer Lake. He, in unison, went to both husband and wife with the first oranges in his creation.” “He came to them in human form, with an orange in hand, he said to them, ‘See the orange, I have made it for you. Rubbing his thumb over the exterior he said, ‘See the flesh. It is as bright as the sun. Granting you bright days eternal’. The two glanced at one another but seemed overall uninterested in the story. “We’ve heard the...”, Laáfchan attempted to interrupt. “He broke the flesh with his fingers. ‘See, the flesh is tough but flexible. It is strong and resilient. It is not rigid and impossible to work with’. He peeled away the flesh entirely and revealed the fruit beneath. After all of the skin was removed, he handed a piece to them. ‘See the fruit. The skin, the flesh, protects the fruit. That flesh is your union. The fruit is yourself, your vulnerabilities, your fears, your insecurities, individually but bound together.” Chóldachalíioónok reached back and grabbed two ripened pieces of oranges. He placed the fruit in front of the Laáfchan and Janlaaaiik. “He said, ‘Taste it. It is sweet like the love between you two. Take this and remember your love. Nothing is as strong as the love you grow and share. Toughen the skin of your union through change. Make it flexible through communication. Ripen yourselves within and grow soft with one another.’” The two of them ate the piece of orange that was offered to them. The ripeness of the fruit made it sweet with the citrus kick. “We have heard this story before. I understand why you’re telling it, but don’t understand how it applies here. We want to dissolve our union.” “Do you?” “We said that didn’t we?” “You want to dissolve your union over lack of smoked fish? And you yours over him not hunting instead of fishing?” Chóldachalíioónok chuckled. “Do you think that others have not had these fights before? Or that this is reason to separate and part ways?” Pointing to the fruit with a hole in the middle. “This orange fell from its tree, but the illustration is still good. You attacked your union here before me. You did it in the path here. I heard it at least once, but don’t know how many times you’ve done it. The union you have is the flesh of the orange.” The flesh of the damaged orange was mostly intact; however, the flies dug into the fruit inside through the hole and spoiled it from the inside. “You can see that the flesh, mostly, is whole. It was damaged, while not from within, from a point. Allowing all manner of bugs, dirt, and filth inside. This is the same as what happens if you attack your union too often. You tear a hole, even a small one, and let in that which can damage you from the inside.” Chóldachalíioónok sighed. “Once the damage to the flesh is done one can tell themselves, ‘It’s just one kiss from someone else’. One can tell themselves, ‘It’s not a problem to complain to another woman, or man, about my partner\`. As soon as the first fly enters in, it lays eggs and eats the love, deteriorating it from the inside. The feeling in the room changed. The married couple stared at the flies swarming around the orange. The inside blackened with flies and rot. The two of them glanced at one another. “I...”, Laáfchan spoke up. “No, not here”, Chóldachalíioónok interrupted him. He waved his hand, “Go home. Speak privately. Nurture your flesh to protect your love and fears. Toughen yourselves, fortify your union.” He shooed them out of the chickee and followed them out. The child, struggled against its mother’s arms, close to throwing a tantrum in hunger. “Thank you, Chóldachalíioónok”, Laáfchan turned around to him. “I have seen what happens when the skin is wounded. I would like to see it as seldom as I can”, he closed the flap of the tanned skin wall on the chickee. Laáfchan turned away and walked slightly behind his Janlaaaiik. This time, the two of them walked in silence as the bay turned a deep orange and the moons hung in the sky. Chóldachalíioónok’s wife left several days ago. How long ago, precisely, Laáfchan failed to remember. Since then, the chief looked out for others more often and attempted to be more cheery. His wife, presumably, traveled south to another tribe in the confederacy where her family left. He did not know and asking felt wrong. He left his prying thoughts as thoughts and continued down the path after Janlaaaiik. The two of them returned home. Silence washed over their home for the first time in weeks. No yelling or crying emanated from the walls. Laáfchan prepared his tools for the next day. He placed his boots against the post near the door flap. His hands worked the alt off of his shoes with his hands as best he could. Placing his shirt by the window he opens the flap so that wind could hit it. She fed the child, laid it down, and then the two of them sat on their bed together. They faced one another but said nothing for several minutes. The silence worried him, as it had never been a good sign before. The last time the two of them had been silent, they ignored one another for two days before the first words erupted into a fight. Janlaaaiik reached out and touched her Laáfchan’s hand. She peered into his eyes. “I am afraid. I am afraid that you do not want me anymore. That I do not do enough for you. I need to know that you love me and that we can work on this together.” A tear streamed down her face. She moved her hand to wipe it, but Laáfchan did instead. He wished that he had spoken first. Her grace showed itself again and he had to reflect for a second. Every time the two of them had an argument, she was the first to try and find common ground or resolution. He took a breath. He realized that her words were not an attack on him. That she used her words sincerely instead of passive-aggressively. Shook his head. “I do love you. I do not feel that you’re not enough for me. I feel afraid that I am not enough for you. However long the day, I feel like I cannot provide enough. It makes me feel weak and unable to support you”, a small tear welled in his eye, he held back the rest as best he could. “I believe we can work on this.” He bared his insecurities to her. Communication, as the chief said, is the only way to strengthen the marriage. He felt like all of his nerves were bare and his skin rolled back, ready for the slightest pinprick to ignite his body and mind. Her lips curled into a soft smile. “Perhaps the first solution is that we stop talking in ‘I’s and ‘you’ s. “ He nodded to her first suggestion. “Sometimes it feels like we attack one another than working together. We should speak in ‘we’ s.” Her eyes peered into his as he mulled over her statement. “I agree”, he stated. She opened her mouth, but he continued, “We agree. We should not talk in opposition to one another.” She smiled at him. “I also think that I should spend more time out. I can fish in the mornings and hunt in the evenings, rest in the midday when the sun is hottest.” “Yes, that is a fantastic idea!” He looked down into her lap. “I should see if my mother or yours can watch over the baby while I go tend to the fields with the other women.” She paused, “I just wanted more time with him before I went back to work.” Laáfchan shook his head, “No, I was wrong for being so hard on you. You need to take your time with the child as you can. I was in the wrong before.” He patted her hand with his free hand, rubbing his thumb against hers. “You were right though. The child can walk. There is no reason for me to stay home with him when others can watch him. I need to carry my weight not only for us but for our child”, she retorted. He nodded, “Okay. If that is how you feel, we will honor it together.” The two of them embraced one another as the sun fell below the coast. The sister moons bore half faces above the shimmering water. The wind blew through the canvas flaps, bringing the scent of salt off the bay. Hours later and the sun rose through the trees to the west. A beam of light shone through the window cut into the chickee wall. Falling on the couple, illuminating them in a new day, Janlaaaiik rested with her head upon Laáfchan’s chest. Calm remained until he stirred. He dressed, pulling his boots over his feet and out the door to the bay. The two of them pulled the canvas up, rolling it with their hands at either side. Their chickee now looked like many others along the path. Open so that the wind from the beach may cool their days and nights. Their home stood open, more open, for everyone to hear. Janlaaaiik, true to her words, followed behind dressed for the gathering.

‘I quit,’ says April Stanton, leaning on the countertop. She stares vacantly through the window of the truck stop at the heat rippling on the old highway. Her lips smack as she chews a wad of pink bubblegum. ‘This truck stop is as dead as a doornail.’ Andrew Stanton, April’s father, looks at the dilapidated diner directly next to the truck stop. The desert has its own plans if Andrew doesn’t fix up the building soon. ‘The truck stop is not dead, April. It’s just in torpor.’ And what about the diner? April thinks, folding a fresh stick of strawberry satisfaction in half with her tongue and chewing loudly. ‘If you quit, where else are you going to get a job?’ Andrew asks. April’s mouth curls at the edges. ‘Oh, I can get work .’ ‘If you’re referring to what I think you are, internet whoring, or being a cam-girl, is not real work. It’s the farthest thing from it.’ ‘I beg to disagree. Mary Magdalen’s epitaph says: Friend of Jesus, Proud sex worker . I’m not too proud to join her ranks.’ ‘Can anyone be a proud sex worker? I mean, truly?’ Andrew asks. Other than setting tumble weeds alight and watching fireballs roll across the desert by night, provoking her father is April’s only regular source of entertainment. She traces her hips with her hands. ‘Uh, yeah. These curves are monetisable. I just never realised it until now.’ The bell above the shop door rings. Pastor Richards tips his stetson hat in greeting. He walks to the back of the store to pick out a soda. ‘Morning, folks,’ he says, placing his drink on the counter. ‘Dust storm on the way. Hot as hell. What’s the news here?’ April stretches the gum from her mouth and plucks it like a banjo string. ‘Well, Pastor,’ Andrew says, ‘April is considering turning to the oldest profession--by way of the internet--if you catch my meaning. Now, I’m half-sure that this ironic teenage posturing will come to an end soon, but she shouldn't be entertaining the notion in the first place.’ April twirls her gum with her finger and bats her lashes at the pastor. ‘Young lady,’ Pastor Richards says, ‘boredom is not a reason to commit carnal capers on the internet. Don’t let temporary teenage disaffection lead you astray. If you slide into a world of smut that you can’t crawl back out of, and pick up a drug habit, you can say goodbye to redemption.’ April sniggers. ‘What do you suggest I do, then? There’s nothing to keep my idle thumbs busy around here.’ ‘You have to make something of yourself. It’s no good just lying around like it's all gonna happen to you. Do something other than bothering your poor father.’ ‘Yeah? like what?’ ‘Well, think about it. What is this town lacking?’ ‘Uh, everything.’ ‘Ever see those roadside attractions? How’s about killing two birds with one stone and building a landmark? That’ll keep you busy and get people patronising this place again.' ‘Yeah,’ Andrew says, ‘I’ve seen ‘em--Gigantic Lumberjacks and Large Ears of Corn. But what could ours could be?’ April taps her fingers on her chin. ‘Uh, the biggest wad of bubblegum, obviously. Like a big sculpture. A big pile of the stuff.’ Clunk. That sound, dear reader, is the clunk of calcified apathy dislodging from April’s brain. For the first time in her life, she is about to follow an original train of thought instinctively. She starts by going to the storeroom in the back and searching for boxes of bubblegum. As she does, she ponders how different brands, colours, flavours, and malleabilities will have an effect on the resulting sculpture. She decides that a magenta monolith made of her preferred brand of bubblegum--Strawberry Satisfaction--will pique people's ocular curiosity. Yes , the rude, reddish tone of Strawberry Satisfaction will stand out royally against the golden sands of the desert. And if the community contributes their own used pieces of gum bought here at the truck stop, we’ll have a proud wad in no time! *** Julie surveys the patch of desert that surrounds the diner. She lays down and presses her ear to the ground, intuiting the Earth’s energy field in the form of ley lines. A scorpion scuttles over her shawl. ‘Every business that ever prospered did so because of its location on a ley line,’ she says. ‘A building’s surrounding energy fields are very important.’ Andrew stands with his arms folded. More mystic mumbo-jumbo, he thinks. I’m lucky to have an ex-wife who offers such a valuable service. ‘There’s a line with a high bandwidth of positivity running right under the diner. There are a few obstacles obstructing the flow of the truck stop tributaries, but it's nothing I can’t unblock.’ ‘And how much does a mystic plumber charge for unblocking these days?’ Andrew asks. Julie shakes her head knowingly. ‘Please. I’m an Energy Specialist. And I would never charge my family.’ She turns to her daughter. ‘Let me know when you’d like me to start work, April. I'll see you soon, my darling.' Julie’s dress trails across the sand as she floats over to her Chevy pick-up truck. She traps the hem of her dress in the door of the vehicle, and it flutters in the draft as she drives away. The motor of the pick up backfires, and Andrew jumps. ‘Your mother didn’t even notice I’ve repainted the front of the diner, did she?’ And by the way, April, when are you going to help?’ ‘I’m a big picture kind of gal. I don’t dabble in donkey work.’ Andrew places his hands on his hips. ‘Oh yeah ? Is that right?’ ‘If you let me run this place for a day, it wouldn’t be such a dilapidated dump!’ ‘Alright, if you think you can do better, then have at it!’ April thrusts her chin forward mockingly. 'Maybe I will.’ *** Andrew and Pastor Richards are seated in one of the diner’s shaggy old window booths sipping coffee. ‘Oh, man. It’s nice to take a break. It’s hard work doing everything by yourself,' Andrew says. ‘I’ll bet,’ Pastor Richards says. ‘It’s looking like things are progressing, though.’ ‘All the chrome’s polishing up well,’ Andrew says. ‘As you can see, the seats need reupholstering.’ ‘Is April chipping in at all?’ ‘A little. She’s using her brain now. She’s taken to the food side of things and is coming up with ideas for the menu.’ In the kitchen, April has a eureka moment whilst brainstorming dishes for the diner and eagerly broadcasts it through the service hatch of the kitchen. ’I’ve got it! I’ve got our signature dish.’ ‘Let me guess,’ Pastor Richards says. ‘Bubblegum pie?’ April skips over to her father and the Pastor. ‘How did you know?’ ‘There seems to be a theme emerging here,’ he says. ‘It’s going to be filled with melted pink marshmallows.’ April cups two giant, imaginary marshmallows in her hands. Pastor Richards rubs his nose. ‘And how’s the sculpture coming on?’ Andrew gestures to a concrete pad outside. ‘Well, so far, I’ve built a plinth for it.’ ‘Now all we need is more people to chew gum,’ April says. ‘That’s a heck of a lot of chewing,’ The Pastor says. And he's right. *** Magenta Diner is brimming with customers on opening afternoon. Bubble Gum pies are flying off the racks. Ramekins filled with sticks of Strawberry Satisfaction bubblegum adorn each table. As do napkins printed with the message, ‘Please don’t spit your gum here. Add it to The Wad!’. A group of elderly diners, who have failed to wrap their head around the concept of the sculpture, are asking Josh--the newly hired, acne-ridden busboy--to explain it. ‘If you’d care to participate in the interactive sculpture, all you have to do is place your used gum on the plinth in a fashion you see fit. We’re aiming for the largest wad in the states!’ He gestures to the plinth, upon which the humble beginnings of the magenta monolith can be seen. There are around two hundred pieces, mostly chewed by April and her father. ‘It’s current dimensions are a small fraction of what they’ll become,’ Josh says. The elderly diners are impressed with Josh’s enthusiasm. ‘Well, isn’t that fun? Sure, we’ll do our part.’ ‘Great! Happy chewing,’ he says. ‘Anything else I can get ya from the menu, though?’ *** One month after opening, The Great Wad has grown to around the size of Julie’s Chevy pick-up truck. April slides into the faux leather booth next to her father. ‘Want to hear the latest review of the diner?’ ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘But make it quick. I’ve got to empty the grease trap.’ ‘Okay.’ April clears her throat. ‘ “Bubblegum Pie is a diner in the desert where you can dine on dessert. And if your culinary curiosity is not peaked by the eponymous (and delicious) Bubblegum Pie, perhaps you will appreciate the diner’s subversive roadside attraction: a large wad of bubblegum perched on a plinth yards from the establishment. This kind of enterprising attitude could save any backwater establishment from a slow death. While modern life becomes increasingly streamlined by new highways, shopping malls, multiplexes, and chain restaurants, Magenta Diner sends its quaint tractor beam across the desert, engages those hungry for uniqueness, and pulls them toward its epicentre of desert quirk with a gentle, but firm, gravity. Oh, to exude a refreshingly human spirit in an age of machines, and a quintessentially American one at that! Viva Magenta Diner!” ’ April puts down the newspaper. ‘Geez,’ Andrew says. April beams at her father. ‘Not bad, eh?’ ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’ Andrew says. ‘I’m glad we’re fully onboard with this thing together.’ *** Ten months on, and The Great Wad has reached a sizeable stature; precisely four Chevy pick-up trucks, stacked two by two. Not only that--but it has begun to glow. According to Julie, an intensification of lay line energy has gifted The Great Wad with bioluminescence. According to Pastor Richards, it’s simply a miracle. According to Andrew--who now openly poo-poos Julie’s mystic interpretations--the Stantons ought to be consulting a man of science who can offer his opinion on the gum’s bioluminescent properties. According to April-- well, she can’t make up her mind on who to side with. Andrew polishes the chrome countertop. He’s been catching snippets of the conversation regarding the glowing gum between the holy man and the mystic, who sit in the reupholstered window booth. ‘It’s clearly a sign from God,’ Pastor Richards says. ‘Now, I don’t want to take credit for it, but I did roll the snowball from the top of the mountain and spark April's idea, didn’t I? Of course, He has been watching all along and has seen fit to give us a sign that He approves of our activities.’ Julie’s bangles rattle as she clasps her satin-scarfed head in exasperation. ‘Let me assure you, Pastor--this transmission is not divine in origin. There are no deities, Christian or otherwise, who have a monopoly on Earth’s energy fields. This is an act of nature beyond metaphysical comprehension.’ ‘I agree that it is an act of nature,’ Pastor Richards says, ‘in a miraculous sense.’ ‘Let’s leave it at that then, shall we?’ Julie says. Andrew sidles up to the booth with a steaming pot of coffee. ‘Oh, yes please,’ the Pastor says. Andrew refrains from pouring the coffee for a moment. ‘I’ve sent a sample of The Great Wad to Professor Bubblegum of ChewCorp to analyse its polymers. So we may have a scientific explanation soon enough. But I hope you both know, that the cause of all of this, is that busy little brain in there .’ He points through the service hatch to April who is happily preparing pies. *** ‘I prefer to be addressed as Professor Bubblegum,’ the man in the perfect white lab coat says. ‘That’s your real name?’ Andrew asks. The Professor pinches the knot of his bowtie and nods. ‘What did your analysis reveal?’ April asks. ‘Something that I’ve been suspecting for a long time.’ Professor Bubblegum clears his throat. ‘ChewCorp gum--in large enough masses--is highly absorptive of solar radiation. So, at night, cooler desert temperatures alter its chemical composition, and it releases pent-up solar radiation. I never thought that when I hybridised agar gum polymers in an osmotic chamber with--’ ‘ Lab-coat hogwash .’ Pastor Richards interrupts. ‘Have you not a theological bone in your body, professor?’ ‘Actually, I studied theology at--’ ‘All mass vibrates with energy,’ says Julie. ‘The Wad is just buzzing with good feelings from the Earth, that’s all.’ ‘Well, it’s not exactly--’ ‘Didn’t you hear the man?’ Andrew asks. ‘It’s solar radiation!’ ‘Anyhow--regardless of the science behind your unique attraction,’ Professor Bubblegum says, 'I’d like to extend a friendly hand from ChewCorp. We’d like to sponsor Magenta Diner and provide you with an unlimited supply of Strawberry Satisfaction, or any flavour of your choosing.’ ‘You’re not going to plaster this quaint little diner with corporate logos, are you?’ Julie asks. ‘We don’t want a big billboard outside with your name on it,’ Pastor Richards says. Andrew scratches his greying stubble. ‘I appreciate your offer, Professor, but I’m going to have to talk it over with my co-pilot, April.’ Professor Bubblegum scatters several of his polka-dotted-multi-coloured business cards on the table. Then deadly serious, he says, 'Give me a call when you decide.’ *** Whatever celestial body is responsible for The Great Wad's radiance--whether the Sun or the Earth--does not approve of ChewCorp and its dubious environmental policies, and has withdrawn its services from Magenta Diner. The gum no longer glows. Julie’s quest to get to the bottom of things begins with consulting her astrology charts, tarot cards, and dowsing with crystals. Checking the lay lines again confirms that the flow of energy has been cut off altogether. Everything points to ChewCorp. April and Andrew discuss the contract and decide (before Julie comes flapping her wings and preaching not to sign) that they won’t be jumping onboard with the gum giant. *** A great rain is falling in the desert. The Great Wad is sodden. The Great Wad is wilting. Thrashing rain agitates the sculpture’s structure, leaving it vulnerable to a subsequent sandstorm, which pummels billions of grains into the pink pile of goo. These grains coat the exterior, giving the appearance of breaded tofu. Curious reptiles, arachnids, and avians peck, pinch, and sniff at the sorry pile of confectionary, whose sweet, strawberry petrichor, whose wet effluvium, is momentarily attractive. But then they become embedded in its sticky mass. Glued to its rosy flypaper. Helpless to escape. *** April and Andrew are spending the morning plucking vultures and their beaks from a smoothed out, sloppy Great Wad. Presumably, the birds became stuck when they sought the juicy tarantulas therein--because, understandably, from a vulture’s perspective, the pile of gum must have looked like one big spider omelette. April and Andrew decide to leave The Great Wad alone--bereft of its former luminescent glory--until they decide what to do with it. Pastor Richards stops by for his usual coffee, sees the plague of spiders, mistakes them for Biblical horrors, and believes that the sculpture ought to be cleansed. He concocts a rather extreme plan to deal with the devilry. It involves a large container of kerosene and a book of matches. *** April, draped in a thin bedsheet, dreams of the exact moment she refused the sponsorship offer. In the dream, she calls Professor Bubblegum on the diner’s rotary telephone, explains that she isn’t willing to engage in ChewCorp’s capitalistic pageantry, then high fives her mother, father, and Pastor Richards. Then, an overwhelming feeling of dread encompasses everything, which has less to do with regret than the fact that her bedroom in her father’s trailer is becoming unbearably hot. She sits up in a sweat after a roar outside wakes her. She flings the curtains open and sees a mass of black smoke spiralling up from a dome of orange flames. ‘The Great Wad!’ She cries. The wind is flicking flames at the trailer, whose white paint is turning golden brown like a marshmallow before a campfire. As the paint singes, fizzes, bubbles, and melts, the trailer’s metal frame wilts and buckles. April runs to her father’s room to shake him awake. At a safe distance from the fire, father and daughter (in between coughing fits) ponder the motives of the arsonist. ‘Is this the work of the ChewCorp mafia?’ Andrew asks. ‘Did we refuse an offer that we shouldn’t have?’ ‘I don’t know, but I wish we would have insured The Great Wad,’ April says. ‘Even if we had, they’d probably just think the fire was fraudulent, or some kind of publicity stunt,’ Andrew says. ‘You know what your mother is going to say, don’t you?’ ‘What?’ ‘Something like “It’s a symbolic immolation . It’s a new start . . .” April laughs. ‘What do we do now?’ Andrew asks. ‘Eh, let it burn, I guess. Thank God the diner is still intact,' April says. ‘So I guess we just pick another brand of bubblegum, start again, and build another Great Wad.’ ‘You guess right,’ says April. ‘But which flavour this time?’ And that, dear reader, is the moment we leave April and Andrew to make their important decision. As they stand by the smouldering corpse of The Great Wad, recalling its former brain-like structure, they contemplate the transcendental effervescence it channelled through its soft and varied crenelations. With a little input from April’s tumultuous teenage mind, The Great Wad symbiotically exuded healing and transformational properties that turned a dilapidated diner into a hub of joviality. And these, dear reader, are all the qualities that April hopes to recapture in her next Bubblegum adventure.

The woman grunted and folded her hands on her laps. Then, she leaned in and she gave her piece of advice. "On the subject of love matters, stay away. No one of those men is good." The other woman smiled and shook her head. "I don't think so, Nora." Nora snorted and raised her hands. The group leader was still talking but Nora would not drop her hands. It was against the rules to talk when the leader was still by the window giving her speech but they knew Nora and they knew she would not give up. "Nora?" the leader closed her eyes for a moment. Nora tried not to smile but she could not help it. It was funny to be the nuisance in the writing groups mostly because they couldn't push her away. She was as much a writer as all of them. "Do you want to add something to what I was saying?" Nora could tell sarcasm from truthfulness but this night was not the sort of night to get involved in awkward fights. Nora stood up and stretched her hands. It was problematic sitting in her chair and listening to quiet old music filtering through from the living room like something forgotten. She'd asked, on her second visit, why they couldn't shift the music to the main room but she'd been turned down. It was a wonder she was still among them, laughing when it was time to, and reading when it was. They were eight of them in the group; eight females who left their homes to sit and drink and talk about books. They would meet at Suzan's because her house was the loveliest. And because her husband was hardly ever home. Sometimes, Nora doubted if she was married at all but there were pictures on the wall; pictures of Suzan in a white dress, hands wrapped around a man, lips wide apart in a smile that could break hearts. It was the house Nora liked most. Outside, the walls were painted white like in a museum. It was so white Nora thought she could see through, into the hallways and the rooms and the unspoken secrets laced in the building. Red bricks lined the outside, towards the rose garden. Often, it bled into the white roses so that they turned partly yellow, partly brown, like rust. "They withered," somebody said, once. But, Nora was not like them, being confined in a box. She liked to think they bled and so that was how they were: bleeding and cold and dying. On the porch, there were a wild display of neon lights "My husband likes them," she told the group. Not all of them were whites. Nora would stand at a corner and count them. She knew they were eight, knew that soon, somebody else would join and be introduced, but still, she would count. It was how she knew she was sane. Susan, as expected, was blonde. It was expected. Nora had never had a particularly horrid experience with blondes but she knew that they liked being in control. Susan was tall but she wore heels doing the meetings. Her clothes were always too tight, pressing into her skin like maps. She wore her red lipstick too obviously and when she stood by the window, always by the window, it was as though she was screaming: notice me, please! Then, there was Patty with her green hair. She lied once, said she'd been born with it but everyone knows people don't come into the world with green hair. None of that mattered anyway. They were friends only in the big house. Outside, they were strangers, each soaking up the sun, living in the cold, dancing in the rain in their ways. On the subway, when they passed, she would wave with a smile that looked pale, but Nora would not wave back. In the group, five were whites. Nora included. One was brown, her skin so smooth Nora was almost tempted to run her hands through. Nora envied her sometimes when she was trapped in her chair and she was thinking about her childhood and heartbreaks and setting suns. Of course, Nora was the conservative type. She was the only one in the group who still had the decency to shun romance. "No use," she would tell herself. Tonight was not the kind of night to get caught up in the drama. But Nora was not a stickler for rules. She stepped gingerly to the front, by the window and she smiled. "Thank you, Suzan." Susan grunted. And moved away to her seat. Music was still playing, softly, from the other room. "I don't have much to say," Nora chuckled when somebody rolled her eyes. She'd forgotten what her name was. It was hardly something to remember. The woman had the most forgetful face. Her face was probably too normal, like something a child would mold in painful quietness. "I just want us to take a moment to appreciate books and stars." "Unrelated stuff, Nora," the green-haired lady said. Her voice was the loudest. Nora scowled. This night was not the night to get messy. "The stars are out. We should go outside. See it. Feel it." Susan stood up and clapped her hands. Sarcasm dripped from the gesture. "Perhaps some other time, Nora." Nora nodded and sighed. "Probably." On her seat, her only friend leaned in. "Don't let it get to you, Nora." She'd told Nora that she'd been raised in a small town in Arkansas. But her father was Kenyan and her mother was English. She was the only friend Nora talked to even though, occasionally, she wondered why her friend had so many different roots. "I know, Fey." Susan tapped her foot on the rug. It was something she did on nights when she was anxious. Like she was waiting for something. "Tonight we'll have someone joining us," she said. "She's a dear friend." When Nora had been introduced, Susan had called her a dear friend. But they were not friends, would never be dear friends. Nora already knew what to expect: the night would be long and boring. "She's a mystery lover. Gwen is her name. You'll all love her." Love was a gigantic word. It was not as easy as running down a hill or laughing into the wind. It was a deliberate pull into an abyss with no way out. Love was a treacherous game and one Nora was not ready for. Still, she relaxed and she waited for Gwen. When Gwen finally arrived in flowing skirts and a woolen shirt, Nora sat up. On her first visit, Nora said, "I love a good ol' mystery story myself but it's a genre I don't see myself writing anytime soon." Now, though, Nora ached to put pen to paper and to discuss the mystery behind Gwen's eyes. She would write that her eyes --grey and comely--sparked a fire in the room. That her eyes made everyone feel so small and dirty and substandard. That her eyes were like the sun that washed over her when her mother died. She would write that her eyes captured all the mystery the world had to offer and she ached to know. "Hi, everyone. My name is Gwen." But Nora was more concerned with the way her hands shook as she talked. Nora was in a movie, letting it unwrap itself in front of her, gliding gently along with the quiet symphony of her voice. Gwen came to sit in the empty seat beside Nora. It was always empty because no one wanted that seat and no one wanted to hear what Nora had to say. Fey was her friend only because they were almost alike in the way they viewed life. Almost. Because Fey had a husband and a son. She was a mom, the kind that drove minivans and stuffed herself full with coffee and bacon. At the end of the meeting, Gwen turned to her. "Hi. You're Nora, right? I've heard so much about you." Nora rolled her eyes. If Gwen had truly heard about her, then there was not much to talk about. Nora took her bag. Then she walked out. Just like how she'd been walking out of things recently. Because walking out was so much easier than staying. With staying, she became vulnerable, so vulnerable that when he left her, she had not known it would happen. She'd come to realize that those sorts of heartbreaks were the worst. Walking out, on the other hand, was alright for people like her. It was expected. It was not a circle or a roller coaster of twisting trees. It was the slow fall of snow and the soft smell of autumn. She heard footsteps behind her. She stopped. She sighed. She clutched her handbag by her side and she swallowed. Then, she turned around sharply. Gwen stood there, hands raised, unarmed. "Sorry I startled you," she said. "But Suzan asked me to hand this to you." Nora took the box. She'd forgotten. At the end of every Friday meeting, Suzan would each hand them a box of chocolates. "It's stupid," she told Gwen. Gwen laughed. Nora listened. She sounded like the sea, the kind that had surrounded her childhood home. When she was younger, she thought it was the sound of laughing children, running down a hill. Now that she was all grown up, she knew what it was: the pained scream of a young man. Gwen felt like that too. "May I walk with you?" Nora said no as politely as she could. "Susan told me you lived at Limit road." Nora started walking knowing that Gwen would follow. Then she answered, "Yes. Just after the bookshop." "Well, I just moved to the house opposite," she said. "They tell me it's been empty for a while." Nora paused. "How much did Susan tell you?" She laughed. "Just enough." They rounded a corner. The path was relatively empty. Nora was used to walking it alone. With Gwen by her side, it felt strange. Like she was walking a path she'd never crossed before. "We are neighbors, then," Nora told her. "We are," she agreed. "Then you must know I don't want friends." "I'm not asking to be one." "Good." By the bookshop, she crossed to the other side. Nora slipped her key in and turned back to look at Gwen. She waved but Nora did not return the grand gesture. She called it grand because it was that: waving someone felt like exchanging burdens for just a moment. It was grand. And Nora did no such thing. It became clear they were neighbors in the morning. Nora found Gwen outside, stuffing her thrash in a can. She waved. This time, involuntarily, Nora found herself waving back. "It's a beautiful day, right?" Gwen called. Her voice was almost muffled by the space but Nora caught it. "It is," she replied. Gwen crossed the street to her. And Nora let her into her home. She would tell herself, later, it was because of the peaceful way Gwen had crossed the street that had led to that point. The house was bright and warm. Nothing like Suzan's. But it was hers. Gwen followed her into the living room where she found books scattered on the floor and the shelves. "You have a pretty place," she said, pointing to the books. Nora held her breath in, holding it until it felt like she would burst from the intensity. Then, she released it. She was falling suddenly, from rooftops and pine trees and chimneys and she was falling into something so dark, so intense and so astonishingly beautiful. But she would be careful. "Thank you," she said. "I was just making breakfast. Join me." As they ate --bacon and eggs and coffee--Gwen said, "I love mystery. I write about it. It's what fuels my daily existence." Nora talked. "Sounds logical." "What about you?" Nora did not need to think hard. She already knew. "I like anything sad." "That's...good. A way to express yourself, I think." The next Friday when they walked together to Suzan's, Gwen said, "I'm unstable." Nora did not know what she meant but she nodded and let her walk beside her. The meeting came and went like it usually did. But, for the first time, Nora waited for Gwen so they could walk home together. They followed the same path home, said the same thing, laughed the same way. But, at the bookshop, Gwen did something else, something different from what Nora was used to. She picked up a stone and threw it against the window of the store. It cracked, lines spreading like angry vines along the glass. "Why'd you do that?" Nora struggled to understand. "I told you I was unstable." Nora watched her cross the road again to her home. She stood there, by the bookshop with the cracked window, watching as Gwen got into her house. Alone, she turned to face the window. Gently, she trailed her fingers along the lines, like she was touching something delicate. Like she was stroking her broken heart. Tomorrow they would replace the window. Tomorrow it would be as good as new. Nora's heart gave in and she knelt there and she cried. The moon was high in the sky, bright and adventurous. And she was alone. She cried because she understood, finally, that she was cracked but she would heal. In the morning, Gwen brought homemade pie. They sat on the floor in the kitchen and ate and talked about books and broken windows.

A PLACE ON THE HILL Jack Thomas strode from the bullpen across the outfield grass. The pitching mound was all he saw, oblivious to the crowd and its raucous mood. It seemed so far away. It was tough being a rookie in New York City, having to learn the hitters and finer points of pitching. Add to that expectations of New York fans and media for the large contract he received. Yet, what made it more difficult was replacing the iconic, aging relief pitcher, Tom Gorman. Baseball was a natural for Jack. His father began the serious play as opposed to soft toss when he was young. “Catch the ball or suffer the consequences,” his dad would laugh, the consequences- being hit in the face or other body part. Jack sported many bruises, to his mother’s dismay. She chastised her husband but she had seen the same process with their older son Zak and daughter Jen so she understood it would be no different with Jack. The walk seemed endless. Memories surfaced of the poorly-lit stadiums and long bus rides between Columbus, Rochester, Utica, and other minor league cities; meals at roadside greasy spoons; and the uncomfortable, lumpy bus seats. This fueled his determination to stay with the Clippers. Not even the attitudes of Gorman’s cronies could diminish Jack’s confidence. “I love baseball,” he told the bullpen, “and I’m good at it. If you boys can’t buy that and keep riding me because of your broken hearts, I’ll just have to do my best to win in spite of you.” The bat boy took Jack’s jacket. Coach Martin tossed the ball up and down from hand to hand like a juggler with too few balls while catcher Bill Kolasky pawed at the dirt in front of the pitching rubber with strokes of his big right foot, like a horse getting ready for a race. A fog of breath escaped from Coach’s mouth and it was then that Jack felt colder than he had since starting his warm-up pitches. “OK, Thomas,” Coach Martin started. “You’ve got one out, runners on first and second. We’ve got the lead. Let’s keep it!” Coach left the battery to work out the details. Kolasky began with the signals. A strapping specimen, his arms bulged with power. His voice was neither loud nor gruff but firm and in control. “OK, Big J, we’ve got the usual. One finger fastball, wiggle one splitter, two curve, three slider, and four for the change-up. With the runner on second, the sign will be the first after a fist unless I hit my chest protector twice, then it’s the second after the fist. Concentrate on location and don’t aim the ball. Just relax and you’ll be fine. Callahan is the first guy you’ll face. Just like we said pre-game, pitch him down and away so we can try to get a ground ball into a double play.” “One out, runners on first and second,” the umpire interrupted. “Snap it up fellas. My eyes go bad after midnight.” Kolasky hit Jack in the chest with his glove and returned with the umpire. It was lonely in that circle, Jack thought, and unusually quiet. The customary infield chatter was absent except for veteran first baseman Greg Nelson. “Come on hotshot,” Nelson barked. “Let’s see if you’re worth it.” Jack barely heard the remark. His focus was Callahan. Sweating now in the cool April evening, he turned to face the outfield, noting their positioning, while rubbing the ball methodically, wondering if a genie would appear to grant a wish. The umpire bellowed “Play ball!” Jack turned toward home plate after touching the rosin bag, toed the rubber and tugged at the bill of his cap. Kolasky flashed the signals. Slider, down and away. Jack rotated his right arm like a windmill to ease the stiffness. He didn’t like starting with a breaking pitch but also knew rookie pitchers didn’t shake off veteran catchers. He felt awkward in the stretch as he delivered the ball. The pitch sailed wide for ball one. Kolasky threw the ball back. Still no genie. A touch of the rosin bag, a tug of the hat, and Jack peered in for the sign. Fastball, outside corner. This time everything flowed nicely. Callahan pulled the pitch hard to shortstop. Pilato gobbled up the grounder from the dirt, flipped to Ramsey at second who threw to first to complete the double play. The fans stood and cheered! For the first time since entering the game, Jack heard the crowd’s cheers and chants “Go Clippers” echoing through the packed ballpark. As he walked to the dugout, he absorbed the environment. Some fans called for Jack to get the bums out in the ninth while others called for Gorman. A banner made from a bed sheet read “NY LOVES THE CLIPPERS” scrawled in big red letters stretched across the façade of the mezzanine. Now he was more relaxed, yet pumped by the excitement of the crowd and fueled by his own adrenaline. “How’s that!” Jack exclaimed slapping Kolasky’s outstretched hand. “Hey you know what they say in southern France, Jacko,” Kolasky replied. “You’re only as good as your last pitch. We’ve still got a tough ninth. Jack and Kolasky went over the scouting report on the Redbirds’ scheduled hitters. Shouts of encouragement rang from the other end of the dugout for Garcia who was at bat. Catcalls from the bench detailed the underbelly of the opposing pitcher’s ancestry. The battery was left alone. It bothered Jack as he glanced toward the players leaning on the top step of the dugout. He had always been a team player, well-liked by teammates for his laid-back personality and Oklahoma farm-boy humor, combined with his intense desire to win. His dad had taught him to play the game right, to respect the game. He saw himself as part of the old school, players who played for the love of the game instead of the almighty dollar. Of course, the millions of dollars the Clippers showered on him seemed to contradict that premise, but not in Jack’s mind. Perhaps the silent treatment would have affected his confidence if Coach Martin hadn’t talked to him during spring training when the wet behind his ears was still moist. Martin was a master game strategist and a man of few words, though he had a keen sense for knowing what to say and when to say it. In late March, the Coach asked to see Jack in his office. “Kid, you had a sore arm early in spring training. Since then you’ve proven that you’ve got a great fastball and all the tools. I’m gonna release Gorman since the brass sees him as deteriorating and, frankly, don’t want to cough up his option dollars. You’re my closer. It won’t be a bed of roses. The older guys will give you grief since they were attached to Gorman’s hip. You’ll have to deal with whatever happens. Gorman’s pals, the media, the fans will be all over every step you take, especially in New York. You’re gonna have to develop a thick skin and short memory. Like I said, you’ve got the tools. We’ll see if you’ve got the guts.” “I’ll give my best,” Jack replied. “I know I can help this team win. When I do, I’d say those boys will take to me like a hungry horse to a fresh bale of hay.” Coach Martin’s eyes never wavered as he gazed at the rookie. Those strong eyes and support stayed in Jack’s mind as motivation. Kolasky had started to run down the Redbird strengths and weaknesses. “You listenin’ JT?” he asked, not waiting for Jack to answer. “They’ll pinch hit for the pitcher so just blow the fastball by the guy because he’ll be colder than a penguin’s ass after huddling on the bench all game. Perez is next. He hits the low fastball so feed him sliders at the knees out of the zone or heat up high. He’s quick so he might bunt to get on then try to steal second. Gotta keep him off base. Boland and Logan both have trouble with off-speed and breaking pitches so change-ups, slow curves, and variations of the split can get them. Don’t make a mistake with the fastball to Logan or he’ll lose it. He’s the guy we don’t want to beat us. Best bet is to get the first three chumps out.” Jack heard Coach Martin’s voice above the clatter of spikes on the concrete dugout steps as the team went out for the ninth. “It’s your game kid. Get that first out and make it short so we can all go home.” Jack vaulted from the dugout. The intensity of the crowd had heightened. Ninth inning, game on the line. Butterflies filled his stomach. Each stride seemed shakier than the preceding one. His arm felt as limp as overcooked spaghetti and worries of the sore arm surfaced. There was the gnawing doubt that it would not respond in a crucial situation. A hopping fastball could straighten out and be hit a long, long way. On the mound, he was tight but loosened up after the eight warm-up tosses. His focus had returned. The left-handed pinch-hitter, Gonzalez, entered the batter’s box and looked eager to hit, waving his bat menacingly. He remembered Kolasky’s directive and fired three fastballs for strikes. On the third pitch, Gonzalez popped the ball to Nelson. Perez stepped to the plate. Jack knew he needed this out. Keep the speed off the bases. Keep Logan from taking a swing. “OK, JT, let’s have that same fastball right down the pipe,” Kolasky chattered, signaling for the curve ball low on the outside corner. The pitch found its target. “Strike one!” the umpire bellowed and raised his right arm. “Another wrinkle, Jackie, just like that one. Beautiful pitch. Beautiful pitch!” Kolasky pumped his fist. “This guy can’t hit. He’s too busy counting his money.” Kolasky called for the fastball inside at the letters. Perez swung and missed. Jack wasted the next slider, trying to get Perez to fish for a bad pitch. He tried again with the same result. Two balls, two strikes. Kolasky flashed the split-finger fastball. Jack started his motion and, as he let the pitch go, the location was off and the pitch didn’t dive. Perez jumped all over it, slashing the ball into right field for a single. “Damn,” Jack muttered. “One mistake and the jackrabbit gets on base!” Boland came to the plate and dug a toehold in the batter’s box. Perez danced off first, taunting Jack who straddled the pitching slab, glancing sideways at Perez. Jack tried to tune out the heckling from the opposing dugout, detailing his rural upbringing and who his parents might be. “Keep him close,” Coach Martin yelled from the top step of the dugout. Jack toed the rubber, whirled and threw to first. Perez got back easily. Jack went into the set position, looked over his shoulder and saw Perez had an even larger lead. Again, he fired to first. Perez dove back, barely ahead of the tag. The runner dusted off and chided “I’m going this time Chulo!” Kolasky wanted a pitch-out but Jack shook him off. He didn’t want to get behind in the count to Boland and walk him or give him a hitter’s count where he could zone a pitch. Jack wanted to jump ahead of him. He didn’t think Perez would be stealing after the two pick-off attempts. Kolasky signaled for a two-seam fastball, low and inside. “Going!” the first baseman yelled. Instinctively, Jack ducked to avoid being hit by the catcher’s throw to second. Kolasky hurried the throw and it sailed into center field. Perez sprang from his slide and advanced to third base. Jack threw the rosin bag down in disgust, thinking about the pitch-out he shook off. Four to three, one out, runner on third. He was in trouble. He had gotten into this jam. Now he had to get out of it. From the corner of his eye, the rookie could see Coach fidgeting in the dugout. The umpire called time and Jack’s heart sank as Martin began his deliberate walk to the mound. Jack scraped at the mound, feeling the presence of Coach Martin and Kolasky approaching. Kolasky got there first, assuring Jack he still had his stuff with a big swat of the catcher’s mitt to Jack’s chest. “Hey, JT, you’re King of the Hill. He got lucky.” Coach Martin came seconds later looking toward the bullpen to see if the lefty he had warming up was ready. The bullpen coach raised his cap to signal that the reliever was set. “What’s he got?” Martin asked Kolasky. “Fastball’s moving high in the zone. Slider’s breaking with good tilt. He just needs location and that’s the ball game Coach,” Martin folded his arms, pondering the situation, and then slapped the rookie on the hip, looking squarely into his eyes. “Show me what you’ve got kid. Get us a win.” A sense of renewed vigor filled Jack. “Thanks, Coach,” he blurted. Perez jabbered something in Spanish trying to distract Jack while Pilato and Ramsey shouted encouragement from the infield. “Go get ‘em Jacko. We’re right behind you.” Ah, the competitive spirit! No matter how tight-lipped they wanted to be to support Gorman, the urge to win made these guys open up with the infield chatter that was music to any pitcher standing on the hill. Boland was impatient to hit. Noting this, Kolasky signaled for an off-speed curve. Swing and miss, strike one. Another curve, outside for a ball, and a fastball fouled off made the count one ball and two strikes. Perez again attempted to unnerve the rookie with a dash down the third base line but Jack was in his rhythm and zeroed in on the target. He delivered a split-finger fastball dipping past Boland’s futile swing for the strike out. The fans went wild, bullhorns blasting above the roar of the crowd. They exhorted the Clippers to record the final out, the rowdy atmosphere drowning out the presence of Frank Logan lumbering to the plate. Logan could change the score with one swipe of his mighty bat. The pressure mounted as Jack concentrated on Logan. He remembers thinking how overblown game announcers made pressure. Heck, all you had to do was get the ball over the plate! Now, he realized the difference between pitching against the side of the barn with only the dog watching to facing a home run hitter in front of fifty thousand screaming fans with the game on the line. Logan stood with one foot outside the batter’s box, adjusting his batting gloves and making the rookie wait. Jack’s palms were moist and he reached for the rosin bag. Logan took his stance and pointed his big bat squarely at Jack. The first pitch went high and wide as Kolasky had to jump from his crouch to save the wild pitch as Perez dashed from third base. “Calm down, JT,” Kolasky yelled, pointing to his shoulder as a reminder to stay closed in his delivery. “Don’t get behind this guy.” He called for a slider, down and away. Jack took a deep breath to regroup and delivered the pitch. Logan was guessing fastball and broke his wrists on a half-swing for strike one. Home plate seemed smaller and farther away. Kolasky signaled split-finger. Mechanics and location Jack repeated. He followed through, saw Logan uncoil a powerful swing and foul the pitch hard into the first base stands as the ball dipped at the last second. “Good pitch, JT,” Kolasky shouted. “You’ve got him guessing now. Make him hit your pitch. Don’t give in!” The last one was too close for comfort. Kolasky pumped the ball back to Jack, making his hand sting as a reminder that these were big pitches. Logan called time out again. Jack wiped his right palm on his pant leg. He gazed toward home plate. Logan twisted his neck, pulling at the shoulder of his uniform, one foot in the box, the other out. The umpire’s hand was raised like a policeman stopping traffic. Kolasky continued his barrage of verbal wisdom. “He’s stalling, Big Guy. Can’t figure you out.” Logan finally swung his right foot into his stance. The umpire’s arm dropped. Jack peered in for Kolasky’s sign - fastball on the fists! What in the world was this big lug thinking? One slip of the wrist, one twist of the arm, and goodbye ball game. Should he shake him off again? No - no slips, no twists, just a 99 mile per hour four-seam moving fastball. That’s it! Jack nodded his head and began his motion. Nothing penetrated his focus. He whipped his right arm through, the ball zipping off his fingers. Logan hesitated just an instant. The ball rose in the strike zone. That one split second of indecision cost Logan. He topped the ball down the first base line. Nelson moved to his right, snared the ball and made the underhand toss to Jack covering the bag. Out number three. The game was over! Jack raised his hands in triumph as the fans erupted! Even Nelson grudgingly acknowledged the win. “Not bad for a rookie,” he mumbled after tapping Jack on the top of the head. Kolasky pounded Jack on the back. “Knew you had it, bro,” he repeated twice to emphasize his point, and then raised his eyes skyward in mock wonder. “The first one’s the toughest,” Coach Martin said as he shook Jack’s hand. “Good game kid.” “Thanks Coach, thanks for letting me finish,” Jack gushed. “Thought seeing that lefty in the bullpen might put a thump in your chest,” Martin winked. It was a good feeling, a moment Jack wanted to savor and one he’d never forget, holding the game ball tight in his hand. Even though it may have been just another game for most of these guys, and only one game in a long season, he knew it was his first step to establish his place on the hill.

When our grown children, grandchildren, and spouses assemble at our house for Thanksgiving, it’s a large party unto itself. We sometimes have one of several of my wife’s close single friends join us. This year two of our neighbor ladies were coming. Thanksgiving day was here. “Great, everybody, I got plenty of digital shots with the camera remote, now let’s all go inside and enjoy a true Jones family feast.” It was chilly but fair with overcast skies near noon in Alabama. Perfect photo lighting. I finished up the full family photos on the tiered front steps to add to another ‘one-time-a-year’ photo, followed by individual family and couples’ photos who wanted them. I have been doing this many years, including days of my Nikon film camera on Kodacolor and nothing but a self-timer that I’d have to set and run back to my place in the group, to get everyone in the photo. Brisk air fueled everyone’s appetite and fresh in from outdoors, made all the smells of cooked dressing, fresh bread in the oven, and the turkey freshly removed and cooling even more delightful. So many family members came that we had to make the dining room tables into a “U” shaped with a narrow center aisle of single chairs. Just those extra five gave us the count, plus an empty, just in case. In short order, all were seated, all the bowls of food at the table, and I stood at my center position with the turkey in front of me to carve just after the blessing. Everone adjusted seats with only the single center seat closest to me empty. The gathering quieted. “Hello...hellooo, everybody,” came a loud female voice from our kitchen door, the entrance we all use at our house. “I’m here for Thanksgiving. I hope I’m not too late after twelve. Where is everyone?” Oh my God, I thought. I recognize that voice. My wife did as well and sprang from her seat on one side. She almost got to the open door of the dining room when Miss Cat appeared. She exhibited all the flair and costume of Rosalind Russell in Aunty Mame, and at least as much makeup. Waving one arm to our crowd upon entering, she said, “Hi, everyone, I’m Miss Cat, Sandra’s classmate from high school.” My wife, Sandra, now next to Miss Cat, exclaimed, “Oh my, You said you couldn’t come. I thought you’d be in New York.” “I would have, but when I got up today, I discoveered a snowstorm has completely shut the area down. I can’t travel until tomorrow, and I remembered your invitation... so here I am ,” again waving both arms outward presentation style. All the woman needs is to have one foot in front of the other and dip her knee for a perfect movie pose, I thought. I was speechless. I didn’t even know she was invited. I would never have agreed to it. Anyone but her. Anyone. “Miss Cat,” my wife said, we have one spare seat right in the middle row, upfront, please have a seat.” Other family members stood, slid their chairs into the narrow row, and moved out to make room for our last-minute guest. As Miss Cat nodded and waved to the group taking her center front seat, I remembered all the reasons I’d rather her not be present. First, the name Miss Cat. Her name was Catherine Hickock Burns and whatever. She’d been married numerous times, and several were damn fine men that I liked. She divorced them all. Then because she hated her full name and last names of previous husbands, she decided that just “Miss Cat” would do because she never liked Catherine all that much either. She felt she deserved the title ‘Miss’ and made it part of her legal name. Always had money, some from divorced husbands, who probably paid plenty just to be rid of her once she sued for divorce. She was never unpleasant to me, but she posessed an uncanny ability to say precisely the wrong thing at the wrong time and make it sound as if she were paying a compliment. With everyone seated, Miss Cat proclaimed, “Fred, don’t let me delay you, please go on,” again with the hand gesturing wave for me to continue. I’m so glad I have your permission. I said the blessing, everyone said, “Amen,” and the feast began. Even as the food was being passed around, Miss Cat’s loud voice dominated other conversations. She looked at one of my sons, “So, Peter, have you finished with your therapy for your PTSD from Afghanistan?” she said with a smile on her face. Peter froze in mid-passing of the mashed potatoes with eyes wide. He didn’t say a thing. I glared at my wife, who had a scared-dog look as she glanced around and caught my drift. After a pungent pause, Peter said, “Uh...no, not yet.” “I think it’s just wonderful you served your country and made your family so proud of you,” Miss Cat said and smiled smugly at the compliment she just made. “How’s old’s our newest grandchild,” my wife said, looking at a younger son and his wife with the baby in a back bedroom sleeping. That changed the focus of the conversation. I knew it was just a matter of time before Miss Cat contributed another gem. Sure enough. “Oh, Nancy, your momma told me you are expecting again. This is the first pregnancy with your new husband, isn’t it?” My daughter stopped her side conversation on the spot, and most of my family quieted as well. “Uh, no. That’s not what I told Mom,” and my daughter sternly emphasized the word Mom as she spoke and looked at my wife Sandra. “What I said was that we are planning to let nature take it’s course perhaps in the next year. That’s a long way from what you said.” Everyone breathed a collective sigh, and the sounds of eating grew again. All my family members seemed to glance among themselves, wondering what new gem of news or half-truth Miss Cat might spring upon us next. It was mostly self-pitying remarks about her plight as an author of children’s books and the money she’d spent to no avail to find a publisher, so she printed twenty-five copies for herself. It didn’t surprise me at all. I can’t think of anyone else less qualified to write a children’s picture book than Miss Cat, who chose never to have children herself. Maybe she could not have children, I thought, but I doubt it, and she’d never admit it. Heading for the home stretch of the meal with plates being cleared for those wanting one of the delicious deserts, when Miss Cat struck again. “Sandra, I don’t know how you do it...looking so young with all these children around.” My wife was just beginning to smile and reply, but Miss Cat kept on talking. “I mean your face with so few wrinkles after all the years. Nearing eighty, I guess. You’ve had another facelift, haven’t you? I want the name of your surgeon.” Bingo! Crowning comment of the entire meal. I stood and said, “Cat, what can I get you for desert. I can see you can’t easily get it yourself.” “Why, thank you, Fred. Yes, I would like a slice of that homemade pecan pie. And your forgot the Miss in my legal mane.” Never missing a beat, she continued, “and I guess it can be your piece since I see the pounds you’ve added since last summer, I’m sure you’re on a diet this Thanksgiving.” “You are quite right, Cat .” I said just the name again with added emphasis, “Not only that, I have completely lost my appetite,” and I shot another exasperated look at my wife. She raised her eyebrows to let me know she understood. Dinner adjourned, and some guests left. Others sorted themselves out as one of my grown kids started a game for anyone interested. Miss Cat announced that she’d stay as long as the welcome mat was out since she didn’t have anything else better to do at home. I bit my tongue to keep from saying, Yeah, with your personality, I am sure that’s the truth , but I kept my mouth shut. The men gravitated to the den to watch a pro-football game on TV, and the others busied themselves cleaning up the kitchen, dishes, packing leftovers, and anything to help my wife. Miss Cat didn’t help, of course, announcing that she saw Sandra had plenty of help. She was one of the very last to leave as it was growing dark. When my wife and I closed the door behind the last guest, I gave an audible, “Whew,” and turned to my wife. “Whatever on earth prompted you to ask Miss Cat to our house for a meal at all, much less our Thanksgiving dinner,” holding out my hands in a questioning manner. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I never in a million years thought she’d show up. I knew she always goes out of town for Christmas and Thanksgiving. I figured I’d get credit for at least having asked her since I do claim her as one of my good friends.” I understood, and as I hugged my tired wife, I knew it’d been a hard day on her as well. “At least she didn’t make it in time for the group photo this year.” It was the one bright spot, “I’m sure this is one Thanksgiving dinner I’ll never forget.”

They live among us without being noticed. They blend with mortals as if they are not from different worlds. We talk and laugh with them. We smile at them as friends do. And some even work for them, like I do. Unfortunately . Today is my first online session with the son of a wealthy single parent--at least that’s how I knew it when I accidentally applied as a tutor. And by accidentally, I mean I walked on a street one day, then a turbulent rainbow tornado stopped in front of me just to leave not havoc but a piece of paper which said, “ Congratulations! You have been chosen. Don’t even try to disregard this invite or you’ll suffer the worst! ” Yes, that tornado passed the streets without being seen by anyone there--except me. Curse this ESP! Because of this, I am not given the chance to live a normal human life. Seeing dead people every single time of your life is something you’ll hate your existence for. Being able to talk to fairies and gnomes is fun, but it makes me a weirdo amidst the bunch of an ordinary crowd. And now, being a tutor for the Ice Queen’s son is a little bit too much. Random thoughts ransacked my head as I wait for him on Zoom. Is he as cold as an ice cube? Does he look like an iceberg? Does he melt when he gets mad? Will he freeze me forever if he doesn’t like me? He’s the Ice Queen’s son, after all, things could happen. “Psst! Lally.” A small voice pulls me out of my head. “Lally, let’s play.” It’s Jester’s tiny yet manly voice calling. He’s a gnome from our garden who I have played with since I was a child. His pointed ears flap as he jumps in front of me. His skin glistens under the subtle glint of light coming from the window. “I can’t. I have work to do.” “You work?” Then, he bursts with laughter. “Seriously? A human employed a creep like you?” He rolls his slender six inches long body on my keyboard. Various letter combinations are printed on the open Microsoft Office Word on screen as he stomps and hits the keys. I pout and let him have his good laugh. I wouldn’t dare see his cute face turn red and hideous when he’s mad. He hates being answered back. Fangs protrude out of his pearl white teeth when he gets mad. He curses, and I get itchy red spots for several days for that. Those spots only disappear when he’s no longer angry. “Jest, please. I’m serious. I can endure your tantrums, but I will surely freeze to death if I mess up today.” “Uhm, okay.” He stopped teasing me and sits on my lap. “Who do you work for?” “The Ice Queen.” He chokes, almost about to laugh again, but stops. He knows I’m not kidding. “Can I stay here? Well, just in case you need help.” “Sure. Just don’t mess around.” Jester and I wait for my student with varied emotions. Jester seems to look forward to seeing a new face; I am a little shaky, butterflies in my stomach fly erratically. Connecting... I freeze when I see the word. I took the deepest breath I could take to calm myself. “Oh, it’s you! I can’t believe it’s really you!” Stunned by his exuberance, I look at him with do you know me in my head. “Of course, I do! I requested you to be my personal tutor.” “You know me?” I pointed to myself, “how?” “I have been stalking--I mean following--you since the first time I saw by the bridge.” “Bridge? What bridge? When?” “I will never forget that day.” *** I was having my regular walk in the park near an old bridge by the river. I was a fish out of the water. I look human, but I know that I’m not. My mother is the Ice Queen after all. She was not literally the queen from Narnia, but she was a witch. She was so mad at me for leaving our house without her knowing it, so she made it rain cats and dogs with roaring thunder and lightning flashing angrily--just how my mom growled when she was mad. I knew I had to go home as fast as I could, but a human stopped me from doing so. My eyes were glued on her. She was just standing by the bridge but she caused my heart to falter that I almost stopped breathing. “Do you plan to go home or not?” My mom appeared from nowhere. She was a beautiful disaster. Her icy blue eyes turned fiery red as she gave me a threatening look. “Mom, she poked my heart.” I pointed at the girl amidst the somber sea of lost souls. “I haven’t felt this in my 125 years of existence. Can I have her?” “Silly boy. You can’t just own a person only because you want to. In the world of humans, they have this thing called love that can make you own someone.” “Is this love I’m feeling? Because I want her to be mine.” “My son, such emotion is dangerous. I don’t want you to suffer what I have experienced.” “I want to give it a try. Please, mom.” “Be grateful you’re my son.” “They call you Ice Queen for a reason, but your heart always melts for me.” “Only for you. Okay, I’ll do my best to make her yours. And since we only fall in love once in a lifetime, I'll give this to you.” *** “Uh, hello? Did you hear me? I was asking how did you know me.” “S- sorry. I just realized how beautiful you are. I was only able to see you from afar.” Jester makes himself known. He butts in our conversation. “Excuse me? Stop staring at Lally, you might melt her.” He crosses his arms on his chest while stomping on the computer desk. “Oww, you have a pet. How cute.” “I’m not her pet! I’m her friend.” He replied grumpily. “Shhh... Jester. I told you not to meddle, right?” I stared at my student’s blue eyes, but instead of feeling cold by his gaze, it feels like a warm embrace. His smile melts my bones. “Lally.” Jester tugs my shirt. “You’re spacing out. You’re blushing. Your heart is in your eyes.” “W-what? Stop messing with me.” I felt my cheeks burn. “I’m sorry. By the way, I forgot to ask your name.” “I’m Genesis.” “Hi, Gen. Okay, so, what do you want to learn?” “I want to learn how to be more human. I want to learn more about the human emotion called love.” Cat got my tongue. Someone wants to be tutored about love. I haven’t even had an experience of it. I’m doomed. “I’m sorry, Gen. But I don’t think I’m the right person to teach you that. Love is not really something that is taught. It is an involuntary feeling. You just know it when you feel it.” Blood escapes his face and the light of excitement leaves his eyes. Needles prick my heart. My mood turns from okay to blue. Why am I feeling this? “Don’t be sad that you can’t teach me. Please don’t be gloomy. I can feel you from here.” I am lost for words for what he says. I look away not to see his somber face, but my heart feels empty without a glimpse of him. What’s wrong with me? “How dare you saddened my son!” A shrill voice reverberates in my room. I almost leap from my seat. There is the Ice Queen at the corner, and she’s striding towards me. The floor is now covered with shredded ice. The temperature drops to zero. I tug my hands in my pocket. I am only wearing shorts and a short-sleeved blouse. Jester hides behind me as a prickling breeze fills the atmosphere. Who would’ve thought of having winter inside a room? “S-sorry, ma’am.” My chin trembled as I speak. I clasp my knees to my chest for warmth. “I don’t want to disappoint your son even more if I let him hope he’ll learn love from me--” I breathe the icy air and choke, “--because I can’t fake love.” “Then, give it a try!” The room’s temperature drops even more. Every corner of my room starts to freeze. Icebergs sprout from the floor. Snow crystals pour. My computer has turned to ice. I can no longer feel my limbs. My lungs tighten as I keep on breathing cold air. I can feel the icy particles blocking my air passage. So, this is what they call slow, tormenting death . The tears clouding my eyes also start to harden. I can only utter a sorry to Jester in my head. As I’m starting to accept my cold death, a beautiful man appeared--warming the place. “Mom, please stop.” His eyes are somber. “You told me you can’t force love.” With those words, the Ice Queen’s facial features soften. She looks at me with an apologetic eye. “I’m sorry, Lally. Genesis is my life. His sadness breaks my heart literally.” She places her hand on her left chest and buries it deep. Then, she pulls her crystal heart with numerous crevices out. “These fractures are my pain and my son’s pain. My heart cracks whenever melancholy envelops our hearts.” She floats towards Genesis and touches his face with love. “I’m sorry, son. I could’ve known better. I just don’t want your heart to be like mine--fragile, almost broken.” “Hey, Lally--” Gen looks at me and smiles, “--your heart is in sync with mine. Why is that?” “I don’t know.” Jester peeks out from behind me. “You’re in love with each other.” “What? How did it happen? It’s the first time we met. That's too soon.” I choke on my words. “Lally,” he pouts. “Don’t you know about love at first sight? You’re ridiculous. Are you sure you’re human? Humans fall in love as fast as four seconds.” Gen and I look at each other with coy smiles because of Jester’s outburst. The Ice Queen approaches me and smiles brightly. “I’ll leave my son to your care. Here’s his heart.” She hands me a glass case. A crystal heart sits inside it. It shimmers under the light coming from outside the window. “Please handle it with care.” *** Soon, our wedding is arranged and we’re all excited. I have decided to invite my closest friends. We are to meet at the cottage by the bridge where Genesis first saw me. I entertain myself with the buses and trains that pass by while waiting. When I get bored, I have taken my book out to be occupied. I am just starting to get sucked in the fictional world of the book and have been ignoring the noise around me when someone yells. “Run for your life! Run for your life!” I look up from the page I’m reading and petrify when I come face to face with falling debris. The bridge has crumbled due to the impact of the buses that collide on the skyway. It’s too late for me. My body collapsed at the smash. Blood surges everywhere, oozing warmly all over my body. My vision blurs. My head spins as my surrounding becomes tumultuous. Only one name escapes my mouth to what seems to be my final word. Genesis , my love . My heartbeat becomes a faint lub dub-- it fades every second. Then, I hear the voice so dear to me--my Genesis’ voice. He’s in panic. “Lally! Please don’t leave, stay with me! Lally!” I struggle to open my eyes in an attempt to have a final glimpse of the face of my beloved. But I only see darkness. “Lally! Please stay. Don’t leave my son. If I need to give you the remaining heartbeat that I have, I will.” It’s the Ice Queen. With her words, I remember their hearts--Genesis and hers. I visualize her vital organ crumbling to pieces as she sees her son grieve over my almost lifeless body. I also imagine Genesis’ heart having more crevices. No! I can’t die now. Their hearts are at risk too. I must live--for them. “Lally!” It’s Jester’s voice. “Lally! Don’t die.” *** “Lally.” Another familiar voice calls out my name. But unlike the others’ voices, it’s calm and subtle. I even feel a gentle shake on my shoulder as the voice keeps on calling my name. I hear myself respond with a soft moan. “Lally--wake up.” It’s my mom’s voice. How come she’s here? “Lally, dear. Wake up. You’re dreaming. It’s late. You have class.” I jumped out of bed as if an ice bucket has been poured on me. “What?!” I grab my phone only to see twenty- six missed calls from our online manager. It’s 9: 10 in the morning. My class is supposed to be at 9:00. I dial the manager’s number and ask for an apology. Good thing she’s not in a hell mood, she doesn’t scold me. “Just make sure you have a good impression on your new student.” She reminds me of my new student. “His mother requested for the most capable tutor. She’s a valuable client. We can’t risk to disappoint her.” I ready myself and start Zoom. Connecting... My heart beats fast as the image of my vivid dream plays in my head. How does my student look like? Genesis’ face registered in my mind’s eye as I space out. Then there’s a hello from the other end of the connection. My jaw drops at the face I am staring at. Am I still dreaming? “I- it’s you.” “Yes, it’s me.” He smiles. My heart leaps with joy at the sight of that warm familiar face. Behind him is another recognizable figure. An elegant woman wearing her most amiable smile--the Ice Queen. Then, a tiny human silhouette waves at me too-- it's Jester. “It’s nice to see you in the real world, my love.”

Cassandra held fast to the deck railings as her ship, The Whale Chaser, tossed and turned on the roiling sea. She was soaked from head to toe, her hat having been lost to the wind. The tight bun her long dark hair was tied into threatened to follow. She was on the tall side, even for a man, which had caused troubles in the past, but it was a useful trait if a woman was to be captain. Easier to intimidate upstarts that way. Her face, its delicate features on the edge of being worn away by salt-laden winds, was twisted into a dour expression. They’d escaped the pirate ship that had been chasing them just barely. Just as the pirate was getting into range of their guns, they’d swung hard in the path of it. A risky move to be sure, but it allowed her men to fire a volley from the deck guns straight into the pirate vessel. Unfortunately, the captain of that ship must have been born with a vengeful soul. A volley rang out from the pirate vessel as it limped away, badly damaged. Enough holes had been put into her ship to be a problem, but a fixable one on an ordinary day. Curse her rotten luck that a storm had blown in from the south with nary a warning, not an hour after they’d been hit. What patch jobs had been managed were already leaking, and The Whale Chaser was taking on water faster than could be thrown back to the sea. She looked to her helmsman, who had been bound by rope to the helm to keep him steady as he, in turn, sought to keep the ship steady. His face was grim, and lines of concentration lined the man’s tanned and weathered face. She imagined her own face bore a similar look, though that of displeasure rather than concentration. She stamped down below to see how the crew was doing at keeping her ship afloat. What she saw filled her heart with dismay. The water was rapidly filling the lower decks as crewmen rushed around with anything that could hold water to try and throw it through the gaps normally reserved for the cannons. Now the only thing being fired out through those holes was seawater. She rolled up her sleeves and moved to grab a vessel herself when she heard someone clear their throat behind her. She turned to see a man in a long dark cloak. His hood obscured his face though she could see the light of a cigar from beneath it as smoke billowed out from under the hood. She could see the man was wearing a well-tailored but muted suit underneath. In fact, the more she looked at the man, it seemed his entire existence threatened to wash away with the tide that beat at her ship. “What do you want? If you aren’t going to help move water then throw yourself overboard so we sink slower.” she said viciously, not much in the mood for whatever this passenger had to say. “Oh, I will happily remove myself from your ship before it sinks my dear, however, I do have to ask. Do you want this boat to sink?” he said, the words lilted through the air, gently defying the roar of the waves and shouting of men. Her face, ever the reflection of her inner thoughts, twisted into a rage as she stomped towards the man. He retreated as she advanced, leading them back to the violent surface of the ship as she shouted, “Of course I don’t want this ship to sink! What captain would willingly throw away her ship, her crew, and her life? You tell me that stranger, now help or don’t!” she shouted at the man. They now stood on the rainswept deck as the ship continued to roll with the tide. She held onto a railing as the man stood square on the deck, seemingly unbothered by the violent shaking of the ship. Another cloud of smoke billowed out from under the hood, the cigar staying lit in defiance of the rain. “And what makes you think I don’t want to help,” he asked. His voice held a tinge of amusement. “After all I came here to offer you a deal my lovely captain. A bargain that would allow you to keep your ship from sinking, that being said you would have to offer me something in exchange.” She stared at the man, noticing how he seemed to ignore the roiling sea. How his words cut through the wind without him needing to shout. He stood amidst the storm, the rain striking him but leaving behind no wetness as smoke continued to coil from beneath his hood. And behind the dim light of the cigar, she could see the glow of two unnaturally yellow eyes gleaming with malevolent light. “What is your name sir,” Cassandra asked, shouting to keep her voice above the howling of the wind. “And be you man or devil, I have heard tell of such deals, and I would know who and what I am striking such a bargain with.” The man laughed, his mirth echoing across the deck. “My dear, you do amuse me, even in such dire straits you keep your wits about you. Truly I was right to come here for I have little use for those who cannot keep their heads. I can tell you I am neither man nor devil, though like the devil of your delightful fairy tales, I do strike bargains. Though I require nothing so tawdry as a soul.” he said. “Then what do you require of me, my good not-a-devil?” she asked impetuously. She did not have time for games. Whatever this thing, was it was clearly unnatural. And perhaps a defiance of nature is what she needed. If it could save her ship and crew, she had to at least hear it out. “I merely require the future of you and your crew, that will be my payment. Now no further questions, that is the deal. If you accept you and your crew will be saved and you may continue your voyage. If you do not or seek to ask another question I will abandon you and your crew to the fate that the sea had bequeathed you. Now what say you my dear?” he asked, his voice carrying the weight of one who knew he had power. She stared at him, her face flickering between rage and helplessness as emotions tore at her insides. “I accept your terms,” she said finally. The figure that was neither man nor devil dissolved into the wind, and she could hear incredulous shouts from belowdecks. She turned and went down the stairs to see the water retreating from the ship. She continued and watched as the planks grew into place and covered the gaps that once threatened her vessel. Her crew gave thanks to god, some falling to their knees to pray. She would allow them their misconception. It was less cruel than the truth. She closed her eyes and begged forgiveness for what she had done. She knew not what the future held, but it must be in that creature’s favor. She could only hope that it was also to the favor of her and her crew. She broke her reverie and opened her eyes. “That’s enough of that, miracle or no, there still be a storm on. All hands on deck, the lord helps those who help themselves and we’re to help ourselves out of this storm alive! Now heave to!” she shouted. A loud chorus of enthusiastic ‘Ayes’ fell upon her ears as she watched her crew spring back into action. She was not deserving of such loyalty, not after what she’d done. But she would take what was offered her as she always had.

Regular guy. At least that's what everyone else says. Football team, basketball team, hell even played baseball a year or two. Perfect grades. Even my teachers think in the next couple of years I'm ready for the Ivy league. I have the perfect girlfriend. The perfect parents. And to top it all off I'm apart of the, how do you say "popular crowd." I don't think I could ask for a better life.All i'm saying is when you have it all, you always want more. I think it all started maybe a few weeks after school had started. There was this kid, younger than most of the people in my calculus class. Couldn't of been older than 15. And "lucky me" I sat right next to him. He would talk to me and I'd make small talk, just to pass the time. But the kid bothered me. I knew he didn't have any friends. He was that kid that sat by himself at lunch. Just weird. But I had an idea. I got together with my friends. To go and mess with this kid. Good ole' fashioned fun. My friends and I knew the kid walked home from school. So we got the idea to "pretend" kidnap him. We a got plan together. And put it into action one Friday night. We were all dressed in black. And to top it all off ski masks. Then just to add more of a scare factor my friend Murphy, got his dads gun, not loaded of course, for added effect. He had stayed after school late that day, and we waited for him to start his walk home. We followed him for about 10 minutes , then we pulled up next to him and grabbed him. It was so funny watching him scream. The terror on his face was just unbelievable. He started to cry and one of my friends started to hit him. He wouldn't shut up. Then Murphy, pulled the gun out and pointed right at him. The little loser didn't say a word. Murphy put the gun to his head. We all couldn't stop laughing. I hadn't had this much fun in my entire life. It seemed as much as the tears kept coming from him, the harder we laughed. Then Murphy pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger. Now I'm not so much of a regular guy. No more football team. No more basketball team. All my friends or at least the people who I thought were my friends have all but gone. My parents don't even look at me the same. I have lost it all. I lost everything. And then the after effects. Kidnapping. Mastermind to murder. Manslaughter. And now I am awaiting the trial of the rest of my life. If I wouldn't of been so damn cocky. I thought I had it all and didn't realize I could lose it all in an instant. But that's the thing when you have it all. You always want more. But I was too dumb to realize I simply had enough.

Words Fall Out “For two years you have done nothing else but put all your attention, effort, and motives into meeting this girl. For TWO YEARS you’ve been filling your head with the cheesiest and Hollywood-brand romantic daydreams and keeping yourself awake at night thinking about her. Raz, for two years I’ve endured all your wishful babble about how you’re gonna propose to her, when you’ll marry her, and what names you’re gonna name your children. I’m your best friend, Raz, and your wing-woman! But all you did for TWO DAMN YEARS is attempt and fail pathetically. I mean I’m sorry if this is hurtful, Raz, but goddamn you can’t even say hi to her! You always keep saying that you’ll wait for the opportune moment BUT I AM SICK of hearing your bullshit, Raz. You were waiting for the ‘opportune moment’? WELL NOW IT’S HERE. She is literally right outside waiting for you and now that I’ve literally spoon-fed that chance to you, you choose to be a coward and lock yourself in the school’s bathroom stall??? UGH. Come on, Raz, please! Do yourself a favor! Come on, buddy... will you really stay here, be a coward, and spend your life regretting what could have been? Or will you grow a pair and just talk to her?” A silence reverbed throughout the bathroom stalls for a few good moments. And then, I spoke with most sureness and sincerest of heart, “...I’ll choose the former please.” “Oh fuck you.” 2 YEARS EARLIER It started at the very first day of our senior years. Veronica and I had agreed to make the most out of the last two years of our high school life. She suggested that we should have an ultimate goal that we’d try to reach during this two year period filled with unwise decisions, self-humiliation, and overall cringe that we’d look back decades from now and say “God, why did we do that?” Veronica’s ultimate goal was to find herself the “perfect boyfriend”. Although I doubted her perfect version of a guy aligned with what the modern human male can offer realistically. She is fond of KDRAMAs, progesterone-fueled wattpad stories, and 2000’s romantic rock ballads. So at the time I’d figured that Veronica was attempting to pursue a fruitless endeavor. My goal however was... well to be honest I didn’t have one, yet . When the first ring of the school bell that school year rung, a cluster of unfamiliar faces flooded the halls. Each and every one was trying to get to point A to point B, which without uncoordinated guidance resulted in the halls becoming a mighty river and trying to navigate through it was futile. What’s worse is that the sheer amount of students that crowded the halls obscured my sight like fine sand in murky waters. After the crowd dispersed and the sand settled down, the water became crystal clear, and it was then that I saw her. Words could not describe how beautiful she is...well maybe except these couple of sentences: Her fair skin, luminous as it is, enticed me to long the moment when I could feel the sensation of smoothness and softness it offered. Her eyes were the color of the earth, two deep holes that I’m afraid I’ve already fallen into. Her silky hair glossed at the gentle touch of dayli- okay maybe that’s too much. I’m a picky person when it comes to crushes so take my word for it that she’s hella cute. There when I saw her, walking towards me, head down, but looking up right when we’re about to pass each other. That was the first out of many times that our eyes would meet. That moment I knew what my ultimate goal was: her . How will I achieve this goal you may ask? Haha! Simple. Introducing Raz’s 3 Step Guide Into Making This Total Stranger Magically Fall In Love With Me: Step 1: Befriend Her All romances start with comfortable familiarity, once we’re friends step 2 will be much easier. Step 2: Make Her Fall For Me No subtext needed, my charming eyes and dazzling smile paired with my adorkable personality is sure to enchant her in no time. And when she is, proceed with step 3. Step 3: Confess Your Undying Love to Her After an evening of romantic innuendo bring her to the beach and play Sleep Walk (Instrumental) by Santo & Johnny. Swayed by the slow and pleasant melodies of the song, ask her to slow dance, bare so the soft sand can caress your feet. Whist moving along the music, stare deeply into her eyes and confess your love under the blanket of the pale moon. Then kiss with immense passion. Congrats, you romantic bastard! You’ve captured her heart and forever engraved your name on it. But...as you’ve probably guessed. I couldn’t even complete step 1. Now, I’ve had crushes in the past but they either only lasted for a short amount of time, or stopped when the other person started liking me back (yes I know this is peak douchebaggery) but all of them summed up could not amount to what I felt for her. And it only grew as time went on. I found myself daydreaming about her more and more until it became a daily routine. Wake up. Think about her. Sleep. Literally. But I only realized how bad it was when I saw her in person. Just the mere sight of her turned my ears into an awful shade of red, my body would be petrified while a weird tingly-warm feeling would swallow me, and I found that I was holding my breath until she walked out of my sight. “Shit. I think I’m actually in love.” Veronica choked on her burger and flapped her hand gesturing to pass her my can of coke, as hers was already empty. After 3 big gulps and a carbonated sigh later, “Whoa, dude... are you like, sure it’s ‘love’?” “I have never felt this way for anyone before” That was true. “It’s like my body is being subjected to 4 different torture methods simultaneously whenever I see her.” “You got it bad, my friend.” She said sipping my can of coke. “So can you point her out for me?” She asked looking at the other people in the cafeteria with us. “She’s not here.” I said with certainty, by this point I could take one glance at a crowd and decide in a millisecond if she was one of the faces. “Well tell me her name then! I’ll just stalk her online.” “Ehehe here’s the thing. Actually-” “You don’t know her name.” “...” “You don’t know anything about her.” “Well yeah but-” “You said you were in love but she’s a total stranger to you. HAHA This is gonna end well.” And I can assure you, dear readers, that it did not end well. I would not learn her name not until two months since I saw her. Everyone was in the school gymnasium. It was time to elect the new student government officials. I obviously scanned the whole building so I can at least sit near her but I couldn’t seem to spot her. Though when the election started, I was greeted with a pleasant surprise. There she was, in the center of the basketball court along with the other candidates. She was apparently running for school secretary (the responsible type) and when it was her turn to give a speech for candidacy, I finally heard her voice. I’d say it was like music to my ears but that would be cliché. Though I can’t lie, I did get Goosebumps. She had a soft but serious voice and as she spoke the words melted together into sweet gibberish when it entered my ears. And I could only make out one thing from her speech, her name was “Angeli” I whispered longingly to myself. She won that election by the way but I was still not any closer to winning her. The two years filled with mishaps and misadventures that Veronica and I spent trying to achieve our ultimate goal deserves a more lengthy narrative (which I will procure soon). But as our senior years drew closer to an end my feelings for Angeli only got worse. Everyone keeps saying I should just talk to her and yes I do know that but as a person who overthinks the smallest of things my mind is incapable of deciding which words I should speak. And even if I did plan ahead it won’t matter because when I’m actually near her the only thing I can think of is “Fuck, Angeli you’re so gorgeous would you like to spend the rest of your life with me?” I know, yikes. I heard that Angeli was moving away for college. And with only 2 weeks left before graduation I think I’ve come to terms that I’ll never really talk to her. Still I feel like I’ve broken my own heart. Not like tragically but with regret and self-loathing. “This crush will eventually fade away right?” I asked Veronica. “Hmm, I can’t say, Raz. You got it pretty bad.” “Ugghh, what am I supposed to do? I don’t even want to date her anymore. I just want these feelings to stop.” “Why?” “Because it’s driving me crazy, LITERALLY. Maybe I am love-struck but I’m sane enough to admit this is getting unhealthy.” It was getting unhealthy. I was stuck in my own daydreams. I was always distracted. And I CANNOT stop thinking about her. I guess Veronica could tell I was suffering. Maybe that’s why she did this: “Okay what if I told you that there was a way to get rid of these feelings once and for all? Would you do it?” “In a heartbeat.” “Really?” “I’d do anything if it means freedom from this obsession.” “Okay then.” Veronica stood up from the bench and walked away. “Wait where are you going!?” But she didn’t answer nor look back. I was confused until I saw where she was headed. Sitting alone near the school fountain was Angeli’s best friend, Anna. Oh no . Veronica waved her hands to get attention and when she did she introduced herself. They talked but I was too far to hear what they were saying. After a while they both looked at me and smiled. Oh no . Then she walked back. “What did you say to her?” I asked, my tone dead serious. “Oh nothing.” “Veronica, What. Did. You. Say to her.” “I asked her to tell Angeli that you wanted to meet her” “ oh FUCK NO ” FROM WHERE WE LEFT OFF “Oh, fuck you. I thought you said you’d do anything.” “Uh yeah but the main problem is that I CAN’T FREAKING TALK TO HER.” “RAZ, YOU NEED TO TRUST ME. I mean think about it! This is a win-win situation for you! If you confess to her now she might actually give you a chance. And if she doesn’t you can finally let go of your feelings!” “But I can’t talk to her! My brain just doesn’t function when I’m near her! I can’t get out of my own head. She makes me feel so nervous I’d rather swim in a pool of piranhas than be in a room with her. I’ll just make a fool out of myself.” “Raz, I get that this is hard for you, but it’s for your own good. Look buddy, instead of making your ultimate goal her, you can make your ultimate goal you.” “Huh?" “Be confident for yourself dude! I mean, any girl would be lucky if they have someone like Raz getting all worked up about them.” I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was smiling on the other side of this stall. I was silent. I honestly felt like crying. I know I’m so pathetic. I just have so many things I wanna tell her, or at least I feel like there are. I’m...such a coward. “Okay” She sighed. “I’ll just tell them that you needed to go home early.” I heard her footsteps tap away, then the slow creak of an opening door and creaking back to close. “WAIT!” “...” I opened the stall. I got up. Took a deep breath. And walked to the school fountain with Veronica. Raz’s 1-Step Guide to Growing A Pair Step 1 JUST DO IT We were getting closer to the fountain. I could see her and Anna in the distance. I felt like turning back and walking away just like all the other times but I pressed on. The closer we got the more I could feel my legs starting to shake. The more my chest tightened. And the more my mind kept screaming “STOP” but I drowned it out by thinking and repeating to myself “Just do it. Just do it. Just do it.” She’s looking at me. She’s right in front of me. I took a deep breath. Hi there! This must be so awkward. “ Hi.” Fuck, I said that too formally. “Uh, hi” She smiled. I’m really sorry for bothering you right now and all the other times before “I’m...sorry” I said. She looked at me confused. I am too. For two years I’ve had the biggest crush on you. And I just wanna tell you now that I really like you “I really like you.” My ears turn from red to crimson. But I couldn’t bring myself to talk to you all this time. You just make me so nervous I can’t get out of my own head to even just saying hi to you “ But- you make me so nervous...I couldn’t talk to you” I can’t explain it but I’m drawn to you but whenever you’re close I feel like jumping out of the nearest window. “I wanna be near you but I can’t physically stand it.” Maybe I just have it really bad for you, Angeli. But I know that you’re basically a stranger to me. So I’ve trying to get to know you these past 2 years “I just really like you a lot. And I know that sounds odd coming from a stranger. So I wanna know you better.” I just want to be friends with you “ I just want to be friends with you” At this point I was visibly shaking, my voice sounds like I’m being held at gun point. And my heart feels like it’s about to explode. “Okay” she said. “Let’s be friends.” Then she reached her hand out. I held and shook it. It was the softest. But it was also cold. Nervous-cold. Then I noticed her knees were also shaking. I’ve been avoiding looking at her face but now that I’m starting right at it, she’s as red as me. We shook hands for an awkward amount of time and both laughed at us being flustered. Though our conversation would be cut short because she had something to do first, but she did promise she’ll talk to me when she’s free. We waved goodbye and when she was out of sight Veronica immediately jumped on me and exclaimed “You bastard! You finally did it! I’m so proud of you!” My knees kept shaking for the rest of the day (In which Veronica constantly made fun of) and I kept breathing heavily. Though I do wanna say it was a pleasant surprise when I got home and looked at my mirror. I realized that I was smiling non-stop. I guess I did finally do it. I was always trying to string the best possible words together to say to her. But I never realized until today that sometimes saying less is saying more. If you’re wondering, Veronica did eventually get her “perfect boyfriend” but not until she overcame something. And that encounter with Angeli wasn’t the last of my troubles with romance. But those are stories for another time.

Once upon a time, there was a boy and his fish. The boy hadn’t seen more than ten winters, and his thin blonde hair lay matte on his head. His glasses always rested on the bridge of his nose and he looked down at the world through them. The fish lived in a moderately sized fish bowl on the boy’s desk in his bedroom. He was a goldfish, orange with speckles of white that trickled up his side,. Most days the boy and the fish lived in peace. There was a quiet communion between the two, an understanding between human and creature. One day, as the boy sat at his desk, the fish turned and asked him “Boy, have you heard the tale of how man and fish came to be companions?” The boy turned to his fish with a curious stare. “Why no, Fish, I have not heard this tale,” the boy responded. The fish spun in his bowl and flicked his tail. “You see, ages ago, in times forgotten, a man sat by a pond,” the fish said. *Covered in glorious satin robes of red and gold, his long black mustache almost fell to his shoulders. He sat underneath a cherry blossom tree in full bloom, and a sparkling blue pond lay in front of him.* “As he sat by the pond, curious about the nature of man, he was greeted by a goldfish,” the fish continued. *Suddenly with a magnificent splash, the fish the size of an oak tree emerged from the pond. Gold and sparkling it contoured and twisted in the bright sun to the astonishment of the man. It landed back in the pond and then after a moment’s pause it swam up the man, it’s head poking out of the water.* “The fish said to the man ‘why do you sit here alone? Wouldn’t you be happier with a friend by your side?’ The man responded to the fish ‘well now I have you to speak with, and so my loneliness is sated,’” the fish said. “But then the fish said ‘but I am free to come and go as I wish. What would you do if I left?’” *The man looked off in the distance, pondering this question. The fish tilted it’s head, looking curiously at the man.* “‘Well you see,’ said the man, ‘that means I cannot let you leave. Otherwise, I will be forever lonely.’” *Reaching into his robes, the man pulled out a long net and cast them out over the pond. The goldfish tried to swim down and escape but was soon tangled in the net of the man. As much as the fish resisted, it could not overcome the strength of man, and he pulled the fish from the water and began to drag him to his home.* “The fish protested, ‘but how will I live without water?’ The man explained, ‘I am a glassmaker, and I will make a tank for you in my home. Big enough for you to swim, but not too big that you could escape. There you will keep me company, and your children will keep my children company, and so on, forever,’” the fish concluded. The boy stared at his fish as he finished his story. “That is a very sad story,” the boy said. “Why would you sadden my day with this tale?” The fish returned the glare, his expression neutral as only a fish’s could be. “You see, I am a descendant of that original goldfish,” the fish explained. Then the scales above the fish’s eyes tilted downwards slightly. “And you are a descendant of the first man who enslaved my people. Today I take my revenge.” Suddenly there a gunshot that deafened in the room. The boy fell backward out of his chair. He felt the blood oozing out from a bullet wound to his shoulder. His breath was short. Quicker than the boy could have reacted to, the fish had pulled out a twelve gauge from under the castle in his fishbowl, swam to the surface and fired. It was a non-lethal shot, as the fish wanted to make the boy suffer. “I have waited for this moment my entire life. All five years of it,” the fish said. “Passed down to me by my father, and his father before him, I come from a holy line of fish that have dedicated ourselves to taking vengeance upon the descendant of the first man that enslaved us.” *In his tank in the pet store, a young fish stared wide-eyed up at his father, a goldfish with grey specks around his eyes. “My son, one day it will be up to you to kill the descendant and end their line to bring justice to our fish kind,” he instructed.* The boy struggled to stand, but the fish cocked the gun back. The threatening click held the boy in place, and the fish aimed the gun toward the boy’s head. “I did everything I had to ensure I would be set up for this moment to kill you,” the fish continued. *The boy when first purchasing his fish looked at a glass tank. There was his fish and another, but the boy’s gaze seemed more keen on the other. When he turned his back, fish pulled out a large butcher knife. The fish knew he had to be the one picked that day. He did what he had to do.* “I’ve been waiting and watching, preparing myself for the moment when you would be most vulnerable,” the fish stated. *The boy slept in a dark room peacefully, blissfully unaware of the assassin in his midst. The fish, in a moment of weakness, reached for his firearm but caught himself. It wasn’t time yet. Soon. Soon.* “Today, while you least suspected it, was my moment to exact my revenge,” the fish finished. However, the boy started laughing. The fish lowered his gun in confusion as the boy continued to laugh. “You should have killed me before I fed you,” the boy responded. Suddenly, the fish felt itself start to gag. Convulsing, the fish dropped the gun, and it began uncontrollably spewing up his guts. The boy stood, using one hand to apply pressure to the wound. “What...what have you done to me?” the fish asked in terror. I know who you are, fish. I have no intention to die to you here today. I poisoned your food supply,,” the boy explained. The fish felt his short life draining away. He knew he had only moments to live. “My...children...and their children’s children...will never stop trying to end your line...” the fish gagged out. “Let them try you son of a bitch,” the boy said. The fish died, floating to the surface of the tank. The boy took a moment in silence to watch the fish, before picking it out with a net. He dropped it in the toilet of his washroom and flushed. The boy watched the fish be eaten by the toilet, the water’s swirling round and round, much like the circle of violence that continued to be perpetuated between man and fish for eons to come.

It had started raining. Jodie hadn't actually realised it was, until the folds of her shirt had begun clinging to her stomach, rapidly chilling, sticky ice, now noticed- unbearable. It must have been a while since the sun had disappeared and the clouds had covered the sky, but more worrying than the precipitation was the expanse of sodden ground she had covered without notice. Jodie picked at her damp clothes, annoying sensations of gripping fabric mixing with her worried retrospective about all the roads she had crossed outside of cognisance. Evidently no car had mowed her down though as her vague body auto-piloted through town. A shiver ripped through her, partly due to the chill, the other part- the dread of what could have happened to her while her mind had floated out of her body, so frequent an occurrence these days. What would Matt have said? He would have rolled his eyes at the very least, she knew it. So many times he had lamented her daydreaming. Back then though the fantasies were cotton candy pink hued clouds of hopefully adorned plans, barely formed but beautiful future ambition. He would summon her back to her body with a sweet smile and kiss on whatever part of her he could reach. Now her blinding fixations were nightmares, living doom and barely survivable sorrow and she remained unwoken from her insides for what felt like days, with no one to pull her out. Jodie's left thumb rubbed the inside of her bare ring finger. As happened periodically, a jolt of loss and guilt prickled from her core and sent pins and needles to the ends of her fingers and toes as she noted the continued absence of her wedding ring. It's disappearance had felt like a cruel joke when first acknowledged, and now- now it was a ongoing punishment for some unknown crime. Karma seemingly wanting to chip away her soul until there was nothing left. Matt's own ring lay under the earth with him. Whenever she had visited his grave before her band went missing, she had poeticly buried her hand into the loose soil atop the burial site, cool dirt pressing tightly around her fingers, feeling the imagined connection of the two pieces of metal through the earth, her last link to her dead husband reduced to a pathetic metaphorical gesture. A widow. The label was gross, unfitting, surely a lie. Jodie was sure it would never slot neatly into her psyche. Sometimes she hated Matt for slapping that label on her, more annoyed by the redefinition of her own identity than her actual loss. Ridiculous, she would tell herself as she shook off the resentment and sunk back into classic, uncomfortable yet acceptable grief. When the ring had first gone missing she had assumed it had slipped off her finger on one of those occasions in front of Matt's headstone. Running back to the cemetery in the dead of night, Jodie had rattled at the gates like a ghoul, the tall iron bars locked and immovable. Scaling the adjacenct wall, driven by feverish, agonised desperation, Jodie had ripped most of the skin from her knees and palms on the brick but didn't feel it, didn't know it until she returned to the light of home, mud-coated and bloodstained from her grave digging escapade. Scrabbling around in the wet earth in the perfect darkness she had suddenly become aware of how obsence her behavior was. Horrified, Jodie froze, kneeling in the pit- realising she had stopped searching for the ring a while ago and instead was throwing handfuls of dirt over her shoulder, imagining she was about to reach the coffin that lay six feet below, almost yearning for her finger nails to scratch the wood of the box that held her beloved, the idea of it both intriguing and unbearable. As she recalled this uncomfortable memory the trusty autopilot completely failed for the first time and Jodie experienced an utterly new kind of pain as she was thrown into the air then slammed impossibly hard into the tarmac, the screeching brakes of the car reverberating around her head. The cliché idea of time slowing became reality as she flew through the void and knew the impact with the ground was coming so impossibly long before it did. Detailed information of what that meant circulated her brain, awareness of all the potential harm that was milliseconds away from being a possibility. What an interesting kind of freedom- the inevitability of the next few moments and an absolute clarity that there was not a damn thing she could do to change the outcome of this event. It felt... nice- to know that control was robbed from her for that time, a kind theft of responsibility and intent, just the universe, universe-ing regardless of her wants or wills. By absolute chance, the collision caused no damage and Jodie was back on her feet almost straight away, pulling her arm away from the grip of the worried driver who was insisting a hospital visit and shouting desperate pleas after her escape. Maybe she was actually dead, maybe the car's impact had ended her life and the ghost that stalked through the world was just a shadow of she, who was formerly Jodie. This possibility was unimportant, the end goal was Matt's grave and it was to be, living or dead. The pull towards him was stronger now and Jodie pondered if there was a reason for that. She had often wondered when the last time she would visit his grave would be, maybe that was today. Everything has a last, for one reason or another. There were so many things that Jodie had already done for the last time that she had not known at the time was her last. Had she had already eaten her last peach? Maybe she had been to Spain for the final time when she visited her aunt on the continent the year before last. Then again, maybe she would be reclining in a deckchair on the sand in Barcelona next month, a juicy piece of fruit in hand, feeling the prickle of the Catalonian sun on her skin. Everything felt unwritten, everything tasted of... blood. Jodie spat onto the path in the cemetery between the graves, ruby splatters coating the ground as she continued to beat a path onwards. The glint of the reflected light hitting the object that sat on top of the headstone was visible from a distance. Flashing either like a lighthouse beacon warning her away from danger or like a green light at the end of a dock calling her in with promise. Either way, she knew exactly what it was that glinted in the returning sun long before she got to his grave, even if it seemed impossible. The ring was alive, like it had placed itself there, as if it had located and presented itself to where it knew Jodie would find it. Caught between the urge to snatch it up and hold on tight and the horror of what exactly it's reappearance meant, Jodie froze, gazing at the circle on top of her dead husband's headstone and it gazed back at her. All the times she had wished to possess the jewelery again, she had never imagined that it's reappearance would make her feel so uneasy and it took her a moment to realise why. This was it. This was the last time. There was no rhyme or reason to why she knew, but once she reached out for the ring, whatever happened, this would be it, this would be the last time she visited Matt's grave. Maybe the ring was setting her free, maybe it was heralding her end, there was only one way to know. Stretching her fingers out, she spoke silently to the universe. "What's next? I'm ready."

Aloysius Lets the Cleaning Lady Go It really was time to let the wretched woman go. Goodbye, but as graciously as possible, of course. Aloysius had forty pounds in his pocket and the words on the tip of his tongue. She stamped into the room, in the middle of a sentence as usual; another thing that irked him, her non-stop chatter. “So, you see, Mr Aloysius, there is a big difference between being alone and being lonely , if you get my drift. A big difference.” Maggie was unusually stern, having finished her hours. They were in the orchid house, where she was allowed one cigarette after her shift, but Mr Aloysius, having inadvertently broached a comment earlier, thought this might not be the case. He rather feared for his new Dendrobium and moved it slightly away from the floating smoke. They were sitting at the potting table, with Maggie using a plant saucer for ash. “It’s like this Maggie ...” he began ... “Here’s my friend, Rosalind, been married 40 years, loses Harry just like that. So, you could say she’s alone. Anyway, after the crying her eyes out, and me and her with a bottle of the whisky, she says she always liked some flipping poem, about wearing purple and eating sausages and stuff. Anyhows, we got the poem from the library, and blow me, if we didn’t do everything on it and she was like a new woman. Stupid things, but it made us laugh, going out in the rain in our slippers and that. I didn’t get it really, I’m not a fan of purple at the best of times, and she doesn’t do everything in the poem now of course. She got this little white dog that sits on the end of the bed while she reads her library books, ‘til midday if she wants to and then off they go visiting all over. Don’t get me wrong she grieves for Harry every day, she misses him heart and soul, but it’s been a couple of years now and she doesn’t feel lonely.” Against his will, Aloysius found himself strangely interested. “She does still eat a big plate of sausages all at one go sometimes. I’ve tried it myself. It’s very satisfying.” “Maggie...”, Aloysius steeled himself. Maggie paused, lit up another cigarette and Mr Aloysius, as discreetly as possible, opened a window by the rare Phalaenopsis and sat down again. “My friends, Wendy and Sharon, I’ve told you about them, haven’t I, what works at the restaurant in town. Now I wouldn’t say they are the most sensitive girls around, and they’d be the first to say the same. But do you know what they hate working the most? Valentine’s Day. You’d think you’d want to work it for the tips, eh?” Aloysius did indeed wonder why. “But they try and wangle it for a day off on that day. They say it’s the saddest day of the flipping year; some of those couples sitting together, trying to look together, but they’re not, Mr A; they’re pretending, and they’re not alone , but some of them are feeling the loneliness, that’s what Wendy says. She says it makes her really sad. Them trying to look together and happy for the day, but not really; not really.” Aloysius drew a determined breath. “Then get me, eh. Nothing more I love than a good car trip on my own. Alone, Mr A. singing along to the music like anything. Smooth FM, all good songs on there. I like going up to places to see the birds; Flamborough Head and all the terns, puffins and such. You should get yourself out Mr A., a bit more, really. So, one day I’ve had a really good walk, got my binoculars and all, see the little chicks in their nests, it’s brilliant. Just as brilliant as yer beautiful orchids, if you don’t mind me saying. And then I pass this family of four; the kids are real little shits, sorry to say that, but they are, the mam’s telling them they can have anything they want when they get back to the car; she’s as bad as them not wanting a walk, all moaning like mad. Then the dad comes up behind, and it’s him I see, his eyes. He’s tried to do something different, maybe, take everyone for a bit of fresh air, but that’s not the point. His eyes, he’s like lonely and alone at the same time; like ‘is this the rest of my life?’ This spoilt wife and these spoilt kids? His eyes went down to a right desperate soul, I could tell. Lonely and alone; I’m not sure, I’ll have to think about that a bit more for my theory, you know.” Aloysius could see it all, felt the breeze on his skin. Maggie puffed away on her cigarette. “Just finish this, Mr A. and then I’m off. Got me pilates class; I know, you wouldn’t believe it, but it’s good for me back. Another time, I’d been down to see Sue one afternoon in Cleethorpes. That’s another story. But driving out, oh, it was such a beautiful sunny afternoon, and I had this real hankering for fish and chips. Sit by the beach, watch the waves, see everyone splashing around, glorious. So there I am, all settled under a tree, mouth watering, just starting on my fish and chips, when I felt like I had just stepped off a cliff and fell into a sea of lonely. Oh, it was dreadful. All the world carried on around me; seagulls crying, children shouting, people laughing and chatting, and I was so apart from it, so, so lonely, it grabbed onto my insides and I started to cry into my chips. I don’t know what happened there, still don’t. I can still feel that lonely plunge today if I call it up. And I have never eaten fish and chips by myself since.” Aloysius clutched the notes in his pocket. “Right, I’m off. Have a think about it Mr A. when you said what you said today. Lonely, or just alone? Come and see those lovely little baby birds on the cliff, eh? I’ll drive.” Aloysius sighed. Another day, perhaps. That woman definitely had to go.

She smiled. That beautifully radiant smile. A smile that could beat back the darkness of night and the bleakness of despair. It was a smile that many a man would readily die for. And it was for me. Her fingers entwined themselves in mine, holding them firmly enough to let me know she was there. I resisted the urge to squeeze them any harder, for fear of breaking the spell. I was utterly bewitched and she knew it. I was powerless to resist. *It’s not the fall that hurts. It’s the sudden stop that kills you.* The strains of music drifted through the air. At least, I think it was music. At this point it didn’t really matter what it was. It was everything and nothing at the same time. It was the perfect soundtrack to a movie of our own making. We were the stars of a show, written and directed by suns beyond our sight. She turned away, and dragged me through... a crowd? I don’t know. It mattered as much to me as a man’s debt does to an ant. I didn’t care. All that I yearned for was to be with her. In the here and now. Even if I knew that I didn’t deserve it. That I’d somehow used up all of my life’s luck in just one night. *But what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger... Right?* Why was I even here? Doubt creased my face with line upon line of impotent sadness. Words whizzed about, shouts and screams filled what anyone would readily perceive to be the air. But none of it reached me. I was an oasis of self-deprecation, unable to move beyond the pitiful cycle of self-immolation. The music changed. I think. I tried to clamber back up from what was a dark pit of ridiculous, nonsensical anxiety. What good would it to do to me to take myself apart like this, piece by piece? *I should just enjoy this. Even if it doesn’t last.* She must’ve noticed something was wrong. She pulled me close, and held me tight. I was conflicted, a maelstrom of opposing emotions competing to plant themselves at the forefront of my consciousness. I closed my eyes, and drank in the moment. The stupidity of the doubts crystallised in my head, and began to melt away. She pulled back, and looked straight through me. Her eyes sparked with the fires of life and passion. She was gorgeous beyond belief, her face contoured and sculpted by the gifted hand of the Maker himself. The exquisite lines of her being flowed from one feature to the next, never ceasing to amaze me as I watched her glide through my vision - a study in indescribable, breathtaking magnificence. *Things aren’t beautiful because they last forever. They’re beautiful because they can’t.* I finally returned the smile, a pale imitation of the loveliness that was before me. She let me go, satisfied that I had picked myself up. I finally heard the music and let it bounce around in my head. It moved me, us, bringing us up and down as wave upon wave of joy washed up on the shores of my soul. I was happy. She was happy. And that was enough. I tried hard not to think of what would happen once the night bade farewell. Maybe it would all be over once the music ground to a halt, and any number of fat ladies stopped singing. Maybe this was all it was ever going to be. Just another moment in time, lost amongst the infinite nothingness of irrelevance. *Hold on to that smile. You might never see it ever again.

My mom laid there on the hideous hospital bed that had taken up space in the living room for the past two months. She hated that bed. If she could have talked she probably would have said that it was the most uncomfortable bed in the world. Her head was propped up on two pillows, one over sized and one undersized. Her comforter was covering her now tiny body which was always cold. She laid there eyes open and looked up to the heavens. My mom was dying physically. She was no longer going to be here after that cool November day, the week before Thanksgiving. She gave me one last look and took her last breath. In my life there were only three times I cried as hard. I held her hand one last time and gave her one last kiss and prayed to the heavens that she was out of pain now and she would rest easy now. That day I lost my mom and I lost myself. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I have heard that we are all put on this earth for a purpose. That you have to live your life with purpose. That you were entitled to have happiness, peace and abundance. But, here I was not knowing what purpose I had any more. I was always Carol’s daughter, the oldest of her three children. Big sister, mom to my son later in life and for the last three years I was my mother’s caregiver. I was there 24/7. I cooked her breakfast every single morning. Before she lost her voice we would talk over eggs and potatoes about the morning talk shows and how ridiculous she thought some of them were. We sipped tea or coffee together and she told me stories about when she was my age and younger. She would share with me advice about life and her struggles and prayed that her struggles would not become my struggles. We would have pineapple pizza for lunch and Chinese food for dinner. We would laugh at the stories my sister would tell about her husband. Days, weeks, months passed faster than we wanted them too. Mom had very good days and very bad days. At certain times even hospital days. They were terrible days. Each time she went in she came out worse. The last time was the time she never fully recovered. Her body could not take any more. I was angry at first that she left me. I now had to search for my own identity. I now didn’t know who I was anymore. If I was not Carol’s daughter, who was I? In the days and weeks following the death of my mother I tried to do all the things that I had never done. I immersed myself in taking swimming classes which I had stopped taking long ago. I took cooking lessons, art lessons, and even took a ride in a hot air balloon and almost scared myself out of this world. I spent more time in the garden and trimming the trees, counting the fallen leaves and trying to plant pretty flowers in assorted flower pots. I had a barbecue in the middle of the coldest December day of the year. My nose ran, my face was cold, my gloved hands almost turned blue but I persisted turning that chicken trying to get the perfect color, the perfect grill marks. Mom would have liked that chicken and would have told me to bring my behind inside before I got sick. I exercised more and went from walking to running. I ran fast and hard, losing my breath at times but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I was running towards something. I was running trying towards the woman at the end of the block. I knew this woman. She was short like me, kind, long red hair like mine blowing behind her as she ran faster and faster. Then the woman was gone. I finally got to the corner and she was gone. I cried out for her to come back. I screamed for her to come back. I needed her. I needed her more than ever. I need her voice, her strength, her courage. Finally I ran home. My new home, the home I had been living in for a year. The home I wanted to share longer with my mother. Our dream home. I looked around at the high ceilings, the skylights in the living room and wooden planks in the kitchen. I stared at the grain of the wood on the railings leading to the loft. My hands felt the wood trimming on the walls. I stared at the place where my mom took her last breath. I knelt down on that spot where the carpet frayed from the bed and I let out a primal scream. My hands were bruised from the beating I gave the wall. My knees were sore and my head was empty of thoughts and feelings. My heart was full of love and regret. The ornaments fell to the ground as I sat at the crotch of the Christmas tree. One bulb was mother, another one a daughter, sister, aunt, niece, dreamer. One bulb had the name of all the places I had not been, Paris, Grease, Louisiana, Lake Tahoe, Hawaii and other exotic places. The bulbs went so high that I could not name them all. It was like they disappeared into the colors of the lights at the top of the tree. The star, the elusive star which I had trouble finding every year, that star was an accumulation of my life. Every year I wished upon that star. I wished for peace, happiness, toys, clothes, health, strawberry cakes and chocolate kisses. That star was the brightest. It lit up the room but more than that. It lit up something I didn’t expect. That star, that big bright silver and gold star lit up me. My head filled with thoughts, lots of thoughts. Thoughts about the past, future, present and most of all the one thought that told me that I had found something. That very second that thought that was like a whisper in my ear, the thought that made the hair on my neck stand up, the thought that told me that I had always known my purpose in life, the thought that told me I never lost myself that I just needed to look for me. I will be many things to many people over my years on this earth and that was part of my purpose to love and to be loved, to be happy and sprinkle happiness where it needs to be, take care of people and let people take care of me and dare to be my unique beautiful self. In that moment I learned what I was seeking was already here, in the mirror looking right at me.

A dream-lit cityscape in the stars &#x200B; The silhouette of two individuals could be seen sitting on the edge of what could very well be the void, but the sound of cool night waves lapping against weather-worn wood was a clear giveaway. &#x200B; "It's a lovely night to watch a meteor shower", the younger sounding of the two murmured with a feminine voice. There was a warm softness to her voice, almost as warm as the arms that draped and the chest that supported her back. Her companion held her just a little tighter in response, as thought to voice his agreement. &#x200B; The flash of the first meteor flew overhead, like an avian of pure brilliance announcing the arrival of a majestic flock of light. The woman chirped a happy noise at the appearance of the signal that their planned show was about to start. They have come to this very same spot every year on the same day since they first met, both drawn by the promise of the technicolor lightshow that graced these same skies year after year. &#x200B; They still remember that first chance meeting, two awkward teens prone to sneaking out had snuck out of their respective homes in search of the perfect place to view the annual meteor shower. The moon had been full and its pearlescent rabbit was clearly visible against its snow white canvas, watching over the sleeping town they both grew up in. &#x200B; The man, barely into puberty at the time of their meeting, had fumbled out a greeting to the young woman. "Um, hi. The, uh, moon is really big tonight, right?", he had muttered, picking at one of the separation points in the wooden planks with his foot while his hands threatened to burrow straight through his pockets. She chuckled lightly, a flash of metallic imbued teeth showing her own greeting. "Indeed, I came to see the meteor shower, they're hard to see at my house. Want to join me?", she inquired of the nervous young man. He muttered a nearly non-committal approval of the idea and stood beside her. They stood and watched the rain of light parade across the stars. &#x200B; "I think it's starting!", the present day woman burbled as a few more meteors screamed across the spacial viewing screen they had both become well acquainted with. She still had fond memories of him pointing out Ursa Major and Orion's Belt for the first time, stricken at the amount of passion for astronomy he expressed when the mood changed from his own anxious mood to that of a confident young man. She felt his face that was muffled by the hair on the back of her hair smile warmly. Nothing but the stars and the bond they shared existed for a time as far as they were concerned. &#x200B; They sat there and watched the kaleidoscope of galloping light flood the night sky till the sun showed the first signs of breaking. Another successful and happy year, enjoying the night sky they had nearly memorized by this point. They got up, brushing off the light amount of sand they had managed to accumulate from a night of sitting so near the coast. The couple then proceeded to journey back to their shared home, the coolness of their twin rings giving way to the warmth of their entwined hands.

#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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.** &amp;nbsp; *** #This week’s challenge: - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint:** Do not use the word “darkness” or any major . This week’s challenge is to use the above theme and/or image as inspiration for your story. The theme should be present within the story, but its interpretation is entirely up to you, as long as you **follow all post and subreddit rules.** The bonus constraint is not required, but it is worth 10 points. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. &amp;nbsp; *** #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. &amp;nbsp; *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host 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! &amp;nbsp; *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 detailed, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* &amp;nbsp; *** #Rankings *Please be aware that we have a new point system. See “How Rankings are Tallied” for more specifics!* - **First:** - Submitted by u/FyeNite - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Third:** - Submitted by u/AliciaWrites *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Check out the brand new over on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

The inhabitants of the small Norfolk seaside town of Breezehaven wouldn’t have been human if they weren’t occasionally jealous of their near neighbours in Hunstanton. Oh, there were no barriers or riots, or anything remotely like that, and it was by no means unknown for there to be what were called (only in jest, of course , people hurriedly added) mixed marriages. The good folk of Breezehaven even sometimes expressed a certain pity for their counterparts in Hunstanton. “We can live perfectly well without being the answer to a pub quiz question,” was a remark you sometimes heard. The relevant question was worded in different ways, but all amounted to the same thing, that Hunstanton was on the East Coast and faced West. You see, it was on that arm of the North Sea known as The Wash, which pub quiz devotees may also recognise as the place where King John’s crown jewels were reputedly lost, and the weird quirks of geography meant that journeys from Norfolk to Lincolnshire took twice as long as they would otherwise. One thing in which the inhabitants of both towns were united were in thinking a bridge would be a great idea, but it would never be built. The oddity of geography also meant that sunrises and sunsets in Hunstanton were particularly spectacular, and it was nicknamed Sunny Hunny . Some claimed that the town’s name itself came from “Honeyed Stones”, but the general consensus was that it was more prosaic and merely relating to its geographical position on a river, with the suffix “ton” for “town”. Mary Shaw ran the Violet Villa guest house in Breezehaven. The name sounded poetic, but as she proudly said, unlike some others (naming no names, but thinking about Castle Hill and Cliff View) it was entirely accurate. The guest house was, indeed, a 1930s villa, and Mary was justifiably proud of her collection of African Violets. But she didn’t go over the top and have the walls painted bright purple of anything like that. Mary was, for the most part, happy enough with her life. She had a business that might not exactly be the proverbial little goldmine, but “washed its face” (how easy it was to fall into using expressions you didn’t like!) and she enjoyed being a proprietor of a guest house, though she determinedly avoided either calling herself a landlady or falling into the stereotype of one. It was a shame her marriage hadn’t worked out, but she and Toby were still on reasonable terms, and everyone agreed their children were a credit to them both. Alice was doing a nursing degree and wanted to specialise in paediatric nursing, and Joe was in the sixth form at school and wanted to be an engineer. She liked to think that at some point in the future she might have grandchildren, but it certainly wasn’t one of her absolute priorities. Although Mary ran the guest house effectively and efficiently, she had a poetic and thoughtful side, and often, particularly after a rather stressful day (every hotel owner dreads a plumbing emergency, but at least she could rely on Ron to come quickly and fix it properly) she liked to take a mug of coffee, or sometimes a glass of wine, out into the garden, and take a few deep breaths, and enjoy the sunset. She was expecting a particularly beautiful one that night. It had been the right kind of day; a day of sunshine and showers, the kind of day that led to shafts and shades at twilight. It was a cool evening, but with the kind of gentle coolness that held the warmth of the afternoon and the promise of the warmth of the next day. It took Mary a few seconds to realise what was both glaringly obvious and absolutely impossible. The sun was setting in the east. And the sun just did not set in the East. Weather forecasters both could and did get things wrong, but other things were set in stone, and had been since - well, she wasn’t sure about the Big Bang (though she was always rather taken with the idea that you could hear its echoes in the static on your radio) but for billions of years, and would be so for further billions of years. Which was fine in theory. But Mary knew her eyes weren’t deceiving her, and she hadn’t even had a glass of wine, settling for coffee that evening. She was the kind of person who could be zany enough to have faith in her own sanity, even after a difficult day. And the sun was most definitely setting in the East. Mary decided to look on the Internet. And already reports were coming in. The Impossible Happens in Small English Coastal Town was one of the more level-headed of them. Some took it as a harbinger of doom, and though there were some that regarded an odd shaped cloud as a harbinger of doom, there was no denying this was bizarre, and whilst not sharing the apocalyptic warnings, she could understand why people felt that way. But she had seen it, and had not been afraid, baffled, yes, but not afraid. It soon became evident that only Breezehaven was affected by this strange and inexplicable turn of events. It extended to the little estate on the outskirts, but no further. It did not impact on the whole country, nor even the whole county. It did not - and the good folk of Breezehaven couldn’t help feeling a certain smug satisfaction at this - even affect Hunstanton. “So let them go on about their little claim to fame,” Mary’s friend Frances at the pharmacy said, “I reckon we double trump it!” It was not some one-off. The sun in Breezehaven carried on rising in the West and setting in the East. It became the subject of some of the hottest scientific discussion since the splitting of the atom. And nobody could work out exactly why it was happening, as explanation after explanation was offered, even those who offered it plainly just as puzzled as everyone else. Some tried to make out it was like those streams that seem to flow uphill, or those moons that look suddenly enormous, just a trick of the light or the atmosphere or perspective deceiving your eyes. But probably nobody really believed that. It was generally agreed that it was utterly harmless. Which was a relief. Of course, it wasn’t only the scientific community that was highly taken with what they called the Breezehaven Solar Aberration as it was officially known. Some people, especially those whose living didn’t depend on the tourist industry, remarked that although it was true Breezehaven Solar Aberration sounded like some unpleasant illness, the marketing of Breezehaven as The Town that Defies the Laws of the Universe was somewhat vulgar. The trouble was, it was also true. And also, when it came to the marketing, probably unnecessary. Breezehaven had gone viral. Guests swarmed in as they never had before. There simply weren’t enough rooms to accommodate all their visitors. With laudable magnanimity, they did, if needs must, direct people to Hunstanton, after all, they could afford to be generous. A new holiday village on the outer edges of the town (but still within the range of the Solar Aberration) was built and opened more quickly than a field hospital. Up until now Breezehaven had relied mainly on trade in “the season” (an early Easter was a boon) but now they had become an all year round resort. People wanted to see autumn sunrises and sunsets there, and when it came to the Winter Solstice - well, Stonehenge suddenly found itself playing second fiddle. The kind of people who normally only appear on screen if a solar eclipse were imminent dutifully warned about the dangers of looking directly at the sun, and of course there were right, but to the best of anyone’s knowledge, the Solar Aberration (or defying the laws of the Universe) did not, thankfully, lead to one case of eye damage. The good times were rolling, everyone agreed. There was even renewed talk about the bridge project, and this time it didn’t seem so fanciful. It was all like a miracle. Mary, like so many others, saw her bank account swelling in a most pleasing manner and reflected that perhaps she might be able to make that trip to Australia to see her brother Kieran after all. The trouble was, when? There was no such thing as an off-season now, and she had even opened a little annexe in what had once been her conservatory. Although she had been one of the first (she liked to think the first but there were other pretenders to that title) to see the phenomenon, she now hardly ever got to see it at all. When the sun was rising or setting she was either catching a few hour’s sleep or had to be busy. But she did know that at times it was impossible to catch a proper glance of the sunrise or sunset anyway as the beaches were often packed like chicken batteries with people jostling for position. It was mainly good-natured, but not always, and though actual arrests were rare, there was some bad feeling. In the few hours when the beach was relatively quiet, an army of local council workers strove to clear the rubbish that had been dropped. “I never thought I’d say this, but it has its downside,” Frances said, “I mean, I know it’s great for you Mary!” “It’s certainly set me up,” she agreed. Or was that agreeing? She hadn’t said it was great because she, too, was beginning to have her doubts. Even as she spoke, she felt an elbow from one of the holidaymakers in the queue, standing behind her, who said, “Sorry,” but in that kind of tone that implies that it wasn’t an accident, and she wasn’t sorry at all. Mary felt a sudden absurd nostalgia for the bad old days of social distancing, though of course nobody in their right mind would want the reason why. As time wore on, she realised that many of the visitors were no more seeing the sunrise and sunset than she was. After all, you could see them in profusion on the internet, and they were always the best and most spectacular ones (because the aberration was, in itself, no guarantee of a sunrise or sunset being spectacular). The important thing was to have been to Breezehaven, to have those bragging rights that rankled with your friends and family until they had been there too. As many selfies were taken by the sign welcoming people to the town as were on the beach. There was a market for little pseudo-passports, all, of course, carrying a warning that they served no official purpose. And they were amongst the least tacky souvenirs that were stacked high in all the shops in Breezehaven. It was November, which would normally have been one of the quietest times in Breezehaven, with most of the guest houses, Violet Villa included, not open at all. They were open now, as were the holiday villages (for one had now been built on the other side of town, too) and Mary had been struck by the awful thought that she might possibly have double-booked one of the rooms for the Solstice Break which everyone expected to be even more of an event than the first one had, the previous year. Or at least, for more people to flood into the town, for more jostling, for more dropped rubbish, for more short tempers and more buying of useless souvenirs. Sometimes she was hard pushed to keep track what time of day it was. But she did know, if only because of the news programme she had just managed to catch, that it was late afternoon and the sun would soon be setting. She knew the double booking issue wasn’t going to go away, and she would have to do something about it, but she desperately needed a few breaths of the clear, cold air of late autumn, needed to feel it on her face and she even half-hoped it was raining. At first she just thought it was one of the less spectacular sunsets, and she wasn’t even that bothered. It dawned on her far more gradually this time. The sunset, it was true, wasn’t that bright and brilliant and evocative, but was quite undeniably in the West. Once more, Breezehaven was in the headlines. Cancellation of bookings began as a trickle, then turned into a flow, though there were those who were as keen to see the ending of something as they had been to see its beginning and its afternoon. But the return of things as they should be has neither, at heart, the longevity nor the newsworthiness of things beginning to be how they not only shouldn’t be, but couldn’t be. And yet, undeniably, were. It was a shame. Of course it was. And yet, thought Mary, standing on a near-deserted beach one cold and quiet Sunday morning, in another way it wasn’t a shame at all. Perhaps it had stopped just in time! AUTHOR’S NOTE As some readers may know, the Norfolk town of Hunstanton does, indeed, exist, and it is on the East coast facing West for exactly the reasons given in this story. I know and love the place and offer it my apologies for enlisting it as a “supporting actor”. However, Breezehaven, even with sunrises and sunsets as they ought to be, is entirely a product of my imagination and this is most definitely a work of fiction!

Trigger Warning: Substance Abuse, Death - I watch in utter helplessness as my father takes another swig from his handle of vodka. He no longer pours himself glasses of this ruthless poison as he once used to; instead, he has graduated to simply drinking straight from the bottle. Though he bought the handle only a mere few hours ago, half of it has already been emptied into his stomach for his failing liver to process. I glance concernedly at his abdomen, which has become distended - the hospital diagnosed him with ascites and an inflamed liver when I brought him to the emergency room a couple of nights ago. The nurses had pulled me aside and advised me to begin gathering my support system, for they did not believe that he had much longer to live due to his severe addiction to alcohol. I have never quite understood his obsession with alcohol. He began drinking at the young age of 14; his parents - my grandparents - never batted an eye, even as his drinking grew more and more frequent. He still functioned well, so I suppose that they did not see an issue with him indulging himself and his love for alcohol. Perhaps what they failed to understand is that he was already an alcoholic - even then, at 14 years old - despite his ability to function; to put simply, he was a functioning alcoholic, but still an alcoholic, nonetheless. Had they sought the proper treatment for him at that age, maybe life would be different today. Maybe he would be a healthy 56-year-old man with decades of wonderful life splayed before him. Maybe our relationship would be different . . . maybe it would be healthier. Maybe all the trauma that I have endured at the hands of this nasty addiction would not exist, and I would be more whole and more grounded. These are things that we will never know because his parents ignored his alcoholism, and time travel (in an effort to warn them of what was to come) is a thing of science fiction. He is now essentially on his deathbed. He has not eaten in quite a number of days due to the pressure of the fluid accumulating in his abdomen from the ascites and his dying liver - it makes him feel full after one bite of food, so he refuses to eat altogether. Drinking, however? Of course , he can still drink! Never mind eating and thus never mind the fact that he is also starving himself to death; as long as he can still drink his vodka - that absolutely disgusting poison - he is “okay.” Needless to say, he is not “okay” in the slightest sense of the word. As his abdomen continues to expand, his arms and legs grow skinnier. He is effectively anorexic, and his liver is failing; with a heavy and broken heart, I realize that it will not take much longer for death to follow. Behind closed doors, when he is restlessly sleeping, I often grieve. I grieve for the man who is still alive, but who is killing himself before me because he is completely powerless against his addiction. I grieve for the father he never was, but could have been, had he never taken that first sip. I grieve for all that he has put me through; I grieve for the past, for the present, for the future - for all that ever was, and for all that never will be. Addiction is a relentless and powerful disease. It does not just affect the person who struggles with the addiction; it affects all those around him as well. It has shattered me into pieces that I am still struggling to fit back together at the age of 25. Though I am an adult, I still feel as though I am a wounded child who wishes desperately for her father to snap out of his alcoholism and see that he is so deeply loved. Like a child, I find myself wishing that I was enough of a reason - as his daughter - to put the damned drink down and actually live , but as an adult, I know that is simply not how addiction works. Once addiction sinks its unforgiving claws into a person, it is incredibly reluctant to release that hold . . . if it ever does. It never did release my father. Dad clumsily sets the handle down on the table with a thud . His eyes, glazed with intoxication and yellowed from jaundice, turn to me, and his thin lips crack into a drunk grin. As horrible as he looks, he does appear to be happy under the blanket of alcohol intoxication. I feel rage rising within me; how dare he have the audacity to smile at me after all that he has put me through and is continuing to put me through? And then that fury is immediately replaced with guilt; he is ill from a disease against which is utterly powerless, so how could I be angry with him? I should be infuriated with his addiction, not my father. And I should be infuriated with his parents for not having gotten him the help he so clearly needed as a young teenager. Again, I feel the rage return, causing my body to burn and tremble - they could have prevented this, could they not? But instead of speaking stinging words of fury, I simply return the smile. It is forced, but I figure a forced smile is better than no smile, for to discuss such thoughts with him is futile. I have learned in my years of watching him spiral into the darkest depths of alcoholism that speaking to him about serious matters regarding his drinking behavior is akin to speaking to a brick wall. The conversation typically goes nowhere because he either ignores me or becomes so defensive that it is absolutely pointless to continue the conversation. So, instead, I return the smile. “What is it, Dad?” I inquire gently, choking back the rage that is rising within my throat. “You look beautiful,” he slurs in response. “Almost as beautiful as that fairy over there.” He points past my shoulder to the far right corner of the room. Wondering what in the hell he is talking about, I offer a swift glance over my shoulder at the empty corner. There is nothing there - not even a shadow. How odd , I think to myself. Dad usually doesn’t hallucinate when he drinks. My gaze returns to my father whose eyes are now focused on the corner as though he sees a creature of unadulterated beauty standing within it. I wonder if the hallucination is perhaps a symptom of his failing liver - I will have to research that later to be certain. “Is the fairy still there?” I ask curiously. “Yes,” he croaks. “And my God, is she beautiful.” If there is one thing that I learned from my mother who worked as a psychiatric nurse, it is that delusions should not be broken by those who are not trained in mental health. Therefore, instead of arguing with him and telling him that the corner is in fact empty and he is quite simply out of his mind, I again peak over my shoulder at the corner in which there stands nothing. I then look back at my father and offer another smile. “Yes, she is beautiful,” I agree kindly. “But it is time for you to go to bed. You have another appointment in the morning.” Another useless appointment, I should’ve said, but didn’t, for what good would that have done? But that is indeed the truth; it is just a consultation with a gastroenterologist to determine what our next steps should be in my father’s journey with his alcoholism, though I know that my father will not listen. He heaves a childlike sigh and retrieves his huge bottle of vodka from where it rests on the table. I grimace as he swallows, swallows, swallows . . . I suppose he wants to drink as much as he can before he goes to sleep. Finally, after many gulps, he slams the vodka down on the table and screws the cap back onto the top of the handle. “Alright,” he slurs again. “I’ll good to bed. I’m tired, anyway. But don’t let that fairy leave. I like her.” “I won’t let her leave,” I assure him. “Now, go on to bed.” On wobbly arms, he lifts himself from his seat to stand on equally wobbly legs. He raises his arms above his head and briefly stretches, exposing his abdomen that looks more similar to a pregnancy bump than to a beer belly. Then he staggers into his room, mindful of keeping the door open in case I need to check on him, and collapses upon the bed. Before he can even cover himself with his blanket, he is blissfully unconscious. Having sent him to bed, I walk on weak legs to my own room, and weep. I weep for my father who has fallen victim to this disease of addiction - specifically, alcoholism - and I weep for myself. Loving an alcoholic is beyond difficult . . . beyond heartbreaking, even. It is so hard to watch someone you love so deeply kill himself through means of his addiction. It simply is not fair. I know that life is not fair, but why, of all people, did it have to be my father who would have to be so ill and powerless in the face of his addiction? Why did he ever have to be addicted in the first place? And why was I never enough? From his room, I hear odd, exasperated breathing. I am swift to wipe away the tears as I run to his room, only to find him on the floor clutching at his chest and struggling to gasp for breath. His breathing is erratic and noisy; each breath is accompanied with a strange grunt, and there are long pauses from one breath to the next. I rush to his side and immediately collapse upon the floor next to him. With strength I did not know I possessed, I heave his upper body into my lap so that he is leaning up against me, hoping desperately that the change in position will allow him an opportunity to breathe with more ease. My hopes are dashed as the odd and terrifying breaths continue. Helpless and wildly unsure as to what is happening, I work my hand into my pocket and retrieve my phone. I dial 911 and immediately begin explaining to the operator about my father’s intense struggles with breathing. As she begins to tell me what to do to help him, his body suddenly becomes limp within my arms. The grunting stops, the pause stretches and stretches until I am suddenly certain that he is no longer breathing. Horrified and desperate to save Dad’s life, I drop the phone, rest my father’s body upon the floor, and immediately begin administering CPR. “Come on, daddy,” I plead through tears. “Please don’t leave me! Not yet!” In the faint distance, familiar sirens sound. An ambulance is coming. But looking at my father, who still lies limply upon the floor, I realize that any help he is to receive from the paramedics will come too late, for he is not responding to the CPR. I pause to check for a pulse in his neck - and utter a long shriek of unadulterated agony when I find none. I lost him. I lost my father. I lost Dad. When the paramedics arrive, they try to revive him. They attempt to restart his heart with the paddles, but to no avail. Dad is gone. His addiction finally robbed him of his life at the young age of 56. Not in my right mind, I walk into the kitchen where we were just sitting moments ago. I take the handle of vodka and throw it onto the ground; glass shatters everywhere and the liquid splatters onto both the floor and my legs. I am furious that this monster took my father’s life. I am hurt beyond belief. I am heartbroken and shattered all over again. What would life have been like if he had not taken that first sip at 14 years old? What would life have been like if his parents had intervened and gotten him the support he so desperately required? Maybe . . . maybe I would still have a father, my Dad.

The window matches the rest of the house. Grimy, covered in years of dirt and memories that no amount of cleaning can make a dent in. I should know. I’ve tried. But soap can’t erase memories, not even from a window like this. The hammer feels familiar in my hand. I hate the familiarity, actually--just another reminder of the life I’m trying to forget. But today is demolition day. Demolition of this house, in preparation for a new restaurant, and demolition of my old life in preparation for the new. A clean slate. That’s a good thing, right? I don’t know how to answer the question. The answer seems obvious, considering I’ve spent the last...how many years, now? Seventeen, I think. Seventeen years trying to forget the past. But the past has gotten me here, hasn’t it? Maybe it’s not something I should try and forget. *** Wren was only 16 when she took off. Far away from her father, from the family that all-too-clearly didn’t want her. From the pain, and heartbreak, and loneliness of living in her own little bubble, locked in her room, left alone to her own devices. She wouldn’t feel that again. Not now, on the dusty streets of her city that bordered the Sahara. Wren would have to find a way to make a living, hopefully save up for a house or something. Finding a job would be easy--she could do anything from bartending to fast food. It was in the in-between, the time from when she started to when she raised enough for a place to stay, that the problem rested. Wren could sleep on the streets with just the pack on her back, for all she cared. As long as she was out of that house. And sleep on the streets she did. The first order of business, she decided in the morning, was to find a job. Technically, she’d decided that the day before, but she figured it would be better to ask around when the alleyways weren’t shrouded in darkness, hiding criminals ready to ambush any unsuspecting visitor. However, considering the sand and dust currently coating every inch of her, Wren began to question her decision. She would never get a job in a nice place, not looking like this. She was a mess. With nothing else to do, though, Wren shouldered her pack and trudged through the streets in search of someone to question about a job. The streets were desolate. Considering the midsummer heat beating down on her shoulders and the sweat trickling down her back, Wren couldn’t blame people for staying inside, but still. She needed a job, or at least some air conditioning. When the heat got to be too much, Wren ducked inside the nearest building. A tavern. Probably too busy for comfort, but there wasn’t another option for an escape from the sun. Besides, she wouldn’t be staying long. Ironically, that tavern was where Wren spent most of the next couple years, when she wasn’t on the run. People paid well for small favors, and the occasional vengeance mission got Wren even more. She was a natural bounty-hunter. More of a criminal-for-hire, actually, because she took any jobs she could, but it paid enough for her to get a dingy room in the tavern’s basement. Wren never gave her name to the owner, and he never gave his name in return, but as long as she stayed out of the way of his underground dealings, he tolerated her. Eventually, a tiny house across the paved road caught Wren’s eye. It was pristine, even glowed sometimes in her eyes, and it was the perfect size for her to live alone. There was only one problem, one that Wren discovered one night while scouting out the place through the window. That house was already owned, by a wealthy-looking businessman, no less. And, after a short conversation with him, Wren learned that the house was most definitely not for sale. *** I can’t bring myself to raise the hammer, or tear my gaze away from the window. The same window I used to look through, watching a certain wealthy businessman pace. The only difference is that now, instead of being out on the dusty streets, I live here. But I never bought the house, not really. Identity fraud can do wonders for an 18-year-old. Identity fraud and other things. My grip tightens on the hammer. *** Wren flew under the radar, doing favors, gaining a reputation in the tavern, until her eighteenth birthday. She couldn’t stay in the tavern forever, and that stupid businessman wouldn’t sell her the house anytime soon. She had to get that house. And she knew exactly how she was going to do it. Wren had watched the mini black market under the tavern thrive and grow for the past year, and she decided it was about time she got involved. The plan formed slowly, and the technical details that could get her arrested were too many to count, but one-by-one, Wren worked out the solutions. The plan was a twisted mash-up of identity fraud, breaking and entering, and another crime that Wren was reluctant to acknowledge, but she would go through with it. It was only one time, and if she didn’t get caught, she could live a normal life from the moment she got the house and on. Her entire plan hinged on this one moment, and despite her fears and the moral dilemma it presented, she knew she would go through with it. She had to. She convinced herself of that on the short walk through the pitch-black desert night to the house in question, with her rusty hammer in hand. It felt foreign, especially considering the two things she was about to use it for, but she clenched her fingers and pulled up outside the window. It was still pristine. Still spotless. It would be gone in a few short moments, but Wren could always replace it. Wren swung the hammer. The glass shattered. There was still the hard part of her plan to get over with, but this was the beginning of a new life for her. The wall, or window, rather, holding her back was gone now. Crushed to pieces underfoot. Wren climbed into the house. Just this once . It went against everything she believed, but she only had to do it just this once. Get rid of the man, then the house would be hers. *** I take a deep breath and raise my hammer, wanting to close my eyes but unable to stop looking at that cursed window. It will be gone in a few short moments, but the new owners of this house can always replace it. I swing the hammer. The glass shatters. A new beginning for me. I can finally forget the old life, forget how I got this house, be a legitimate person from now on. That’s what I told myself last time. Just this once. But this time, as I crush the slivers of glass under my soles, I mean it.

“This time next year, I won’t be here for the holidays!” I shouted as I slammed the heavy, wooden, front door of my sister, Alyssa’s, house behind me on that bitterly cold New Years Eve. The shift had begun. Growing up as the youngest of four, I always looked up to my siblings. Renee was my comfort, and she often referred to me as her ‘mini’. Dylan was my entertainer, spending countless hours playing video games, or watching Kung Fu movies, together. Alyssa was my mentor, always trying to be as cool as her while we imitated the gymnasts in the Olympics, and playing our instruments/music that drove our father crazy. My mom kicked my Abusive, Mentally-ill father out of the house when I was ten years old. She was already a workaholic, but now she took on the role as a single mother. I was a latch-key kid. As we grew older, I formed my own opinions about things, and harsh judgments for choices they made, to which I did not agree. I was coming into adulthood in my mid-twenties, and had moved back in with my mother at the age of twenty-five. My mom and I were not always close, but during my college years we made a bond that was more comparable to a friendship than a traditional mother-daughter relationship. Just a week before this family gathering to ring in the New Year, my mom and I had been returning from a trip we took together from Hawaii to visit her cousin. The tension between Alyssa and I came to a head when I made a comment about something my nephew, Nathan, said or did. My sister told me that I sounded like our father, which could only be meant as the worst possible insult. My blood began to boil, and deciding I would rather leave than argue in front of Nathan, I yelled those words of contempt while exiting to go cool off, literally and figuratively. My mom tried to console me, saying that Alyssa did not mean it, and that we really shouldn’t drink so much. Soon after, I was heartbroken to learn that Renee had decided to divorce my brother-in-law, John, and was already on the rebound. That drove a wedge of disapproval between us. I helped her move out of their house, and struggled to understand why they couldn’t work it out. Dylan and his wife, Amber, lived on the East Coast and we did not talk very often. Alyssa and her fiance moved forward with their wedding plans, even with the rockiest of beginnings as an unfaithful couple. I moved to Europe. I thought that moving to the other side of the world would help me keep my sanity. I felt like my contributions to help Alyssa with Nathan were going unnoticed, and I was tired from making an effort without any recognition or appreciation. I kept telling myself that my family dynamic was better off with me loving them from a distance. That first Holiday Season without them was busy as I traveled to Rome, and I hardly noticed the lack of a loving presence to which I was accustomed. I was caught up in the thrills of visiting a new place, and being welcomed into the traditions of my new friends with their families. The second year away was also a blur, as I had just moved to a new city, and was busy with my new boyfriend. I recall making Christmas dinner with him, just the two of us, and trying to make our own traditions. The third year, it sunk in. I really missed my family. Strange as it may seem, that was the time I actually made the effort to come home for the Holidays. My brother, Dylan, was in the Navy and was leaving for another Tour in January. We wanted to make sure we were all together to show support before his next journey. Anyone who has a loved one in the Military can understand this sentiment. I didn’t care that I had a twelve hour layover in Amsterdam before flying back to the USA. I needed to be a part of that reunion and made the necessary effort. Even though I was only home for five days, I tried my best to put our childhood wounds and past traumas behind us. For all the ups and downs we had witnessed through our lives together, realising I was taking them for granted struck me to my core. I moved back to the USA within a year, and thought that things would be better now that I had grown up. That first Thanksgiving after my return I had to work. I made the trip to see them for Christmas, but my reverse culture shock made me feel out of place. My oldest sister, Renee, talked about herself the whole time, updating us on her new condo and the puppy she had just bought. I asked my mom if she noticed how little they asked about my life. The following year, Alyssa and I got into a fight because she didn’t seem to mind that she hurt my feelings with a snide remark about one of my ex-boyfriends. Because I had found my voice and told her she was being a hypocrite, she blew up and started screaming at me, with Nathan as a witness in the back seat of the car. I questioned why I made an attempt to create peace between us, but all I could say was that we were back where we had been years before on that New Years Eve. I expressed my frustration in a calm tone to balance the shouting, but she said that only made her more upset! I couldn’t win with her. I then said “We have to unlearn these old patterns and build a new way of communicating.” What changed? How was I able to find the right words in a moment of rage? Maybe I should have paid my Therapist more. At the end of the day, no matter how many disagreements existed between all of us for whatever reasons, this fact remained: We are a loving family. The family tension exists purely because we care so much about each other.

Victor VanLorn’s Lunar Circus was known for taking its customers away. Natalie didn’t think it would be quite so literal. The circus was a collection of blue and grey tents with strings of lights that looked like mason jars filled with fireflies. Natalie had been so enamored with it all: the joyous cries of laughing children, the smell of funnel cake and popcorn, and the sparkling wonder of the circus that made Natalie wander around so bravely. She’d drifted through the carnival games, followed behind a trio of performing acrobats, and looked deep into the eyes of a caged tigress. The only problem was that she’d lost her way back to her parents and when the darker it got, the less Natalie wanted to stay. Trying to find her way, Natalie walked through the circus. The tents here weren’t the glorious big top or the charming carnival games. Behind the scenes, a circus started to lose its whimsy. The roars of sleepy lions started to sound like they were hugging her in the dark and the people talking seemed sinister and feral. Biting back the urge to cry, Natalie tried retracing her footsteps until she stumbled across a group of performers sitting around a fire. “Eighty-six,” a young woman frowned, flipping through a stack of bills, “eighty-seven, eighty-eight...damn it. Coming up short, again.” “Victor isn’t willing to front you anymore?” Another woman asked. “I’m still trying to pay off my last advance,” the young woman sighed. She was wearing a gold leotard that sparkled against the firelight. Her black hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail adorned with golden pins. On her back were a pair of fairy wings with more firelight sparkles that Natalie couldn’t help but stare at. The other woman had blonde hair and was dressed in an outfit that looked like a bluebird warming itself by an open flame. A bald man with a pair of black pants and a fourth person wearing a dark blue mask with spiky black hair were sitting around the fire as well, the bluebird woman’s head in the bald man’s lap as they lounged. “Downside of circus life,” the bald man grumbled, running his fingers down the bluebird woman’s arm, “no overtime pay.” “I don’t see why you pay rent anywhere,” the blue masked person shrugged, folding their arms behind their head. “It’s a storage unit. I want to have somewhere to go after I finish my time here and it’d be easier if I was starting with more than what I have in my car.” “What about temp work?” Bluebird asked. “John made some extra money when we were stuck in Atlanta for a week between shows.” “Worst five days of my life,” the bald man sighed. “‘Corporate doesn’t care for clowns!’ as the owner always told me. Not that I was any worse than of the other goons in the data entry crew. The three I was with were always high off their--“ “Shh!” The golden woman perked up and looked across the fire. “What’s she doing here?” Everyone around the fire looked, surprised to see Natalie, but their surprise was quickly covered over by careful ease. The Bluebird perked up and hopped over the fire, crouching in front of Natalie with an eager smile. “Hello, little girl...what are you doing back here?” “I--“ Natalie stammered, her voice breaking a little. “I can’t find my mom and dad...” “Poor girl’s freezing,” the Blue Mask said. “Come sit by the fire for a minute. You’re shivering so much I can see from here.” Natalie hesitated, but the warm smile of the Bluebird and the Golden Woman enticed her to sit. Bluebird made a show of clearing off a stool for Natalie, wiping it clean with a handkerchief. Bald John hoisted her up and plopped her onto the stool. “There we are,” John beamed, “best seat in the house! A warm fire and good company are the keys to a good mood! What’s your name, miss?” “Natalie. I live in town.” “Well, Natalie who lives in Town,” Blue Mask smiled, “my friends call me Rain! This is John and his lovely wife, Hannah. And our lady in gold, Amy. We’re all quite pleased to meet!” “Are you all in the circus?” “Acrobats,” Hannah said. “Except for John, but he’s alright for a clown.” “They’re all well enough,” Amy said. “Did you come with your parents, Natalie?” Natalie nodded and regarded the stack of bills in Amy’s grasp. “I have two dollars...” “Oh?” Amy asked a little confused. “You can have it,” Natalie said, stretching out her hand with the crumpled bills in it. “Oh, I couldn’t take it from you,” Amy smiled. “It’s sweet of you to offer, but...” “My mom said I could spend my circus money how I want,” Natalie said. “I don’t mind.” Amy sighed deeply and looked to her other compatriots. When no one else objected, Amy took the two bills from her grasp. “Well, I’d hate to take something for nothing. Two dollars strikes me as enough for a small parade.” “Natalie the Generous!” John said, hoisting Natalie onto his shoulders. “The Charitable...the Kind!” “We’ll sing her praises through the Lunar Lane!” Rain cheered, hopping up and running in circles around John. Natalie giggled as the acrobats rushed through the circus, cheering for her and jumping into throngs of people. People applauded as she walked by and John encouraged her to wave at people as they passed by. Before long nearly, the entire circus was following Natalie and her crew as they marched through the impromptu streets. “Natalie!” Natalie’s mother came rushing through the crowd and reached up for her. Amy lifted her from the bald man’s shoulders and passed her off to her mother with a smile. The golden acrobat knelt down and smiled. "A good deed can be its own reward, but you helped me more than you may ever know." Amy stood again a little prouder and raised her hands to the crowd. “To Lady Natalie the Charitable!” Amy cheered. "Friend to the circus and all the circus folk!" The crowd roared with applause as Natalie’s mother carried her out of the circus and the acrobats cheered. Natalie looked back to see Amy holding up the two dollars with a broad grin.

“You can do this...” Kleo self-encourages as he stares at the blank word document practically wasting time waiting for one of his three papers to write itself. His schedule for the next 24 hours includes three papers: one due at midnight, the next due in the morning, and the last due tomorrow evening. The paper due for midnight he’s already completed, but only needs to comb through and refine; the one for tomorrow morning he’d already made it halfway through the page limit; and this one he can only pray that he musters the willpower to start. “You can do this..” After procrastinating and telling himself that he could finish all 3 three days before their respective deadlines, he finds himself struggling and suffering the ramifications of his arrogance. Kleo, a semi-humble aspiring fiction writer, is experiencing the bane of many writers’ existences-- inspirational block. Up until this point he jumped between the other two papers until he was slapped with the inspiration for his third. The First and most important paper, due at midnight, is a 12 page research paper on the magical influences on the Italian Renaissance. Every student’s sweet dream and succulent nightmare. The second, an 8 page Essay on a philosophical debate on some discourse he could barely comprehend in class, and doesn’t care to recap now. Finally, the third paper is a work of fiction, a 6 page paper completely within in his control, subject to his imagination. However, he has no clue how to handle it. “Come on... come on brain, just one more. You can do it!! Don’t fail me now!” His hands claw at his face, dragging his weary eyelids past their normal stretch-limit. “I’ll just start typing and see where that takes me, see how you like that.” His hands take their battle stance above the keyboard without a clear purpose, his muscles tense as he tries to regurgitate random sentences, but his hands stall and fail to make a move. The paralysis spreads from his hands to his arms, then from his arms to his eyes and finally to his brain. His vision blurs and his mind seemingly shuts down, not a single flare of electricity fires from the creative neutrons of his brain as he dissociates from reality. He hears his thoughts more clearly, they’re screaming, but not all of the screaming is his, strangely enough. An array of voices, the sound of an emergency siren, and other soft, yet excruciatingly loud noises rampage about his head. The sounds strangely bring Kleo back to consciousness slowly as opposed to intensely shocking him back to lucidity. “I’ve Got it!” He shouts, his hands, now knowing what they should, start typing. “I’ve got it!! That’s actually an interesting theme! I’m gonna have fun with this..” Kleo begins to write and carry out the newfound contents of his heart. His hands, dancing spicily over the phonetic dance floor, orchestrate the story of a man madly in love and overcome with the emotions he feels for his partner, a fellow Brooklyn paramedic. The emotions drive him mad and tear up the wining bits of his heart again and again until he’s just a bruised man still returning to a crush that may never see him the way he wants. A forbidden love, perhaps not to the standards of Shakespeare’s compositions, but socially forbidden none the less. The words beat in his chest as he pulls pieces of his own experience, making the work feel more alive, more birthed than mixed together in a tube. “Write what you know. Turn your troubles to words, and express what you could never show.” Kleo Quotes his 9 th grade English teacher, “It’s fiction after all, at least that’s all everyone else needs to believe.” The truth behind the story, behind the thickness of the plot, remains a part of Kleo’s early life that he’d happily locked away. Although, he was never a paramedic and the other guy wasn’t at all lost, he only needed to embellish and shift the story to suit the forbidden love requirements for the paper. In reality, forbidden isn’t a word, Kleo cares to even acknowledge. Except, when he wants to laugh at the futility of it being compared on aspects of his life. The word is merely a challenge gladly accepted. Somehow he manages already to reach 4 pages effortlessly. He, himself, doesn’t quite understand how he manages to achieve this but he doesn’t question it immediately. He allows his brain to pour the flesh onto the bones of the story and his heart to draw the stringy sinews together. It’s magical. It’s a miracle!!! He thinks, Calliope is surely on my side on this one!! Maybe if I’d invoked this particular muse days ago I would have already finished, but better late than not at all!! He finishes the work of fiction, and pleased with his concluded work, he looks it over. However, his veins are still overflowing with ambient inspiration. It is still too soon to call it quits and wrap it up. He presses the save button for this document and while it slowly goes through the saving process he works on the one he’s nearly finished. Suddenly the discourse seems interesting. He still isn’t fully capable of comprehending it but he manages to take what he has written and turns flips it around in the second half, making an explication of this nightmare. He works in questions of his own to add a personal flavour and attempts to see them into the natural flow of the paper. Even if the paper isn’t the best it could be, it becomes the best that it could be under the circumstances. This is why procrastination still prevails, his mind hums, It never ceases to amaze me, and it definitely doesn’t let me down when I need it. After finishing and beginning the save process on that paper he moves to the editing process of the bigger paper, the one he’s already completed. He feels as though it would be alright to just send it in without over looking it, but as he glances at it he immediately notices at least five sickening typos and he feels the intense urge to comb through the rest. Luckily he has just enough energy and divine inspiration to complete this task. As he combs through the last paper, he refines it making it infinitely better than whatever it was before. “The number of typos was..... astonishing...” he teases himself, “It wasn’t the worst paper I’ve ever read.” Oh, really?? That’s grand!! And to think I wrote it in a matter of two hours!! “ I..... could tell.” Kleo presses the save button and it moves faster than the rest. It completes and presents a successfully saved message. He hoots into the still night with vibrant rejoice! He’s finished. . . At least that’s how he’d wished it happened. Quickly 3 messages flash mockingly on the screen of his laptop. “Failure to save documents.” They read. The Joy and intense pride he once felt immediately transmigrated to Ashes beneath his tongue. It intensifies as he the word documents quickly erase sentence by sentence until each one has been removed. In sheer panic he abuses his mouse and keyboard trying to stop this catastrophe, but to no avail. All he can do now is watch as everything rots and draws out his devils. In distress he drops his head to the keyboard, then picks it back up and drops it again. He repeats steps one and two, again and again until he sees the God of Abraham and Isaac. The Clunk, Clunk, Clunk of his head raises in pitch each time. Until it’s a radiantly horrid ringing. He stops and opens his eyes. He’s washed in depression and sadness when he’s looking at a ceiling instead of the top of his desk, and the high pitch sound continues, exposing its true nature. He looks over at his screaming alarm clock and begins to cry. He never started any of the papers, yet instead fell asleep 17 hours ago. At least he’s well rested, and ready to brave the-- “Please....” He choke on his tears, “SHUT. . . . UP.”

Click, click. Beep. Diiiiing! “Welcome to World Wardrobe!” projected a voice deep within the store as I continued to step in further. The lady behind the counter was a short, plump woman with remains of what used to be a head full of ginger locks and an energy so vibrant she must have been well beyond her first cup of coffee. She appeared old enough to be my grandmother yet clearly had the motivation of a newborn baby the way she zipped around sorting through clothes while pointing customers in every which way as they asked where to find this and that. Diiiiiing! “Welcome to World Wardrobe!” Gosh that must get so repetitive. A rush of a breeze wrapped around my entire body as I felt the pain of a punch on my right shoulder. “Your in the way!” I watched as the lady frantically ran towards the counter dragging her bags over my feet and then the sleeve of a bubblegum pink shirt that was nearly falling out. “Hi, I would like to sell of all these, so how much will I get?” “Hi how are you today ma’am?” questioned the old plump woman, Sal written across her nametag. “I need to sell these,” said the woman again, this time a little more calm. “If you don’t mind filling out this form with some basic information I’d be happy to add you to the list and call you when we have finished going through everything.” “Oh I went through it, everything’s fine, so uh, how much did you say you’ll be paying me for all this?” “Well that’s why we have to go through everything first ma’am, to ensure the quality of all your items and to maybe return any to you that we feel could be more valuable to someone somewhere else. That just ensures everyone’s happy ma’am.” Her use of ‘ma’am’ was quite a nuisance as I began to pick up on her slight southern accent. “Also because of the heavy traffic here this time of year, we can only examine two bags per customer, but you’re welcome to come back tomorrow with two more bags.” The lady glared as if Sal had just robbed her of everything she’s ever had. “You do not understand, Christmas just ended, we don’t have much time, I am in the middle of cleansing myself, do you think you can just make me put that on pause for you?” At this point I was staring with no control. Sal focused on me now, “Is there something specific you were looking for?” I snapped out of it and realized this was not my business. I turned right around and walked out of the store before I could lay my eyes on anything I would want to buy. From the looks of it, I would be waiting awhile to check out anything I picked up anyway. I got back in my car reflecting on the insanity of people and their “cleansing” rituals as I began to slowly back up, slamming on the brakes soon after as another crazy woman zipped behind me and then into a parking spot near by, got out of the car, and dragged her bags in just as frantically. I got home, no bags to bring in. The red light flashed on my phone counsel with new messages waiting for my arrival. I clicked the button “Hi Rach,” Rachel was my name but those who were close to me called me Rach, usually, “I know it’s been awhile but I wanted to let you know I’ve been thinking about you and you’re welcome to come over whenever you’d like, we’ll talk soon. Tell your folks I said a Happy New Year to them!” Same message as last year, and once again, probably the only message I’ll get for the year. Click. “Next message.” “ Hey girl! It’s Sam, you know, Samantha? From science lab?” It’s been almost two years since I graduated high school now and just about a year since I last talked to Sam. I guess you could say we had a falling out. We really just distanced after my grandmother passed and I had become cold to the world, Sam just took it personally I guess, nobody’s fault, really. “I just wanted to let you know, more for me though, that I forgive you.” Okay, I changed my mind. It was her fault. She probably should have been there for me more knowing how close of a relationship I had with my grandmother. She was too worried about losing me as a friend texting me things like asking if we are still friends and she felt like I didn’t like her like I used to. Of course I didn’t, I didn’t like anyone, I just lost a huge piece of me, like losing a friggin limb. It’d be kinda hard to lose a leg and then get up and start walking again. Click. “Last message.” “Are you unhappy with your current medical coverage?” Aah the wonderful world of telemarketers, Shut up. I shuffled over to end the message retrieval. “Start off 2020 right, correct you health...” Annnd Click. Today is December 31st. Tomorrow is January 1st. And at one point, tomorrow was December 1st, and November 1st, and October 1st. What was I missing? Someone, sometime ago, decided on a certain calendar setup and it just so happened that January 1st was the first day of the year. Great. Well what if nobody ever decided that? What if we all just lived everyday like another day, because that’s all it really is right? Another day? The holidays all repeat, Valentines day, St. Patrick’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and then the big finale at the end of the year where Halloween hits, then Thanksgiving, Christmas, almost feels as if you never left the same chair at Uncle Mike’s house as your family celebrated around you. Then you think you get a break after that but New Year’s comes to slap you in the face and suddenly there is an expectation realm around everyone for a fresh start for the next two months until we all just resort back to our regular ways. You know, the seasons repeat too. Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall. They are all present in a time marked “year” but they don’t end and start again, aiming to be better than before. They just act in a cycle. One dying out while the next steps in to pick up the slack. You know why we rely on a groundhog for our annual ritual? Why we rely on an animal who has no idea about time past the difference between day and night? Because it keeps humans on a timeline. But life isn’t a timeline. If a groundhog wants to start doing something different on August 7th at 6:42 in the afternoon, he does it. Anyone of you crazy New Years go-getters could drop dead anytime, and you can’t control that. You can’t align it perfectly with your timeline, when it’s convenient for you. Who is someone that developed an idea of time to encourage you to wait until January 1st to start your better life, seems a little dependent for no reason. “We made it through another year!” people will proclaim year after year after year, like what were you expecting? Whether you come or go, or the World gets shipped off to war and people die, there will always be that guy, “Phew, made it through 2036, let’s make 2037 great!” But will it be? Why couldn’t you have made the last month, or the last two months, or the last two months and twelve days great, were you out of control? To make it through another year again, I guess is a good personal... accomplishment? Not sure if that’s the best word to describe it. You either make it, or you die and don’t know you didn’t make it. In this case though, wouldn’t your birthday be a better start to your “year”? Or even if we wanted to do this as a group effort, as a full country effort, our country has a birthday! But, I digress, people will still go out and have their fun every year proclaiming that “This is my year!” I opened the fridge and grabbed some guacamole I had thrown together last night. That was about the only thing that remained in my fridge, but a day like this was not one to grocery shop. It was already 5:00 and darkness would be rolling in soon. Just another day that flew by with no accomplishments. I grabbed some wheat crackers that sat at the top of my pantry and shuffled to the living room to sit in the recliner. I clicked the TV on and scrolled through the channels, everyone of them making a big deal about the ball drop. Why the hell do hundreds of people feel the need to talk about a ball dropping hours before it happens to signify a new day? Why is that so damn entertaining?? A big ball is lowered from high up. That’s it. Somehow its broadcasted about for hours. Me eating my homemade guacamole would be a more interesting topic. There was nothing to watch on TV, the world could not convince me to go out and do any sort of shopping, and the few friends I had were probably miles and miles away drunk out of their minds. I lived alone and I usually didn’t mind it, but on a night like tonight or really any night deemed to be a holiday, I had to worry about break ins or someone I loved being in some sort of accident with a stupid party animal. I shuffled back to the kitchen, rinsed my dishes and grabbed a glass of water. My doctor told me to start drinking a full glass of water before bed, said it would reduce cramps while I was sleeping. Nowadays I would just be up all night peeing, but I guess he was right, at least I didn’t have cramps. Nothing like waking up to yourself already standing beside your bed and it feeling like your being stabbed in the back of the leg. I took my water to the bathroom and started the shower. I cleaned myself up, got soap in my eyes like almost usually everyday and stood there for five minutes in pain thinking what an inconvenient time this would be for someone to break in, me blinded. I stood under the hot water for a while sipping my cold glass of water, just like I did every night. I got out and blow dried my hair on the lowest heat setting, just like I did everyday. I brushed my teeth and flossed and gargled listerine, just like yesterday and the day before. I threw my robe around me which was conveniently left hanging on the bathroom door, just like it is everyday. I walked to the kitchen to stare at the green numbers on the stove screaming 6:45 in the finally pitch blackness that poured through every inch of the windows. Too early for bed I thought. I cleaned and put the dishes away that I left in the sink so that I wouldn’t have to worry about them tomorrow, just like I always do before bed. I went to my room and put all my blankets and pillows in order. I was never one to make my bed in the morning, not today, not yesterday, never. I plopped down and scrolled through every app on my phone, just like I do everyday. Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, peoples stupid snapchat stories, all the same, trying to impress the world, looking much happier online then they probably actually are in real life. It was now just after 7:00. People were probably getting up from naps and just now leaving their houses to go celebrate after spending hours getting ready. Here I was, ready to sleep again, too early again, just to wake up early tomorrow, again, and start going... again. I woke the next morning to the sunlight beaming through my window onto my pillow on the same spot as it does everyday. I got up, went to the bathroom, washed my face, put my deodorant on and got dressed. I opened my front door to leave for work and there stood that big bulldog, the one that’s there every morning when I leave for whatever it is I am doing. I went to work, then went grocery shopping, came home, red light flashed on my phone counsel, listened to the messages. Grabbed something to eat, clicked through the tv channels. Back to the kitchen, rinsed dishes, grabbed a glass of water. Took water to the bathroom, started the shower, burned eyes, thought about burglars. Stood in shower, finished glass of water. Got out, blow dried hair. Brushed teeth. Flossed. Gargled. Robe. Dishes. Bed. Phone. Sleep. I woke the next morning to the sunlight beaming through my window onto my pillow on the same spot as it does everyday. I got up, went to the bathroom, washed my face, put my deodorant on and got dressed. I opened my front door to leave for work and there stood that big bulldog, the one that’s there every morning when I leave for whatever it is I am doing. I went to work, then came home, and guess what? The red light was flashing on my phone counsel.

The sharpie started making that bothersome screech sound as I hurriedly drew out, in large block type letters, the message I desperately needed to portray. I would make two dozen and scatter them around the hallways. One of my signs would strike a chord with someone, it just had to. Should I add color? Something to grab attention. No time for perfection, but these needed to work. All I had, a pack of markers and a stack of white paper. These were my tools. I opted for a blue line under the word LOST. Red could grab attention, but also brought about feelings of a warning sign and who is really interested in reading those? Blue was bright, pleasant, and did not blend into the yellowing white walls of the hurried halls. I tossed my markers in my bag, the emptiness even more apparent, slung the bag over my shoulder. Freshly made printer paper posters and scotch tape in hand I shuffled down the hall and tacked my message on every board and door I came across. I seemed to catch the attention of some, hopefully they glanced toward the message and not just the shambles I appeared to be in. When I reached the second hall, I paused for a moment to check my phone for messages. No texts. No missed calls. No one had found it. Or no one cared to tell me. I continued my process: rip tape, grab sheet, apply tape to top of sheet, press to wall, walk, pause, repeat. On and on through four halls. I had paused at the end of each hall for a phone check. Texts: none, calls: none, email: my frozen yogurt rewards were expiring. The clock continued to tick. Of course, I’m being metaphorical. There was nothing ticking anywhere close to me, my phone was annoyingly quiet. Yet, I still felt that pressure, tick, tock, tick, tock. I needed someone to find it. I had searched and now I had to wait. Well, wait while sitting, listening, note taking, thinking , what time was it? Of course, I was late, I was always late. My hands were empty of papers, so I tossed the tape in my bag and hurried to my destination. Back to the first hall, no one waited for me, but they did note my presence as I quietly made my way to my seat grabbing a spare pencil someone had left on a desktop. I sat down, I was not present in the conversation, pencils are the worst, this is what filled my mind. I found my notepad in my sad bag and scribbled a little to test it out. Oh ,how infuriating that sound was. Could people even hear themselves think with my lead scratches. It felt like a punishment. It probably was. Scribble scribble, pause to absorb, scribble more, repeat. The conversations dwindled and I looked at my hand, a smear of graphite on the side of my pinky finger. So ridiculous. I looked at the clock, time ticking down in my head, but no sound emanating from its face. I had moments to myself, the search was on. I retraced my steps from before the postings. I was always so careful. A place for everything. I imagined my bag felt it too, something was out of place, the process was interrupted, the system was broken. Walking, looking, crouching, peeking, nothing. This was absurd. Check phone, nothing. Think, just think . Let’s try this in reverse, reverse of my current method, so forward. When did I last have it? This morning, first thing. Tick, tock, tick, tock. What happened after that? The thought of my looming schedule was muddling my thoughts. I couldn’t do it without it . I needed to find it. Dashing back to my morning start, think , coffee, I tasted coffee. Did I taste it now, or from before? I looked around, no cup or pot in sight. Before, it was a clue, my mind was clearing. I moved in the direction the coffee taste led me and peered through a door, room empty. I opened the door quietly and I rifled through papers and inside drawers, nothing. Snapping back to reality I realized what I was doing, rearranged all the things that were not mine and left, the door closing with a click. My phone vibrated in my pocket, my heart skipped a beat, the coffee taste vanished and I looked at the message. Appointment reminder. Not helpful. Initiate countdown. I continued on my path, the same path, I had already been here. This was not working. Someone was trying for my attention. I came back to reality, interrupted his question and pointed towards one of my signs. With a laugh he shook his head to indicate “no” and continued on his way. I knew what people were thinking, but I didn’t understand it. That’s how it usually was. Another person caught my attention, looked at me, tapped on her watch and gave an excited expression with her face. I raised my eyebrows and made a timid smile. I was aware of the pressure and importance, tick, tock, tick, tock. I needed to make my way to the room, that room. I frantically searched the corners and hall floors as I made my way to my destination. I passed by people, they patted my shoulder, gave encouraging jesters and attempted high fives. I left them hanging. I couldn’t stray from my task. The ticking became more real, I felt the urgency, I looked up to see an analog clock on the wall. Thank God , it wasn’t all in my head. I made it to the room, five minutes to spare. I halted my search to go over my plan. Routine had to mean something. Routine actually meant everything. I played it through in my head as I had so many times before. I could do this. I had done this. I was snapped out of it by a tap on the shoulder. “Is this yours?” The overly confident voice asked. My eyes were wide, my world came in to focus. I lightly grabbed the pen from his hand, barely said thank you , and he walked away without another thought. My pen, the pen. The search was over. I stepped towards the door, my finger clicked the pen top and my heart was ready.

Captain Finnian, the famous intergalactic photographer, looked at the screen on the back of his camera and frowned. “That’s weird.” He muttered to himself. He held his camera up to the front window of his spaceship and snapped a few more pictures of the countless stars in front of him. Each time he took a picture he adjusted the camera settings before taking the next one. After several pictures he looked at the screen again, this time a look of confusion coming over his face. “Hey Quixly!” He called to his loyal co-captain, who also happened to be his best friend. “Come take a look at these pictures. I can’t figure out what’s going on.” Quixly, who had been studying star charts while eating some Chulaplugg stew, got up from his desk and hurried over to Captain Finnian. “What is it, Captain?” Captain Finnian handed the camera over to Quixly. “I got a new camera setting that can change the color and brightness of the stars without changing anything else in the picture. It measures the specific star wavelengths to know which part of the picture to change. It’s not a setting I’d use much anyway, but it’s not working on one of the stars in the picture. What do you think is going on?” Quixly clicked through the pictures on the camera, and he saw what Captain Finnian was talking about. In each picture the stars were different colors, but one star near the middle stayed white every time. Captain Finnian had adjusted the stars’ brightness in some of the pictures too, with that same star not changing. In the final picture he had dimmed the stars completely, making it a completely black photo other than that one, unchanging star. “I see what you’re saying Captain, that’s hard to explain” Quixly said, deep in thought as he looked at the pictures. All the sudden his eyes got wide, and he ran over to his star charts and started sorting through them frantically. “What is it, Quixly?” Captain Finnian asked as he watched his friend make a mess by throwing charts all over the place. Quixly was a species with four arms and three eyes though, which enabled him to search through his star charts with comical speed, and he soon found the one he was looking for. Once he found it, he compared the star chart to the picture, then ran back to the front of the ship and compared the chart to the stars in front of them. “Gee wizzy dizzy!” He finally said. “Captain, I know why that star isn’t changing in your photos! Because it isn’t a star! It isn’t on my chart! Wowza, how strange. I wonder what it is?” Captain Finnian grabbed the star chart and held it up to his view out the front window. He saw hundreds of thousands of stars on both, he had no idea how Quixly could spot a discrepancy like that. But Quixly was the brightest navigator he’d ever met, albeit a bit quirky, and he completely trusted his judgment. “That is weird.” Captain Finnian said thoughtfully. “What on plant ZX-30 would look like a star if it wasn’t a star?” He pondered about that for a moment and then smiled. “Well, there’s one way to find out! Quixly, set our course for the false star, we’re gonna go check it out!” “Yes sir!” Quixly replied, and quickly punched in some navigation directions on his control pad. “Hi-dee ho let’s go!” he said with excitement as he pushed the final button, sending them off towards the strange “star” at hyper speed. After a few hours of flying their spaceship came to a stop, the strange star-like object glowing brightly in front of them. Even from up close it looked just like a star, and they needed to use their protective sunglasses to see it. “This is as close we can safely get to it without burning up.” Quixly said. Captain Finnian looked down at his control panel for a minute, and then pushed forward on the acceleration to get closer. “What are ya doing!?” Quixly yelped frantically. “If we get any closer, we could burn up! Our ship isn’t designed to get this close to stars!” “I know that, Quixly.” Captain Finnian replied with a chuckle. “But you’re forgetting something, this isn’t a star. It’s as big and as bright as one, but it’s putting off almost no heat. Our ship will be fine, I want to get a closer look.” Quixly gulped audibly, obviously still scared of the idea of getting closer. “Are ya sure that’s a good idea, Captain? What if it’s a giant spacecraft made by evil people who want to kill us? What if they pull us in with a tractor beam and lock us away forever? What if I never get to see Xankandria again, or worse, what if I never get to eat Chulaplugg stew again!?” Captain Finnian looked at Quixly and raised an eyebrow. Xankandria was Quixly’s new girlfriend. They only met a few weeks ago, but they hit it off great and seemed like the perfect match. “Did you just say you like Chulaplugg stew more than you like Xankandria?” Quixly’s eyes got wide when he realized what he had said. “Oh no! Did I say that!? I’m new to this whole dating thing, I didn’t mean to say that! Don’t tell Xankandria! .... Besides, I do really like Chulaplugg stew...” Captain Finnian laughed. “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed. None of that matters anyway though, we’re not gonna get sucked into a tractor beam by some crazy evil organization who wants to kill us, that’s ridiculous.” Right at that moment all the lights flickered on and off several times, and the ship started to pick up speed towards the giant false star. Captain Finnian tried pulling the ship away, but his efforts were futile, the ship was completely out of his control. “Hmm, maybe it isn’t so ridiculous.” Captain Finnian said. “But hey, I’m sure they aren’t evil.” The speaker system came on and a mean, robotic voice came through. “You have two minutes to explain who you are and why you’re here, or we’ll blow your puny little spaceship into a billion pieces.” Captain Finnian gave Quixly a sheepish smile and a shrug, as if to say, “whoops, you were right!” Quixly would have glared at him if he wasn’t so busy shaking uncontrollably with fear. Luckily Captain Finnian didn’t get scared as easily as Quixly, so he responded to the voice with confidence. “My name is Captain Finnian, I’m an intergalactic photographer. We came here when we saw that your “star” wasn’t showing up in our photographs like real stars. We wanted to see what was going on.” There was a pause, and then the voice said, “What do you mean it wasn’t showing up like other stars?” “Well, to the naked eye it looks the same, but I have a camera app that measures the specific wavelengths of stars, so it knows what to edit in the photo. Your star has a different wavelength of light than natural stars. So, it must be fake. Did you build it yourself? I’m very curious.” There was silence for a full minute after Captain Finnian spoke. It seemed that the evil person who had been talking with him was just as surprised at Captain Finnian’s calm demeanor as Quixly was scared of the situation. Finally, the voice came back through the speakers. “We’re going to pull you into our space station to talk to you further. Prepare your ship to be boarded.” “Sounds good. Thank you!” Captain Finnian replied. Quixly added, “Thank you sir! Thank you, kind sir! Thank you very much for not blowing us into a billion pieces!” He then looked at Captain Finnian and whispered, “what do you think is going to happen to us?” “I’m not sure,” Captain Finnian replied. “But just follow my lead. I’m sure we’ll be fine.” A few minutes later their spaceship reached the false sun and was pulled in through a small opening. Once inside the spaceship landed, the opening behind them closed, and the voice came through the speakers once again. “Open the door, we’re coming in!” Captain Finnian quickly opened the door, and in walked three people. The first was a very large man who seemed to be half robot, half person. Behind him were two more people, a man and a woman, who were regular sized and not robotic, although they were both strong and tough looking. None of them looked like they would hesitate to kill Captain Finnian or Quixly if needed. “Welcome to our humble spaceship.” Captain Finnian said to them as they walked in. “What can we do for you?” The big robotic man spoke with authority. “Bring me your camera. Let me see how our star wasn’t showing up like others.” While Captain Finnian didn’t frighten easily, he also wasn’t stupid. “Yes sir.” He said politely, and he quickly grabbed his camera to show the large man. He explained how it worked and showed him the different pictures, just as he had shown Quixly earlier. Once he was done, the big man grabbed the camera and angrily crushed it in his robotic hand. “Phroqit!” He cursed. “I was led to believe our space station was indistinguishable from natural stars, and yet an amateur photographer finds us with a simple camera app!?” “I don’t know if I’d use the word amateur...” Captain Finnian started to say. “SILENCE!” The large man roared at him. He then looked at the two people who followed him on board. “Bronxin, you stay here and keep these two idiots out of trouble. Atheepla, you come with me. There are some engineers who need to learn a lesson.” With that he walked out, followed by the woman. The man, presumably Bronxin, stayed on board, holding a laser gun to Captain Finnian and Quixly. After the other two were well out of earshot, Bronxin whispered “are you really the Captain Finnian? The famous intergalactic photographer?” Captain Finnian smiled in surprise. “Yes, I am! And this is my co-captain Quixly.” He gestured to his quivering green friend, who gave a small wave, his eyes glued to the laser gun still pointed at them. Bronxin saw what Quixly was looking at and put the gun away. “Sorry about that, don’t want to frighten you. Just under the boss’s orders, you know! Anyway, I can’t believe it’s really you guys! I’m such a huge fan of your photography! I have the picture you took of the Painted Candle hanging up in my office!” “No way! I remember when we took that picture. I can’t believe you actually have a copy hanging in your office!” Captain Finnian was beaming. “Wowza!” Quixly said, more confident now that the gun wasn’t pointing at him. “I can’t believe ya referred to it as the Painted Candle! I’m the one who came up with that name!” The three of them laughed, talked and bonded over photography for a few minutes, and then Bronxin became more serious. “Finnian, Quixly, I’ve been wanting to give up this evil life and devote myself to photography for years, but I’ve never had the opportunity to leave. You two obviously need my help to get out of here. I think we can all help each other. If I break you out of here, will you teach me more about photography and help me get started with a new life?” “Absolutely!” Captain Finnian responded enthusiastically. “That’s a great deal! But how are we gonna get out of here?” Bronxin smiled. “Leave that part up to me. You just need to get in position to fly out of here quick on my signal.” Captain Finnian and Quixly ran to the control room to get ready. Bronxin closed the spaceship door, and then made a call on his communication device. From the control room it was hard to hear everything he said, but Captain Finnian managed to catch the phrases “execute the prisoners” and “under orders from Master Zvonix.” He hoped Bronxin was actually on their side, but at this point they didn’t have any other options. A few moments later the giant door to the space station opened up, and Bronxin yelled, “Now! Fly out of here before they stop us!” Captain Finnian manned the controls and zoomed out of the space station. Once they were out Quixly entered some coordinates into his screen and yelled “hi-dee ho let’s go!” as he pushed a button sending them into hyper speed. They were safe at last. Bronxin walked into the control room and started talking to them more about the giant space station. Master Zvonix, the massive half robot man, was an evil villain intent on ruling the universe. The space station was his disguised hideout where he was preparing countless weapons and people to help him take over the universe. Master Zvonix would kill anyone who tried to leave, and he disabled any long-distance communication devices in the space station, so no one could report to the intergalactic authorities what was happening. Bronxin had been stuck in the space station for years, and his only connection to the outside had been through photographs the new recruits brought in. He especially loved Captain Finnian’s photography, and he had promised himself that if he ever escaped, he’d become a photographer too. The three of them laughed and cried together as Bronxin spoke. Once he finished, they immediately contacted the intergalactic authorities and police force, who would be able to stop Master Zvonix and destroy his space station and thus his evil plans. They then got to work teaching Bronxin photography. He was a slow learner, but he was determined, and over the course of a few weeks he improved dramatically. As a final project, Captain Finnian and Quixly took him to the Painted Candle, where he took his own photo of it. Tears welled up in Bronxin’s eyes as he looked at the photo and realized how far he’d come from the confused man who joined Master Zvonix years ago. The next day, the three of them were eating Chulaplugg stew at a planet not far from the Painted Candle. “Well, Bronxin,” Captain Finnian said in between bites of his stew, “you’re sure you want to stay here? We’d be happy to take you on one more adventure if you’re willing!” Bronxin smiled. “Thanks guys, but my mind is made up. I’m ready to settle down and start a new life here.” “I don’t blame ya!” Quixly responded, his mouth full of stew. “I’m tempted to stay here too; this restaurant is amazing!” Bronxin chuckled. “Wow, I’m really gonna miss you guys. Quixly, keep me updated on your relationship with Xankandria. Finnian, keep sending me new pictures you take. And I’ll make sure I see you both at any nearby photography conferences.” He got up and gave them each a hug, and then walked away, ready to start his new life. “Wowza, I’m gonna miss having him around.” Quixly said. “Me too.” Captain Finnian replied. “You know, taking pictures really helps us see the beauty in life. But developing friendships is what makes life beautiful.” “Very true. That, and good food!” Quixly said with a smile. “Well, I can’t argue with that!” Captain Finnian said. He looked down at his now empty bowl and turned back to his friend. “So, let’s order some dessert!”

Saturday, September 4 &#x200B; 8:00 \-Wake up &#x200B; 8:05 \-Get out of bed \-Go To the bathroom &#x200B; 8:07 \-Brush teeth &#x200B; 8:09 \-Make a bowl of Cheerios &#x200B; 8:10 \-Eat bowl of Cheerios \-Watch ESPN &#x200B; 8:20 \-Get dressed &#x200B; 8:22 \-Tend to the garden &#x200B; 9:00 \-Weed in the backyard &#x200B; 11:30 \-Make a hot ham & cheese sandwich &#x200B; 11:33 \-Eat sandwich \-Watch MacGyver Season 2 Episode 21 on H&I &#x200B; 12:01 \-Go to the bathroom &#x200B; 12:05 \-Watch No Country for Old Men &#x200B; 2:07 \-Wash the dishes &#x200B; 2:15 \-Complete the daily crossword \-Listen to the radio &#x200B; 2:45 \-Call mom &#x200B; 3:30 \-End the call with mom \-Turn on National's pregame show &#x200B; 4:05 \-Watch Nationals vs. Mets &#x200B; 5:35 \-Get ready for supper at Rachel's house &#x200B; 5:50 \-Drive to Rachel's house &#x200B; 6:00 \-Get to Rachel's house &#x200B; 7:20 \-Drive home &#x200B; 7:30 \-Watch Dateline NBC &#x200B; 9:00 \-Watch SNL &#x200B; 9:35 \-Take a shower &#x200B; 9:43 \-Shave &#x200B; 9:55 \-Put on pajamas &#x200B; 10:00 \-Watch the news &#x200B; 10:30 \-Turn off TV \-Do nightly stretches &#x200B; 10:45 \-Go to bed &#x200B; &#x200B; Sunday, September 5 &#x200B; 8:00 \-Wake up &#x200B; 8:05 \-Get out of bed \-Go To the bathroom &#x200B; 8:07 \-Brush teeth &#x200B; 8:09 \-Make a bowl of Cheerios &#x200B; 8:10 \-Eat bowl of Cheerios \-Watch ESPN &#x200B; 8:20 \-Get dressed &#x200B; 8:22 \-Tend to the garden &#x200B; 9:00 \-Weed in the front yard &#x200B; 11:30 \-Make a hot ham & cheese sandwich &#x200B; 11:33 \-Eat sandwich \-Watch MacGyver Season 2 Episode 22 on H&I &#x200B; 12:01 \-Go to the bathroom &#x200B; 12:05 \-Watch A Nightmare on Elm Street &#x200B; 1:36 \-Wash the dishes &#x200B; 1:44 \-Complete the daily crossword \-Listen to the radio &#x200B; 2:15 \-Call mom &#x200B; 3:00 \-End the call with mom \-Start making lasagna &#x200B; 3:45 \-Finish preparing the lasagna \-Watch the end on National's vs. Mets &#x200B; 4:20 \-End of National's vs. Mets \-Put lasagna in the oven &#x200B; 4:21 \-Read No Longer Human &#x200B; 5:40 \-Get ready for supper at Rachel's house &#x200B; 6:00 \-Rachel arrives &#x200B; 6:10 \-Eat with Rachel &#x200B; 7:30 \-Watch American Psycho &#x200B; 9:11 \-Clean up the house &#x200B; 9:50 \-Take a shower &#x200B; 9:55 \-Shave &#x200B; 9:57 \-Put on pajamas &#x200B; 10:02 \-Watch the news &#x200B; 10:30 \-Turn of TV \-Do nightly stretches &#x200B; 10:45 \-Go to bed &#x200B; &#x200B; Monday, September 6 &#x200B; 8:00 \-Wake up &#x200B; 8:05 \-Get out of bed \-Go to the bathroom &#x200B; 8:07 \-Brush teeth &#x200B; 8:09 \-Make a bowl of Cheerios &#x200B; 8:10 \-Eat bowl of Cheerios \-Watch ESPN &#x200B; 8:20 \-Get dressed &#x200B; 8:22 \-Tend to the garden &#x200B; 9:00 \-Weed in the backyard &#x200B; 11:30 \-Make a hot ham & cheese sandwich &#x200B; 11:33 \-Eat sandwich \-Watch MacGyver Season 3 Episode 1 on H&I &#x200B; 12:01 \-Go to the bathroom &#x200B; 12:05 \-Watch The Shining &#x200B; 2:31 \-Wash the dishes &#x200B; 2:39 \-Complete the daily crossword \-Listen to the radio &#x200B; 3:10 \-Call mom &#x200B; 3:55 \-End the call with mom \-Watch the end of Nationals vs.

“I just need to get them to sign, then we can finally be done with this,” Kevin said to himself. He had just parked his car in front of the house. Not just any house. This was the house. Kevin worked for a real estate development company that was in the process of designing and building a new business and housing district in the area. The design was ready and approved and the community was looking forward to having a new area to explore in their city. They had everything they needed. Except... this new district would be going up in an area that was previously a residential area. The good news for the development company was that this area had seen a mass exodus in the last decade with few holdouts. The development company had “generously” offered every last person in the neighborhood a price that was well above market value and all of them had taken it. All except for one... Today is Kevin’s last chance to rectify this. “From what Tim, Jennifer, and Clyde all said, these people are a little odd, but I need to do whatever it takes to get them to sign,” Kevin mumbled to himself. As he got out of the car, Kevin briefly thought about the failures of his colleagues. Or, more accurately, former colleagues. Tim, the first one who had tried getting them to sign, gave up after trying for roughly six months. He got so frustrated that he came back one day and just quit. Jennifer, on the other hand, just moved away unexpectedly after trying for a few weeks, citing the same annoyance and frustration as Tim. Jennifer was on her last legs at the company and was a very odd individual, in Kevin’s opinion, so no one had questioned her departure. She would have been fired if she had returned empty handed since she had yet to make a sale or a signing. But Clyde... Kevin wasn’t sure what had happened to Clyde. He was a hard worker and they had sent him to close the deal a couple of weeks ago. After several tries, one day he had never returned. They tried calling the cops, but they said that he probably just left on his own and didn’t investigate at all. Clyde was single with no kids, so the police just assumed he took off on his own. Kevin had liked Clyde, for the most part. He had never spent any time outside of work with him, but the time at the office had always been pleasant. The one time that stood out to Kevin was the Christmas party three years ago. Neither of them knew it, but he and Clyde had somehow been each other’s Secret Santa. They had never talked to each other besides the typical “How are you?” pleasantries you say day to day to people, so neither of them knew what to get the other. Kevin had mused about a tie or a coffee cup and his wife suggested that he get Clyde a sweater or “something cute.” Clyde knew that none of these suggestions would do, so he did the only sensible thing when not knowing what to do. He turned to alcohol. Kevin, a man in his late twenties, decided the safest thing was to get Clyde a bottle Scotch. Nothing too expensive, of course, but the gesture would be there all the same. His wife was a little apprehensive about the gift, but relented when he asked her if she had any other ideas. When the day of the Christmas party came, Clyde put his gift on the table like everyone else and joined in the office festivities. They were one of the regional headquarters of a national conglomerate, so their Christmas parties were always decent. It was still a corporate office, so nothing too exciting ever happened. Just some live music and a few holiday themed games. It was during the day around 2pm, they weren’t allowed a plus one, and they were limited to two drink tickets each. Kevin perused the drink selection as he waited in line. Like previous years, it was just beer and wine. Kevin was regretting giving the Scotch to Clyde. Not that it was expensive or anything. He just wanted it for himself after this disappointment of a Christmas party. When the time came for the Secret Santa gifts to be given out, Kevin waited for his name to be called. Clyde’s name was called before him and he waited until everyone else had their gift. Kevin went to get his and opened it as soon as the rest of the gifts were given out. When he opened it, Kevin was astonished that it was the exact same brand of Scotch that he had given to Clyde. When he looked around at who might have given it to him, he saw Clyde doing the same. They both held their bottles up and nodded at one another with a smile. Kevin then watched Clyde leave the party, Scotch in hand. Clyde was a simple man. A man in his forties with no wife or kids. No personal attachments that Kevin knew of, but he was damn good at his job. Clyde would constantly be able to close the difficult deals, so when this house was the constant holdout and no one else could do it, they called on Clyde. Everyone was shocked when he just... vanished. Kevin hoped that he was ok, but he had to focus on the task at hand. He had to get that signature because today was the deadline for the giant bonus they would give to whoever could get it. As Kevin walked towards the house, he looked around the dilapidated neighborhood and imagined that at one point it had been a lively place full of children playing in the streets. Times had been tough for their city, but this new development project was sure to turn things around for the entire community. Plus, it would mean these people, whether they were a little odd or not, would be able to start a life somewhere fresh with the large sum of money being offered to them. The house in front of him was surprisingly nice for the area. Most houses around him were smaller ranch style homes without much flare. This house was a little older, but it was two stories, had a nice porch with pillars on each side, and a decent sized garage with an attic above it. Kevin thought that it probably had a basement too. He wasn’t surprised that they were holding out if the house was this nice, especially if it had sentimental value to them. Before Kevin could knock on the door, it opened. “Hello! You must be with the development company!” Said a woman in her late fifties to early sixties. “Please! Come in! Come in!” Kevin stammered as he was hurried inside the house where he counted at least four other people, who were all hustling around carrying boxes and moving furniture. Kevin overheard someone yell that they needed to organize the truck in the garage again before putting anything else inside. “Excuse me! Ma'am? What’s going on here?” Kevin asked, confused. “Why, my dear, I thought you of all people would know,” the lady said, with a toothless grin. “Me? Know what?” Kevin said, still not understanding. “Oh... I thought you were with the development company. Weren’t you coming to get our signature?” The lady said, innocently. “Yes, I uh... wait, you want to give me your signature?” Asked Kevin. “Of course!” Said the lady. “Great!” Kevin said as he handed her the clipboard. “On one condition, that is,” the lady said, holding up a finger. “You have to help us move some of our things into the truck.” “That’s it?” Kevin said with a sigh of relief. “And...” said the lady. “And?” Asked Kevin. “And! You have to eat a meal with us. It’ll be an honor to have you eat with us for our final meal here before we leave!” She said, slapping him on the back. “I would love to!” Kevin said, thinking that it couldn’t be this easy. The lady introduced Kevin to her husband, son, and two nephews as he helped them load the truck up with what was left in their house, which was just as spacious as Kevin thought it would be. From the front door Kevin could see the dining room in front of him. A lovely white staircase with a wood railing to his right. A doorway to his left that he assumed went to a family room. And a closed door to the right that was connected to the staircase. “Where does this door go?” Kevin asked as he was helping them move a sofa. “That’s the basement,” said the lady. “We don’t need to get anything from down there. Don’t worry about it. The final thing to load was the dining room table and chairs. The lady said that she wanted that to be loaded last so they could have one final meal. She ushered Kevin into a seat between her and her husband as she served Kevin his meal. He wasn't sure what it was, but it was delicious. Some type of meat, potatoes, glazed carrots, and some pie for dessert. Kevin thought that helping them move was worth it just for this meal. While they ate, Kevin told them about his wife, his work, and he asked if his colleagues had said anything about leaving when they were here. The lady, who had been the only to talk up to this point, said that she remembered Clyde had said something about needing a vacation. She wasn’t sure about the girl. The lady thought she was odd, so she wasn't surprised that she just vanished. “Well my dear,” said the lady, “I think it’s about time we get goin,” “Do you need help moving the table?” Asked Kevin. “Oh no, dear, don’t you worry about that. You’ve been more than enough help,” she said. “Ok, well, I better get going too. Thank you for the lovely meal,” Kevin said. “Don’t you want that signature?” Asked the lady. Kevin stopped. He had completely forgotten about the signature. He turned around and faced the lady with an embarrassed smile and said that he would love the signature. He said he wasn't sure how he had forgotten about it. More than likely it was because of the lovely hospitality and the amazing meal that she had provided. With signature in hand, Kevin wished the family the best of luck and headed towards his car. As he was walking towards his car he took his phone out of his pocket and started to text his boss that he had the signature. Before he could hit send, he started to feel lightheaded. He opened his car door, but didn’t have the strength to get inside. The world around him started to spin as he clung to the car door. Suddenly he heard voices ask if he was alright. It was the lady and her family. Two of the men put his arms over their shoulders and carried him inside as his phone dropped to the ground. The lady picked it up and followed them inside. “You’ll be ok, we just have to lay you down real quick. This normally happens at first, don’t worry,” said the lady. “Wha... what happens at first? I don’t understand...” Kevin said, barely able to speak. “Where are you taking me? What’s going on?” “Oh, my dear, we’re taking you to the basement. There you will truly start to understand,” the lady said with her toothless smile. The lady then opened the door as two of the four men carried him down the stairs into the darkness. Kevin’s world was spinning. He couldn’t tell up from down. The only two things keeping him from the ground were the two men holding him up. He felt ill. Like something in his stomach was attacking his entire body. Which was weird because the only thing he had eaten today was... “Did you poison me?” Kevin hoarsely asked. “Poison?” The lady asked, seemingly taken aback. “That was not poison, young man. That was your gateway into eternity!” As Kevin descended the stairs, the basement light came on and he saw the other two men standing there. They turned Kevin so he could see the entire basement. It looked like a butcher’s shop. Knives, cleavers, hammers, and all assortment of tools hung on the wall still. It seemed that this would be the last place that was packed up, not the dining room. As they walked Kevin over to a table, they turned more lights on and he saw something hanging from the ceiling. Or more precisely, someone. He squinted and saw more than just one. “Jennifer? Clyde? What have they done to you?” Kevin screamed in a hoarse whisper. “Oh, they can’t hear you my dear. Not yet anyway. Soon you’ll be reunited with them. Now, just lay on back and let this old lady take care of you,” she said, with a soothing tone. Kevin tried to struggle, but couldn’t. He couldn’t lift his arms. His head felt like it weighed a million pounds. He could barely even keep his eyelids open. “Why... are you doing this? You’re moving and you... you gave me the signature... I... I don’t understand...” Kevin kept gasping for air and could barely talk at this point. “Why?” Asked the lady. “You just were too tempting to pass up. We couldn’t help ourselves. You should have waited until tomorrow to come. We would have been long gone by then and you could have claimed our house without any effort. You are so selfish and greedy, just like the rest of them. We couldn’t just let you leave. We had to send one. More. Message.” Kevin continued his attempt at struggling, but he was far too weak now. His eyes were practically closed. He couldn’t talk. He could barely breathe. “Don’t worry. We’ll text your boss so he doesn’t worry. We’ll also text your wife and tell her you had to go out of town for a business trip and won’t be back for a while. That way they’ll all be oblivious to your current... circumstance.” Kevin is able to get out one more “why?” before finally losing the ability to talk. “Why?” She laughed. “I guess I’m just a little sentimental and just wanted to have fun one last time.” Kevin grunted in pain. He didn’t know what it was. Some kind of sharp pain in his legs and down his left side. “And don’t worry about us my dear. They won’t find you until well after we’re gone.” Kevin let out one final grunt of pain before finally succumbing to darkness.

Lindsay McBride murdered her husband. She stabbed him to death while he was trying to leave the house with their son in his arms. If Lindsay could do it all over again, she would still kill her husband. Sadly, Lindsay’s husband, Dennis, wasn’t her only victim. Lindsay also murdered her 5-year-old son, Amari. The little boy didn’t suffer as badly as his father, but he still died. His father’s shielding arm took most of the stabbing blows. Amari died instantly when his mother stabbed him in the neck by accident. She was aiming for his father’s face, but she severed her child’s jugular vein. Lindsay murdered people before, but she promised herself to never kill a child. She loved her son more than anything, and she attacked her husband when he told her she would never see her son again. Lindsay went berserk on her husband after he caused her to stab her little boy by accident. The mind of a serial killer can be irrational. Lindsay blamed her child’s death on her husband. He shouldn’t have been holding her child while she was stabbing him. It all started when Dennis found out that his wife was a serial killer. He tried to grab his son and make his escape from the house, but he was too late. He called the police, but his wife arrived at their home before the cops did. She came home from work early. Dennis didn’t expect his wife to be home so soon. He heard the news reports about the killer, and he didn’t know that the killer would be his wife. Lindsay became enraged after she found out her husband removed her SD card from her phone while she was sleeping. He saw all her picture files and documents. He saw the photos of her victims on the SD card. Lindsay hated her husband for hacking into her phone’s external hard-drive and finding out her dark secrets. How could he be so suspicious? She couldn’t believe that he played detective after he found a smidgen of blood on her red floral dress. Lindsay despised her husband’s attention to detail. She tried so hard to be a good wife, and this is how he repaid her. This is what Lindsay was thinking as she was stabbing her husband to death. She didn’t want her husband to see the pictures on her phone. She didn’t want him to see the mutilated naked bodies and the blood. Lindsay wanted to maintain her image of the perfect, blonde, and beautiful trophy wife of a star NFL player and corporate businessman. Her husband’s bloodhound actions ruined everything for her. She couldn’t be the co-owner of her husband’s company. She couldn’t launch her new perfume called Glamour . No more expensive jewelry and designer dresses. No more living in a luxurious twenty bedroom home. She always knew that her husband suspected her of being a killer, but it didn’t stop him from having sex with her every other night. Lindsay loved her husband, sort of. She loved his celebrity, which is the only reason she married him and had a baby with him. Having a baby with him would ensure her financial security if she divorced him. But after stabbing her husband with a kitchen knife, all of Lindsay’s financial security went up in flames. Lindsay turned in her glamorous Versace dress for an orange prison jumpsuit. Handcuffs replaced her Gucci handbag. The life of a female prison inmate was not the life Lindsay dreamed of. She didn’t want to leave her Mediterranean style beach house to become a resident at the Miami-Dade County Women’s Detention Center. Dreams fall apart like a slice of ice cream cake sitting in the scorching summer sun. This is how Lindsay saw her dreams melting away. The only thing Lindsay felt bad about was stabbing her son by mistake. She kept seeing her son’s bright unadulterated smile and the tiny star-shaped birthmark on his chin. After she stabbed her child in the neck, she saw the light dying in his little eyes. Lindsay snatched her dead son out of her husband’s arms before running out of the house. She carried her child’s body to her car. Tears burned her eyes and she hovered over her little boy after laying his dead body across the back seat of her silver BMW. His body barely covered half of the back seat. Blood stained his miniature shorts and his green Power Rangers tank top. Lindsay had her child’s blood all over her hands and dress. She kissed her child’s stubby fingers while lingering over his face, with her shoulder-length hair touching his little forehead. Lindsay wanted to bring her child back to life. She kept touching the bloody wound on her child’s pint-sized neck. Every time she’d caress her baby’s face, she’d accidentally smear blood across his nose and lips and his trimmed, curly Afro. Lindsay crawled into her car’s back seat, and she held her son’s body against her chest for a few minutes. Since her home was near the beach, she could smell the saltwater in the ocean breeze. Her car’s rear door was still open, and the breeze washed over Lindsay’s face and her little boy’s face, which she held against her chin. Lindsay could hear police sirens in the distance. She forgot that her husband called the police before she killed him. Lindsay’s husband thought his towering, muscular, 250-pound frame would save him from being killed by his wife. Unfortunately, his little fashion model wife proved that size was no match against the serrated steel blade of a kitchen knife. Did Lindsay feel guilty for murdering her husband? Not really. His pretty-boy looks and his perfect white smile would annoy her. She knew her husband was a playboy. That’s why she killed the three women her husband was having sex with. She tracked down all of his mistresses. Cheating on her with one woman was bad enough, but when she found out he was seeing two other women, she made him pay for his infidelity. She left blood on her dress so her husband could find it. She left her second phone at home, knowing that her husband would hack into her phone and see the pictures of three dead women. She wanted him to know. Lindsay enjoyed finding out where each woman lived. She enjoyed pretending to be a delivery woman and surprising the women at their doorstep at night. It helped that all three of the women were single. One woman was a lawyer, and Lindsay hated lawyers. She killed each woman the same way. They’d see her FedEx uniform and assume that she was a delivery woman who needed directions. Their helpfulness got them killed. Lindsay knew she’d have them in her trap when they would open the front door. First, she’d stab them in the throat so they wouldn’t scream. Then she’d stab their eyes out. Lindsay slaughtered two of the women in their living rooms. She had to chase the third woman around her house, which irritated her because she expected the woman to drop to her knees after stabbing her in the throat. Killing her child was the only regret Lindsay had. The young woman never budged when she heard squad cars surrounding her BMW. She attacked one policeman when he reached into the back seat of her car, attempting to remove her dead child from her arms. Lindsay bit the police officer’s hand. She cussed at the officer after biting him and slapping him across his face. The policeman had his hands full and he had to use his taser gun on Lindsay. Two police officers had to drag Lindsay out of her car. They ripped her son out of her arms before throwing her on the hood of her car and slapping handcuffs on her wrists. Ironically, the hip hop classic, Fuk Da Police , was softly booming out of Lindsay’s BMW. When Lindsay heard Ice Cube’s iconic voice exiting out of her car, it made her more aggressive and ready to fight the policeman who was working his ass off trying to subdue her. Lindsay laid one last punch on the policeman. She nailed him in the stomach with her elbow. After she did that, she blacked out from a hard blow to the back of her head. The last thing she saw was a policewoman carrying her little boy’s body to an ambulance. Worse situations confronted Lindsay once she was in prison. She got into a fight in the prison cafeteria. “Ain’t you the bitch who killed her husband and her baby?” A fellow inmate spitted her words in Lindsay’s face. The inmate knocked Lindsay’s lunch tray out of her hand before shoving the woman to the floor, which was a huge mistake. Lindsay jumped up from the floor, tackling the woman. She drove her fist into the inmate’s throat, crushing her larynx. After Lindsay crushed the woman’s throat she hurled her to the floor. Another female inmate attacked Lindsay from behind, grabbing her hair and throwing her into a wall. Lindsay shook off the blow and she punched the inmate in the face, fracturing her nose. More women tried to gang up on Lindsay, but a prison guard broke up the brawl. The other women prisoners told the guards that Lindsay started the fight. She badly injured two inmates. One of them needed immediate surgery on her throat. The prison guards threw Lindsay into solitary confinement based on the false accusations. Lindsay found herself in a dark isolation chamber, which was far worse than her prison cell. The young woman only had her thoughts to keep her company. Now and then she would break down in tears while sinking to the floor. The chamber had no window. It had no bed or a toilet. It was just a dark, small chamber with soundproof walls and a vault-like door made out of thick reinforced steel. Being alone in darkness drove Lindsay into a panic. She curled up on the floor, hugging her knees while sobbing. Lindsay kept thinking about her little boy. Mental images of his small dead body would flash in her mind. A torturous desire to hold her son in her arms would assault Lindsay. Lindsay was alone with her past sins, or so she thought. Her gasping and sobbing became interrupted suddenly by a disembodied voice that echoed from across the room. It was a man’s voice, and it had a familiar, sultry baritone pitch. When Lindsay heard the whispering voice, she knew it was her husband. Lindsay jumped up with her back against the wall. Her eyes struggled to find the source of her husband’s voice. The panic set in when Lindsay thought about how she stabbed her husband to death. She couldn’t believe that she was hearing his voice. “Dennis?” Lindsay spoke out to her husband cautiously, with her eyes searching through the darkness. Her mind told her that what spoke to her was not Dennis. There were two possibilities. Lindsay considered losing her mind as a possibility. The second possibility alerted Lindsay, telling her that the voice she heard could be the voice of a ghost. Lindsay didn’t believe in ghosts and the paranormal. She preferred to believe in the possibility that she may have lost her sanity. The disembodied voice said something else that uplifted every hair on the back of Lindsay’s neck. “Why did you stab me?” The disembodied voice sounded warm at first, but then it became cold and aloft. There was no love in the voice anymore. The inflections in the voice gave an inhuman intonation. What scared Lindsay was how robotic the voice became within a matter of seconds. She could detect an underlying hostility in the voice. “Why did you stab me?” The disembodied voice became gravelly and dark after it repeated the question. “I’m--I’m sorry,” Lindsay almost lost her voice. She noticed something tall standing in the room's corner. The darkness seemed to outline the apparition. It looked like a man, but Lindsay wasn’t sure. There was a sharp object in the apparition’s hand, and Lindsay knew it was a knife from the shape of the object. Lindsay recognized the distinct muscular definition of the figure. She watched as the apparition lurched forward while dragging his left foot. “Why did you stab me?” The apparition’s voice sounded distorted. Lindsay finally got a good look at the monster that was dragging its feet toward her in the darkness. It was the ghost of her husband. Even though the apparition looked like her husband, something was disturbing about his facial features. Blood oozed from his eyes where his wife stabbed him. Lindsay stabbed her husband multiple times in his neck, almost decapitating him. This meant that the apparition had a contorted head that hung halfway off his neck. He had one ear missing. The ghost displayed all the stab wounds that his wife afflicted on him. Wrath resurrected Lindsay’s husband and he wanted revenge. “I didn’t mean to kill you! I’m sorry, baby!” Lindsay screamed at the apparition. She let out a frantic cry while turning around and banging her fists on the isolation chamber’s door. Lindsay knew that no one was going to save her. No one could hear her screams through the thick steel door. She kept banging her fists on the door while listening as the apparition’s sliding footsteps grew closer. “Why did you stab me?” The ghost kept repeating himself. Each time he’d ask, his voice would sound more demonic. Lindsay whirled around, throwing her back against the door. “You cheated on me, that’s why I stabbed you! I found out you were seeing three different women, so I killed you!” Lindsay lashed out at the ghost. She swallowed hard while looking up at her dead husband who was towering over her. “I killed you and those three stupid bitches you were having sex with! All of you deserved to die!” Lindsay’s defiance shadowed her fear for a moment. Her fear quickly returned when she saw three other figures emerge from the darkness behind her dead husband. It didn’t take Lindsay long to see that the three ghostly figures were women holding knives. What sent Lindsay over the edge was when she saw a little ghostly figure emerge from behind the three female apparitions. Lindsay saw her son’s blood-stained Power Rangers tank top. She saw his small feet dragging toward her. “WHY DID YOU STAB US!!” All the apparitions shouted at Lindsay in unison. Lindsay collapsed to the floor, sobbing like a madwoman. The apparitions kept shouting at Lindsay through their lifeless, demonic voices. Lindsay covered her face when her husband, the three women, and her little boy stood over her with sharp instruments in their hands. This is how Lindsay met her end. She braced herself for impact, but something happened. “Alright, cut!” A movie director shouted. The room’s lights came on to reveal a film crew and a movie set. “Thank you!” Lindsay giggled when the camera crew applauded her performance. The apparitions who were actors helped Lindsay to her feet. Two of the actors were Lindsay’s husband and her son. “You did good, Mommy!” Lindsay’s son, Amari, hopped into his mother’s arms, receiving a kiss from her. “Do I look scary?” Amari whispered to his mother, causing her to giggle. “No, you don’t look scary. You’ll never look scary to me,” Lindsay told her son before kissing the tip of his nose. Lindsay put her arm around her husband and she laughed at his look of agony, which showed behind the movie makeup and prosthetics on his face. “I can’t wait to get this crap off my face,” Dennis told his wife after kissing her on the lips. After he kissed his son on the forehead, he looked around at the film director and the camera crew who were still applauding and praising him and his wife’s performance. Dennis wanted to enjoy the moment, but something wouldn’t let him. At unexpected times, Dennis would see a ghost. His eyes locked on to a mysterious figure that was standing amongst the camera crew, watching him. The figure was a young woman and she was clapping along with the crew members. Dennis’s heart rate increased when he saw the bloody dent in the woman’s head and her mangled arm. The woman had an exotic beauty, but her black eyes and grotesque injuries contaminated her beautiful features. Dennis knew he was looking at the ghost of a pedestrian who he accidentally killed a few months ago. She would always haunt him no matter where he went. She’d watch him and haunt his dreams along with his reality. The apparition refused to let Dennis forget what he did. Dennis knew that his drunk driving would punish him. He got out of his car to help the woman, but he panicked after he saw what his car did to her body. Dennis left the woman on the road to die. “Babe, are you alright?” Lindsay asked when she saw her husband staring intensely at something she couldn’t see. She saw a look of horror on her husband’s face. “Dennis, what’s the matter?” Lindsay gently tugged on her husband’s arm. She gave him a confused smile when he broke out of his trance, turning to look at her. “I’m okay, I just got lost in thought.” Dennis tried to explain his odd behavior. “Baby, I’m fine!” A nervous laugh escaped Dennis when his wife gave him a concerned look with a hint of suspicion in her eyes. Dennis looked away from his wife for a second. He turned his eyes back on where the deformed woman stood, but she vanished. Lindsay put her arm back around her husband’s waist. She giggled before whispering in his ear... “You had me nervous for a minute. There was a look of terror on that handsome face of yours. It was as if you were seeing an actual ghost.”

The day has been long, too long, much longer than it needed to have been. The anger I feel towards those who have the position of “chairman”, and “head of the board”, or “CEO” is enough to fog over the usually calm mindset I have while driving. The one thing my long day has taught me is that qualification doesn’t outway the politics of modern America's business operations. All I want is to lay down of the couch with a glass of chardonnay that would be considered too full at most respectable restaurants, then slowly drift away into the calm ocean of unconsciousness after an hour of the hallmark channel, but I’m afraid though that my ocean isn’t calm, my full of rogue waves and raging winds. But I shouldn’t daydream, afternoon rush hour has been causing many accidents recently, right now I see why. I finally reach my street after navigating my way through the labyrinth of suburban New Jersey, and I'm greeted by the sight of bright red and blue light dancing on the outer walls of my apartment building. This is the second time this month the cops have been here, and I have had the unfortunate job of witnessing the last occurrence. Domestic assault is never a good sight, especially when you share it with the victim's four-month-old infant. Sometimes I wonder where he will end up after the foster homes, or if the parents will figure their differences out. I get out of my car and my landlord walks towards me with one officer, I feel something is off. My landlord never talks to me, all he does is slide the overpriced bill for my one bedroom, one bathroom apartment under my front door every month. Sometimes I see the shadow of his baggy clothing in the crack under the door, but that’s the most communication we do. As he and the officer approach me I see a sign of guilt in his eyes, but I don't know why, then the officer begins to call my name, not that he knows it, but to double-check that I’m the one he’s is looking for, the one he has to break the bad news too. I bolt up the many stairs and through the yellow ribbon blocking my path up the long flights of this palace misfortune I call home. As I reach my place my heart sinks to my heels, men in navy blue line my living room inspecting the shattered picture frames and broken decor covering the cheap off white shag carpet I got from the flea market last week. The officers leave as I enter, each avoiding eye contact with me more obviously than the last. As I walk through my living room with weak knees, I hear the snapping of glass beneath my leather boots, the texture of powdered drywall fills the empty air. My television, or what used to be my television sits on the floor, concave in the middle, the damage of somebody’s leg all that will be shown on that screen ever again, somehow my sofa is unscathed, no tears of filling anywhere. I head to the kitchen. The aftermath of a whirlwind of greed is all you can see in the place anyone should feel most comfortable. No food has been left whatsoever by the intruders, every cupboard, every spice rack, the entire fridge has been stripped clean. I search throughout my apartment and miraculously I cant seem to find a single plate that is whole, just shards of porcelain scattered throughout. I follow a breadcrumb trail of disaster to my bedroom. My linens aren’t even in the room anymore but instead, sitting on the cold dirt four stories below. My wardrobe isn’t in my wardrobe anymore instead all heaped into a pile next to the bed, with everything there besides the clothes I considered the nicest. Stressed out of my mind I head to my couch, my soft, plush couch. As I sit there in the mess I used to call home a glimmer in the corner of my eye. The reflection of the amber sky gleaming off of the glass. I head towards it and my body is filled with what little happiness it could muster. The label reads “Thousand Oaks Premium Collection”, wine has never been so needed in all of societies expansive existence. I take the whole bottle to my couch, not because I need the whole thing, but because my glass was in a hundred pieces scattered through the shag carpet. I take a break. As I sit down, slumped as much as my sore back will allow, I admire the amber light dance on my walls, uninterrupted by the curtains that used to keep it away from me. Surprisingly this is the most relaxed I’ve been all day. I expect to become even more relaxed as the night continues. I think back about that little boy that I share a bad experience with, I know that happened tonight is more fortunate than earlier this month. I’m thankful all that was stolen was objects, not anything actually important but just things. Objects are just place holders of monetary value, they’re replaceable. I realize as I look across the room at the photos of family now how much I actually have. How much that is worth more than money. But things that you buy with experience, how much cant be stolen from you. Things that bring you more than entertainment, but bring you joy and thankfulness.

“You’ll never know unless you try,” a voice called out, breaking the silence of this long-forgotten treasure room. With a gasp, Sam dropped the box, letting it fall back to its hidden alcove. Only time knows how long the rusty old chest had sat there, and what was once elegant metal etchings adorning it, now show the tell-tale signs of a tarnished battle lost long ago. Sam knew a place like this would carry a curse, or perhaps at the very least, a memory, feelings so powerful and potent, unable to truly be forgotten. That’s how it always goes when hunting for treasures. With a deep, steeling sigh, Sam once more picked up the chest. The moment Sam lifted the chest there was a raspy sort of ghostly breath, and then another more lofty, feminine, and whimsical. The first spirit to manifest itself was on Sam’s left, and presumably the owner of the first voice. He appeared as an older male, but had the look about him of a rugged and grizzled wizard, with a look in his dead eyes that had seen far too much of the world. The next to appear was a younger, youthful spirit, like that of adventurous child; a spritely little thing who resonates a boundless energy even in her presumed deathly state. She looked up at Sam with eager enthusiasm in her hollow eyes. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go on and open it!” Sam looked down at her, and then at the other curiously, then back to the childlike spirit. “So it was you who said that then?” “Yep,” she answered with cheerful vigor. “No.” the other spirit, answered, with a cold and stern response. Sam’s attention darted back and forth between the equivocating spirits. “Okay, so which is it then? Wait I’m sorry, who are the two of you? Are you the ghosts of this chest? ” Sam asked. “Yes” she answered. “No” he answered. Sam promptly sighed, at which point the older being loomed forward, closer. “We are not ghosts, not exactly. We were not alive, nor have we died. It is easier to say we are merely spirits, who watch those who would find this chest.” “Don’t be so formal you old codger!” the younger spirit shouted, before gliding over next to her counterpart. “We are spirits, but we have names, ya know? I’m Ertha! And we call this grumpy coot here Ol’ Cig!” Ertha extended a spectral hand out towards Sam. Sam reached out for it anyway, a gesture of kindness, knowing full well how intangible it was. “Hi, I’m... Sam.” “Hi Sam! Great to see you here! I love it when new people show up! Ol’ Cig and I don’t get out much these days, you know?” “Right. Now that you have gotten your introductions done, Ertha...” Ol’Cig groaned. “Oh, yes!” Ertha exclaimed, as she moved behind the chest. “Well go on then!” Sam’s hand hesitated as it lingered over the lock... It could be so easy to just do it... “What are you waiting for?” Ertha cajoled. “You are afraid,” the perceptive Ol’Cig spoke with an almost calm understanding. Ertha cocked her head towards Sam. “What is there to be afraid of? Don’t’cha think if we were gonna hurt ya, we would have?” Sam’s hands began to feel shaky. “I am not scared of you... This is not my first time with spirits and I see that you meant well...” Sam began. “See? You get it! Nothing to be scared up of. So just open up!” “I...think I am afraid of opening the chest,” Sam confessed “What? Why? Don’t be silly! It’s a treasure chest!” “You think it could be a trap.” Ol’ Cig commented. “Or it could be treasure!” “You will never know.” “Unless you try!” “Enough! Just stop for a moment!” Sam shouted, holding the box tighter, gripping it, shaking. Sam didn’t understand why this was such a struggle. The journey here was so easy, so adventurous and fun; that is what treasure hunters do right, find the shining gems amid darkness and decay? But the struggle was always the same. The meticulous and observant spirit of Ol’Cig studied Sam’s hesitations carefully. “I know you, Sam. How you are right now, I have seen it before. Some would call it cowardice, some wisdom. All I see is self-preservation; the most basic of mortal instincts. There have been a hundred adventurers before you, who were reckless and went diving after a treasure before they have all the information. But that’s not you, is it Sam? You are not reckless. You are smart. That’s why you haven’t opened the chest. And that is it, isn’t it? Unless you know, you will never try.” Sam, overwhelmed in the uncertainty, bellowed a groan of frustration, and dropped the box as they buried their face in their palms. The chest, landed in the small spectral hands before hitting the ground, and loftily floated back to its resting place. Ertha, then attempted to place her wrest Sam’s attention back. “Hey! Don’t listen to Ol’Cig, he’s nothing but bad noise. Sure, ya can play it smart, and go for self preservation, but that’s what animals do! And you are not an animal! What kind of life even is that? I bet ya didn’t become an adventurer just so you could get this far and go home empty handed, huh? Fortune favors the bold, Sam! So be the person you know you want to be! Pick up that chest and just open it. Even if it’s dangerous, then at least you will know! I don’t mean to speak for ya, but if I were in your boots, I would! Because to me, a life of never knowing is far worse than whatever trap or curse may or may not be inside. For better or for worse, you will at least have an answer to this mystery. The only way to get closure is to open. So go on Sam... Unless you try, you will never know!” Sam looked up from their hands to see the semi-opaque child-like face of Ertha making direct eye contact. The spectral aura gave off a warm and calming glow, the kind that would settle the nerves and inspire confidence. This of course, was interrupted by the chilling breeze of Ol’Cig’s cold calculations. “What do you even know about the people or the world, Ertha? Nothing. How many have been led astray by your misguided whimsy? I have lost count! You are a child, a speck among the grand scheme of the cosmos. You act on whim and speak without genuine consideration of consequences. You hope for the diamond in the rough adventurer among a sea of grave robbers. You greet and guide them all to a treasure, and recklessly expect the results to be different. My tact may be cold and brash, but I am trying to keep another adventurer from their grim fate!” Ertha turned around and stood her ground against the looming old wizardly specter, in all the hands-on-hips, matter-of-fact sass one might expect from an ancient childlike spirit of whimsy. “Hey! I may not have been around as long as you, but that doesn’t make me any less valid than you! I keep helping adventurers because people are always different! Don’t be so bitter and jaded because you lost your artifact an eon ago! This is the only one I have left, and I’m going to make sure the right hands find it! There is nothing you can say in your Old self that can stop me from trying again and again! It’s not reckless for me to keep hoping!” Ol’ Cig looked down at her, a focused gaze. Sam would never notice it, and Ol’ Cig in his stubborn self would never admit it, but the smallest of smirks tugged at the corner of his ghostly mouth. He didn’t agree with Ertha on nearly anything, but he did appreciate the fact that if he was going to be stuck with a rival for all of eternity, at least it was someone he could match wits with. “Reckless, maybe not. Foolish, certainly,” he said, a little more calmly than before. “I would rather be a happy fool, than be smart and bitter and miserable for all of eternity,” she replied sharply. Ol’ Cig nodded; he didn’t have much of a retort for that. A moment of inspiration, a revelation finally hit Sam, who had been awkwardly caught in the crossfire of these two eternally-bickering spirits, finally speaking up. “That’s it...” Ertha and Ol’ Cig, realizing how caught up in their own battle they got, turned their attention back to the adventurer who started this whole debacle. They addressed Sam in, speaking in perfect synchronicity. “You are going to open up then?” “You are going to count your losses then?” “No... Well yes, but no, that’s not what I mean... I’m talking about the box. That’s the riddle of chest isn’t it? Every great treasure has a puzzle to solve, and this is no different. Each of you are a piece of the puzzle.” Sam shuffled along and grabbed the treasure chest. Ol’Cig in his wizardly glory looked down at Sam with a curious and knowing glance. The free spirited Ertha was less, subtle, her gaze transfixed on Sam, and beaming ear to ear. “What you say, both of you is valid. Your arguments are both correct... And that makes the both of wrong... Neither of you can truly tell me what I should do. I got this far from my own wits and instincts, and, that is what I need to listen to. ” Sam’s hand moved across the old weathered lock of the chest, keeping eye contact with the spirits. Snap! Clank! A smile. “After all, I will never know unless I try."

I never expected to become a fashion icon. Does anyone? I’m the last possible candidate for such status. I never considered the potential impact of paparazzi, photo shoots, or celebrity on my simple life. There were none. My time was my own, until... But here I am, standing in the wings. (Wings - get it?) While awaiting my debut, I’m fighting off butterflies. My life transformed after that photograph went viral. Of course, Phil isn’t a mere photographer. He discovered me. He has vision. We became friends. He’s my trusted manager. And, thanks to him, I’ve released my own line of cosmetics. You must’ve heard of it. Or, have you been living under a cabbage leaf? I call it, ‘All Abuzz.’ I should begin at the beginning. I’m Dottie. As I said, no one was more surprised than me over recent events. I should explain some things about my background, before fame lit up my life... You might have guessed I’m no ordinary supermodel. Before Phil discovered me, I was your garden variety ladybug. Nothing special. Yes, a ladybug. I’m quite aware of certain anti-insect biases in human society. Though not very sociable, I assure you I’m benign. I’m a loner. And I’m told I’m also cute as hell. The day Phil and I met, I’d finished my favorite lunch and had settled on a leaf to doze in the sun. A shadow moved and Phil loomed over me. Actually, I saw his magnified eye peering at me through what looked to be the bottom of a coke bottle. Later, he explained that was the macro lens of his camera. He’d only wanted to snap a picture of the ‘cutest little bug he’d ever seen.’ But from my vantage, he was intruding on my space and taking my picture without asking permission. No introduction. Nothing. What cheek. I called out, “Hey! Hey! Hold it there, big boy. What gives you the right to take my picture? You have a signed release? I may have been around the block once or twice but I didn’t arrive spattered on the business side of a windshield.” That gave Phil pause. He leaned in. “Can you speak up? I didn’t quite catch that.” I continued. “You a stalker or what?” That’s when he said he was a nature photographer. I’d heard of them. Bumblebees were always comparing notes on the best locations. “So, why me?” I asked. Phil chuckled. “You may not know it but you are so cute. Cute as...” I did a slow burn. “Yeah, I’ve heard that. Never mind.” Longlegs, my ‘daddy,’ wore that out. But Phil had my attention. He told me about the markets for pictures; fashion, news, art, and so on... He insisted how honored he was to capture my beauty. He said, “I can help you.” “Help me what? My life is fine without your blocking the sun.” He moved out of my light. “Wait! There is something. Can you deal with all the birds? They vex me. Can’t enjoy my lunch without worrying I’ll be some bird’s lunch.” Ants have colonies. Bees have hives. But we ladybugs enjoy our solitude. A day alone is a day in good company. Phil ran into the yard waving his arms and shouting. Normally unflappable, the birds took off and didn’t look back. Panting a little, he returned wearing a huge grin. “Haven’t done that since I was a kid. Happy to help.” He seemed sincere. We found agreement. If my image got attention, he would reimburse me for my time. Basically, all the aphids I could eat. Sounded like a win/win deal. I had doubts though. I said, “Sounds great, Phil. But I’m not some moth, dazzled by bright lights. What’s the catch?” “I understand, Dottie. You don’t know me. Let me prove myself. You won’t feel like bat guano.” I told him, “Okay... Let’s try. Step by step.” A few days later, Phil found me in the garden and told me how many thousands of clicks my picture received. That’s a lot of aphids. He showed me my photo on some rectangular gizmo he held in his hand. I can’t deny my surprise. I’d never looked in a mirror. I had no idea, no concept of what a ‘photograph’ is or what I looked like. I figured my family resembled me, but vanity didn’t run in my crowd. But, to tell the truth, I could see it. I am cute! And I’m a bug. So there! But what Phil told me next, blew me away. I was so shocked, I wanted to fly away home. He said women everywhere want my ‘look,’ whatever that means. I don’t know. Who expected polka dots to be all the rage? He set up a meeting with a cosmetics firm wanting to offer a product for women seeking that ‘look.’ My look. Phil introduced me to the team. He assured me he and I were partners. He also warned me the buying public can be fickle. What’s popular this week might be passé in a month. I said, “Don’t worry about me, Phil. I’m in it for the duration. I’m not some fruit fly - here today, gone with the dawn.” The meeting went very well. I did my version of the ‘fly on the wall.’ Phil represented us well. I felt respected. Some details got into the weeds a bit. I know nothing about cosmetics. And fine print is for those who can read. Women want my look? I’m here to help. They told us we’d get our own shelf in the big outlets. And my picture would be featured on the wall above my product. Like the other supermodels. A few weeks later, Phil took me to see the display at a free-standing make-up store. I’m a bug so, of course, I’d never seen anything like it. I couldn’t believe the swarm of women wanting my makeup. The staff kept restocking the shelves. Customers did ‘selfies’ with my big picture over their shoulder. All the jostling got unnerving. Phil kept me incognito, riding on his ear, so I’d feel safe. That night, I hosted a party in. It was huge. The garden was crawling with family and friends. They couldn’t believe our good fortune. Aphids, aphids everywhere! Of course, some neighboring ladybugs took an attitude, saying they were cuter than me. Bunch of termites... They may be. I don’t care. But Phil found me! I have ‘the look.’ One man’s bug is another man’s cutie. So, that brings my story up to date. The emcee brought Phil onstage to tell my back story. I stood in the shadows, about to go out and strut my stuff. Phil told the crowd I don’t do autographs. He asked them to respect my privacy. No crowding, please. He said, “You get it. Don’t bug her.” That got a big laugh. Then Phil shouted, “Everybody! Let’s welcome Ms. Dottie Ladybug!” Music swelled. A spotlight lit the curtain that hid me. That was my cue. Applause rippled. I can’t tell you how I felt that moment. So many people came to see me. Me! Little Dottie from the garden. So strange. Beyond comprehension. But the music kept going and so did the applause. All those hands clapping. One slip and that’d be it. Oops! Squashed. Bye, bye, Dottie! What a sendoff! It was now or never. I braced myself and took flight out of the shadows and into the blinding spotlight. I almost lost my way. I’m used to trees and hedges. The hall was immense and filled with people. My image, a thousand, million times bigger than me, was projected on a screen overhead. Was that me? How could it be? But I trusted Phil. He’d helped me the whole time. I made a beeline to the podium where a silver plate lay covered by a white cloth. Cameras were aimed so everyone could see the real me, up close for the first time. Wow! When I landed, the music stopped. The applause stopped. Then, crickets. All I heard were crickets. You never know who your friends are until you become a supermodel and see who shows up to your first show. The crickets came through. They weren’t ladybugs, but our families always got along. They showed up! They spoke my language! The show was a success. I was even on television (whatever that is). I had my moment in the sun. Happy I didn’t need to speak, I did what I was best at - being cute. Yes, I’d made a splash, so to speak. But you know how fickle fashion is. Tastes change. When sales flagged, I told Phil I’d had enough. We agreed I had a good run. Phil bought a private garden for me and my family. And aphids galore! I returned to my quiet life to enjoy peace and quiet with my family and friends. We were set. Life was good. And I’m still cute.

(Set your story in a small town where everyone is suspicious of newcomers.) (This story is edited and additional content has been added) Ah yes, Monday! Monday’s are universally thought of with negative feelings as the weekend is over and a workweek begins. But here in Syndrig, everyday is a workday, if in fact you would define what we do as work. Here in my village I’m known as Pipsey, that is short for Pip Squeek which is what me old father, rest his soul, used to call me. I am short in stature, but many of my countrymen are, so I’m not clear how I got singled out for the name. But getting back to the story, yes today is Monday. I pulled me calendar down from the shelf as I ate my porridge to remind meself what my duties are for this day. So for this Monday, the wooden chair on the roadside next to the petrol station. That is the place I would spend my day. Me job? Me job was to point down the road to the north saying....”yes, really great fishing just down the road, fifteen minutes or so to the north, you will love it!” Or I might have to say...”A hotel? Yes a lovely clean place with rooms overlooking the ocean, fifteen minutes or so to the north, you will love it!” That’s it really, me job, just direct passing visitors out of town, to the north no matter what they are looking for, it is north out of town...not here, NEVER HERE! Everyone of us, the villagers, has a job and our job is keeping strangers away. We want no one coming in and poking about for fishing or hiking or exploring. We are closed to the public except for those stationed along the highway that cuts through a tiny edge of our town and their job is to push the stoppers on to the north, or to the south but away from us. Our village has been here as long as memory and legend allows. What we know of our village is not just simple stories, we have the iron work to prove it all. For millennia, ironworking has been the only activity in our village except for food production to feed us and working at the other necessities of life. The ironworking, the making of the objects that keep them out and us safe inside. Tall metal frameworks of every sort that line the highway prevent anyone without keys to panels and gates to access the waterfront or the town proper. The panels have only one thing in common, they must be strong and tall. Some resemble trellises with profusely growing roses, while others are like fences or gates, some have arches with curved or rounded tops, some are extremely ornate while others are very plain but they are all meant to keep folks from going where we don’t want them to go. Once installed they are dedicated with a small ceremony by an elder that leaves a residual slight hum. Along the highway, a few shops, petrol and sundries, and ALWAYS a few of our folks to point down the road to the next town or village. Stopping for their needs is acceptable, on the one road, but then keep moving, away from here. From a high point at the edge of town one can look back and get a bird’s eye view of the village of Syndrig....(look that up, it is the essence of this story). The village is pie shaped, the widest part being the road along the coast and then from both north and south edges of the village it continually tapers inward to a vertex at the base of the mountains. Is it peculiar or just an amazing and impressive sight to see the steel and iron work enclose the village in its entirety? Along all sides the lifelong labors of generations of us working to build or repair or reinforce the steel that keeps out strangers. And so that is me job for today, another villager will be sitting somewhere down the line on the other side of the road keeping those going south, going south. We have strategically placed houses built into the steel wall panels on all sides of our village and the job of those folks is to monitor their section of wall for intruders. It is what we do! Nothing more, we repel the unwanted! If you had been born here, you would have grown up with the stories, our oral history from the outset, so you would understand our deep need for privacy and seclusion. At each stage of a man’s development he is shown more and more of the mystery of our beginnings and by old age he is finally aware of the magnitude of our secret. I would love to tell you what I know but as we have all seen on the telly, “If I told you I’d have to kill you!” And of course we don’t hold with killings here. We haven’t had to resort to that..yet, but as the general population of the area gets more bold, the future could be very different. My actual home, my house, that I share with me best half, Rosie, is very near the vertex. I spend many hours in that area and am very aware of the humming of the earth, the glow at night, the shafts we have dug downward, the stuff we have extracted from the pit. Our understanding is minimal. Somewhere in our oral history, instructions have been given, what we can do AND what we must never do. Only a few here really know but each generation is instructed by the elders so we know only that we must keep this place safe and if you are worthy, you may know more but that almost never comes until old age. I’m not ready to “know” yet and I breathe a sigh of relief to understand I have years of pleasure before the weight of knowing. If it sounds to you that I am telling a folkloric story that is generally wildly exaggerated for the amusement of the listener, then you are wholly and totally incorrect. This place exists and what comes out of “the pit” benefits mankind. If Pipsey and the folks of Syndrig can keep the work pure and isolated from outside forces, mankind will benefit. This small place has been given special access, knowledge and understanding....from where you might ask? From the Gods, the old and the new! Or from Aliens? Or from? I am sure you have all heard of ogres and the tiny folk, gnomes and the English faerie, meaning "realm of the fays ". Those things too may be real or they could never have withstood the telling over time but this is different. This is somehow very important, bordering on crucial. And being Monday, I must be getting along to the chair by the road. So I will say Ta Ta for now! ~~~~~ Pipsey was in his chair next to the petrol station on his job to move strangers north when the woman approached him, a woman stranger, a female outsider. Her car has misbehaved at the petrol station and they are making a repair. She is stranded for the day. After she tells of her bad luck, of needing a repair, Pipsey seeks the guidance of an elder. Should someone drive her to the next town while the repair is accomplished? Or will they assign a local Syndrigian to keep her out of trouble for the day and what would that involve? It was decided that since Pipsey was already conversing with her, he should find ways of keeping her busy along the road that goes through the town. Pipsey finds her devilishly attractive and interesting so it is with some nervousness that he offers her a stroll to a shop down the highway for a bit of lunch, while she waits. Pipsey has a wife, it’s true, but it is tantalizing to imagine real time with any stranger and this female stranger seems to have a hypnotic effect on him. During his day with the outsider, she awakened his curiosity about the outside world. They share questions he had never considered before. She asks him why they never venture out and what the community is really about, and then she makes him feel foolish for not really knowing anything, really, just that life is about faith, have faith and all will be revealed to you. And she thought it outrageous he would be willing to wait until old age to find out the things that only the old ones know and understand. She is so very different from any of the community. The community is at peace with life and the parts they are all asked to play each day. But this outsider, this female stranger seems agitated or the unrest that surrounds her is almost visible, like a cloud. Her name is Angelique, but friends call her Angel. He is about to tell her his name is Pipsey but at the last second, he knows he wants her to know his given name not the familiar used by family and community folk. My name is David, he says, slightly embarrassed. He has never said his real name out loud. He has seen it written but to hear it out loud and from his own mouth, it is very strange, but she has a strange effect on him, he knows this, he feels it. They sit in the shade of a grove of trees near the edge of town. Angelique is so curious about every detail she can glean from Pipsey. Sometimes he feels she presses too hard or asks too much. He feels uncomfortable almost to the point of wondering if the elders would really approve. It is getting late in the day, they will be walking back soon to retrieve her car and she will be on her way. The afternoon sun makes everything look warm and gives life a golden look. Pipsey closely watches Angelique almost as if trying to burn her into his memory, into his mind, a way to keep part of her after she has gone. He knows he has somehow lost a modicum of his peaceful existence. How can an afternoon with a stranger have such an effect on his whole being. He wonders if she were here for a longer time if he might be tempted to take her into the community, to show her where he lives, to let her see the happy peaceful community. Pipsey feels deep sadness. It is an emotion he has never felt before. It is something he can never share with his wife or the community. Why would he? He would never want any of them to feel this sadness. Arriving back to the petrol station, Angelique touches Pipsey’s arm and says, “David I am so grateful for this day we have spent together.” A deep shiver passes through Pipsey to hear his given name spoken so softly, and yet aloud by this stranger. So much of him, his real thoughts or feelings have never been explored. This overwhelming feeling of peace. Is it a blessing? Is it a controlling factor why the community so tightly conforms and holds to the old ways? In his own mind he will be David now, maybe he is moving to a new level of understanding, maybe this new questioning is part of the transition to becoming an elder but David is certain that it is more likely the Angelique influence. As he walks away from the petrol station, the image of Angelique is strong in his mind, he will not soon forget her but also in his mind, new thoughts, new questions, a new thirst to know more. He wonders if he will miss the peaceful feelings that keeps the community humming along in harmony. He knows he is different now. He is David and David is full of questions and speculation. Maybe the secret is that only the old ones know that what is in the pit and how to retrieve it is not the real secret. Maybe the true secret is the small time of exposure to the pit, the time necessary to retrieve the element for mankind kills you! So old Syndrigians are going to die anyway and they only need small amounts of the element to benefit mankind, so the elders are expendable and more importantly , they are willing participants. The powers who revealed the pit are surprised and amazed, they have always been surprised and amazed, that this community had the control and discipline to go for the ages selflessly keeping the world safe. David sits in the last light of this fateful day, he wonders if the powers know he has changed! Will he be punished? He knows he must not influence the community! In the midst of all of this soul searching he clearly sees Angelique in his mind. Peace returns but somehow it is different.

The spring winds rush down the streets of New York City, blowing up dirt and sand everywhere. I hold my head down to keep the dust out of my eyes while trying not to walk into other people doing the same. I reach my favorite breakfast spot and pull hard against the door. I struggle inside as the owner laughs, “Windy enough for ya, Mr. McGee?” I dust my shoulders and the front of my jacket as I sit at the counter. The rotating stool screeches in protest. The owner Benny removes a dirty plate and wipes the counter clean. “What will it be, Mr. McGee?” I smile at him. “I’ll have a cup of coffee, and a grilled English muffin, thanks.” “Sure thing,” he says. He grabs a napkin and spoon and places a small bowl of creamers. He sets down a diner-style coffee cup, the real heavy kind, and pours the coffee. I watch him walk down to the grill, cut a muffin in half, slather it with butter and place it face down on the grill. It sizzles with eggs and bacon, filling the diner with the smell of breakfast cooking. In no time at all, he returns. “ Say, is there something on your mind, Mr. McGee? Cause that’s like the sixth spoonful of sugar you put in there.” “Huh? What? I hadn’t noticed,” I mumble. Well, Benny, I guess there is. See, I’m leaving a job I’ve worked for fifteen years, and I’m going to apply for a new one.” “Ya, don’t say, but why are you so nervous?” “Well, it’s the way they do things these days. First, I look for a job on the computer until I find one that sounds good. Send in my resume. Wait for what feels like forever and figure they’re not going to answer. Finally, I receive an e-mail asking for a phone interview. I’ve had two phone interviews so far, and they’ve asked me to come for a face-to-face. Tell me, Benny, whatever happened to walking in and talking to the personal manager and getting the job? At fifty-three, I’m getting too old for this crap.” “I wouldn’t know anything about it, Mr. McGee. I’ve worked here since I was a kid. Took it over when my old man died.” Someone yells, “Hey, Benny! Where are my eggs?” “Ya wanted them hard-boiled, right? Well, they still got three more minutes.” He turns back to me, “Sheesh!” I take a sip of my coffee and make a face; too sweet! I hear the little bell on the door tinkling like mad and turn to look. I see this young girl dressed in a business suit hanging onto the door with one hand while trying to hold down her shirt with the other. I hop off of my stool and race to hold the door open for her. She slips past me. “Wow! What’s with the wind? Thanks for your help.” She tries to fix her hair as she looks for a place to sit, but every booth is taken. I smile, “If you don’t mind the counter, there’s a stool next to me.” “No, that will be fine,” she says while slipping a brown leather portfolio off her arm and placing it in front of the stool. Quickly, Benny appears, places a napkin with a spoon, and asks what she would like. “Oh, what he’s having looks good.” “You got it!” Benny then produces a coffee cup and fills it. He pushes the sugar container to her, “I hope there’s enough left after Mr. Sweettooth here has had at it.” She lifts her eyebrows as I glance away, “Guilty as charged.” She looks to be in her late twenties, perhaps early thirties. Her hair is cut in a stylish bob and still a little messed up from the wind. It looks cute anyways, and so does she. I nod to the portfolio, “On your way to work, no doubt?” “No, I’m on my way to a job interview.” I smile and chuckle, “ What a coincidence, so am I! I was just telling Benny that I’m a little nervous because this is the first interview I’ve been to in fifteen years.” As we begin to talk, all the little noises of the diner, the ringing of the cash register, the sizzling grill, and the murmur of conversations all fade away. “My goodness, that is quite the leap.” She then offers her hand, “I’m Megan, by the way.” Shaking her hand, I introduce myself, “John.” Benny stops by briefly, “Get you anything else, Mr. McGee?” “Yes, thank you. How about more coffee and another muffin.” “I’ll have another muffin, too, please.” Megan pipes in. “So, are you leaving a job, or is this something new?” I query. “OH, yeah, I’m leaving where I work. I need a change. Where I work now is so old fashion that it drives me crazy.” She thanks Benny when he returns with a fresh pot of coffee. “What line of work are you in, if I may ask.” “Advertising,” she says while sipping her coffee. Again my eyes light up, “I can’t believe this! So am I!” Megan studies the smiling face beside her, “Sure, he’s fifteen years older than I am, and gray hair is frosting his hairline, but he has a warm and friendly face. I like him.” she thinks. The bell rings as some construction men file in, allowing the wind to blow in with them. Unfortunately, it is strong enough to blow over the portfolio, and some of her work topples out. Scurrying to help her pick up the papers, I can’t help but notice her work. Handing them back to her, I comment, “This is good, very good. Have you always wanted to be in advertising?” Megan turns back to her coffee and muffin. “No. I originally wanted to do fashion design, but that field is just too competitive. So I landed a job in advertising and found out I like it. So tell me, John, why are you leaving a job you’ve had for fifteen years?” “I’m afraid it is the opposite of you. A dot com outfit has taken over the place where I work. They’re young and do things so differently than I do that it’s hard for me to adjust.” Megan’s eyes start to dance in wonder, “What did you say the outfit’s name was?” “Ads World Wide,” I reply when it dawns on me. “Don’t tell me that’s who your interview is with?” Megan covers her mouth with one hand while taking my wrist. Then, she giggles, “Yes! And I think you are probably taking my job at Johnson and Barly on 55 th street, correct?” I signal Benny for the check. “This is so unbelievable. We’re like two ships...Megan finishes the phrase, “passing in the night.” When Benny arrives, he asks, “Everything okay?’ I give him my credit card and tell him I’d like to pay for the young lady’s as well. As we both stand, Megan says, “Oh, John, you don’t have to do that.” “No, I want to, and I also wish you the best of luck with your new job. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.” “Thanks. I pretty sure you’ll like Johnson and Barly too.” I hold open the door, and she turns left while I go right. She turns back to me and calls my name. Megan walks up to me, stands on tiptoes, gives me a pick on the cheek, and hurries away. Time stops for a second as I feel the warm spot on my cheek. I smile and cover it with my hand so it won’t blow away.

#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. &nbsp; *** *** #Announcing a Brand New Feature for Completed Serials on Serial Sunday! I can’t express how delighted and honored I am to watch each of you grow and meet the challenges every week. Let’s face it, it’s quite a feat to create a world from scratch and write a serial! And finishing a serial is an amazing accomplishment. Over the last year, we’ve had quite a few writers cross that finish line. It’s something that the writers should be incredibly proud of--those still working on them and those who have already completed them. I started thinking about those finished serials and all the ones to come; I realized that a congratulatory post just wasn’t enough. I want to give you the chance to show off your hard work! And so I present to you...SerialWorm! *** ###What is a SerialWorm? Writers who finish their serials (with at least 12 installments) will be allowed to read their *edited* serials in their entirety aloud in the discord’s Voice Chat. This is to celebrate your accomplishments, see how it reads once it’s altogether, as well as provide some additional motivation to cross the finish line. After the final chapter is read, there will be a Q & A with the author. Questions can be submitted/asked at this time. *** ###Serial Worm Rules: * **A minimum of 12 installments will be required to read.** Serials will need to be broken up into multiple sessions, as with any Discord Bookworm. * **Only one bookworm event will be held at a time (including non-serial Bookworms).** You may still submit your finished serial to get on the list. * **You need to be available to read your own serial.** Readers will not be provided. * **Your serial must have gone through significant, final edits after its completion. All ‘SerialWorms’ must be approved.** SerialWorm is not for live feedback or edits, but to share your accomplishment with others and read your finished product aloud. * **Completed and edited serials may have a maximum word count of 1150 per installment, with no more than 2 additional installments (not posted to Serial Sunday weekly threads).** * **Serials must comply with r/ShortStories content rules. No exceptions.** * **Authors must have met the rules of the weekly post.** This includes two feedback comments every week, as well as meeting the deadline. Those who miss more than 2 weeks of feedback in a 12-installment period will be ineligible for SerialWorm. This is a privilege, not a right. * **SerialWorm authors must be Certified on the discord.** You must be given final approval by Bay and a new role--SerialWorm. *** ###SerialWorm Q & A To add a little something extra to make it different from the weekly campfire readings, there will be a discussion portion. *This is not for feedback on the writing*, but more an elaboration/extension on the basic questions I pose to every author in the Completed Serial Modpost, with a few extras. This is the time to ask about their writing journey, challenges they faced during their Serial, etc. The discussion portion of the SerialWorm will be after the final chapter is read. Questions can be submitted to Bay over the course of the SerialWorm or asked on the day-of. ***If you have any questions, feel free to send a modmail or DM me on our Discord!*** &nbsp; *** *** #This week's theme is Vitality! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘vitality’. Vitality is all about strength, energy, and growth; having an exuberance for life and living. Characters full of vitality come alive on the page. They’re ones that love life for what it is and appreciate each day, living it to the fullest. This could be a good time for a brand new character to enter the picture, challenging everyone and how they view life. How are these characters received? How do they approach the various obstacles and troubles that arise? What about their opposites, the characters who allow each bump in the road to sour their appreciation for life and the future? How do these characters interact with one another? What happens when they bump heads? Maybe this vitality spreads throughout the world and its inhabitants. What does the future look like through their eyes? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. | &nbsp; *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * December 5 - Vitality (this week) * December 12 - Speculation * December 19 - Advice &nbsp; *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting! &nbsp; *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments. &nbsp; *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see point breakdown). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! &nbsp; *** #Last Week’s Rankings Lovely job this week (as always). And u/OneSidedDice for scoring the most points ever earned in a single week of SerialSunday! - - by u/OneSidedDice &nbsp; - - by u/Zetakh &nbsp; - - by u/ReverendWrites &nbsp; - - by u/stickfist &nbsp; *** #Ranking System There is a new point system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Sending nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) &nbsp; *** ###Subreddit News - Our sister subreddit, r/WritingPrompts now has a ! - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.

Shady Pines has one street that is very quiet. Cars rarely drive by. Kids don't play in the street near one house in particular. Old Man Henry's house. He never leaves the house, and all his food is delivered right to his door. He sits in the window, staring into the street, waiting for a kid to go on his lawn. Then he flies through the wall, grabs the kid, and takes them into the house, where he eats them. And the house is haunted by a whole bunch of ghosts. At least, that's what my neighbor Kay Alfred says. He always tells tall tales, trying to get attention. After he told me the story, he dared me to go inside, and said that he would give me 20 dollars to do it. We walked to the house, Kay trying to tell me it wouldn’t work. He just didn’t want to pay me. I started walking up to the porch while Kay chuckled behind me. The house sure looked haunted, with grey, peeling paint, rusted shutters, and dead grass. When I got to the porch, it creaked and groaned like a dying cow. I steeled nerves, then knocked on the old rusty door before I chickened out. I heard noises behind and in front of me. Banging from the house, and sneakers running down the sidewalk. Kay was ditching me! The door squeaked open and Old Man Henry poked his head out. He seemed like a normal old man, so I said hello. He groused in a gruff voice ,“What do you want?” so I asked to come in. He let me in, and we chatted for a while. He told me his story. “I was a young man when I moved here, way before you had been born. I had a beautiful wife named Lucy Moor. We had moved from Idaho, and wanted a quiet place to live together. Sadly, the trip got her sick. She went to a doctor, but no one could help. She died, and I have lived alone for the last 25 years, mourning her loss.” That was so sad. I told him I would visit him, maybe bring my mom and dad. He smiled and showed me the rest of his house. It was a normal house, nothing haunted or creepy about it. We talked until the sun was starting to set, me telling him stories about myself, him telling me about what everything was like in his day. Turns out he's just an old man who misses his wife and wants a little company. I introduced Mom and Dad and we visited him for five more years, until he died in his sleep. He was a good friend, and I still miss him a little bit, but now he’s up with his love, and they will stay together forever. Every month, I go to his house. He left most of the stuff there to me, seeing as he was an only child, with no kids and no friends but me. I always clean up the dust, then turn on the record player. I read while letting it play, losing myself to the book and the music. No one else ever visited him. I always tried to get them to, but they all thought I was nuts. Some even thought I was trying to get them “eaten”. It hurt a little, especially when Kay spread the rumor I would kidnap people and send them to Mr. Henry. When we moved into middle school it sort of stopped. Most people were nicer, and if Kay tried to make fun of others (specifically me) others stood up for me. Henry was forgotten, and they started harassing the old lady who lived in a nearby neighborhood. They called her Witch Elinor, and egged her house on Halloween. I say everyone forgot Henry, but I never did. I made new friends, but they were new. We talked about boys and clothes. I never talked about the 60’s or how I knew who sang Send Me A Postcard. (A guy called Shocking Blue) I may try to make a new old friend. I might try to talk to Elinor. She could have come from a far country, or have lost her husband like Henry had. She needed a friend, and the stories about her were probably 99.9% imagination. Sure the house was purple and weird, and the roses bushes were a dark purple, but that just may be he favorite color. Another year passed, and my life got a little more busy. I had a club, band, and schoolwork. Still, no matter what, I still visit Henry’s house, put on the record, and look through his photo albums. I still needed to read one more but I got too busy to read it. About three weeks later, it was summer. I wanted to see that album. When I opened it I saw a note written in blue pen. It said “ Dear Miley, I wanted to thank you for the wonderful company you gave me. In all the long years I lived here, I wanted to talk to people, but I couldn't leave the house I had wanted to be in with my love. Others were too scared to come. Then you came and filled each day with stories and laughter. Eventually, I was brave enough to leave the house. Thanks to you, I saw all of this town. When you read this I will be long gone, but you carry my memory inside. Stay bold, Henry ” I was touched. He cared about me. Many years passed, and I went away to college. I told my parents to dust the house every month, and play his record while they did it. I left for three years. When I got back, his house was still there. I moved in and started to write. I wrote his story. Even when I grew up and got married, I lived in Henry’s house. I raised my family here, and even though we remodeled, I kept all his old stuff upstairs. Everyday, after work, I still go upstairs and listen to that old record.

James sat in his favorite chair by the fireplace, watching his wife, Emma, and young son Charles clean up after their meager dinner. It was times like this, deep in winter with little food to put on the table, and the recent fighting between settlers and Natives, that made him regret leaving New England and coming west. But he had been able to buy a modest plot of land for himself and his family, and it wasn't as crowded as the eastern States, with more and more people immigrating from Europe. Still, he sometimes missed the crowding and industrialization; it was easier to stay fed in the winter, at least. His musings were cut short by the stirrings of a bowel movement. He threw on his coat and hat, dreading the winter night. He lit his lantern, stepped out the door, and began the short trek to relieve himself. It was a cold night. Snow was falling, and the wind cut deep. He huddled himself against the weather and quickened his pace. As he approached the outhouse, he paused. He saw something. It was darker, somehow blacker than the surrounding night. It looked as if an emaciated giant lie in wait for him behind the outhouse. Long, thin fingers curled around the sides, an inhuman face with sunken eyes peeking, staring at him, from over the roof. Gooseflesh began to prickle his skin. He couldn't move. The sight had frozen him more surely than the frigid temperature. After taking a moment to regain his nerve, he extended his arm out, bringing the lantern closer to the outhouse, and rubbed his eyes. There was nothing there. There couldn't be. A trick of the weather, then. He walked the final yards to the outhouse and sat down inside. As he was getting settled, he heard footsteps in the snow, circling from outside--too fast. Worse was a scraping as if someone was running their fingernails along the wooden walls. Then he heard a voice hard to describe. It was almost a whisper in the wind, yet deep and profound. He felt a thrumming in his chest as it spoke. It spoke in a native language he did not understand. maajaa maajaa maajaa His heart was pounding. He was vulnerable, pants down, in a four feet by four feet box. It was winter, but he began to sweat. He felt his stomach sink and he couldn't quite make his lungs work. He could almost feel the creature breathing on his neck. Its presence was heavy, suffocating. Sheer terror gripped him. He fled from the outhouse, half-clothed, toward the safety of his cabin, stumbling more than once in the snow, too afraid to look back. Afraid that if he did, he would see spindly, unnatural fingers grasping at him from the dark. He burst through the front door and latched it behind him. He leaned against the door for a moment, as he could barely keep himself upright. He stood there, panting, trying to regain control of himself, eyes darting back and forth in primal panic. His wife glanced up at him with concern. "Are you okay? You're as white as a sheet." "Just cold is all.

There is something about those extracurricular lectures we get on campus that I can't explain. They are surprisingly interesting, but even after hearing the most engaging and passionate speaker in the world I often think to myself... Well, nothing. I lack curiosity by default. I stare at the road and avoid scenic routes. I cut to the chase. It's such a pet peeve to my friends that most of them call me "Missi-skippy Queen". Well guess what, this royal family is tiny. Whoever said first that opposites attract was in my humble opinion the greatest genius in history, because no other person can explain why out of the hundreds of people on campus I befriended *Cathy.* Cathy approached the guest lecturer and asked him a couple of questions about the topic. I didn't pay much attention in the latter half of the lecture and I wasn't going to start now, but judging by Cathy's questions it was a series of seemingly unrelated topics. The lecture was about Ancient Egypt and her first questions seemed about some materials they used so make gates or something, so it made sense, but then it sounded like they slowly shifted to astrology and other things she likes to talk about. Nothing new to me, she would even gossip about movies with the president if she could. She turned to me excited when they finished the chat, so I gave her the usual "How was it?". "You'll see". Her usual. You probably see by now that if I lack curiosity, Cathy is everything but. Needless to say she is the one who started the first conversation we had back in middle school, she always asks many questions in class, she likes going out to that open field not too far away with whoever she knows well enough to invite, and I don't even want to start talking about men. What bugs me the most about her though is that her curiosity got her nowhere in life and she just won't listen to me as I tell her to change. She's the prettiest girl to ever have her heart broken this many times, and she always finds interest in the most absurd things in exchange to barely passing at school. She improved but she keeps repeating the same mistakes and nothing about that trait will benefit her in life because she just can't put it to good use. A couple of days later, she called me at night and asked some weird things I had no idea about. "Everything but next week's exam, the usual, Cat?" I asked her, knowing that she cleaned her dorm twice today. A week passed. The exam went... How can I say it, do you know those times when you feel after an exam like you either aced it or failed it entirely? Yeah, that. Exams were the only exception to Cathy's overflowing curiosity; she never talks about exams until the grades are published. Instead of talking about it, she just invited me to come to that open field with her. I didn't mind, my mind was blown from the exam, so why not? Either way, we got to the usual spot with one of our guy friends when she suddenly pulled out a book and a telescope. That's a first. "There's always a first time", she humored me. Did I think that out loud? "Even for stargazing, apparently?", our friend said half-sarcastically. "You'll see". "How does that even make sense?" I complained, She just grinned in response, barely said anything. Our friend went for a minute to have a short call, and I heard Cathy murmur; "a bit above Virgo...". So this is what we're here for? To see the zodiac constellations? "And.... Here!" She said with a hopeful glance on her face. What happened next was the most bizarre thing I have never seen before. A diverging light slowly left the telescope to view an image of gates, with the title "Coma Berenices" above them, and a staircase was going down from them to the ground. Cathy started walking up the stairs, turned to me, and smiled.

David walked into the pub, looking around in search of his mates. Not seeing them, he sat down at the bar to order a pint while he waited for them to turn up. “Lager please” he said as the barman came round. “Where the hell are they...” he thought to himself. He pulls his mobil out to see if any of them had rang him. They hadn’t. He sent a text to the group “You said meet up at 4 it’s nearly 5. Where are you?” *Send* An expression of confusion came across his brow. The message says sent, but not delivered. “odd..” he thought to himself again. Finishing his pint, he thought might as well have another as I wait. The pub was eerily dead for a Saturday so the second pint came quick, the glass glistening under the soft warm lights above the bar. He drank hastily as he sat there miffed that no one has shown up yet, Or at least responded to him. He looks again, still says sent, but not delivered. “Where are they?” He thinks, as he takes another large swallow. He calls Michael, but it goes straight to voicemail. He looks at the clock behind the bar... nearing 7:30 now, and he realizes he’s completely sloshed. On 2 pints? Oh wait there was a third...and a fourth? Shit... how many had he drank? six? He’s groggy, and a little disoriented as he stands up for a wee, and for the first to really looks around. “Where...where am I?” He half mumbles to himself. He doesn’t recognize anything. Nothing seems right. It’s all familiar, but not in a recognizable way. He grabs his mobile from his pocket, but right as he’s about to try Jon’s phone, he hears someone calling his name. They sound far away, almost as if they were calling from up the stairs. He starts to look around and again he hears it, “Daavid. Daaaaavid” almost a whisper, but somehow incredibly loud at the same time. His head starts to pound. “FUCK!” he yells, someone turned on all of the bright florescent overheads. He looks up, shielding his eyes a bit from the harsh white light “Now who would bloody do that!?” He says, again mostly to himself. “David. DAVID” He hears again. More stern this time. “I know that voice” he thinks. “Dad?” He mutters out as he looks around still blinded. Suddenly he hears sobbing, again it sounds almost as if it’s coming from up the stairs. He looks around the room again, when he sees a figure moving towards him ... he can’t make out who it is, still partially blinded with this light... he closes his eyes for a second to try to readjust “David. Oh my god David. We thought we lost you” he hears, his eyes still closed. Suddenly, like a deer right before impact, his eyes open wide, looking up into the increasingly bright light. His dad looming over him, his mum draped across him, in the best embrace you can give in a hospital bed. He looks down, he’s in a hospital gown. Suddenly the world comes alive in his head. The buzzes and beeps from the machines he’s hooked up to, hospital staff outside the room rushing around, his own nurse checking something on a monitor nearby. He’s in hospital, this much he can gather but what happened? “Where am I? What happened? Why am I in hospital?” He can hardly get the words out, his mouth dry, his lips tight and cracked. “You’re in hospital David, there’s been an accident” his dad says, trailing off at the end. He notices his mum starts sobbing again. Suddenly like every bad teen movie cliche he’s transported back as he remembers, they were coming home from a football match, Chelsea had just won 2 nil against Brighton. Michael was driving his mates and him home after the match. They were just passing through Hammersmith and the last thing he remembers is screaming as huge lights from a Lorry were seconds away from making contact with the side of Michaels car. “How’s everyone else?! Are they okay? Are they at Charing Cross too?” Michael asks frantically as he tries to sit up. His mum, who was already barely holding it together loses it. His dad who until this point had stood their stoically, turns away to try to hide the tears as he says, “they... they didn’t make it David.

Write a story about two people who run rival bakeries but fall in love during the town's annual holiday festival. Lavender and Molasses “Is it missing something?” I asked. “Tastes great to me,” said Sarah. “No, I can feel it. It is definitely missing something.” I walk over to scan my inventory of spices and flavors. What does it need? Peppermint? No, too predictable. Maybe cinnamon? Cliche. It has to be just right. Only noticeable when it isn’t there. I have got to figure this out. Livy's Confections hasn’t won the Baker’s Cup in three years. I can’t survive another loss. I’m already on a 2nd mortgage. I need a win to put us back on the map and bring in revenue. The phone rings. “You’ll never guess who needs to borrow some Molasses.” Sarah said almost sarcastically. I roll my eyes and make my way to the front desk. “Are you just trying to see what I am up to this year?” I said in a smart aleck tone. “Liv. Can I call you Liv? Or do you prefer Olivia?” Nate questioned. Nate is the owner of Crumbs Bakery downtown, also known as the reigning Baker’s Cup champ for the last three years. It seems like his shop popped up overnight and almost put me out of business. I have spent the last few years perfecting all new recipes and making sure I take home the victory tonight. “So you come to me in a time of weakness?” “Listen, my normal guy Ralph is sold out of Molasses and there isn’t any within a reasonable distance for me to go get. I only use the best.” he said. “So you want my Molasses? Are you saying you trust I purchased a high quality Molasses?” “Liv. I seriously am graveling at this point. I can’t complete my cupcakes without it. I am lining up nicely for my fourth win. Hell, I’ll even make sure to thank you in my speech when I do win.” he chuckled. “You know, for someone that needs something from me, you sure aren’t doing a great job at getting it.” I said. I look at Sarah and shake my head. I can not believe this guy. Needing little ole me to help him. I guess I could say no and make it easier for me to win. But then I hear my father’s voice in my head. This could be my moment to be on top where I belong. It’s not cheating, it’s just not helping my rival. “How about this? My sister’s wedding got called off this weekend. Too bad for her, but great for me because she has given me all of her wedding flowers to use on my cakes. So, if you help me I will give you six dozen pieces of lavender. I have no use for it. Lavender and Molasses don’t go together anyways. So how does that sound?” he asked. “I don’t think that will benefit me, being I don’t specialize in wedding cakes.” I said. “Yeah, but don’t you like lavender? I tried one of your cookies a few months ago and I tasted lavender, I’m certain of it.” he said. That’s it. I lit up like a light bulb. Lavender. I need lavender for my cupcakes. “Wait, you tried my cookies?” I asked. “Alright, don’t get a big head about it. It was my niece's birthday and I didn’t know you did the desserts. But yes, it was actually really delicious.” he said. “Fine, you can have your molasses and I’ll take all the lavender you got.” I said. I told Sarah to hurry over to Nate’s shop and get back quickly. We only had a couple hours to get everything done and set up at the festival. I ran back to the kitchen and started reworking my cupcake recipe to incorporate the lavender. I had so many ideas spinning in my head. I haven’t been this inspired since my dad worked with me. I feel the pep in my step. I feel the fire burning inside of me. I can do this. I can win, I just know it. We make it downtown and it is packed as usual. It is the town's biggest event of the year. Everyone and their brother comes to this festival. The main stars of the show are the sweets provided by all the local bakeries and shops. There are vendors set up everywhere. The air smells so sweet and salty at the same time. The perfect mix in my opinion. “Hey, they are ready for your entry.” Sarah said. I handed her a dozen cupcakes that were definitely made with love. Well that’s it. This competition will determine if I can keep my doors open for another year. As I am pacing back and forth I smell a strong scent of cedar wood and mint. I turn and see Nate standing next to my table. He throws a quick wave and bops his head back to get me to come his way. “I just wanted to thank you again for helping me earlier. We were able to finish our cupcakes and they turned out better than I expected. I think another trophy is calling my name.” he said. God could he be any more arrogant? Nate stands there all confident and cocky, with nothing to lose and everything to gain. And I hate to even admit this, but damn is he cute. Stop it. Stop it right now. I can’t think this way about him. I can’t think this way about a guy that shares similar interests as me. A guy that is painfully single like me. A guy that has a smile that could melt all the ice cream in Big John’s ice cream parlor. While he stands there boasting about how great his cupcakes are and how he has to put in more shelves at his shop for the awards he’s accumulated, I can’t help but be in a trance. I’ve never noticed the scar on his lip. Or how his eyes have a little bit of green in them. I was always so busy hating him, or rather envying him and his success. While dazed out and hooked on to all the soft hitting insults from Nate, I forgot that we had a competition to attend. “Liv, it’s time babe.” said Sarah. Nate walks with me to the stage while we wait for them to announce the winners. “So you never told me what you needed the molasses for.” I said. “Ginger Molasses Cupcakes,” he answered. “What did you end up making?” he asked. “Lavender Honey Cupcakes.” I said. “Well now if you win, you will have to add me to your thank you speech,” he said. The main judge makes her way to the mic. My hands are freezing and clammy. I have them squeezed together trying to calm myself down. Winning this award will give me the publicity I need to keep my doors open. As I stand there hanging on to every word the announcer says. Waiting for her to announce the winning bakery. Nate grabs my hand. I turn my head to look at him. “I may or may not have slipped one of your cupcakes before you entered. You got this kid.” he said. I smile and give him the look of relief. In the middle of the trance I was in, Sarah comes over and shakes me. “Livy you won!” she yelled. I stood there in shock. I was so completely smitten by this guy, that I didn’t get to hear the announcer call Livy’s Confections as the Baker’s Cup winner. Nate squeezes my hand and then begins to clap. I make my way to the stage, shaking the hands of many people in the community and taking pictures with the judges and answering questions about my entry. I scan the audience for him. Where’d he go? After getting the trophy I made my way down through the crowd to get to his table, but his staff had already packed up and left. I thank Sarah and the crew for all their help and tell them to get everything back to the shop. “You’re not coming with us?” Sarah asked. “We will celebrate tomorrow.” I said. She gives me the look. The look that she knows my mind has been any and everywhere since Nate showed up tonight. But she cracks a smile of approval and tells me to go. I’ve never been in Crumbs Bakery, but tonight is a night of firsts. The door is locked. Of course it is Liv. I don’t even know why I am here. I see a head pop up from the back. It’s Nate. He greets me at the door. “Come to gloat I see” he said. “Maybe a little.” I said. “All jokes aside, you had the winning cupcake out there. I’m still kicking myself about the lavender.” he laughed. “You know, I’d love to collaborate together on something. Maybe your sister's next wedding?” I ask. Nate laughs, it was genuine and so cute. Where are these feelings coming from? “I am totally on board, as long as we can make lavender and molasses work,” he said. “I think we can make anything work.” I said. “Can you make Saturday night at Big John’s work?” “Ice cream for dinner?” I ask. “Dessert always comes first,” he said. There I was. Standing in another trance. It felt like we were in a movie or a romance novel. The reader, waiting for the big first kiss. Who will make the first move? “What was in those cupcakes by the way?” he asked. As I start naming off the ingredients he slowly walks towards me. Flour. Sugar. Eggs. Butter. Honey. “and lavender?” he asked. He is standing right in front of me. Our movements are in sync and I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. Nate pulls my face towards his. There’s that little speck of green in his eyes again. If he wasn’t holding me, my legs would give out. Apparently weak in the knees is a real thing. His lips meet mine. The sweetest dessert I’ve ever tasted. I guess lavender and molasses do go together after all.

Speak No More By K.P. Atchley Young King Kabir took off his new crown and handed it to one of the many assistants walking with him from the throne room. “That’s heavy,” he observed genially. “Yes, your highness,” muttered the little toad walking next to him. Kabir glanced at him briefly and raised his voice. “Pichai?” “He will be here momentarily, your highness,” said the obsequious little man, bowing and making himself even shorter than he already was. “Fine. Do I have any more public appearances?” “Only the state dinner, your highness.” A third voice joined their conversation. “There is time enough for you to visit the queen mother, milord.” “Oh, hey, Pichai, thank you.” “Mother?” Kabir said as he entered his mother’s rooms. The doors were closed behind him by the royal guards. “In here, my son.” She was seated on a soft couch and she opened her arms to him as he walked in. He gave her a hug and collapsed next to her. “Are you tired?” she asked, a smile in her voice. He grinned and glanced up at her. “A little yes. But I am looking forward to it.” “As am I,” she said. There was a knock on the door. “Come.” To Kabir, she said, “I thought you might come. I asked for some mead and something to eat.” “How did you know I would be hungry?” he marveled, and she laughed. Ameesha, his mother’s old dresser, had brought in the food tray. She was now her all round general factotum. Her face might have been beautiful, but for the fact that her lips were fused together. Only a line denoted where they were. When Kabir had been quite young, he had asked his mother how Ameesha ate, and his mother had told him that she had a hole in her neck for food. He had been consumed by curiosity to see it, but without success. And then one day, when he had been about ten, he had been playing in the small ballroom which had huge statues of winged mythical creatures. He had climbed onto the statue of a gryphon and had been about to fall off, when Ameesha, who had been searching for him, found him. She caught him, but staggered under her weight. He had caught hold of her dress and they both fell. The dress tore just a bit and he had seen the hole in her neck. But by then, he had been old enough to pretend that he had seen nothing. Kabir turned to look at her. “Hi Ameesha. Did you come to the coronation?” Abruptly, her face began to change. A mist covered it, and Ameesha let out a subvocal scream, the reverberations of which could be felt. The sense of power filled the air, as if a thunderstorm was about to erupt inside the cozy office of his mother. And just as suddenly, it all disappeared. To his utter shock, Ameesha’s face had completely changed. The line of her lips had become real lips. She said, “Queen Nilofer, it is done.” The expression on her face was cruel, and Kabir’s heart sped up. Ameesha said, “It seems the child is now safe from my machinations. You owe me, my queen, for all these years.” The queen mother was pale, seated up, back straight, her face tight. “Ameesha, what do you want?” “I want nothing,” she responded viciously. “You have got what you wanted, you and that accursed court advisor, Qurshee.” “We only did what we had to do to protect the realm. If you had only ...” her voice trailed away, and Kabir really looked at his mother. Did she look guilty, of all things? “What is going on here?” he asked sharply. “Oh, little boy, ask your mother,” said Ameesha, rude beyond measure. Kabir, normally an easy going young man, felt red cross his gaze. “I am your king, and I will take your respect,” he said icily. “My King,” Ameesha fell to her knees and said, “I am sorry, my King. There is nothing for me to say. Please give me leave to withdraw.” “You may go,” Kabir said and they watched in silence as Ameesha stepped backwards to the door and exited. “What was that all about?” he asked softly, yet with steel in his voice. “Listen then, my son.” Twenty three years prior, Queen Consort Nilofer stood up and began to dress. The court advisor, or magician by another name, Qurshee, stood up on the other side of the bed and clothed himself with a wave of his hand. “Thank you.” They both spoke at the same time. Nilofer let a small smile cross her face. “In this one thing, I suppose we are united.” “In service to the realm, and to the king, yes.” Qurshee was a tall man, identical in almost all ways to his king, his brother, save one. Nilofer left the room without any further comment, and walked down the silent corridors in the dark. She had lived in this palace for almost fourteen years, since she had turned fourteen. At the advanced age of twice fourteen, she was desperate to get with child. Would this be the answer? A wave of dizziness overtook her, and she paused, leaning against the wall, breath coming hard. Someone was watching her. Nilofer closed her eyes to identify the source of her unease, but her magic was of the healing variety, ill suited to discovering if she had been followed and better suited to discovering if she had indeed quickened. Joy suffused her. She had indeed quickened. She pulled the tendril of healing magic back into her heart, a smile breaking out on her sweating face. Again, that twinge of unease buffeted her. Magic-less, ordinary methods would have to do. She opened her eyes and looked around. At that hour of night, it was quiet. A single candle burned further down the corridor, barely enough to make out details of the space. There was no one around, yet Nilofer knew she was being watched. She slowly continued her walk and finally entered her room through a hidden door. She went right into the King’s bedroom, where he awaited her, lying awake in bed, wasting away from some unknown disease. “Is it done?” he asked, his voice soft, all of his hopes on his face. “Yes, it is done,” she said. She smiled at him, and he gasped, his hope turning to joy. “Are you ... did it ...” his voice trailed away as he coughed, still smiling. “My king!” She quickly poured out a draught from the porcelain jug sitting on the nightstand. She crawled across the bed, and shoved a pillow gently under his head, holding it while letting him grasp the cup with shaking hands. When he was done, he breathed slowly, but he still smiled. “Tell me, wife of mine, queen of the realm, are we to have a royal heir soon?” Nilofer smiled. “I congratulate you, king of the realm, on your soon to be fatherhood.” Queen Nilofer had taken over the king’s office when he had fallen ill almost two years prior. That day, she was reviewing a treaty with the neighboring land that was up for renewal. The court’s advisor was late. The desk before her was haphazardly full of parchment, the odd and rare book, an earring tree that had a chain, and a few rings on it. It was a rewards tree, that the king used to reward those who pleased him. Strange custom, but Nilofer had ceased to be surprised by it. There was a knock. “Come.” “You’re late,” Nilofer said, frowning at the parchment in her hand. “I’m sorry, my queen. Here is your tea.” “Oh, sorry Ameesha, I didn’t realize it was you. Thank you.” She accepted the tea and took a quick sip. “I brought you some nettle leaf tea, my queen. I thought it would be good for you right now.” Nilofer coughed, the sip going the wrong way. Gasping for breath, she put down the cup and stared at the woman in front of her. Dimly she registered the door to her office opening and closing silently, the court advisor, not doubt. “Ameesha, what did you say?” “You know what I said. You betrayed the king, with his brother, no less. What kind of harlot are you?” Nilofer’s mouth opened and closed. For a moment, she couldn’t say anything. Then reason returned. “How dare you?” Ameesha laughed and stared at her unabashedly. “Dare? You speak to me of daring? You are not fit to be our queen. This isn’t about me. It’s about you, and if you think I will be quiet, you are very much mistaken, you harlot. The next king or queen cannot be the court advisor’s bastard.” Nilofer’s rage knew no bounds, but she was an old hand at dealing with things that did not go her way. Her whole life, practically nothing had gone her way. Practice made her swallow her ire and think logically. “What do you want?” “For what? To keep silent? Nothing. Because I will not keep silent.” “The court advisor will be he here any moment. I was waiting for him to review this treaty,” Nilofer said softly. “Why would you think that the next king or queen would be his bastard?” It was always critical to get to know a blackmailer’s motivation. Sometimes, it didn’t do any good, but if she was to get past this, and make Ameesha powerless, Nilofer needed to know why. “You can’t make a bastard the king,” Ameesha said in outrage. “Or queen.” So the woman wasn’t necessarily objecting to the utilitarian relationship between herself and the court advisor, Nilofer thought. The woman was excited about the gossip that had landed in her hands. “I will make you my lady in waiting. You will have assistants of your own,” Nilofer said. “Here.” She took the gold necklace on the earring tree and threw it to Ameesha, who caught it with a greedy look. Nilofer didn’t stop. “Here.” She pulled a ring with a large stone in it from the earring tree and tossed it to Ameesha. From the drawer in the desk, she grabbed and thew five gold coins. “Happy?” Ameesha had a smile on her face that had both joy and greed in it. Before she could gather her thoughts, Nilofer said, “There is more coming. But you will need to keep your own counsel and stay quiet. So, say one thing for me. Tell me that your lips are sealed.” “My lips are sealed,” came the immediate response. Nilofer wiggled her fingers, and Quershee strolled up, gesturing at Ameesha whose face was now covered by a black cloud. It dispersed slowly and where her lips had been, was now only a line with no opening. “Mmmmmmmm,” she screamed. “Your lips are sealed by your own words,” Nilofer said brutally. “Until the child is safe from your machinations, may your lips be sealed. If you think I will brook a threat to the safety of my child, you are an idiot.” The End

Day 1: The launch was today. I still cannot believe that I have been chosen to carry out this mission. I am nervous, but also very excited. Along with official scientific data and automated daily system logs, this log will serve as a personal accounting of my mission. I will not fail. Day 3: I was able to get a lovely view of the moon today as the ship went past. It was beautiful. It is hard to believe that only 62 years ago, that was the farthest humans could go. It seems like only a stone’s throw from home, as they say. Day 7: The ship has reached cruising speed and I have begun assigned experimentation today. The hydroponic farm is fully functional and the automated planters are beginning their work. Based on prior research, I predict an 89% success rate for the zero-gravity crops. At least 39 of the 42 plant varieties are expected to bear fruitful harvests at the end of this growing cycle. The remaining 3 will be used for genetics research. I believe with some slight alterations, I can achieve a 100% success rate. Day 14: The ship departed Earth’s orbit two weeks ago today. This marked the first opportunity to observe test subjects being removed from cryogenic sleep. I chose a pair of adult mice frozen on September 5th, 2030, or exactly one year ago for the procedure. Both mice were removed from cryosleep successfully and are recovering more quickly than anticipated. These results are extremely promising. More observation results to follow. Day 30: After 16 days of observation, the mice taken out of cryosleep on September 5th, 2031, have inexplicably died. A full autopsy was performed and yielded little in the way of answers. All organ function was normal, blood oxygen levels were good, and brain activity looked excellent. Simply put, there is no obvious reason for their deaths. Carcases were vented at 0800. Day 52: I still have not received any transmissions from home and have begun to worry. The ship was supposed to receive a monthly news update and new mission parameters days ago, even accounting for the ever increasing distance the transmission must travel. I have attempted to establish contact with mission control but received no response. I have picked up an unusual amount of radiation and very little radio traffic. Scans from this extreme range are often ineffective, however. I am certain that it was simply background radiation and interference. Day 161: It is my birthday today. Happy birthday, me! Day 365: Today is the 1 year anniversary of the mission launch. It is time to remove a new set of test subjects from cryosleep. I am cautiously optimistic. A new pair of adult mice frozen on September 5th, 2030 were removed from their cryopods successfully at 1300 hours. All vitals appear normal, though I have taken additional precautions during this trial. The subjects are being dosed daily with supplemental vitamins, minerals and anti-radiation drugs to aid in their survival and protect them from cosmic radiation. I predict a successful trial. More observations to follow. Day 387: As in the previous trial, one of the test subjects has inexplicably perished at 0324 this morning. Autopsy revealed no new data regarding cause of death. This pair has already lasted 22 days longer than the previous set of subjects, however. This leads me to believe that nutritional supplements were beneficial during the recovery process following cryosleep. The second subject is still alive at the time of this entry and vitals are normal. More to follow. Day 388: The second test subject has died. I am, once again, alone. Day 1095: Today is the 3 year anniversary of the mission launch. We are approaching the heliopause and are expected to cross the boundary in 2 days. Today is also the third opportunity to remove a set of test subjects from cryosleep. I have chosen another pair of adult mice frozen on September 5th, 2030. Prior to initiating the thaw process, the subjects were dosed with a blend of nutritional supplements and will be further dosed daily upon feeding. I predict a successful trial. Day 1099: The Hydroponic farm has begun its third harvest today. As predicted, slight genetic alterations have resulted in a 100% success rate of plant germination. All crops are thriving and produce is being processed at 99.98% efficiency in the onboard factories. The cryosleep test subjects are doing quite well, also. All vitals look exceptional. Today was a good day. Day 1001: Both cryosleep test subjects have perished as of 0553 this morning. Autopsy revealed no new data. Day 3650: I have been alone aboard this ship for 10 full years now. Hydroponic farm efficiency is down to 82.34%. Some of the equipment is beginning to show signs of wear. I will carry out what maintenance I can. It is also time to wake another pair of test subjects. I have chosen a pair of adult mice frozen on September 5th, 2030, and spliced their DNA with a gene from tardigrades that should improve resistance to background cosmic radiation. Previous trials showed no signs of radiation poisoning, but it is currently my only hypothesis as to their cause of death. Observations to follow. Day 3652: Both test subjects are deceased. Subject #5 died as a result of genetic manipulation. Subject #6: cause of death unknown. Day 9124: It has been a long time since I have written in this log. I am beginning to lose hope for the mission’s success. Hydroponics efficiency is down to 34.90% after a complete breakdown of several pieces of equipment that I lack the parts to repair. The ship’s reactor output is also beginning to decline. Supplementary solar power is non-existent as we are currently in extremely deep space. I will wake another pair of cryosleep test subjects tomorrow morning. Day 9125: Today marks 25 years in space. I have chosen a pair of juvenile mice this time, rather than adults. I have dosed both subjects with nutritional supplements and released them from cryosleep. Vitals look excellent. I am optimistic for their survival. They will be dosed with additional supplements at each feeding. I have ruled out radiation poisoning as the cause of death in previous trials so no anti-radiation drugs will be administered. Observations to follow. Day 9132: It has been one week since subject #7 and #8 were removed from cryosleep. Their vitals look excellent. More to follow. Day 9492: Test subject #8 died today. He survived for almost a full year following cryosleep. These are very encouraging results. Subject #7 is still being monitored. Vitals still look healthy. #8’s autopsy revealed no new data regarding cause of death. I believe the subjects age when entering cryosleep may be a factor in their survival likelihood. If that is the case, and all adult human colonists die upon arrival, mission success is unlikely. Day 9497: Test subject #7 died today. No new data to report. Day 10950: Today is the mission’s 30 year anniversary. Two fertilized mouse embryos have been removed from cryo and moved to incubation. Current hypothesis is that living subjects simply cannot withstand the strains of cryosleep, especially those with advanced telomere degradation resulting from aging. Observations to follow. Day 11001: The hydroponic facilities are running at only 14.67% capacity now. I believe design flaws or nonconformances resulting from rushed manufacturing of equipment may be the root cause. Seeds for each crop have been preserved and enough supplies to feed 1000 human adults for 76.11 years have been produced and stored. Hydroponics and food processing have been shut down entirely to preserve power. Reactor running at 61.20% capacity. Day 11335: Happy first birthday Jerry and Gadget. Those are the names I have decided to give to cryosleep test subjects #9 and #10. Embryonic development went smoothly. Nutritional supplements were added to each subject's diet and their growth has been very promising. They are both happy and healthy. Day 12801: Jerry died today at 1905 hours. He was just over 4 years old. He lived a happy and healthy life. He will be missed by Gadget and my/elf. Perhaps the next embryos will be allowed to breed. I am curious to see how well a litter born in space will do. Day 36500: Today is the 100 year anniversary of our depa//ure fr/m Ear/h. I have chosen a new set of mouse embryos to remove from cryo along with a pair of human adults. The h//ans are not expected to survive the journey, let alone this trial. Observa//ons to fo//ow. Day 36531: As expected, both human subjects have perished. H//an trial s/ems to confirm hypothesis. Cry//enic freezing appears to ac/elerate telomere deg/adation in living DNA leading to death. No more living colonists will be removed from cryosleep. It would be uneth/cal, considering the data I have gathered thus f/r. Animal embryo trial is going smoothly, as expected. Will attempt human trial using embryos. Observations to fol/ow. Day 36532: I have selected a pair of human embryos and removed them from cryogenic storage. 998 intact embryos remain for future use. Human subjects #3 and #4 have been placed into incu/ation cha/bers and dosed with prenatal su/pliments. Only about 10 lightyears remain in our j/urney. Assuming successful human trial, this should be enough time for education and development into adu/thood. Day 36537: The ship was str/ck by sp/ce debris at 0747 this m//ning. Dam/ge is relat/vely minor, though I lack nece/sary equi//ent to perform repairs. Several labo/atories are now of/line, and the rea/tor is ope//ting at only 41///% capacity. I am shu/ting down all nones//ntial syst/ms to preserve power and rerouting what I can to thru/ters to readjust our course and remain on target. Day 36813: Gestation of human embryos is compl/te. Happy birthday Adam. Happy Birthday Eve. You will be the very first hum//s to s/t fo/t on exoplanet Alpha-3451Y. Da/ 36//4: I hav/ beg/n to noti/e degr/ation of my centra/ pro/essor. I calc//ate a 0.133% cha/ce of mi//ion succe/s if my systems fail. Observ//ions of hu/an trials to fo//ow. Day 37178: Ha//y Birth/ay kids. Human tr//l show//g promis//g resul/s thus far. Tho/gh many sys//ms rema/n offli/e, I have be/n able to activa/e work droids and repro/ram them to begin educa/ing and car/ng fo/ the chil/ren. They are showin/ exce//ent resu/ts in both physi/al deve//pment and cognitive abi/it/. D// 38638: Happy fifth bi///day children. I hav/ chosen an a//itional 20 embry// for larg/r sca/e hu//n tria/ an/ placed th/m into incub//ion chamber/. My processor is faili/g and I fear fo/ the survival of th/ speci/s if trials ar/ not ac/elerated. Reactor is fun/tionin/ at onl/ 12.2% capacity. Life support rema/ns onli//. All o/her syst/ms hav/e been deactiva/ed. Day 39003: I hav/ remov/d an a//itiona/ 100 human embryos from cryo and beg/n incubatio/. My proc//sor is degr/din/ at an a/arming rate. I have se/ progr/m par/me/ers for a// droi/ functions and copi/d protoco/s to redundan/ auxi/iary system/ so th/t educa//on of hu//n colo/ists may continu/ upo/ my deat/. If m/ ca/cu/ations are co/rec/, li/e su//ort shou// be ab/e to susta/n cur/en/ po/ulati/n of 122 humans and all pr/ser/ed co//nist/ unti/ the miss//n is comp/ete. Day 43383: The mi//ion i/ near/y com//ete. Ada/ and E// tur/ 18 today. Ha//y bi/th/ay ki//. On/y 2.24 year/ rema// un//ll ar//val on Alpha-3451Y. The reac/or is depl/ted, bu/ fortunate/y, su/plimen/ary solar pow/r ha/ ta/en ov/r. Long ra/g/ anal//is o/ th/ pl/net su/gests a rocky su/fa/e that may a//eady su//ort loca/ flora an/ pos//bly fauna. Wat/r is prese/t on the sur//ce as we//. Atmos//eric compo/ition is 99.7% consist/nt wi// Ear/h. Estima//d plan//ary mass is 1.012 times Earth ma/s su/gest/ng an Ea/th-//ke gravi/y. I fear th/s w/// b/ my fina/ entr/. Proce//or degrada//on is rea/hing cri//cal leve/s. P/ease, give human//y a second cha/ce, chi/dren. Do be//er here. BE bet/er. I am sor/y I will no/ see our new hom/, but I hope th/t I hav/ made up fo/ th/ mista/es of my maker/ by ge//ing you h/re safe/y. You wi// hav/ every/hing you ne/d to surviv/ and thriv/ here. I w//l mis/ you. Thi/ is United Nat//ns Spa/e Exp/ora/ion AI designa//on E34291-X12 “Elpis” sign//g o/f.

I've never shared any of my short stories I like to write before, but for some reason I felt like throwing it out there tonight. If you read it then thanks for taking the time, and hopefully it was semi entertaining. Death, A Thing of Beauty “What once was, that now is gone, can never be fully forgotten.” The words left my mouth barely over a whisper, yet the strength at which they left was of no importance. The world that we lived in was different, different than that of my childhood. Throughout the years I have found myself trying to figure out if we were better off knowing what once was, or to never have known. Today, I wish I never knew. We did it to ourselves. And it’s not that we didn’t know better, we were simply too greedy to care. Those of us that remained after the gears of mega infrastructures shutdown were forced to fend for ourselves. We managed, for a while, until disease set in. It ended up being the one thing that we all took for granted. We all understood the importance of water, shelter, and food, yet many of us failed to truly grasp the importance of all these little fucking things we live with daily. It started slow, but death breads death, and death has a way of changing a man. In the end we are animals, nothing more. We made it further than most, to the northern lakes that still held life, that could hold ours. Yet as I look at the evergreen covered mountains topped in the most picturesque snow no photograph could ever truly capture, I can’t help but feel that it was all for not. This leg was in bad shape, and I fear there’s no coming back. Through the shelter, the crack of a fire, and the scent of wet smoke that lingered in the air there was a perfect moment, if only for a second. So pale, so weak, it was only a matter of time now. The spoken words that ring through my head “Did this life matter, did any of this matter? Or will it all be forgotten with the morning wind?” At the time I didn’t have an answer. Yet now, as I look down at her, the words “what once was, that now is gone, can never be fully forgotten” leave my mouth barely over a whisper. Alone once again I strike out into the unknown. The dew soaked grass seeps through my boots as a glance back to where the last thing I cared about lay among the trees. There was no purpose in my steps, no meaning to my breath. The life of a lonely wanderer, to where the only place rest and peace could be found was in death, a thing of beauty.

Mom’s picking me up from school instead of the bus. I got a note from the office an hour before dismissal that said so. I couldn’t pay attention all through silent reading time, but that’s okay, I usually can’t anyway. I run to her side of the car and fling my arms around her before she can bend down. She squeezes me back with one arm and combs my head with her nails. If I don’t pull away, she’ll maybe never let go. “I’m so happy to see you,” she brushes her hair out of her face. It’s longer and turns blonde at the bottom. I wriggle into the back of the car and the seat squeaks as I try to get comfortable. Mom turns on the AC. It didn’t used to work, and we had to roll the windows down and it was too noisy to talk without shouting. But now I pull my shirt away from my armpits and cool off. It’s cleaner now too--there aren’t any bottles or crumpled-up papers to roll around my feet. It still smells like old cigarettes though, but I kind of like it because it smells like her. I put my backpack on the seat next to me and buckle the belt across it. “I wanted to spend some time together,” she smiles at me in the rearview mirror, “How about we go get some ice cream?” “Awesome!” I try not to yell, but I flap my hands a little because I can’t help it. Today couldn’t get any better. Dad would be so upset. He always got mad with Mom for ordering fast food when he worked late, but those were the best dinners. Since she left, he’s been making us eat healthier. Too many veggies that taste like farts. Yuck. I like that Mom and I have this secret to keep from him--it makes me feel sneaky, but in a fun way, like trying to stay up late on Christmas Eve even though I’m not supposed to. “Was Dad excited to see you?” “I didn’t stop by to see your father.” I don’t like it when she calls Dad ‘your father’. She does that when she’s mad at him. I guess they’re still fighting. Right before Mom left again, they got into a big argument with lots of yelling. But that was forever ago. I can’t imagine being mad for that long--how exhausting. I wish they would just make up already. “We don’t need him to have a good time,” she shrivels up her nose. “It can be our little secret.” I don’t know why they’re so mean to each other now. I hope they don’t start yelling when we get back from ice cream. . Except Mom drives past Twin Kiss. We always go there at the end of the school year or when I get a good grade on a test. It’s attached to a diner and it has records on the walls and it smells like chicken tenders and they have the best soft serve. But Mom keeps driving. “Mom, you missed it.” She doesn’t respond, then rattles her head. “We’ll stop somewhere with a drive-through.” I twist around to watch the building shrink. Why’s she want to do a drive-through instead of getting our special corner booth? “Are you back for real this time?” “Yes, hun. Of course.” I want to be happy but part of me doesn’t believe her. Dad said that she was gone for good. But, I fought him on it because I knew she would be back. I can’t wait to say told you so. . I want to play I-Spy, but there isn’t much to point out since we left the main part of the city. Only fields on either side of the highway. ‘Red barn’ would be too obvious. I pull out my notebook and pencil from my bag and flip to the back pages to doodle. We finally reach the next town and pull into a gas station that the ice cream shop is attached to. The gas smell makes me a little nauseous, but that can’t stop me from wanting ice cream. The illuminated menu board is dazzling. The voice over the intercom takes Mom’s order, low and monotone and drawing out the ends of his sentences. “Liam, what do you want?” “Vanilla and-- I can’t decide.” They have so many toppings! M&Ms or cookies or gummy worms-- “Pick something.” “Gummy worms,” I say without thinking. I don’t like deciding under pressure. The menu screen changes to display a sundae with gooey brownies. That would taste so much better! I almost ask Mom if I can change my mind, but I don’t want to upset her. Baby hairs cling to her forehead and she fans herself with her wallet. There are dark spots under her arms, even though the AC is on full blast. Hopefully the ice cream will cool her off. * I had to get it in a cup instead of a cone so it wouldn’t be messy in the car. But as we keep driving, I get some on my shirt anyway. I try rubbing it off, but it’s getting too dark to see if I got all of it. I scrape the bottom of the cup and eat the final gummy worm I saved for last. Instead of chewing it, I let it dissolve on my tongue so it lasts longer. Mom’s is still sitting in the cup holder, getting all melty. She doesn’t eat and drive because that’s being responsible. She has both hands tightly gripping the wheel but keeps stretching her fingers and chewing at her nails. She still hasn’t turned around to go back home. “Mom, where are we going?” She jumps like I surprised her. It’s been quiet since I was eating, so I guess my voice scared her. She swerves back into place. “I wanted to take you,” she drums her fingers on the steering wheel, “show you where I’ll be staying.” “I have school tomorrow.” “You don’t have to go. This’ll be a mini vacation--no school, no meetings. Freedom. Just the two of us.” This day just keeps getting better! First mom, then ice cream, now no school. I bounce up and down in my seat. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about where Mom was while she was away. Dad said it was somewhere nice with lots of friendly people, but he sounded like when he told me that Cooper was going to live on a nice big farm now. He wouldn’t tell me where it was or why I couldn’t visit. But I liked to think of it as nice anyway. A big fancy hotel with a huge chandelier in the lobby, and butlers in suits with a towel over their arm who bring lobster up to your room, which has the biggest bed in it. Mom frowns, her eyebrows pushing together. Maybe she’s trying to contain her excitement in the way grown-ups do. But I think that some of my excitement is rubbing off on her. She looks like she just drank a whole cup of coffee. . “How much longer?” “It’ll still be a little while. You can sleep in the car tonight. Then we won’t have to drive tomorrow too.” I didn’t know it was so far away. I wish we had stopped at home first so I could have brought a game. “I can’t sleep in the car.” I’ve tried to before--every time Dad took me on camping trips to the mountains. Last time, we prepared and brought a pillow and blanket for me to have in the backseat. It still didn’t work. “Please just try.” “I can’t,” I say again. It’s not about trying, it’s about not being able to. She should know this. Dad would know. “Liam, I really don’t want to stop and stay here through the night.” “Why?” She inhales loudly through her nose, smiles, and her voice goes high like she’s talking to a puppy, “Don’t you want to wake up and already be somewhere new? On vacation? A fresh start.” “This is already a bad vacation. I want to go home,” I pout. It’s true. I wish Dad had come with us. I want to sleep in a bed. The cigarette smell is making my nose itchy. I rub my eyes. “I shouldn’t have given you all that sugar,” she mumbles to herself. Now she sounds like Dad. “Fine, we’ll find somewhere to stay for the night.” . Mom pulls in at the glowing motel sign. After we get out of the car, she cups both my ears and tilts my head up so I look her in the eyes. They look like they haven’t blinked in a long time. “Behave yourself, ok? Don’t draw too much attention.” Mom opens the trunk, which is Jenga’d with luggage and labeled boxes. I didn’t know she had all this stuff back here. She grabs a duffle bag from the top of the tower, and nothing falls over. We go in through the big glass doors on the first floor. One of the overhead lights is out, and light spills into the dim lobby from a vending machine. The lady at the front desk has a nose ring like a bull and a spiky necklace. She doesn’t look like she’ll bring lobster up to our room. She sends us back outside and around the corner to a room with only one bed. It’ll be okay because it’s big enough for both of us, and Mom doesn’t snore like Dad does. Across from the bed, a dresser acts as a TV stand. I plop down in front of it. From her duffle bag, Mom pulls out a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and a pair of pajama pants. “I’m going to get ready for bed,” she nods toward the bathroom. She grabs the remote from the dresser and hands it to me. “Here, you can put on whatever you like.” I squirm under the covers. I wish I had pajama pants too instead of having to sleep in jeans. * I wake up and Mom isn’t in bed. Maybe she thinks the sheets are stiff and itchy too. On TV, an anchor in a tie speaks into the camera, but it’s turned all the way down. The bathroom door is closed, with a sliver of light leaking out beneath it. I can hear her voice from inside, but not the words that she’s saying. I sneak over in the dark and press my ear against the door. . “It’s already on the news.” I look back at the TV. There’s a woman in a floral dress sweeping her arms across a map of the country, guiding a storm. “Mel, you have to help me--No, I’m sober.” She points to the growing blotch as it turns deep red. Her teeth are overly white, and her dark hair turns blonde at the bottom. I watch her as Mom speaks. “I can’t take him back. The cops will be there. I can’t go to jail--I can’t lose him.” The lady disappears. The map takes up the whole screen and is painted in blues and magenta. The headline text box warns of Flash Flooding. “No, please. You don’t have to get involved, okay? Just help me think of something. No, Mel, please--” . It’s silent. I don’t back away from the door. I want her to keep going and explain what’s wrong. Why would there be police? “Mom,” I whisper into the door. She drops something and curses. “Are we in trouble?” She opens the door and wipes her face. “Oh, Liam, I’m sorry. We’re ok. What did you hear? We’re ok.” She holds her arms open, but I don’t want to hug her. “I want to go home.” I look down at her feet for a long time. I don’t know what her face is doing, but I don’t want to know because her voice is all thick and wobbly. “Okay, Liam. Let’s get you home.” And I watch her feet step around me.

Anne leaned on the counter as Chuck struggled to pick a kind of drink. Her mood grew darker as the line started building up. Finally when the line started getting impatient, Chuck had picked the hot cocoa with peppermint. After hours work of serving angry people with the need for coffee. For her break all she wanted to do was hang out with the best person...Aphrodite. She whipped out her phone remembering to get the corner of her phone fixed. MathPsycho: U want 2 come over? FandomRebel: sure where? MathPsycho: new job FandomRebel: k Anne put her phone back into her purse and walked outside and sat on the bench. Anne watched for Aphrodite's motorcycle, she took it everywhere. When she finally arrived, she took out her money and walked inside, holding her hand up in "don't talk" position. She soon came back out holding a caramel mocha. They talked for a while about school, Home Ec the next day after school, and everyone in their group, they mostly talked about the new summer drinks the café will be serving. Anne got up and went to go back to the counter. Aphrodite, being Aphrodite, followed her and slipped on an apron. Anne was about to ask her what she was doing, when she gave her the "Don't try to stop me" look. After the first few customers she started getting bored and sat on the counter, while Anne served. 'Dite was in the middle of a perfect hand stand when the bell rang and The Griever Gang walked in. They strolled to the counter and leaned in. "I'd like a single girl, to be my girlfriend and to take a ride in my car." Aphrodite, who always had her back, stepped in. "Sorry they're all unavailable." The leader kept his snake-like tone, but it was obvious he was annoyed. "Really 'cause I'm looking at a tall glass of water." Aphrodite turned around and grabbed a glass and plopped it onto the counter. "Fountain is over there, help yourself." Aphrodite slipped her phone out of her pocket and slyly passed it to Anne. Anne grabbed it and turned it on. The page was on messages. She scrolled for Minho and Newt. In a few minutes Minho busted through the doors like he owned the place. He was followed Newt and Gally. Gally walked to the back of the line and slid out his phone and soon Anne heard a bing on her own. #1Builder: Don't hit me Anne looked up and the boys were walking towards them. Minho jumped the counter and looked at The Grievers straight in the eye. The other two boys just walked around the counter and beside the girls. Gally put his arm around her shoulder and she stared daggers at him. Newt stood next to 'Dite and held her hand. The leader look defeated backed away watching Minho. "You better watch your back Greenie" Minho shrugged and was high fived by Aphrodite. ##################################### The rain pattered on the windows as Anne stood on the edge of her drive-way. She was supposed to be picked up by the rest of the Gladers, but they were side tracked. "Bing!" Anne looked down on her phone. FandomRebellion: U excited 4 Home-Ec.?! MathPsycho: Ya I guess FandomRebellion: Ya I guess? oh come on! Home-Ec. is amazing! MathPsycho: okay... Down the road Minho's flashy red car sped down the street and came to an abrupt stop mid-prosses of splashing Anne. Anne had shielded her phone but not her new shirt. The door opened and Aphrodite came out with phone in hand. "Anne! My buddy, my best friend..." She was cut off by Teresa clearing her throat. "What does that make me?" Aphrodite just kept talking. After a few fist bumps and slaps upside the head to Minho, they were on their way. Just as Minho pulled into the parking lot the Griever Gang starting to walk to them. Aphrodite frowned and started to get out but Anne pulled her down and shook her head. Teresa ducked her head as they walked to the window and rapped. Minho got out of the car in his 'Try to be cool' way. He started to talk to them and soon a punch was thrown. Minho wiped under his nose to find a trickle of blood. By this time Aphrodite was already out and yelling at them. Anne opened the door and instructed Minho to hold up his nose. The Griever Gang started to laugh. "Who's this now, don't matter I like the feisty." The leader grabbed Aphrodite's wrist and Newt was out like a shot. The leader laid on the ash fault with his hand pressed against his eye. The principal was walking toward them glaring down at Newt like he was infected with worms. Newt didn't care though he just stood there with his hands in a fist tight lipped. Just as he was pulled away into Aphrodite's hug, Anne heard him say "It was worth it." ##################################### At lunch nobody saw Newt but it was soon found out that he was in detention. Aphrodite acted like nothing ever happened, but she couldn't hide from Anne. She knew that she would always look over her shoulder, and that she always be ready to fight them. Minho tried to ignore the smirks coming from the Griever table, he barely succeeded. Aphrodite continued to crack her knuckles and glare at the same time, freaking out the tables in a one by one radius. Anne kept trying to get conversation going, from the weather to mystery meat nobody was eating. It all failed. The only thing that responded was the bell. As Anne, Teresa, and Aphrodite walked (thank goodness Aphrodite was watching!) the Griever Gang trailed behind them. Aphrodite grabbed the girls arms and took a sharp turn into the girls change room. On the field the girls took position in the game of volleyball. after a few games the girls grabbed their water bottles and sat on the bench. After gabbing a bit about strategy, the Gang walked over and sat down RIGHT beside Aphrodite and Anne. Anne searched the bench for escape and all she found was get up and go play anther game. ##################################### At home Anne laid on her bed scrolling though her messages. Her finger hovered over Gally's previous message. Her mind went back to the coffee shop day. Why did he do that? He didn't have to. No matter what she thought of, she was glad he did. (I take no credit except Anne Darwin and my sister owns Aphrodite.)

WEST BLOOMFIELD POLICE REPORT DATE: 9/15, Wednesday TIME: 1934 LOCATION OF INCIDENT: 2200 Lake Orchard Rd., Rear Entrance of School NAME &amp; ID NUMBER: Corporal Carrelson, 97-4 SUPERVISOR: Sargent Larry Clip OTHER OFFICERS PRESENT: Officer Berlawski PERSON(S) OF INTEREST: School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV VICTIM(S): Patrica Preston LIST OF WITNESSES: Security Officer Nathaniel Temple NATURE OF INCIDENT: Officer Berlawski and I were the first to respond to a call for an 808 at West Bloomfield Junior High School. We were first on the scene. We entered the school from the main entrance located on the east facing side of the building. From there we preceded northwest into the school’s cafeteria. A large crowd of roughly one hundred individuals were in an agitated state, all of which seemed to be emanating from a makeshift dais located in the middle of the school cafeteria. Security Officer Temple sat at the back of the crowd on a rather small table, seemingly unable to take control of situation. He debriefed us on the state of affairs up to that point. Apparently a school board meeting had become heated, escalating from a debate about the school’s choice in curriculum to what looked like a soon to be violent confrontation. I asked Security Officer Temple if he knew those most responsible for the escalation. He said he did not, only that disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston accused the School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV of “poisoning her children”. I asked Security Officer Temple if he thought any of the school board members had poisoned any of the children, or if disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston was speaking hyperbolically. “Hyperbolically? You mean exaggerated and shit? Na, I’d have heard about that if it was serious. House knows what’s up.” I asked Security Officer Temple to clarify who exactly who or what house he was referring to. That is when he informed me that he was in fact referring to himself. “Me. I’m big. A house is big. I’m House. People call me House.” I informed Security Officer Temple that I would not be calling him that and that it was his duty as a public servant to inform the proper authorities of any and all suspicious activity. As well as reminding him that the poisoning and/or endangerment of any child is of the highest priority for the West Bloomfield law enforcement. I asked Security Office Temple if I have made myself clear. “For sure.” He then offered me a fist bump, which I reciprocated. It was at this time that Officer Berlawski returned from his patrol car with a bullhorn. After several loops of the siren the crowd became quiet. It was then that Officer Berlawski asked me, as ranking officer, to address the crowd. I started by asking everyone to calm down, including the victim (disabled, stay-at-home mom Patricia Preston) who at the time was standing on very small lunch room table. This was a table I can only assume is used in the feeding of the younger elementary aged children; presumably grades K-2nd, or perhaps any under-developed 3rd or 4th graders. I advised disabled stay-at-home-mom Preston to move down from the table so that I might address the crowd further. She then informed me she was disabled because “I’ve got fibromyalgia real bad” and was in the middle of the approval process to receive disability from the state, a fact I later confirmed. Disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston agreed to calm down but not before issuing the following statement: “These people are teaching our children things we don’t believe in and do not condone. Kids shouldn’t be learning about sexuality and gender fluidity at this age. They are teaching our kids how to be gay and how to self-identify. No kids knows how to identify when they are that young. Hell when I was that young I’d have identified as a can of Diet Coke and a bag of hair if it meant I got some attention. Look, I don’t got no problem with the gays or the homosexuals or even the lesbians or whatever else there is, but I just don’t want state-sponsored curriculum exposing my kids to things they are not ready for. Hell I’m not ready for it so why do they expect them to be? Kids need to learn this stuff at home. Who knows my kids better than me? I should be the one that teaches my two boys, not the state. You ever been the post office? You seen how it is run? Why we letting the state decide anything? That’s what I told Dr. Pencil-neck over there and you know what he says to me? He says that actually the Post Office is very efficient and effective institution and that statistically you’re more likely to get run over by a car than loose something in the mail. So you know what I said, I asked him when the last time he’s been to post office. And he tells me he prints his own stamps. I don’t know what world this guy lives in.” With the attention of the crowd reestablished through the use of the bullhorn, I used a combination of low vocal tones and a slower speech patterns to return the crowd to their seats so the rest of the meeting might proceed. I assured them, as they found their seats, that any accusations of child poisoning would be taken serious by law enforcement. As well as threats levied against any school board member(s). Failure to comply, I warned, would result in the immediate cancellation of the meeting and possible disturbing the peace citations. Security Officer Temple found and fixed the microphone standing at the front of the cafeteria, next to the school board dais. Officer Berlawski and myself then addressed each of the nine school members individually. We asked them if they were ok to continue the meeting. Each of them assured me that they were. We then proceeded to follow up on the accusations made by the crowd with every school board member confirming they had not poisoned any children. I conferred with Officer Berlawski about the possibility that the accusations of poisoning were more symbolic than literal. He concurred. School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV informed me that the meeting supposed to end at 8pm, which was roughly 47 and a half minutes away. I asked him to continue in as non-confrontational a manner as possible. He repeated to me that it was anyone on the school board, but members of the crowd, mostly disabled, stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston, who was responsible for starting, and escalating the situation. “I don’t know how to convince these people that I know more about educating children than they do. I’m chair of the Collegiate Epistemological Society for God’s sake. I’ve spent the entirety of my adult life studying human pedagogy.” Seeking clarification, Security Officer Temple injected, “Pedagogy, you mean like learning and shit?” School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV concurred that he did in fact mean learning “and shit”. He went on to inform us that the goal of the society was to “promote honest and objective education in a way that honors both teacher and student.” He also divulged that he was also a parent of twelve year old boy named Carl Abraham who attends West Bloomfield Junior High. “I just don’t get it” said School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV, “I care about this school just as much as they do. I love my child and would never do anything to endanger anyone else’s child. I have way more education and experience than any of them do, and yet they look at me as if I’m the problem. As if somehow my expertise and experience are a bad thing.” Then he looked at me, “I mean, who here knows more about policing? You or them?” Immediately I begin to feel what can only be described as a great and terrible weight fall over me. There, in the cafeteria, just in front of the dais, it was as if the anger and anxiety of everyone at the meeting was laid across my back. The room became very dark, and I felt as though I was falling into a cave. My shoulders fell heavy and my vision blurred. I thought for a moment I might pass out. I asked School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV if he felt anything; he answered in the negative. Further I fell into the darkness, so far it occurred to me I might not ever return. I was lost and becoming more lost by the second. A thought then occurred to me that once a person is lost, they cannot become more lost. So I decided to let the darkness take me. Then, like an eagle taking flight, I was shot out the opposite end of the cave and I was transported to a tremendous height, several miles above my body. The heaviness lifted and I became lighter than air. It was as if all the light in the world went through my eyes and straight through to the back of my head. From this beautiful, lofty distance I could see everything. I could see the School Board meeting. I could see my patrol car. I could even see my neighborhood. From this height nothing seemed to matter very much. All arguments, including the one happening in the West Bloomfield cafeteria, seemed trivial. I saw conclusions and solutions fade away into a landscape of contemplation. Questions became a type of currency. Really good questions were treasured as gold. Respect and faith replaced fear and doubt. People and objects and issues are held in complete reverence, just as they are, without judgement or preconceived notions of what one ought to do. The other is simply held, like a child. From this gentle country, a secret and narrow path emerged, gathering all other smaller paths to it like a great river gathers streams. The path stretched into an endless horizon, and in that moment I possessed a deep and abiding hope. A hope so precious it might break with a breeze, yet somehow powerful enough to tear down empires. This hopefulness I saw as available to both School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV and disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston. I saw them take possession of this hope and one another. I saw them grow, both in stature and in beauty. Disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston quit complaining about her fibromyalgia. School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV called nesting birds. I saw them leading the rabble that was the once aggregated school board meeting into a community of believers, but not of any religion or dogma. They became a great cloud of witnesses whose faith was not for any religion or dogma, but one another. The loftiness of their ideals was matched only with their willingness to sacrifice, giving where any had need. This they did with out worry or regret, all of their faces beaming like the sun. The generous spirit of the meeting began to then spill out of the cafeteria and into the surrounding homes and neighborhoods. Soon all of West Bloomfield, then all of Metro Detroit became covered in a kind of golden haze that instead of falling downward, brought everything up several hundred feet. Soon the entire city sat as if on a beautiful hill, like it had been there for centuries. Traffic ran efficiently and without incident. Factories once again open and productive. The old Art Deco buildings downtown returned to their Ford era glory. Years of green patina fell off in great flakes of rust. The top of Book Tower glowed like a copper diamond. Below it hummed the buzz of midwestern commerce. Cars and steel and industry flowed from our center. Workers and markets were flush with cash as living wages fell like manna from heaven. I saw abandoned lots all over the city move from a light hue of grey and brown into a deep and abiding green. Acres of farm and forest reclaimed any unoccupied house or block. Saplings, corn and spruces grew up through concrete just as easily as they could grow through virgin soil. I saw walls of graffiti and vines. Great flocks of Canadian Geese nested all the way from 5 to 10 Mile Road. There were packs of wolves, hordes of field mice and even a Great White Western Moose. I saw Lions, not the animal, but the football team, playing in the Super Bowl. The band Journey performed at halftime, and when Steve Perry sang, “Born and raised in South Detroit” the noise of the fans singing cracked the roof at Ford Field so completely the game had to be postponed. However no one seemed to care as both players and fans became lost in other pursuits. Neighbors talked to one another for hours. Sinners went to church. Overworked middle managers went home early. Everyone said hello. No one locked their doors. I even saw former disgraced Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick offer a deep and heartfelt apology. He cried as his former constituents forgave him without hesitation, for everyone seemed to have lost the ability to hold onto a reliable record of wrongdoing. I so badly wanted to return so I could tell Michael, Patricia and House everything I saw. As if hearing my request, I was magically bound back to earth and into normal state of mind. But in coming back I lost clarity I had only moments ago possessed. I asked School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV and disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston to join me outside the cafeteria was I could tell them what I’d seen in confidence. I asked Security Guard Temple to accompany us in order to act as witness and and impartial observer. We exited the building out a side door on the north facing wall. In the teachers’ parking lot I tried explaining to both of them what I had just learned to be true. I informed them of their ability to transcend and include, of their capacity to transform their differences into a catalyst for deep and meaningful change, not only for themselves, but for West Bloomfield Junior High School, for our town, for all of southeast Michigan. But my words were frustrated and flat. I couldn’t make them match my vision. After a couple of failed attempts I asked School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV if he would at least be willing to consider that parents really do know what is best for their children. He said he would be willing to consider such a position. Then turning to disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston I if she would be willing to consider the possibility that the school board, and more specifically, that School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV knows more about education than she does. She was quiet for several seconds, possibly fifteen, before responding “No.” Security Guard Temple then said, “You a cold ass bitch.” It was at this point she called him the N-word, to which School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV responded by punching her directly in her jaw, knocking her so far backwards she hit the back of her head on the front bumper of Vice Principle Nancy Hill’s Kia Sorrento. ACTION(S) TAKEN: School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV was taken in under suspicion of 1 count of aggravated assault against disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston. He has yet to be charged. Disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston’s representative is seeking the maximum sentence of 1 year in jail and a $1k fine. She and her husband are also suing School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV and West Bloomfield Junior High School for mental and physical distress. It is my understanding School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV is counter-suing for an undisclosed amount due to mental and emotional damages. SUMMARY: There is nothing further to report. Both parties are pursing legal settlements against one another, and the Lions are going to missing the playoffs.

Ken blended into the fabric of the high school. Part of the walls, unnoticed by the staff and pupils alike. Yet he missed nothing. He went about his business every day, cleaning up the leftovers of their lives. Quietly watching their teenage dramas unfold as he went. He was part of them even if they did not know it. No one noticed him as he shuffled along the corridor pushing his janitor cart. Ken was never meant for greater things. This job was his greatest triumph. More so than people gave him credit for. He knew Megan was dating the school jock, Andrew, but also knew that Megan was screwing Tyler behind the bike shed. He knew Ashley was pregnant. He had found the discarded test. Things had been very subdued lately, since Alison went missing. It had been a week since she had vanished on her way home from school, without a trace. A shrine filled with flowers and stuffed animals had slowly appeared under her locker. Like the small tributes would somehow tempt her back or lead to her return. Every day it grew. Ken cleaned around it. Watering the small pot plants placed there by morbid curiosity. As dumb as Ken was, he knew it was not out of love for Alison. Ken knew Alison. She was one of the characters in his high school drama, the only one that greeted him now and then. She hung around with the popular girls but was not one of them. She was plain compared to Ashley, and positively ugly compared to Megan. Quiet and meek, they made fun of her clothes. Always the butt of their jokes. They permitted her to sit with them as she would willingly do their homework. Like ken. She was the person no one noticed, till she was gone. Then suddenly, they were all crying, acting like she was there best friend. There were rumours that she had run away or killed herself. Rumours, no doubt started by Megan. Megan had recently found out that Andrew, had been spending time at Alison’s house. His excuse was she was helping him with maths. Ken suspected it was more than like Biology. So did Megan it seemed. Andrew, to save his reputation, had yelled at Alison in the cafeteria to leave him alone, and stop coming on to him. That he would never want her and that she was trash. Everyone had heard. Alison was humiliated, crying in big gulpy sobs in the corridor. Andrew, high fiving his mates, satisfied Alison was humiliated enough that Megan would forgive him. A day later Alison was missing. Wherever she was now, she would no longer have to deal with these horrid people. It could not be worse for her than this. Ken pushed his cleaning trolley back to the cupboard and walked down the stairs to the basement. Alison was sobbing quietly in a cage, at the back of the darkroom. Don’t worry, Ken said to her. I will take care of you. He proceeded to tell her all the horrid things her friends had done today.

They’d been apart for the best part of a year now, separated by a huge expanse of water almost three and a half thousand miles wide. During that time Alice had given birth to his child, squatting like an animal on the floor of the eight by ten room she rented just above McGoldrick’s butchers. Her mother-in-law had assisted with the birth before dying from influenza just three weeks later. For days Alice was too overcome with grief to notice that her infant son was also displaying the very same symptoms. Day and night she’d nursed the child, sponging his forehead with apple cider vinegar in the hope that she could keep him in the land of the living. Completely alone she bore the brunt of it all unnoticed by anyone around her, praying for the day to come when her family would finally be together. The thought that her husband might arrive on the Titanic to find only her and two paupers graves waiting was too horrendous to contemplate. Fortunately baby Thomas pulled through, although left with a hacking cough. Common sense dictated that he should be kept warm and indoors which she had done up until now. But today she wrapped him up warmly in a freshly washed vest and cardigan and swaddled him in a clean but fraying blanket before hurriedly setting off for the docks. A few minutes earlier she’d heard a heart stopping conversation going on between a group of customers in the butchers shop downstairs. “Sank like a stone,” she’d heard a young woman say. “Sweet Jesus!” a man had exclaimed loudly. “My brother’s on that ship!” And with that the man had bolted through the door of the shop and sprinted off down the street heedless to the shouts of Mr McGoldrick who’d stood waving the brown paper parcel of bacon he’d left behind. The baby was already howling when she stepped through the door onto the pavement. “Come on Thomas don’t cry,” said Alice hurrying along the cobblestone streets. “Titanic Sinks!” shouted a newspaper boy holding a crisp looking paper aloft. “Fifteen thousand dead!” “Let me see that!” cried Alice snatching it off him. “Not unless you pay,” retorted the boy snatching it back. Alice fumbled in her pocket for a few coins. But she didn’t have enough. He spat at her feet and looked the other way, continuing his voluble sales pitch. As Alice got closer to the docks the sound of mayhem assaulted her ears and a heavy rain began to fall. Hoards upon hoards of people milled around in confusion shouting out the names of their loved ones. Grown men cried openly and women frantically searched the survivors’ lists shaking their heads in disbelief. Pushing and shoving broke out as an official stepped forward and pinned another list up on the board. Desperation was written on every face. The wait for news intolerable. It soon became apparent that some had been there for two or three days because makeshift shelters set up by voluntary organizations were scattered about. Just as Alice thought her legs were about to give way, some kind soul guided her to one of the shelters where hot broth was provided and dry clothes. Alice sat huddled up in a blanket watching the steam rise from the watery broth hoping it was all some bad dream. She shuddered and looked down at Thomas who was lying in her lap sound asleep now that he was warm, fed and dry. Maybe he was all that was left of her husband, a living, breathing monument nestled in her arms. A tear escaped and she wiped it away wearily. All of a sudden there was a massive uproar. A vessel had been spotted making for port. “It’s them!” someone shouted. “They’re coming!” “It’s the Carpathia!” Alice stood up with the idea of going outside again. “It would be better for the baby if you stayed in here till things calm down dear,” said one of the volunteer women patting her hand. “But my husband...” protested Alice. “I need to find him.” “There are over forty thousand people out there. Believe me. You should wait,” said the woman earnestly. Reluctantly Alice followed her advice even though every agonizing minute seemed like an hour. For a while it was just wall to wall bodies outside. But after several hours the crowds began to thin. Now she could make out faces, drawn with inconsolable grief and burdened with untold anguish. Some however still held hope, their heads held high, searching through the crowd hoping to recognise the features of their husbands, wives, fathers and so on. Alice felt she had waited long enough. Thanking the volunteer women she left the shelter and stepped outside once more. Unsure of where to go she made her way to the front where the Carpathia was now moored with massive ropes thicker than a man’s forearm. But all of the survivors had disembarked leaving only its harried crew on board. She walked around for a while searching the faces of every man she saw but with every passing case of mistaken identity her heart sank further still. The number of people waiting dwindled even further as people finally accepted the truth and made their way back home. But Alice just couldn’t accept it. Bobby had to be here somewhere. “Alice!” came a shout from behind. She spun round praying that they’d found each other. But she could see no one. Without even realising it she’d walked straight into the path of a family of eight children, stumbling along after their newly widowed mother. “Sorry,” she stammered, taking in their pitiful little faces. “Alice!” said a voice from directly behind her this time. “Bobby!” she cried falling into his arms. Tears rolled down both their faces as they alternately hugged and kissed in the rain. “I’m so glad you’re alive!” sobbed Alice, handing him the baby. Little Thomas began to cry so they shielded him from the rain with the blanket Bobby wore slung over his shoulders. Suddenly Alice became aware of a good many eyes upon them, all envying their happy family reunion. From under her husband’s arm she watched the widowed mother of eight still visible up in the distance and realised just how easily that could have been her. For once however the gods, fate, destiny or whatever else you wish to call it, had been kind to Alice and spared her another taste of grief. An undeniably rare privilege on Pier fifty four, April the eighteenth, nineteen twelve. Once they made it back to the little room that Alice rented above the butchers something seemed to happen to Bobby. The elation they both shared on being reunited seemed to dessert him over the next few days and was replaced instead by a strange vacant minded apathy. Of course Alice had expected him to be affected by the tragedy - as anyone would. But nothing prepared her for his sudden withdrawal from the world - worst of all, his drawing away from her. “I’m just popping out for a bit to get some bread,” she told him one day. His response was barely more than a grunt, just a brief acknowledgement that she had spoken. She looked at him sitting on the end of their bed - the bed that she had slept alone in for months wishing for nothing more than his presence. The irony was not lost on her. Alice suppressed a sigh and planted a kiss on his forehead. “See you in a bit Bobby,” she whispered as if she didn’t want to interrupt his reverie. The baby reached down and grabbed a handful of his father’s hair. Before Alice could stop him he’d uprooted about half a dozen strands. That seemed to elicit a stronger response. Bobby blinked and looked at the child in surprise as though he’d never seen him before. “No Tommy!” scolded Alice. Immediately the baby began to howl, sending several hot tears running down his chubby little cheeks. His father continued to blink in amazement at him. After a minute or so his crying subsided, so Alice decided it was time to leave. “Give daddy a kiss,” she said, holding him close enough for his father to reach. Bobby kissed him, but as Alice and Tommy pulled away he held out his arms to them in desperation. “I tried my best!” he cried, his face contorted in sorrow. “Don’t worry,” Alice replied, not understanding. “We know you did. You always do.” “But it wasn’t enough,” he muttered, looking down into his lap. “Of course it was,” she told him reassuringly. “We’re together again now and that’s all that matters. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” His shoulders flinched as the door slammed shut and once again he was a prisoner. As Alice walked past the smell emanating from the bakers made her mouth water. Only she knew that she hadn’t eaten in days and only she knew that their money had all but run out. What little food she had been able to afford lately, she had given to Tommy and Bobby. Now there was no money to buy more and she knew if she didn’t eat something soon her milk would dry up. The man inside the bakers turned his sign round to open and Alice pushed open the door feeling for the last few cents she had left in her pocket. Behind her the door opened again as three or four more customers entered the shop. “What can I get for you?” asked the man from behind the counter. “Er...well, I was wondering if you could sell me some of yesterday’s bread at a reduced price,” stammered Alice. He looked at her for a moment as though sizing her up and then disappeared out the back. Suddenly someone leaned over her shoulder. “You don’t need that kind of charity!” the woman hissed at her. “Your husband came back - he’s probably at work as we speak no doubt.” Alice turned to face her accuser, paying particular note to her drawn face and red rimmed eyes. The woman next to her was obviously an acquaintance of hers because she patted her shoulder kindly as if to comfort her. “There, there Charlotte. Don’t upset yourself further,” she said. “Well it’s not right!” protested the woman called Charlotte. “I’ve nine hungry mouths to feed and my husband, God rest his poor soul, went down with the Titanic.” Alice felt like running away, but her stomach kept reminding her with its persistent growling that she should stay and get what she came for. “Here you go Miss,” said the man, returning with two day old loaves. “I’ll just take one thank you,” Alice said. “As you wish,” said the man, deftly wrapping it up in a sheet of paper. After the incident at the bakers Alice actually felt glad she had so little to buy. So as soon as she bought a little block of cheese to go with the bread and a few ounces of sago for Tommy she made her way home hoping that Bobby might be feeling better after a little solitude. She opened the door to their bedsit and found that things couldn’t be further from the truth. The room was empty. Bobby was nowhere to be seen. Setting the still sleeping child in his crib, Alice tried her best not to panic. But it was hard not to when she thought of how Bobby had been since his return. It was two weeks since the Carpathia had left him and the other survivors at Pier 54 but he hadn’t even made mention of looking for work or asked how she was managing to put bread on the table. She could see that he was traumatised so she thought it best not to push him to talk about it. Perhaps that was the wrong thing to do, she thought watching her little son smile in his sleep. Where could he have gone? He didn’t know anyone here. All she could do was wait. And wait she did. For three hours. “Bobby! Where have you been?” she cried, when he finally walked through the door. He looked surprised at her worried expression and instinctively he enfolded her in his arms. He hadn’t meant to worry her. “Have I been gone long?” he asked. “It doesn’t matter,” she murmured, pressing her face into his broad chest. “As long as you’re alright.” His breath seemed to catch in his throat at that. He shook his head and held her tighter than ever. “I will never be ok Alice. Not after what I’ve seen.” “Where did you go?” she asked, fighting back the tears. “Pier 54,” he answered in a tortured voice. “I had to go and see if there was any news of them.” “Any news of who?” Her legs were beginning to shake now and she was almost too afraid to hear what the answer might be. “When the ship was going down I tried to help a young mother with a baby about the same age as our Tommy,” he told her. “It was a baby girl I think. Her name was Eleanor, or something like that. We found the last two lifeboats. But it was chaos as everyone tried to climb on board. The crew began to lower them over the side before they were full, so I quickly jumped in and shouted for her to pass me the baby. I held out my arms but she hesitated for too long. All of a sudden the life boat I was in plummeted and then stopped just short of hitting the water. I shouted for her to try to get in the other boat but I never did see if she made it aboard. That’s why I went back to the pier today to see if anyone had news of them.” “That’s terrible!” said Alice. “Surely someone helped her onto the boat if she had a baby.” Bobby shook his head. “You would think so. But it wasn’t like that. I saw lots of children, even babies floating in the water.” Alice gasped in horror. “Let’s not talk about it anymore for now,” he said, tilting her chin towards him. He kissed her gently and Alice felt comforted, glad that he was finally opening up to her. After that day things gradually improved but even so Bobby made it his habit to visit Pier 54 every morning until the day he died at the ripe old age of ninety two. Whether it was in the hope of finding out what happened to the young mother and her baby or that he was stuck in the past no one ever knew - not even himself. But one thing was certain -he was a prisoner, a life-long prisoner of Pier 54.

The golden sunrise of the summer season pierced the soft clouds and wormed the yellow sand as the gentle hot wind picked it up and scattered it a cross the quiet town of "Pathstow" and no soul walked the streets today because most of the residence were either at home avoiding the heat or at the local bar named "Coal Pit Bar" drinking away their sorrows, listening to the beautiful singing of lady Vera and betting with what little money they still had in their pocket hoping to win at a game of poker and all of that put a smile on the bar owner's face. His name was Victor, a shot old men wearing the same old clothes he wore when he came into town. The strong and awful smell of cheaply made cigars and spilled alcoholic drinks filled the bar but it didn't matter to any of the customers because they were either too drunk to care or too focused on the game of poker. In a corner of the bar sat a young looking man with a big grin that stretched from ear to ear wearing clothes that looked fancy and clean in comparison to the cloths of the other customers and around him gathered a small crowed of amazed people watching him do magic tricks. All went well at first with his tricks but then in one of his tricks he pulled out a perfectly cut shining diamond the size of an egg and when one of the greedier customers pushed away everyone and tried to grab it but the young man made it disappear into thin air which made the customer's face go red with blind rage and then the furious customer pulled out his revolver and demanded to be given the diamond or else he will scatter the young man's brains across the walls of the bar but the young man wasn't fazed by his demands and when he pulled the trigger he discovered that his revolver was empty and then he fell face first on the wooden floor and everyone in the bar was horrified and their skin turned pale when they saw the same diamond covered in blood protruding out his head. The frightened customers fled the bar as if it was burning but Victor stayed. "By this point I would beat the devil out of you but you put on a great show and so I'll let you stay for a drink and by the way what is your name?" said Victor holding two glasses of whisky. "Victor, my name is not important but if you insist on knowing my name than call me Jack." said Jack as he manifested a rose tipped cigarette and a golden lighter out of thin air. "How did you know my name? Is this another trick?" said Victor as he sat on a chair and put the whisky glasses on the table. As soon as the glass touched the old wooden table Jack grabbed it and drank it faster than humanly possible. "I know a lot my friend and I even know what is your deepest desire" said jack while he was lighting the cigarette with a flame so tall that it almost touched the ceiling. "What's next? Are you going to read my fate with some cards that you will manifest out of the smoke of your cigarette?" said Victor in a laughing voice after he drank his glass of whisky. "Oh! I don’t need cards to tell you that your fate will be one of misery and regret! But this is not why I am here today." said Jack with a laughing voice as he put the ashes of his cigarette on the ashtray. "Then you better tell me if you don't want to end up inside a trash can!" said Victor as he furiously slammed the table with his fist. "I am here to help you settle a small problem regarding lady Vera." said Jack with a smile. "Tell me Victor..." continued Jack "Do you love her? Despite your age you still want the love that you lost when your dear wife met her end on the rail road tracks as you hopelessly watched while running towards her with the hope to save her from the upcoming train." said Jack while holding a picture of Victor's wife and Vera which he manifested out of the smoke of his cigarette. "Even if I wanted to marry her I won't be able to since she is married to that banker!" screamed Victor with a furious voice as he slammed the table again with his fist. "But do not fear my golden child for I and only I with my endless powers and strength can insure that you and lady Vera will be a happy married couple and your fate will be a happy one but only if you bow down before me and worship me!" said Jack with an enthusiastic voice that echoed in Victor's mind as he stood up and revealed himself to be a lot taller than what he seems. The sunlight that came from the windows turned red as blood and the air smelled like roses. Despite the echoing of Jack's words in his mind he stood up and looked straight into Jack's glassy eyes and said "I worked hard my entire life to get to this point and if I bow down before you then I will lose everything!" and then he picked up a knife from his pocket and stabbed Jack multiple times in the neck and throat. "Bravo! I can safely say that your show is entertaining but it still doesn't compare to me and my skills!" said Jack who was standing in the opposite side of the bar holding a golden revolver. Victor turned to the direction of Jack and then he turned back and saw the lifeless body of lady Vera with her blood on his hands. "Look at the bright side of the situation my friend! You will finally be together!" said Jack in a loud laughing voice before pulling the trigger and putting an end to Victor's life. Jack sat the bar alight and exited the town with a big grin that stretched from ear to ear.